TO EXCUSE THE ACT OF CRUSHING IT
Dealing with Crashman always meant walking on eggshells. It wasn't as if he didn't try to restrain himself, but his outbursts were so destructive that the other Wily Numbers had deemed it safer to give him a generous amount of space. Crashman didn’t want to be avoided, though; All he asked was to be treated a bit more carefully, with a bit more consideration or respect— But his volatility and his helplessness when performing day-to-day tasks earned him nothing but mockery and annoyance from the robots he shared Wily Fortress with. Though none of them would admit it, they all had their insecurities— Always trying to push each other down to lift themselves up, unlucky number thirteen found himself near the bottom of the pecking order more often than not.
It seems strange then that Quickman, the most impatient of all of Wily’s creations, had stumbled into the role of being Crash’s keeper. “Caring” or “kind” were not words that came to mind when thinking of this particular mechanical marvel. But Quickman was always trying to prove his superiority, and he was never one to turn down a challenge. If everyone else was too much of a coward to babysit Crash once in a while, he’d step in and show them all how it’s done. If they couldn’t handle a couple of scratches and dents from one of their own throwing a temper tantrum, how were they ever supposed to defeat Megaman? Of course, Quick was also happy to use Crash to stave off the mind-numbing boredom that threatened to consume him the singular second he lacked something to occupy him.
Quickman maintained his usual condescending attitude, not bothering to handle Crash with kid gloves. He wasn’t afraid to push Crash’s buttons to amuse himself; The unpredictability, the risk , was fun for him. Crash was both accustomed to and infinitely, infinitely frustrated by Quick’s teasing, but he was willing to endure it. He knew, ultimately, he was far from defenseless, that he could turn the situation in his favor at any moment. Quickman went on and on about how much of a baby Crash was, how he needed him for everything, how stupid he was— Crashman was certainly vexed by Quick’s mockery, but he saw through it. Quickman wasn’t one to say such things aloud, but his actions made it obvious he was fond of his “little brother”. As obnoxious as Crash found it, he could tell — in his special case at least — that Quick’s bullying was meant to be playful. He might've been bothered by Quick’s actions, but ultimately did enjoy the attention. Unlike the rest, Quickman was always willing to entertain him, to listen to him, to assist him with the things he couldn’t do on his own. Who else would bother?
Crashman was fine with this arrangement. Even if neither of them would put it into words, even if their ways of showing affection came out wrong, or if they didn’t quite comprehend the nature of it themselves, they both sensed how the other felt. They could obtusely empathize with each other’s pain: A glaring weakness as a source of inadequacy, an inability to think the way others expected of them. Usually, it was too difficult to keep up with Quickman’s unmatched processing speed, and too much of a hassle to explain things to Crash in a way he understood. Their respective personalities caused problems for those around them. It wasn’t at all that the two of them could always see eye-to-eye, but the fact that they had someone finally make a real attempt to understand them, someone who would pay some genuine, undivided attention, felt somehow like a relief.
Only Crashman’s appearance matched, but both were childish at heart— A couple of clumsy playmates who were constantly butting heads, but always managed to make up at the end of the day. Quickman pushed Crash to challenge himself, and Crash allowed Quick to slow down even just a little. It was far from perfect, and Dr. Wily was less than pleased with how often he was made to make minor repairs to his fastest, most fragile Robot Master, but the two of them had found some kind of happiness.
But wherever pressure builds, an explosion is unavoidable.
“Qui—ck.” Crashman calls out.
He had been wandering in search of his brother’s help for a short while now. Wily Fortress was large, and Quickman hated sitting still, making tracking him down a chore at times. It seems as though his luck had just turned around when he caught a glimpse of Quickman hurrying down an adjacent hallway.
“Quick!”
Crash rushes after him, precariously balancing a shiny blue can between the drills on his outstretched arms. He follows as Quickman turns and enters a room nearby. Quick pretends not to notice him and starts to tamper with a computer hooked up to one of the mysterious machines that the room was equipped with.
“Quick.” Crash says his name once again, trying to get his attention.
“What?” Quickman looks over his shoulder.
“E Tank.” Expectantly, Crash holds the beverage out to him.
Quickman was left in a sour mood from an earlier interaction; He’d been reprimanded by Wily for not following his orders to the tee once again. He wished the old man would get over himself— As long as he achieved the desired result in the end, who cared about the means?
“I’m trying to do something here, can’t it wait?” Quick’s attention returns to the monitor in front of him, sounding exasperated.
“I’m running low...”
“Then go bother someone else.”
“But you’re right here.”
“Bubbleman’s always in his room, go bother him for once. His hands work, at least.”
The corner of Crash’s mouth twitches downward. The jab was aimed more at Bubbleman’s useless legs than at him, but he didn’t appreciate being put on the same level as the aquatic robot. He was a far cry from being that pathetic.
“I like it when you do it.” Annoyance creeps into Crashman’s voice. “I won’t even ask you to hold it this time. Please?”
Quickman’s patience is waning fast as Dr. Wily’s nagging echoes in his head beneath Crash’s incessant begging. He is not in the mood to be told what to do. Once he finishes up this job and cools down a bit, he’ll give Crash what he wants, but for now...
“Did I not just say I was busy?”
“It’ll take you two seconds, why can’t you just do it for me? You always do it for me!” Crash’s face grows dark with anger.
“Man, what am I, your frigging servant?!” Quick finally snaps, turning to face Crash with arms open wide. “Maybe I’m getting sick of having to do everything for you all the time!”
Crashman seizes up. So that’s how it is. Quickman had been stringing him along this whole time after all; His kindness was nothing but an extension of his cruelty, and now he was bored with their little games and he was going to abandon him. The lines of code serving as his thought process can’t keep up with what he’s feeling. Irritation turns into heartbreak, which gives way to blinding rage. Everything collapses inward, hollow and searingly hot. He won’t be treated like a toy. He won’t be thrown away. The E Tank falls to the floor with a loud clatter and rolls away from the two of them. Crash’s body moves, unthinking— His heavy arm swings forward, piercing a hole in Quick’s cherry-red armor. When he pulls back, the drill bit remains embedded in the larger robot’s chest, the rounded indicator on its end blinking rapidly. They barely have the opportunity to react— Crash instinctively stumbles backward, but Quick remains frozen, as if he hadn’t even realized what Crash had just done.
The explosion is deafening in an enclosed space. After a moment, the thick, dark smoke begins to settle and clear— Shrapnel has left indents and dark streaks on the surrounding walls, the appliances are either toppled or broken... And Quickman lies on the floor a shattered heap. What remains of his outer armor is crumpled and charred surrounding the point of impact: A giant jagged hole that looks to have been gouged out of his chest. Half of the silicon skin covering his face has been peeled back by the blast, revealing the components underneath— His left arm has flown off to another corner of the room, and some kind of fluid leaks out from under his mangled torso. In his damaged state, Quickman bears an uncanny resemblance to the aftermath of the countless cars left wrecked in Crashman's wake. The burnt plastic smell that hangs in the air is equally familiar.
Crash stands half-staggering in place for a minute, the scene passing by him though nothing in it moves. He’s brought back to reality once the piercing, ice-hot anger fades enough for coherent thought to return to his emptied head. Quickman still hasn’t moved.
“Quick.” Crash calls out to him.
No response, the quiet treatment.
“Don’t be mad. It’s your fault for picking on me again...”
It’s irritating to be ignored, but more than that, Crashman is beginning to feel uneasy again. Anxiety building, he steps closer and crouches down next to Quickman. The exposed wires and tubing sticking out from him were not unsettling on their own; Seeing his comrades in a state of disrepair was not all that uncommon a sight. But Quickman showed no signs of consciousness, no response to Crash’s voice or to being shaken and pushed as much as he could manage. Quick lie there on his back, eerily still, the LCD in his remaining eye flickering faintly.
Panic sets in. Crashman had lost himself for only a second and forgotten just what he was capable of. This was far worse than just the dents and holes he’d punched into Quickman on countless previous occasions. He’d finally gone too far.
“Quick... Quick... Quick!” His name spills out in frantic repetition as Crash rocks his broken body back and forth.
Crashman curses his temper, his lack of self-control. This is all my fault . He can't help it— He sees white, he acts without thinking— But no one takes him seriously without him making a show of force. No one listens. Not even Quick.
Another Wily Number arrives on the scene at last. Having heard the explosion and come running to investigate, Metalman hurries into the room, stopping in his tracks when he sees the carnage laid out before him.
“What...” The start of a more specific question that doesn’t fully come out.
“ Help! ” Still holding Quickman, Crash whips his head around to face Metalman and immediately pleads with him, green eyes wide with fear. “He won't move! Please, help!”
Characteristic of a de-facto leader, Metal seamlessly springs into action. Crashman backs away only so the eldest Number can lift Quickman up onto his back in order to carry him. It’s effortless; Compared to the rest of Wily's robots, Quick already weighs next to nothing even when he’s all in one piece.
“Come on.” Metalman beckons to his junior. “I’ll take him to the Doctor for repairs.”
Metal seems to have surmised the broad strokes of the situation. He speaks as if he believes Quickman will be just fine, his calm demeanor reassuring Crashman somewhat. But a pit of dread still forms where Crash’s stomach would be, overcome with a crushing sense of guilt.
“I’m— I’m sorry. It’s my fault...” He stammers out as he follows behind Metalman, apologizing to him in place of Quick. “But it was an accident! I didn’t mean to!”
“I didn’t think you did it on purpose.”
“...Is he gonna be okay?” Crash finally asks directly.
“Most likely.” The words he wants to hear. “I didn’t get a good look, but... He’s had worse.”
Metal doesn’t seem angry with him, at least. The Doctor is a different story.
He’d already assessed the damage; To everyone’s relief, Quickman’s IC Chip was left unscathed. His body would need extensive repairs and reconstruction, but the silicon square that housed his “soul” remained miraculously intact.
“What were you thinking !” Wily shouts at Crashman like he’s scolding his own child.
Crashman says nothing, staring at his feet, humiliation washing over him in waves. Disappointing his creator makes him feel completely worthless. Doing as he says is the only thing he’s good at.
“You’ve really done it this time... Only a few more inches to the right and... Gah!” The Doctor paces back and forth, gesturing wildly as he goes on. “You never learn your lesson. I’m always cleaning up after these messes you make! All because of that temper!”
Twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen... Crash counts grooves in the metal flooring in an attempt to keep himself calm.
“If you weren’t so good at your job I swear I’d have you reprogrammed—”
“Please, Dr. Wily...” Metalman interrupts, his tone sympathetic. “I’m sure he feels guilty enough already. I’ll talk to him after you’ve repaired number twelve.”
Wily heaves an exasperated sigh. His blood pressure must be shooting through the roof. The old man returns to his desk, forcefully sitting in the office chair— Momentum causes it to swivel and turn away from the robots standing a few feet away.
“Go. I need my concentration. You can come see him once I’m finished, but you've given me a lot of work to do. It’s going to take some time.”
It’s clear the command was directed only at Crashman. Metal was a more than capable assistant, but what could Crash do? He would only get in the way. He doesn’t take offense. Wily never intended for him to fix anything, anyway— Only to destroy.
The wait was agonizing. Crash wonders if this is how Quickman feels when he has nothing to do— Numb, but restless, anxiety coursing through him like static electricity. He tried sitting directly outside the room and staying put until Wily finished, but it made him far too nervous. Trying to occupy himself, to keep himself distracted, he finds himself in one of the few common areas in the fortress’s inner sanctum. He sits on the floor, his back to the couch as he hugs his knees close to his chest. The television mounted on the wall is set to reruns of cartoons from a bygone era. He thanks his lucky stars.
Usually, Crashman isn't bothered by his own destructive nature— Wily had created him to be perfectly suited to his purpose, and he more than reveled in fulfilling it. There were many moments where he lamented his lack of hands, but ultimately he didn't care as long as he could carry out Wily's orders. Nothing was more enjoyable than reducing entire buildings to rubble, leveling a segment of city skyline, feeling the warm backdraft from a massive explosion... Was it inevitable, then, that something like this would happen? But it didn’t feel good to break things when he was angry, there was no pleasure or catharsis in lashing out and hurting Quick the way he had. Crash felt uncharacteristically ashamed of his own construction; The others were the ones usually preoccupied with his drills and his behavior, because they couldn’t see it the way Dr. Wily saw it, the way he saw it himself. He could never understand why it mattered so much to them, why they could be so cruel and unaccommodating. Right now Crash is starting to believe they might just be right about him— He was nothing but a ticking time bomb, an emotionally unstable little brat that couldn't do anything on his own.
“Hey.” Flashman’s voice, cool and mature, is out of place when overlaid atop the cartoon’s audio.
He stands imposing as ever, one arm resting over the back of the couch and his hand on his hip. He doesn’t look at Crash when he speaks to him, instead pretending to watch TV.
“Heard you screwed up big time. Did a number on Quickman.”
Crash doesn’t respond. He had been trying to avoid thinking about it any more, to push it out of his mind. Flash’s intentions aren’t clear to him— Compared to Quickman, he’s impossible to read. But Crash knows he’s never kind without expecting something in return.
“Who could blame you? I mean, I thought maybe you’d gone and finally done me a favor, but... Well...” Flash pauses. “It’d be disappointing if things just ended like that, huh. Anticlimactic. No fun for me, either.”
Crashman’s jaw clenches. Squeezing his legs tighter, he stares at the flickering colors on the television, shapes flowing by, shifting and distorted— He’s stopped recognizing the images. They mean nothing. It’s visual noise. He feels chilly pins and needles stabbing from behind his face.
“Uh.” Flashman picks up on how tense Crash is growing and decides to change gears, if only to save his skin. He knows from experience where this kind of atmosphere can lead, and he doesn’t feel like joining Quickman in the repair bay. “I mean, I’m just joking. But, seriously, he’s gonna be just fine. The doc cares more than he lets on, you know that. He is a ‘genius’, after all.”
His eyes finally fall on Crash as the smaller robot buries his face in his knees, inhaling sharply through his teeth. Oh boy. Standing over him, he can’t be sure, but he thinks he might be crying.
“...You want me to leave you alone?” He’s still halfheartedly hoping to get out of this.
Crash shakes his head. Even though he didn't know what to say, he still wants to say something — But words get stuck in his throat and won't come out. Flashman sighs, resigned to watching over his brother in Quick’s absence. Half-jealous of their closeness, he only ever served as a substitute in this regard; He'll take what he can get. He sits in the corner of the couch, ankle crossed over his knee, and shoots Crashman an anxious glance.
“...Mind if I change the channel?”
It’s late into the night when Metalman finally comes to fetch Crashman. He finds Crash sitting alone in the dark, the light from the television illuminating the room in inconsistent bursts. Flashman had already taken his leave a while ago, giving Crash a too-firm pat on the head as a parting gesture. He was a busy guy. Crash had crawled up onto the couch and curled up in the corner, but it didn’t look to Metal that he was in sleep mode.
“Oh...” Metalman can’t help but remark. The scene is somewhat sorry-looking.
“Crashman?” He still isn’t sure if the younger robot is awake or not. “The Doctor is finished. He still needs some recalibration, but you can see Quick now if you want to.”
Crash sluggishly sits upright, but hesitates from hopping off of the couch.
“...Is Dr. Wily going to yell at me again?”
“Frankly I don’t think he has the energy for it. He’ll have gone to bed by the time we get there.”
Crashman follows Metalman through the complex corridors of the fortress in silence. The trek couldn’t have taken more than a few minutes, but uncertainty makes it seem to drag on for eternity. He wanted to confirm with his own two eyes that Quickman was alright— But would Quick want to see him at all after what he had done?
Metalman punches in a code to open the sliding door to the repair bay, and the two enter. Quickman is laid up in the cushioned interior of a metal pod— Wires connected to his ears, hanging from devices mounted to the ceiling and snaking around the floor, ending where they connected the supercomputers embedded in the walls. Every Wily bot had had their fair share of turns in such an apparatus. Hearing he has company, he turns his eyes towards the pair coming in through the doorway.
Crash hurries to Quickman’s side, leaning over him in the capsule bed. He practically lunges to be near him, metallic arms producing a reverberating clang against the side of the cylindrical device.
“Quickman—! You’re okay... You’re really— okay.” Crashman speech is broken up as if he’s struggling to catch his breath.
“Yeah, no thanks to you...” The remark is more sarcastic than anything, as if he had only been slightly inconvenienced.
Quickman seems groggy, still; It’ll be another few hours before all of his systems are running at peak performance again.
“...I’ll be right outside.” Metalman knows they need to be alone to talk this out. “Please just don’t do anything stupid again, okay, you two?”
Quickman half raises his hand to dismiss him, and the first of the Wily Numbers steps out into the hall.
"Do you feel okay?" Crashman asks.
"Well, yeah, more or less." Quickman flexes his forearm and fingers. "I can't really move right, though. Systems are still doing some self-checks or something— The doc says he'll check me out again after that."
"Oh."
The two are alone in the muffled quiet of the repair room, neither of them quite sure what to say. The machines surrounding them continue to chug and beep without them.
“I bet you hate me now.” Crashman speaks up at last.
“What? No, of course not. You think I can’t handle something like this?”
“No, that’s not it, but...” Crash raises his drills to glance at them, then puts them back at his sides. He stares into Quick’s eyes, desperate to convey a sense of gravity. “I really could’ve killed you this time. Like— Forever.”
“But you didn’t.” Quick sounds unphased. “Maybe you knew better, like, subconsciously or something. I dunno.”
“I think I was really trying. You said you were sick of me. I thought you were going to throw me away. I got really angry, and so scared — I panicked—”
“Throw you away...? What?” Quickman stares bewildered at Crash. What does that even mean? He scans his memories, trying to recall what led up to Crash’s outburst. “You know I didn’t mean that.”
“I couldn’t tell. You sounded serious...”
Quick turns his head to the side and stares at the blinking panels on the wall, pausing to collect his thoughts.
“Well, I wasn’t. ...I don’t think you could do anything to really make me hate you, anyway.” Quickman hesitates, wondering if he ought to say what he wants to. “After all, where would that leave me? You’re the only person who, like, actually likes me.”
Maybe that was revealing too much.
“Really?” Crashman blinks, considering the idea for a moment, not sure if he understands. With the ease with which he spoke to everyone, how comfortable and outgoing he was, it often seemed to him that everyone liked Quickman. The fact that he may have misunderstood the situation makes him feel a little happy, though he knows it probably shouldn’t. “Well, you’re the only one who'll even bother with me ...”
“Flashman likes you.” Quick states matter-of-factly.
“Ugh, he’s even worse than you.” Crash’s face scrunches up.
Quickman can’t help but laugh. Crash smiles back, just a bit. Any expression other than a blank look or a grimace is a rare treat from him. Kneeling, he folds his arms over the side of the repair capsule and rests his head there.
“You really don’t hate me? You’re not angry?”
“I mean I would prefer if you didn’t launch Crash Bombs into my chest again— Being stuck in bed is driving me crazy...” An understandable complaint. “But no, I don’t.”
“And you’re not gonna leave me behind...?” Crashman needs further reassurance, his tone simple and innocent.
“I’m not! Man, where are you even getting that from?” Quick is irked by Crash’s wild assumption. “Stop, don’t be a little baby. I’m not going anywhere, alright? Especially not like this."
"Okay. Me neither." Crash is content to sit quietly by his side until Wily inevitably returns to shoo him away.
Quickman naturally doesn’t mind the company, and his thoughts are enough to fill the silence. He had become acutely aware of the disquieting fact that he was likely only still alive thanks to some sort of failsafe in the way Dr. Wily had programmed his Robot Masters, some line of code dictating that they couldn’t kill one of their own. Although it had turned out worse for him than usual, Quick knew it was an accident, just another one of Crash’s blowups— He really wasn’t upset about that aspect. What troubled him was what Crashman had expressed to him. What did he mean by “throwing him away”? Was he genuinely so afraid of being abandoned? Quick wonders what about his own behavior could have given him such a ridiculous idea. The two are practically stuck like glue— Quick isn’t always the kindest, but he never made any indication of real dislike for Crashman. He teased the younger robot out of fondness and to see how he would react, to get his attention... If he hated him he wouldn’t bother wasting his precious time on him in the first place. He was together with Crash as much as possible, what made him think that he would ever want to be away?
Quick stares up at the ceiling. Maybe he was afraid of being left alone, too. He’ll always have his place to return amongst the Second Numbers; They all tend to rub each other the wrong way, to bicker and keep the others at a certain distance... But the only home they had was together, with Dr. Wily. Crashman, rage and clumsiness and all, was an irremovable part of that. Quickman knows that’s not all there is to it, though; Crashman is special, an exception. Quick can be friendly, charming with others, but no one other than Crash saw an ounce of tenderness from him. Crash gave him a sense of purpose, one outside of killing and destroying, outside of besting Thomas Light’s wonder boy and doing Wily’s bidding. It’s what he was always searching for, whether that be through winning races or in trying to outdo anyone in anything possible. Competition was fun and frequently fulfilling, but maybe being the best of the best wasn’t enough on its own. He wanted someone to actually care about him. What he had with Crashman was different— It felt good to be relied on, to be needed by someone else. Maybe Quick had latched onto Crash just to assuage his own insecurities or to entertain himself, maybe his feelings were just as selfish as ever.
Regardless of motivation, Quickman had decided long ago to make Crashman his responsibility. It was undeniable that he always prioritized himself over anyone else, that he bullied those closest to him and was even more ruthless against his enemies, but it wasn’t as if he didn’t have a heart. He wouldn’t dream of casting aside the one person he had come to truly care for, and who cared for him in turn.
Even just acknowledging it mentally makes him grow irritated with shame; He should be above this kind of thing, it did nothing but slow him down. Being aware of these feelings didn’t help him understand them any better, anyway. Quickman sighs and looks at Crashman, noticing his brother had allowed himself to drift into a seemingly peaceful sleep. He wonders if he had tired himself out somehow while he had been unconscious. This had turned into one hell of a mess. Not wanting to be stuck in his own head analyzing himself any longer, Quick’s own eyes fall shut. He tries in vain to quiet his racing thoughts until sleep eventually overtakes him as well.
Things returned to business as usual almost immediately. Quickman, for his part, seemed to choose his words a little more carefully, not even feigning annoyance at Crash’s requests— But it wasn’t long before he lapsed back into making playful jabs and pushing his luck. The incident had clearly left more of an impact on Crashman, however. The already quiet Robot Master withdrew even further inwards, trying not to make trouble or put a burden on his closest confidant. He tried to help himself; Rather than something so nearly dire again, it was preferable to be scolded over wasted E Tanks, over spills in the kitchen, over broken devices or other similar blunders that resulted from him fumbling with his useless limbs. The time the pair spent together became more subdued— Crash would observe quietly as Quickman built model cars or breezed through a video game Crash couldn’t play himself.
Quickman didn’t like it one bit, but maybe this was Crashman’s way of telling him he needed some space. Fine. Sure, a break once in a while could be nice— It wasn't like he needed to spend every waking moment with Crash, but there was never anything to do in that god-forsaken fortress. Any task Dr. Wily gave him was completed in record timing, leaving Quick with huge, empty stretches of free time and nothing at all to fill it with. His linemates would try to jingle keys in front of him for a second or two, but soon grew irritated and turned him away. Left on his own, Quick took to walking laps around the secret base and its perimeter, letting his thoughts wander in conversation with himself. The boredom made him feel like he was losing his mind; Much more of this and he’d consider bashing his head against a wall until he ended back under the Doctor’s screwdriver and soldering iron.
He falls back on being a nuisance in order to keep his sanity.
"Hey, Crash?"
The two sit on the sofa in the common room, Crashman's outstretched legs resting in Quick's lap. There's a car race on TV that even Quickman seems to be paying only half a mind to.
"Are you trying to give me the cold shoulder?"
Crashman blinks, his brow slightly furrowing.
"What? No. Why?" A string of single syllables.
"I dunno. You're usually pretty clingy, but lately you kinda seem like you don't want me around..."
Crash stays quiet, fidgeting— He sticks the point of one drill into the flute of the other.
"You're still upset about what happened, aren't you." Quick's question comes out flat. He already knows the answer.
"Yeah."
Quickman sighs dramatically and drags his hand down his face. The same hand comes to rest on Crash's kneepad, and Quick turns to face him.
"Come on. I'm fine, aren't I? Like it never happened!" He gestures with his other palm upturned. "It was an accident. You gotta move on."
"It could happen again."
"So what! I survived once, doesn’t that prove that you’re not gonna kill me so easy?" Quick desperately tries to reassure Crash. "It's not that big a deal."
Crashman crosses his arms in front of him, staring down at them. Quick is totally confident of his own invincibility, almost enough for Crash to be convinced as well. Quick turns his torso to the side and leans over Crash, closer.
"I promise I'm not mad, okay?" His voice is uncharacteristically gentle.
"I'm mad at myself."
Quickman hangs his head and sighs again.
"Listen, honestly... You acting like this is boring. I can’t mess with you if you're being all mopey, it's just sad."
A pang of unease shoots up through Crashman's arms and into his chest.
"Huh...?"
"I mean, like— I'm bored in general , and you don't ask me to do stuff, and you won't get all angry..."
"You're bored of me?"
The question pierces Quick like a fine-tipped blade. He knew he shouldn't've said that, he knows now how much Crash worries about him losing interest—
"No! That's not what I— ...I just don't want you to be so hung up on this. I'm telling you there's nothing to worry about.” He pauses. “I like it when you’re a pain in my ass."
Technicolor racecars round the track in endless circles. The commentators list off names and terms that are totally foreign to Crash's ears; Gibberish, background noise. Junk data.
"I'm sorry." Crashman doesn't know what else to say. He wants to feel better again, too.
He looks into Quickman's deep blue eyes, so strangely full of sincerity. Quick really was concerned, even if it might have stemmed from his own selfishness.
"Don't be." Quickman says. “Hey, c’mon. Kiss and make up?”
Playful as always again.
"Eh... I thought we already did..." Crash shrinks against the arm of the couch. "Don't ask to do that stuff out of nowhere."
"You say you’re not mad but you’re still being all cagey. Prove it. ...Or are you gonna keep pushing me away?" Quickman feigns hurt as he leans in closer.
"Okay, okay..."
Crashman turns his head to the side as Quick brings their faces centimeters apart. He feels Quick's lips brush his cheek, almost chaste. As embarrassing as he finds it, it makes him feel a thousand times better than the previous attempt to comfort him using language. The gesture reassures him; Quick really isn't afraid of him at all, not even afraid of touching him.
Crash glances back at Quick when he pulls away— He's beaming with self-satisfaction. Typical.
"I know I said I don't like seeing you sulk, but if you get all shy like that..."
Crash had grown accustomed to this kind of thing, too. Usually, though, it was preceded by roughhousing, by pushing back and forth until someone was pinned underneath someone else— But it seems Quickman wants to play a bit nicer today. Uncommon, but not at all unheard of. Maybe Quick was just taking pity on him this time, but Crash gladly accepts it; He isn't in the mood to wrestle anyhow. Crashman isn't sure which of these situations he prefers— The pretense of horseplay or straightforward flirtation. Both are awkward. He doesn't hate touching or kissing, but there's no denying that Quickman gets a kick out of making it as embarrassing or annoying as possible for him.
Quickman repositions himself on his knees, looming over his smaller companion now. Crash looks so tiny and frail from his point of view; It was hard to believe the sheer amount of pure destructive power packed inside him. Quick always found that contrast so exciting.
He leans in again, his kiss landing at the corner of Crash's mouth this time. He restrains himself for just a moment, observing Crashman's tense non-reaction through half-lidded eyes. Even when he had the upper hand like this he'd often not-so-subtly lead Crash into taking charge, but he was trying to prove a point this time, and running out of patience.
At last their lips meet. Quick watches as Crashman's eyes finally squint shut in response. It takes a moment for the younger robot to relax and accept the affection; It was cute how he always seemed to fight his own feelings at first.
When Quickman backs away, he sees Crash's typically expressionless face is tinted red with blush. He stares up at Quick, lips pursed, anxious and anticipating.
"I really missed seeing you make that kinda face." Quick carefully strokes Crashman's cheek.
"It's only been a week or two..." He leans into Quickman's welcome touch.
"That's like, forever for me."
That's because you process everything too fast... Still, Crash has to admit it feels like far too much time has passed since he and Quick had last played at being lovers— Though perhaps loneliness had just distorted both their perspectives.
Quickman brings them together with another kiss— Crash's lips part, knowing what to expect. One hand holds his face steady, while the other runs down his side and rests at his hip. Quick can feel Crash start to shift and squirm beneath him, and it isn’t quite resistance, but... He never liked when things were too easy, anyway.
Crash turns away, breaking the kiss and bracing his bulky armored forearms against Quickman's broad chest.
"We're gonna get caught..." He's starting to look truly flustered now, a pleading look in his eyes.
"We haven't before." Quick reassures him, then draws closer to speak softly into his ear. "Relax, okay?"
The hand that rested on Crash's cheek slides up his torso and beneath his chestplate, feeling the more flexible metal underneath. Crashman has to crane his neck so that Quickman can trail kisses along it without his helmet interfering. Drawing up his knees, the smaller robot can't help but groan. Quick smirks to himself— Crash could easily withstand point-blank blasts, flickering flames and flying hunks of rubble, but had a tendency to fold beneath a loving touch.
Crashman knows Quick is trying to convey something to him here, but for once, he wishes he’d be direct and use his words.
“Are you trying to make me feel better?” He sounds somewhat frustrated.
“Is it working?”
A bit, but Crash doesn’t much feel like admitting it. He’s starting to think if Quick isn’t bothered by what happened, then there’s no reason he should be, either. How can Quick be such a bully and yet so forgiving, so nice to him at the same time? It doesn’t add up. Maybe it doesn’t need to. Crash endures his own fair share of torment from Quick, too, and yet he doesn’t hate him at all for it. He loses his cool and hits him, yells at him, shoves him away... But doesn’t ever hate him. Physical damage is nothing to a robot who can be patched up time and time again— Why would Quick care about what happens to his body when Wily can fix him right away? Quickman knows the risks of playing with fire, and even when he gets burnt, he’s not angry for more than a minute, almost as if he expects it... Almost as if it’s part of the fun.
Something suddenly clicks for Crash, and he throws his arms around the robot above him in an awkward embrace. Quick doesn’t like him in spite of his instability, he likes him because of it.
“Woah—” Quickman has to steady himself. “Guess that’s a ‘yes’.”
Crash answers by nipping his bottom lip— A flick of the tongue and their open mouths meet. Crash’s heart is burning.
Quickman firmly wraps both hands around Crash's tiny waist, sliding his knee forward to sit between his legs. Their lower bodies are smooth, featureless, but the ambient temperature is undoubtedly rising.
There was no point in robots doing these things. Their bodies could only approximate something adjacent to the pleasure humans supposedly felt; They were just playing an elaborate game of pretend. Thinking about it makes Crash's head hurt. A machine built solely to cause destruction and devastation had no logical reason to feel these things, to feel fondness or love or to care about its companions— To be scared of being thrown away, to get angry or feel guilt or shame or hurt, or... It was all so unbearably complicated that he wanted to break down in tears. Crashman curses the Doctor in his mind for leaving all these pointless bits of programming that made him so awfully inefficient, such a handful— But in truth, he couldn't be more grateful. These unstable emotions he carried often proved painful, but right now... Crashman was happy.
"Quickman..." His voice barely rises above a whisper. "...I love you."
Crash was thinking aloud more than anything— He hadn't intended for the words to slip out. Quickman becomes suddenly still. All is quiet for a long moment excepting the white noise provided by the television and the soft whir of the Robot Masters' internal components.
Crashman feels the boomerang on Quick's forehead clack against the top of his visor.
"Yeah." Quick mutters. "Yeah, me too."
It’s as much as he can make himself say. He likes Crashman. How docile and honest he was, despite his face rarely betraying his emotions. He likes how frighteningly powerful Crash is, but still so innocent and curious, following him like a puppy... The way he had grown somewhat spoiled, how he wasn’t afraid to push Quick back just as hard— It was all so much fun. Quick didn’t want to lose that. He wants to keep playing and wreaking havoc together and fighting over stupid things every day until they’re both destroyed or until Wily decommissions them, or whatever happens— Maybe even for forever. Quick doesn’t think he’ll ever get bored. But he feels so stupid trying to use words to communicate his feelings. To say “I love you” aloud feels like an admission of defeat, of some fatal flaw or weakness— Like he’s gone soft.
No, no he hasn’t— Not if he’s only like this with Crash, not if Crash is the only one who sees him like this. Or was it that Quickman had been looking at it the wrong way? His fondness for Crash wasn't a hindrance— Their back-and-forth kept him sharp, and Crash's attachment to him, his admiration and dependence, only lifted Quickman’s sense of self-importance higher. The greatest robot in existence was bound to be loved this much by someone; Wouldn’t it be a waste to not take advantage of the special privilege granted to him?
At least, Quick feels comfortable enough with that explanation. It was easier to think of himself as selfish rather than having a soft spot for someone. He was sick to death of trying to justify himself, trying to deny his own feelings. There’s no use in avoiding the truth; He loves Crashman. Their time together was fun, and it made Quickman feel good about himself— Even if he didn’t care about Crash’s happiness, that alone would be enough. It’s so stupidly simple, but gets tangled up in needless complication. All this pointless worrying makes him feel like such an idiot.
Whatever. Quickman’s arms encircle Crash’s waist, his embrace crushingly tight. Reflexively, Crashman lets out a little noise as his partner pulls him towards him, his crotch making contact with Quick’s thigh. Crash is stronger, but the cords in Quick’s body knit together to form firm faux-muscle— Even if height weren’t a factor, he’s larger by far. Quick buries his face in Crash’s chest, uncomfortably pressed against the shining green gem in the center.
“I really, really...” Quickman’s voice is breathy.
Just spit it out already— If he said it then why can’t you? He raises his head to look at Crash, his usually smug grin suddenly sheepish.
“Say that again for me?”
Crash’s head lolls to the side against the armrest of the couch.
“...Love you...” He mutters, his gaze fixed on Quickman through heavy eyelids.
“Right... That’s right.” Quick chuckles weakly, his forehead falling back down to Crashman’s chest. “Man, we’re so dumb...”
“It’s not dumb .” Crash is audibly annoyed. “I need you. To stay with me, and...”
A thrill surges through Quickman. He’s so cute. I need you . What a wonderful combination of words. Wily’s schemes might never succeed, and Quickman might never be able to defeat Megaman with his own two hands, but as long as Crashman needed him by his side, maybe he could settle for that as a reason to exist.
“I know. I’m not going anywhere... You’re gonna have to do way worse if you want to get rid of me.”
“I can be worse.”
“Wouldn’t mind seeing that...”
Quick seems to have regained his confidence once more. His knee bumps forward, and Crash’s thighs close tightly around it, not wanting to let go. Crashman keeps his eyes averted, hidden from Quickman’s sight by the downward angle of his visor.
“But you’re being pretty good for me right now.”
Crash’s declaration had set a fire burning in Quick’s core, and it needed extinguishing. His large fingers caress down the smaller robot’s slender abdomen, slipping between his legs— Crash’s squirming further excites Quickman, who presses his digits into the flat surface of his groin. A noise somewhere between a whimper and a growl escapes from Crashman; He sounds frustrated, almost desperate for it... Quick moves his hand in a steady rhythm while struggling to position himself in a way where they could both feel good... He ends up with his hand wedged between both of their pelvises.
“Qui—ck...” Crash whines his name, his hips rising to meet the older Number’s hand.
Way too cute . Quickman has started itching for more direct attention, too, but he’ll make do with the friction generated by his own knuckles. It’s a strange way to go about it, but his ultimate goal is to comfort Crashman, to make him forget about that massive outburst from the week before... Both of them are better at communicating with their bodies than with their words. Quick couldn’t hope to guess the reason a couple of combat robots needed such delicate sensors placed between their legs, but he wasn’t objecting— It certainly kept things interesting. Despite the reason they had been built, they were still made in the image of human beings.
Crashman writhes beneath his brother, sweet moans distorted through gritted teeth. He always tries his best to resist pleasure, but he had no endurance whatsoever when it came to this sort of thing. The stimulation was overwhelming, electrical currents running up from his very center and extending to every end of his mechanical body. Wave after unrelenting wave, the sensations strike him before the information can be properly processed. It was too much, but it was far more pleasant than not... If only because Quickman was the one making him feel this way.
The pair of Robot Masters teeter dangerously close to overheating. Crash lets out a pleasured sigh every other moment, the cooling vents on his back doing everything they can to regulate his ever-climbing temperature. It’s too bad, but Quick knows he’ll have to bring this to a close soon; It’d be beyond mortifying if another Wily Number found the two unconscious on top of each other on the sofa. Not to say the rest of them were clueless about the kind of things they got up to, but nonetheless...
Quickman digs in hard, firmly squeezing soft synthetic skin— Crashman yelps in shock or pleasure, and pushes Quick back by his armored shoulders.
“Geez, listen to you...” He’s amused by Crash’s mock defiance. “Weren’t you just worried about someone catching us?”
“Guh... Auugh...” A garbled, strangled moan— Crashman’s circuitry is too inundated by stimuli for him to articulate a single word.
“Alright, alright. Lemme finish you off already.”
Rough, deliberate strokes and pinches push Crash closer and closer to the edge. The little robot makes himself smaller still, folding in on himself with his shins grazing Quickman’s torso above him. His worries were far from his mind; Crash can only focus on the stifling warmth further slowing his processing power, the electrifying pleasure building somewhere deep inside, and Quickman. Quickman, who likes him in spite of everything. His partner in crime, his playmate, his protector... Nothing else mattered, not Dr. Wily or the other Numbers or their mission, just as long as Quick loved him, needed him just like he did...
Crash abruptly reaches his limit, his body jolting as if he’s shorting out. It feels that way, too— He sees stars behind his eyes, and a high-pitched whine escapes him as pulsing currents cause him to twitch involuntarily. He loves Quickman. Loves him, loves him...
Quick watches Crashman come apart underneath him, panting, whimpering, his face screwed up. It’s his win this time. He feels so lucky to be the only one who gets to see this, that Crash is all his... There’s an odd pride Quick takes in being able to reduce him to this state, to push past his tough exterior and have him melt completely. With Crash basking in the afterglow, Quickman takes the opportunity to catch up, pawing at the smooth plane between his legs. It’s rushed and clumsy, but he doesn’t need to bother with technique when it comes to himself; He’s not trying to impress anyone, he just wants to hurry and get off. Seeing Crash so flustered and needy had already aroused him enough that it doesn’t take long— Quick jerks forward with a grunt, having to steady himself, palms sinking into the couch cushions on either side of Crashman’s body.
He pants beside Crash’s ear, his body sluggish and heavy from the excess heat. Eyes closed, he blindly but deliberately searches— His hands find the metal drills at the end of Crashman’s arms, gripping them tightly. Even the parts that could bring him harm were precious things that made Crash, Crash. Crashman’s heart aches just a little. He wishes he could lock fingers with Quickman and squeeze back, give him the same kind of confirmation and reassurance... Instead, he does what he can; He nuzzles his face next to Quick’s, careful not to jab him with the tip of his visor.
Crash feels weak, but safe, happy— Just as he’s thinking he’d be almost content to stay in this moment forever, Quick suddenly sweeps him up, sitting upright again and holding him in his lap. The older Number couldn’t stand staying in the same position for even that long. He hugs Crashman tight in his strong arms, an action meant to punctuate their playtime.
"You get it now?" Quick cocks his head, smiling brightly down at Crash. "No more being a little sad sack?"
"Un, I get it." He gives a slight nod in acknowledgement.
Quickman releases Crash and stretches out his limbs. With a satisfied sigh, he leans his elbows over the back of the couch. The two say nothing for a while; Quick squints at the television as he tries to bring himself up to speed on the motor race still airing.
"So—..." Crashman rocks back and forth slightly, suddenly sporting a mischievous little smile. "You won't get mad even if I stick my drills in you? Or pin you down, or shoot a Crash Bomb...?"
"Alright, cool it with the bombs already!" As a warning, Quickman gives Crash's head a firm but playful poke.
Crashman pouts.
"I don't mind the rest though. If you can manage to get one up on me, I mean." Quick switches to patting the top of Crash's helmet, a little loving, a little patronizing.
"I'll get you next time." He accepts today's "loss" for now. "So don't underestimate me..."
"Mmhmm—." Quickman seems unconcerned.
Crash huffs and kicks his legs back and forth.
"This race is boring. Can we play a game or something?"
"What— Dude, how is this boring? It's—" Quick is impassioned, but gives up trying to explain before he even starts. If Crash isn't engaged then there's no convincing him. "Yeah, okay. I wasn't really paying attention anyway."
Crashman climbs out of his brother's lap to enable him to get up from the couch and boot up the console.
"What're you in the mood for?"
"Quick! Crash!" Metalman calls out to the two as he enters the room. "There you are."
Numbers twelve and thirteen sit on the floor, pouring over a thick graphic novel left lying open; Crashman is leaning on Quick's back, looking over his shoulder at the colorful sequence of drawings.
"Next page." Crash orders, and Quick turns it as he asks.
Metalman clears his throat.
"What, man? We're in the middle of something." Quickman spares his attention at last.
"Orders from Dr. Wily. He has a mission for you two."
"Aww..." Crash slides backwards to the floor. "It was just getting good, too."
Quick sets the book face-down to save their place. He gets to his feet and Crash follows suit.
"C'mon, you have more fun on missions than with stuff like this, don't you?" Quickman nudges Crash with his elbow.
It was true; Crashman couldn't help but smile in anticipation of the destruction he would get to cause. Both of the robots had been growing antsy waiting for some real action to come their way again.
"So." Quick addresses Wily's right-hand man. "What's the Doc got in store for us this time?"
"Everything you need to know is in here." Metal comes closer and places an information chip in the palm of Quickman's hand. "But in brief, you'll be securing some resources from this facility."
Quickman unscrews his ear cover and slots the chip into a small rectangular opening. He half listens to Metalman as the data streams into his mind almost instantaneously.
"You're free to destroy things as much as you need, but do try not to completely wreck the place. It's not that kind of mission."
Crashman's disappointment is palpable. Having read the maps and strategies contained on the chip, Quick removes it and does Crash the favor of inserting it into his head as well.
"Don't look so sad, Crash. There's plenty of big locked doors just waiting for you to blow 'em to bits."
"If you two understand, hurry and head to the teleporters. The coordinates are already set. I'll send some smaller robots along for support."
"Got it." Quickman retrieves the chip and returns it to Metal.
The two younger Wily bots walk past Metalman and towards the doorway, when he suddenly stops them again.
"Wait, one more thing."
They look back at Metal, all ears.
"I wouldn't be surprised if Megaman shows up. Don't let your guards down."
Quickman turns around, a self-assured smirk plastered on his face.
"You really think I'm worried about that little pest?" He clasps his hand around Crash's shoulder, pulling him close. "With my speed and Crash's power, nothing's gonna stop us!"
