Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"…high temperatures in the Torrance area today with clear skies. It's predicted that starting today, we'll be getting close to record highs this week. Make your plans carefully, and always carry around sunscreen…"

Robert glances across the lobby at the flat screen television hanging off the wall. A news anchor stands in front of a screen displaying the weather forecast, speaking so directly to the camera that Robert can delude himself into thinking she's talking to him specifically. As a shiver wracks through his body, he decides he does need the reminder that the outside he just left to step into the SDN building was, indeed, extremely hot.

A wiggling sensation beneath his arm pulls Robert's thoughts away from the news anchor, and the sound of the door opening behind him hurries his pace forward to avoid being in anyone's way. Beef continues shifting back and forth, either dancing to a song only his ears can hear or trying to get onto the floor. While Beef has always been a dog with a lot of energy, Robert knows that there's more to it today than mere impatience.

Robert doesn't acknowledge it, however, as he continues through the SDN building. He eventually makes his way to the dispatching room. A cursory glance around proves that everyone is already settled into their stations. Robert winces. He tries sneaking into his own cubby, but there's already a head peering over the side-wall. Rather, an entire upper body as Chase still gets used to his temporary ability to fly. "You're late. Where the fuck have you been?"

"Only a few minutes," Robert amends. He sets Beef down on the ground. The dog beelines it immediately for Chase's cubby. The former superhero disappears to grab the dog. Robert can vaguely hear disgustingly sweet baby-talk while he's setting up his computer and throwing the headset over his ears. "Good morning, everyone, sorry I'm—"

"He finally shows!"

"Damnit, Robert, couldn't you have taken a few more minutes? I lost money."

"You lost money? I bet a fucking hour."

"Ha! Pay up, shitheads!"

"Uh… were you… are you good… fine? Are you, er—"

"The lad means to ask why you were late."

"Please tell me it was a blowjob—"

"I'm not that late," Robert interrupts, turning everyone down. They continue to talk amongst themselves, but Robert has learned that they're still listening to him. Whether they decide to follow his commands or not is entirely up to their moods. Robert can only hope for the best. "Let's just get to work, okay? There's another fighting ring that needs to be broken up. Punch Up?"

"Ha! Ha! I will claim victory!"

Robert considers telling Punch Up that he's supposed to shut it down, not participate in it, but as long as the outcome is desirable, he's learned to let Z-team do it their way. "Whatever. Just take Waterboy with you. He needs the experience."

"Oh, if you, er, if you think so—right. Think that's right."

"Hey, asshole, you never told me why you were late." Robert glares up at Chase (carefully avoiding laying his eyes on Beef because he will never deserve to be glared at). "And why the fuck are you wearing that jacket? You got enough fucking problems. Why add heatstroke to it?"

Robert continues dispatching the Z-team. When everyone is either resting or deployed in the field, he mutes them and himself, pulling one side of his headset back to converse with Chase. "I got stopped by a fight between heroes and the newest villain-of-the-week." Robert carefully unzips his jacket. The shirt underneath has a tear right over his heart. Robert makes sure the skin on the other side can't be seen, but the last time he checked it, the skin was a frosty white with touches of an unnatural purple. "The guy hit me. No wounds. Only a bit of a chill, I guess. It'll pass."

"If it doesn't—" Chase starts.

"If it doesn't, I'll have it checked out by the medical staff," Robert promises. He means it, too… he just doesn't mention how he and Chase are likely working on different time-scales for when this passing needs to happen. But why would he mention that? With this heatwave rolling in, the chill will be gone within an hour—if that.

Chase narrows his eyes. Before he can mention something, there's a beeping noise from his computer. Chase disappears to check that out, and Robert takes the opportunity to throw himself back into his own job. There are only two shifts he needs to get through with a lunch break in between. After that—he glances over at the calender even though the permitted dates are burned into his memory—he can patrol as Mecha Man. All of this is for that, so Robert is going to be absolutely perfect.

Well, as perfect as the Z-team will let him be with all their… Z-team-ness. They aren't as bad as they used to be, though. That battle against Shroud did a lot to bring them together and help the team realize that they are, in fact, heroes. At least, they're on the path to be, and it's Robert's job—while he's still here—to push them as far down that road as he can. He's got his work cut out for him with some of them, but he believes in all of them—even Waterboy and Invisigal. Phenomaman has already rejoined his other hero team, after all, and Coupé is finding her place again. Everything is going to work out.

Robert continues repeating this thought to himself as the day continues. The morning shift goes about as well as expected all things considered (maybe even a little better). When it comes to an end, Robert wears a half-smile upon looking at the report the computer calculates. With this, he might be able to push one of the members of the Phoenix Program above the other SDN heroes on the leader board. If they manage that, the entire program will be seen a new light. Robert could care less about the accolades this would bring him, but the Z-team still needs all the justification is can scrounge up to stay in commission, even if defending Torrance during the aptly named Red Night should have been enough.

Colors suddenly appear in his peripheral vision, so suddenly that he already knows who's leaning against the wall of his booth before she speaks, "Are you itching to jerk off or something?"

Any scrap of joy he could have had about seeing Invisigal completely disappears. He looks at her, torn between incredulous and unimpressed. "Who the fuck starts a conversation like that?"

Invisigirl snorts. There's something off in her eyes, though, as she gestures to the keyboard attached to his computer. "You're hands are shaking."

"My hands are not—" Robert looks at his hands to find that they are, in fact, shaking. He lifts them off the keyboard to look at them more intently. They're more then faintly trembling; they're also paler than usual. There's a slight tingling sensation to them, but the strongest sensation he gets is one of sheer cold. It feels like he ducked his hands into icy water before slowly pulling them out. The rest of his body is just as cold. When a confused frown pulls down his lips, he realizes that his teeth are chattering. It isn't extreme, but it is noticeable to him specifically. It's something he should have noticed a while ago. Either his perception has faded to a dangerous degree, or he's far too used to being in pain. Maybe it's a combination of both, and that's the worst option of them all.

"So…?" Invisigal prompts. She leans forward. Either she's trying to get into his face, or she wants to examine his hands, too. He doesn't find out which it is because he sets his hands against the side of the desk, pushing himself into a standing position (at least his tolerance for pain and other afflictions is still as strong as ever). Invisigal takes a half-step back. She arches a brow at him. "Are you going to—"

"I will report you if you finish that sentence," Robert warns her. Invisigal's mouth snaps shut. Who knows how long that will last, though? "I'm going to eat in the break room."

Robert walks away, ignoring whatever response Invisigal had for him. He starts searching his pockets. He tells himself it is entirely to search for money for the vending machine, but there's also a search for warmth going on. As he's coming to realize, though, his body isn't producing nearly enough warmth for him to find what he's looking for in his pockets. The dollar is there, though, so Robert counts this entire venture as a win (for the sake of his sanity, if nothing else).

There are other people in the break room. Sonar sits on the couch. Prism sits on the arm beside him, leaning towards him because she's showing him something on her phone. Malevola sits in the chair by the table, holding her food in her hands so she can listen in on whatever Prism and Sonar are talking about. Coupé leans against the side of the table, flicking one of her knives between her fingers. She stares down a bowl of food cooling off in front of the microwave. Robert feels nothing as he passes it, even though he should have been close enough to feel even a wisp.

Robert stands in front of the vending machine. He frequently gets his lunches from here. The only other meals he has are when he brings microwavable burritos, and that's few and far between given how little money he likes spending on himself. The vending machine is easy and affordable. There's also a sort of comfort in it since a lot of his best and worst memories are in front of machines like this one… or this one, specifically. If nothing else, this is all Robert thinks he deserves more times than not, and who would he be if he didn't listen to that voice in his head?

Unfortunately, there's a problem today. The shakiness of his hands is starting to impede his abilities. He can't get the dollar to go inside the opening. He leans forward, trying to hide his failure with his body.

Robert knows he fails when someone is bumping him out of the way. He glances over at Prism. She plucks the dollar from his hand. "Bitch, this is getting pathetic." She shoves the dollar into the vending machine without any of the trouble he's experiencing. Before he can say anything, she's already hitting the buttons. She tosses the snack to him after it drops. Robert catches it (barely), and he's surprised to find that she knew which one he always get. "There. Now go fix whatever the fuck's wrong with you. Damn."

Prism returns to the couch. Instead of sitting on the warm, she flops down on the opposite from Sonar. The bat is busy in conversation with Malevola, not paying an ounce of attention to him. Coupé is also still there, waiting for her food to cool. Robert glances over at the steaming bowl. He opens his snack, taking a bite. Sugar floods his taste buds, and his inhibitions are laxened to the point that he moves his fingers through the steam billowing upward.

Nothing.

His confusion emboldens him. He shoves the rest of his snack in his mouth and shoves the packaging into his pocket. He stands in front of the bowl, holding the sides of it. Again, he doesn't feel the heat, only the smooth texture of the bowl's exterior.

A blade is suddenly held to his throat. He glances to the side to find Coupé staring at him. There's no indication that she has any qualms about cutting him. Robert understands why. He cut her from the team, and then Shroud indoctrinated and manipulated her. There's no telling what that villain did to her already compromised mental state. Even though he managed to get Coupé back on the team, the two of them haven't really reconciled about everything. They're just at a point when Robert gives her what he deems an appropriate amount of missions and she fulfills them without arguing. It's a fragile cooperation at best.

"Calm down, Coupé. He's probably just sniffing for poison. He does that sometimes," Malevola intervenes. Her tail wraps around Robert's thigh, pulling him back toward him. Coupé narrows her eyes, watching him leave her vicinity over her shoulder. As Malevola sets her hands on Robert's shoulders, Coupé turns back to her food. She takes it and returns to the table, actually sitting down this time. Malevola, in the meantime, leans over Robert's shoulder to look at his face. He arches a brow at her confusion. She presses her fingers into his cheek. "Whoa. You're really cold right now."

"I've noticed," Robert rolls his eyes. If he downplays the situation verbally, that will automatically make it less extreme physically, too. Or it'll just make Malevola less concerned with him. Either works for him.

"Sonar, come feel how cold he is," Malevola turns to the bat. Sonar jumps onto his feet, bounding over like Beef does to literally anything on the floor that he thinks is food. Sonar's hands fall onto Robert's face, marking the hundredth HR violation of the day (a record low, actually).

"Huh. He is cold."

"I know, right?"

Sonar removes his hands. He snaps his fingers with a sudden idea he's had. "You should open a portal."

Malevola looks like she's considering. Robert pulls himself free from her hands, but her tail remains around his thigh. He turns to face them, lightly tugging on the tail to remove it. "Usually, people just tell me to go to hell instead of trying to shove me into a portal into it."

"We're not sending you to Hell," Malevola argues. She tilts her head to the side. "Unless you want to go. It's lovely this time of year… as lovely as Hell gets, anyway."

Robert deadpans at her. His peripheral vision proves that he isn't getting help from Coupé—who's busy eating—or Prism—who's scrolling on her phone. He snaps back to Malevola and Sonar. "Look, I appreciate… whatever the fuck you two are trying to do, but I—"

The door opens rather violently. Robert winces at the sound. A thick Irish accent declares, "Sorry! I forget my own strength sometimes."

"I don't," Flambae responds like that statement makes any sense (does he never forget his own strength? Does he never forget Punch Up's strength?). Flambae marches across the room, stopping in front of Prism. "What do you want?"

"White boy's freezing to death over there. Set him on fire or something," Prism answers, lazily gesturing to Robert while keeping her eyes on her phone.

"With pleasure," Flambae smirks. He conjures a brilliantly colored flame in the center of his palm as he approaches Robert. The dispatcher considers his options. There's no alcohol or water around him. He could shove Malevola in the way, but he's a hero so he won't do that. He could also hide behind her, but he's no coward… and her tail around his thigh makes movement difficult.

Flambae is almost upon him. He might actually set Robert on fire, and obviously, he—

Well, actually…

Robert reaches his hand forward. Before anyone can react, he grabs Flambae's hand—the one that's currently ablaze. The fire burns his flesh, reddening and blistering and eating the skin. Flambae smothers it at the same moment Malevola yanks his wrist away. Robert doesn't pay attention to either of their expressions as he stares at his hand. It's certainly burned—probably only first-degree—but he doesn't really feel it. The cold has diminished, sure, but it hasn't gone away. Maybe that supervillain he encountered for a few seconds earlier this morning actually did do something to him.

"Come on, babes, let me see," Malevola murmurs. She pulls his hand closer to her and further away from himself. Sonar looks over her shoulder. Punch Up stands on the chair Malevola abandoned to save Robert from Coupé to see.

"Ay, nasty burn you got there. I got some alcohol we can—"

Punch Up's recommendation is thwarted by Malevola using one of her powers to take the wound from Robert. Within a few seconds, the skin is mended and the flesh is reconnected. Malevola makes no mention of the cold and it doesn't lessen, so Robert now knows that it can't be taken away from him through this particular means.

With all this new information, Robert finally pulls himself away from the team. He glances over at Flambae (who looks strangely… confused, maybe? It can't be worry, even if it kind of looks like that…). "You already burned me, so no trying to set me on fire today. If we've got that all worked out, I'm going to fill out paperwork. Be ready for your evening shifts. Let's make it the best one yet… or at least, let's not making a fucking fool of ourselves out there."

Robert walks to the door. He throws the package from his pocket away as he's opening it since the trashcan is near the door. As he's slipping out, he bumps right into someone. He would be confused about it, but dirt has a very specific texture. He glances up at Golem. The construct looks as sheepish as his face lets him, "Sorry, Robert."

"It's fine. I should have been paying more attention to where I was going," Robert smiles at the big guy, patting his arm. They switch places. Before the door shuts, Robert calls out, "Keep those shitheads in line for me, Golem."

"You got it," Golem rumbles. For many reasons, Robert would consider Golem to be one of his favorites—if not his definitive favorite (more or less. Golem does have his own troubling aspects).

Robert returns to his cubicle. Before he can sit down, he notices something on his desk. A damp piece of paper smeared with ink covers a package of hand warmers. Robert lifts the paper up. The ink isn't as smeared as it would usually be, allowing Robert to just barely make out Waterboy and Invisigal's signatures at the bottom. The rest of the note is illegible, but the message is quite clear. Robert picks the package up. He searches for the trick, but none come jumping out at him. It really is just a considerate gift.

A shiver races down Robert's spine, debilitating enough to make him drop the paper and package. Annoyed with himself, he hurriedly shoves them into one of the drawers. He prepares for the evening shift, ignoring any strange interactions from today or the subtle touches of numbness accompanying the cold.

The evening shift is… weird. Everyone seems to be in a funk, him included… him especially, really. He can dispatch the Z-team just fine. He listens to the calls, read the reports, and makes decision based on who's available on his roster. It's the hacking that he can't help him with. All his attempts end in failure because his fingers aren't nearly as quick as he needs them to be. Not to mention how he'll hit adjacent keys instead of the one he's aiming for. It's infuriating, but he knows his anger is only making it harder for him.

As for the z-team, they're still a bunch of assholes who talk excessively and cause problems. It's just that, for this evening, more than a few of them are a little more quiet than they would usually be and don't get up to nearly as many shenanigans. Robert wants to call them on their bluff, but if it's helping them finish their missions, should he really be looking the gift horse in the mouth?

Whatever the case, the evening shift comes to an end. They did a little worse than usual because of Robert, but they could have done so much worse if the z-team didn't pick up the slack. He's grateful—he is—but he still declines their invite to go drinking. Notwithstanding the facts that they got into a bar fight and Robert was nearly killed by Flambae the last time they all went out, he has his patrol tonight.

Chase and Beef are already gone by the time Robert rises onto his feet. He navigates the SDN building to the locker rooms. He changes from his work uniform to his Mecha Man costume. When he's shirtless, he makes the mistake of looking at his chest. The skin is still pale and tinged with purple. There's even a hint of blue this time, which Robert promptly ignores in favor of shivering his ass off even after he's put his new clothes on.

Robert ignores this as he leaves the locker room. The night shift are starting to roll in, but Robert ignores them all since he doesn't know them and they don't know him (personally, anyway, since they could've met each other in the field before). He wraps his hands together to preserve heat as his butt pushes open the door to the hanger where the Mecha Man suit is protected. Robert isn't allowed to bring it back to his old base; it's one of the many compromises he had to make when he demanded to be an unsanctioned hero that could go where they pleased and help whoever needed it regardless of their subscription level (or if they didn't have a subscription). The wonders of bureaucracy, Robert supposes.

The Mecha Man suit is just as Robert left it. He admires it for a moment, trying not to see reflections of his father and grandfather in the shiny exterior. He brushes his hands against the metal. It's as cold as he is, making him feel marginally better about the whole situation.

There's still a heaviness in his chest, however, as he commands the suit to open. The metal snaps away from each other, forming a gigantic maw. Where others would run, Robert climbs right into the beast's mouth and lets it devour him. He snaps the astral pulse into place. As power flows through the machine, Robert begins typing away and preparing himself for a long patrol tonight.

Before he heads out, another shiver tears right through him. Aftershocks continue to make him tremble within his seat, but he ignores it. Mecha Man—his responsibility, his legacy, his destiny—is more important. His life isn't in danger just because he's a little cold; there are people out there who are in danger, though. He's going to save them because he's a hero.

He's Mecha Man.

Chapter Text

Robert lies on his side. The couch cushions beneath him are far more comfortable than the lawn chair across the room from him now, but it's still a fight to keep himself lying here instead of dropping his weary body into the white plastic. Familiarity is certainly one reason he wants to return to it. There's also an element of feeling like he doesn't deserve the couch, but he tries to stamp that thought out as soon as it comes in. He's had a long patrol as Mecha Man and an even longer day of dispatching with the z-team. The physical and mental pain he's experiencing are punishing enough; he doesn't need to add onto it unnecessarily, especially if he wants his body to be well enough to continue with this lifestyle he's chosen.

Plus, it isn't like his choice of where to spend the night is going to make it any easier for him to sleep. The apartment is already cold (he never turns on the A/C unless Beef is there, and the dog is currently with Chase since it was patrol night for Robert). The power he was hit with a few days ago has remained. In some ways, it might have gotten stronger, but Robert still refuses to get himself checked out. He's already training his body to account for the trembling and the weak control he has over his fingers, after all. If this cold doesn't leave any time soon, it will just be another bodily problem he handles with human tenacity and a stubbornness he inherited from his father and his father's father.

A shiver runs down his spine, no less jarring than all the others that have struck him throughout the night. Robert can't say he likes them, but it isn't as bad as it could. He just wraps his arms tighter around himself and brings his legs against his stomach. He takes deep breathes. Since his heartbeat is already so slow, he might be able to trick himself into getting a few hours tonight.

And if that doesn't work, he can wait for tomorrow. He has the day off, so he can just sit in the sun on his balcony and take a nap. This realization begins to convince Robert to rise from his pathetic shivering on the couch, planting seeds of more productive activities to spend his time doing (like going on patrol again, or practicing his typing, or heading to a 24-hour gym for a long work-out).

Before Robert is truly sold on anything, he hears a noise. While those are common through the thin walls or from the other side of the front door, Robert's ears and eyes track the noise to his balcony. He shifts his weight as subtly as he can, projecting the image of unconsciousness while also preparing for whoever breaks in. If it's a regular thief, they'll realize there's nothing in the apartment to steal. If they escalate to violence or if they were here for Robert (or more precisely, Mecha Man) the entire time, he'll be ready to defend himself.

The balcony door slides open. Robert hears a voice, unabashedly loud as if there was never a doubt that she was going to be heard. "Why the fuck do you leave your balcony door unlocked?"

Robert grumbles. He flops onto his back. Despite knowing who it is, he lifts his head to look at her. "The real question is what the fuck are you doing here, Prism?"

The former villain steps inside. After shutting the door behind her, she sets one hand on her hip. The other one has something held over her forearm that she's carefully keeping off the floor. She looks over the apartment. "You have got to start evading your taxes because your broke-ass clearly needs the money."

Robert massages his temple, prepared for a headache that will descend upon him soon. "Can we please talk about what's important right now?"

"I decide what's important, and I also decide what we talk about," Prism tilts her head down, letting her sunglasses slide down to show him a prominent glare. Robert's expression doesn't shift away from exhausted and annoyed. Prism huffs, pushing her sunglasses back up with her middle-finger. "Fine. We can decorate this funeral home later." Prism tosses what was hanging over her arm at him. "Put this on."

Robert lets the fabric cover his face. He flops back onto the couch, staring into the complete blackness. The cold trickles through his body once more. He sets his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering and holds his body still to stop his spine from shivering. Prism nudges his side with what he assumes is her foot. Whatever it is, it lightly ghosts along a bruise he developed a few hours ago. He hisses. He didn't really try to be quiet because he didn't think she would care, but she moves her foot to an area of clear skin (not like she would know that, but still… she moved). "Get off your lazy, flat ass and put that on."

Prism grabs the fabric. She lifts it enough to look him in the eyes. Or, well, she looks into Robert's eyes; all he can see is a tinted version of his own reflection in her sunglasses. He decidedly doesn't like it, but Prism doesn't move because he isn't. "What the hell is wrong with you? Are you deaf or some shit?"

"I'm going to need a better explanation… or even just one with poor quality," Robert tells her. He yanks whatever she was holding out of her hand as he sits up. He swings his legs around, planting his heels on the wooden floorboards. He holds the fabric in both of his hands, twisting it around without making an attempts to figure out what it is. "You broke into my apartment after breaking out of yours. Don't you have a curfew?"

"That's none of your fucking business."

"It quite literal is. I'm your dispatcher. I'm, like, one of three people whose entire job is making sure you follow the rules, including your curfew," Robert argues.

Prism audibly groans. Robert thinks she also rolls her eyes, if only because she commits to that action with her entire body. "Whatever, buzzkill." Before Robert can say anything, Prism grabs his wrists. She pulls him onto his feet. When the fabric starts to fall, she catches it and holds it over his front. It's a bodysuit, he realizes, not too unlike the one she's wearing right now. "You've been cold for days now. I can't stand you being that white anymore. You're coming with me to warm up because only I'm allowed to blind motherfuckers."

"I'm not that—"

"Shut up, Robert! Put the damn outfit on!" Prism snaps, more a hiss than a yell but with a certain musical flare to her anger.

Robert takes his turn to roll his eyes. Although he's a lot more subtle about it, he's not wearing sunglasses. Prism takes her revenge in the form of pushing him into the bathroom. She flicks the light on and makes some comment about it being as sparse as his living room. She calls him broke again before slamming the door. Robert checks over the door for any damages since he doesn't want to pay the landlord any more than he already does.

With everything in order, Robert turns his attention to the bodysuit she's given him. It's black leather, he thinks, and there's a sliver zipper from the neck to about the middle of the chest. There's no other decoration than that. This might be one of Prism's earlier supervillain outfits. She either couldn't afford to decorate it, didn't want to, or didn't find it necessary because she didn't use it. Robert thinks it might be the last option because it doesn't not fit him. The height, at least, is better for him than it would be for her. He thinks the main reason it doesn't completely fit him is the chest and butt areas.

Robert steps out of the bathroom, missing the light switch only once on his way out. Prism sits on the edge of his couch. She holds her phone to her face with one hand. The other one is resting over her thigh, making sure the items she's holding doesn't fall to the ground. Robert stands beside her. As her eyes lift to him, she giggles. Robert fights to keep a smile off his face. "There. You've had your fun. Can you leave now?"

"Fuck no," Prism practically sings as she snaps a photo of him. Prism trades places with her phone. She drops a pair of boots on the ground. There's a belt in her hands. She tugs on the fabric of the bodysuit. "Damn, flat chest and flat ass. You really are unlucky, Robert Robertson."

She says that like his name is unlucky, too. Maybe in the way it sounds, but there's a legacy to that name, one he can't seem to get rid of.

"Can't be heading out looking like this. We'll just have to see what we can salvage." Prism tugs the fabric around. Eventually, she has everything set in the right place for the belt to go on. It's as black as the suit, blending in rather well. The boots, too, blend in, but Prism makes Robert put those on himself. "There is a lot I'm willing to do; being the recipient of feet stuff is not fucking one of them."

"You could just not say words."

"And you could just not talk back."

Robert rolls his eyes, but he makes the mistake of releasing a breathy snort. He doesn't like the smile Prism is wearing when he stands up again and looks back at her. He narrows his eyes, easily pulling his lips down in a frown. "Did you have fun playing dress-up? Can I go to bed now?"

"Like hell you were actually going to sleep tonight," Prism argues. She grabs her phone as she heads for the balcony. She pulls it open for him. "I told you that we were going to warm you up. Do I seem like someone who would lie?"

"Isn't all of entertainment about effectively lying to your audience?" Robert notes, slowly approaching the open sliding door without crossing the threshold.

Prism's lips part and shut. She shakes her head. She reaches out, yanking him through the door. As she does, she declares, "I'll forgive you this time for calling me a liar, but pull that shit again and I'll cut a bitch."

Robert decides against worrying about how often the z-team threaten violence on others.

The same moment he decides this, Prism is tugging him on the railing of his balcony. He didn't peg her as the double-suicide type, so he expects the platform made from light even before the two of them are stepping off the railing. They continue taking steps. Robert has to hurry because Prism either can't or doesn't want to keep the previous one active for long. Because of her impatience, they're stepping onto the sidewalk beside a bright red truck with only a front cab.

The passenger side window rolls down. Robert almost doesn't recognize Flambae. The supervillain isn't wearing his costume or his sunglasses. He does, however, have a familiar sneer. "You really brought him along."

"I told you I was, you little shit," Prism hisses at him. Before she and Flambae can continue arguing, she starts pushing Robert toward the truckbed. Robert lets it happen until his chest is pressed against it.

"You know this is illegal, right?"

"Your disrespect should be illegal. Get in the fucking back while you still have a choice in the matter," Prism threatens.

Robert rolls his eyes. He climbs onto the back tire. He swings his leg around, flopping down in the truckbed. He lies himself on his back, refusing to let anyone see him unless he can help it. Once he's settled, he hears Prism getting into the passenger side. Her and Flambae's conversation is heard up until the engine starts up again. Robert feels the truck moving beneath him. He stares up at the night-black sky between the buildings. There are too many lights for the stars to be seen, which does make Robert a little sad.

But he can't be too sad when the cold isn't as prominent as it usually is. Although it should be harsher with the wind slamming into him, Robert doesn't feel it as deep in his bones as he has. He doesn't know what to think of that, so he doesn't think of it at all.

Prism's idea of a warm place is, apparently, an underground tunnel practically bursting with people. There's a makeshift stage where anyone can perform in some odd mixture of concert-work and karaoke. The majority of the crowd is in front of that stage, jumping and dancing without a care in the world. Everyone else is scattered around on pieces of trash serving as seats or even tables. They're talking, or playing card games, or watching, or any other activity. They're all drinking, though, having gotten those drinks from another makeshift structure: a bar where the tender seems to have an ability related to conjuring alcohol.

While Robert could maybe be convinced the bartender has a license to use their powers, he knows that everyone else here is breaking the law by being here. He's breaking the law, too, though, so it isn't like he can report the people here. He doesn't think he wants to, either, even if social gatherings like this one aren't his preferred scene.

It might the darkness that brings him comfort, granting him a sense of anonymity.

It could be the loud noises, the conversations and laughter and music bouncing across the mossy stones until even his own thoughts are hardly audible.

The last thing he could blame is the company. Prism and Flambae are on either side of him. The three of them are standing at the bar. They're smushed in by a dozen or so other people idling at the standing bar. Robert, therefore, is the most cramped of them all, though maybe that's on purpose since everyone's body heat is ensnaring him just as much as their actual bodies are.

Robert can see why the SDN reports Prism and Flambae having high charisma since they're talking to nearly everyone that passes them. Robert would love to take the opportunity to slip away, but their arms are constantly there to keep him from fleeing. Robert, therefore, has resigned himself to leaning against the bar, sniffing and then sipping whatever the bartender sets in front of him with a noticeably sympathetic smile.

Halfway through one drink, Prism grabs onto his shoulder. She pushes him down until her lips are right next to his ear. "I'll be back!"

Not waiting for a response, Prism is already heading off to indulge in whatever caught her attention. Robert watches her until he loses sight of her in the crowd. He turns his attention first to his drink, and then he glances up at Flambae. The supervillain has noticed that Prism is missing. Robert waits until Flambae looks at him. The pyrokinetic leans against the bar to lower himself, making it easier for Robert to tell him. "She said she'll be back."

Flambae nods to himself. He doesn't, however, push himself back into a standing position. He remains unusually close to Robert. In other circumstances, Robert would complain, but the heat exuding from Flambae's body is a welcome reprieve from the internal cold slowly freezing his organs. He also acknowledges that it's easier to have a conversation like this. That's only important because Flambae speaks to him, "Why'd you come?"

"I was invited," Robert shrugs. Flambae doesn't dignify that with a response because they both he's lying. Robert just doesn't know what the truth is. By all accounts, he wouldn't normally have done this. He would have told Prism to go back to her apartment, threatening to report her and following through with it. If he had made it this far, he definitely would have left already. There's no comfort to be found in places like this, only several opportunities for an attack.

Robert's body seizes. Everything spasms suddenly before sinking into a quiet shaking. It reminds Robert of the reason he took Prism up on this offer. While his current surroundings don't seem to be affecting his temperature, he holds onto some hope. It isn't like he wants to be freezing all the time. A solution would be great, and there's really no reason not to start at a place like this since he's already determined that Flambae's flames and Malevola's wound transferal power aren't going to help him.

As the shaking continues, Robert hears Flambae chuckling. He turns to glare at the man, only vaguely recognizing that he shouldn't be as comfortable as he is with how close they are to each other. "Are you laughing at my misery?"

"So what if I am? What're you going to do about it, bitch?" Flambae retorts. There's still a wispy echo of a laugh in his words. There's also no explicit malice.

Entranced by the teasing atmosphere, Robert lifts his glass. He swirls around the liquid, letting the light refract through it and land on Flambae's clear face. "I could splash you with alcohol again. Maybe your eyebrows will actually come in even this time."

Flambae's eyes twitch, but he plants a smile on his face. He leans closer, straightening his back just enough so he can look down at Robert. "Did my greatness blind you? My eyebrows came in fine."

Robert shoves off the edge of the bar. He turns to stare right at Flambae. Their chests might be touching. Their noses almost are. "How long did you stand in front of the mirror agonizing over if they did?"

Flambae opens his mouth. Instead of his voice, Robert hears Prism's. It is booming throughout the tunnel. Both he and Flambae instantly look at the stage to find their favorite photokinetic stirring up the crowd before she leaps into a song. Robert's lips lift into a half-smile. He should have known that's what Prism was doing. Where there's a stage, there's a performance to be had, and Prism will never squander the opportunity.

That sentiment must apply to Flambae, too, because the pyrokinetic confiscates Robert's glass. The dispatcher thinks it's about to be splashed over him or another equally unpleasant fate. It isn't, though. Flambae just sets it back down on the bar. He didn't want Robert to have it because he's grabbing Robert's wrist and dragging him toward the crowd gathering around the stage. Robert fights, but not nearly hard enough, because they're suddenly at the edge of the crowd.

Robert doesn't think his body can withstand jumping throughout the entire song, but if Flambae won't let him leave, he'll support Prism like the crowd is—

And the crowd is dancing. Robert huffs. He glares at Flambae, shouting at him over the booming instruments leading up to Prism's vocal performance. "I can't dance!"

"Yes, you can!" Flambae argues.

Robert rolls his eyes. When they return to Flambae, he starts to tug his wrist away and says, "I actually can't—"

Robert manages to wretch his wrist free right in time for Flambae to throw a punch at him. Robert dodges, of course, but he realizes belatedly that the punch was too slow. It was easy to miss, and even if it did connect, it wouldn't have hurt that much. Robert frowns. A teasing insult sits on his tongue, but Flambae doesn't stop there. He continually throws punches and kicks, more so orchestrating the way Robert moves than actually trying to hurt the dispatcher.

When Robert tries throwing his own punch, Flambae grabs his wrist and pulls him forward. He twists Robert around. As the brunette balances himself, he feels Flambae's chest against his back. Robert casts a glare over his shoulder. When he sees Flambae smirking, he attempts to stomp Flambae's foot. The arsonist moves that foot out of the way. Robert continues, then, dictating Flambae's movements this time instead of letting it be the other way around.

This only lasts so long before Flambae figures out how to regain the upperhand. The minute he does, Robert's already scheming to get it back again. He focuses so much of his attention on this back-and-forth of power between him and Flambae that he doesn't even notice the song coming to an end. Flambae does, though, if that evil glint in his eyes is anything Robert can base his assumptions off.

And these assumptions are proven right when Flambae's foot hooks around Robert's heel. It's pulled up with such force and certainty that Robert slips backward. Before he falls completely, Flambae catches him, smug look and all. Robert glares at him, keeping an arm around Flambae's shoulders and neck. Flambae is close to his face, and the villain's ponytail slips down the side of his face, nearly touching Robert's cheek. With a smile he can't wrestle off his face, Robert proclaims, "You're an idiot."

Flambae is smiling, too. There's obviously pride in that smile, but Robert dares think—for a second—there's so much more to it. "And you're a bitch."

Just like that, Flambae drops Robert. The man flops onto the dirty concrete. Flambae laughs, obnoxious in quality and volume. Robert, for his part, thinks that the ground is dirty, cold, and disgusting. He thinks that what just happened was rude and unnecessary. He thinks that someone is going to step on him, and that's going to hurt just as much as being dropped onto concrete was.

But for some reason, he's also laughing, shaking from something that isn't the cold for the first time in days. When he finally catches Flambae's eyes through his own squinting eyelids, he speaks with so much amusement that his insult sounds like an endearment, "You're a fucking asshole, you know that?"

Flambae doesn't respond, but he offers his hand to Robert. A trap could very well lay on the other side, but for some reason, Robert decides to trust Flambae. When the former villain actually does lift Robert onto his feet, a flush of warmth shoots through his system. As he's busy grappling with that, Flambae presses the back of Robert's fingers against both of his cheeks. "The fuck is wrong with you? You're still freezing."

Robert doesn't answer. He just focuses on the small of heat his fingers absorbing. It's more than they have since his chest was hit. It can't be because it's Flambae because the man's flames didn't do anything. Is it the location? The circumstances? The power's time limit?

"Did your gay asses even listen to my song?"

Flambae and Robert glance over at Prism. She arches a brow at them, crossing her arms over her chest. Since she doesn't seem to be willing to walk away without an answer, Robert shrugs his shoulders (as best he can when Flambae still has his hands confiscated). "I was listening."

Prism gives him an odd look. Robert doesn't understand why that is.

Flambae steps directly into the unspoken tension. "Let's go drink more." Flambe moves Robert's fingers to Prism's face. She instantly leans away, likely startled by how cold Robert is. "This one clearly hasn't had enough."

"We should drink in moderation—"

"Fuck that! Party time!" Prism shouts. She twirls around. As she marches to the bar, Flambae drags Robert with him as he follows. The words he didn't get to finish die on his tongue, swallowed back by alcohol and cast outward by laughter, as the night continues and he spends time with Flambae and Prism.

The cold remains, strong and persistent, but a warmth, somehow, flutters with it.

When Robert wakes up the next day, he expects to find Prism and Flambae still there since the three of them drunkenly came to his apartment when the night ended. They are not there, but there's a voicemail on his phone.

"Sorry to leave. Flambae forgot the truck—"

"I did not forget the truck—"

"Someone forgot the truck—"

"Bitch—ow!"

"Call me that again, I dare you! Eh-hem! Flambae forgot the truck, so we went back for it. He made us bring food for you. It's by the couch."

"I did not fucking do that."

"Do you lie more when you're hungover?"

"I am not lying! Give me that damn phone—!"

"Fucking stop it, shithead—Flambae, I swear I'll blind your sorry ass—Ugh, bye, Robert! I'll pick up my clothes later-!"

Robert rubs his head. If it didn't hurt so much, he would've laughed at the voicemail.

He does, however, have enough consciousness to look beside the couch. Prism was right. There is food, a whole container of it. There are also a plastic water bottle and two colorful pills on a folded-up napkin. Robert smells the pill and the water before he takes them. He shivers each time with a sudden burst of cold. When he sniffs the container, the shaking is so bad that he nearly drops it. He manages to save it, however, which he's grateful for when he finally gets to it. Not only is it pretty good, but it's also strangely warming even if the food itself has cooled from being left out.

The cold hasn't gone away, but Robert has new information about how to lessen the effects. With this, he might be able to undo it entirely.

Until then, he just eats the food and hopes the headache goes away.

Chapter Text

One does not spend fifteen years of their life being hunted down without gaining a sense for when someone is following them. The paranoia is so fundamental to Robert's being that he doesn't feel an ounce of panic at the prospect. Worst case scenario, a villain has figured out that he's Mecha Man and come to finish the job while he's outside the suit. There's not really a best-case scenario, but it isn't like there's anything unmanageable for him. He'll either fight off whoever is following him or he'll die in the alleyway he purposefully turns down to keep this battle away from civilians. While he'd rather not shirk yet another part of his legacy, he'll just have to see how this battle ends.

Robert stops when he's in the middle of the alleyway. He zips up his jacket (for literal no reason since the cold inside of him is worse than the wind whistling between these two buildings). As he's turning around, he sets the plastic bag with the instant meal he purchased from the corner store on the ground, keeping it as far from the dumpster and the dirty puddles as he can. With everything in place, Robert plants both feet on the ground and glares into the distant light of the street, too far for him to shout for help… or for his enemy to.

"You can come out now," Robert calls out. His voice is neutral. No fear, no annoyance, no haughtiness. His mind is already hazy enough with the pain and cold channeling through his system; he doesn't need excessive emotions making him even dizzier. Complete awareness of his surroundings and control over his body—both products of focus—is the only way he's going to win this fight.

The shadows shift around, gaining a mist-like quality as they roll outward. From the darkness, a familiar figure emerges. Robert feels a twinge of surprise, but honestly, he knows he should have expected this. He and Coupé haven't actually reconciled in any significant way. A part of him thought they were fine—that they were in a 'I-forgive-you-if-you-forgive-me' situation—but it seems there are still unresolved feelings. He isn't quite sure if they're going to lead to his death yet, but Coupé has done this much to track him down and Robert is more aware of her history than most.

Then again, she is in what looks like civilian clothes, so this could be another Flambae situation. They just need to physically fight it out until they start feeling better. Robert isn't in the mood to fight, but he's never really in that kind of mood. He just does what he must for the sake of justice, and he's willing to consider this an act of justice if it helps Coupé put all of this behind them and gets her back on the path to redemption.

Robert slides his feet apart, bending his knees very slightly. His balance centralizes at his core as he puts up both of his fists. "Let's do this, Coupé."

Coupé stares at him for a long moment. Robert's eyes narrow slightly. Other people wouldn't notice, but he feels like he knows Coupé enough to recognize awkwardness in her features. She isn't sure what to do right now, a very rare occurrence given her collected, deathly calm nature. She expresses it by standing very still with her fingers twitching slightly at her side, not committing to any particular action. It's in her face, too, though it's a little harder for Robert to put all of that into concrete words.

If Robert isn't imagining things, he doesn't know why she's acting like this. Coupé knows how to fight. Robert has direct and indirect proof of that, so why is she—

"Found you!" Another voice calls out. Coupé glances over her shoulder. Robert doesn't even bother. Punch Up (also in regular clothing but also with a duffel bag that's nearly as long as he is tall) jogs into the alleyway to stand beside his… whatever the two of them are. For all intents and purposes, they're teammates right now. That's what Coupé has been hesitating for. She was waiting for Punch Up, and she's not used to waiting. Robert isn't entirely sure why she would wait, though. She could totally take him on her own. Maybe Punch Up has unresolved issues, too? Robert did let Coupé go, after all, and forced Punch Up to work with the inexperienced Waterboy. Or it's just about the fighting aspect. Punch Up does love a good fight, so that could be why he begged Coupé to join her.

Well, whatever the reasoning, it's now a two-on-one. Robert never had the advantage, but now he's at an even greater disadvantage. There's nothing he can do when Coupé can fly and Punch Up knows where he lives. He might as well just deal with this here.

"Fuck it," Robert tiredly says, already exhausted even before they've begun. "Let's get this over with, huh?"

Punch Up claps his hands together, a thunderous noise in the otherwise quiet alleyway. "Let's go, lad! That's the spirit!" Punch Up glances at Coupé. "I told you he'd agree, didn't I?"

"I have not explained anything to him," Coupé tells Punch Up, her voice soft and whispery compared to his booming and confident one.

"Then, what's he agreeing to?" Punch Up tries and fails to whisper back.

"Are we not fighting right now?" Robert asks, interrupting their conversation. If they aren't, he could hurry back to his apartment. He didn't have patrol, so Beef should be waiting for him (though, knowing the canine, Beef is probably fast asleep right now. Robert has got to stop getting his dinners so late).

"We are," Punch Up confirms. After a moment, his eyes widen with a realization. A loud laugh leaves him, shaking his entire body. Neither Coupé nor Robert joins Punch Up, but he doesn't seem to care as he quietens down enough to explain (which is necessary given how thick his accent is). "We aren't fighting, lad. I'm fighting."

Robert pulls himself out of his defensive position, even if there's still tension in his shoulders. He drops the bridge of his nose into his fingers. "Why can't you make any fucking sense right now?"

The words are accompanied by another shiver. It seems to be worse than the others, though, because Robert nearly collapses to the ground. The only reason his knees don't touch the dirty alleyway floor is because of someone grabbing onto him. He flinches away only because it's a quickly moving figure, not necessarily because it's Coupé specifically. He feels bad seeing that slight—very slight, almost imperceptible—twinge of emotion in her eyes. That just leads him to reminding himself that she tried to kill him and she very well could do so again, but he hates that thought just as much as he hates another shiver ripping right through him, forcing him to lean on Coupé for support.

Punch Up is there, too. He can't exactly give Robert support given the size difference, but he does the next best thing: explains what's happening. "You've been real cold lately, and we can't have that. I've got a place that'll get your blood pumping! Ja—er, Coupé also has a gift for you."

Robert glances over at the former villainess. She does not meet his eyes, staring down at the ground instead with the intensity of an assassin whose target is beneath her. "Janelle."

The dispatcher blinks. He wasn't looking at her because he noticed Punch Up's slip-up and wanted to know her actual name. He was more curious about this gift. Then again, her name is a gift. It might not be what Punch Up is talking about, but Robert isn't going to think of this admittance as anything other than important and special. Names are powerful in a world of secret identities, and there's an extraordinary amount of trust that goes into giving and receiving one.

Robert moves his hand to… Janelle. A smile lifts onto his lips, small but genuine. "I'm Robert Robertson the Third… also known as Mecha Man."

That hesitance from earlier has returned. It covers Janelle entirely as she stares at Robert's offered hand. He glances at it himself. The skin is paler than usual. It's also shaking faintly. Robert wants to ignore that, and he finds it easy to do when Janelle takes his hand into her own, healthily colored and steady. It's also really warm. Robert would go so far as to call it burning hot, but that's just because of the state he's currently in. Still, it's because of this state that he wonders why her hand feels like this when there hasn't been much of a difference with anyone else. It's like how Flambae's cheeks were warm to his fingers.

Janelle also seems interested in his hand, though likely for the exact opposite reason. Her yellow eyes dart over to Punch Up without letting go. "Colm."

Ah, Robert guesses they're all going by their personal identities right now.

"On it!" Colm shouts. He tosses the duffel bag on top of his head, balancing it with both hands on either side. He starts marching out of the alleyway like a soldier on a mission. Robert would feel about the quiet chuckle he can't fight if Janelle's lips weren't twisting into a fond, amused smile.

They are not, however, going to let Colm get too far away from them, apparently. Janelle starts tugging Robert along with her. He drags his feet, eyes glancing back at the plastic bag left on the ground. It wasn't worth much, but he spent his money on it so he's not leaving it behind. Thankfully, Janelle lets him go, and he instantly darts for it. Once the goods are acquired, he rejoins her. She makes a motion to grab onto him again, but he side-steps it and shakes his head. "I'm fine. Let's just go do whatever you and Colm want me to do."

He could say no. He could walk away from them both. He doubts their solution is going to work any more than Prism and Flambae's did (which isn't being fair since their solution did help a little). But Coupé shared her real name with him. She put her trust with him. He might as well indulge her and Colm. And, if nothing else, this is an opportunity to make amends and perhaps even bond. Synergy is key, after all, not just between the z-team themselves but also between them and their dispatcher.

That's all this is, he tells himself, shuddering once more. This chill doesn't bring him crashing down, but he almost loses his grip on the plastic bag from how his fingers coil around.

Janelle takes it from him. He worries about her stealing it, but her nose wrinkles with disgust when she looks inside. Robert huffs a quiet, disbelieving laugh. It's only an instant meal. He pops it into the microwave, and he's suddenly set for the next 24 hours. He even got his favorite kind, so he won't even need to get a snack tomorrow at work, saving him a dollar that can be used another day when he inevitably gets hungry again (scientists should really get on making that impossible, but no, they just have to give another person superpowers).

Even though she's clearly not fond of the contents, Janelle does not scold him. She does not throw the bag away, either. She just pulls it on top of the sleeve of her dark gray jacket. It swings with her as she walks. The mundanity of it paired with the knowledge he has of her history nearly sends him into a hysterical fit. He keeps it to himself, however, especially when those yellow eyes glare at him from the corner of her eyes.

"This way!" Colm shouts over his shoulder. A few people around him startle, having not noticed the three-foot man hurtling toward them with the duffel bag on his head adding at least another foot. Janelle picks up the pace to keep up with him. Robert does the same, shaking off the numbness that was developing his feet and calves.

Colm leads them through the streets of Torrance. Robert almost wants to call him out on not knowing where they're going after the third random left-turn. He keeps his mouth shut, however, if only because Colm's confidence has inspired trust in Robert. Even if they end up getting lost, this will have been a great excursion.

And as Robert looks at the sign for a little league ballpark, he really does think their lost. Colm rushes forward. He throws the duffel bag upward, running underneath a fence that only seems to be suitable for keeping vehicles out. Once Colm is on the other side, the duffel bag lands in his awaiting hands. He turns around with the biggest, stupidest smile at his face. "You can do it! I believe in you!"

Janelle takes a running start. She leaps over the fence with the grace of a dancer. She lands in a squat of some kind, definitely a ballet move that Robert just doesn't know the name of. Janelle adjusts the plastic bag on her arm as Colm almost literally sings her praises. Robert leans against the top of the metal fence. Although it's cold even through his jacket, he's far more interested in what he truly believes is a slight blush on Janelle's cheeks (is he better at reading Janelle than he thought he was? He knows that he's gotten better with the rest of the z-team, but he assumed Janelle would be exempt from that given they haven't been around each other for all that long, combining the time since the Red Night and the time before she was expelled).

Colm and Janelle turn to Robert, waiting for him. Shaky limbs don't make him anywhere close to graceful, but he manages to throw his body around until he's landing on his feet on the other side. Janelle doesn't look impressed. Colm sympathetically pats Robert's thigh. "We all embarrass ourselves sometimes, lad."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Can someone tell me why we're trespassing here? I mean, you know the diamonds are referring to the bases, right? Not actual diamonds?"

"We're not stupid," Janelle flatly tells him.

Colm chuckles. "She's right. We're here for the tournament!"

"Tourna—" That final syllable is cut off by Colm grabbing Robert's hand and dragging the taller man with him. That witch was not kidding around when granted Colm super strength. The only choice Robert gets about moving forward is the way he does it. Robert tries remaining on his feet for the sake of his dignity, if nothing else.

Despite the late hour and the fact that it's not baseball season, the ballpark is not empty. The lights are turned on around one of the fields, attracting generations of moths to fly right into the bulbs. Although some people are lounging in the wooden stands, the majority of the people are inside the field itself with the bright lights upon them. They are hooting and hollering, jumping around to celebrate something happening in the middle of them. Given how eagerly Colm releases Robert, throws the duffel bag on the ground, and rushes toward the opening to the field, Robert can accurately guess what's happening.

Janelle takes the duffel bag as she continues forward. Robert could walk away now, or even join the spectators on the stands, he decides to follow Janelle through the dugout into the field. The emerald grass crunches beneath his feet with every step. There are even blades growing over the dirt that's meant to mark the bases and the paths from one to the next. Robert idles near first base, tapping his toes against the hard, white material. He's never been here before because he's never played baseball as a kid. Not in little league, anyway. He just threw the ball around with Chase, and frequently, the man would use his powers to cheat. Robert remembers wishing some kind of punishment would befall Chase for cheating; he regrets that wish now, mind fluttering back to Chase lying breathless on the ground or right on the edge of life in a hospital bed.

Robert's hands curl together over his heart. He breathes out shallowly, watching the pale mist dissipate in the breeze. Before his thoughts can spiral further into very real memories of Chase or the nonexistent ones of having a childhood, heat finds him again. While it isn't as hot as earlier, Janelle's hand plants warmth on his shoulder when she grabs onto him. Silently, observantly, she brings him into the crowd with her. Robert doesn't do anything to fight it. Despite not wearing her Coupé outfit, the crowd doesn't fight her, either, easily letting Janelle pass through until she and Robert are in the front.

The reason they're in the front—other than being right in the middle of the crowd, surrounded on all sides by the thick combination of everyone's body heat—is because Colm has thrown himself into the fight. Robert closes his eyes for a moment, trying to accept this. With his eyes clothes, the sensation of the heat clinging to him grows harder to ignore. It can't quite penetrate the coldness, not in the same way the loud cheering drills right into his skull can, but the determination is certainly admirable.

"Pay attention," Janelle tells him, right in his ear so her quiet voice can be heard over the crowd. Robert's eyes flutter open. He glances at her first. She meets his eyes, but her attention is clearly on the fight in front of them. "He's sharing something important to him with you."

Robert opens his mouth, but he says nothing. Instead, he turns to the fight a second after Janelle does. Colm is throwing himself into his next punch. The crowd loses their mind. Colm's opponent falls to the ground. The Irishman laughs loudly, boisterously. Before his opponent can get back onto their feet, Colm looks at Janelle and Robert. His smile is huge, illuminating his eyes as if to outshine the stadium lights. And with how much Colm is enjoying himself and how much he wants Janelle and Robert to, as well, the dispatcher would definitively say that this is yet another victory for the ex-strongman.

Knowing Colm, this is important to him. He loves fighting, after all, and he loves putting on a good performance. He must bring Janelle to these things all the time, but he wanted Robert to come, too, this time. He wanted to bring Robert even though there was a chance the dispatcher would report this entire thing (because, really, who holds a fighting tournament at a children's ballpark?). And based on what Colm said earlier, this isn't just about sharing with Robert; this is also about helping Robert feel warm again.

It's so silly and honestly stupid. Robert should walk away. He should call the police or SDN. He should return to his dark apartment on his semi-comfortable futon (or plastic chair, if he's so inclined to give into his impulses) with his perfect little boy, Beef. He should be preparing for work tomorrow… or the pain and cold that have already found him and will never leave him.

What he really shouldn't do is cheer Colm on, but that's exactly what he finds himself doing. He throws his fist into the air, shouting for the Irishman to win this battle. Colm's smile seems to widen at the loud, personal praise. Janelle smiles, too, and though she isn't as loud as Robert, she joins the cheering in her own way. It would be egotistical to think that they're cheering is what let Colm win when the short man did all the work himself, but Robert feels a rush of exhilaration like he's the one who won at the same time heat seems to trickle somewhere inside his heart.

Since Colm won this fight, he has to keep fighting. Robert and Janelle continue cheering, though they do have to take it down a few notches when Robert's voice starts hurting slightly. It might also be because he's laughing too hard after Colm pulls out some of his old carnival tricks, really making a performance out of every fight he's in. This, unfortunately, costs him. Colm has to rejoin them in the crowd, shaking his head and cursing himself for his own foolishness but wearing a content smile on his mustached face.

They linger a little longer on the wooden stands, but Colm can't stand being so close to a fight without being allowed to join it. Robert and Janelle have no reason to stay if Colm doesn't want to, so there's no complaints when they walk back to the front. They pass through the gate (Colm climbs it, Janelle ducks under it, and Robert—again—just sort of throws himself over). Colm sets a course for Robert's apartment, and although a small, paranoid voice warns Robert about letting Janelle knows where he lives, he ignores that voice in favor of focusing on the remnants of heat left in his chest that are starting to be suffocated by the cold.

At his apartment, Robert opens the door and says goodbye. Colm, however, strikes his hands out, "Wait! Your gift."

Robert arches a brow. Janelle shifts. She looks embarrassed again, even more so than she was when Colm was praising her. She shakes her head slightly. Colm, however, doesn't seem to notice Robert or Janelle as he unzips the duffel bag. Robert had been wondering what was inside of that. He tries peeking inside, but Janelle steps between him and it. She remains there for a few seconds before turning around to face him.

She's holding something out to him. Robert hesitantly touches it. Honestly, it's been so long since he's felt a blanket that it takes him a moment to realize that's what Janelle is giving him. But it is a blanket, and a knitted one, at that. It's soft and heavy in his arms, comforting him in some strange way.

Colm grins up at him. "She's been working on her knitting skills!"

Robert blinks. His head snaps to Janelle. "You… made this? For me?"

"It was an apology for… everything. Colm thought it would be better than offering to kill your enemies for you," Janelle says. She sets her own hand over the top of the blanket, pulling at the gray yarn she used. "You've also been cold lately. I will make you a sweater next time."

"No, you don't—I mean, this is enough–more than enough. I'm grateful. Really, it's… nice." Robert doesn't usually get thrown off his game, but… she knitted an entire blanket for him. Robert barely knows how to handle kindness in small doses; how is he expected to survive this? "Thank you. And I've already forgiven you for what's happened. Honestly, I should be apologizing. I should have fought for you. I should have—"

"You needed to send a message," Janelle interrupts. "I joined your enemy… the man who killed your father. I can't—"

"It's really fine, you know? You chose right in the end. No matter how many times you stray from the path, redemption will always be waiting for you. Phoenixes rise from the ashes a lot," Robert tells her. He sets his hand on her shoulder this time. It's hot again, but he can't focus on that when he meets Janelle's eyes and sees understanding there. And it's a mutual understanding. They've both hurt each other, but now they can help each other.

"This is great," Colm says. Robert glances at him, but he honestly doesn't care that Colm ended the moment in a way that's awkward for everyone but him. "Goodnight, lad. Sleep well and get yourself warm!"

"Goodnight, both of you. I'll be sure to use this," Robert says, slightly lifting up the blanket.

Janelle nods sternly, but she seems pleased. "Goodnight."

They walk away. Robert slips into his apartment. He leaves the blanket on the futon. He goes through the motions of getting ready for bed. Beef joins him at one point. Robert pets the dog several times before discovering that the blanket is still on the futon. Robert almost refuses to use it, but that would be rude to Janelle, so he unfolds it. He wraps it around himself, settling on the couch.

The cold is still there, but he feels just as warm as he did when he ate the food left specially for him the previous morning. It's enough that he can fall asleep.

Chapter Text

Robert lies on the futon in his apartment. He's in a position that's partially on his back and partially on his side. He's wrapped up in Janelle's blanket like a butterfly stuck in its cocoon. His legs are bent towards his body, but they're also separated with one leaning against the couch's back and one pressed into the cushions. In this space, Beef snuggles closely, half-asleep but ready to snap to awareness at a moment's notice. While Beef being there will make it harder to get up if he needs to use the bathroom or when he grows hungry enough to search his cabinets for something to eat, Robert leaves it be, making the necessary sacrifices for his beloved dog.

It isn't so much of a sacrifice, though. The cold has not abated in the slightest, but Beef has always been warm. There are times when he's not so keen to snuggling up to the ice statue that is his owner, but other times, Beef is all over Robert, sharing as much warmth as his little body can produce. Robert accepts it graciously. He clings to Beef whenever the dog is willing to settle in one place for an extended period of time, like he is now. It's a matter of time until Beef leaps from the couch to run around the room—entranced by one of his toys or simply moved by boredom—but for now, Robert gets to stare at the half-opened eyes of his sleepy dog.

Robert relates, in a way. He's tired. He's been tired for a while now, but he's especially tired today. It was a long day at SDN. The z-team might be coming together, but Robert certainly isn't. He can feel himself falling behind, failing to be the dispatcher they need. All the solutions he comes up with for this growing coldness aren't enough anymore. He needs to figure something else out, but it's not simple in the slightest. Heaters, fires, hand warmers, jackets, blankets—nothing that should keep him warm is working.

Except, sometimes, they kind of work. Sometimes, Robert will feel a spark of heat from Flambae's flames, when the supervillain holds one in his hand for Robert to huddle around during break. The hand warmers Invisigal and Waterboy got him were actually hot, too, letting him experience typing on his computer with hands that weren't twitching and unresponsive for a little while. Janelle's blanket brings him warmth, which is why he's practically wearing it when he's at his apartment. Most of all, Beef is always a bundle of warmth, enough to shock Robert's system.

Robert would love to assume that he can only get warm by borrowing that heat from others, but he can't say that with complete confidence. Flambae's fire on the first day did nothing, after all, and there are many times when he touches the z-team—either accidental or purposeful—that does absolutely nothing for his condition. There are even gifts that other dispatchers have given him just because they don't want to take over for him if he croaks. That satisfies the condition of being given by another, but they don't work, either.

It has to be something else, then, that defines what chases away the cold, but he really can't figure it out. If this were someone else, he'd probably already have cracked it, but the cold has a way of slowing his thoughts to a snail's pace. This lack of comprehension skills is one of the reasons he isn't succeeding as a dispatcher. Since it's starting to affect his job, he's scheduled to a visit to the medical wing for the next day. Maybe they'll have a solution for him, or at least a way of mitigating the symptoms enough that can get back to doing what he's paid to do.

"Sh-shit," Robert stutters through shuddering teeth. That's another part of the cold. While it never completely leaves, it waxes and wanes in power and forcefulness. He's going through a particularly nasty episode. He wishes he could curl into a ball, but Beef is still sitting on his leg. Robert doesn't want to smush the poor boy, even if Beef is starting to look at him like he's crazy. Robert shakily smiles at the canine. He pulls his arm out from under the blanket to pet Beef. He gets to do it once before Beef makes a quiet noise, turning to nuzzle his nose into Robert's palm without letting Robert touch any more of him.

It's expected. He's probably too cold for Beef to really want to engage with him. It still hurts, in a way, and that hurt just takes away even more of the heat his body is supposed to produce.

While letting unconsciousness claim him would probably return some of that heat to him, Robert hears a noise. He's willing to pretend it came from him or Beef, but the dog swivels his head into the distance to prove that it isn't. Beef leaps down from Robert's lap. Once he hits the ground, Beef is running across the floor to wherever the source of the noise was. Robert turns completely onto his side, watching Beef go. A better owner would chase after their pet or at least yell at them to stop, but Robert can't really move, let alone speak.

He can only hope that the people breaking in don't have the heart to kill the dog. Or, if nothing else, at least kill Robert before they touch a hair on Beef's head.

Robert's thought pattern is brought to an abrupt halt when he hears a loud, high-pitched noise that's very familiar. With that noise still echoing in his ears, he sees Sonar appear from around the kitchen bar. The half-man, half-bat (all-freak, according to himself) is holding a television and a… gaming console of some kind in his arms. He continues using echolocation since the television is blocking his view and Beef runs through the man's legs. Robert stares at him incredulously, wondering where he came from or why he's here or how got through the locked front door.

The answer to that last question is that he didn't even go through the door as evidenced by Malevola appearing next. She also holds stuff in her arms, a potted plant and a pack of beers. The red light framing her disappears, so Robert knows the portal behind her has closed. He arches a brow at her, but his attention is snagged by Sonar setting down the television on the ground and the gaming console on the white plastic chair. He remains squatted and turns toward Beef. When he picks the dog up, he looks him dead in the eyes and speaks like he would anyone else, "You failed at tripping me. L."

Robert is about to warn Sonar against teaching Beef internet slang, but Malevola stands right in front of him. Her tails prods against him as she sets the beers down on the ground. The tip of her tail hooks onto the yarn. "I recognize that color. Did Coop make it?" Robert nods. Malevola smiles. "Nice. She's getting better at it if she made a whole blanket."

Malevola sets the potted plant down. While the black pot itself is relatively small, the plant is very tall, reaching to about halfway up Malevola's chest. There's a thin shoot covered in dark purple bark with blood red appendages expand from the top, somewhere between the petals of a flower and the leaves of a palm tree. A small fireball floats above the center of the stem with a dim luminosity but vibrant coloration. Malevola hooks her thumb toward it. "Better than any heater, and it only needs your trash to survive. Well, your flammable trash. Just make sure you don't water it. This guy will start shooting fireballs if you water it."

Robert takes a deep breath. He focuses his energy towards his voice, speaking slowly only so that he doesn't stutter and make a fool of himself. "Thanks for the dangerous plant. What are you—"

"Yo, Robert, what's the WiFi password?" Sonar calls out over his shoulder. He's sitting on the floor with the television turned on in front of him, plugged into the gaming console and ready to go once it gets access to the internet. When Sonar shifts even more, Robert can see Beef sitting in the hybrid's lap, eyes bright with awareness and tail wagging with his usual happiness.

"I'm not—"

"I got it," Malevola interrupts. She reaches into her back pocket to pull out her phone. After some tapping, she tosses it over to Sonar.

When he catches it, he declares. "Score. I'm so awesome." Malevola arches a brow at him. Robert exhales sharply out his nose. Sonar doesn't notice either of their expressions because he's too busy putting the WiFi password into the television. "Thanks, Mal."

"How do you know my password?" Robert asks. It's the building's password, technically. His landlord takes money for it. Robert uses it because it's cheaper than getting his own WiFi, but all of his devices have several layers of encryption designed and implemented by him. He doesn't know if Sonar's console has it, too, but he doesn't think anyone's going to be hacking into that.

"Got it from Visi," Malevola answers. When that explains nothing, she shrugs, "Night of the party."

Robert nods to himself, eyes darting to the lamps he has sitting in the corner because more than one still feels like too much. Once his eyes snap back to Malevola and Sonar, he pushes himself into a standing position. It honestly feel like more trouble than it's worth, especially because he would've fallen if Malevola's tail didn't wrap around his waist. He thinks it was subconsciously, though, because she's chatting away with Sonar. "You guys aren't leaving any time soon, are you?"

"Aw, our dispatcher is so smart," Malevola says, wrapping her arm around his shoulder and tugging him closer. Between her arm and her tail, he's starting to remember how touchy Malevola is. Honestly, more than anything else, this is how they're the most different, but… she is warm. Probably a consequence of being a demon, but still, it's nice to benefit from the hellfire in her blood.

"He could last a year at Harvard," Sonar acquiesces, analyzing Robert from over his shoulder. Out of pure bafflement, Robert releases a rough laugh, quiet and startled. That's high praise coming from Sonar, and Robert finds that hilarious. Also, confusing, because why does it sound like a genuine compliment instead of a patronizing comment? For that matter, why did Malevola sound honest, too? What are these two doing?

A loud noise stops Robert from asking these questions. Malevola's tail tightens around his waist (protectively? It feels protectively. Robert doesn't know why, but it does), and Sonar's ears droop. "Fuck, sorry." Sonar starts turning down the volume on the television.

That doesn't stop what's happening on the screen from reaching Robert's awareness. It's some zombie shooter with detailed, gory graphics. Robert crosses his arms over his chest, tugging Janelle's blanket further around himself. "Can you not play violent games in front of Beef?"

"I've seen him drink blood before," Sonar argues petulantly.

Robert opens his mouth. When he can't truthfully deny that Beef has drank blood before, he finds a different way to approach the argument. "Yeah, and I'm trying to make him less bloodthirsty. Play something, please."

"Fiiiiiiine," Sonar grumbles, obnoxiously drawing the word out. He leans down into Beef's personal space, muttering to the dog about how they'll play the game together later. Robert adds Sonar to the list of people that are never allowed to babysit Beef.

The doorbell rings as Sonar is getting into a different game. Robert sighs despondently, wondering how else Malevola and Sonar invited to his apartment. Best case scenario, it's someone else from the z-team, or a select few from outside the team who Robert enjoys the company of. There's an even longer list of worst case scenarios, none of which Robert wants to deal with or is equipped to handle in his current state.

His idea of what's on the other side of the door shifts when Sonar and Beef both look over at it, sniffing the air. Robert steps toward the door, but Malevola—gently—shoves his shoulder until he flops onto the futon. Her arm and tail remove themselves from his person. The chill they leave behind is stark, making him realize just how hot Malevola actually runs (especially when factoring in the cold he's been stuck with for days). "Stay there, babes. I got it."

Malevola saunters over to the door. An almost dance-like quality overtakes her forward motion because of the music coming from the game (another fighter, but one without blood and violence. It doesn't seem to be a shooter, though, because there's magical abilities involved. Robert wouldn't know; he doesn't game. His father thought it was a waste of time, and later in life, Robert never had the money for it). The music is a little nice. Robert doesn't particularly mind listening to it.

Robert hears the door open. A voice he doesn't recognize shouts an expletive. He'd get up and investigate if he didn't hear Malevola laughing, mentioning something like 'I know.' The conversation doesn't go for long. Once it ends, Malevola shuts the door, reentering with bags of… food in her arms and on her tail. Robert even catches sight of the logo; it's the taco place he and the others went to after the bar fight at the Sardine.

"Did they hit on you?" Sonar questions.

"Nah. Just surprised," Malevola answers. Her eyes flick to Robert, smiling and shrugging. "I get that a lot."

"I'm sorry…?" Robert says, not entirely sure if he's supposed to be apologetically.

Malevola's smile widens, and she laughs boisterously yet gently. "It's nothing. He could've had a worse reaction, honestly. There was one delivery guy who tore the cross necklace he wore off his neck to shove in my face." Malevola walks past Sonar. As she does, she leans down to grab the back of his collar. She drags him with her as she walks to the couch where Robert's waiting. Sonar doesn't say anything about scooting his butt across the floor, but Beef does bark excitedly. Malevola continues talking. "It wasn't great. His Latin was terrible. I'm sure it was the case where his family was religious but he wasn't."

"I'm sure he found his religion when he met you," Robert notes.

Malevola lets go of Sonar. She plops onto the couch beside Robert, caging Sonar's shoulders between her legs. She sets the bags in her lap. She glances up at him, winking, "Oh, that happens a lot, too."

Robert rolls his eyes. Malevola laughs. Sonar removes one hand from the controller, setting it on his shoulder for Malevola to slap it. As she does, he adds with a proud tone, "Good one, Mal."

"Thanks, Vic."

"I told you not to call me that."

"I never agreed to that."

Vic… as in Victor. Robert glances at Sonar again. He supposes the hybrid isn't wearing his suit, instead in something far more casual. This must be a personal visit, then. Robert should have known that already, but he supposes that it only hits him now. They're sitting in his living room. Victor is playing a video game on a console he brought with Beef content to sit in his lap. Malevola sits on the couch beside him, looking through the bags to pass out everyone's food. Robert is wearing a blanket that Janelle made him. They're all in the dim light of a plant Robert is certain Malevola brought from Hell but still appreciates because it does radiate warmth.

"Here you are," Malevola says, pulling Robert out of his thoughts. She reaches into his blanket until she finds his hand. He plops down three packaged items in his palm. A grin stretches out across her face. "Three triple crunch tacos."

"How do you…?" Robert starts, staring down at the three of them. They're hot against his hands, likely still fresh. Malevola and Victor must have ordered them a little before they made the trip over here.

"It's what you ordered last time. Figured you wouldn't mind eating it again," Malevola shrugs, unpeeling her own food. She starts picking at it with one hand. The other one hands Victor a beer. Then, she holds a soft taco for Victor over his shoulder so he can eat while gaming. Robert wonders why she isn't using her tail since all it's doing around his body is keeping him a little warm.

Robert unpeels one. He feels the steam brush against his face. It would probably hurt if he could feel the tip of his nose. "So you… remembered it?"

"It's a simple order, Robert," Malevola chuckles. When Robert doesn't respond, just stares at her, she leans forward, whispering to Victor in a way that doesn't mask her voice in the slightest. "Is he calling us stupid?"

"He's calling you stupid," Victor responds between bites of his taco. "I'm a Harvard graduate."

Robert almost tells Victor that doesn't make sense since Robert can still call Harvard's alumni 'stupid,' but he goes for deescalating the situation first. "I'm not calling anyone stupid. I just… Thanks."

"No prob, Rob."

Victor leans forward to take another bite from his taco. Since Victor's neck leans to one side, Beef sets his front paws on Victor's shoulder and peers over it. His tongue lulls out of his mouth, ready to accept his offering of Robert's food. The dispatcher unpeels part of the tortilla, reaching for the meat inside.

Malevola moves her hand to block Robert's actions. Beef licks her wrist without knowing what she's doing. Robert is, however, aware, so he arches a brow at Malevola. She pets Beef's head, and then she sticks her knuckles into Robert's stomach. Between his clothes and the blanket, he can't really feel it, but he still glares at her. Malevola shakes her head. "This is why you're so skinny. You look worse than the people cursed to starve in Hell."

Robert blinks. "Wow. I'd rather you just call me flat like everyone else does."

Malevola doesn't respond to that. She's reaching into one of the bags. She pulls out a cardboard container. She sets Victor's taco down, much to his chagrin, to open the container. Robert peers inside to find unseasoned ground beef. Malevola smiles. "Hey, they actually did it."

Malevola leans forward, setting the cardboard container on the ground. The dog immediately jumps out of Victor's lap to scarf down his namesake. Victor blinks at Beef. "I can see why you didn't want him watching a violent game. He's already resorting to cannibalism."

Robert snorts. He opens his mouth, always willing to share stories about Beef, but Malevola shoves his taco into his mouth. He exhales out his nose. Instead of fighting her, he just accepts the taco. It is, after all, delicious. There's a reason he orders three of these every time (other than them being fairly cheap and enough to fill up his stomach for a while). He shifts slightly on the couch cushion to watch Beef.

He also, unintentionally, starts watching Victor's game. He doesn't understand anything that's happening. He honestly would have gotten a headache from all the flashing lights and colors if not for the pseudo-lamplight that is the plant beside him. But he continues watching. He listens to Malevola cheering for and teasing Victor in equal measures. The equal amount of cheering but also excuses for any poor performances that Victor releases with as many curse words as Chase runs through in a regular conversation.

Robert does because he remembers what Janelle told him the previous day. "He's showing something important to him with you."

While Robert doubts the game itself is important to Victor, he feels like this situation is. Eating takeout, joking around with Malevola, soaking in each other's company and just having fun. They've both let loose, going by their civilian names and laughing. For one reason or another, they decided to include Robert. They decided he was worthy to be here with them.

Robert looks down at his next taco with stinging eyes. He refuses to cry because it'd just be stupid to. Instead, he takes a deep breath, and joins Malevola and Victor. He's not sure his cheering or teasing are accurate, but they're appreciated. He knows they are because they'll both laugh at what he says or add onto it or tease him right back.

When they're finished eating, Malevola rises to her feet. She tosses their trash into the fireball. The light brightens as it devours the paper and cardboard. Robert and Victor pause to watch the display. She beams down at them when she's finished. "Way better than a trashcan, amirite?"

Robert nods. "Seems useful enough. And it won't set anything else on fire, right?"

"Not unless you water it. Just ask Victor what happens if you do that."

The hybrid shudders. "I'm still missing patches of fur."

Robert chuckles. Malevola flops back onto the couch. As she's settling, Beef jumps onto the couch. He burrows into the blanket until he's lying in Robert's lap. The man moves his arms around his baby's furry body. Malevola does something similar when she wraps her arms and tail around him. She draws Robert close, setting his head on her shoulder. She bumps Victor's shoulder with her knee. "Put on a movie… what's your favorite movie, Robert?"

"We probably don't have it," Victor says, dutifully pausing and saving the game so that he can bring them to where they can watch movies.

"What's your favorite movie, Robert?" Malevola repeats, pointedly ignoring Victor.

"I don't have a favorite," Robert admits. He has the urge to pull himself away from Malevola, to kick both her and Sonar out of his apartment. They've eaten their food and played their games. They've done all they came to do. They shouldn't have to stay here any longer than that. They'd be more comfortable in their own place, anyway.

But that thought dissipates as Malevola's grip tightens around him as if she knew what he was thinking. "What about a childhood favorite?"

"I don't…" Robert doesn't finish the sentence, hoping Malevola and Victor understand. He was only allowed to watch TV when his father was out, so he was always watching the news, waiting for the anchor to say something about Mecha Man. He remembers the other kids talking about movies as they came out, but he could never join those conversations. That's probably why he didn't have many friends.

"Ah, geez," Malevola murmurs. She bumps Victor's shoulder again. "Just play something good."

"On it!"

"Actually good. You better not put on that crypto documentary."

"But Mal—!" Victor grumbles, flopping his head back into her lap. She glares down at him. Victor sighs, throwing his head forward again. "Fine. I'll put on something Rob over here will like."

"Thank you."

"Yeah, yeah."

Victor searches the options for whatever he thinks Robert's tastes are. It's something animated, he realizes, but other than that, he doesn't recognize it. Robert shrugs to himself, subconsciously getting more comfortable against Malevola's shoulder. He adjusts Beef in his lap, pulling the blanket further around himself. It seems unable to fall, however, with Malevola's tail wrapping around it like a belt.

At some point early into the movie, Malevola tugs his hand out of the blanket cocoon. She sets it on Victor's head. The hybrid shivers. "Your hands really are cold, damn."

"Yeah, I've heard. I'll just—"

Victor leans further into the fingers. Malevola points out where Robert needs to scratch. Unsure of himself, Robert follows her instructions. Victor practically melts into it, leaning his head back and slumping so that he can still watch the movie while being boneless.

Malevola snorts. Robert would join her if she wasn't doing to him what he's doing to Sonar. It's basically the same, anyway. A part of him wonders if he should feel patronized, but he can't help it when he just curls further into Malevola. He's stealing her heat, he thinks, but it doesn't feel like 'stealing' when she drops her head onto his, practically wrapping herself around him like the blanket. It doesn't help that Beef's in his lap and Victor's leaning against his legs, further trapping him. He couldn't escape if he wanted.

And he doesn't want to. He wants to hold onto this for as long as he can, but he finds himself slipping right into sleep.