Send the Dispatch (Dispatch x fem!reader)

Chapter 4: Crypto Night

He flinches, tiny, almost hidden, then tries to cover it with the detached calm heroes are supposed to have.

He can't.

"...Yeah," he says, the word a little too quiet. A little too gentle. "You a fan or something?"

You shrug. "Maybe a little. You just look kinda... rough."

He huffs a laugh that sounds like he barely managed to hold back the real one. "Do I? Huh."

His eyes linger on you a moment too long, just long enough for something inside him to shift.

And then it hits him, your tone, your quiet concern, the way you speak with a kind of gentle sincerity most people never offer him. The recognition settles over him in a slow, warm wave of déjà vu, unsettling in its clarity. It feels exactly like last night, when you sat beside a tired, beat-up stranger without knowing he was him. When you spoke softly about choices, burdens, and how doing the right thing is often thankless. When you looked at him and made him feel seen.

Only now he is his other persona, a mask meant to create distance, yet somehow you still reach him just as easily. Now you're looking at Mecha Man with the same warmth.

And it unravels him.

Before he can think, he knocks back the drink he had been nursing like he needs the courage. When he sets the glass down, his fingers stay on the rim for a heartbeat too long, knuckles tight. He looks exhausted, not just physically.

"Let me get you another," you say quickly.

He freezes, only for a moment. But it is enough to show he is startled by the offer. It is small, a twitch of the shoulders, a slight widening of the eyes, but it is there, and you notice.

"...Thanks," he murmurs, eyes dropping. When he looks up again, it is brief, shy, almost boyish beneath the mask.

Dopple's already mixing.

You watch Mecha Man instead. The soft scuffs on his suit. There is a slight slump at the edges of his posture, as if he has been carrying his own weight too long. The way his hands rest on the counter, fingers curled, not tense, not relaxed, just... careful.

"You usually drink alone?" you ask.

"Pretty much," he says. Clipped, but not cold.

"Oh." The silence that follows is thick, anticipatory, electric, like you are both pretending not to notice the shift in the air.

And then you remember the guy from yesterday. Hood up, voice low, that strangely thoughtful conversation. The way he had spoken about choice and burden and the thanklessness of doing the right thing.

Your chest tightens.

You don't know why, but something about Mecha Man feels like him.

Not in any obvious way, but beneath his hero persona, something faint and familiar flickers. A quiet exhaustion. A heaviness. A way he listens to you, as if he is waiting for judgment, is that he is accustomed to receiving it.

You lean in just a little, gathering your courage.

"I just wanted to say... I appreciate what you do. Really. You don't have powers, but you still show up. You still fight. You still help people. And that... that matters."

His reaction is instant.

He stills completely, like your words hit him. His shoulders rise in a slow, almost trembling breath. He tilts his head down, so the mask hides the upper half of his face, but you see it: the flush along his cheekbones, the way his jaw clenches like he is trying not to feel too much.

His fingers curl tightly around the edge of the bar.

"...Thank you," he whispers. It barely sounds. "I... needed that."

Your smile is soft, warm.

It destroys him.

He shoots to his feet abruptly, too sharp, too sudden, like remaining in your orbit might crack something open inside him.

"Uh, have a good night," he mutters, voice tight and thin, and the way he turns to go is almost clumsy, almost human in a way he probably hates you seeing.

You watch him walk out, confused. Heroes were supposed to be smooth, polished, and confident. But he walked away like a man who had just been hit by something much heavier than a villain.

Outside, the night air slams into him.

He stops immediately; one hand braced against the wall like the world tilted under his feet. His other hand rises to his face, covering the lower half as if he is trying to keep everything inside from spilling out.

"Shit..." he exhales, voice shaking.

Because something is happening.

Not a revelation.

Not some grand emotional epiphany.

Just... a shift. Small. Unnerving.

A warmth he has not felt in a long time.

A tug low in his chest, he can't quite classify.

Not affection. Not yet.

But the quiet beginning of something he is not used to feeling for anyone.

Mecha Man stands very still, chest rising too fast, trying to calm the unfamiliar flutter that keeps catching him off guard. As he tells himself, it is nothing. Just adrenaline. Exhaustion. Stress.

Inside, you sip your drink, your heartbeat a little too quick, your thoughts drifting back to him despite yourself. Something clings to you: the tremor in his voice, the exhaustion etched into his posture, the strange gravity he carried even when he tried to seem collected.

There is something fragile about him.

Something weighted.

Something that makes you want to look again, even though you don't know why.

Dopple watches the door swing shut behind Mecha Man, one brow lifting as he turns back to you. "You good? What was up with him?"

You blink, still replaying the way the hero had practically bolted out of the room, and shrug, grasping at the most reasonable explanation you can find. "He looked beat up... exhausted, maybe. Probably just wanted to get home and patch himself up," you say, your voice light, almost casual, but the words feel hollow even as they leave your mouth.

Dopple studies you, eyes narrowing as though he is trying to read something deeper, then lets out a soft snort and shakes his head. "Heroes," he mutters, returning to washing glasses. "Weird as hell."

Minutes pass, slow and heavy. Your ice water, once crisp, has thinned into something lukewarm. You swirl it absentmindedly, tracing circles in the condensation on the glass, lost in thoughts you can't quite name, feeling the room settle into a quiet rhythm that feels simultaneously comforting and isolating.

Then Blonde Blazer returns, sliding into the seat beside you with a warmth that shifts the air in an instant. She smiles, that bright, effortless smile that makes the room feel lighter. "Sorry! HQ had me run a quick errand. Did you miss me while I was gone?" she asks, voice playful, already expecting the answer but wanting to hear it anyway.

You take a slow sip of your now-lukewarm water, letting the chill fade into the back of your throat, and glance toward the doorway Mecha Man had disappeared through before meeting her eyes. There is a softness there, a distance you had not meant to carry, and you admit quietly, almost to yourself, "I had some company."

Author's Note

Hey, guys.

I'm thinking of creating a Discord server soon, mainly because at some point in the story, I want to give you, the readers, a decision to make, kind of like a game, but that is still in the drafts.

But also, I just want a server to hang out and talk about dispatch; what do you all think?

Anyway, I hope you liked this chapter!

Your pal, Skiddy

(3121 Words)