Chapter Text
It starts with a shiver, the spewing. Like he can feel the water rising inside him, ready to burst free, but the more he tries to suppress it, the faster it comes. The more water there is, surging past his lips like vomit.
In high school, every test, he flooded his desk. Every CV he‘s ever handed in has been sopping wet and barely legible. Nobody liked to play with him in kindergarten, but he’s over that, he‘s pretty sure. Still being hung up on that, well, that‘d just be sad.
He‘s fine being a janitor, Herman thinks. It‘s something he‘s good at. He likes cleaning and how he doesn’t need to talk to people to do it, the simple mindlessness of polishing a dirty window to a shine again. It’s not even boring, either; with all those heroes confined to such a small place, there’s always something to do. Not just spills and dust, but clay and ectoplasm and all sorts of interdimensional clutter.
Some people simply weren‘t meant to be heroes. Not everyone has powers well-suited to the task. Cleaning up stuff, well, that‘s something he can do. That‘s something for him.
And then suddenly, he‘s on the team. And everything‘s different.
The choice between Phenomaman and Waterboy should have been easy, on paper. Even depressed, Phenomaman is the size of a truck, taking to heroics like, well, a fish takes to water. He‘s the hero, probably, because Blazer being a woman disqualifies her in many people‘s eyes. If you looked up the word hero in the dictionary, Phenomaman‘s face will be there, broad grin under that ridiculously thick moustache. They make underwear with his face on it; they make Phenomaman plushies. They make body pillows, although unlicensed ones, and lots of other stuff that's unlicensed, too. There‘s no Mecha Man dong replica dildo. He‘s never been even half the hero Phenomaman is.
So, even down in the dumps, there‘s still incredible value in hiring the guy, just from notoriety alone; when villains see Phenomaman come flying, they bolt, even if the guy isn‘t exactly in the mood to fight. If civilians see Phenomaman‘s there to rescue them, they‘ll feel reassured even if the bags under his eye look as if he‘s not slept a day in his life.
It‘s a pretty easy decision, all things considered.
Except, Robert sort of has a soft spot for losers. It’s a mean thing to think, maybe, but it‘s also true: in the same dictionary, that’s where Herman‘s picture‘d be. Not that that‘s a bad thing, being a loser. Robert himself is a loser: suit broken, stuck at a desk job far away from the action. He‘s only had three coffees and a Twinkie today. That‘s loser behavior.
But regardless of his personal opinions, choosing Waterboy, it just wouldn’t make sense. No matter which way he slices it, Phenomaman is the objectively correct choice.
Except, when Blazer looks at him, and she asks who‘ll join the team, Robert isn‘t thinking about all of that, about value and efficiency and all the shit that‘s supposed to be part of his job. He‘s thinking about Waterboy and those sopping wet eyes, that goofy tie, and the fact that the kid might never get a chance otherwise. That Phenomaman, he‘ll be fine. He’s at the top of the leaderboards; the guy will be back on A-Team soon enough. He‘s depressed right now, sure, but there‘ll always be a place for capital H Heroes like him. He‘s not a loser, just going through a rough patch. Waterboy is a loser. And Z-Team, well, it‘s a team of losers dispatched by a loser. He‘ll keep it that way.
"I‘ll take Waterboy," Robert says, and somehow, Blazer does not look nearly as surprised as he thought she‘d be.
When Blazer came over to tell him, Herman thought he was fired. That he fucked up somewhere, that people have been complaining about him. Every single person in HQ, all uniting to file a formal complaint because they keep slipping on his puddles, because they hate his face, the squeaky noises his suit always makes.
Then, he thought she was joking, that it was all some sort of prank, but the laughter, it didn't come, and Blazer didn't seem the type to make cruel jokes like that, and—Oh my god—what if she wasn‘t joking, what if it were all real? What if he‘s genuinely been invited to join the team, and they actually want him?
He almost said no. Being a hero is the thing he‘s dreamt about since he was a little kid nervously coughing up water in math class, desperately wishing there was something good that came with this, that it wasn‘t all trouble and everybody looking at him like he’ll forever be stuck on the other side of a glass wall. Still, he almost said no. Because then, there was the fear. What if he didn‘t do a good job, making everyone regret ever giving him a chance in the first place? What if it turns out that this thing he‘s always wanted, he‘s just not good at it? Isn‘t it better not to know, to at least keep the fantasy intact?
But it‘s Robert‘s team, and Robert has always been kind to him. And if Robert believes in him—if Mecha Man‘s on his side—then maybe, just maybe, he should at least try. Maybe, there’s finally a place for him on that other side, the door swung wide open for the very first time.
Herman spends the next ten minutes nervously throwing up in the bathroom. He still needs to finish cleaning up the noodles, too.
Of course, Robert dispatches him to a flood. He sends the guy whose power is creating water to handle a situation where there‘s already way, way too much water. It’s like sending Visi to handle a shift at daycare. Like sending Punch-Up to calm down a barfight in a British pub.
Admittedly, he‘d been running low on heroes, so he‘d seen the word water and acted without thinking, but he should be better than that, has to be better than that. At least the actual flood, now twice as strong, is relatively easily dealt with. Robert‘s viciously mocked about his decision—what else is new—but, comms abuzz with laughter, Flambae and Golem quickly move in to pick up the slack, and the rest of the shift goes by relatively smoothly—not that there‘s much of a shift left.
One voice has gone quiet, though. And Robert knows already that he’ll need to do something about this quickly, before bad turns to worse.
He was supposed to protect Waterboy. He was supposed to make certain this exact thing would not happen.
Water everywhere, people screaming at him, begging for help. The spewing that wouldn‘t stop, because the more he tried to make it, the more water would come out, adding to the torrent washing away everything in its path. When the real heroes came to finally fix the mess he‘d only made worse, sending him home like a scolded child, laughing all the while, the only good thing was that you could not tell his tears from the rain.
Herman spends the time after he returns from the call hunched over the drain in the street behind HQ, nervously spitting up water, terrified of the moment he‘s dispatched again. He isn‘t.
There‘s something strangely soothing in having his worst fears confirmed. Not everyone‘s meant to be a hero. It‘s good that he kept the bucket and mop.
To find Waterboy, all one ever needs to do is follow the puddles. Almost like a snail—though Robert feels bad about the comparison the second he thinks it up—the hero leaves a damp trail wherever he goes, droplets of water on everything that he touches.
It‘s not his fault. The kid can‘t control it. Some powers simply come with big drawbacks; It‘s why Robert‘s never felt particularly bad about being a Normie, as Flambae calls it. Hell, Waterboy doesn‘t even have it the worst. There are rumors about some poor guy who apparently shoots laser beams from his eyes at random, which has to be an incredible pain in the ass to deal with on a daily basis. Imagine trying to eat lunch and all of a sudden there‘s a new hole in your Twinkie.
The cringe-inducing sound of rubber squeaking against rubber lets Robert know he‘s on the right track, and sure enough, once he rounds a corner, there he is, Waterboy, looking like the most miserable person on earth as he frantically scrubs the floor with a mop.
Arms crossed, Robert leans against the wall; then, remembering this might send a negative signal, uncrosses them again, sort of awkwardly shoving his hands into his pockets instead. Probably overkill, but with the way the kid has reacted in the past, the more Robert can put him at ease, the better.
His worries turn out not completely unfounded; when he clears his throat, Waterboy startles, mop slipping from his hand and clattering to the ground. Then, as he turns, the poor guy slips in his own puddle, toppling over the bucket as he goes down hard on his tailbone, dirty mop water spilling everywhere across the freshly cleaned floor.
Robert winces in sympathy. It‘s like some sort of slapstick cartoon come to life; if he hadn‘t seen it with his own eyes, he wouldn‘t believe one guy could be so profoundly unlucky. As far as disasters go, at least this is a minor one, though the members of Z-Team would undoubtedly never let Waterboy live such an incident down. Robert would tell them to go easy on the kid if he didn‘t know that‘d lead to the exact opposite treatment.
When Robert offers Waterboy a hand, he stares at it incredulously for a few moments before finally scrambling to take it and letting himself be pulled to his feet. Now, standing again, he‘s giant, and in the few seconds before the hunch makes his size more reasonable again, Robert actually finds himself sort of awed.
"R-Robert, Sir!" Waterboy rushes to say, tripping over the syllables, and the spell is broken again.
"You don‘t need to call me that. Makes me feel old."
"S-Sorry, Sir. I mean, sorry, boss?"
Robert tilts his head, a bemused smile curling the corners of his lips upwards.
"Just Robert is fine. No need for anything else." He nods towards the overturned bucket, the slowly spreading puddle. "You got any towels for that?"
"Right, F-Fuck. I mean, damn."
The poor guy‘s face is red already; Robert can’t help but let out a chuckle, though he does feel the tiniest bit bad about it.
"You can say fuck. Invisigal says a lot worse stuff than that every time she opens her mouth."
"T-Thanks for letting me know. I just wasn‘t sure if maybe…you‘d get mad or something, I don‘t know. I‘ll g-go grab towels."
Shoes rubber-squeak against tile, and Waterboy is gone again, miraculously not going down this time; when Robert goes to follow, he almost slips on the sudsy puddle himself, and opts to stay put. His body has already been through enough lately; no need to add a broken tailbone to the equation. Also, there‘s a nonzero chance Invisigal‘s watching, and she‘d never respect him again after she sees him landing straight on his ass.
Only minutes later, Waterboy is back—actually running, half-skidding across the floor, and this time it really is a miracle he doesn‘t fall again.
Instinctively, Robert throws his arms open to catch him, that hero instinct still in his bones, but Waterboy comes to a halt before they ever touch. The kid drops to his knees in a way that makes Robert wince for his joints; for his part, he lowers himself slowly and carefully, which, now that he thinks about it, Invisigal would also make fun of. Though probably, she‘d also find a way to mock him for breathing wrong, so that‘s no way to live.
Robert reaches his hand out. "Give me one of those."
"Huh?" Waterboy turns with a startle, more frightened animal than anything else.
"A towel. Give me one of those towels?"
Waterboy glances down at the whole stack he‘s brought—backups, Robert assumes—then up at Robert again. The semi-permanent blush on his cheek deepens.
"B-But…I‘m the one who made the m-mess. You don‘t have to…I‘ll d-do it myself."
Robert tilts his head expectantly. His hand remains outstretched. "But if I help you, we‘ll finish much faster."
Waterboy just stares. Pupils flitting downwards, then upwards again, as if he‘s not quite able to make the connection—then, all at once, pink turns to crimson. Almost as if in a rush, Waterboy turns away again, the words ‘It‘s fine’ muttered under his breath, his ears beet-red.
Robert decides to simply help himself to a towel, and Waterboy makes no move to stop him; side by side, they work on their task in a silence that turns from awkward to pleasant surprisingly quickly. Absorbed in the simple rhythm of soaking the towel then wringing it out, Waterboy almost seems to forget about being embarrassed, and watching him work, doing the same thing, Robert understands why the kid took this job in the first place: there‘s something soothing about it, the repetitive movements, the nice and simple work. Where there was a puddle, now there is none; a nice, immediately evident, positive impact. It reminds him a little of his time as Mecha-Man, strangely enough. Most of the things heroes end up doing are cleaning up a mess of some kind anyway.
"Are you still being paid for this?" Robert asks, and, pleasantly enough, Waterboy doesn‘t startle, though he still can‘t quite meet Robert's eye.
"N-No. They made clear they weren‘t gonna…do that anymore when I changed positions."
Robert, mid-wring, stops.
"Then why are you still going around with a bucket and mop?" he asks, incredulous.
Waterboy rubs his neck. "Well, I…I sorta assumed I‘d be one again. Because…you know." A wince, as if no explanation is needed.
"No, I don‘t know," Robert says. He lets the towel fall, because fuck the puddle. The puddle doesn‘t matter right now. "Is this because of what happened during the call?"
Waterboy bites his bottom lip. Though Robert can only see him in profile, he looks, for all the world, like a kicked puppy—no, like a puppy who‘s been kicked and then drowned. A drowned, kicked puppy, who‘s never been fed anything but scraps in his life. Jesus, Robert thinks. Did he really think we would boot him for this?
Of course he did. Because it‘s Waterboy, who has about as much self-confidence as a fucking crouton. And Robert knew exactly what he was getting into the moment he chose him for the team, the kind of responsibility that came with it.
So, he suppresses a sigh—bad idea in this situation—and tries to organize his facial features in the most reassuring manner he‘s capable of.
"That‘s actually what I was going to talk to you about, Waterboy. What happened today was on me. You did nothing wrong, you hear me? I‘m the one who fucked up. I sent you into a situation that didn‘t suit your skillset, and I‘m sorry for that. It‘s like sending Flambae to save a toddler from the middle of an oil field. It‘s my job to make sure stuff like that didn‘t happen, but I let you down. I‘m sorry your first experience has to be so negative, but I can promise you I won‘t make this mistake again."
Waterboy hasn‘t moved. He‘s still staring at the floor as if he can divine some sort of meaning from the last few damp patches left behind.
"D-don’t apologize. I made everything w-worse. It‘s good you didn‘t send me out again. I would have m-messed up again."
And there it is, Robert‘s big fuck-up. He didn‘t only send Waterboy to the wrong call, he also gave him no opportunity to try again. Inwardly, Robert curses himself. The most insecure member of Z-Team, and he‘s made the poor guy‘s first day as awful as it could‘ve possibly been.
"It wasn‘t on purpose. I wouldn‘t do that to you. The calls just weren‘t a good fit for your skill set."
It‘s the noise that Waterboy makes that hurts more than anything, a pained sort of half-laugh. As if he never even expected any different. As if there was no other way for this to go.
"I don‘t think any calls are. I mean, w-what use is there to spitting up water?"
Waterboy goes to wipe his eyes with his arm, seemingly having forgotten about his goggles. A sickening squeak as the rubber scrapes over plastic, making Robert wince; his hopes that Waterboy didn‘t notice are squashed as the hero‘s face sinks down on his palms in shame. The tips of his ears are already bright pink. Robert suppresses the desire to reach over and squeeze him—for someone like Waterboy, that might feel like a threat on his life. So, he settles on a hand on the shoulder instead, a gesture he hopes to be sufficiently comforting without crossing any lines. When the hero doesn‘t flinch from his touch, Robert decides that now, probably, it‘s about as good a time as any to get started on the pep talk.
"Waterboy, listen to me. I chose you for the team for a reason. Because I know you‘ve got it in you. Who do you think is the first guy we‘ll call to deal with a fire? I mean fuck, we‘ve got Flambae on the team. Something‘s bound to catch sooner rather than later, and then we‘ll be thanking the stars that we got you."
Silence. Somewhere down the hall, someone is humming a tune. Robert is just about to retreat, to give the guy some space and hope for the best, when something strange happens: Waterboy looks at him. Finally, actually looks at him.
Slowly, Waterboy lifts up his goggles, and without the blur of them, his eyes are strikingly blue. Like the ocean, but the way it‘s shown on postcards; that kind of almost too beautiful blue that warps back around to registering as fake to your mind.
Pretty, Robert thinks, and the thought is as unexpected as it is unwelcome. This kid‘s way too young. Some washed-up former hero lusting after him is the last thing he needs.
"It‘s…Herman," Waterboy—Herman says, after a few moments, his voice barely above a whisper. "My name. I thought maybe s-saying Waterboy over and over again might be annoying to you. So if you w-want something shorter, that‘s it."
And Robert, he smiles.
"Alright. Herman. That‘s a nice name." He‘s not lying. It is a nice name. It somehow fits perfectly, though Robert wouldn‘t have guessed it if they‘d given him a billion tries.
"T-thank you."
Robert gives Herman‘s shoulder a slippery squeeze, wetsuit squelching.
"I just need you to trust in yourself. Can you do that, Herman? Because I trust in you."
A ripple in the dazzling blue of those eyes. Something so hopeful it makes Robert’s chest hurt a little, because why is the kid looking at him like this? As if he’s the first person to ever believe in him. Fuck, Robert realizes with a sickening lurch. Maybe he is.
"I can try," Herman says, and this time, there’s no stutter, the words coming out nice and smooth. We can work with this, Robert thinks. We can definitely work with this.
"Great," he says, feeling his smile widening. And Herman, he actually smiles back. It‘s a nice smile, all teeth.
And Robert realizes that if he doesn‘t choke out this feeling bubbling up inside him at the start, it‘s going to turn into something more, which is not good at all. The heart may want what it wants, but he can't drag someone this kind into the wreckage he's made of his life. Someone this innocent.
Just friends. They'll just be friends.
Robert squeezes again.
It‘s disgusting, he‘s disgusting. But nobody‘s taken away his janitorial key. So, palms even sweatier than usual, Waterboy slides open the door to the laundry room, though not before fumbling the lock the first three attempts.
The light flicks on, bathing the cramped room in a sterile blue. It's staff-only, intended for emergency overnight shifts, though most people just drop off their laundry here so they don‘t have to pay at a laundromat or run their own machine. Things always come out smelling a little bit funky, but it‘s free, and since everybody does it, nobody will rat you out. Most days, even a few hero suits rattle around in the dryers.
Now, though, it‘s abandoned, nothing but the hum of the machines for company. All janitorial staff have gone home—except for him, though he‘s no longer officially on payroll—so Herman shouldn‘t feel as scared as he does, as if any second the door will swing open even though he has locked it. Nobody is still in the building who has a key.
Robert is a creature of habit. He makes his coffee the exact same way each time, always buys the same snacks on his break. Always chooses the same machine to dry his laundry, the one in the corner. Today, he forgot to take his clothes home. Today, Herman is about to do something awful.
He kneels there as if in confession, shame burning hot on his cheeks. Before opening the dryer, he glances towards the door again, just to make sure. Then, three seconds later, another look, just to make sure sure. No steps approaching, no key turning in the lock. Herman is all alone, with that sickly feeling inside, guilt like a serpent coiled up in his stomach.
It‘s not enough to stop him.
The dryer swings open, waft of stale air on his face, and Herman goes to reach inside, then hesitates. One last glance towards the door—still locked, of course it‘s still locked—and, using his teeth, he slips off his gloves. First the right one, then the left one, both sweat-damp and clammy. But if he put the clothes through the wash again, how would anyone know? If he waits until the dryer has run its course again, all evidence of his crime erased. He‘ll delete the files from the surveillance camera. Nobody needs to know he was ever there. Nobody will know. Especially not Robert.
Herman reaches inside, the fabric warm and soft against his damp skin, and when he pulls out the first thing he gets a grip on, lets the bundled garment unravel, something floods deep inside. He almost chokes on the water trying to spill past his lips; he‘s doubled over, spewing off to the side, holding the cloth far away and safe from any stray droplets. And every time it seems as if the torrent might just die down, Herman looks back at what he‘s got in his hands, and another fountain of water comes rushing up.
How long it takes him to settle, he isn‘t quite sure. But it does get better, bit by bit. Eventually, he‘s even able to look at it, though his vision‘s long gone blurry with tears, everything watercolor smudged.
In his hands: Boxer‘s, plain black. The elastic all worn out, small hole where the stitching’s torn loose. Beautiful because they‘re Robert‘s, imbued with magic just through his touch.
In his head: The memory of Robert, calling him kid, looking into his eyes with such trust; the rise of something undiscovered inside him, slow like the tide.
Herman swallows, throat uncharacteristically dry, and before he can change his mind, before he can second-guess things, he lifts the boxers to his face, inhales deep. The smell is pure heaven. Rich and musky, utterly Robert. Any last bit of resistance drops away, every coherent thought gone straight down the drain. Just Robert now, the scent of him, and Herman‘s hand moving on its own, pulling down his zipper, fumbling out his cock. The smell, overwhelming, as if Robert‘s right there, right next to him, hand on his shoulder, encouraging smile on his lips. It‘s no longer his own hand wrapped around him; it‘s Robert‘s, scarred and callused, the hand of a hero, the hand that righted his tie.
Robert, Herman whimpers, vision gone blurry with shame. Robert, Robert, Robert.
Robert‘s hands, Robert‘s eyes, Robert‘s smile. Robert‘s freckles. The way he’d looked at Herman, as if there were still hope for him. The next moan comes out as a half-sob, Herman’s tongue pressed down against fabric. Tastes like Robert, too, but how could he know? Except somehow, he does: knows exactly the taste of Robert’s clit as it swells against his tongue, the sweet drip of his arousal, the pitch and timbre of that lovely voice as he begs for more. Relief only one person can grant him, because only one person could ever know him this way. Someone who replaces the Twinkies in the vending machine every day so they’re fresh, who always makes sure they keep the right flavor of beans in the coffee machine. He’ll do so much better from now on. Now that Robert trusts him.
A shiver runs up Herman’s back, achingly familiar, though it’s not water that rises in his throat. Nothing but saliva, turning the fabric damp where he’s now stuffed it into his mouth entirely, halfway hoping he’ll choke.
What if Robert came in now, what if he saw? And why does that thought turn him on more than anything, beautiful brown eyes narrowing in disgust, perfect lips curling into a sneer. Robert’s hands, curling into fists, and the thought of his knuckles crushing Herman’s nose, easy as a candy wrapper. Calling him pathetic, repulsive, and, oh God, he is.
A disgusting, awful creep, doing this to someone who‘s only ever been kind to him—has been far kinder than he deserves, if anything—but he can‘t stop himself, can‘t stop chasing the high, the crest of the wave that‘s been surging up inside him—like the water, but good. The shame is still there, but finally, there’s something to surpass it. Desire, more violent than every flood that came before.
Robert Robert Robert, no longer even a name, more noise than anything. A prayer to someone who‘d hate him if he knew what was happening, how thoroughly he’s been betrayed. Herman will never be able to look at his face again without all this shame bubbling up; will never talk to him without the fear that his treachery will bleed through the waver to his voice.
It’s not enough to be near Robert, to breathe in his scent, taste him; he wants to become the very blood rushing through his veins, the liquid that keeps him alive. Wants to touch Robert’s heart and keep it pumping. Whenever he’ll take his pulse, he’ll hear it there, Herman’s confession: 'I love you' in steady, even pumps.
A cry muffled by cloth, rising over the hum of machinery; cum spilling on tiles white as teeth. When Herman finally pulls the boxers away, they‘re soaking wet. Spit and tears and water.
With an awfully cute doggy sigh, Beef rolls onto his back so Robert can scratch his tummy better. Greedy beast.
"What are you sighing for, little guy? You got such a hard life? Getting fed and pampered every single day has to be so exhausting."
Almost as if in acquiescence, Beef sneezes, spraying little particles of snot all over Robert’s face. It’s Beef, though, so it's still cute.
"Gross," Robert laughs, wiping his face with his shirt. He rolls on his back, too, hand still absentmindedly scratching Beef’s stomach, just where he likes it. Both of them lying next to each other on the apartment floor, though it’s pathetic for only one. There’s a damp spot on the ceiling that Robert didn’t know was even there; if he closes his eyes, he can pretend he still doesn’t.
"Oh, Beef," he sighs, "What do I do? He’s so young. He’s too young for me. And I’m his boss. I shouldn’t even be thinking this way."
With a groan, Robert drapes his free arm across his face.
"I’m a pervert, Beef. I’m sorry your dad’s such a pervert."
Beef doesn’t answer because he’s a dog. If he could talk, though, Robert thinks, he’d tell him to absolutely not act on his feelings, to nip this whole thing in the bud before it turns into a gigantic nightmare—or more of a nightmare than it already is, at least. Maybe he could get Waterboy transferred to another team. Maybe he can package it in such a way that it won’t break the poor kid’s spirit any further.
Also, Beef would tell him to buy more food. As if the vet hasn’t already put him on a diet.
Robert lets out a frustrated groan, and he thinks about Herman’s postcard-blue eyes, the way he towers over Robert even while hunched over. The bulge of that skin-tight wetsuit. Fuck.
"You're right, Beef," Robert says with a sigh. "You’re absolutely right."