Chapter Text
The alarm went off at 6:30 am.
Robert stared at the ceiling and wondered if today was the day he just wouldn’t get up.
It wasn’t a new thought. It was becoming as routine as the alarm itself, that quiet question in the dark of whether the effort of existing was worth it. The answer was always the same: probably not, but Beef needed to be fed.
The alarm continued its shrill insistence. Robert’s right arm ached, the deep, grinding pain that lived in the joint where metal and flesh had met too many times. Everything else wasn’t much better. And then there was the other pain, the one that didn’t make sense: a sharp, persistent ache in his left shoulder blade that had nothing to do with his Mecha Man injuries. It had been there for three years, a phantom pain that shouldn’t exist, and yet it did. Sometimes dull, sometimes sharp, always present. A mystery he’d given up trying to solve.
The alarm.
Robert reached over and silenced it. The movement sent a spike of pain through his body that made him grit his teeth. His shoulder, not the phantom one. Though sometimes it was hard to tell where his pain ended and the inexplicable other pain began.
Beside the bed, Beef lifted his head. Twentysix pounds of overweight chihuahua, black and white fur, ears too big for his tiny head, watching Robert with that look that said I know you’re not okay but I’m here anyway.
“I’m up,” Robert said to the dog. His voice was rough from disuse.
Beef’s tail thumped once against the floor. Skeptical, but willing to believe.
Robert sat up slowly, taking inventory of the aches of the day; right arm, both shoulders, lower back, right knee. And the phantom pain in his left shoulder, sharp this morning. Someone else’s pain, he’d come to think of it, though that was impossible. Except it wasn’t, not in a world with soulmate bonds.
He was thirty-two years old and his body felt sixty. That’s what happened when you piloted a mech suit that weighed three thousand pounds and fought villains who could level buildings. Used to pilot. Past tense. The suit was gone, destroyed by Shroud two years ago. And Robert was just… here. Alive, technically. Functioning, barely.
He looked down at his right forearm, at the mark that curved around his forearm from wrist to elbow. A flame, rendered in black and deep red, elegant and dangerous. It had appeared three years ago, sometime during the worst period of his life, the three months after his father died when Robert had taken up the Mecha Man mantle and promptly tried to work himself to death.
Soulmate marks appeared when you met your soulmate. Everyone knew that. The marks were unique, appearing on both people in complementary designs, usually symbolic of something about the connection or the person. And if the connection was strong enough, accepted enough, soulmates could feel echoes of each other’s pain. Phantom sensations, ghost touches of injury, emotional aches that weren’t quite yours.
Robert had gotten his mark during an arrest. He knew that much. But which arrest? He’d made over fifty in those three months, running on no sleep, barely eating, just moving from one fight to the next like if he stopped moving he’d have to feel something.
He’d noticed the mark one night in the shower, three days into a blur of arrests. Had no idea which day it had appeared. Had been too fucked up to care. And then, a few days after that, the phantom pain had started. His left shoulder blade, sharp and insistent. Not his injury. Someone else’s
His soulmate’s
Three years later, he still didn’t know who his soulmate was. Wasn’t sure it mattered. Wasn’t sure he deserved to know, especially if he’d somehow caused them that constant ache in their shoulder. The guilt of that sat heavy in his chest some days.
Beef stood up, stretched, his little body elongating in that way only small dogs could manage and padded over to press his wet nose against Robert’s leg. The dog’s way of saying stop spiraling, dad needs to get up.
“Yeah, yeah. I’m moving.” Robert stood, wincing as his knee protested. His own pain, that one. Definitely his. The phantom shoulder pain flared in sympathy, like his soulmate had felt him move. Which was ridiculous. The bond didn’t work that precisely. Did it?
He was wearing sweatpants and an old t-shirt that had seen better days. The shirt had started to fray and actually pull holes near the hem. He should probably throw it out. He wouldn’t.
The apartment was small, one bedroom, one bathroom, a kitchen that opened into a living room barely big enough for a couch and a TV. It was clean in the way of someone who didn’t have enough energy to make messes rather than someone who actively cleaned. There were no pictures on the walls. No personal touches. Just… space. Empty space that Robert existed in.
Beef followed him into the kitchen, stubby legs working overtime, tail wagging hopefully. For a dog who was significantly overweight, he had remarkable energy when food was involved.
“Alright, alright.” Robert opened the cabinet and pulled out the dog food. At least he was good at this, feeding Beef, making sure the dog had water, taking him for walks. Basic caretaking for another living thing. It was more than he did for himself most days.
He filled Beef’s bowl and set it down. The dog immediately started eating with the enthusiasm of someone who hadn’t been fed in days despite having been fed exactly twelve hours ago.
Robert should eat too. He looked at the fridge, did the mental calculation of effort versus reward, and decided coffee counted as breakfast. He’d eat something later. Maybe. Probably not.
The coffee maker was one of the few appliances he used regularly. He went through the motions automatically, grounds, water, press the button and leaned against the counter while it brewed. His reflection started back at him from the darkened window over the sink. He looked tired. He always looked tired.
The mark on his arm caught his eye again. He touched it absently, fingers tracing the flame design. Three years. Three years of having a soulmate somewhere in the world and not knowing who they were. Three years of feeling phantom pain and wondering if his soulmate felt his chronic injuries too. The guilt of that, if they did feel his pain, they’d been suffering alongside him for years without him even trying to find them.
The phantom pain twinged, sharp and sudden. Robert’s hand went to his left shoulder blade automatically, pressing against the ache that wasn’t his. Was his soulmate in pain right now? Were they waking up too, dealing with their own morning routine, feeling Robert’s chronic pain echoing through the bond?
The coffee maker beeped.
Robert poured himself a cup, black, no sugar and took it to the bathroom. Shower, shave and get dressed. The basic rituals of being a person. He could do this. He’d been doing it for so long now.
The shower helped with the pain, hot water easing some of the tension in his muscles. He stood under the spray longer than necessary, forehead pressed against the tile, and tried to remember why he was doing this. Going to work. Existing. Any of it.
Beef needs you.
Right. Beef needed him. That was reason enough. And maybe somewhere out there, his soulmate needed him too. Even if they didn’t know who he was. Even if they were better off not knowing.
The phantom shoulder pain pulsed again, and Robert wondered if his soulmate was thinking about him too.
He got out, dried off, brushed his teeth. Looked at himself in the mirror and saw his father’s face looking back, same sharp jaw, same dark eyes, same disappointed expression. Robert Robertson II had been Mecha Man Astral for twenty years before Shroud killed him. Robert Roberson III had lasted three years before Shroud destroyed his suit and his will to continue.
Some legacy.
He got dressed, jeans, button-up shirt, the same clothes he wore to work every day because thinking about what to wear was too much effort. The shirt hid most of his mark. He’d gotten used to people not seeing it. Easier that way. Fewer questions about soulmates he couldn’t identify.
By the time he was ready to leave, it was 7:45. He had fifteen minutes to get to work. SDN (Super Disaster Network, the reformed villain rehabilitation program) was a ten minute drive on a good day. This wasn’t a good day, but then again, none of them were.
“Come on, Beef.” Robert grabbed the cardboard box where he carried his dog in and his keys. Beef immediately trotted over, knowing the routine. “Let’s go.”
Beef climbed into the box with surprisingly agility for his size, settling in with a contented huff. At least one of them was happy to be alive.
The SDN office was located in a nondescript building on the edge of downtown. Gray concrete, small windows, the kind of place you’d walk past without noticing. Perfect for a program that rehabilitated former villains into heroes. Low profile was the goal.
Robert pulled into his usual parking spot, back corner, easy exit and killed the engine. He grabbed Beef’s box from the passenger seat. The little chihuahua was already making excited noises, tongue out, ready for the workday.
“You’re too positive for your own good,” Robert told the dog as he carried him toward the building.
Beef licked at his face which Robert took as agreement.
The phantom pain in his shoulder blade spiked as he walked through the door. Robert paused, pressing his free hand to the spot. Was his soulmate here? At SDN? The pain had been stronger lately, more frequent. He’d assumed it was his soulmate’s injury getting worse, but what if it was proximity? What if they worked here?
He pushed the thought away. Too complicated. Too much hope for and too much to fear all at once.
The office was already bustling when he walked in. SDN operated on a dispatcher system, former heroes like Robert coordinated teams of reformed villains on missions ranging from stopping actual threats to doing community service. It was bureaucratic and exhausting and the only thing Robert was apparently good at anymore.
“Morning, Kid.”
Robert looked up to see Chase standing by the coffee machine. Chase, formally known as Track Star, looked like he was about ninety years old despite being thirty-nine. His speedster powers had aged him fifty times faster than normal, leaving him with a body that was failing and a personality that was 90% spite and 10% caffeine.
“Morning,” Robert said. His standard greeting. Flat, neutral, giving nothing away.
“You look like shit,” Chase said in that fake cheer. “Rough night?”
“Every night’s a rough night.” Robert set Beef’s box down by his desk. The chihuahua immediately waddled out, tail wagging, and began his rounds of greeting everyone in the office.
“Fair enough.” Chase had followed, coffee in hand. He moved with a shuffle that betrayed his failing body. “We’ve got a full roster today. Z-Team’s got three dispatches lined up.”
“Great.”
“Enthusiasm, Robertson. Try it sometime. I heard it’s fucking useful.”
“I’ll get right on that.”
Chase snorted. He and Robert had a complicated relationship. Chase had been friends with his father, had watched him grow up, had even babysit him a few times. Then Robert’s father had died, Robert became Mecha Man, and Robert had cut Chase out of his life for years. Just stopped talking to him. Stopped answering calls. Disappeared into grief and the mech suit and the desperate need to not feel anything.
They’d reconnected when Robert joined SDN a few months ago. Chase had been the one to recommend him for the dispatcher position. They were… something. Not quite friends. Not quite colleagues. Something in between that neither of them wanted to examine too closely.
“You eat breakfast?” Chase asked, bending down with a wince to pet Beef, who immediately rolled over for belly rubs.
“Coffee.”
“That’s not fucking breakfast.”
“It’s liquid. It counts.”
“You’re a fucking disaster.” But Chase’s tone was fond in that gruff, foul-mouthed way of his. He scratched Beef’s belly, making the dog’s stubby leg kick. “At least try to eat fucking lunch. Waterboy made cookies yesterday. They’re in the break room. Fucker can actually bake.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“You won’t.”
“Probably not.”
Chase shook his head and shuffled off, muttering something about ‘stubborn bastards’ and ‘just like his father’ Robert pretended not to hear.
His desk was in the corner of the main operations room. Three monitors, comfortable chair, headset for comms, and a small space heater because the office was always too cold. Beef immediately claimed his spot, a small dog bed Robert had brought in, and settled down with a contented sigh.
Robert logged into the system and pulled up the day’s schedule. Three missions for the Z-Team; a robbery in progress downtown, a potential enhanced individual causing problems at a mall, and a community service event at a local park. Standard stuff.
The phantom shoulder pain throbbed. Robert absently reached back to touch the spot, then caught himself. He’d been doing that more lately, reaching for a pain that wasn’t his. It was getting stronger. More insistent. Like his soulmate was trying to tell him something.
Or like he was getting closer to them.
He glanced at the team roster, checking who was available.
Z-TEAM ACTIVE ROSTER:
- Flambae (Fire manipulation, combat specialist)
- Invisigal (Invisibility, stealth/reconnaissance)
- Prism (Light manipulation, combat/support)
- Malevola (Portal creation, combat specialist)
- Sonar (Echolocation/flight, reconnaissance)
- Punch Up (Super strength, combat specialist)
- Coupe (Enhanced reflexed/combat training, stealth)
- Golem (Earth manipulation, tank/support)
- Waterboy (Water manipulation, support)
Eight reformed villains plus Waterboy, each with their own story, their own reasons for being here. Robert was responsible for keeping them alive and on mission. It was a lot of pressure for someone who could barely keep himself alive, but apparently, he was good at it. Competent. Professional. All the things he wasn’t in his personal life.
The team started filtering in around 8:30 am. Robert watched them on the monitors, the common area had cameras for safety and coordination.
Invisigal appeared first, literally, she materialized in the middle of the room with her usual dramatic flair. Twenty-seven, former ‘Invisibitch’ (her words), rebellious energy barely contained by the SDN uniform. She grabbed coffee and immediately started scrolling through her phone.
Waterboy came in next, nervous and eager, carrying a container of what looked like more cookies. He was talking to himself, probably rehearsing what he’d say to people. Sweet kid. Tried too hard. Robert liked him.
“Morning, s-sir- I mean, Robert,” Waterboy said when he noticed the camera. He waved awkwardly, nearly dropping the cookies.
Robert keyed his mic. “Morning, Herm. Thanks for the cookies.”
“Oh! You’re- you’re welcome! I made chocolate chip and- and some oatmeal raisin because I know some pers- people like those even though personally I think raisins are- are kind of weird in cookies by my gra- grandma says they’re classic so-”
“They’re great,” Robert interrupted gently. “Thanks.”
Waterboy beamed and went to set up the cookies in the break room.
The others trickled in over the next fifteen minutes. Punch Up, loud and cheerful with his thick Dublin accent. Golem in his usual mellow stupor. Coupe, quiet and precise, already checking her knives. Malevola, looking like she’s been out clubbing all night because she probably had.
Prism arrived in a flurry of energy and was already filming something for her social media. “Good morning, Z-Team! It’s another beautiful day to be heroes and I am LIVING for it!”
“It’s 8:45 in the morning,” Sonar said in his flat monotone as he walked in. He looked hungover. “No one is living for anything.”
“Sonar, babes, you need some positivity in your life.”
“I need coffee and silence.”
“I guess I can do one of those things.”
Robert almost smiled. Almost. He keyed the mic. “Morning, everyone. We’ve got three dispatched today. Briefing in ten.”
A chorus of acknowledgments came back. Robert started pulling up the mission files, organizing his notes, preparing for the day. This was the part he was good at, logistics, coordination, keeping track of nine different people with nine different skill sets and personalities. It was like a puzzle, and his brain liked puzzles. Problems he could solve. Unlike his own life, which was an endless series of problems with no solutions.
The door to the common area opened and Flambae walked in.
Robert’s attention caught on him immediately, the way it always did, and he wasn’t sure why. The phantom pain flared suddenly, sharp and insistent. Robert's hand went to the spot automatically, pressing against the ache.
Flambae moved with the confidence of someone who knew exactly how good he looked. Which he did, the man was vain as hell and not subtle about it. He was wearing the SDN uniform but had modified it slightly, the jacket open to show more of his chest, the sleeves long despite the warm office temperature.
The long sleeves. Robert had noticed that. Flambae always wore long sleeves, or if he wore short sleeves, he kept his shoulders covered. Robert had been dispatching him for months now and never had seen his shoulders. It was… odd. Most people built like him would show off as much as possible, even showing off their marks, especially reformed villains who wore their redemption arcs like badges of honor.
But not Flambae.
“Morning Bob-Bob,” He said, spotting the camera and shooting it a cocky grin. His voice was smooth, confident, the kind of voice that made people pay attention.
Robert keyed the mic. “Morning. Briefing in five.
“Can’t wait.” Flambae grabbed coffee and settled into one of the chairs, immediately starting a conversation with Prism about something on her phone.
Robert watched for a moment longer than necessary, then forced himself to look back at his monitors. The phantom shoulder pain was still there, stronger than usual. He rubbed at the spot absently.
Was it his imagination, or did the pain always seem worse when Flambae was around?
No. That was ridiculous. Coincidence. The building was full of people. It could be anyone.
He pulled up the first mission file, the robbery downtown, and started his briefing notes. Facts, logistics, potential complications. Things he could control.
His mark itched under his sleeve. The phantom pain pulsed in time with his heartbeat.
Robert ignored both and got to work.
The briefing went smoothly. Robert talked the team through all three missions, assigned roles, answered questions. Flambae would take point on the robbery with Punch Up and Coupe as backup. Invisigal and Sonar would handle the mall situation. The community service event would be everyone who wasn’t on active missions.
“Any questions?” Robert asked through the comms.
“Yeah,” Flambae said. “How’s the view from up there in your tower, Robbo? Must be nice, safe and sound while we do all the work.”
There was an edge to his voice, something that had been there since day one. Flambae had never been particularly warm to Robert, always with the little jabs, the comments about Robert being ‘just a dispatcher’ now. Robert had never pushed back. Didn’t have the energy.
“The view is fine,” Robert said flatly. “Any other questions? Relevant ones?”
“Just checking,” Flambae said, but he was grinning now, clearly satisfied with getting a reaction.
Robert continued the briefing, shoving down the irritation. Professional. Stay professional.
The first mission deployed at 10 am. Robert watched the team’s vitals on his screen, tracked their GPS locations, listened to the comms chatter. Flambae, Punch Up and coupe moved through the downtown area with practiced efficiency.
“Eyes on the target,” Flambae reported. “Three suspects, armed with standard weapons. No enhanced individuals visible.”
“Copy that,” Robert said. “Punch Up, you’re primary on entry. Coupe, cover the exists. Flambae, support and crowd control.”
“Already on it, Bob-Bob.”
The missions unfolded smoothly at first. Punch Up took point with his super strength and immunity to pain, Coupe moved like a dancer through the space. But then one of the suspects got a lucky shot, and Robert heard the impact over comms.
“Shit!” Flambae’s voice, sharp with pain.
Robert’s right knee exploded with phantom agony.
He gasped, hand flying to his knee, nearly knocking over his coffee. The pain was sharp, immediate, not his chronic ache but something new, something fresh. An echo of someone else’s injury.
“Flambae, report,” Robert managed, his voice strained.
“I’m fine, bitch,” Flambae said through gritted teeth. “Just clipped my knee. Nothing serious.”
Robert’s knee throbbed in sympathy. The phantom pain was so vivid he could almost feel the heat of it, the sharp sting of impact. It faded slowly, leaving behind the familiar ache of his own chronic injury, but for a moment it had been crystal clear.
Someone else’s pain. Flambae’s pain.
No. That was impossible. Unless-
Robert looked at his mark, hidden under his sleeve. Looked at the monitor showing Flambae on the street, favoring his right leg, his left shoulder turned away from the camera as always.
The phantom shoulder blade pain pulsed, sharp and insistent.
Three years. Three years of phantom pain in his left shoulder. Three years of not knowing who his soulmate was. Months of working with Flambae, of the pain getting stronger and stronger as if it was sending a sign that he was close.
Robert’s hand shook as he keyed the mic. “Flambae, you good to continue?”
“Yeah, Robbo. Takes more than that to slow me down.” Flambae’s voice was cocky again, the pain already pushed aside.
But Robert had felt it. Had felt the exact moment of impact, the sharp burst of pain in a knee that wasn’t his. Just like he’d been feeling a pulsing pain in his shoulder that wasn’t his for three years.
“Suspects secure,” Coupe reported in her flat, precise voice. “No casualties. Flambae’s injury is minor.”
“Good work,” Robert said automatically. “Police are two minutes out. Stay on scene until they arrive.”
“Roger that.”
Robert made notes in the mission log, but his hands were shaking. His knee somewhat still aching, whether it was chronic or the phantom pain he wasn’t sure anymore at this point.
Flambae kept his shoulders covered. Always.
Robert had a mark on his right arm. A flame.
Flambae’s powers were fire manipulation.
The phantom pain in Robert’s shoulder had started three years ago. The same time his mark appeared. The same time he’d been arresting villains in a blur of grief and violence.
Had he arrested Flambae three years ago? During those months he barely remembered?
Robert pulled up Flambae’s file with shaking hands. Arrest date: three years and two months ago. Arrested by Mecha Man. Charges: arson, destruction of property, assault. Reformed through Phoenix Program, joined SDN eight months ago.
Three years.
The timing matched. The phantom pain matched. The knee pain he’d just felt matched.
Robert sat back in his chair, staring at the monitor showing Flambae laughing with Punch Up.
If Flambae was his soulmate, if Robert had arrested his own soulmate during that blur and hadn’t even noticed-
The implications were staggering. Terrifying. Impossible to process.
Robert touched his mark through his sleeve, felt the phantom shoulder pain pulse in response.
Three years of carrying someone’s pain and not knowing whose.
Three years of his soulmate feeling Robert’s chronic injuries, his depression induced aches, his bad days.
If it was Flambae, he’d been suffering in silence for three years. Knowing who his soulmate was. Feeling Robert’s pain. And never saying a word.
Robert’s chest felt tight. His knee ached again with the echo of Flambae’s injury.
He had six hours left in his shift. Six hours to pretend he hadn’t just realized something that might change everything.
Six hours to figure out what the hell he was supposed to do with this information.
The phantom pain in his shoulder throbbed, insistent and unrelenting, and Robert wondered if Flambae could feel his racing heart through the bond.
The rest of the day passed in a blur. Robert coordinated missions on autopilot, his mind elsewhere. Every time Flambae spoke over the comms, Robert felt a tug in his chest. Every time he moved wrong and his chronic pain flared, he wondered if Flambae could feel it across the office.
By 5 pm, most of the team had cleared out. Robert sat at his desk, staring at his monitors, Beef dozing in his bed nearby.
He should go home. Should feed Beef, make himself dinner, maybe watch TV or read or do any of the things normal people did in the evenings.
Instead, he sat there, arm resting on the desk, staring at his mark.
Three years. Three years of wondering who his soulmate was. Three years of feeling phantom pain and not knowing whose pain he carried.
And now he thought he knew. Thought he’d figured it out. But what the hell was he supposed to do with that information?
Flambae was on his team. Flambae clearly didn’t want Robert to know, kept his mark covered, never mentioned the bond, had been hostile since day one.
Maybe Flambae didn’t know Robert was Mecha Man. The records said ‘Mecha Man’ made the arrest, not Robert Robertson III. If Flambae thought his soulmate was still out there somewhere in the mech suit, if he didn’t know Rober had been behind the helmet-
Robert’s head hurt. He looked at the mark on his arm, the flame design that had appeared the day he met his soulmate and hadn’t even noticed.
The day he’d arrested Flambae and cut off his fingers and moved on to the next fight without a second thought.
If Flambae was his soulmate, Robert had hurt him. Had traumatized him. Had been the reason for three years of pain.
And Flambae had been feeling Robert’s pain in return. The chronic injuries from the mech suit. The depression that made everything ache. The days Robert forgot to eat and his body screamed in protest. All of it, echoing through a bond Robert hadn’t even known existed until today.
“Fuck,” Robert said quietly to the empty office.
Beef lifted his head, concerned.
“I’m okay, buddy,” Robert lied. “Just… thinking.”
The pain in his shoulder pulsed again, and Robert wondered if somewhere in the city, Flambae was touching his mark and thinking about him too.
Or if Flambae was trying very hard not to think about the soulmate who had destroyed his life and didn’t even remember doing it.
Robert gathered his things slowly, picked up Beef in his box, and headed home.
He had a lot to think about. A lot to figure out.
And absolutely no idea what to do next.
The apartment was exactly as he’d left it. Empty. Quiet. His.
Robert fed Beef, then stood in front of the fridge trying to decide if he had the energy to make dinner. The pain flared yet again, sharp enough this time to make him wince. Was Flambae hurt? Angry? In pain?
Did he know Robert had figured it out?
Robert pulled out some leftover takeout, ate it cold standing at the counter. Beef watched him with judgement in his eyes.
“I’m feeding myself,” Robert said to the dog. “This counts.”
Beef huffed and went to his bed in the living room.
Robert finished the takeout, threw away the container, and realized he had the entire evening stretching ahead of him with nothing to fill it but thoughts he didn’t want to have.
He ended up on the couch with Beef curled against his side, the little dog taking up far more space than something his size should be able to, staring at nothing, arm resting across the back of the couch with his mark visible.
The flame design seemed to flicker in the dim light of the apartment. Beautiful, really. Elegant. The kind of mark that meant something, that represented something important.
Robert traced the flame with his finger. Three years ago, during the worst months of his life, he’d met his soulmate.
And he’d missed it.
Hadn’t even noticed until days later when the mark was already there, permanent, a cosmic joke about timing and awareness.
Robert pressed his hand to his shoulder, wishing he could ease the pain there. Wishing he could tell his soulmate, tell Flambae, if his suspicions were right, that he was sorry. For the arrest, for the pain, for three years of not knowing. Not even trying to search, just having given up.
For years of adding his own pain to the bond without realizing.
Beef shifted, readjusting his position so he was somehow taking up even more of Robert’s lap despite being a tiny dog. His weight was grounding. Real. A reminder that at least one living thing needed Robert to keep existing.
“I think I fucked up,” Robert told the dog quietly.
Beef’s tail wagged slightly, which he chose to interpret as support.
Eventually, he forced himself to get up, take his medication, brush his teeth, go through the motions of being a person preparing for sleep. Beef followed him to the bedroom, and Robert lifted the small dog onto the bed. Beef couldn’t jump that high on his own, his little legs too short.
Robert lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, arm stretched out beside him with the mark visible in the moonlight coming through the window. Beef curled up against his side, warm and solid and snoring within minutes.
Tomorrow would be another day. Another morning of wondering if getting up was worth it. Another day of coordinating missions and pretending to be functional. Another day of existing in this weird liminal space between living and just… not dying.
And now another day of knowing, or thinking he knew, who his soulmate was, and having absolutely no idea what to do about it.
His mark itched.
Somewhere in the city, Flambae was probably lying in bed too, feeling Robert’s pain echoing through the bond, maybe wondering if his soulmate every thought about him.
Robert closed his eyes and tried to sleep.
He didn’t think about Flambae’s cocky grin, or the phantom pain that connected them across the city like an invisible thread.
He definitely didn’t think about any of that.
(He absolutely thought about all of that.)