Chapter Text
There's something warm and heavy on your chest.
It takes an insurmountable amount of effort to peel your eyes open. They feel glued shut- because they are.
You scrub your eyelashes, brushing away the sleep crusted there. You try to lick your lips, wincing at the lack of saliva instead. Every drop of water feels like it's been sucked from you.
Your room is way too bright. No amount of blinking leaves you any less disoriented. You feel like you've been strapped to an exam table, drugged and laid bare. Your vision stalls, lags like a shitty video game. The warm weight on your chest materializes into view in the shape of your cat.
Your back aches. Your head aches. Your throat aches. You sit up, push yourself off the floor- yes, the floor. You ignore your cat, who displays her annoyance with a stretch and a flick of her tail, and try to remember how you ended up on your living room rug.
What did you do last night?
Memories swim in and out of your mind's eye, a little incoherent.
Fried pickles. Peach flavored alcohol. Smelly old city bus.
Robert.
Robert's freckles. Robert's hand on your back. Robert's smile. Robert, shrouded in mauve. Robert, laughing at your jokes. Robert, sitting next to you after you'd thought he'd left.
He smelled like clean laundry.
You frown.
What the fuck?
You panic a little, look down at yourself- sigh in relief. You're still fully clothed. So, you didn't do anything completely stupid...you hope. The stench of alcohol and grease on your clothes and hair would beg to differ though.
Everything is still so fuzzy around the edges. You scrub a hand across your face, beg your vision to focus and your mind to work with you.
It refuses.
Okay, you think. Nothing happened. So... Whatever. It's fine.
Things are mostly uneventful after that Friday night.
The next Monday, Robert takes up the Mechaman suit once again, joining your roster of heroes. You find yourself looking at his profile picture, tired eyes and freckles squeezed in between Trackblazer and Golem on the far right of your screen quite often. Often enough to be ashamed of it.
Mostly, you can’t help but admire him a little. He never argues with you when you send him on a mission the way the others do. No grumbling, no whining. No uncomfortable sex jokes. Just a smooth "I'm on it." Entirely professional. His usual deadpan humor never runs out of stock, of course; but the more time he spent in the field, the less… cynical he became. The way he interacts with civilians feels like reading a damn comic book; a real superhero, come to life. Suit completed with halftone shades and all (thanks to Royd). The man would drop everything to rescue a balloon from a tree if it made a kid smile (even if he would pretend otherwise when the team inevitably shat on him for it).
The other heroes you worked with at your previous branch paled in comparison. Those guys were the real deal, no doubt about it. Borderline celebrity status. Those guys were nice enough, but somewhere along the way, it had become more about meeting a bottom line; saving lives didn’t feel so good when years of corporate work eroded your passion, you supposed.
Robert hadn't seemed to lose his yet though. The opposite, in fact; in the suit, he seemed more lively than he ever did sitting next to you at his desk. His status as your boss required him to come into the office at least every other week, and you dreaded it. Every. Time.
The more you watched him work, the more you listened to him banter with the team, every affirmation, every “good call, Oracle,” added another butterfly to the barely contained swarm in your stomach. On days he was in office, you tried extra hard to avoid him. Though, this obviously proved rather difficult. You were forced to sit side-by side at one desk in a dingy makeshift office in the basement, where a minimum of twenty-something people were sharing the same damn coffee maker, and you didn’t even have the mercy of a cubicle wall to separate the two of you.
You felt like a bug under a magnifying glass.
Realistically, you knew he wasn’t observing you that closely. He wasn’t the stick-up-his-ass kind of manager. But...just knowing that he was beside you, that all it took to see him and his stupid blue aura was to turn your head an inch or two to the right, made you queasy. The idea that he might actually look back at you, too, with those stupid gorgeous brown eyes didn't help either.
Any trace of purple hues had abandoned his aura since that night. You weren’t sure how to feel. Relieved, maybe, that you wouldn’t have to deal with the awkward consequences. Robert never brought it up either; but then, you weren't sure if he knew that you knew.
Nothing. Happened. And you’re not disappointed at all, because he’s your boss and it would be fucking weird if anything had. And you definitely aren’t stupid enough to hope for anything more because you’d already know if there would be. And thinking too hard about a date-that-wasn't-even-really-a-date weeks after it happened for sure made you a creep and a weirdo.
You settle into a comfortable daily routine. Wake up, get dressed, daily affirmations in your underwear in front of the mirror (it isn’t dumb if it works). Canned, carbonated caffeine for breakfast. Walk to work check the weather, walk to work, settle in. Pray Robert doesn’t come in to the “office.” Work. Lunch. Work. Walk home. Dinner. Play video games or watch shitty TV until you can’t keep your eyes open anymore. Feed the cat. Sleep. Repeat.
Summer rolls into Fall, and the repairs on the upper floors are finally complete. Pros: you finally get your own cubicle. Cons: Robert’s cubicle is still next to yours. You knew this was coming and yet you’re still disappointed. There was no escaping this man, it seemed.
And then, something weird happens: Robert brings you a coffee and your favorite vending machine snack on your lunch break.
You blink up at him after he sets them down on your desk, open your mouth- but he speaks first.
“I thought a little celebration was in order. You’ve officially survived the Z-team for three months, and you even have your own cubicle now, so…congratulations.” He shrugs a little, mouth quirked up in a tiny smile. Eyes crinkling at the edges, warm coffee brown...
Don’t stare.
“Oh...right. Thanks.” You try to return his smile, hold up the snack. “This was thoughtful of you- er...How’d you know this was my favorite?”
He tips his head. “...You buy the same thing every day.”
A teenage girl in the back of your brain screams at the tops of her lungs, and you try very hard to pay no attention to her whatsoever. This is completely normal, even if it is the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for you.
“Oh…yeah, I guess I do, huh?” You push your glasses further up your nose, unsure of what else to do with your hands. “Thank you,” you repeat.
And it happens again: this time, after a particularly stressful mission. An apartment building and the restaurant beside it, engulfed in flames, spreading faster than it had any right to. It was nearly all-hands on deck. Buildings were mostly unsalvageable, eleven hospitalized; but thanks to the team’s efforts (and your foresight), everyone makes it out alive.
He stops at your desk much in the same fashion, hands full of cholesterol and sugar and caffeine, smile behind his eyes.
And again the next week. And the next. Before you know it, the two of you are sharing lunch together becomes a weekly tradition. It would be rude to turn him down, obviously. You were so not looking forward to it. Or maybe you were? You can't decide. You'd gotten so used to only seeing his face in tiny pixels that the real him felt a little surreal; like a video game character brought to life. It made you feel a little queasy, and for once in your life, you actually found it difficult to look right at him. You tell yourself it's because you're working on your 'staring problem'.
No other reason.
He does get easier to talk to, though. Turns out, Robert has been living under a rock for the last fifteen years or something and hasn't watched any TV from this fucking decade. You make a list of series for him to watch and insist he catches up so you have someone else to talk about it with.
"Wait, sorry...Hot People Paradise Island? Is that really what it's called?"
You nod, deadly serious.
"Yes and it's awful. You need to watch it. Please."
"Why would I watch something if it's that bad? That makes no fucking sense." He rests his cheek on his fist, toying with his fork in his other hand.
"Because it's like..." you gesture vaguely, trying to come up with something. "I don't know. It's like Twilight, y'know? Except, these are real people. And maybe a lot of the drama is forced to get more viewers or whatever, but I don't care." You place a hand on your heart and sigh. "It's real to me, Bob Bob."
He jabs his fork at you. "Don't."
"Don't what, Bob Bob?"
"If I promise to watch your shitty TV show, will you stop calling me that?"
You offer him a handshake and try to ignore the tiny electrical currents his hand sends up your arm when he takes it.
"Deal."
The next morning, he doesn't even say 'Hello.'
"Okay what the hell is Ricardo's deal?" His voice crackles on your headset before you even have a chance to crack open your energy drink.
"Whoa. Good morning to you too, sir." It's just him, Prism, and Chase so far. The others usually trickle in later.
"Ricardo who?" Chase asks.
Robert ignores him.
"So after all that bullshit about 'this is going to be a true test of loyalty' and 'I made a promise and I intend to keep it' or whatever, he just...fucking immediately hooks up with Haley? On the second night?"
"I knowwww," you groan, "he's such a douchebag."
"Wait," Prism cuts in, "y'all talkin' about Hot People Paradise Island?"
"Yes," you and Robert exclaim at the same time.
You snort. "Jinx. You owe me a soda."
"Hold the fuck up," Chase sounds pissed but you know him well enough by now to know he isn't really. "Don't tell me you actually fuckin' watch that bullshit. That shit'll rot ya brain."
"It's high art," Prism chirps with a fake British accent, "you better watch yo fuckin' mouth...Y'all see the season finale?! Shit had me dying for real."
"Don't spoil it!" Robert hisses, "I haven't caught up yet."
"Wait, Robert...Ricardo is season three. Did you stay up all night watching it?" You ask in complete disbelief.
He doesn't answer at first, and you hear Prism start to howl. "Oh my fucking god. He totally did!"
"Y'all shut the fuck up and get back to fuckin work already, would ya?" Chase grumbles. "It's too fuckin' early for this bullshit..."
Robert texts you at the end of your shift that day:
R: I can't believe you actually got me invested in that bullshit.
O: y u mad bro? its good right?
R: no. its awful
R: but I cant stop watching
R: this is fucking dumb
O: you love it.
R: fuck you
O: season five watch party at my house this weekend?
R: absolutely not.
R: im not watching anymore of this shit
R: you cant make me
O: I didnt make u do anything ;)
Robert did, in fact, watch all the way to season five by the end of the week. And he hated himself for it. You were right: it was addicting as hell. More than that though, it was nice to take his mind off work for a change. Gave him something to look forward to at the end of the day besides an empty apartment- and maybe it made him feel a little better about his lack of a love life. Watching other people make terrible decisions is always a great way to feel less crappy about yours.
When he comes into the office on Friday, he sulks towards his desk with the same energy as a dog who definitely tore up your nicest shoes and is trying to not look guilty about it. He avoids making eye contact with you as he gets his station set up for the day, and he can't help but stiffen a little when you speak up.
"So," you rest your chin on the top of your cubicle divider, "season five, huh?" Robert's brows furrow a little and you give him a shit-eating grin. "What'd you think?"
He pretends to ignore you as he logs into his computer, suddenly lazer-focused on his keyboard. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"You can't lie to me, Bob Bob. It's written all over your aura."
"I thought we agreed you wouldn't call me that anymore?" He grumbles.
"Right. I said I'd stop, if you agreed to watch my shitty TV show. But if you never got caught up, then..." you shrug. " Your loss, Bob Bob."
He sighs, finally giving in. "Yeah. Okay, I stayed up every single night this week watching hot people fuck each other and then cry about it afterwards. Happy?"
"Very."
He rolls his eyes and puts on his headset like it had any possibility of drowning you out.
"I was being serious about the watch party, by the way."
You hope he doesn't see the anxiety under the sly facade you've got going. You don't 'hang out' with people. You certainly don't invite anyone over...But you asked him on a date that one time (sort of) so...whatever. Call it rejection therapy. He up looks at you from the corner of his eyes.
"Didn't the finale premier already? Who's coming to a watch party for a show that's already over?"
"Um..." you flounder a little, "yknow...Bella?"
"Who's Bella?"
You grimace. "...My cat?"
He snorts. "I'm not much of a cat person. And anyway, two people and a cat do not make a party."
"It totally does. That's three...'people'. Plus I've got snacks?"
He shakes his head and smiles incredulously. "You're impossible."
"I am entirely possible, Robert, I'm standing right fucking here."
He jerks his head towards your desk, "c'mon, we got work to do. Quit procrastinating."
You stick out your bottom lip in a pout. "Fine. Be that way, Bob Bob. You're missin' out though."
You flop down in your seat and allow yourself a disappointed scowl now that he can't see you. Oh, well. It was worth a shot.
At lunch time, you decide to go for a walk. You'd never actually taken the time to look around the building, and you weren't sure you wanted to face Robert in the break room today, given your little blunder earlier. You're not really sure what you're hoping to find. You pass conference rooms, storage closets, people chatting. Sad corporate artwork. The smell of coffee and printer ink and chemical cleaner follow you wherever you go.
You find a stairwell and decide to turn around- but when you do, something warm tingles under the skin of your neck. The taste of caramel spreads over your tongue and gets stuck in your teeth. You look around- you're alone. The door handle almost seems to stare up at you. Beckoning.
Okay, fine.
You take the stairs and follow cinderblock walls upwards to a bright yellow door labelled ROOFTOP ACCESS. You hesitate for a moment, wondering if you're even allowed up here; but tingles spread down your arm, tugging at you. Insisting you go through it. Whatever this is, it's important. You huff a frustrated sigh and do as you're told.
It's an uncharacteristically cool day for Southern California, even in the fall. That is to say, it's comfortably warm instead of blazingly hot. The wind carries the smell of ocean salt and refinery fumes all together. Mostly though, it's quiet. No noisy chatter, no chugging printers, ringing phones. No one making rude comments in your ear or angry customers shouting about what an overpriced scam your help is. No colorful auras bombarding you wherever you look. Maybe spending your lunch up here wouldn't be such a bad idea, you think.
You sit cross-legged on the concrete and gaze over the city with your eyes unfocused and let your mind wander. You think about shitty TV shows and video games. Yesterday's breakfast, and how you want to make it again tomorrow. You think about a dumb joke Robert made yesterday that made you laugh; you can't remember it now. Something about God getting a haircut, you're pretty sure.
And then Robert. Robert and his freckles. Robert and the way he smiles without really smiling, like he's too cool for that sort of thing. Robert and the way he always smells like clean laundry. Robert, shrouded in mauve. Mauve.
You shake your head as if to dispel the thought. What are you, fourteen?
Almost on queue, your phone buzzes from your back pocket: a message from Robert slides up your screen.
R: I got you that soda. wya?
You snort, type out a response:
on the roof. If I jump and break my ankle do you think I'll get worker's comp?
But that doesn't feel right. You backspace, try again:
Sorry, Bob Bob.
Not that either.
I'm busy blowing up a toilet. had shitty tacos last night.
Gross. Maybe not. You shut off your phone and put it away. You'll make up some excuse later.
You dig your hands into the rough stone surface beneath you and wonder why on earth you were supposed to come up here, anyway.
There's a reason for everything, you think.
Lately though, you're not sure you believe that. The directions you've been getting make less and less sense. You were guided into a coffee shop where nothing happened, except you bought an overpriced bagel and maybe the best iced tea you've ever had. Then, you picked up a different flavor of soda from the convenience store than you usually do. The usual one had an 'ominous vibe' about it, but there was nothing in the news about safety recalls or food poisoning as far as you could find. Last week, you had Phenomaman go to the library despite no distress call based on a feeling. Sure, a group of schoolchildren got to take photos with their favorite superhero that day, but...that was it. Phenomaman didn't mind, but it left you and the rest of the team feeling very confused. Frankly it felt like a waste of time.
There had to be a reason for all of this. There had to be, because there always was.
You sit and wait for something to happen. Anything.
...Nothing does.
No one comes barging in through the door. You get no texts. No phone calls. No more signs wiggling uncomfortably under your skin.
What was the fucking point, then?
On a windy Saturday night, about a week later, Robert finds himself out for a walk. He's got no particular destination in mind; he's just not sure how much more shitty TV he can take. Office work may not have been his cup of tea, but hero work is what he lived for. What was a man with no hobbies outside of amateur robotics to do? Socialize? Unheard of. An hour or so later, he ducks into a sleazy looking bar just to escape the wind. It's not particularly cold, but one can only take so much buffeting.
It's nothing special really. Like every other dive bar he's ever been to. He sits for a long, long while. Sips a few too many beers. Way too many. At some point, he gets up to go to the bathroom and decides he's just about had enough when the floor almost comes up to greet him. Clumsily does his business, stumbles outside to go home...
Wait, where is home again?
This street is totally unfamiliar to him. He's either to drunk to get his bearings, or he just flat out did not pay attention to where he was walking. He can't remember. Not even the 'ole reliable maps app on his phone can save him now, because his battery is at exactly five percent. It'll die before he even gets halfway there.
Okay, no big deal. He can shuffle along until he eventually finds his way home. He's been in much worse situations...but then he takes about five steps to the right and feels as if he's been tethered to a pendulum, swung around by a child like a yo-yo, and finally swallows his pride. For the first time in a long time, Robert is going to do the unthinkable:
He's going to call for help.
But who? He goes over a mental checklist in his mind. It's way past midnight, so no hope of getting through to Chase. Even with Blazer's amulet, the old-young-man was passed out by seven pretty much consistently. Mandy was tied with Chase for the most responsible person he could think of, but she didn't have a car. He gives up wracking his brain and goes to his phone for help.
Oracle/SDN sits at the top of his messages. What the hell, he thinks. She seems reliable enough. Maybe she even has a car.
You seem the least likely to give him shit for his situation, anyway. The Z-team would never let him hear the end of it.
He taps your name, hits ‘call,’ and you answer on the first ring like you'd been waiting for him.
“Robert.”
A statement, not a question. You don’t even sound sleepy. He wondered if you always stay up this late.
“....hello?”
He’s standing there like a dumbass. What did he call you for again?
“Robert, are you there?”
“Uh, yeah-” he clears his throat, shuffles his feet. “Sorry. Ummm…god, this is embarrassing.” He scrubs a hand over his face, wondering if this was the moment he was finally going to kiss the concrete. “I’m really…uh, are you busy? Am I bothering you?”
“Not at all. Are you alright? You sound…”
“Drunk?” he finishes for you, “um, yeah. Mostly I’m sorta lost, though. I think I’m too sloshed to get home…”
“I’m on my way.”
“Wait, but I haven’t told you where I am-?”
“No need. My powers, remember?”
“You really are god’s favorite,” he grumbles, mostly to himself.
“Sit down somewhere. And drink water.”
He scoffs. “Okay, mom.”
“Hey, you called me for help. Just trying to make sure you don’t vomit.”
“I handle my alcohol a little better than that. I’m an absolute drinking pro.”
“That… sounds a little like alcoholism to me. That’s none of my business though. Go back inside and sip some water, please. You’re not actually that far from my apartment, so I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
“Yeah. Okay.” he moves to hang up the phone, but you call his name one more time and he stops.
“Robert?”
“Yeah...?”
“Don’t sit next to the man in the green hoodie. I suspect he’s looking for a fight.”
“That might be the most specific premonition you’ve ever had.”
“I’m making an educated guess.”
The line cuts off before he can say anything else, and he goes inside to do as he’s told. He gives the green-clad man a wide berth and stumbles towards a stool closer to the end of the bar, chews on icecubes while he waits.
And then, fifteen minutes later, there you are. Your hair’s pulled back away from your face and he notes that you didn’t bother changing out of your pajamas. You don’t seem to mind the odd looks from other patrons though.
“My hero,” Robert slurs as you approach. “Sorry to bug you like this.”
“It’s not a problem,” you repeat. “I knew this was going to happen.”
“Because I'm the type of person who seems like they have a drinking problem, or because you’re psychic?”
You smile at him in a way that you hope looks more comforting than patronizing, and help him to his feet. “Both?”
He chuckles ruefully, letting you lead him through the crowd and out of the bar. “Fuck me, dude. Maybe I should work on that.”
You pat his shoulder with the most motherly attitude you can muster and do your best to keep him steady; he’s heavier than he looks.
“Where d’you live, anyway? I mean…” he shakes his head. “Sorry. Didn’t mean it like that. ‘M not a creep, promise.”
“I know. It’s alright. It’s just around the corner. Would you like to spend the night with me?”
Robert feels his eyes widen, and the alcohol-fueled blush already warming his face grows a little hotter. “I- s’cuse me?”
You turn to look at him, and it takes you a moment to register the reason for his reaction. “Oh-! Um…not like that.” Now it’s your turn to feel like a creep. “Your apartment is nearly an hour’s walk from here, yes? You’re…heavily inebriated. I predict it will be safer to wait until tomorrow morning to ride the bus home.” You press your lips into a thin line and force yourself to look straight ahead as you walk. “You can rest on my couch. I have extra blankets?”
He relaxes a little at this, but mulls it over for a moment. He’s already humiliated. Passing out drunk on his coworker’s couch isn’t exactly how he imagined spending his Saturday night, and it certainly won’t look good for him in the morning…
But you’re right. That's a two hour walk for you, round trip. If he's trying to avoid inconveniencing you, that's definitely not the way to go. Plus, the drunken part of him reasons, spending the night in a pretty girl’s house doesn’t sound so bad.
He gives in.
“Alright,” he agrees. “I guess I don’t really have a choice. Thank you…’fer offering. That’s nice of you.”
“Good, because we’re already here.” You fish around in your pocket for your keys, and Robert blinks a few times to reorient himself. Had it really been that long already? “And…you’re welcome. But, really, I don’t mind. I’m happy to help a friend.”
“Are we friends?” he blinks dumbly down at you like a fish with amnesia.
You shrug as nonchalantly as you can. “If you wanna be.”
The door swings open to reveal your home, sweet home, and the sight of your living room puts Robert at ease pretty much immediately. It’s way cozier than his own apartment, that’s for sure. It’s cluttered, but not unclean, and warmly lit. There’s a huge stack of blankets on your couch, a candle lit on your coffee table, and the smell of something so delicious it makes his stomach rumble a little.
“Make yourself at home.” You shuffle to take your shoes off, but Robert doesn’t.
He points to your coffee table, “Do you normally leave lit candles unattended? That…doesn’t seem safe.”
“I’m sure I’d receive a sign if my house was to burn down." Your tone is more amused than offended. "Take your shoes off, please.”
He does as he’s told, but he doesn’t relent. “Okay but you have a cat though. Cats are wildly unpredictable. What if it knocks it over or something?”
“Alright,” you huff, “If I promise to blow out my candles from now on, will you let it go?”
“I’m just saying.” He flops down on your couch like he owns the place, sinking deep into the cushions. A more sober him would have been more graceful, more polite. He'd have showed up with a case of your favorite drinks or a bottle of wine. "I'd hate to see your cat on the news because your house burned down. We put out fires, like, every day. I'm just surprised you don't worry about it more."
You emerge from your kitchen with a plate of cheese covered tater-tots, and Robert wonders when you even left to get them. He grabs one without thinking, mumbles a clumsy "thank you" through a mouthful of greasy potato as an afterthought.
"I'm a little offended you're more worried about my cat being on the news than you are about me, but...to be fair I would be too. I'll let it slide."
Robert feels himself cant to one side a bit as you sit next to him, cushions sinking under your weight. He wonders if you're actually sitting that close or if his depth perception is just that fucked up right now. He reaches forward for another tot at the same time as you, clumsily brushes your hand instead. He blushes a little harder, feeling like he's in a shitty romance movie.
"Sorry," he mumbles, avoiding your gaze.
You clear your throat awkwardly. "Um, do you wanna watch a movie? Or...were you about ready to call it for the night?"
Robert looks up at you, more wide-eyed than you've ever seen him. He looks confused, like you've suddenly started speaking in an alien language, and it takes him several seconds to answer.
"No, that...that sounds great." He clears his throat, sits up a little straighter. Or, he tries to; your couch is so large and squashy, he finds it extremely difficult to keep himself upright. He has to squeeze his eyes shut has his vision swims a little, prays he won't have to taste his lunch again. The lights even feel too bright behind his eyelids, and he has to ask you to shut them off.
Distantly, he can hear you rambling about something-about the movie you've chosen...he thinks. Your voice is soothing, even if he doesn't quite have the wherewithal to focus on what you're saying. When he first met you, he thought your tone was a little too flat, a little monotonous. Like a college professor lecturing a class on a subject she couldn't care less about. Right now though, it's smooth and grounding and exactly what he needs.
At once, you become silent.
He glances over at you and finds you chewing on your lip, staring at the floor.
"Um...Sorry. I didn't mean to ramble at you for so long. I just...really like this movie." You look up at him, meet his gaze, swallow thickly. Even in the dim light of the television, his brown eyes are so beautiful. You force yourself to look away and keep babbling like an idiot. "I mean, we can watch something else...! Or we don't have to watch anything at all. I can tell you aren't feeling well." You really aren't very good at this having-guests-stay-over thing, obviously. You suddenly become aware of your breathing, your blinking, and it no longer becomes a subconscious act.
He rubs the back on his neck, feeling a headache coming on. He's not sure what to say. Yes, pretty girl, I'd love to watch a movie with you, is an option. I'm drunk and you're hot, lets fuck, is another. I feel like a steaming hot pile of shit but I'm a guest and I don't want to be rude so yes, lets watch your movie. Instead, he takes too long to answer, and you take his silence (and sickly green aura) as the answer you were looking for.
"I'm sorry. I've been inconsiderate. Let me get you some ice water, and-" you move to get up from the couch, but his warm (if a little sweaty) hand is suddenly on yours, and you freeze. You stare down at it as if a terrifying insect has landed on you and you're afraid it's going to sting you if you move too suddenly. Robert's mouth hangs open, brows upturned, contorted into an expression you're not really sure how to read. Luckily, his aura spells it out for you: It shifts through several colors, becoming a bit muddy in the faint blue light of the TV. Finally it lands on a strange mix of green and red and...
Mauve.
Your stomach drops.
"Wait," he finally speaks, "Um...okay, I'm definitely drunk out of my fucking mind. And you're right, I feel like I might lose my lunch at any minute. But..." He swallows, blinks a few times. "Don't go yet. I'm having a nice time."
You're still staring at him like a deer caught in headlights.
"Please?"
He feels like an idiot. Just so fucking pathetic.
You stare a moment longer, screaming internally at yourself to fucking do something!!!
You nod slowly, still wide-eyed and trying to steady yourself. There's no fucking way you have a drunk Robert Robertson in your apartment, looking at you like that, painted with that color. Are you sure you're awake right now?
Forcing yourself to tear your eyes away from him, you chuckle awkwardly. "Me too," you finally say. "Circumstances aside...I'm glad you're here."
"Me, too," he echoes. His voice is low, gravelly, and nothing like the way he sounds over your headset at work. If he really does feel sick, he doesn't sound like it at all. He sounds...well. You know the word, but you can't bear to think about that right now.
Slowly, almost reluctantly, you sit back down. You stay perched on the edge of the couch, afraid to get too comfortable. Your eyes fall on the remote, lying on the coffee table beside the forgotten tater-tots. What movie were you even going to watch, again? What were you talking about before?
Robert shifts beside you and you feel your heartbeat thundering in your ears. Whatever you think is happening, is so not happening. You're letting your stupid crush get the better of you. You're about to watch a movie with your friend, and that's it.
You swallow again.
"So," you manage to croak out, "have you...seen this one before?"
"No, I haven't."
"Yeah, I guess it is a little bit niche. And I'll admit, it can be a little confusing at some parts. But I've watched it, like, a thousand times. And I've seen all the director's commentary, so if you have any questions..." you trail off.
You can feel his eyes on you, and you want to turn to ask if he's okay. Maybe he's still too sick to talk. It takes the strength of an army, but you finally bring yourself to do it- and immediately regret it.
The red's gone. The green is still there, but it's been completely overtaken by mauve.
The seasick feeling in your stomach is back. You grip the couch cushion to steady yourself as you look at his face, properly this time, and feel like you might actually fall overboard.
You laugh. You can't help it. You wipe your sweaty palms on your pants and resist the urge to ask him why the fuck he's staring at you like that. Why he's looking at you through half-lidded, kind eyes, lips parted. You want to ask who the fuck gave him the right to look so beautiful with his face half in shadows, cheekbones and nose sharpened by the dim light's whetstone. It's not fair. It's not fair.
"What's so funny?"
You take a deep breath, open your mouth to speak. Another shaky laugh falls out instead of words. When did he get so close to you? Is he...leaning forward? His eyes travel across your face and you feel yourself burning to a crisp under his gaze.
God.
Is this really happening? Are you really, seriously about to kiss your fucking boss?
You wait for a sign. Something, anything, that this is real. Still, the universe ignores your pleas for help. You're alone in this.
"Robert," you breathe, his face just inches from yours now.
"Yeah?" his voice is barely above a whisper.
"You're drunk." Your voice is trembling.
"Indeed. Thank you for noticing."
You swallow again, wondering how the human body is capable of producing so much saliva.
"This isn't real," you whisper, mostly to yourself. He falters a little, and guilt washes over you. Fuck.
He licks his lips and brings his eyes up to yours slowly, like it takes great effort. "Do you...do you want me to stop?"
"I..." you don't know what to say. Of course you want this. Of course. You've only thought about it every single fucking day since that Friday night almost four months ago. You've never allowed yourself to fantasize about it. You cannot accept that this is a possibility, because you've never forseen this. Nothing points to this ending well for you. There is nothing even nudging you in this direction.
And yet.
"I don't...we can't. Not like this." You're having trouble filling your lungs properly. The air feels thick and slimy, like you're trying to inhale amniotic fluid. It's almost painful.
He only looks at you this way when he's drunk. It's not real. He doesn't actually like you. It's just the alcohol. It has to be.
Robert's expression freezes, becomes almost stony.
"I'm sorry." You stand up and look anywhere but at him. "I think I'm going to bed." It takes great effort to keep your voice even. "Do you need anything?"
He doesn't look at you. He just shakes his head.
"Okay. Well...help yourself if you get hungry or thirsty. Um..." the teenage girl in the back of your head wails, and it takes every ounce of willpower within you to force yourself to turn towards your bedroom. "Goodnight."
"'night," he echoes back. He watches you stalk down the hallway, feeling like his stomach has filled with rocks.
You're an idiot, Robert.
He lets himself fall backwards into the pile of blankets, and doesn't even turn off the TV before he closes his eyes.