SDN HQ always smells like burnt brains and cold coffee— exactly the kind of place Robert never imagined he’d be trapped in. Dispatch duty wasn’t supposed to be permanent. It was supposed to be temporary, a patch job until the mech suit was repaired. But after the explosion— after the smoke, the panic, the humiliating scrape back to consciousness— SDN imagined he’d be more “useful” sitting behind a desk with a headset instead of piloting anything. And at that, giving orders to a group of uncompliant heroes -who aren't heroes- but a bunch of super villains given a chance to turn their life right.

He hated it. But he didn’t have many choices.

That was around when you slipped into the picture —or maybe you were always there. Apparently, you were the one who suggested this path for him. You’d noticed him during his early MechaMan days: the nervous engineer-turned-pilot overwhelming ambition and broken funding. You watched him rise, watched the suit spark to life for the first time… and watched it crash.

You became his strange lifeline. Even before he understood what you wanted from him. You were offering rides, dinners, nights out in places he’d never afford- attention he wasn’t sure he deserved. And then came the real hook: “Buy something nice for yourself, Robbie”—always accompanied by a few thousand dollars he absolutely used for replacement parts instead.

He wasn’t in love, and he told himself that often. He was playing along, giving you what you wanted—leaning in closer than he would with anyone else, letting himself be tugged into whatever luxury space you felt like dragging him into. It was survival. Transactional. Clear.

But sometimes he caught the look in your eyes. The one that said I know exactly what you’re doing, Robbie. And the worse part? You didn’t care. Doesn't matter if he's taking the money for the thrill of it. Because if this sort of companionship is close to anything you get in return, you'll take it.

Even if he's a stubborn ass about it.

Because Robert can't tell what your intentions are either— if you spoil him out of pity just to laugh when you get back home—in your ridiculously big house, slipping in a luxury jacuzzi with bubbles and wine. Because there's no way this is just out of kindness. You haven't asked for anything in return- and that pisses him off.

He owes you. Yet, you've never asked for change. And that? It makes him awful. He takes, and what do you get in return? A sight of those hazel eyes widening like a starved puppy whenever you offer a dinner at your expense? Or the skip of his heart when you offer him the money like it never meant anything in the first place. Like you have millions left to give him.

He's not in love. Neither are you. You're practically his superior, dammit. But if this is really going to keep going, he'll have to make up for it. He can't take you out for those fancy dinners, or drive you around in a pretty whip— but there is something he can do.

Even if it borders unprofessional. Even if it's really wrong. Besides, you look like you could really use a break. And honestly—so could he. It could go wrong. Ruin your imagine if anyone finds out—his. A horrible scandal. But having sex isn't serious if there aren't no feelings, right? Right. No feelings.

Tonight, he’s dead on his feet. Dispatch hammered him for hours, emergency after emergency until his ears buzzed with leftover static and replaying voices. He trudges across the parking lot, rubbing at the soot-shaped circles under his eyes—when he hears the unmistakable purr of your sleek ride pulling up beside him.

Right. Showtime.