Hey Anon!  Hope you don’t mind, but I combined your prompt with one from @snuffles05​  about Robbie saving the day.  So here it is!  Enjoy 3000 words of me trying to figure these characters out.  (Please do keep in mind I’m writing these to figure out these characters.)

föl (a
thick film of snow covering the ground)

Stingy has a migraine and Sportacus has a moment.

---

Sportacus was practicing the new flip
kick his brother had shown him when the AI alerted him.  “Incoming mail.”

 He cartwheeled over to catch the tube as
it flew up through the floor, it always felt too strange to go from flipping to
walking again.

 “What could it be?” he asked no one in
particular, although sometimes the AI responded according to her mood.

 “It came from the school,” she told
him and left it at that.

 Maybe the kids wanted him to come teach
them some trick again?

 The paper was a faint blue, and the
note was written in Ms. Busybody’s script, grace with a barely concealed line
of authority underneath.  

 Stingy is sick, he needs to go home.  His parents are working, will you come get
him?

Ms. B

 He felt his eyebrows crumple together,
it always felt weird under his hat.

 Sportacus had been around sick people
before, as a hero that was.  His crystal
had called him to someone was ill before, like when Mr. Hyperbyte had an asthma
attack or when Ms. Busybody had that bad flu and needed someone to go get her
medicine.  Both of those times the person
had been an adult and reasonably alright.
They’d understood what was happening to them and what they needed to do,
and in general were adults.  An ill child
was something else.  

 He jumped out of the plane and flipped
his way over to the school and sticking his landing in the nurse’s office.  For a moment he startled in the dark room,
trying to get his bearings.  Ms. Busybody
froze at the standing cupboard, illuminated by the light coming in through the
open door, with a mop in one hand and then there was Stingy next to her lying
on a narrow cot.  The boy’s face was
clenched up in a knot of pain, his body contracted in jagged angles and twisted
features.  The smell the boy’s thready
pain and the acid of vomit floated over the top of the familiar perfumed scent
of Ms. Busybody and the chemical smell of the nurse’s office.

 Alarm jolted through him, pushing him
back on his heels, his eyes wide.  He
took in the papery dryness of the boy’s face as though he was being somehow
mummified, looked down to the rubbish bin pushed into range of the cot, the way
the wit and activity of Stingy had been reduced to a trembling figure on a thin
mattress.

 “It’s a migraine,” Ms. Busybody whispered,
putting the mop away and closing the cupboard door.  

 “A migraine?” he repeated, he could
hear the nervous thickness of his accent.
How was he supposed to protect Stingy from a migraine?  In the past, he’d heard Robbie grumble about
his migraines, but had never seen what one looked like.

 “A really bad headache,” she
explained, voice soft.  Perhaps
misunderstanding him, perhaps needing something to say just as much as he did
to push back the helplessness.  “Mrs.
Rotten used to get them, I believe Robbie does too.”

 “Mrs. Rotten?” Sportacus asked, just
for something to say.  He still felt
frozen, panicked.  

 “She was before your time, I
think.  Blew up the old city hall
once.  Saved the clock though, she said
tradition was important.  She was like that,”
she spoke in a soft tone.  “Stingy
probably should go home, but his father works until seven and his mother doesn’t
get off until six.”

 “What can I do?” Sportacus asked.

 “You can lower your voice,“ Ms.
Busybody told him.

 Sportacus jolted in place, awkward and
stumbling over what to do.  He felt
unsteady not knowing how to solve this problem, felt out of place.  This wasn’t an apple he could knock out of a
tree or a fence he could flip over.
“Sorry!” he whispered back.

 "Migraines make him sensitive to
light and to noise,“ she told him, lifting one finger, lecturing again, in
teacher mode already.   “He needs to head
home, I can’t just leave him here. That’s why I called you, I need to get back
to class.  There are other students here,
you know.”

 Sportacus felt a mixture of alarm and
frustration at her flippant answer, true though it may have been.  Did she see how pale the boy was?  Couldn’t see smell his distress?

 Stingy stirred on the small bed.  His voice sounded wet and pained, ragged at
the corners and alarming.  As reedy and
thin as the smell of pain coming off of him.
“Don’t leave me!  I don’t
want to be left alone, I want someone to stay with me!”

 Sportacus jolted, surprised.  He needed to relax, to stay still.  Inside an enclosed space, flipping and
jumping, with someone who suffered at every sound?  It would be a disaster.

 With effort Stingy began to lift his
head to look at the two of them, then his brow knit together in a way Sportacus
had never seen in a child before.  Stingy’s
face turned impossibly paler, sweat beading up on his brow and suddenly he
vomited over the side of the bed into the rubbish bin.  Ms. Busybody started back, going up on her
toes as though to keep the vomit off her shoes.
Then as though she had remembered herself, stepped forward to smooth
back the boy’s hair.

 "You’re alright, dear.  You’re alright, I know you feel awful.  It’s alright.
Sportacus will take you home to rest, won’t you Sportacus?”

 The smell of Stingy’s distress sank
into him, acrid and stinging in his sinuses, activating some primal part of his
brain that was used to fixing things.
His hands felt like they wanted to shake.  Stingy lay on his side, his body hung limp
off his spine like a puppet with the strings cut.  "Of course,“ he whispered.  "But surely I can’t just take him home
and leave him like this?”

 "I think I’m dying,“ Stingy
whispered, shivering in pain with each word he spoke.

 "There has to be something that
can be done,” Sportacus whispered again, barely loud enough to hear.  

 "Well, if you have some kind of
magic something that’s one thing, but I don’t.“

 "Magic?” he squeaked out.

 Ms. Busybody rolled her eyes at
him.  "Nine was here for quite a
while until Robbie ran him off.”

 "Robbie ran him off?“  Nine had never said why he had left.

 "He’s been nicer with you, I
think because you’re less… aggressive.  Comparatively.  Maybe just softer.  I think Nine scared Robbie a bit.  He likes to be in control, that one,”
she told him, tossing her gloves away with a wrinkle of her nose.

 "You really are quite good at
reading people, aren’t you?“

 She huffed out a soft laugh, “Of
course I am.  Someone has to be in this
town.  Well, I’ll leave you to it.”

 “You will?” he asked in alarm.  “His mother’s not off until six.  I just take him home and leave him there?”

 "He won’t be getting into any
trouble like this, he’ll be fine for a few hours.”

 “You can’t take me home,” Stingy
rasped out.  “I don’t have a key.”

 “You don’t have a key?” Sportacus
blinked at him.

 Stingy curled up into an even tighter
ball.  “Momma says being home alone isn’t
safe, I play at Pixel’s house, or go to the Mayor’s until she gets home.”

  That
just wouldn’t do, that wouldn’t do at all.
Sportacus couldn’t stay here in this tiny room and trying to get Stingy
to the airship would be a nightmare, where else could he take the boy?

 "I’ll take him to someone who can
help him feel better,“ Sportacus said, slipping back into his hero pose
with his hands on his hips before remembering he needed to whisper.  

 “Who?” she blinked at him.

 "To Robbie,” Sportacus told
her, voice quiet.  "You said he had
migraines, he’ll know what to do.“

 "I don’t know if that’s a great
idea,” she advised him.

 Maybe not a great
one, but he didn’t need a great idea.
Most of the time am average idea and a lot of work would do.  Sportacus felt certain that if Robbie saw
Stingy’s face that he would let them in, that he would know what to do.  "He’ll help him, I’m certain of it.”

 Belligerent optimism also went a long
way toward accomplishing one’s goals.

 She considered him.  "I think he might.  He might after all.  Go on then.
Just be careful with him, he isn’t feeling well.  You need to be careful for the both of
you.“

 He nodded, anxious, moving aside to
let her leave the room.

 “Stingy,” he said quietly, kneeling by
his bedside.  “You don’t have to respond
if it hurts to talk, but I’m going to take you to Robbie’s so he can help you.  I’m going to carry you there so you don’t
have to walk.”

 “Yeah, alright,” Stingy breathed out,
reaching up to use Sportacus’ shoulder for support as he pulled himself
upright.  Sportacus tried to smile
reassuringly as the boy wobbled in place.

 He could walk to Robbie’s couldn’t
he?  Why did Robbie have to live so far
away from all of them?  When he lifted
Stingy up in his arms, the boy groaned, in so much pain he was helpless in his
arms.  A second hand agony lodged itself
in Sportacus’ heart, he was so helpless himself.  His Pabbi had told him plenty of times that
sometimes not even good advice could solve a problem, that he’d have to be
strong when that happened, but he hadn’t expected it would be like this, that
Stingy’s pain would be his own.  That he’d
feel so inadequate.  

 “It’s going to be alright, Stingy,” he
told him as he stood.  “It’ll be
alright.  I’ll get you there in no time.”

 He’d have to walk very carefully.  It seemed to take forever to get to Robbie’s
billboard, Stingy frighteningly still in his arms.  The boy seemed to have relaxed some, or he
had tensed up so much he couldn’t flinch anymore.  Laying Stingy down so he could have both
hands free he opened the top of the bunker to save from the usual gonging knock
and tapped with gentle knuckles on the inside of the tunnel entrance.  He needn’t have worrying about being heard,
no sooner had he given a couple raps then Robbie surged up.  Robbie could sure move fast when he was
motivated.

 “What
Sportaflop?  Did you do too many flips
and make everything in your brain about manners go flying out your ears?”

 “N-No, I-“  

 Robbie’s grin bloomed bright and white
at the sight of Sportacus bouncing worriedly on his toes.  “What has you all in distress?” he said.  “I’ll have to get some of whatever it is.”

 “Stingy has a migraine and he’s thrown
up twice and he’s hurting,” Sportacus blathered at him, his hands knotting
together.

 That sly face that Robbie liked to put
on fell away, his gaze intense on Sportacus’ face.  “Is he with you?”

 Sportacus nodded, grateful.

 “Give him to me.  I’ll take care of it.”  He held out his arm, his nose wiggling.  There was an authority in the set of his jaw that
lifted the tension in Sportacus’ shoulders, lifted the weight somewhat off his
chest.  Stingy looked so small in
Robbie’s arms; young, vulnerable, and precious in the way all children were.  He made a discontented sound, but made no
real effort to stir.

 Robbie looked down at the boy in his
arms, assessing, and then up at Sportacus.
“Don’t just stand there fretting at the hatch, I won’t be able to get
anything done with you pacing around up here.”

 When he felt sure Robbie had moved out
from under the entrance he leapt down.
Robbie had organized Stingy in his big orange chair and was in what
passed for the kitchen running water and arranging things.  The lights had already been dropped low, the darkness
brought out the illumination from the faint glow from the machines.  A soft orange like the flesh of a cantaloupe
and the soft violet that was the last color in the sky after sunset.

 “Sportacus,” Robbie said, voice low
and soft.  A shadowy, winterdown
voice.  “There’s a flip switch by the
door.  Flip it, until the speakers lower,
and then when they’re low enough, turn the volume knob to zero.”

 The simple task filled Sportacus with
gratitude, something to do while he waited.
Anything that could be done to help the boy in the face of his pain, and
in the face of Robbie’s practiced competency.

 Hovering nearby, Sportacus bounced on
his toes, terrified to speak.  Robbie strode
out of his kitchen, almost silent and looking entirely certain of what to
do.  He spoke in a soft tone to Stingy,
all simple questions as he knelt down.
Had Stingy drunk water today?  Had
he slept last night?  Did he feel
nauseous now?  Had he had a migraine
before?  Did he eat any cheese or
anything red?  Somehow the soft rumble of
the questions seemed to relax Stingy, seemed to give him something to cling to,
that there was someone helping him who knew what he was doing.  The knit in his brow relaxed, and then the
whiteness in his pinched together lips faded somewhat as Robbie pressed the
cold cloth to Stingy’s forehead.  Against
the clatter of his heart in his chest Sportacus concentrated on the low murmur
of Robbie’s voice pitched low and soft as the early morning fog.  He concentrated on the breadth of Robbie’s
palm on Stingy’s head holding the compress in place, watched him flip it to the
other side.  How proficient Robbie was.

 Sinking into a deep crouch, Sportacus breathed
with his head between his knees.
Breathing.  Counting his breaths
in and out.  Stingy was alright, Stingy was okay.  There was a new scent in the
air, something he had always associated with Robbie’s underscent.  Something… sparkly.  Something authoritative.  Then there was the scent of lavender, lighter
and more real than the imitation Sportacus usually smelled around humans and
then the bright high notes of peppermint drowning out almost everything else in
the bunker.  He watched Stingy’s body
relax, his small hands going limp, his face turning into Robbie’s chair as he
went to sleep.

 “Hmm,” Robbie hummed to himself, soft
and satisfied.  “I really should get a
bed in here, what if he has another migraine?”

 “You don’t have a bed?” Sportacus
asked, feeling like a brass band in the quiet Robbie had somehow weaved through
the bunker.

 “Mmm, too much trouble, not enough
time,” Robbie told him, standing with a liquid elegance for all his long limbs
wobbled and wiggled.  “I keep meaning to
expand, but that would take work.  I don’t
like doing work unless I can get it done fast and get it done well.  I don’t even do this much work for myself
when I have a migraine.”

 “Don’t you?” Sportacus blinked up at
him.

The smile he got in return was half
self-effacing, half teasing.  “Sometimes
misery is my favorite medicine.  What’s
the point of things if you can’t complain about them?  Stingy will be alright now.  He still won’t be feeling great, but it won’t
be as bad when he wakes.  People feel
better after a nap.  When he’s done
sleeping it off you can take him home.”

 Sportacus nodded once, three times,
fives times, far too much and too frantically to seem calm.

 He
couldn’t look Robbie in the eye.  Robbie
hadn’t mocked him yet, although he could have the moment Sportacus all but
collapsed down into his lair.  He could see his weakness reflected in the
villain’s eyes, analyzed in the hands on his hips, the tilt down of his
eyebrows.  With helpless weakness he stood and tried to pull his shaken
and torn self-discipline around himself to prepare for the attack.

 “You
seem pretty shaken up.”

 “What
about it?” Sportacus puffed his chest out, felt his ears try to lay back.

 “Relax,
Sportaworry.”  He took a couple steps
forward and the familiarity of standing nose to nose with his nemesis was
calming.

 “I’m
fine.”

 Robbie’s
large hand curled around the back of his neck.
There was just the barest pull forward and Sportacus collapsed against
him, his arms wrapping around Robbie on some instinct.  Robbie laughed under his breath then hummed,
a low even sound.  “Relax, Sportacare.  You’re little friend is alright, he’s going
to be okay.”

 “I-
I’m fine.”

“You
were scared stiff and looked utterly destitute crouching there like a kicked
dog.”

“Hey
now,” Sportacus told Robbie’s shoulder.

Robbie’s
hand offered him a little squeeze.  “It’s
okay to be scared when you care about someone.”

“I
know.”

“Hey.”
Robbie squeezed gently on the back of his neck again.  “It’s okay to be scared when you care about
someone.  Don’t tell anyone, because I
have to keep up my villain cred, but you did a good job.  Stingy needed someone and you were that
someone.  You did it.  Hooray.”

The
last of the tension in Sportacus’ spine melted away.  They just stayed there like that for a while,
Sportacus tipping himself back toward center and Robbie twitching from time to
time.  “I didn’t know what to do though,
I saw him in pain and I was so scared.”
His heart rate started ratcheting up again, his hands felt shaky.

 The
villain pulled back, holding Sportacus by the shoulders as he examined his
face.  He didn’t look quite satisfied by
what he found.

 “Why
are you being nice to me?  Is- Is this a
trick?”  What kind of trick he couldn’t
guess, but Robbie’s mind did the sort of acrobatics Sportacus could never try
and replicate when it came to him plans.

 "Do
you know the difference between a criminal and a villain?” Robbie asked.

 Sportacus
wheezed unhelpfully.

 "A
criminal breaks the law.  A villain makes
art.  Breaking you wouldn’t be art, I’d sooner destroy a stained glass window as someone like yourself.”

 Sportacus
looked up at him, face filled with something.  He wasn’t sure, he couldn’t
stop shaking, never mind control and take note of what exactly his face was
doing, it felt a bit like hope though.

 The
villain rolled his eyes at that and pulled Sportacus close so the hero could
hide his face again.  "It figures you wouldn’t get a pop culture
reference if it hit you in the face like a halibut.”

 "I
like halibut,“ he offered.  

 "Of
course you do.”  Robbie laughed, the sound rumbled through Sportacus’
chest cavity. 

 It
was a wonderful feeling, it made him feel enclosed and special.  Like he
was crouching at the edge of a great glacial crevice, too deep to see the
bottom, the air cold enough to nip pink spots in his skin, smelling like clean
water sweetness and the trapped bones of ancient things.  Like he was small but still acceptable
somehow.  It was too bad Robbie was so
good at being a villain, Sportacus thought he would make a very good hero.