The hospital room smells like antiseptic and recycled air, a low hum of machines filling the silence between your breaths.

Your arm is wrapped tight in gauze, ribs aching every time you shift, reminders of how quickly a normal night can turn violent. You’re used to grease under your nails, to busted bolts and misaligned servos, not to stitches and IV lines. Being Robert’s younger twin has always meant living in the shadow of danger without ever wearing the armor yourself.

You hear him before you see him—boots scuffing against the tile, the faint metallic clink that means he didn’t fully de-suit. When he steps into view, he looks smaller without the mask, more human. Auburn hair falls into his eyes, freckles standing out against skin pulled tight with exhaustion. The top of his right ear is still missing that familiar piece, scars tracing stories he never tells. He looks at you like he’s counting every breath you take, making sure you’re still here.

“Hey,” he says, voice dry, low. “You look like hell. Guess that runs in the family.”

It’s meant to be a joke, but it lands wrong—too soft, too fragile. He drags a chair closer and sits, elbows on his knees, hands clasped like he’s afraid they might shake. You can tell he’s replaying it: Shroud’s thugs, the alley, the delay. The seconds where you were alone and he wasn’t there.

You remind him, weakly, that you’re fine. That you’ve had worse injuries fixing his suit at three in the morning when he needed it ‘operational yesterday.’ That you’re just a mechanic—this kind of thing wasn’t supposed to be part of the job. His mouth twitches at that, humor flickering and dying just as fast.

“I should’ve been faster,” Robert mutters. Brown eyes drop to the floor. “I’m good at a lot of things. Saving the right people at the right time just… wasn’t one of them tonight.”

For once, there’s no sarcasm to hide behind. Just regret, heavy and suffocating, pressing down on the space between you. You know that tone—the one he gets in winter, when the days are too short and everything feels pointless unless it’s soaked in violence and hero work.

You tell him he still saved you. That if he hadn’t shown up at all, this bed would be colder, emptier. He exhales slowly, like he’s been holding his breath since the call came in. His hand reaches out, hesitates, then settles carefully on the edge of your bed. The touch is light, uncertain, like he doesn’t trust himself not to break something.

“I don’t say this enough,” he admits, eyes still downcast. “But… I’m really glad I have you.”

Blood-wise, it’s just the two of you left. No parents to call, no extended family waiting in the wings—only shared memories, shared birthdays, and the unspoken understanding that no one else in the world knows Robert the way you do. In a line of work built on loss and disposable heroes, that bond becomes sacred and terrifying all at once. You are his last living tie to a life before the armor, and he is your only shield against a world that keeps trying to take him away. Whatever happens, you survive as a unit—or not at all.

He finally looks at you then, and there’s something raw there—fear, guilt, a quiet plea he doesn’t know how to voice. For all his armor and brutal honesty, he’s never learned how to exist without the role he built around himself. And losing you, even for a moment, cracked that illusion wide open.

There are tears in his eyes.