Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

1:21 P.M.

“Why are you such a skinny ass bitch, Bitch?” Flambae folded his arms over his chest as he leaned against one of the break room’s walls.

Robert stood in front of the vending machine, wordlessly watching the $1 bill being eaten through its slot. He presses two buttons to command the machine to push the golden cakes. It hummed as the row’s coils twisted, slowly but surely moving the treat forward until it met the edge and fell into the gaping maw that was the machine’s opening. Robert sticks his hand in and grabs them. He silently maneuvers to a table and unwraps them with a pinch-and-pull. He grabs one of the cakes and bites into it, tasting the vanilla and creamy goodness explode in his mouth.

“Is that seriously all you're eating?” Invisigal phases in the seat across from Robert, staring from his face to the Twinkie, then back to his face. “I’ve never seen you eat anything besides those goddamn things since you’ve been here.”

“They’re good,” Robert responds simply, taking another bite.

“But they’re not an actual lunch,” Visi stares pointedly at the treat.

“I’ll live.” A third and final bite of the first Twinkie is taken.

“Clearly fucking not,” Flambae says sharply, standing up straight before walking over and towering over their dispatcher. “You look like you are one meal away from being blown away, Mecha Bitch.”

Robert stares up at the flame hero blankly, slowly grabbing onto his second Twinkie and taking another bite. “So?”

“So,” Flambae hisses, “answer my fucking question.”

“You’re asking so nicely, Flambae.” Robert drawls, his voice laced with sarcasm as he takes a second bite. “Quite frankly, I don’t see why it’s any of your business.”

“Ay, lad, don’t be that way.” Punch Up enters the breakroom with Coupé silently following behind. She gives a silent greeting nod to Robert, which he reciprocates. “We’ve been wonderin’ a while. We’re just a bit worried, ‘tis all.”

“I am not worried,” Flambae corrects, walking back and taking his spot on the wall. “I just don’t need Mecha Dick here to die on us from starvation because of his poor life choices. Then we’d have to deal with another fucking dispatcher that doesn’t know what they’re fucking doing.”

“That’s probably one of the nicest things you’ve ever said about me,” Robert says, feigning just how touched he was before taking the final bite of his Twinkie.

“What?” Flambae’s lip twitches, a snarl almost threatening to form.

“You think I’m good at my job.”

“No,” Flambae says curtly. “I didn’t say that. That’s stupid. You’re stupid.”

Robert gives a disinterested shrug, crinkling the Twinkie wrapper in his hands to trash. He decides to polish off his meal with shitty, lukewarm coffee and stalks off to the nearly empty coffee pot.

As he pours himself a mug, Punch Up speaks up, “Seriously, lad, why ya skin and bones? Ya need a nice meal to bulk up those muscles of yers, like good ol’ Theresa and Susan right ‘ere!” Punch Up flexes, his biceps bulging underneath his green shirt.

Visi, the slightly more perceptive one in the room besides Coupé, mumbles, “Does it have to do with the explosion? When you first lost the suit?”

Robert stiffens, the coffee pot in his hand stilling as he abruptly stops pouring. He peers behind him—what he feels like is subtly—but finds the former villains staring back at him, awaiting an answer.

He places the coffee pot down with a sigh and his mug halfway full. He turns, facing his miscreant group, and leans back against the countertop.

“Not really. Kind of. Maybe.” Robert rubs the back of his neck, mulling over how to explain everything. Explain how he was broke. Explain how the suit was the source of his broke-ness. Explain how he put his basic human needs at the bottom of his priorities list—below Beef, below the suit. Sure, the explosion didn’t help since it was the reason he was put into a months-long coma, causing his muscles to atrophy from disuse. But that incident was just one of many fucked up issues in his life.

He looked at Visi, who peered back at him with eyes that searched for any scrap of an answer. Just by how she asked the question, he figures she still feels guilty about being the one to blow his suit to Timbuktu. While he may have forgiven her, he should’ve expected that she couldn’t immediately get over it. Fuck, he’s probably going to have to bug her like a fly to convince her that he genuinely doesn’t care about what she did. At least not as much as before.

“Look,” Robert begins, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. “Even before the suit blew up, I ate like shit. The suit drained money from me like a goddamn vampire to maintain it, so most of my money went towards it and taking care of Beef. Can’t let the guy starve just because I decided to cling to the family legacy.”

Flambae narrowed his eyes at Robert before clicking his tongue. “That sausage you call a dog has enough fat on it to last at least three winters. You could’ve afforded to eat one good meal every once in a while.”

“I feel like you are seriously underestimating how much money suit maintenance takes.”

“Right, because I’m not a Normie and can fight with my actual body and not hide in a suit, Bob-Bob.”

“Yeah, sure, whatever.” Robert rolls his eyes, unwilling to fall into whatever back-and-forth argument Flambae wants to trap him into. He fixes his gaze into his mug, watching the borderline dirt-water mirror his reflection back at him. “Anyways, as I was saying, couldn’t eat much when I had—have—little to no money to my name.”

“But yer dad was the Mecha Man before ye. Can’t ya use the money from, I dunno, his life insurance and shit to pay for everythin’?” Robert stared at Punch Up knowingly, an eyebrow just barely quirked at the question, until the man figured out the answer to his own question. “Ah, I see.”

“And honestly, being in a coma really took a hit to my incredibly masculine frame–”

“YOU WERE IN A COMA?!”

The collective shout from the Z-Team members almost makes Robert’s ears ring. Visi, Coupé, and Punch Up stared at Robert with wide eyes, while Flambae’s brows knitted together and his scowl deepened.

“Ah, fuck. Did I not tell you guys about that? Thought I mentioned that when I told you about the whole Mecha Man secret identity thing.”

Visi stood up from her chair, hunched over the table as she slammed her hands onto the surface. “No! You didn’t! Probably because you were too busy trying not to become a pig on a spit when Flambae tried to roast your ass.”

“Yup, that’d probably do it,” Robert shrugged. “I’d say that’s a good reason for it to slip my mind.”

“But that is indeed important context to explain your physique,” Coupé commented, her gaze scanning Robert’s body. “Can I ask how long?”

“Couple months.”

“MONTHS?!”

“Jay-sus Christ on a pogo stick, Rob,” Punch Up dragged his hand over his face. “Are ya allergic to taking care of yourself or somethin’?”

“You could say something like that.”

There’s a beat of silence, the members of Z-Team exchanging glances, as if they were having some conversation Robert wasn’t privy to. Visi pulls out her phone, her fingers quickly moving across the screen. Each tap makes a soft click, and after a final tap, a swoosh noise follows.

Her phone pings like crazy shortly after. She reads the incoming messages, nodding along as they come. Once her phone quiets down, Visi speaks, “Alright. That settles it then.”

“What settles what? The fuck kind of telepathic conversation did I just witness?”

“Don’t worry about it, Lieutenant Dan.”

“You’re literally former villains, that’s all I can do. Also, again, that’s not even that funny and makes no sense.”

Visi waves him off dismissively. “Seriously, you don’t need to worry about a thing. Just let Z-Team do what they do best.”

“Fucking shit up? Wow, I am calmer than Gandhi himself.”

Chapter Text

8:47 A.M.

Robert walked into the SDN lobby with Beef held in his arms, where he spotted Waterboy sitting on the same couch where Robert, as Mecha Man, had first met the kid before his interview.

“Hello, boss– sir– Robert!” Waterboy stood up from the couch, clutching a matte-blue plastic tupperware like it was the most important thing in his life.

As Robert placed Beef down, he eyed the container. “Whatcha got there, kid?” He approached Waterboy as Beef trailed behind, the pooch sauntering up and pawing at the kid’s leg for attention.

“O-oh! Yeah, t-this!” Waterboy held out the tupperware, before it slipped from his grip. He fumbled the plastic for a moment before catching it and holding it still. He held it back out to Robert, like an offering. “She– My grandma made some cinnamon rolls! From scratch! But s-she made too many, so I thought you’d like– I’d like to give some to you.”

“Really? Are you sure?” Robert grabs the container gratefully and feels the warmth from the pastry seep through the plastic, heating his hands. He was fully prepared to live off a granola bar until lunch, but who is he to refuse a warm treat? He pops open the lid, seeing two large cinnamon rolls slathered in sugar glaze and, frankly, smelling amazing. “Holy shit! Thank you, Waterboy. When you get home later, tell your grandma that too.”

While Robert internally drooled over the sweets, Waterboy’s nervous fidgeting calmed before he broke into a wide smile. “No problem! I hope you enjoy– l-like them! See you on shift later!” Waterboy waved as he entered a pair of doors and left further into the building.

Robert cracked the lid back into place, wanting to maintain whatever freshness he could. Whatever God existed, they must’ve been seeing how the sad sack that he calls a body was barely clinging onto life off a single granola bar and decided to throw him a bone.

Robert stood in the lobby like a statue, fully processing the idea of having a decent and proper breakfast for once, as Beef whined and pawed at his pant leg. He then speedwalks towards and enters the same double doors Waterboy had entered moments before, and makes his way towards the usual breakroom while Beef trails behind in labored huffs.

While he’d never admit it out loud, especially in front of Z-Team, he was looking forward to actually eating something as simple as cinnamon rolls.

He definitely can’t let them find out about that.

Chapter Text

12:55 P.M.

Robert leaned back in his rolling chair, stretching as he felt various parts of his body’s bones creak and pop. The first half of the shift went fairly well, with only two or three failures here and there, but most calls ended successfully.

Robert looked at the clock, having been mentally counting down to his lunch break ever since those damn hands hit noon. While he watched each tick like they were slowing down just to personally irritate him, a figure loomed over him from his peripheral view. He shifted his gaze up to the figure—Coupé—who stared at him with a blank expression.

“Need something, Edward Scissorwings, or are you just imagining a way to string me up and torture some information out of me?”

“If I were to torture you, I certainly wouldn’t give you the opportunity to fight back.”

“Noted.” He leaned forward into an upright position, spinning his chair lazily toward Coupé. “So, what can I do for you?”

“I wish to offer you something.”

Robert quirks an eyebrow. “You,” he points towards her, “are offering me,” he points back to himself, “something?”

Coupé nods, shifting her weight like she was itching to say something further. There was a faint crinkling when Coupé moved, leading Robert to finally notice her hands hidden behind her back.

Robert motioned his head towards the hidden object, “Is that the ‘something’ you’re trying to give me?”

She silently nods again before pulling her hands out from behind her back, revealing…something wrapped in paper.

“What am I looking at?”

“Take it, and you might find out.”

Robert tentatively reached out, his fingers slowly latching onto the rectangular wrapping, like spikes would suddenly shoot out and pierce his hands (he wouldn’t be too surprised, considering she literally uses knives as her main weapon). The object was soft yet firm under his touch. He brought it closer to himself, eyeing it suspiciously before looking back at Coupé.

“I may be an assassin, but I didn’t lace it with anything, so I’m going to need you to not be a coward and actually open it, Robert.”

“Can’t blame a man for being paranoid.”

He unwraps the paper and reveals a sandwich.

“I’m gonna ask again: what am I looking at?”

“It’s a sandwich.”

“No shit, Nancy Drew.”

“Then why’d you ask?”

“I just—” Robert flexed and unflexed his fist, stuffing the flare of irritation down, before heaving an exasperated sigh. “Nevermind."

“It’s a Croque Monsieur,” she specifies. “It’s like a grilled ham and cheese sandwich from France with béchamel sauce. There’s even the Croque Madame—it’s the same thing but with a sunny-side-up fried egg added.”

“Oh, that’s cool. Thank you for that…fun fact.” Robert paused, trying to subtly inspect the sandwich (what the hell even is béchamel sauce?). “And you’re giving me this…why?”

“Colm and I made some for lunch just the other day, as I was feeling rather…homesick, if you would.” She toyed with one of the knives from her wings, flipping it between her fingers like it were a coin. “However, we had some leftovers and thought you’d appreciate having one.”

“Um…thanks?”

“Ah, there ya are, Coop!” A thick Irish accent bellowed. Thick, rapid steps followed afterwards until the short Irishman stood in front of them. Noticing the sandwich in Robert’s hand, his eyes bulged like they were about to pop out of their sockets before looking back at the woman. “Did ya just give Rob my Croque?!”

“Non, mon chéri.” Coupé placed a hand gently on Punch Up’s shoulder, like she was calming a child throwing a tantrum. “There’s plenty left for us, especially you.”

Punch Up perked at the clarification before chirping out, “Oh, good! Thought you were just givin’ away my food!”

Robert felt that last bit was a bit rude, but abstained from commenting as the two already had a history. He reasoned they were used to their own little quirks and mannerisms and could handle it themselves.

“Alright, Gomez and Morticia, you guys go off to lunch,” Robert waved them off, shooing them away. “Thanks for the sandwich.”

“No problem, Rob!” Punch Up chortles. He moves closer to Robert before clapping him on the back, “This will probably be the best sandwich you have ever tasted in yer damn life!”

“Setting the expectations high. But seriously, get out of here.”

“Be on our way, then!”

“See you later, Robert.”

With that, the—loving? Robert wasn’t sure about their relationship status at this point—pair finally left Robert in peace.

It felt weird being handed food back-to-back, first by Waterboy, then by Coupé. While Robert isn’t too surprised by Waterboy since he is a generally nice kid, Coupé is a different story with the whole former assassin deal. He chalks it up to Coupé trying to work on her hero image by being nice and finally grabs the sandwich and bites into it.

Fuck, it actually is really good.

Chapter Text

5:51 P.M.

Robert stuffed his notebook and pen into his bag, then zipped it closed. He pat his thigh to beckon Beef to him, before Chase snatched the pooch up from his dog bed like he was a purse about to get snatched by a common street thief.

“Nope, I’m on babysitting duty for this little guy for the evening!” Chase turned Beef over to hold him like a baby and rubbed his belly. Beef kicked back in glee before yipping and licking Chase’s cheek.

“And why would I need a babysitter for Beef when I’m literally home?”

“’Cause you’re actually coming with me, dick weed.” Invisigal phased in next to Robert, taking in a puff of her inhaler a second later.

“Why the hell am I coming with you?”

“God, stop whining like a little bitch,” Visi rolled her eyes. “Just get your skinny ass moving, we don’t have all day.”

“First, I wasn’t whining like a bitch. Second, where are we going?”

“Jesus, Robert. What, are we playing 21 Questions now? We’re going out to get some grub.”

“Why?”

“Swear to god, dude, if you don’t stop asking questions, I’ll ditch your ass with Coop and Punch Up’s Date-But-Apparently-Not-A-Date so you can third wheel so hard, you’ll look like fucking wallpaper.”

“Jesus fuck, fine. Lead the way, I guess.”

After a quick ear scratch to Beef and a “love you” to Chase, Robert followed Visi through the building, passing dozens of cubicles, walking through halls, and going down a flight of stairs to the first floor. They passed through the lobby before finally stepping outside the SDN building. Instead of continuing, Visi suddenly stopped in front of Robert on the parking lot sidewalk, causing Robert to bump into her. He jerks back before regaining his balance, looking at Visi as she turns to face him.

“Visi, what the hell?”

“Sorry, you’ll have to drive. I usually take the clusterfuck that is public transportation, so unless you’re cool with that…” She shrugs.

“Goddammit…” Robert slung his bag off his shoulder and unzipped it, digging around until his fingers connected with the cool metal of his keys and pulled them out with a jingle. “Get your ass to the car.”

Robert led the way as Visi followed behind with a pep in her step. He unlocked it and slid in, and Visi followed suit.

As he starts the car, he asks Visi, “Where to now?”

She kicks her feet onto the dashboard and crosses her arms over her chest as she confidently says, “The Sardine.”

Robert pauses, narrowing his eyes at her. “The fuck? You mean the same bar we got in a fight at?”

“Finished the fight, remember?” Visi corrected, parroting back Robert's words. “Anyways, yeah, the very same. We rocked the Red Ring fuckers' shit. Not gonna lie, kinda hope we get in another fight; I could pummel a face or two. Or five.”

“Please no, I’ve barely even recovered from the fight with Shroud.”

“You normies heal so slow.”

“Fuck off.”

“Just drive already.”

With that, Robert pulls out of the SDN parking lot and drives to the Sardine. Neither speaks, Robert’s eyes focusing on the road ahead, and Visi staring out of the passenger window. The only sound filling the silence was the hum of the engine and the occasional disgusting cough from the piece of shit car’s exhaust.

After 15 minutes of awkward, silent driving, Robert parks near the bar. Visi hops out, as if the car were going to explode at a moment’s notice. She waits with an impatient tap of her foot as Robert pulls himself out of the driver’s seat and locks it.

“Dude, you move slower than a senile old man on the shitter.”

“Thanks,” Robert says flatly, shoving the keys into his pants pocket. “Let’s just eat so I can go home.”

“Yeah, yeah, so you can wallow in your depressing as fuck apartment.”

“My very well-lit and not couchless depressing as fuck apartment.” Robert clarifies, though he figures that it doesn’t really come to his defense at all. If anything, that probably makes it sound worse to literally anyone else.

Visi rolls her eyes before jutting her head toward the bar to indicate that Robert follow her inside. Outside the door stood a bouncer, the same one Robert vaguely remembers from last time. The bouncer lets Visi in easily but scrutinizes Robert as he passes, like he would be the source of every possible wrong scenario in a villain bar of all places, which is saying a lot. Despite the soul-piercing stare, the guy barely decides to let him in again.

The Sardine was just as dark as the night of the bar fight. The far wall still lit up like Christmas with neon signs and string lights, graffiti and posters that you’d see in an edgy teenage boy’s bedroom littering the walls, and the floor was sticky beneath Robert’s soles, which felt like he was walking on bubble wrap. The air was thick with the scent of booze, cigarette smoke, and the faintest hint of food.

Visi sat in a booth near some arcade cabinets, with two glasses of what seemed like Coke and a laminated, disgusting-looking menu in front of her. Robert slid in next to her and grabbed the menu’s edges, attempting to slide it over to himself before Visi snatched it back and perused it herself.

“I’m ordering for you.”

“The hell?”

“We all know you’re a broke ass fuck, so you’d probably order the cheapest fucking thing on this thing.” Unfortunately, he couldn’t refute the statement because that was exactly what he was going to do. She placed the menu down and lit a cigarette, taking a drag before huffing out, “It’s on my dime, since you bought popcorn and Sour Patch Kids on the first date and whiskey on the second. ‘Least I could do.

“‘Sides, they actually got some decent shit for a hellhole, so I’m gonna need you to be a good boy and clean your plate when the stuff gets here.”

“I was gonna say thanks for being willing to cover, but now you just made it weird.”

“Whatever,” Visi rolled her eyes, scooting out of the booth’s edge opposite Robert. “I’m gonna go up and order since it’s not like they got fancy waiters here, so you sit tight and not get socked in the jaw while I’m gone. Or do, since I still wanna punch in some faces.” With an intake of breath, Visi disappears, save for the now-moving cigarette and its smoke trail being the only sign of her presence.

Robert waited. Five minutes. Then ten. Then another fifteen.

He had mindlessly scrolled on Twitter before switching to playing random games on his phone, even the games he hadn’t played in years (he doesn’t bother deleting games, sue him).

Two trays suddenly thunked in front of him, startling him from dull gameplay and dropping his phone with a clatter. Visi materializes with a puff of her inhaler, an amused smile playing on her lips before dropping it.

“These cucks acted like they didn’t know how to cook for shit, and the—I don’t know, fucking bartender?—is apparently deaf too because the bastard couldn’t hear half the shit I was trying to order,” Visi said as she slipped back into the booth before groaning, “so this shit took forever.”

“Was starting to wonder if you ditched so I could get my ass handed to me.”

“Nah, I couldn’t do that to ya.” Visi leaned over, arms crossed over the table. “Can’t have the Mecha Man go out like that at a lowly villain bar. You have to go out in a blaze of glory after 15 years of service.”

“Meh,” Robert shrugged. “Technically, you did take out Mecha Man in a blaze of glory with that bomb.” Visi visibly cringed, her nose scrunching like she smelled spoiled milk, and her fingers clamped down on her forearms. He leaned into the stiff, cracked leather of the booth seat before cracking a lazy smirk. “But I’ll make sure that Robert the Dispatcher will be one hell of a bastard to kill, so this place won’t cut it for getting rid of me.”

Whatever guilty tension laced Visi’s body dissipated, first with relief, then replaced by hunger as she shifted her attention to the trays of food. “Okay, so I got us a couple of appetizers,” she pointed to the stacks of mozzarella sticks and buffalo wings on the first tray. “They’re okay, but the real good shit is the main stuff.” Her finger moved over to the neighboring items: two standard hamburgers, and a large simple cheese pizza on a separate tray.

“I feel like this is a concerning amount of food for just two people.” Robert grabbed one of the burgers, inspecting it as if it were laced with poison; at minimum, possibly spat in by a cook if they still “smell the hero on him,” as Visi put it so eloquently last time.

“Or you just have shitty eating habits and think eating like you’re a damn mouse is good enough.” Visi plucks a wing from the pile’s top and bites into it, bits of sauce gathering in the corners of her mouth. “Now, are you just gonna stare at that burger like it’s going to kill you, or are you actually gonna eat it? ‘Cause I will kick your ass if you waste all this food I spent my hard-earned money on.”

“Not like I really asked you to buy this much food. If you hadn’t already known my hero identity, I would have thought you were trying to see if I really was the Gluttonator to win that bet.”

“Who the fuck suggested that you were the Gluttonator? That’s like the shittiest guess I’ve heard.”

“Mal and Prism. Saw me eating crappy microwave burritos in the break room and went from there.”

“Thank Christ they’re not detectives or some shit.”

“Ditto.”

Visi started to dig in, biting into her burger, pulling at a slice of pizza, and snacking on the appetizers in between. Robert hesitated, contemplating whether to continue examining his burger or just shut up and eat the damn thing.

Visi, amid her pizza cheese pull, noticed the hesitancy and swallowed, saying, “It’s not poisoned or some shit. Made sure they wouldn’t pull anything stupid.”

“And you guaranteed that how?” Robert couldn’t imagine what Visi could possibly say to cover his ass at a villain bar. Would they even give a shit?

“Don’t worry your pretty little head about it. All that matters is that you ain’t dying from food.” She waves him off, tearing off another cheesy chunk of her pizza. “At least not by their hands, but if you don’t take a bite of that burger or literally anything else here in the next 5 seconds, I will bury you.”

“Fine.”

It’d been a while since Robert had a real burger, only sometimes treating himself to the high dining experience that was McDonald’s and ordering a classic hamburger. It may be flat as an ironing board and look like a deflated tire, but it’s still a cheap, halfway decent dinner when he’s not surviving on the holy trinity of coffee, Twinkies, and microwavable meals.

Visi watched Robert like a hawk as he drew the burger closer, until he finally bit into it.

Goddammit, it was fucking delicious. At least in comparison to anything he’s had for the past few weeks post-coma. Maybe months. Robert was barely holding himself back from scarfing down the burger like a ravenous stray dog living off dumpster scraps. Apparently, the effort was futile as he nearly choked on a half-chewed chunk, attempting to mask it by chugging his drink.

He watches Visi out of the corner of his eye, waiting for a reaction to his embarrassing display of manners. She remained composed, her drink drawn close to her lips before taking a swig. Robert noticed the small smile tugging at the corners of her lips, despite using the cup as a cover.

Robert breaks from the half-eaten burger, switching to the appetizers. He plucks a mozzarella stick and a wing, then bites into each. They were good, but not great. The sticks had a slight chalky taste, and the wing, despite being nearly drowned in sauce, tasted generic (at least it had some heat to it, he’ll give it that). But he’s not one to complain; food is food, and that’s enough in his books.

He decides to try the pizza and grabs a slice, watching the cheese stretch and pull until it snaps. He takes a big bite at the point, tearing off a chunk and savoring the oil that once pooled on the slice. Normally, he wouldn’t care for greasy food, but the bland and cheap food that made up his virtually nonexistent diet made the oil a welcome change, making the pizza probably one of the best things he’s tasted in a long time, second to the burger.

“Look at you, eating bar food all happy like a little kid opening presents on Christmas morning.” Visi laughed, chewing on her burger before taking another sip of her drink.

“You’re such an asshole.” Robert chuckled before popping in a few more mozzarella sticks.

“Hey, if actually eating a full meal will get rid of that stick up your ass and off our dicks during shifts, this will make every buck I spent on this worth it.”

“What is the occasion for bringing me out here and treating me to dinner anyways?”

Visi stared back at Robert with wide eyes for a moment, like she never considered he would even ask the question, before quickly masking it with disinterest and a shrug. “Meh, figured it was time we celebrated kicking Shroud and the Red Ring’s asses. They were your enemies for your old man, and they were on my shitlist for screwing me over after I…” she trailed off, hesitating, before she finished, “Did my part of the deal of placing the bomb.”

“I have a feeling you’re bullshitting me a little bit, but I’ll accept that as an answer for now. Let’s just move on from those guys and enjoy the meal you so generously provided for us.”

Visi rolled her eyes but grinned, moving on and taking more mouthfuls of wings. They fell into easy conversation between bites, straying away from the troubles that connected them, of stress, guilt, and self-loathing, and instead building their friendship with the regaling tales of Robert’s early days of heroism and Visi’s start to the life of crime, sprinkled with the occasional embarrassing story and fuck-ups.

Chapter Text

8:42 A.M.

Robert carefully drops Beef by his rolling chair. He trots over to his dog bed covered in toys, all bequeathed to Robert when Chase went from dispatcher to the full-fledged hero, Star Blazer, the new poster boy for SDN. Beef pulls himself into the bed, spinning until he finally finds a comfortable spot and lies down with a huff, his eyes slowly drifting closed for his first morning nap.

He pulls out his notebook and grabs a mechanical pencil. He begins to write, polishing and expanding on the previous day’s rushed, short-handed notes during shifts. As he focuses, he barely notices the quick, thumping steps that draw closer until they suddenly stop. He pays it no mind, choosing to remain fixated on the paper in front of him.

“Robert,” calls a lilting accented voice behind him, demanding his attention.

Robert sighs, dropping the pencil, and sharply turns around in his chair, meeting face-to-face—or at least as face-to-face as you can be—with the three-foot-tall Punch Up.

“What do you want, Punch Up?” Usually, Robert can get some peace and quiet in the morning right before his shift, as most of the team, excluding Waterboy, don’t clock in until just before their shifts start.

“Ay, don’t make it sound like I’m the worst person for you t’meet in the mornin’.” Punch Up crosses his arms and furrows his brows in feigned annoyance before quickly breaking out into a wide grin. “I want ya t’come with me to the break room fer a minute.”

“But I just sat down,” Robert groans, leaning back in his seat, the backrest groaning under his weight.

“No, ya didn’t. You’ve been scribblin’ in that book of yers for like three minutes.”

“I’d considered that within the time window of ‘just sat down.’”

“Yer arse has been comfortable long enough in my books. Get ‘em going, chop chop.” Punch Up follows his last comment with two claps before stalking off, waving his fingers in a follow-me motion from behind.

Robert rises from his chair, causing Beef to jerk awake, alert. He peers up at Robert with curious eyes, awaiting an unspoken command. Robert begins to move towards Punch Up and the breakroom, leading Beef to waddle out of his bed and trail behind with excited barks.

He enters the breakroom with Beef, who briefly pauses at the door, sniffs the air, and happily rushes ahead. The dog stops in front of the furthest table and whines, repeatedly attempting to jump onto a nearby chair but failing, so he sits on the ground with his tongue lolling out, and stares so intensely that, if the dog had heat vision, it would definitely burn a hole through it. Robert’s eyes follow the dog’s fixation, finally noticing the abundance of food, particularly meat, on full display and nearly covering every inch of the circular surface.

The Irishman stands by the table, his chest puffed out in pride, and laughs. “Tah-dah!” He gestures to the food in a grandiose manner, forcing Robert to really focus on the platter in front of him.

“What’s all this?”

“It’s a classic Irish Breakfast Special!”

“Okay…why?”

“Well, I thought bringin’ a little home to work would be nice! Share something with the team! ‘Sides, some of you lads are so skinny too, so getting some protein in ya shouldn’t hurt.” Punch Up wiggles his eyebrows, an amused smile plastered across his face.

Robert eyes the conglomerate. There were several spreads of meats, as well as a variety of veggies like mushrooms and tomatoes, a large serving of scrambled eggs, and other foods he couldn’t recognize. A small pair of tongs clung to the table, just narrowly teetering off the edge.

“This looks like it was a huge pain in the ass to bring all the way here, though,” Robert comments.

“Ay, it would’ve, but that’s why I got Mal to help me out with them portals. Saved me a lot of hassle!” Punch Up laughs as he moves closer to a pulled-out chair with a pile of paper plates and a small cardboard box of plastic forks sitting atop. He grabs one of each and offers it to Robert. "Yer up first, bud! Aside from Waterboy, yer the next bean pole.”

“Hardy har har.” Robert snatches them away. “You guys seriously talk so much shit about how skinny I am when I literally told you last week that I was in a goddamn coma.”

“Yeah, and the least you could do is eat anything other than sugar, office mud water, and random junk. You need meat on yer bones!

“Besides, yer coma was months ago! You should have gained at least something back by now! I’ve seen them photos at yer prime; that’s what you need to get back to.”

“Weird that you’re googling my photos and checking out my body,” Robert points out, though the Irishman smiles back unabashed. “Anyways, it’s fine.”

“I think yer supposed to say, ‘I’m fine,’ Rob.”

Robert doesn’t comment. “Well, since you’re the one who went through the effort to bring it here, I’d say you should be the one to go first.”

Punch Up narrows his eyes, his gaze lingering on Robert’s blank expression, before moving on with an enigmatic smile. “Nah, I brought this for the team! I insist you go ahead.” Punch Up shoves him towards the table, leaving the underlying message clear to Robert—you will eat first, and you’re not getting out of it.

Robert’s shoulders slump in resignation, finally picking up the tongs and tapping the grips together with satisfying clicks (a must-do when one gets hold of tongs). He picks through, grabbing the most familiar: sausages, some tomatoes and mushrooms, wide strips of what vaguely looks like bacon, and a small pile of eggs.

Robert could hear low grumbling and muttered curses from behind before the tongs were snapped up from his grip.

More food quickly piled onto his paper plate while Punch Up lectured him, “I bring all this fuckin’ food ‘ere and yer pickin’ through it like a bird! I just told you you need more protein! Do you always let words go in one ear and out the other?”

“Not particularly on purpose, no,” Robert deadpans, watching his plate grow bigger and bigger by the second. He spots the unfamiliar foods being tacked on. He might as well ask the question. “So, uh, what are these?” He gestures to the thick, misshapen crossbreeds between pancakes and hashbrowns and the mysterious black and white cylindrical cuts.

“Hm?” Punch Up pauses, the tongs going still clutched around another sausage, his eyes following Robert’s finger. “Ah, those! Them black and white things are black pudding and white pudding! Think of them like sausages with some cereal and seasoning tossed in.

“Then them little patties are potato pancakes! The name pretty much sums it up, lad. I guess you could think of them like the American hashbrown’s cousin, but way better and actually seasoned.” He laughs at the jab with the final placement of an extra serving of eggs. “I’d say that’s good enough for you! Now you better hop to it, the guys should be comin’ soon.”

“Already here, babes.” Malevola’s red, pointed tail snakes over Robert’s shoulder and jabs into a sausage at the top of the food mound that was his plate (honestly, it’s surprising how a paper plate is even surviving holding this much). It retreats towards its owner until it comes close enough for her to take a bite.

“Oh shit! You brought food?! Sweet!” Sonar chirps, a clawed finger easily plucking up a strip of bacon before quickly eating it whole. “Solid choice to bring bacon, my guy. Ten outta ten.”

“That’s not just bacon, you muppet. It’s bacon rashers!”

“I am like 95% sure they’re the same thing. Also, not cool to call me a muppet. I cannot compete with the masterpieces that are The Muppets; put some respect on their name.”

As Punch Up and Sonar bicker between incomprehensible Irish cursing and Sonar’s quips, Robert feels something tug at his pants. He looks down and sees Beef’s eyes peek up in a silent plea. Unable to say no to puppy eyes, he grabs a sausage from his plate and hands it over to the dog. Beef quickly swipes it, trotting over to hide under a chair before feasting on his new acquisition.

Robert chuckles at the sight, watching the dog ferociously tear into the sausage with little regard, chunks of wet meat tumbling out of his mouth before snatching it back. He moves to sit on the same chair housing the dog, leaning back to watch the spiraling show that was Punch Up and Sonar’s nonsensical dispute. His plate sits in his lap, untouched, his gaze honed in on his teammates.

A chair scrapes next to him on his left, the figure sitting down as a tail wraps around his waist. He follows it to Malevola’s face, who smiles warmly before popping in a potato pancake.

“I’d recommend you start digging into that. Bit rude of you not to, when Colm went through all the work.” She reaches for the plate, playfully wiggling her fingers towards one of the puddings, before Robert pulls back. “Ooooo, greedy little bugger, aren’t we?”

Robert stares pointedly at Malevola with furrowed brows, plate still outstretched from her reach. He pulls it back down to his lap, finally stabbing into a black pudding with his fork and shoving it into his mouth, maintaining eye contact with the demoness. She breaks into a satisfied smirk when a flicker of surprise crosses his face.

“Holy shit.”

“I know. What’s it like to eat real food?”

“Asshole.” Robert shoves at her shoulder, but she barely budges. “You guys seriously aren’t going to leave me alone about this, are you?”

“Nope.”

“Are ya finally eatin’? Good lad,” Punch Up chimes in. There was a sort of glimmer in his eye, like he was waiting for Robert to say something. “Though I think I’ve seen turtles dig into food faster than you.”

“What, are you expecting me to stuff food in my face like a damn chipmunk?”

“No, but it couldn’t hurt for ya to eat like, I dunno, a normal person.”

“What the hell does that even mean?”

“Dudes, as much as I would love to clown on our dispatcher for his incredibly concerning eating habits,” Sonar cuts in, half of a sausage hanging out of his mouth like a cigar. “Let us cut the chit-chat and chow down on the goods before everyone else gets here. I wanna be able to stuff myself like I made some big bucks off crypto.”

“Oh, alright,” Punch Up relents, grabbing himself a plate and piling on some food. He looks back at Robert with a stern look, pointing the tongs in his direction, “You will eat everything on that plate, ya hear me? No ifs, ands, or buts.”

“Can’t promise anything.”

“Don’t go too hard on him.” Malevola’s tail hovers over Robert’s head before lowering, forking through his hair in a petting motion. As much as he hates to admit it, it felt nice. He’s keeping that nugget of information to himself, though. “Bro’s probably got a super small stomach at this point,” she emphasizes the point by pinching her fingers together, the smallest gap between them barely visible as she peers through the space, “so we can’t force him to overeat and, like, explode.”

“Or puke,” Sonar tacks on.

Punch Up thinks for a moment, eyes squinting at Robert like he was considering whether to keep pushing the matter or not. In the end, he yields. “Fine. Just eat ‘til yer fuller than a tick, then.”

Robert nods, putting the last bit of the black pudding in his mouth. He quietly eats, relishing in the savory array of food and smoky meats, and basking in the idle chatter of the few present Z-Team members. It was oddly peaceful for him. He could just shut off his brain and enjoy a filling breakfast. So, he zoned out, never focusing on a single thought that would normally bounce around in his head like a DVD logo.

He doesn’t know how long it’s been since he zoned out, but a tap on his shoulder brings him back to reality. As he slowly shakes off the numbing haze, he blinks over to Malevola, who nods to the neighboring table.

“I think the chef wants to check in.”

He moves his gaze over to the neighboring table, where Punch Up stares back at him intently. As if he were stuck in his own mind, Punch Up blinks back in surprise, before composing himself with a cough.

“So, ah…what ya think?”

“What do you mean?”

“You dense? Do I have to spell everythin’ out for ya? The food, lad! Do ya like it?”

Robert looks back down at his plate. Apparently, he’d made a decent dent in it while he’d been mentally logged out. His first instinct is to be a sarcastic asshole and say something about the food tasting like charcoal and his seasonal depression. But the hero in him—or maybe just his conscience—stops him.

Punch Up went through the effort to bring something that clearly meant something to him. Something important. It’d be a dick thing to do to shit on it, even if he was busting his balls. So Robert resolves to shove bacon rashers into his mouth as Punch Up, Sonar, and Malevola gape at him. As he chews with the taste of saltiness filling his mouth, he gives a thumbs-up.

Punch Up stares with wide eyes for a beat before choking out a loud, lively laugh. “Ya know, ya coulda just said it was good.”

“Don’t think Bobert is good with his words,” Sonar says, moving over to the microwave. “He’d rather play Charades than show any indication of emotional vulnerability.”

Robert swallows, snapping his head in Sonar’s direction. “Hey, you’re a Harvard graduate, not a goddamn therapist.”

“Don’t need to be a therapist or a Harvard graduate to realize you’re emotionally constipated, Bobert.” He opens the microwave, fumbling with something in his coat jacket.

Malevola narrows her eyes, sensing his shiftiness. She calls out softly, “Vic, what you got there?”

“Hm?” Sonar stills like a kid caught stealing a late-night cookie, a faint crinkle coming from his suit jacket. His ears twitch, briefly drooping before jerking back up. “Nothing…”

Robert eyes Sonar, switching his gaze between the man-bat and the microwave. “Sonar…don’t fucking do it.”

“I’m not doing anything!”

“Do not fucking microwave a rat!” Robert shouts.

“Dude, we’ve talked about this…” Malevola groans, rubbing her temple, the onset of a headache creeping in.

“Yer gonna stink up the damn room!” Punch Up slams his fists on the table, brows furrowed and veins almost popping out of his neck. “It’ll ruin everyone’s appetites before they even come in here if they’re smellin’ yer cooked rat corpse!”

“But my rat…"

A unanimous shout, “NO, VICTOR!”

Chapter Text

1:12 P.M.

Robert scrolled mindlessly on his phone at a breakroom table, reading articles or watching random dog videos online. As he watched a video of a dog running around in a living room, miscalculating its trajectory and slamming into a couch (he felt bad for laughing; it probably hurt like a bitch), heavy, ground-shaking steps grew close until they finally stopped behind Robert. He turned in his chair, watching Golem stand by patiently waiting.

“Hello?” Robert shuts off his phone and places it face down on the table. “Are you just gonna stare at me all creepy?”

“Ouch,” Golem grunts out. Despite the verbal indication of emotional wounding, his face remains neutral. “But, nah. I just needed you to help me with something.”

“Sure, what’s up?”

“Saw something online.”

"Okay..." Robert pauses for a moment, expecting Golem to say more. When the living dirt mound stares blankly at him, he attempts to coax out more information. “And?”

“I tried it out.”

“Alright.”

Another pause.

Robert sighs, lifting his head towards the ceiling, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You seriously need to start stringing together longer sentences.”

Golem hums, “Sorry. Just wanted to see if you’d be willing to taste test, since…you know, I don’t really eat food. No taste buds and all that.”

“Then why’d you make food if you can’t even taste food?” While Robert’s question comes out more clipped than he intended, it was genuine. “Most people cook because they need to eat.”

“That’s ‘most people.’ And I’m not exactly a person.” Fuck. He had a bit of a point, even if it’s kind of depressing as hell. Maybe really depressing. “Anyways, I just thought it’d be something neat to try.”

Robert looks at Golem, trying to detect a lick of bullshit. When the crack in the dirt that is his mouth only slightly curls up into a smile, he gives in. “Alright, fine. Let’s do it.”

“Thanks.”

As Robert stands up from his seat, Golem’s body rumbles, a section of his abdomen bulging as mud and clay slowly shifts outward from a point. An object gradually pushes itself out. Unfortunately, it was wrapped in grass and, apparently, also had dozens of rocks lodged with it. It all tumbled out, rocks clattering on the linoleum and grass falling like deflated balloons.

As the grass began to shed off the object, it revealed something almost akin to a small boulder. It looked similar to the reddish-brown rocks that Golem would make out of his hardened mud and clay, only somewhat misshapen compared to the jagged edges and sharp corners that made up Golem’s makeshift weaponry.

When the boulder fully slides out of Golem’s body, he holds it in his palm and dusts off the remaining grass onto the floor.

“You’re cleaning that up, you know,” Robert says, switching his gaze between the grass-covered floor and Golem like a disappointed mother watching her child make a mess in the kitchen.

“I’ll do it later.”

He places the boulder down on a table, watching it like it were a chicken’s egg about to hatch. Robert also watches, like it held the answers to the universe.

“So, like, are we supposed to do something, or are you expecting me to lick a rock?” Robert asks.

“You break it open,” Golem replies simply.

“Excuse me, what?”

“You break it.”

“First off, that looks like it borders on concrete, and I definitely cannot break that open myself in my civvy form.”

“Weak,” Golem drones with a flash of mirth.

Robert rolls his eyes. “Secondly, even if I could break it open, I don’t even have anything to break it with.”

“Fine.” Golem’s hand shifts, the clay and mechanical parts moving and slotting together to form a makeshift club. He centers it over the boulder, bobbing it to aim, and pulls his arm back. “Back up, princess.”

With that, his arm quickly slams down on the boulder, and a loud crack reverberates throughout the room, an earthy and smoky aroma permeating the space. Robert snaps his hands up to cover his ears (which, at that point, is useless when it’s already been nailed like a goddamn piñata), instinctually flinching at the boom and screeching of the table. Golem’s arm recoils, the stump transforming back into the vague shape of a hand.

As he brings his hands down from his ears, Robert jerks his head towards Golem, “Can you give me more than like two seconds before you start breaking shit?” He looks over to the table, “And how the fuck did that survive Miley Cyrus’ living wrecking ball?”

“Let’s see…” Golem says, tilting his head slightly in faux contemplation. “We have superheroes. With superpowers. Some of which can destroy shit. Wonder why they would have sturdy furniture?”

“You’re a smartass.” A rumbling laugh follows as Robert leans over the split boulder. He peers inside, seeing nothing much besides shades of brown illuminated by the fluorescent lighting of the breakroom. Now that he wasn’t focused on protecting his eardrums from being ruptured, he was now processing the rather pleasant smell. “This smells great. What is it?”

Golem grins widely, the mud subtly rippling. “Saw this dish online called a pachamanca, where you can, like, bury meat and veggies and stuff with hot ass rocks and grass underground to cook. I wanted to try making something like that, just to see if I can.”

“That’s kind of cool,” Robert comments, sticking his fingers between the crack and tugging at each side to pull it apart (is that even what he’s supposed to be doing?). “Didn’t know you could do that.”

Golem nods. “Humans come up with interesting things. Apparently, it’s been a thing for, like, five thousand years.”

Robert chuckles, tugging harder, one side slowly shifting away. “You must’ve really done your research on this if you remembered that little factoid.”

“Just watched a few YouTube videos,” Golem shrugs.

Robert pulls again, but the rock remains steadfast in sticking to the meat inside. “Holy hell, this shit is stuck like fucking glue.”

Golem sighs, as if he were Atlas holding up the sky, and reaches over Robert to grab the encasement. “You are seriously bumming me out watching you struggle to open this. Are you trying to make me do all the work?”

“No.”

“Good, because I didn’t really do shit. Flambae did most of the work by seasoning the meat and making sure the rocks were hot as balls.” His smaller arm molds itself over one side of the boulder, creeping over the crack’s ledge, while his other larger hand grips on the opposite side.

As Golem begins to pull, a question strikes Robert. “Wait, how long have you been cooking that? You haven’t been walking around with that inside you all day, have you?”

“Maybe like an hour, based on what one of the videos said. Kinda surprised it didn’t need, like, 13 hours.”

“Now when the hell did you and Flambae have the time to do this on shift?”

“You’re overthinking it,” Golem says, finally tugging off one side of the rock and reabsorbing it. “Flambae had the meat prepared before work, and when we had some downtime together, we just did it real quick.” He wanders over to the counter with the dish in one hand and carefully opens the cabinets, scanning their contents, Robert’s eyes following the construct’s movements.

“And the rocks?”

“Robert,” Golem turns away, his eyes almost looking tired. “I’m going to need you to use your critical thinking skills here. I’m made out of clay, mud, dirt, and…?” Golem pauses, waiting for Robert to fill in the blank.

“Rocks.”

“And Flambae’s power…?”

“‘Controls the fire and the flame and his skin does not burn,’” Robert recites lamely, lifting his hands in mimed quotations.

“Bingo. We have a winner. And your prize is: jack shit.” After another cursory glance, he grabs an unopened pack of paper plates from the cabinets and brings them to the table. He places them down and looks at Robert. “Can you set these up to be like a big plate? Didn’t think to bring anything to put this down on.”

Robert nods, ripping open the plastic. He starts pulling two plates at a time, setting them down close together to form something resembling a platter. “I’d argue that the prize is—” He finally glances over to the dish in Golem’s hand. “Is that a whole ass chicken?”

“What, you thought the size was just for show?” Golem flashes an amused smirk. “Flambae suggested sticking to something basic, saying something about you being too white and that he’d go easy on the spice.”

“That literally has no correlation,” Robert sighs before pointing to the makeshift platter. “Set it here.”

Golem places the chicken on the plates and rips off the remaining half of the rock, melting it back into his hand. “Bone apple teeth. Now go to town.”

Robert stares at Golem quizzically, his brows furrowed as he wonders if Coupé would cut Golem’s head off for the horrendous butchering of French. “Okay, for one, it’s ‘bon appétit,’” He places special emphasis on the last two words, making Golem slightly nod in understanding. “Second, you say that like you’re siccing a stray dog.”

Golem hums, slightly tilting his head. “Sometimes you do kinda act like a stray dog.”

“Bitch acts more like a stray cat, all skittering and shit,” Flambae strides into the room with the faint hint of smoke following him, side-stepping around the grass and rocks. He pulls out a chair with a jerk and sits down, kicking up his feet on another chair like a footstool, a self-satisfied smirk plastered across his face. “So, how’s it taste? Fuckin’ Michelin star worthy? Would Gordon Ramsey be worshipping the ground I’d fucking walk on?”

“He hasn’t eaten it yet,” Golem says.

Flambae scowls, heat filling the room and fire flaring around his shoulders as he bites out, “What?”

“Didn’t have a chance to taste test before you decided to grace us with your flaming ego.”

“Grace you with my flaming good looks,” Flambae corrects, dramatically flipping his ponytail before glaring at Robert. “And you better eat that shit right now before I shove it down your throat, Mecha Bitch!”

“Pause,” Golem grumbles.

“Shut the fuck up! I’ve told you fuckers that this bitch isn’t my type!”

Golem laughs, either self-satisfied at his own joke, pissing off Flambae, or both.

“Why do you even care?”

“Bitch, I did not get up early to season that shit before work just for you to let it go to waste.”

“Just have the rest of the team have it. I’m sure they’ll tear it up like hyenas.”

“Nope, you ain’t getting out of this, Robert.” Golem pushes the paper platter forward. “You said you’d help me out.”

“Fine,” Robert relents. “But I’m not eating that with my bare hands. That’s unsanitary.”

“Such a dramatic ass bitch, just get a fucking plastic fork from the damn drawers.” Flambae stalks off to the counter despite the command intended for Robert and jerks open a drawer, quickly digging around the shitstorm of miscellaneous junk covering every inch of its bottom. He snatches up a fork and slams it closed before stalking back to Robert and placing it down. “There. Now do it.”

Robert takes the fork and stabs into the chicken while staring pointedly at Flambae. He rips out a section, the skin crackling under his fork as he pulls. The meat releases, and he holds it up like it were a fish on a spear with a teasing wave to the pyrokinetic’s face. He raises an eyebrow, jutting his head forward as if goading Robert with a silent ‘do it, bitch.’

Robert brings the fork close, wrapping his mouth around it, and slides the meat off, maintaining sharp, stubborn eye contact with Flambae. As soon as it settled in his mouth, Robert had to hold himself from shivering at the juicy and savory chicken, refusing to give Flambae the satisfaction of impressing Robert the Hardass Dispatcher.

“So?” Golem prompts.

“It’s…fine.”

Golem nods with a small smile and the ripple of mud, seemingly understanding the unspoken higher compliment underlying Robert’s words.

Flambae slams his hands on the table, fire flaring to life on his arms as his face twists. “Fucker, I did not do all this shit just to settle for ‘fine’! Clearly, you have no fucking taste if you think this is ‘fine,’ even for your Elmer glue-looking ass standards.”

Robert stuffs another bite, muffling out, “What, you want me to jizz my pants from putting chicken in my mouth?”

Flambae scrunches his nose in a mix between disgust and mild amusement, scoffing out, “Think Invisibitch is rubbing off on you with the HR violation talk.”

“Please, like you guys don’t commit hundreds of HR violations against me on the daily.”

“We’re villains, it’s in our fucking nature or some shit.”

“Rehabilitated ex-villains,” Robert corrects, again, pointing an index finger at Flambae’s chest. If he weren’t sitting down, he’d be jabbing the finger to emphasize his incoming point, “You’re heroes now, remember? Took down the big bad Red Ring.”

“And don’t you forget it, Bob-bob!” Flambae puffs his chest in pride, a smug, tooth-gapped grin spread across his face. “We are just that badass to take down that annoying, condescending, number-crunching fucker all by ourselves.”

Robert chuckles, grabbing another forkful and eating it. “Look at you acknowledging the team effort.”

“I still did most of the work.”

“Last I checked, I’m the one who tricked Shroud with the pulses and made everyone puke and shit their guts out.”

“…Okay, I’ll give you that, Bob-bob, even if you didn’t know what the fuck you were doing. I did the second most work.”

Robert’s face screws up in a contemplative manner, holding out his hand in a ‘so-so’ motion. “Debatable.”

“...Bitch?”

Chapter Text

5:37 P.M.

Robert leans over his desk, dragging his hand across his face and over his hair. The second shift was a clusterfuck, with close to half of the calls being failures. He’d been calmly, might he add, reprimanding everyone to get their asses in gear, but his words went unheeded, the team chalking it up to “another case of the Mondays.”

“It’s Tuesday,” He’d said, watching as Invisigal failed to direct a Costco parking lot car backup.

“Close enough,” Invisigal responded, a hint of irritation lacing her words as she headed back to SDN. “There really isn’t much of a difference in a work week, like a thin condom protecting you from a good time or 18 years of responsibility.”

“Well, goddamn, Vanilla Ice, what crawled up your ass and died?” A wave of comforting warmth washed over Robert’s back, who turned around tiredly in his chair to face Chase, still donning his Star Blazer suit and floating just above the carpet.

“Just my dignity.” Robert leaned further into his chair, rubbing both sides of his head to soothe the raging headache that had been plaguing him since the middle of the afternoon. “The team had an…off day.”

Chase leaned over Robert, staring down with an unimpressed look. “That corporate speak for ‘they did shit’ then.” It wasn’t a question; it was a statement.

Robert sighed, letting his arms drape on either side, anticipating the incoming shit talk. “Yes, Chase, they did shit.”

“Knew those fuckers were good for nothin’.”

“They literally helped save all of L.A.”

“Yeah, once.” Chase upturned his nose with a huff. He scooped up Beef from where he lazed in his dog bed, giving the dog a quick peck on the side of his snout before snapping his attention back to Robert. “They’re still some no-good fuck-ups that still can’t get out of the bottom fucking eight on the leaderboard.”

“Holy hell, Chase. Your good deed standards are so high, I don’t think even Jesus could clear them.”

“Well, Jesus ain’t a criminal unlike those dumb fucks.” Chase lands on the carpet, kicking at one of the wheels of Robert’s chair.

“What the hell was that for?”

“Obviously I’m telling you to get the fuck up, motherfucker,” Chase snapped half-heartedly. “We’re going out to eat. With Beefy, of course.”

“Thanks, but no thanks. After the shit show that was the afternoon shift, I just want to go home with my dog and rot.”

“I didn’t fucking realize I gave you the fucking option to turn me down.”

“Wow, two fucks in one sentence. Careful, there are sensitive ears present,” Robert sarcastically remarked, gesturing to the chubby chihuahua snuggling into Chase’s arms, who peered up at the old man with pure adoration.

“Good thing he can’t speak English, then. Even if he could, I’ll do what I did with you and teach the little guy curse words.”

“You are a horrible influence. Dad should not have let you babysit.”

“Robbie made a lot of questionable decisions with you. Hiring me to be your babysitter to teach you curse words and sugar you up on Twinkies was the tamest decision he made.”

“Don’t forget the beer.”

“Hey, at least it was done under supervision!”

Robert shakes his head with a chuckle before standing from his chair, stretching and bending as every joint cracked and muscles strained. Each audible pop made Chase grimace, his face pinching in utter disgust.

“My body was old as fuck, and even I didn’t sound like that. You need to see a fucking chiropractor. Jesus Christ.”

“You know I can’t afford that,” Robert breathes out, the feeling of lightheadedness briefly fogging his mind as he loosens his muscles.

“Well, maybe use them SDN benefits or some shit, anything to not make your body sound like you're cracking a glow stick.”

“All right, grandpa,” Robert rolls his eyes, grabbing his bag and slinging it over his shoulder, sauntering up next to Chase. “We can’t eat out too late, you have to be in bed by 7.”

“It’s already almost 6, you little shit!” He shoves at Robert, who briefly stumbles before righting himself, and reciprocates it.

They continue to exchange shoves heading out of the building, shit-talking along the way. As they reach the building’s front doors, Chase pauses, holding the door wide for Robert to pass through.

“What?”

A shit-eating grin breaks across Chase’s face. “I think I know just the place for a quick bite to eat.”

“Chase, you know I love you, right?”

“Of course I do. Why the fuck would you ask me that?”

“Just making sure. So…why the fuck are we at a Burger King?”

Chase had flown Robert and Beef to a Burger King as his dinner choice, settling them down in the modernly sleek outside dining area. Chase had ordered him to sit down on a long bench seat, which Robert had listened to dutifully, if reluctantly, placing the dog down beside him. Beef yipped, bouncing between placing his front paws on the table and spinning in place in his spot on the bench in excitement.

“Because you loved this fucking place as a kid! Remember how you would beg me to go all the time like a little fucking gnat?” Chase placed his hands on his hips, leaning forward to stare down at Robert.

“Chase, I don’t know if you noticed,” Robert said slowly, leveling a stare at the old man. “But I am a grown ass man. I don’t even know the last time I even ate at this place.”

“Well, you can eat BK again. You sit here while I get us food. What you want?” Robert opens his mouth, but Chase waves a hand in front of his face dismissively, pushing his way through a door to head inside. “I dunno why I even asked. You probably don’t even know what they have on the fucking menu anymore, praying mantis looking-ass.”

With that, Chase disappeared inside. Robert, of course, waited outside, filling the time with his phone and playing with Beef. It was several minutes before Chase came out with a tray, holding pairs of drinks, fries, and wrapped burgers. He places it down as he sits opposite Robert, the tray briefly spinning in place before settling.

“That shit’s yours,” Chase says, pointing to the meal on the left half of the tray. Chase snatches up his burger, quickly tearing through and biting into it as if it would disappear if he didn’t. Which, if it’s in Beef’s presence, might as well be the risk.

Robert grabs his burger and unwraps it, revealing the inner contents: cheese between two beef patties, strips of bacon, and—if he squeezes it just right—mayonnaise pooling just below the bun.

“You’re a big kid now, I thought you’d appreciate being upgraded from chicken nuggets to a burger,” Chase taunted lightly before taking in another mouthful.

“Well, thank you for noticing.” Robert places the burger bottom-up in his palm, removing the bottom bun, and takes out a beef patty before setting the burger down on the tray. Chase watches the movements with an arched brow, taking in Robert picking off unmelted cheese before offering the patty to the dog. Beef seizes it in glee, his butt wiggling in vigor as he turns around to eat it in peace.

“I think that qualifies as cannibalism.”

“He already has a taste for blood, so I’m just curbing his bloodlust.”

“When the hell did he drink blood?!”

“Let’s see,” Robert holds up a hand, lifting a finger as he recalls each instance. “During my interrogation with Slime Dick before the suit exploded, Shroud in the final battle—”

“Jesus, that’s disgusting. You sure he ain’t got no diseases?”

“Considering some of that blood was from me, I’m sure he’s in the clear. Probably.”

“Well, goddamn…you got his shots updated? Just in case.”

Robert releases a breathy chuckle, “Yes, Dad. He’s got his shots.”

“Don’t get smart with me, motherfucker,” Chase says, slapping at Robert’s shoulder. “You know I’d kill a bitch if anything happened to Beefster. Now eat your damn food before it gets cold.”

“And you’re sure you’re not my dad instead of my brother?”

“Don’t make it weird, you little shit. Do you look like you’d be my fucking kid?” Chase huffs, tearing another bite, vaguely gesturing to…well, the entirety of Robert. “I wouldn’t have to act like your dad if you would just fucking take care of yourself.”

“Yes, I know, I know.”

“Do you, though? Would you have even eaten anything for dinner if I didn’t drag your ass over here?”

“I was thinking I would eat some cereal.”

“And how many times have you done that in the past week?”

“Does it matter?”

“Robert,” Chase sharpens his tone, looking at Robert like he just caught him drawing on the wall with Sharpies.

Robert sighs, letting his head hang low a bit. “Only once or twice. The other times were Hot Pockets and microwavable burritos.”

Chase drops his burger on the tray, slightly leaning back as he crosses his arms over his chest. “And?” His eyes narrow at further questioning.

“Okay, maybe I forgot to eat a few times—"

“Robert Robertson the Third,” Chase hisses, slamming his palms onto the table.

“Whoa, whipping out the full government name?” Robert holds up his hands in a placating manner as Chase shot up from his seat and stomped over. “Look, Chase, I genuinely forgot—”

“Can it, kid. I don’t give two fucks about your shitty excuses.” Chase stood in front of Robert, towering over him as he blocked the setting sun, illuminating the outline of his body. “You need to be eating proper meals! Not microwavable bullshit or quick fixes like cereal. For fuck’s sake, you eat the same three things during lunch breaks, if you even fucking eat at all!” He releases a heavy sigh after the mini-lecture, like he was trying to rein in his anger and irritation, lifting his head towards the sky and rubbing at his eyes.

He looks back down at Robert before slotting himself next to him. “Look, kid, I’m just worried. And I’m not the only one who’s noticed.”

That was the moment it dawned on him.

Oh.

Everyone was genuinely trying to feed him, not giving him their leftovers, experimenting, or taking him out just because. They were trying to look out for him, in their own mildly aggressive way.

Robert emits a long breath as the realization seeps in deeper. How dense was he? “Yeah, the team’s been giving me food all day today and yesterday. Thought it was a bit weird.”

“Good, at least you’re not too fucking stupid to not realize what they were doing.”

“Don’t give me too much credit. I only just processed it when you said you weren’t the only one,” Robert laughs.

“In that case, you’re stupid.” Chase smacks Robert upside the head.

“I’ve gathered.”

“Now that we’re done with the lapse in feelings, and you had your eureka moment…” Chase drags the tray closer, grabbing the bacon burger and offering it to Robert with a wave, like he was offering a particularly delicious bone to a starved dog. “Eat.”

As if on cue, Robert’s stomach grumbles, causing heat to rush up to the tips of his ears. Chase barks out a laugh, apparently finding the situation funny enough to warrant clutching his side as he gasps for air.

“Told you!” He chokes out, wiping away tears that had gathered in the corners.

Robert snatches the burger, opting to stuff his mouth rather than release a string of embarrassment-induced obscenities at his former babysitter.

Despite that, the burger tasted fan-fucking-tastic. He quickly takes two more bites, taking in the contrasting texture of tender beef and crunchy bacon, before taking a sip of his drink and popping in a few fries.

“Damn, look at you.”

Robert hums in acknowledgment, continuing to eat in pleased delight. Chase still sat next to him, occasionally stealing one of Robert’s fries to snack on on top of his own meal.

“Not gonna lie, I really didn’t expect you to go to town on shitty fast-food burger and fries. Guess the 15 bucks was worth it.”

Robert hums again, finishing off his burger and sipping his drink. He’ll worry about the price and paying Chase back later.

“And that’s not an invitation for you to pay me back.”

Fuck.

Robert turns to face Chase, who was still sitting next to him. He had turned at some point to face towards the still-setting sun, his back leaning onto the table’s edge, mindlessly scratching behind one of Beef’s ears.

“Chase?”

“What’s up?”

“Thanks.”

Chase nods, the ghost of a smile gracing the corner of his lips. “No, problem, kid.”

Chapter Text

Robert blinks awake, the subtle hum of his phone reverberating across his apartment floor. He closes his eyes again, willing himself to get up from his couch as he blindly fumbles against the cold ground until his hand finally connects with the device. He swipes at the screen, shutting off the alarm. He peels his eyes open, his vision blurred from sleep, until it clears just enough for him to glance at the time on his phone to debate whether he can afford to get 5 more minutes.

8:42 A.M.

“Fuck!” He falls off the couch, Beef startling awake from the other end. The dog barks, jumping off the couch as he trails behind Robert as he rushes to the kitchen. “Shitshitshit, I’m gonna be fucking late!” He rips open a cabinet and takes out a bag of dog food, pouring in the food haphazardly into Beef’s bowl. “Sorry, bud, only kibble for breakfast.”

He’s not going to starve his dog, but him? He’ll have to forgo eating breakfast like in the good old days—that is, before 3 days ago.

Beef sniffs at his bowl, releasing a small, disappointed whine before he digs in. Robert pulls out a fresh pair of pants and an SDN embroidered shirt, putting them on before rushing into the bathroom to brush his teeth and quickly wet his hair to not make him look like he got electrocuted.

He leaves the bathroom and runs to the front door, shoving his feet into his shoes before swiping up his bag, keys, and dog, who’d dutifully waited for his chariot after his meal.

“I’ll see if we can let you go to the bathroom when we get there.” Robert fumbles to lock his door and runs down the stairs to the parking lot and to his car. “In the meantime, please, don’t shit in the car.”

Beef stares back with big, dopey eyes, a wiggle to his tail as he is settled into the torn-up passenger seat.

Robert screeches into a parking spot, yanking out his keys and hopping out like his ass was on fire. Beef also hops down, having crawled his way across the middle console with huffs and grunts, and rushes ahead to the nearest patch of grass to take a potty break with a whole-body scrunch.

“Thanks for making quick work at least, bud.” Robert briskly tears off a poop bag to pick up the waste and trashes it.

They run into the SDN building, passing through the rooms and halls until Robert finally—fucking finally—makes it to his desk. He roughly flings his bag onto the floor with a thunk and practically throws himself into his shitty office rolling chair like a ragdoll. He jams his username and password into the ancient computer, watching it whir to life as it renders the 3D map of the city and the team’s icons.

He leans back into his chair, his chest heaving, combing through his hair to calm down. He holds up his phone, the screen illuminating to reveal the current time: 9:13 A.M.

“Fucking hell…” He mumbles, mentally beating himself for oversleeping. How the fuck did that happen? How the fuck did he not hear his fucking alarm? He doesn’t dwell long, opting to put on his headset and activate the team-wide comm line. “Hey, team, sorry ‘bout being late. Had some…issues this morning.”

“Heeeeeeey, Bobert!” Sonar chirps, his icon lighting up as he speaks.

“I believe this is the first time you have been late since you’ve joined us, Robert,” Coupé comments.

More morning greetings collide on the comm, overlapping into a homogenous noise.

“Hell– hi, Robert! Good– Did you have a goo– Was your morning good?”

“C’mon, lad, y’know that’s not the question you should be askin’! We know ‘issues’ is a codeword. What really happened?”

“Yeah, babes. We know you’re the type of guy to be here before most of us. You can tell us, we’ll be nice.”

“Well, if you must know,” Robert says, already so incredibly tired from his team’s antics. “Slept through my alarm.”

“Alarm? As in singular?” Sonar clarifies, sounding surprised. “Dude, you only use one alarm? I have like 10 different ones set up.”

“Yes, Sonar, just the one. I’m a light sleeper.”

“Oh, do you have it set up to be annoying as fuck?” Visi jumps in. “Mine sound like doorbells, ‘cause then I can pretend it’s solicitors and punch their fucking lights out.”

“Uh, no, just the default,” Robert says. “Visi, you sure you don’t have anger issues like Flambae?”

“Fucker, don’t bring me into your whining about your shitty alarm!”

“No anger issues here. Mine don’t lead to arson charges.”

“Well, fuck you too, Invisibitch!”

“Girls, girls, you’re both pretty,” Robert drawls, clicking onto the first call that finally comes in. Someone’s Life Alert was triggered. “Prism, got a call for you. Someone’s grandma had a fall.”

“Nice of you to finally notice,” Visi quips back as Prism calls ‘on it’ and her icon seamlessly slides across the screen.

“Of course I’m fuckin’ pretty, Bob-Bob.” God, Robert can just tell the goddamn pyromaniac is so fucking smug just by the tone of his voice. “My good looks didn’t just come from…uh…what’s the old bitch from that one Disney princess movie with the rats called again?”

“Girl, are you talkin’ about Cinderella’s Fairy Godmother?” Prism scoffs out, her icon already heading back towards the SDN building.

“That’s the hag! My good looks didn’t come from a fairy godmother.”

“Look, Flambae, as much as I would just love to stroke your ego—”

“I’m sure there are other things you’d love to be stroking instead right now…” Visi snickers, causing the comms to erupt in laughter before Robert’s voice hardens to cut through the chatter.

“—you have a fucking job to do.” He finishes, clicking on two more calls and reading their descriptions. He smiles devilishly at one of his options, clicking his comm to be one-on-one with the flame hero. “Well, would you look at that, someone’s toilet is clogged. Wanna go deal with that, Flambae?”

“Send Wetfartboy, he’s the janitor, that’s his job,” Flambae snaps back.

Robert hums, tacking Flambae’s icon on for the job. “Nah, you seem like a good fit,” he says, before confirming his hero of choice.

“…fuck you, Robert,” Flambae grumbles but complies, his icon sweeping over 3D buildings.

“You wish.” Robert watches the hero’s icon until it reaches its destination, then quickly switches to Malevola. “Hey, Mal, wanna deal with a parking spot stealer?”

“I can’t tell if you’re fucking with me to consider sending me on something that’s the equivalent of children fighting over a sandbox shovel.”

“Nope, totally legit. Two people are fighting over a parking spot in a—” Robert’s lack of breakfast decided to make itself known, his stomach feeling like it was caving in on itself as it rumbled loudly.

A low whistle crackled through the headset before a giggle followed. “Aw, mate, didn’t have a big breakfast this morning?”

“Pretend you didn’t hear that.” He clicks around on his screen to send her out, hoping to whatever god existed that it would distract her.

“Mmm, don’t think I can. Pretty sure all of L.A. heard it.” She giggled some more, making quick work to head towards the coordinates. Well, he’s fucked. “Come on, what’d you eat? Granola bar? A slice of toast? Twinkie?”

“Nothing. Didn’t have time.”

Her voice softens, still ringing loud despite the harsh winds from her swift movement as she drops her teasing, “I can pick something up on the way back. I don’t mind.”

“Thanks, but no thanks. I’ll hold off until lunch.”

She clicked her tongue, disappointed, as if addressing a petulant child, “We can’t have you doing that, Robert. You’re our lovely little dispatcher.” Robert transitions to the parking lot camera as she reaches her destination, the woman looking around before spotting the lens and giving it a little wink as she approaches the belligerent man and woman. “You sit there all nice and pretty, and I’ll bring you a little treat.”

“Don’t.”

“Will.”

“Don’t.”

“Will.”

“Do-”

“Say ‘don’t’ one more time, I’ll flunk every mission you send me on.” Malevola’s voice remains light, but the threat was there. She would do it without a moment’s hesitation to be able to do what she wants. “For the rest. Of. The. Day,” she clarifies with finality.

Robert releases a drawn-out sigh, a deep weariness seeping into every limb. “Fine.” He interlaces his fingers, pressing them against his forehead in acquiescence. “But at least do it after getting some more work done, please.”

“Deal. Now be a good boy while I deal with Karen and Kevin.”

“Good luck. Don’t get stabbed.”

“I’d prefer it actually. It would make this snoozefest at least be interesting.”

10:06 A.M.

The morning shift is going just swimmingly for Robert on top of his nightmare of a morning. It’d been hectic, both from actual crises and civilians being, frankly, dramatic or entitled pains in his non-existent ass (as the Z-Team just loves to point out). Several attempted break-ins and robberies, “suspicious” teens at the park, vandals, someone bitching about their hairstylist, and Robert is currently dealing with a Kevin raging about traffic.

“Sir, it’s California, it comes with the territory,” he droned as the man honked and yelled incoherently into his ear. “I’ll be sending heroes to help direct the flow, but for future reference, please do not call us or the police for traffic, as we cannot always help in this situation.”

“Fuck you, you useless asshole! What the fuck are we paying you fuckers for if you can’t deal with this bullshit?!” The man quickly hangs up without waiting for an answer—not that Robert even really had one—the buzzing hum of the dial tone following suit.

Robert sends out Golem and Visi, then slides down his headset and leans back in his chair, glaring at his computer screen. “You don’t pay me shit, dumbass,” he mumbled, irritated. People spout the stupidest bullshit at him. His patience is wearing really fucking thin.

A weight settles atop his head with a crinkle. He angles his chair towards to the person and looks up, finding Malevola smiling down at him, her arm outstretched to balance the box currently resting on him.

“See, this is why we eat in the morning. Don’t get your panties in a twist,” she laughs, pressing a finger between his brows and pushing. “Haven’t you heard how breakfast is the most important meal of the day?”

“Obviously. I was a kid in an American public school.” He grabs the box, bringing it to his lap as Malevola retracts her hand and places it on her cocked-out hip. “What’s this?”

“The treat I promised,” she grinned, her tail whipping behind her like a dog’s tail. “From the land down under.”

“Riiiiight. ‘Cause you just casually went halfway across the world to bring me breakfast.”

Beef whines, lightly pawing at the woman’s leg for his mandated attention and rubs. She bends down to scratch under the chin, and the dog reacts happily with an appreciative lick to her palm. “No. But I did give my mum a ring to drop by a bakery, pick it up, then—bam!—goods acquired.”

“Like a local bakery around here?”

“Oh, God, no. What makes you think California would be able to recreate Australian food?” Her lips curl in disgust before miming a gag. “I meant I just had my mum pick them up for me back home, and I just portaled them here.”

“You portaled these all the way from Australia?” Who the fuck does that. Malevola, apparently.

“What, like it’s hard? Oh, Robert, ye of little faith.” She leans against his desk, arching her back and placing a hand over her heart, the other resting on her forehead, capturing the true damsel in distress pose, “You're breaking my poor heart.”

He rolls his eyes and opens the box, finding half a dozen Long John donuts. Well, sort of long. Semi-Long Johns? They were definitely not ring-shaped, elongated, but stopping just short. At least they were thicker to make up for it. They had pink frosting across their surface, topped with tiny spherical, multi-colored sprinkles.

“Long Johns?” Robert inquires, looking up at Malevola.

“Nope!” She beams, wrapping her tail around Robert’s upper arm. “Visi told me you liked Dick Donuts, but they aren’t that good if I’m being real. So I got something better.”

“And that is…?”

“Finger buns!”

“Is that Aussie vernacular for ‘donuts’?”

“Say that to my face again, and I’ll get you an express pass to Hell.” She holds out a finger, slowly dragging it down in the air as a small red tear breaks through like an incision, the screams of the Damned a whispered echo.

Robert holds up his hands in mock surrender. “Touchy.”

She smirks and, with a flick of her wrist upwards, the rift seals itself, the whispered screams silenced. “Don’t disrespect us again.”

“Noted,” Robert says simply. He plucks a bun from the box, rotating it for a thorough inspection. “So, what are finger buns, exactly?”

“The cousin to your lovely little Dick Donut.”

“You just fucking threatened me about how these were like donuts!”

“Not at all what you said, mate.” Malevola shakes her head. “You insinuated they were exactly like donuts, just different names. Like hundreds and thousands!”

“I will never understand why you guys give sprinkles a long ass name.”

“Robert.”

“Hm?"

“Keep talking shit, and I’ll slap you so fucking hard, you’ll be meeting that Dante guy in one of those damn circles.” She stabs a finger bun with a long nail, its icing cracking below the puncture. She lifts it to her lips and takes a large bite, her tail swishing as she squeals in delight. With a swallow, her yellow eyes drift over to Robert before dangling the bun an inch from his nose. “Ooooooooo, you want a finger bun sooooooo bad,” she says, her voice adopting a ghostly intonation.

Robert chuckles, batting away Malevola’s hand. “Give a man a minute.”

“Technically, you’ve had an hour of anticipation. But really, who’s counting?”

“You, apparently.”

“Just eat the damn finger bun, mate.”

Robert rolls his eyes with a shake of his head. He draws the bun close and takes a bite. It was soft and slightly sweet, the crunch of sprinkles being the only other texture as he chews. It was pretty good, he supposes.

“These are nice.”

“And the Aussies win again,” Malevola smiles, taking another bite. “These are usually more of a snack than an actual breakfast, but I’d figured they were a good enough in-between for your Dick Donuts and shitty Twinkies that you’re always stuffing your face with.”

“Twinkies are fucking amazing, asshole.”

“You’re not beating the American diet allegations, fatass.”

“But I thought I had a flat ass?”

“Damn, Robert, nitpicky much?”

“Just thought I’d clarify whether I have a flat ass or a fat ass. This is vital information pertaining to my self-confidence.”

“There’s a difference between a fat ass and a juicy ass, Mister Dispatcher.” Teal and pink manicured nails reach over Robert’s shoulder and grab a bun, quickly retracting towards teal lips. “And you are the former. That’s a bad thing, by the way.”

“Harsh,” he says. “Why are you over here, Prism? Bit early for your lunch break.”

“Oh my Gooooood, that’s ‘cause I’m not on my lunch, obviously.” She scoffs, tearing off another chunk. “I just came over to tell you that you better not have any plans after work. We goin’ out.”

“I really don’t feel like going out to drink with the team on a Wednesday.”

“Who the fuck said anything ‘bout the team? Just gonna be you and me, baby.”

That makes him pause, halfway towards another mouthful. “What?”

“Am I Waterboy and stutter, bitch? I said, we goin’ out. For food. As in dinner. D-I-N-N-E-R.”

He scrubs his face in mild annoyance. “First off, low blow to Waterboy. We’re working on that.”

“Really? Couldn’t tell,” Malevola comments flippantly.

Robert shoots a pointed look, which only earns him a callous shrug. “Secondly, why would you­–”

“Bup-bup-bup,” Prism hushes him up in a swift movement, placing the finger over his lips. “No questions, no overthinking. Just be there.”

“Uh, don’t know if you remember, but I’m broke?”

“That’s why I’ll be ya popstar sugar momma for the evening.” She flips her hair dramatically, punctuating the statement. “Your white ass better be ready by 5:30,” She narrows her eyes before jabbing a nail into his chest, “If it ain’t, I’ll drag your ass by your motherfucking collar if I have to. No overtime today, bitch.”

“Okay, goddamn, fine,” He relents. “You don’t have to threaten me every time you guys need me to come with you.”

“Rob, trying to get you to go anywhere is like pulling fucking teeth out,” Malevola says.

“Think filing my taxes is easier than dealing with your depressed ass.”

Prism and Malevola nod in unanimous agreement.

“You’re assholes. Get back to work.”

“Bye, remember our date!” Prism sings, walking away.

Malevola takes a step before pausing, casting a second glance at Robert’s lap. She moves, her hand reaching down towards a second bun. “Lemme just take oooooooone more-”

He snatches the box away, leaving her hand hovering just above the now-empty space. “Nope, they’re mine now. The first one was me being nice.”

“Aw,” she croons, her tail poking at his cheek, “You’re cute, babes. I’ll take that as my thanks.” With that, she finally leaves.

He tracks her across the dispatching floor until she disappears from sight. He peers back into the box, the remaining three buns sitting there patiently. He chuckles softly before fitting his headset back on and activating the team-wide comms.

“Sorry for disappearing, guys. Mal was just dropping off something for me.”

Visi speaks first, voice restrained, “I may have fucked up.”

Goddammit, can’t have one fucking peaceful moment around here.