Send the Dispatch (Dispatch x fem!reader)

Chapter 4: Crypto Night

Her face crumples into mortified horror, cheeks flaming. "It was ONE dog! One extremely aerodynamic dog! And I barely even touched the building!"

"The building disagrees," you counter, voice sweet but pointed, eyes twinkling.

She shoves your shoulder hard enough to rock you on the stool. The two of you dissolve into laughter, the sound light and unrestrained, drawing a few curious glances from nearby tables.

The conversation drifts naturally, like leaves on a slow current:

Rumours of new villains are apparently on the rise.

A hero who somehow got trapped inside a vending machine while attempting a daring granola-bar rescue.

Her patrol route for tomorrow, which she recites with an exaggerated air of boredom.

And your very correct, undeniably factual assertion that she did, in fact, fly full tilt into a billboard last week.

"That never happened," she says, voice clipped but tinged with laughter, trying and failing to maintain her heroic dignity.

"It was caught on six different cameras," you reply, deadpan.

"Fake news," she fires back, eyes sparkling.

You both laugh again, the kind of laughter that makes your stomach ache, that feels like home amid the chaos, the heroics, and the late-night city buzz.

The laughter dies down just as her communicator buzzes sharply. She curses under her breath, presses the device to her ear, and gives your shoulder a quick, affectionate squeeze before stepping away to handle whatever crisis the hero world has thrown at her this time.

The bar quiets without her. A low hum, a clinking glass, the faint neon glow washing the counter. You sip your drink, trying not to feel suddenly, stupidly alone.

Then the stool beside you shifts.

You do not have to look.

But something in you insists.

So, you turn, slowly, and the world tilts.

He's there. Mecha Man.

The unmistakable suit from the newsfeeds. The dark, bluish-black fabric clings snugly to his frame, sculpting his lean muscles without effort. The golden angular emblems on his chest catch the low light, throwing soft amber highlights across his shoulders. His mask-framed, tired eyes are warm brown, rimmed with exhaustion, and the lower half of his face is bare, soft-edged, and unexpectedly young.

He looks... scuffed. The fabric at the seams was slightly scraped, as if he had come straight from a fight, which he probably had just had.

He sits carefully, as if trying to become smaller but incapable of doing so. The stool creaks under him anyway.

You swallow. Your breath catches. You force your hand to stay steady on your glass.

He glances your way, just once, quick, then looks again, like his brain needs a second pass to confirm what he's seeing.

And something shifts behind the mask.

Recognition.

Sharp, startled, warm, almost panicked recognition.

It hits him so hard he freezes.

You don't notice. Not really.

He, however, is fully aware that his heart has started behaving like a malfunctioning jet engine.

"Hey... you're Mecha Man, right?" you ask, trying for casual. It comes out softer, more tentative, because he is watching you in this strangely intense way that makes your pulse jump.