Chapter Text
It is expected that someone should be allowed to be at their house during their off-hours, especially when they didn't actually go to work earlier that day. Unfortunately, Flambae is sick and tired of being without his car—his precious baby. He's been avoiding the SDN office for days now, and technically speaking, that hasn't ended since the moon is the one watching over him as he lands on the sidewalk right outside the parking lot. The flames disappear from his body, only a last puff of smoke rising into the light-polluted sky. He carefully adjusts his superhero costume as he marches across the parking lot, pointedly avoiding looking at his usual parking spot because he knows his car won't be there (and because he doesn't want to reconcile with the fact that his parking spot is someone else's during the night shift).
Flambae pushes open the doors to the SDN building with more force than strictly necessary. He's always making an entrance like this, but because the person behind the main counter is someone from the night shift, a high-pitched and whiny voice says, "Excuse me, sir, you can't be here right now—"
"Shut the fuck up," Flambae retorts. He snaps his fingers, creating a fireball for a few seconds to prove his point. The secretary—who is unused to dealing with random people—seems confused and agitated. Flambae could not care less. He deserves to be here as much as anyone else, and he proves that by using his keycard to unlock the door leading deeper into the building instead of letting the secretary buzz him in. The only downside is that the people who check the logs will know that Flambae has come in at this late hour… a very specific someone will know, and the whole reason Flambae is here instead of clubbing or having sex is because he wants to avoid that someone.
Whatever. It isn't Flambae's problems. So what if that person knows? It doesn't mean anything. He can't do anything about it. He hasn't tried forcing Flambae to return, and knowing him and his selfishness, he probably won't even care. He'll laugh to himself because he thinks Flambae is weak and pathetic, even though Flambae isn't and really, he's the weak and pathetic one, far more than any bastard Flambae has met in his entire life and he's met a lot of idiots who are weak and pathetic, and—
Flambae takes a deep breath, forcibly putting out the fires starting to burn around his person. The night shift workers glance incredulously at him. Flambae glares at them. When his nostrils flare, he makes certain to release a puff of smoke just to prove his own superiority over them. He's so superior, in fact, that he isn't going to spend another second with these wannabe hero freaks who turned to dispatching because it's all they're good for. Flambae hurries forward, entering into the hallway that will take him to the workshop where his car will be because no one will be help whoever crosses Flambae next if his baby isn't right where he left it (with that self-centered, stupidly hot—no, no, just stupid, not hot—).
He has to put out a fire on his shoulder when he enters the workshop. The majority of the place is dark—as it should be—but there's a light turned on somewhere deep inside this place. And because nothing ever goes his fucking way, that light bulb is hanging right over his car because the mechanic working on it cannot see in the dark. He can, however, wear a jumpsuit like it's nobody's business, but that is not a thought Flambae is going to be entertaining any time soon (just like he's kicking the thought of how he wants to make it his business out of his head, too, because damnit, he is angry, not horny, especially not horny for that ass that he refuses to talk about).
Robert Robertson the Third stands beside Flambae's precious car. He doesn't even seem to be doing anything, just staring at contemplatively (with those shit-brown eyes of his that are not beautiful in the slightest). He stands like a fucker, too, with his arms crossed over his shoulder and his weight settling on one leg. Flambae already knows all of Robert's tricks, so the man should really cut it out lest he look even more like a pathetic bitch (ignoring the fact that Robert couldn't have plausibly known Flambae—or anyone—was coming today and is therefore standing for no one other than himself).
The eyes that Flambae will not wax poetry about glance over at the source of an approaching noise. Robert isn't an expressive person, but in all the small corners, subtle emotions flicker across as quickly as dancing shadows. Thousands upon thousands of them, the majority recognizable to Flambae since he's seen them in the mirror. The expression settles on something teetering towards neutrality. "Flambae, I—"
"I'm Mecha Man."
With zero thoughts inside of his head but plenty of burning wrath in his heart, Flambae punches Robert straight across the cheek. The dispatcher stumbles back from the force of the punch. He would have fallen onto the floor if he hadn't grabbed hold of Flambae's car. He deserves another punch for that alone, but Flambae is going to wait for Robert to get up because hitting someone when they're down does not feed his pride the way hitting a standing person does.
Except Robert—the absolute slut that he is—just continues leaning against the car instead of rising back onto his feet. He reaches his fingers to touch his reddened cheek (it's definitely going to bruise, and no, Flambae absolutely does not have a thing for bruises). "That's fair," Robert murmurs to himself, lowering his fingers. He turns his entire head toward Flambae, a hint of a smile on his face. "That make you feel better, or do you need to get another one in?"
Flambae's fingers (eight, not ten, because of… "I'm Mecha Man.") close into fists at his sides, so tight that he snuffs out all the sparks that try falling from his palms. "Masochistic freak."
Robert snorts. "Pot calling the kettle black."
At this point, Flambae must be, because why is his urge to murder Robert as strong as his urge to shove them both into the backseat of his car? He's not telling Robert any of that, however, so he just narrows his eyes. "What the fuck are you doing here?"
Robert opens his mouth. He closes it, and with the motion, the joking quality of his expression goes with it. He seems more understanding and, dare Flambae say, empathetic. "I told you I would fix your car. I'm a man of my word."
"You're a fucking liar," Flambae hisses. There's smoke in his nose again, like the fire he feels in his heart is an actual flame that's spreading its ashen waste to all his organs and soul.
"Those are two different things," Robert says, shaking his head. "And I never lied to you. I didn't lie to any of you. Secret identities are secret for a fucking reason."
"You kept it a secret because you knew I'd kill you!"
"I knew you'd try—!"
"I'll fucking succeed, just you watch me, you lying bitch!" Flambae says. He closes the distance between him and Robert again. Though it takes a lot of effort, he unclenches his fist enough to reveal another flame, one much brighter than the light overhead. It reflects off the white paint of Flambae's car and all the metal fixtures. It casts new shadows over everything, creating this strange bubble of light and darkness.
Most of all, though, it illuminates something defiant in those admittedly beautiful brown eyes. Flambae isn't even sure what the defiance is for. Does Robert doubt Flambae even now… or does he just not care about dying? Is that why he didn't run, only flinched, when Flambae threw his initial attack? Did he know then that Flambae was holding himself back from believing Robert could be Mecha Man, or did he just never care what Flambae thought at all?
The tense moment between them causes something to shatter in Robert's eyes. He exhales heavily and slowly, shoulders folding inward as he loses all strength to resist. Just as Flambae refused to believe that Robert was Mecha Man, he refuses to believe that the expression on his face right now is acceptance—a plain, unemotional sort like death, at Flambae's hands or otherwise, means nothing to him.
"Look, if you want to burn me alive, let's do it outside where there's not cameras and flammable material. If you want to fight, we can go to the training room. If you want to yell at me some more, we should do it anywhere but here because Royd works super odd hours, and I doubt anyone wants to hear whatever you—whatever we have to say to each other," Robert explains, treating everything like it's some dull affair and not the accumulation of a very complicated relationship (because Mecha Man ruined his life. He took Flambae's fingers and put him in jail. But Mecha Man also saved it, in many ways, like stopping Flambae from making the last reckless decision a person can make and setting him on track to being in the Phoenix Program, the only real way to get redemption in this country, the only real way Flambae could ever reconcile with his family. And that's just Mecha Man! Robert Robertson the Third has his own influences on Flambae's life, both big and small, that makes it even harder for Flambae to figure how he feels and how he wants to act).
"What if I want an apology?" Flambae asks, narrowing his eyes. He doesn't actually know if he wants an apology. It won't change anything, and he's never known an apology to make him feel better. But he desperately needs to know what Robert will say.
Robert doesn't disappoint him. He takes a deep breath, eyes falling shut with consideration. "I can't give you the apology you want—" Like he has a fucking clue what Flambae wants. "—because I'm not sorry. You were a villain, and I'm a hero. It is my duty to stop villains like you the person you were, whatever means necessary. I did what I was supposed to do, and I will never apologize for that."
Flambae grabs Robert's neck. He doesn't squeeze, just holds, just spreads his eight fingers out and presses the stubs in. He feels Robert's shuddering breath, hears it tingling in his ears a moment later. Robert grabs his wrists—again, just holding, not pulling Flambae's hands away even though Flambae could choke him or burn him or suffocate him with smoke or any number of deadly acts from this distance. "But I am sorry that I didn't try harder to look for a different—a better way. Heroes are supposed to save lives, and that doesn't exclude the lives of criminals and villains."
"You did save my life."
Robert's eyes widen, genuine and unadulterated surprise. Entranced by Robert's honesty, both in words and expression, Flambae leans closer. Their noses are touching, but their lips aren't, not yet. Flambae still has words to say, so he whispers them and watches Robert register the hot air against his face. "I hate you."
"That's fair," Robert nods as much as he can when they're so close together and Flambae still holds his throat.
"I don't forgive you for a lot of things." It's so strange. It's like he doesn't even know what he's thinking and feeling until he puts it into words. "But… I forgive for some things. And a punch or so every month, and I'll start feeling better."
Robert smiles. Flambae is way too close to that smile to have any kind of pure thoughts. "I can live with that." Robert's smile doesn't fade as he very obviously glances down. "So… are we going to…"
"Shut up, bitch," Flambae rolls his eyes.
"You'll have to help me with that," Robert declares rather cheekily, finally closing the infinitesimally small distance between them. It doesn't shatter the earth or part the seas, but Flambae finds himself being set alight by a fire that he's never felt before. He knows that he'll never be able to tame, and that turns him on more than the prospect of losing control really should make him feel.
Robert pulls away first. Flambae decidedly does not like that look in his eyes when Robert pointedly stares at Flambae's wandering hands. "Does this mean I get to see your apartment now?"
"I knew the little bitch boy wanted to see my home," Flambae laughs, a mixture of pride and desire creating a Molotov bomb in his body.
"Yeah, all of this just a ploy, didn't you know?"
Robert squirms a little when Flambae's hands heat up. "Did your dumbass just forget I yelled at you for being a liar?"
The dispatcher snorts. "Okay, okay, I'll stop. You have to stop, too. Let me get out of this before you burn it. It's not mine, you know?"
Flambae pushes Robert back against the car, refusing to let him go anywhere. "You take that off, and I really will char your flat ass."
"And we're back to talking about my ass." Flambae's eyes narrow, proving he means business. Robert seems amused by it. He pinches the material of his jumpsuit between his thumb and pointer finger. "Wait—is this doing something for you?" Flambae glances away, but the color in his cheeks answers for him. Robert sets his fingers on Flambae's jawline to bring the pyrokinetic's face back to him, and he grabs one side of Flambae's v-neck with his fingers. "Don't be embarrassed. Your uniform does something for me, too."
"Hmph. Of course it does. It does something for everyone," Flambae says.
Robert tilts his head back. "I probably can't kiss the ego out of you, but I'm down to try."
"What—" Flambae is dragged back into a kiss, though he has no complaints. He's in the sort of head space where he doesn't know if he wants to kill Robert or if he wants one of them to fuck the other (he's not sure what he's in the mood for tonight).
Before Flambae can eloquently explain his feelings to Robert, they hear the door to the workshop opening. They don't even stop kissing until the unmistakable voice of Royd calls out, "Bruddah, what're ya still doing here?"
"We were just leaving, Royd," Robert responds, using way fewer cuss words but still more words overall than Flambae would've used.
"We?" Royd comes into view. He glances between Flambae and Robert. He shakes his head, turning away from them. "Yeah, bruddah, go handle dis HR violation some uda place."
"Thanks, Royd," Robert responds. He glances back at Flambae, clearly still raring to go despite the interruption. "Your place or mine?"
Flambae must be a freak because he's ready to go, too. "Your place. I bet it's a sad, sad place because your sad, sad bitch, and you need at least one good memory there before you off yourself."
"My place it is." Robert agrees, setting the keys in Flambae's hands. When Robert walks around the car, Flambae gets another look at that ass. It's as flat as it was yesterday, but damnit if Flambae doesn't want to burn his hand-prints into it and the jumpsuit covering it.
His past self, as usual, was right: Robert really needs to wear jumpsuits more often.