Send the Dispatch (Dispatch x fem!reader)

Chapter 10: Veil

Malevola notices as well, and her lips twitch in acknowledgement. "He is open about it," she continues, folding her arms, but not in dismissal; her posture steadies, grounding, like someone who has assessed the terrain before guiding another. "Doesn't hide it. Doesn't pretend to be better than he is. That's why he has a sponsor." She lifts her chin, letting the word linger: "Me."

The room seems to pause for a moment at that single word. Sponsor. Not a joke. Not a punchline. Not another absurdity added to a surreal checklist of behaviours. Something tangible. Something real.

"She can be harsh sometimes, believe or not..." Sonar admits, rubbing the back of his neck, hands grazing the faint fuzz along his skin. "In a helpful way. I think."

He glances at her, and in that brief flicker of expression, you see an intertwining of resentment, gratitude, and vulnerability, emotions he cannot fully shield behind his bravado. "She doesn't let me lie to myself."

Malevola rolls her eyes softly, the motion gentle rather than sharp. "Because you're terrible at it."

"I am not-"

"You lied to me two weeks ago about being 'totally sober' while you had powder on your face like a toddler who got lost in the bakery."

He sputters, indignation flaring. "It was... accidental!"

"Accidental?" she echoes, raising an eyebrow.

He opens his mouth, then shuts it, jaw dropping. You bite back a laugh, shoulders shaking slightly at the absurdity. Malevola catches it too and winks at you, the gesture slicing through the tension like sunlight through fog.

Against all logic, there is something endearing about the two of them. Chaotic, inexplicable, absolutely unhinged... but somehow, it works for them. An unexpected softness, a thread of fragility weaving quietly through their chaos.

You clear your throat, grounding yourself with the sound of your own voice. "So... he is actively working on it," you note, more to yourself than to the clipboard in your hands.

Maybe it is because you are facing something similar, finding sobriety from alcohol, feeling the constant pull of old habits, that you understand the difficulty behind the words.

Sonar nods, eyes bright with something almost childlike in their sincerity. "I am," he says, voice firming with quiet resolve. "I am trying." His ears tilt forward slightly, hope sparking in their angle. "At least...Malevola says I'm not a lost cause."

"You're not," she says immediately, voice carrying no hesitation, no dramatics. Solid, grounding truth.

Sonar stiffens slightly, a flicker of vulnerability crossing his features. He glances at you, almost as if seeking permission to relax, and you catch it; a flustered look blooms before he quickly masks it. Nothing dramatic. Just nervousness.

The weight of her words presses on you too, warmer than expected, settling in your chest like a soft anchor. You tuck a loose hair behind your ear, inhale slowly, and for the first time in this chaotic environment, you feel something like understanding rise quietly within you. Your eyes find theirs, and the words you are about to speak feel heavier than any form you have ever filled, balanced somewhere between duty and something raw, something profoundly human.

"Despite... everything," you begin carefully, voice softer than intended, "there's something here. Something stable, even if it's... duct-taped together."

Malevola's sharp, constant grin softens, edges rounding into warmth that feels genuine. Sonar ducks his head slightly, ears flicking in delicate shyness, stripping away the feral bravado he usually wears like armour. The room seems to shrink around you, the chaotic energy that defined it moments ago slowing. The air itself hangs taut, waiting to see what you will do next.