Chapter Text
Flambae doesn't need a therapist or a dom to tell him that he's got issues with control. That was clear when he set his first hearth ablaze and felt the ever-present knot of anxiety in his throat finally burn away. It was made even clearer as he had to escalate from burning trash to bushes to buildings, needing bigger and bigger burns to get the same sense of relief. It became impossible to deny when his chosen name sounded just as wrong as his birth name did in his sister's voice, when he realized that he could only ever think of himself as Flambae.
It's probably written in his goddamn file: self-sabotaging, maintains a sense of stability via arson, trapped in a self-fulfilling prophecy. Well, maybe not that exact wording. Knowing the fucks running SDN, it's more likely that they wrote something like, is a total loser bitch baby.
That's certainly how Flambae feels after the high of beating Shroud wears off. Their office gets rebuilt and Z-Team is forced to stop gallivanting about like heroes, returning to the same old routine of rescuing cats from trees and stopping bar fights between B-lister villains. The typical mundane mishaps that SDN accounts for.
The others seem to be doing just fine. More than fine, actually. Sonar fumbles a bit at the start, sheepishly overcompensating for his betrayal, but he finds his footing after a pep talk from Malevola and Coupé of all people. Having proved himself in their decisive battle, Waterboy gets a spot on their team as well. He makes leaps and bounds in progress in his first few days on the field. He'd easily be the most impressive member of Z-Team, if not for Invisigal's triumphant return to duty. At the end of her first day back, she climbs three spots in the ranking.
Flambae drops six spots, all the way down to last place.
What's even more humiliating than being outperformed is that Visi tries to encourage him about it. "We all have our rough days," she says at the end of the day, catching Flambae on the way out of the locker room while she's heading in. "You'll make it up tomorrow."
There's a streak of blood over her cheek, a bruise on her jaw, and a proud glint in her eye. The square set of her shoulders is like that of a hero, a real hero. It's with sickening horror that Flambae realizes that she means this, that she's not saying these things to gloat or mock him. She's earnestly trying to cheer him up.
"Fuck you," he hisses, whirling on her. "Y'think you're hot shit now, huh? Better than the rest of us because you got shot, because you had your redemption? You're not, bitch. You're just as bad as the rest of us."
He wants her to flinch and cower back. He wants to see the confidence in her eyes flicker. But Visi's eyes only narrow in concern. Visi doesn't step back, she steps forwards, speaking with that same awful concern when she says, "Chad–"
Flambae feels his hands connect with her shoulders, singing the fabric of her jacket and sending her stumbling back. He sees the smoke and the smouldering handprints and forces his fingers to curl into fists, trying to smother the sparks that skitter across his palms. He chokes back his words into a breath, willing himself to calm down. He will not light his job on fire. He won't. He won't.
The breath chokes out of him in a panic when from across the room, Robert barks, "Flambae! Conference room. Now."
By the time that Flambae turns around to look at him, Robert's already shut the door to the conference room behind him.
A hand finds his arm. Flambae looks back and sees Visi's lips moving. Again, she's not mocking him. She actually looks genuinely concerned, her expression pinched with what looks almost like panic, but that doesn't make sense. Maybe if Flambae could hear her voice, he could decipher her expression. But all he can hear is the roar of blood in his ears, the hearth-like crackling of his breath in his lungs.
Wordlessly, he pulls himself out of Visi's grasp and walks to the conference room. His footfalls sound muffled, like they're coming from another room. Flambae blinks and the door is closing behind him, Robert is looking up at him.
It's funny, the way that Robert's steady gaze can make you feel so much smaller than him, even when he's watching you from below.
"...take a seat, Flambae," Robert says after a long moment of silence. When Flambae does, keeping his clenched fists in his lap, Robert's eyes widen.
"What?" Flambae snaps thinly. The ventilation in the room must be busted. He feels like he can't get enough air on each inhale.
Robert's brows furrow in concern. "Flambae, are you… alright?" he asks.
It's only by digging his nails into his palms that Flambae stops himself from flinching. "Fantastic," he spits. Robert doesn't look convinced. "Quit wasting time, bitch."
"As your dispatcher, checking in on you is not a waste of time," Robert explains in that plain way he always speaks. Each word stated without inflection, as if he's just reciting some commonly known facts. "It's actually my job. And given that your performance has dropped so sharply these past few weeks–"
What little air that's left in the room burns up in the back draft of panic that explodes through Flambae's chest. "So you're cutting me." He barely manages to choke it out. "Of course."
Robert blinks. "What?"
"Visi's back, the roster's too big, and you need to cut the dead weight. Just like before." It's really hard to keep his voice even, but Flambae tries his best. He'll need Robert as a reference moving forwards. Thankfully, he just paid rent for this month, but he'll have to find another job quickly. Maybe SDN gives decent severance pay. Then again, Sonar probably wouldn't have turned evil if they did.
"You're jumping the gun. No one's getting cut." The chair squeaks as Robert rolls closer. Flambae finds himself staring at a faded coffee stain on Robert's knee. "I just wanted to check in after today–"
"So I'm being given a warning? Two more strikes and I'm out?" Flambae snarls, self-loathing lurching up his throat like acid reflux. His sister's expecting another kid, he can't move back in with her, he can't screw this up. But he also can't go back to jail, and he's starting to feel like he'll burn the whole damn building down if he stays here one second longer, so he shoots to his feet and snaps, "Spare me the bullshit, Bob Bob, and just tell me where to sign."
Robert stands as well, voice raising as he rises. "For fuck's sake, Flambae, there's nothing to sign." He's not yelling, not quite, but the words shake through Flambae's bones. "Yes, this was going to be a warning, especially after what I saw between you and Visi, but now–"
Never mind burning the building down. Flambae's about to throw up. "I knew it. You two did fuck," he seethes. Robert's eyes flash. "Is that why you let her stay on the team after she almost killed you? Did Sonar get the same chance? Is that why you brought me here, to give me one last–"
The hand that grabs Flambae's jaw is calloused but gentle. Not gentle in its grip or movement. No, the hold is firm and the way that Flambae is dragged down to meet Robert's eyes is sudden. But there's something in the way that Robert's fingers curl over the edge of Flambae's jaw, the way that Robert's thumb settles by the corner of his lip—it's something that Flambae can only describe as completely and utterly kind.
"Chad," Robert says, low like the crackling of embers. "Sit down and listen to me."
Flambae whimpers and sinks to his knees.
Immediately, Robert's eyes widen, hands flying up as he babbles, "No, no, that's not what I meant, Jesus, fuck–"
"I know," Flambae hisses back, curling in on himself and clutching his arms. He drops his chin to his chest, wishing more than anything that his power was to fold into himself like a dying star and disappear. "I know this isn't– but– just– shut the fuck up and wait–"
He's probably tearing his suit with his nails, but he keeps digging them into his biceps. The pain is the only thing tethering him now that Robert's fallen silent. Each breath rattles through Flambae's lungs. He tries to remember the shit he learned from the shrink back in juvie. She was the one who told him that these stupid fits of his were panic attacks.
"Flambae."
He can't remember any of the actually useful shit she said back then. All his mind can seem to conjure is her dull look of pity when he said that it was because he burnt his sister that he had to keep lighting fires, that if he didn't then the sparks might accidentally come out when he didn't want them to and hurt her again.
"Flambae."
Fuck, was he supposed to count five things that he can see or five things that he can hear? Not that it matters either way. The only thing he can see is the blurring carpet as he stares down at the floor. And the only thing that he can hear are his own ragged breaths, and the ever-present bonfire of fear and shame that burns in his gut, and the cold steel of Robert's voice as he says, again,
"Flambae, look at me."
Flambae looks up at him. The fluorescent lights of the conference room makes it hard to make out Robert's face. The way that Robert's backlit by this pale, thin light reminds Flambae of church, of the sunlight that would filter in through the stained glass angels to make their halos glow. Flambae didn't grow up particularly religious. He only went to church once after moving to America, on his youth probation officer's suggestion.
But he remembers the angel's smile. He remembers her glow.
Robert is not smiling when he looks down at him. But his touch is still gentle when he wipes a tear from Flambae's face. There's a flare of embarrassment, as cold and chilling as a bucket of ice water. When Flambae reaches up to scrub at his eyes, Robert says, "Hands in your lap."
It's not a suggestion. It's an order. There's something deep in Flambae's bones that wants to buck and fight against it. Something insufferable and proud, something that Flambae does not hate because it is something he has trained. Something that keeps his shoulders broad, his stance wide, and the men that he fucks happy and satisfied. Something hard fought and earned.
But he knows it will not serve him now. And he does not have the strength to fight for it. So, he lets the feeling smoulder away, breathing out the smoke on a shaking exhale when Robert gently catches another tear in his other hand and brushes it away.
With his face cradled between both of Robert's hands—kind hands, gentle hands, hero hands—Flambae finds his breath coming easier. They're much better tethers than the pinch of Flambae's nails. Much more reliable too. Robert won't let him float away. The bastard is far too responsible for that.
Robert's knee cracks as he lowers himself back down into his chair. It should be sharp and startling, but Flambae hardly registers the sound. Robert himself hardly acknowledges it beyond the slightest grimace and a quick, "Sorry." He doesn't let go of Flambae's face once.
Flambae scoffs, turning his cheek into Robert's hand. "Getting rusty, Mechabitch?"
"Ah, there's the bratty streak that I expected," Robert chuckles, tapping his thumb against the corner of Flambae's smirk. "Good, that means this isn't a total mental breakdown."
Flambae's smile flickers. "Sorry," he mumbles, eyes dropping down. "I didn't–"
Robert shifts his thumb over Flambae's lips, an unspoken command that Flambae obeys by letting the words wither before they touch the digit. His reward is silent to match, but no less satisfying. The subtle glint of approval in Robert's eyes sends a chill down Flambae's spine.
"This one's on me. This was something that I should've seen coming," Robert apologizes in turn. "I've been at this long enough to know that all villains are self-sabotaging, and I know you well enough to predict that you'd need more support coming back to this."
There's almost a note of fondness when Robert says it. The warmth makes the flutter in Flambae's chest even worse. "What's that supposed to mean?" he grumbles, hoping that Robert's hands are covering the flush rising to his face. "I'm the fucking best."
Unfortunately, Robert responds to that by saying, "You are," with that too-blunt honesty of his, which only makes Flambae's blush worse. Then Robert says, with almost a cooing note of condescension,"But you need each high to be bigger than the last. Going from supervillain takedown to supermarket restocking probably felt like crashing and burning, didn't it?"
Flambae's not sure when his eyes fluttered shut, but he peels them open enough to glare up at Robert and snip, "If you knew, then why did you keep giving me boring shit?"
Robert laughs, thumbing up and over Flambae's cheek again. "My bad," he smiles, and he means it. "I promise to keep it exciting for you, okay?"
Jesus, Flambae's blushing so hard that he's almost dizzy. "You better."
There's a beat where Robert's smile lingers, warm and fond in a way that makes Flambae shiver all over. Right when it's about to be too much, it smooths into something sterner. "We still have to talk about your performance." He pauses there, searching Flambae's face. Whatever he finds, it seems to ease him. When he continues, his voice has a hint of that steel again. "Because there's struggling, and then there's sabotaging, Flambae."
Flambae can't stop the whimper in the back of his throat, desperate and pleading, but it's not panicked. It's hard to panic when he's being held with such care, like he's something delicate, something precious. "W-With Visi, I didn't mean to–"
"I know," Robert soothes him. "I realized it as soon as you came in here. It was a bad moment on a bad day, yeah?"
"Yeah," Flambae sighs, aching with it. He's not floating away, but he has to dig his knuckles into his thigh to keep from curling into smoke. He feels like kindling thrown into the embers. He hasn't quite caught fire, but he's being reduced to ash regardless.
"Yeah," Robert echoes with that same, unfamiliar fondness. "But before that, you lit a lot of fires, didn't you."
Flambae wets his lips, tongue catching nervously on the gap between his teeth. Maybe it's a trick of the light, but Robert's pupils seem to get darker when he does. "...yeah," he admits, voice small. "I'm sorry."
Robert's grip tightens just a little. "Jesus fucking–" he mutters, low and strained, but before Flambae can process it, he's saying, "That's okay. Thank you for apologizing. You won't do it again, right?"
"I won't," Flambae insists, leaning forwards on his knees in his earnestness. "I didn't want to hurt anyone– I promise–"
Again, Robert thumbs his cheek and shushes him. "I know, you just wanted something to burn, right? It's easier to start the fire yourself than to wait for me to light it for you, right?"
Maybe it's the gentle twinge of strain in Flambae's knees. Maybe it's the barely-there scent of soap and detergent against Robert's wrists. Maybe it's the tears still slowly leaking out of Flambae's eyes. Maybe it's because the knot of anxiety in his throat didn't burn this time, but instead it melted. Maybe it's just because of Robert's gaze resting on Flambae's face, as steady and sure and as brown as pine.
"I didn't want to let you down," he admits in a whisper that whistles through the gap in his teeth. Robert's eyes widen, his cheeks dusting pink and his lips parting slightly as his breath hitches. "D-Did I let you down, Robert?"
The beat of silence that follows is almost agonizing. Almost, but not quite, because then Robert takes in a shaking inhale and breathes, "You didn't, Chad. Okay? You didn't."
He means it. Flambae knows that Robert means it because it sings through his veins. He shivers, preening into Robert's hands with a smile. "Okay," he echoes back, unable to stifle his smile. He's starting to float away, tethers be damned, but there's no cause for alarm. Not this time, not with Robert holding him, not with Robert here to bring him back down.
Except, Robert does seem alarmed. Panicked, at the very least. He keeps looking down at Flambae's lap, at where his erection is definitely tenting the fabric of his suit. Then Robert looks down at his own crotch and his eyes get as wide as saucers. Flambae follows his gaze, squinting. Oh yeah. That's definitely at least a half-chub.
Shame. Flambae would've loved to be sent flying.
"I-Ignore that," Robert stammers out. His grip starts to loosen on Flambae's face, and it's almost terrible until Robert seems to think better of it, holding firmly once more. "Uh, Flambae, I d-don't–"
Flambae laughs a little, and he lets the amusement bring him down. "Chillax, Bob Bob," he hums, voice hoarse and breath trembling. He closes his eyes and indulges in the roughness of Robert's calluses for one more breath, and then another, before he shifts his face out of Robert's hold.
It feels almost freezing to leave that warmth so soon, but it's not Flambae that makes a noise of distress. It's Robert, a sound that comes from the back of his throat and seems almost hurt, which is certainly funny. It makes Flambae laugh again. When he opens his eyes this time, his vision is much clearer.
"So, I'm not fired," he asks, blunt and businesslike, standing up probably a little too fast. His knees also creak, vision swimming in a moment of dizziness, but he keeps himself steady with a hand braced on the table. There are low-blood sugar like tingles in his fingertips, but those are easy enough to ignore.
Robert just stares for a moment, and then he says, "...right." His throat bobs as he swallows, pupils still too dark as his eyes dart to the side, and then back to Flambae's face. "But this is a strike on your record—not one out of three or anything counting towards firing or anything. Just, HR needs to know that you've had incidents, and we've put a plan in place to work on making those up."
Flambae grimaces. "Great." That certainly ruins the embers of an afterglow that he's clinging onto. This probably won't drop him, at least not very hard, but it feels like reality is coming in much too quickly for his still-smouldering sanity.
"You can head home for now, if you want," Robert is quick to offer. "We can come up with a plan over the next few days."
He sounds almost desperate. Flambae unsubtly glances down and is pleased to find that Robert's still pretty hard. It definitely helps smooth the hurt of his ego. "Sounds good," Flambae agrees. "See you tomorrow?"
There's a part of him that's both deeply uncomfortable and pretty bemused with the professionalism in the room. Not a single one of his interactions with Robert have been close to appropriate, let alone professional. He's still too floaty to properly freak out about it, but that'll hit him later. After he jerks off to the memory of Robert's warm hands and warmer voice, to that overwhelming relief and quiet, to the feeling of being so carefully set ablaze.
For now, he just watches Robert knock his chair over with how fast he stands up. "Alright, great, see you tomorrow," the dispatcher says, almost in one breath, before turning on his heel and making his escape.
For a moment, Flambae swears that sparks are left trailing in Robert's wake. That's dangerous, he thinks idly, slowly stretching the stiffness out of his knees before making his way out. What if it caught the carpet, the table, the walls? What if it set the building ablaze? There are too many fire risks here. Someone should burn them away, one by one, before they all ignite together and reduce it all to rubble.
It's a thought that he dismisses as soon as it comes. Robert's hands were so steady, after all. If there's anyone Flambae can trust with a controlled burn, it's him.