Work Text:
Robert wakes with a start, like he usually does. Hounded by nightmares one moment, the reality of a too-early morning rushing in the next—in other words, routine.
Except nothing about this morning feels like routine.
For one, no nightmares, or at least none Robert can remember. For another, not early morning—going by the sunlight warming his skin and shining red through his eyelids.
And then there’s the fact that he’s lying on an actual mattress, covered by actual sheets and with his head resting on a real, actual pillow.
Shit. Robert blinks one eye open, takes in the ceiling and its distinct lack of peeling paint or months-old cobwebs, and yep—he most likely did not mean to fall asleep here…wherever here is.
A crick in his neck and a surprising lack of aches anywhere else in his body confirm his suspicion as he heaves himself up onto his elbows to have a good look around the bedroom. A dresser, walls painted a warm vanilla yellow, the usual detritus of a life strewn across various surfaces...in short, Robert may not have ended up at a serial killer’s place this time.
The previous night returns in fragments—Z-Team, yet another villain-adjacent dive bar, too many rounds to count them, some courtesy of Prism and Flambae flirting excessively with the bartender—
Wait. Those feel like keywords.
Flambae. And flirting.
Not just with the bartender.
Very slowly, Robert lowers himself back down onto the mattress and tries to breathe, in, out, in, out, quietly through his nose. Is this what Courtney feels like several times a day whenever she misplaces her her inhaler? Wow. It fucking sucks.
Someone’s breathing softly next to him. He doesn’t know how he didn’t notice before. In fact, now that he’s paying attention, he can not only hear but feel the regular puffs of arid air against his bare shoulder.
Arid and fucking hot air. Against his bare shoulder.
As quickly yet as quietly as he can manage, Robert slides a hand down his body and discovers with relief that he’s at least still wearing his boxers. Which might mean nothing, but it means that he’s not lying dick-out, bare-ass in bed next to his co-worker slash most-likely-considered-subordinate.
He’s only lying almost dick-out, bare-ass in bed next to none other than Flambae. And they still might have slept-slept together, even though right now Robert can’t recollect much beyond some sloppy drunk kissing and grinding.
He’s going to get incinerated. No—he’s going to get straight-up vaporized once Flambae wakes up, split into his individual atoms and these in turn into their individual electrons, protons and neutrons. He’s so, so dead, and neither fight nor freeze will prove to be viable strategies in his immediate future.
Which leaves him with flight.
Once he catches his breath, he goes back to maneuvering himself into a sitting position, wincing any time the bedframe creaks, freezing when Flambae’s breaths lighten only to pick up again heartbeats later. Next, he slowly, slowly swings his legs over the edge of the mattress. His toes sink into a plush carpet that oddly sports only a few singed spots, and he’s starting to think he might actually make it out of this alive if only he can find where his clothes disappeared to last night—
A long, muscular arm swings out from under the covers and clamps down around his waist like a fucking bear trap. He can’t help the high-pitched gasp that escapes him, a stuttering, panicky sort of exhale of air pressed right out of him by that death grip. Fuck. Whatever Flambae is feeding himself, Robert would like some of it, even though he predicts no more need to worry about his muscle tone in the very near future, no more need to worry about anything at all except whether they’ll be able to scrape together enough of his ashes to hold a funeral.
That train of thought fizzles right out of existence as the first low, rumbly notes of Flambae’s morning rasp hit his eardrums.
“Bitch…” It’s barely above a hum, muffled against the sheets. “Come back t’bed.”
From one moment to the next, the back of Robert’s neck is ablaze with heat, and it’s not Flambae’s doing. Not in the way you’d think, anyway. No one’s said that to him since—no one’s ever said that to him, actually.
White-knuckling the edge of the mattress, Robert twists in Flambae’s hold and risks a glance over his shoulder.
True to the sound of his voice, the man’s face is mushed into a pillow, loose hair sprawled around his head in a haphazard mess that somehow still manages to look insanely aesthetic. And it’s not the only thing Robert’s eyes snag on—not when the bedcovers must’ve slipped down during the night, barely covering the generous swell of Flambae’s ass, and oh, someone’s definitely used to sleeping in the nude.
Robert’s blush, in an onset of megalomania, chooses that moment to expand its territory down his chest. He’s always known that Flambae is considered attractive by many standards. But it’s like…he never quite realized it until now.
He’s still terrified, though. Robert grimaces as his boxers tighten imperceptibly. Terrified and horny, his least favorite mix of emotions.
His refusal to ‘come back t’bed’ is met with an exasperated groan before Flambae starts worming his way over, eyes squeezed tightly shut against the glare of the morning sun. Robert’s already rabbiting heart picks up speed, and finally, he has the great idea of hooking his fingers under Flambae’s arm and pulling it off—or at least trying to. All it gets him is Flambae’s other arm sneaking around his waist as well and something hitting him in the side, hard.
Robert grunts—don’t tell him whatever that was just cracked one of his ribs—and looks down…at a mess of black curls.
Dude, really? Did Flambae just headbutt him, like a damn cat?
Flambae does it again, gentler this time, and yes—he’s mushing his face into Robert’s side like his life depends on it, really rubbing it all in there. Weirdest place Robert will have beard burn yet, that’s for sure. His heart feels like it’s about to burst, too, and there’s a weird, warm sensation in the pit of his belly, like he’s about to come down with a stomach bug but sans the urge to vomit his guts out. It feels…almost nice.
If Flambae’s trying to confuse him before attacking, it sure is working.
But Flambae doesn’t attack, not yet. Instead, he appears to be focusing on properly immobilizing Robert by crawling even closer and dropping his entire fucking head on Robert’s lap.
Robert wheezes as his thigh bones creak in protest. Flambae’s thick skull is heavy, like he somehow always expected, but the silkiness of his hair makes up for it when he twists around until he’s facing Robert and stretches long and slow. He moans softly when something cracks in his back. Next, he brings his hands down and rubs at his still closed eyes like he’s trying to get rid of the last grit of sleep.
That should really be Robert’s cue to shove the other man off his lap and bolt for the door, but he doesn’t, because fuck. He never would’ve thought he’d think of Flambae as cute, but it’s the most apt word that’s currently blaring at the forefront of his mind—that, and adorable, and I knew his lips look kissable but not this much, and he’s totally going to kill me after letting me see him like this.
Shit, even his knees have turned to jelly, and Flambae’s soft, high-pitched noises of sheer contentment aren’t helping. Robert grits his teeth and wills his head to stop spinning, his breathing to stop coming out like a wheeze every time. He needs to get back in control. He needs to get it together, now.
Instead, like an out-of-body experience, he watches himself lift a hand, bury it in Flambae’s lusciously flowing mane and start to scrape his fingernails over Flambae’s scalp.
The effects are immediate. A shudder racks the entire length of Flambae’s body, and his lips part to release a low, breathy moan that sounds like he got paid for it, all gravel and sweetness and no edge. He almost takes out Robert’s wrist, too, when he writhes on Robert’s lap to push into the touch, eyelids fluttering open sluggishly.
There’s nothing left of ‘the fire and the flame’ constantly flickering behind Flambae’s piercing gaze. Instead, his eyes are a deep, warm brown, darker even than Robert’s, wide and unguarded as they slowly focus on him.
“Robert.”
It comes out breathy, softened by the beginnings of a handsomely stupid smile while Flambae sleepily blinks up at him. It makes Robert want to hurl and cry and punch Flambae and kiss him and tell him he’s beautiful, all at the same time.
He opts instead for running his fingers through Flambae’s hair, silken strands catching on his callouses. Alright, so maybe he read the room all wrong. Maybe they weren’t quite so drunk last night. Maybe it was Flambae himself who took Robert home, not the booze. Maybe…Flambae actually wants him here?
He’s almost managed to trick himself into believing it when Flambae’s eyes narrow in sudden recognition. The fire behind them flares back to life with a vengeance. The smile turns into a scowl. Any softness of sleep that may have persisted vanishes like mist burned up by the morning sun.
“Wait…Robert?”
Robert swallows down the bitter disappointment rising in his throat and muscles a smile onto his face. “What? I don’t get a good morning kiss after all the cuddles?”
It’s only his quick reflexes that save him a bloody nose when Flambae finally throws the first punch.
Their grapple doesn’t last long after Robert manages to get the bed between himself and Flambae and takes one of the man’s expensive-looking throw pillows hostage. He gladly obliges once Flambae hisses at him to get his clothes and ‘cover his flat ass up’ before storming out of the room.
He’s only just buttoning up his pants when Flambae reappears, now wrapped in a flowing silk bathrobe, and proceeds to herd him out of the room, past a cramped kitchen and to the door. They pass a second bedroom, curtained off and filled with loud snoring—Flambae’s roommate, most likely. Robert tries not to dwell on the irrational surge of jealousy that rises in him at the thought of…what, this unseen stranger getting to enjoy Flambae’s bully behavior outside of work?
Get over yourself, Robert tells, no, begs himself.
Flambae unlocks the door and already has his hand on the handle when he spins around to face Robert and, voice lowered to a hiss, says, “I swear, I will make your sad fucking life a living hell if you mention this to anyone—anyone, hear me, Mecha Bitch?”
Robert’s mouth is open to fire back a “More than you already do?” when his stomach intervenes with a long, drawn-out growl like whale song.
He blushes, but the look that flits across Flambae’s face makes him forget his embarrassment on the spot—like someone kicked Flambae’s non-existent puppy. It’s gone just as quickly, and Robert blinks, but…Flambae keeps staring at him like he’s seeing him for the first time.
Then, he turns on his heel and disappears in the depths of the apartment, leaving Robert standing in front of the unlocked door and wondering if this means he’ll have to see himself out. Considering the anxious mess Flambae pretends so hard not to be, he’s probably supposed to stick around, though.
And he really is glad that he committed to some awkward feet shuffling when Flambae finally returns and thrusts a sealed reusable cup into his hands. Robert looks down at it, at the viscous off-white liquid inside it—some kind of protein drink, probably, pre-prepared for Flambae’s day.
Except he’s giving it to Robert.
Robert looks back up and finds Flambae’s eyes trained on him. “Thank you…for breakfast?”
Flambae huffs and, with the hand that isn’t playing with the hem of his bathrobe, flicks a stray strand of hair behind his ear. “You’re welcome, Bobitch. But do not—” he almost takes out Robert’s eye when he wags his finger in his face— “tell anyone you got this from me. You return the cup to me on Monday, okay? And none of that unwashed moldy shit, I want it back clean.”
“Like new. Got it,” Robert confirms, fighting the urge to snap at the offending finger, catch it and suck it into his mouth. He wonders what kind of noise Flambae would make—a yelp, a whimper, a moan? Would he even like it?
He’s got to stop going down that rabbit hole. Flambae has made it abundantly clear in the past that he’s not attracted to Robert, and taking him out like the trash after finding him in his bed just now is just one more piece of evidence in a long string of—
“Good. Yeah.” Flambae’s gaze flickers to the side as he coughs, swaying closer. Any more, and his chest hair will start tickling Robert’s nose. “I—ah, fuck, Robert.”
Any snide comment about Flambae’s highly unusual loss for words flies from Robert’s mind when Flambae bends down and presses a quick, chaste, almost shy kiss to his cheek. Before Robert can so much as think about leaning into it, he’s straightened up again and, in a rare display of humility, pulls his bathrobe closed over his flushed chest.
He’s not looking at Robert when he mutters, “Now take your stupid breakfast and your stupid good morning kiss and get out of my home.”
Robert does, gladly so. He doesn’t even hear the door lock click at his back, though, far too busy clutching the protein shake to his chest and his other hand pressed against his cheek, over the burning trace of Flambae’s kiss.
Flambae said to take them both, after all.