Oooo Robin and Firework, "You're not what I expected."

“You’re not what I expected.” 

“What did you expect?”

Firework wrinkles her nose, looking all the more expressive next to Stryver. Blake sits across from them on a couch that, pre-Firework, was white. It has since been turned into a sketch pad. Stryver doesn’t seem to mind, though. 

“Oh, the normal corporate scumbags Phill works with.” The Firework says. She nudges Stryver with her elbow. “Like that roommate you had, the one who wanted to run pyramid schemes? Phill, you remember?”

He looks up from his laptop, blinking. “...Danial Gibbons?”

“Yeah! Ponzi Scheme Dan! He used to go on and on about how people on the ground floor did actually make a killing, and it was everyone else who lost out. Where did he end up?”

“Jail, last I heard.” Stryver says.

“Oooh. Because of the Ponzi schemes?”

“Attempted vehicular manslaughter.”

“Oh, yikes.” The Firework turns her attention back to Blake. Stryver looks back at his screen. “Anyways. You’re Mr. Goody Two Shoes, which is, ya know, great, just a weird kind of person for Blake to end up being friends with.”

“You’re one to talk.” Blake says, dryly. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Blake slowly looks around the once pristine apartment that has since filled up with every manner of painting materials, half finished canvases, and odd knick knacks.  There is a large paint spill on the living room floor that’s still tacky. The boho overshirt thrown over paint-stained overalls she’s wearing is befuddling against Stryver’s suit. 

He looks back at her, arching an eyebrow. She raises one right back. 

“I bring taste and verity to his life.” She says. “What do you do, besides work him to death?”

“Who’s dead?” Stryver asks, looking up. 

"You.” The Firework says, at the same moment that Blake says, “No one.”

Stryver glances between them, a sort of thoughtful confusion crossing his face for a moment. He must decide he doesn’t actually care, because after a moment his face relaxes and he looks back at his computer screen. 

“Does he says that?” Blake asks. “That I work him to death?”

“You could stab him and he wouldn’t complain.”

“Stab who?” Stryver asks, vacantly, eyes still flicking over his screen as he reads something. Firework makes a shushing noise and pets his hair. 

“I wouldn’t stab him.” Blake says, a bit more miffed than he realizes until his words come out sharp and abrupt. 

“Well...Like I said, you’re not like the people he normally hangs out with.”

And for the first time that evening, Blake detects a piece of genuine approval in the Firework’s tone.