Work Text:
Robert takes a deep breath, already exhausted even though he’s only finished the first shift of the day. He takes off his headphones and sets them on the desk before shutting down the ancient computer that looks at least a hundred years old. The dispatcher spins lazily in his swivel chair and then stands up inside the tiny cubicle where his workstation is on the SDN’s second floor. He stretches, raising his arms and cracking his back before craning his neck to peer over the neighboring workstation.
“I’m going for lunch,” he tells Chase quietly so Chase can read his lips since he’s still mid-shift. Chase nods, and Robert glances at Beef sleeping in the little dog bed under Chase’s desk. He leaves both of them there and turns toward the break room to buy his lunch.
On the way, he watches a few heroes from his own team arriving for their break. They head straight into the hero break room, bigger and way nicer than the dispatchers’ one. Unfair, Robert thinks as he walks into the cramped room with the vending machine. One bill, one click, and he’s got a pack of Twinkies in hand.
Since there’s no rule against it, he grabs the snack, a cup of coffee, and tucks the clipboard full of reports under his arm as he heads straight for the hero break room anyway. Prism and Flambae are already there, chatting on a couch in the corner.
“Roberto!” Prism calls out cheerfully the second she sees him step inside.
“Hey, guys,” he waves, offering a gentle smile and trying not to look as drained and monotone as he always does during work hours.
“Come sit with us,” she says.
Robert hesitates but takes a few steps toward them.
“I gotta fill out some reports for Blazer… I don’t wanna bother you two,” he says, sitting at a table near their couch.
“RnR, Bob. Breaks are for rest and relaxation,” Flambae teases with an ironic little grin.
“Oh sure, thanks for clearing that up, Flambae,” Robert shoots back, matching the tone as he organizes his things on the table.
“Okay, leave him alone for once,” Prism laughs, nudging Flambae and pulling his attention back to her so Robert can work in peace.
He fills out a few pages of mission reports with information from his team’s hero mission logs while quickly devouring his lunch of Twinkies and coffee. Even with caffeine, his mind is already worn out and drifting after a dozen forms read and filled out. The formal corporate jargon doesn’t help at all.
He starts tuning in to the heroes’ conversation. In the background, he hears Flambae talking about his family. He talks about his niece and sister with great affection, which is already customary for Robert, as the fire-man constantly talks proudly about his niece to anyone willing to listen. But Robert’s attention really shifts when Prism starts talking about her own family, specifically about her dad not being part of it.
“I mean, the asshole was never around…” she mutters while filing her nails, then points the file at Flambae. “And you know what? Maybe that’s for the best!”
“What do you mean?” Flambae asks, looking up from the little bottles of colored nail polish in his hands.
“Maybe the guy was a jerk… maybe if he’d stayed, he would’ve been a shitty, selfish dad anyway… hell no!” she shakes her head and the nail file at the same time.
Her words hit Robert before he even realizes it. Every sentence from Prism feels like a bullet tearing straight into his chest without a chance for defense. He can still hear her voice, but everything around him starts to lose focus, the sound turning into something distant and warped. He doesn’t understand why this is happening, but vertigo mixes with nausea and a sick churn in his gut.
“Like, imagine if he was a piece of shit and I had to pretend…or, or convince myself that I care about this guy just because he’s my dad. Bullshit!” she finishes, not noticing at all how her words are shredding Robert. “I wouldn’t play that fake family-image bullshit. I’m too fucking authentic for that…”
Robert’s throat tightens. His lunch is coming back up. He shoots to his feet so fast his chair crashes behind him. His hands drop everything on the table as he bolts toward the nearest bathroom. Luckily there’s one right inside the break room, so he runs straight past Prism and Flambae toward it.
He hears Prism shout something in a worried tone, but he can’t make out the words, can’t answer, can’t do anything except stumble forward. He barely understands how he makes it to a stall without slamming into a wall hard enough to knock himself out. But once he reaches the toilet, he clutches it and throws up everything he ate and anything else his body can force out.
Each spasm wrings more from him until he’s only vomiting bile. Tears stream down his face before he even notices, and he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand once his diaphragm and stomach muscles finally stop punishing him. He curls up on the floor of the tiny bathroom stall, trying to wipe his cheeks but new tears replace the old ones instantly.
Get up.
Robert hears the voice in the back of his mind, and his stomach twists violently again even though there’s nothing left. Then comes that cold electric shock down his spine — the one he always gets in the moments he thinks he might actually die.
Get up now, Robert!
Robert grabs his knees tighter, still on the floor, burying his face against them so his pants soak up the thick streams of tears washing his cheeks. His chest aches every time he tries to breathe, like his lungs are being torn apart for daring to pull in air. Panic attacks aren’t new, but having one mid-shift, with flashes of his father tormenting him as a kid? That’s new.
“Bob?” Flambae’s voice comes from right above him.
Fuck, Robert thinks. Not him. Not now.
“I’m fine. Go away,” Robert mutters, humiliated enough already without lifting his head and risking an even worse humiliation from Flambae.
“You don’t look fine, man…” Flambae says, voice lower now. Closer.
A hand touches Robert’s leg, another finds his shoulder. Robert tries to pull away, but Flambae isn’t letting go that easily. Flambae’s hands push past the barrier Robert made with his arms around his knees, and then Flambae gently lifts Robert’s face, holding his cheeks between his palms. Robert grunts in protest, squeezing his eyes shut stubbornly even as more tears spill fast and forcefully down his face.
“What happened, Bob?” Flambae asks, and the concern in his voice is unmistakable.
Robert is doubly surprised. First because he expects jokes, teasing, or a whole truckload of mockery, and second because he never expects Flambae — of all people — to ever show concern for him. He tries to jerk away again and pull his face out of Flambae’s warm hands, but this time with a little less force, because there’s something weirdly comforting about that heat.
“I just got sick… you can let go now.” Robert mutters, and only then notices how rough and scratchy his voice sounds.
“You’re still crying…” Flambae says, drying the tears on Robert’s cheeks without even needing to touch them.
Why the hell, of all people, is Flambae being gentle to him? Why is he being gentle at all? Why would anyone be gentle with him? Without understanding why, Robert is crying even harder. The sobs come sharp and heavy, making his chest heave and ache again.
“What’s going on, Bob?” Flambae asks again, and Robert can tell how helpless the man kneeling in front of him feels, trying to drag any rational answer out of him.
“Why–” Robert starts, then cuts himself off with another sharp sob. “Why are you being nice?”
The look on Flambae’s face is almost one of shock. Robert knows he wasn’t expecting that as a response, but somehow Flambae, still making Robert’s tears evaporate, answers, “Because you need it. Because it’s the right thing to do. Because I’m worried, I don’t know, Bob.”
Robert gets what he means, but still, his brain is working overtime trying to make any of this make sense. Aside from Chase taking care of him when he was a kid, Robert hasn’t had anyone being gentle, affectionate, or even worried about him in years. He doesn’t know how to react since he grew up convinced by his own father that he should take care of himself, his own wounds and pain, and never, never take help from anyone. But if it’s so wrong, so forbidden… why does it feel so comfortable?
Flambae’s hands leave Robert’s cheeks and move to rub slow circles on his back when Robert stops talking. Robert can only relive every single time his father was harsh, difficult, temperamental. He unconsciously digs his nails into his own arms, pressing hard enough to break skin. He hates thinking about his dead father this way. It twists his empty stomach all over again. What kind of horrible son thinks this way about his own deceased father?
“I’m a disgrace.” Robert whispers, lowering his face between his arms and digging his nails in deeper until it actually hurts.
“Hey, hey, no.” Flambae says, exasperated and worried as soon as he notices Robert hurting himself. He pries Robert’s fingers open, breaking the grip. “Come on, Bob, talk to me.”
Robert lets him loosen his grip without a fight. He shrugs and mutters, “He never loved me.”
Robert is too lost in his thoughts to notice whether Flambae hears or reacts to the words. His mind is replaying every moment his father was too busy, too absent to be there for his own son when he needed him most. Robert doesn’t know what makes him angrier: himself, for still holding resentment toward a dead man, or his father — Astral Mecha-Man, the great hero — who protected everyone but his own son.
Flambae lifts his face again, pulling him out of the trance. “I asked if this is about your father.”
Robert clenches his jaw hard, biting back tears and sobs he can’t stop. He doesn’t want to admit that this entire mess is just because a few memories resurfaced.
“You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to…” Flambae says softly, still holding his face.
Robert curls up even more on the bathroom floor in front of Flambae. He feels ridiculously small and exposed, unable to stop the tears or the flashing memories. He clearly sees the day his father promised to take him bowling, only to ditch him last minute to go to a gala event as Mecha-Man. It was routine. Over time, his father taught him that if Robert ever dared feel replaced, it was because he was selfish and petty and didn’t understand the greater calling his father fulfilled. It was probably around then that Robert started damaging the armor on purpose, which later triggered the defense protocol that caused the injury on his ear.
Damn, it was all so unfair. He understood when his father had to leave for an emergency mission or save lives, but it hurt more when he replaced Robert for shallow things like galas. Or when he came home after a full day of work and didn’t even bother checking on him. The only things Robert Robertson II seemed good at were making his son feel small, unimportant, useless, and unworthy of love or care.
“He was… complicated.” Robert finally says, voice raw as he looks into Flambae’s eyes. His tears slow down, his breathing comes steadier.
Flambae nods and lets go of him, giving him a bit of space. “Yeah… they can be like that. Mine is like that too.”
Robert sighs and straightens up in the tiny stall, sitting beside Flambae, who shifts so they can fit. Shoulder to shoulder on the floor.
“He was demanding, aggressive…” Robert says quietly, despite the rasp.
Flambae gives him a sideways look, concerned again. “Physically?”
Robert immediately shakes his head hard. “No. Not like that…”
What he doesn’t say is that it would’ve required his father paying attention to him to even be physically aggressive, and Robert never had that privilege. He had to live with the coldness and indifference of being ignored, balanced against the arrogance and pressure he got in the rare moments he actually had his father’s attention. No middle ground. Just extremes. And he had to learn to love that because that was all he got, even if it was scraps.
Robert missed his father for a long time after he died. He missed a lot of things. And instead of asking for help, he shut down, exactly as he’d been taught. It was a dark time. He let himself sink into grief, pain, and the new responsibilities of being Mecha-Man. Anger was never in his grieving process, until now. It’s new, it’s hard, it hurts, but it’s also freeing. He still hates feeling angry at his own father, but as an adult, he can finally see there’s no point worshiping a man who also hurt him deeply.
Robert Robertson II was his father and that will never change. The damage won’t change either. But from now on, Robert can learn that he can be cared for by other people, that it isn’t weakness. And he can remember that he doesn’t need to force love for his father just because of blood. He can love him despite the pain and bad moments, but never at the cost of erasing or minimizing how important those moments were in shaping him.
Robert sighs and rubs his face, trying to scrub away the last of his tears despite the throbbing in his reddened eyes. “It’s just… it was all so complicated.”
“It usually is…” Flambae murmurs, sighing softly like he’s deep in thought too. “But usually we learn how to handle it…”
Robert exhales more calmly and glances at Flambae over his shoulder.
“I didn’t expect you to be a good listener…” he blurts out before thinking, and when he does think, it’s too late, so he tries to fix it. “I mean…no offense, I just–”
Flambae waves a hand dismissively, cutting him off. “It’s fine. I… learned to be a good listener when I became an uncle.” He shrugs, offering a small smile.
Robert smiles back, the tiny movement making his face sting like an old rusty hinge. “Thanks… that’s what I was trying to tell you earlier.”
“Yeah, yeah, it’s fine. You’d have done the same.” Flambae grumbles as he stands and offers Robert a hand.
Robert takes it and is surprised when Flambae lifts him with almost no effort, though he hides it. Now he expects the teasing.
“You should go home, Bob Bob… no offense, but you look like shit for a second shift.” Flambae says, hand on his hip as he looks him over.
A rough, soft laugh escapes Robert’s chest, painful, but real. “You’re probably right, but I can’t leave you guys hanging without the best dispatcher you’ve ever had.”
“You sure?” Flambae asks, clearly wanting to make sure Robert is okay.
“I’m sure. Besides, none of you are gonna have to see my red swollen face anyway…” Robert says as they leave the stall.
“Yeah, genius, but you still sound hoarse as fuck…” Flambae teases.
“Thanks for the reminder, idiot.” Robert shoots back, shoving Flambae’s shoulder.
When they leave the bathroom a few minutes later, Prism looks up from her phone at both men. She comments that Robert looks like trampled shit, they laugh, and his mood slowly eases. Prism assumes he just got sick from the food, he doesn't deny it, nor does Flambae. He’s relieved; he’s afraid talking about it again would send him spiraling. He thanks both of them for the concern, and when break time ends, he walks slowly, head down, back to his cubicle.