Chapter Text
It’s been months since the incident.
Months of anxiety that sits like lead in your stomach, stress that’s carved permanent lines into your forehead, anger that flares hot and quick at the smallest inconveniences—and the additional rollercoaster of either crying or screaming (or both, sometimes simultaneously in a way that leaves your throat raw and aching) when you managed to force yourself home for brief moments of rest in an actual bed. After all, one does start to smell like stale coffee and antiseptic, and ache from being curled up in a hospital chair staring at the reclined bed with the ever-present—beep, beep, beep—of machines that became the metronome of your existence.
A reclined bed that’s been home to Mecha Man, or Robert Robertson the Third—your best friend (rather additional best friend alongside Beef, can’t forget about Beef), since that whole near-death experience that still plays on loop behind your eyelids every time you try to sleep.
When those videos of Mecha Man falling and exploding into an aggressive cloud of oranges began to circulate and double—triple, quadruple, spreading like wildfire across every social media platform—you remember feeling… well, nothing, at first.
There was a numbness, a disconnect between your brain and your body as your fingers moved on autopilot, typing away at your phone with increasing desperation. You expected it to be just an old video resurfaced (even though in the back of your mind, in that small voice you tried to ignore, you knew that couldn’t be true) and that it’d just be some really good, if morbid, 3D animation. Maybe a deepfake. Something, anything other than what it actually was.
Only to find in your frantic search LIVE feeds and actively updating articles. Breaking news banners. Comment sections filled with speculation and—worse—jokes.
It took a minute before the emotions had finally caught up.
The shock… simmered away like water evaporating off hot pavement, replaced by disbelief that felt like cotton in your mouth, followed by dread that dropped like a stone into your gut, and then panic—pure, unadulterated panic that made your hands shake so badly you nearly dropped your phone.
Lady Luck held on tight while you drove like a bat out of hell to the hospital, vision tunneling, breath coming in short gasps that fogged up your windshield. You were lucky you didn’t get pulled over—to be honest, though, you might not have stopped if sirens had flared to life because of your speeding and reckless driving. You would have led them on a chase if it meant getting to Robert faster. Consequences be damned.
Rob would’ve been mad about that.
The thought hits you now, sitting cross-legged in his apartment months later because you can’t find yourself to go home or be away from him entirely, and it had plagued you through the days—the weeks—of the beginning of his coma: He would be disappointed.
Because thinking about all the mistakes you’ve made, even if you’ve grown from them with his help and vice versa, is the norm when you see someone you care for so deeply hovering on death’s door. When you watch their chest rise and fall with mechanical assistance. When you memorize the pattern of their breathing because what if it stops and you’re not paying attention?
What you didn’t know then was it was also a reason why he drove you everywhere himself. Why he always insisted, why he’d show up even when you said you could manage, why he’d hand you coffee and say “C’mon, I was heading that way anyway” even when you both knew he wasn’t.
To be fair, he was the one to teach you how to drive in the first place. So he has benefits because of that… right? Is that how it works? Some kind of teacher’s privilege? I mean, you are a careful driver, which makes you a good driver. A great one, even. A great, law-abiding citizen who, unlike everyone else in Los Angeles, actually obeys STOP signs and knows that red lights aren’t recommendations or gentle suggestions. But… you have anxiety behind the wheel. Even worse than your social anxiety sometimes, which is really saying something. Anxiety which also often has you pressing down on imaginary brakes when anyone else is driving, your foot pushing against the floorboard, shoulders tensing at every lane change.
Except for Robert.
Maybe it’s because you know he operates—or rather, operated—a large Mech heirloom since grade school. You actually don’t know if that’s true but you’ve assumed based on throwaway comments and the easy confidence with which he used to move in that metal giant. Anyhow, he’s just obligated to be the best driver in the universe. Because that’s just how it works. The laws of physics bend slightly in his favor. Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself.
Or maybe, it’s just because he’s… Him.
He’s Robert.
The guy that can do everything—or at least, used to believe he could. Used to carry that weight on his shoulders like it was nothing, like being a hero was as natural as breathing.
The guy that is both amusingly sassy and hilarious, quick with a comeback that makes you snort-laugh in the most undignified way, who can diffuse tension with a perfectly timed quip.
That guy that often is the smartest in the room but never makes you feel lesser. Who explains things with patience, who listens like your words actually matter, who remembers the small details you mention in passing.
That guy that…
That guy that you…
Love?
The word sits heavy in your chest, unspoken. It always has.
“He’s going to explode one day, y’know.”
The statement breaks the comfortable silence of the apartment, and Robert paused in raining belly rubs onto Beef, the rotund dog having plopped happily onto his back after Rob gave him some pieces of cereal to lap up with his eager pink tongue. His brown eyes—warm like honey in sunlight, like the peak of autumn, like home—flicker up to land on you, and that just-so side smile appears, decorating the days-old stubble on his face that you’ve been itching to tell him makes him look ruggedly handsome (but won’t, because that would be weird, right?).
“Ah, c’mon, HB.” Rob’s head tilts to the side in that way that’s unfairly endearing, returning to bestowing Beef with more belly rubs and attention, his good hand moving in practiced circles. “A little cereal never hurt anyone. Isn’t that right, bud? Yeah. Yeah, it’s just a little treat. A tiny treat for the bestest boy.”
HB. You still don’t know what that nickname means. You’ve been too afraid to ask after this long, worried that it’ll reveal you haven’t been paying attention to something important. Or worse, that it’s something obvious and you’ll look like an idiot.
“A treat that you give him each time you eat it,” you counter, carefully guiding the large mech hand of the out of order robot palm up. That’s pretty much the only thing that moves with any real degree of control despite all of Robert’s prior attempts to well… make everything else work properly. But hey, something is better than nothing. Something is better than the alternative you don’t let yourself think about. “Which, mind you, you eat cereal every day for every meal if I’m not here to stop you.” A pointed look is thrown his way, emphasized by the following thump of the takeout bag being set on the makeshift table.
Rob’s smile widens, crinkling the corners of his eyes in the way that makes your heart do stupid acrobatic flips, and he gives Beef a final pat before retracting his hand. “What’s so wrong with having cereal three times a day? I like cereal. You like cereal. It’s the perfect food. You can eat it whenever you want—breakfast, lunch, dinner, midnight snack. I know you’ve eaten it for lunch or dinner before. Don’t think I’ve forgotten about that time I called you at 9 PM and heard you crunching away.”
You can’t help but roll your eyes at that, a smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. And, reluctantly, you lower yourself to the ground to join him—much to Rob’s obvious satisfaction if the way his whole face lights up is any indication.
It’s been difficult.
Of course it has.
From rehab after the coma, those first terrifying moments when he woke up disoriented and afraid, to the struggling recovery (physical and otherwise, because the body heals faster than the mind sometimes), to the acknowledgment of failure to protect the city he’d given everything for, to the discontinuation of carrying the legacy of Mecha Man—a title that had been passed down through generations, now ending with him…
It’s just been so damn much.So exhausting, so depressing, so… ass. Yeah. Ass. Whatever, that makes sense to Robert. It just makes sense in general. Who gives a fuck about proper vocabulary when everything feels like it’s falling apart?
At least you’ve been here.
Making sure he doesn’t go insane in a world that seems particularly disappointed in him, that’s moved on with alarming speed to the next viral video, the next hero, the next tragedy. God, he still remember how frustrated you were after he came home from that brief press conference, the one his PR team insisted he do. Like he owed anyone an explanation.
“You should’ve punched that Charles whoever-the-fuck,” you had ranted, pacing his apartment with barely contained fury while he sat quietly on the couch, watching you with something unreadable in his eyes. “Like c’mon!! These people can’t be real! What kind of question was that? ‘What would your father think of you?’ Are you KIDDING me right now? And everyone is agreeing? Insensitive assholes!”
And he had listened, patient as always, a ghostly smile playing at his lips as he watched you pace with Beef dutifully trotting after you around his apartment, the dog’s tags jingling with each step.
“Oh, trust me. I thought about it,” Rob had reassured, voice rough from disuse and emotion. “But we both know that wouldn’t do me any favors for my already sorry reputation. Then, he shrugged with his good shoulder, brows raised as he gestured to the arm in its sling with a self-deprecating humor that made your chest ache. “Plus… he probably would’ve predicted where I was going to punch from anyway. Telegraphed it. Slow right hook, easy to dodge…”
You had wanted to cry then. Wanted to grab him and shake him and make him understand that he was still—
“Rob?”
“Hm?” He looked up now, months later, blinking back to the present with his fork paused halfway to his mouth, a piece of beef dangling precariously.
Your brows raised, peering at him through your lashes in a silent assessment, searching for signs of pain, of dissociation, of the thousand-yard stare he sometimes gets. Usually you’d fluster and look away whenever the two of you shared eye contact like this—sustained, meaningful, heavy with unspoken things—it was never your strong suit. Instead, you felt the whisper of fluster and shyness yet held strong, refusing to be the first to break.
Only to cave and break the spell with a slight shake of your head, returning to your own platter with more focus than necessary. “Nothing.” It isn’t nothing. It’s everything. It’s worry and fear and love and too many emotions to name. But you don’t want to ruin his peace, this small moment of normalcy you’ve both carved out. “Eat. Before Beef decides to eat all your beef.” You emphasized with a point of your own fork toward the rotund beast, indeed eyeing the meat part of the takeout with laser focus. Those puppy dog eyes on full blast as his gaze periodically glances up at Rob with practiced manipulation.
“HB,” Rob starts, his own eyes suddenly getting that pathetic begging quality, perfectly mimicking his dog as they slide over to you with exaggerated innocence. He pointedly hunches his shoulders just so and brings out his lower lip in that stupid little pout that shouldn’t work but absolutely does.
“Rob.” Your voice is firm. Ish. Firm-adjacent.
“He’s starving.” The pout intensifies. How does he make it intensify? It shouldn’t be possible.
“He just ate.” You scold him—it lacks heat. It often does where Robert is concerned. You’re too soft on him, always have been.
“Scraps! Mere scraps!” Rob protests dramatically, like he’s auditioning for a soap opera. “He needs something substantial. Something packed with protein! Something that’ll stick to his ribs! Something like—”
“Robert.” Firmer now. Almost convincing.
“[Name].” Paired with that damn brow arch and smirk, the combination that’s lethal to your resolve, that makes you want to both smack him and kiss that stupid expression off his face.
Your eyes remained locked, searching, teasing, sparkling with a shared mischief and understanding that makes you… Makes you what? Want to reach out? Feel if his skin is as warm as it looks, as you remember from before? You had given him delicate caresses while he was in his coma, sure. Followed the map of those cute freckles dotting the skin under his eyes like the sprinkles of his favored donuts. Tentative and pleading as you traced his face with trembling fingers and whispered to whatever divine entity (despite never truly believing in such things before, but desperate times and all that) to give mercy. To give him back. To let you hear his voice again, his laugh, his terrible jokes.
But you never really felt like that was him. I mean, obviously, it was his body, his face, his hand in yours. But it wasn’t the same as this—these warm brown eyes actually seeing you, actually present, the slight upturn of his lips that meant he was seconds away from saying something to make you laugh.
Would he let you touch him now? Really touch him, with intention instead of medical necessity?
Would you ever be brave enough to try?
The moment stretches, suspended like amber, before Beef breaks it with an impatient whine, reminding you both of his perceived starvation.
Rob’s smile turns triumphant. “See? He’s wasting away. It’s basically animal cruelty at this point.”
“You’re impossible,” you mutter, but you’re already cutting a small piece of beef and holding it out.
Beef accepts it with the dignity of a king receiving tribute, and Rob’s resulting grin—bright and genuine and alive—makes everything worth it.
Even the months of hell.
Even the uncertainty of what comes next.
Even the words you still can’t say.