Chapter Text
"I meant what I said, you know."
The car ride to the police station isn't exactly silent, with other police cars and ambulances passing them by to the various parts of the city, the cacophony of noises only slightly drowned out by the closed windows and the partition. Every other turn the car takes leads to a dead end, blocked by the rubble of collapsed buildings or remnants of still-burning fires. Heroes and public service workers alike are hard at work to put the city somewhat back in shape, but it's a work in progress.
Robert is looking out the cracked window of the police car, watching the flames lick at the broken pavement just as a firefighter attacks it with a bright red hose, so he almost misses the tired sound his companion in the backseat lets out in response.
"The fuck are you talking about?"
It's hard to divert his gaze from the ruins outside, even if the polite conversation etiquette demands that he make eye contact with the person he's talking to. Robert has never been one to care about the unspoken rules of proper social interactions, but there's more to it than just rebelling against having manners.
Logically, he knows he's not personally responsible for the havoc wreaked by the team member he had to cut off from Z-Team, which feels like months ago. He didn't want to do it, and even argued with Blazer over it for days, but in the end, he could only postpone the inevitable for so long. When the higher ups threatened to shut down the program for good, he knew it was his responsibility to put the well-being of his team over one singular member.
It was still his hands that cut the final cord, he reasons with the objective side of his brain. Just like it was his blade that cut off Flambae's fingers long ago amidst rising flames and floating ash.
So if he can't look at him in the face now, it's not because of some misplaced anger or resentment over the fight they had earlier that night.
It's guilt; the weight of his failure pushing down on his chest just like the broken plates of his powered-down suit had done right before it became his temporary coffin.
Although, following down that line of logic, the man he let down deserves to look his ex-mentor in the eye as they have this long-awaited confrontation, minus the fight to the death part. So Robert finds it in himself to turn around to face him, and repeat what he had said as they danced in the sky, surrounded by clouds that lit up every other second by either electric power blasts or pure, unadulterated, raging fire.
"I was sorry. I am sorry. I knew this would happen when I cut you off the team, that you'd have no choice but to turn back to crime, but the entire program was on the line, and— Sorry."
Robert rubs his face with a dirty, aching hand, reopening some cuts and scrapes in the process. Some blood gets smudged on the corner of his mouth, up to his cheek where the ear meets the line of his jaw, but he finds that he doesn't care. He knows he looks a right mess. They all do, after what has transpired.
"That doesn't matter now. What I'm trying to say is… I'm sorry that it had to be you. I failed you when I signed that paper, and that's on me."
If he expects a weight to be lifted off his chest after the confession, well. He's about to be disappointed. Maybe it's the decreased lung capacity making it difficult for him to breathe freely after one too many puffs of smoke inhaled. Maybe it's the broken ribs digging into his internal organs from both sides of his ribcage.
Maybe it's the blank look he gets from Flambae once the words leave his mouth, the ever-present light in his eyes dimmed to a low glow, tired lines all around his face making him look ages older than he should.
Robert doesn't expect a quick forgiveness, nor does he think he deserves to have it, but the sight of his shortcomings laid out before his eyes so raw and honest makes a semi-permanent lump get stuck in the middle of his throat. It's not an ideal day for easy breathing, it seems.
Robert swallows around his guilt, prepared to end the conversation right then and there, but Flambae beats him to it.
"Figures you'd be the one to apologize when I almost singed your face off the battlefield for good."
A humourless chuckle finds its way out of Robert's chest at that. The irony of the situation doesn't escape him now that it's pointed out, but. Sue him. When he takes on a responsibility, he prefers to follow it to the end.
It's the reason why he's sitting in the back of a police car now, with his ex-mentee turned villain turned hero once again, on their way to the police station to sign his probation papers so that he can work with the team again instead of rotting away in a cell.
"I… don't like being indebted," Flambae says after a few minutes of not uncomfortable silence. Robert raises both eyebrows at that, but now Flambae is the one avoiding eye contact.
Robert's ready to argue that the team's dispatcher righting his wrongs doesn't mean Flambae has to repay him, but when he raises his eyes again to tell him that, words die on his tongue as quickly as they came to be in the first place.
Shoulders hunched and head bowed to his chest, Flambae looks nothing like the towering, confident man he met at the start of everything.
This needs a different approach, that much is obvious. But a dispatcher is no good if he can't adapt to the needs of his team members, so Robert is quick to come up with a solution.
"Come with me to the villain bar," Robert offers, playfully elbowing him on the side. It probably hurts him more than it does Flambae, but it's the thought that counts.
"Last time I was there, we had a whole fight break out. Clearly, I need an escort." Robert continues, secretly revelling at the disbelieving expression forming on Flambae's face. It's the first indication of any human emotion he's seen from the man since they got into the car, so he absolutely counts it as a win.
Flambae takes some time to recover, but Robert finally feels the proverbial rubble of metal shift its weight off his chest a little at the small smile fighting its way on Flambae's lips.
"You're out of your mind."
Well, it's not a no.
Robert feels his face mirror the expression of relief he was just on the receiving end of as he turns to his side to watch the window.
Then the realization hits him square in the chest, forcing out a laugh loud enough that he feels Flambae's surprise despite the space between their bodies and having turned his back on him moments ago.
"I just realized that this is the first conversation we had in which you didn't call me a bitch. Not even once," Robert says in between heaves of laughter.
Flambae groans next to him like a dying man, probably reconsidering all his life choices that ended with him having to suffer the rumblings of a man having an adrenaline crash after hours of fighting.
"Don't get used to it." He mutters in response.
Robert doesn't need to look up to know that he's still smiling.
He counts it as another win.