Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He’s watched him for so long. 

And he will never be gone from his mind, really, but on principle— principle! —it is his duty to reject these feelings and then ignore that he ever had to reject them, at all. His state of dress. That focused look in his eye. A brush of their fingers as latte passes from hand to gloved hand. Barely contact, but he notices it. He notices everything. It’s part of the whole autism thing.

Fact: neurotypicals, allistics, they don’t go about their days feeling the weight of their clothing on their skin, the shifting of hairs on their heads. They don’t notice the weight of nail polish on their fingernails, nor do they feel it when an eyelash is just slightly out of place. 

But Dr. Ivo Robotnik does.

Dr. Ivo Robotnik hates the feeling of it when his fingerprints meet and rub together. Dr. Ivo Robotnik’s whole back tenses up when someone he doesn’t particularly like taps him on the shoulder. Dr. Ivo Robotnik can’t stand velvet and had to turn his socks inside-out until he was fifteen, if he fought with himself to put them on at all. And now, with his whole life in his hands and his rocky days at the orphanage behind him, Dr. Ivo Robotnik wraps himself up in his ultra-soft black turtlenecks and form-fitting control gloves and, on days when his more stylish clothing hates him, big hoodies that are older than his position at G.U.N.

And G.U.N. can’t fire him. So Dr. Ivo Robotnik gets to yell at people when they make him uncomfortable, and occasionally maybe fake a badnik malfunction to “accidentally gently taze” the most obnoxious moron in the room, and, best of all, Dr. Ivo Robotnik has more freedom over his schedule than any other employee in the entire complex. As such, he doesn’t have to rub elbows, so they say, with a bunch of government freaks that don’t wash their hands nearly as much as they should. 

Back to Agent Stone.

Stone has watched him for so long. Years, at this point. And the thought of the man wrapped in all those prim-and-proper layers, hiding snug inside like a Lindor truffle’s melty center—Stone’ll never leave his thoughts. Or his lab, either, apparently. Stone doesn’t use his vacation days, doesn’t do vacations in general. He does take sick days, but only because Robotnik will give him that full-body look of utter disgust when he coughs within five feet of him. So apart from sick days, and the occasional unrelated mission that Robotnik is slowly bullying the higher-ups out of giving him, Agent Aban Stone can be found orbiting his doctor like the Moon orbits the Earth. 

It took Robotnik a very long time to get used to Stone. Two very imperfect, long years. But in the end, it was (and this is merely the most rational and logical conclusion, naturally) worth it. Robotnik has lattes with steamed Austrian goat milk, and someone to remind him to drink water and take full breaths of air and stretch. He has routine and stability and permanence. Stone is his anchor, when plans change and he’s thrown into fits of carefully concealed internal panic. Or, better: Stone is his rock.

Fact: nothing is ever actually touching. Electrons, when they brush close to each other, have a little photon force field that ensures their personal bubble is not disrupted.

But Ivo Robotnik is not, himself, a safe and untouchable electron. So he must make do.

His trusty photon barrier, Aban Stone, in all his puppydog-eyed glory, is well known for helping to maintain the doctor’s beloved bubble of personal space. Aggressively, but somehow, also, politely. Physically moving people a few steps back. Stepping between his doctor and an angry colleague. Shaking hands for him. 

And Stone doesn’t seem to mind, from what Robotnik can glean, and so this system remains.

Back to Stone’s habit of watching.

Those big ol’ brown eyes. Those doe eyes. Those eyes that, when the sunlight hits them at the correct angle, light up like the finest of gemstones. Like a creekbed glowing, alive and gorgeous for it, under the midday summer sun. It’s…annoying. It’s annoying. And Robotnik is very glad that most of their work gets done indoors, within the sanctuary of his lab at the G.U.N. complex or his sleek, sunlight-safe mobile lab.

Stone is just a part of his routine, now. A fact of life, if you will, like how he’ll have to eat at least twice a day in order to avoid feeling completely like shit. Which, by the way, Stone is fantastic for. Bodyguard, cook, barista…a man of many unexpected passions. Also a man of unyielding patience. He stands, for hours at a time, while Robotnik works. Stands and watches. Observes from afar, if you can call three to five feet far. There is that personal bubble still. The bubble of air and clothes and scowling.

Fact: not once, in the entirety of their three-year working relationship, has their skin touched. (Touch being, as you know, a concept of the mind rather than a real thing.)

Except for today. Because God (or Zeus, or Odin, or Tangaloa, or just the spiteful Universe itself, really) hates him.

His control gloves, for the first time since their prototyping, malfunctioned. And were, presently, refusing to respond positively to his attempts at fixing them. If that weren't enough to make those helpless sort of frustrated tears prick at his eyes, then the fact they’d just zapped him minorly was what did it. The perfect fix for his sour mood? Already anticipated: Stone was soon handing him a latte, made just the way he likes. But something which would normally be accounted for and taken care of went unchecked. A miscalculation on Robotnik’s part, overlooked due to the doctor’s never-before interrupted habit of obsessively wearing his control gloves.

His fingers brushed, bare, against Stone’s, also bare, when he accepted the latte from his agent.

To put it as simply as possible, this was unacceptable, ineffable, startling, brain-breaking, and altogether life-altering. Off-script. Unexpected. And Robotnik froze, mind stalling out after uncharacteristically setting the latte down on his desk rather than chugging it immediately. And, as the sensation set in, it started to hurt. Why did it hurt? It wasn't…it hadn’t been as terrible as usual. He didn't feel like crawling out of his skin, or ripping his flesh off, or wriggling away from his mortal coil. Which was strange, yes, but it was not, currently, his most pressing issue, because it hurt. Not because it was unpleasant; because it wasn’t unpleasant. It wasn’t unpleasant, and he didn’t want to be extirpated divinely from his meat sack. And it was warm and okay and oh. Maybe he thought of Stone as part of him, to an extent. Just a little bit. And so touch was okay, a little bit. Maybe. 

…Clearly, this warranted no further exploration, because his face felt hot from the break in routine that Stone would obviously have noticed, given his penchant for observation. The doctor went about gulping down his latte unhealthily quickly. 

…

…

…It would never be gone from his mind, would it.

That quick brush of contact, that warm, textured skin. A little rougher than his own. Probably from doing harsher things with his hands than tinkering with tiny metal tools and tinier metal parts. Would he ever stop thinking about it? Robotnik doubted it. It’d happened a full week ago, already, and what was that thought doing in his head? It wasn’t some…some sort of anniversary, some thing that deserved to be celebrated. It’s not like he’d been waiting on it, its inevitability. What a strange thing to be thinking about, he chastised himself, when it was four in the morning and a mind as brilliant and well-nourished as his had other things to ponder like, say, the cosmos. Or photons. No. Photons are stupid. Go to sleep. 

Oh, how he wished he could rescind that order.

When he woke up, he felt hot and floaty and bodily. 

His dreams—things which usually came to him cluttered with the day’s thoughts and concerns; annoying meetings with sponsors and stressful phone calls spent groveling for funding—had been full of skin. Skin and warmth and some approximation of what he thought other people’s soap smelled like. No. Not other people’s. Stone’s soap. He imagined the man used floral or wholesome smells. Something that would draw one closer; welcome one in. Or maybe he’d surprise him, and go with something basic like coconut or—what did they sell in the men’s section? Evil Kraken Man Soap That Makes You Smell Like Fear? Something like that. Robotnik didn’t know. He’s been using women’s soaps for years because the name of the scent actually tells you what it smells like. And, they’re generally less offensive on the nose. And less embarrassing to say out loud. The list goes on.

Trying to distract himself from the racing of his thoughts, he decided to throw himself down a rabbithole on Wikipedia. Start somewhere he liked to reread, then keep clicking and clicking until he found something he’d never seen before. By the time he made it to the lab, he’d heard all about Tolkein’s careers in being generally great at English, and read about the mythology surrounding the Greek lyre, and basked in the familiar glow of bioluminescence in marine life. His mood had significantly improved, and his head was clear.

And then, Agent Stone.

His agent gave him a heart-melting smile and offered a warm, “Good morning, doctor! Would you like a latte?”

That was it.

That was it. 

Somehow, it pissed Robotnik off. Stupid agent with his stupid puppy eyes and his stupid prim-and-proper suit and the way he keeps his composure while Robotnik takes out his stress on him by way of yelling. 

He complained over this and that, how the latte was a singular but noticeable degree cooler than usual (because Robotnik was a minute late to work, because he was distracted by Wikipedia and sat there in the car until 6:03 exactly finishing a good read, because he had trouble sleeping last night and that’s Stone’s fault, too, not that he knows it or ever should). He complained about how bright it was outside and how dim it looked in the lab by comparison, and he accused Agent Stone of assuming Robotnik was attached enough to the man (who’s spent three years by his side involving himself in Robotnik’s life) to need a good morning from him. He complained that—well, he complained about very many things, that morning. And Stone just stood there, obediently pinning himself to the wall, listening with patience and intent.

Robotnik hated him for that, too, by the way. It was annoying. Obnoxious. Unnecessary. 

Also unnecessary was the way Stone kept glancing down, to where his own bare, pale hand held him in place against the wall. What a moron. Did he need to keep checking on it? What was the point in that? They did this the same way every time, with Stone’s back pressed against the wall of the lab and oh, that wasn’t Stone’s hand, was it.

Fuck.

Since when did Robotnik forgo his control gloves?

The doctor scowled down at his own hand, finally following his agent’s gaze, and wondered who put it there. Agent Stone seemed to be wondering something similar, or perhaps having a crisis because it was often his job to push people back out of Robotnik’s space, but there was a wall behind himself, so was he meant to push the doctor away? Further invading his personal space to do so, and likely pissing him off worse? What—

“I need a fresh latte. Now.” Robotnik snapped, shoving himself off and recoiling like he’d been burnt.

…

…Fact: to an allistic and well-socialized person, a brush of the fingers just…feels like a brush of the fingers. Not the world-ending, full-body sensation Robotnik experiences it as. It isn’t an explosion of their nerves. It isn’t fire searing up their arm, singing the jealous fingertips of the opposite hand. It is just a brief, not lingering, touch.

But Robotnik has been on fire for two weeks, now. It’s taking its toll.

He’s agitated. He’s irritated. But worst of all, he’s staring. 

That’s Stone’s thing. Watching. 

Observing. 

Staring, like some mutt trapped behind a glass door watching as another dog goes on a walk.

Puppydog-eyed. 

Dr. Ivo Robotnik will NOT go puppydog-eyed. Not over touch, and not over Stone’s touch.

Stone is an imbecile (Stone is the second-most competent man he’s ever met). Stone is annoying (Stone is the only person who can stand him longer than ten minutes). Stone has zero interest whatsoever in anything other than doing his job exceptionally (that sycophant would probably stop giving him puppydog-eyes the moment he saw behind the genius. Behind the flare. Behind the mustache and the cleverly blinding brilliance).

So why does Robotnik hurt? Why can’t he stop thinking about it? Why did he forget his gloves, why did he pin Stone to the wall, why did any of this bullshit have to happen? It’s one little instance. Two. It’s not like it’s some huge monster, looming above him, hiding in shadows and the cups he can’t pick up. It’s not. It’s not. This isn’t…it’s not, okay, and that’s it.

And when Robotnik walks into the complex today, he’s in a pissy mood, and it’s not fucking related, quit thinking that. He’s the smartest man in the world. Heating pads and hot showers are enough. They have to be.

…

…

“Stone?”

“Yes, doctor?”

“...Get the fuck out of my lab. I can feel the gears in your brain struggling to turn, and it’s grating on my nerves.”

“Of course, doctor. I’m sorry.”

I don’t care whether or not you’re sorry, Robotnik wants to spit, I told you to leave. Your apologies mean nothing to me. You mean nothing to me. But, he doesn’t say that. He doesn’t say it because it would extend their conversation, earn more apologies, and Robotnik just wants Stone gone.

The sound of the plexiglass door sliding closed behind his agent makes the room seem too small. 

He can hear his own breathing, now. Wonder about the pace of his heart. He hates that. He’d much rather listen to Stone’s breathing, or maybe find out what his heartbeat sounds like.

…Not that it’ll sound any different than any other human heartbeat out there.

He’s going to ignore that he had to think that thought.

The day passes with undeserved turbulence, Robotnik muses. Yelling at Stone to leave the room, then calling him back in. Calling him a mushy buffoon then asking him to decode the tone in an email. Hot and cold, like that Katy Perry song. It’s not going on his Tunes of Anarchy playlist. He’ll store it away in one he hasn’t uploaded to the interface yet.

When Robotnik lays down to sleep that night, he finds the rough seas of his bedsheets to, like everything else for the last almost-month, be getting on his nerves. Something about the texture of his bedsheets is off. And the soft blanket he usually counteracts this with is out of place: wrinkled and folded over itself in some places due to all the shifting and kicking. Those helpless, frustrated tears prickling along the edges of his vision implied an encore of how he’d felt when his gloves had malfunctioned. That feeling of being rubbed raw and still having to keep going. That feeling of not wanting to fix the problem, but having to anyway. The same feeling he gets, sometimes, when he looks at the three plastic cups sitting on his nightstand. He can’t pick them up. His brain says he’s not allowed to. But oh, he wants to. It burns in him.

It burns in him like that brush of fingertips, and it burns in him like the subtle furnace of Stone’s chest under those prim-and-proper layers when Robotnik pushed his hand against his sternum. Oh, this fucking sucks. It really does. He needs to buy different bedsheets, or consider going without them, because the lack of sleep is surely going to make tomorrow more difficult to deal with.

…What the hell is Robotnik doing?

He’s the most intelligent man on this miserable blue marble. 

He can out-think this. He can out-think anything.

Stone is always wearing layers. So is Robotnik. There’s an easy fix in here, somewhere.

And so, throughout the next work day, Robotnik subtly adjusts the thermostat.

Fact: regulating body temperature is very important for homeostasis, and human bodies are very fond of homeostasis. 

Agent Aban Stone has a human body. (A nice one, at that.)

Agent Aban Stone dresses to the nines for his job, always presentable and never disheveled. A blazer, a dress shirt, a tie, and slacks—even in the drooling heat of August or mid-July, he can be found looking sharp as a razor’s edge in one of those commercials for that brand—what’s it called? Manscaping? Who cares. That’s not the point.

The point is that Agent Aban Stone is a complete maniac and in a 97 °F laboratory, he’s still wearing that goddamn fucking monkey suit.

And Dr. Ivo Robotnik, in a sleeveless black turtleneck, is sweating his balls off (figuratively, you freak). 

Stone stands three feet back and diagonally from his doctor, all expressive eyes and content smiles. It’s bullshit. Complete bullshit. Why isn’t he at least taking his jacket off? Does he think he isn’t allowed?

“Would you like to break for lunch, doctor? It’s been four hours since breakfast.”

Oh.

That explains the nausea.

“Fine. I suppose a sufficiently supplementary sandwich should suffice as my Sunday snack.”

Stone smiles as he responds, “Astounding alliteration, sir.”

“Bonus points for knowing the word alliteration starts with an a, not an i,” Robotnik replies.

Oh, God. The way his agent’s whole face lights up at the praise is utterly repulsive. If only he knew the thoughts running rampant through Robotnik’s subconscious. He’d probably go supernova. 

One sandwich wolfed down, and Robotnik is back at his desk. 

Still pissed off and sweating, by the way.

Stone is still, true to his name, appearingly unaffected. Except…oh! There! He’s sweating! That blazer’ll be off within the hour, and Robotnik will finally get some peace of mind. All the doctor has to do is wait.

…And wait.

And wait…

…

…Fact: Robotnik does not like waiting.

“Agent.”

“Yes, doctor?”

“Take off your blazer.”

“Of course, doctor.”

Stone stands there, awkwardly folding his blazer over an arm, shifting on his feet. Trying not to look too relieved. Waiting for permission for something, maybe?

Sighing like the very words are the biggest inconvenience he’s ever encountered, Robotnik orders: “Sit down.”

When Stone’s dark eyes flit about the room uncertainly, Robotnik sighs again. Rises from his chair. Gestures expectantly.

“Am I…to sit in your chair, si—”

“Yes, now hurry the fuck up.”

Stone mumbles out a quick apology and rushes to sit down. Robotnik pries his blazer from his hands and drapes it delicately over the back of his desk chair. There is silence in the lab.

And then, control gloves on, thank you, Robotnik sets his fingertips, stiffly, with grit teeth, onto Stone’s shoulders.

Shit, the man’s a furnace. 

Why the hell did he keep his blazer on for so long?!

“You’re an idiot,” the doctor grumbles. Stone, tense beneath him, responds with a confused but trying, still trying: “I’m…sorry, sir?”

“Was that a question?”

“N-No, sir, I’m so—”

“Are you paid to ask questions, Agent?”

“No, sir, no—”

“What are you paid to do?”

“I—”

“Stand there and exist. That’s all they pay you to do.”

Stone wisely stops babbling.

“Government money is wasted just so I have a Black Tie Ken doll shadowing my every move. There’s no point to you being here, Stone. You’re like a government-assigned fidget toy. A wall for me to bounce a little rubber ball off of. Nothing more than a pane of bulletproof glass to catch would-be assassins by surprise. G.U.N. would be better off giving me an actual stone statue to wheel around, for all you’re worth. You’re nothing but stress on the budget.”

 A pregnant pause.

“...Doctor?”

“For God’s sake, what now, Stone?”

“What are you, um…doing?”

…What the hell is Robotnik doing?

He’s the most intelligent man in this miserable complex, and he’s all but groping Agent Stone’s recently sans-blazer’d shoulders. What the fuck?

With heat shooting up to burn his cheeks and singe his ears, Robotnik sputters: “Tha-That’s none of your concern, you thoughtless hunk of muscle!”

“Right. I forgot. I’m a Ken doll.”

“Exactly.” Wait. “What?”

“Please, proceed, sir. Don’t let me get in your way.”

“Don’t tell me what to do, sycophant. I’ll have no snark out of that mouth.”

“My apologies, sir.”

“Your apologies are both frivolous and meaningless.”

…

…Robotnik clears his throat.

Robotnik removes one glove.

Robotnik discovers that Stone’s dress shirts are an unfortunately pleasing texture. 

He doesn’t like the beady sound of the fabric rubbing up against itself, but when it’s just the pads of his fingers, it’s…tolerable. Which annoys him. How dare the man be so tolerable? Maybe Robotnik will make him regret it. Treat him like the fidget toy he’s dressed to be. Stone would…would tolerate it, just as Robotnik tolerates his presence.

A second glove hits the otherwise pristine desktop.

“This is fine, naturally,” Robotnik utters under his breath. To tell Stone how to feel, or to reassure himself…the conundrum of whichever it is—it’s unimportant. Inconsequential. Unnecessary. Stone replies anyway, because everything is important to the grimy little dimwits belonging to the human race. “Of course, sir,” he says. And that’s…an annoying response, because now, Robotnik isn’t so sure it’s of course fine. Of course… of course, as in he’s obligated to endure? Of course as in he’s letting Robotnik have his fun while laughing at him for his inadvertent and telling faux pas? Of course as in—as in of course, as in he’s been free to do this since the day they met, and Stone wouldn’t have minded? Robotnik can’t help but feel that he’s being made fun of. And, as the thought sets in, it starts to hurt.

Why does it hurt? 

He doesn’t care what Stone thinks.

He doesn’t care what anyone thinks.

Not of anything, and certainly not of him. 

Stone is an imbecile, just like all the other imbeciles floating around the G.U.N. complex with sacs of helium instead of brains.

Robotnik cares so little what this particular unremarkable air-headed imbecile thinks that he retreats from his own desk in his own lab and walks right out of the complex.

Chapter Text

It’s hot. 

Really hot.

As though a punishment.

Stone had no idea what he’d done to deserve this, but by God, by whatever god Ivo Robotnik believes in, he needed to know so he could do it again. 

There he was, lanky body twisting as he bent to stab at whatever the hell he was working on (which was suddenly extremely unimportant to his normally devoted audience) with a screwdriver. Typically, Robotnik favors layer upon layer upon layer. Cold room, warm core. But this? This unprecedented gift from above? It was life-alerting. Brain-breaking. Unexpected. And unnecessary. 

Robotnik was never unnecessary, unless he was either pissed off or excited. And with his behavior as of late? It had to be the aforementioned. 

It was hot.

Really hot.

Robotnik in that sleeveless turtleneck, he means. 

Stone had been doing his damndest to ignore the way the waistband of Robotnik’s slacks hugged just above his hips. To ignore the way some pieces of hair drooped, disheveled and wet with sweat, over his forehead. To ignore the distinct lack of sleeves, oh God almighty, save him. He’s seen people’s arms before. He’s seen a million, billion, trillion arms in his lifetime, and there is absolutely nothing erotic about having arms. But there’s just…there was just something about it, he reasoned. He never saw Robotnik’s arms. Never more skin than his face and the sliver of his neck left exposed by the collar of his turtlenecks. 

Stone was in hell. Stone was so, so in hell.

And whatever he did to piss off his doctor? Whatever minor transgression had led to Ivo Robotnik sitting at his desk with his normal, not-goddamn-erotic arms out in the open air, whatever sin against his uncompromising and strange god who speaks so little of his feelings very clearly—he would commit that sin again. And again. And again. Ruin a thousand dress shirts with sweat stains, if he had to. Suffer through heatstroke and dehydration, were it required of him. Because the fact Ivo Robotnik has dark freckles—dark freckles dotting the milky expanse of his arms, laid sparingly like constellations above the industrial parts of a city—is enough to make a lesser man convert. Of course, Stone is not a lesser man. He’s already converted. These are just the rewards of his worship, he supposes: that his doctor is comfortable enough in his presence to strip down a layer or three. That’s monumental, that’s huge. 

That’s also very, very unfortunate. Because Robotnik is very pretty and Stone is— has been— infatuated with him. And while staring is typically accepted when it comes to appreciating Robotnik’s very existence, typically considered okay…this is new. This is a little more vulnerable, right? Isn’t it? That was what he was thinking, at the time, anyway. And so he respectfully kept his eyes averted. (Most of the time.)

Another thing he did, which was perhaps a bit selfish? Stone pretended to be unaffected by the heat. (The heat in the lab. The heat in the lab, the temperature of which was hot. Hot as in temperature. We’re talking about temperature.) Stone stood there, sweating and dreading the ticking of the clock, in a full suit he chose to match the resting temperature of the lab. When he’d arrived in the morning, the temperature was fine. Normal. Slowly, it kept getting hotter and hotter, and…well he didn’t want to look bothered. Especially when Dr. Robotnik was adapting just fine. So he stayed in his shirt and his tie and his blazer, and he made no move to indicate he was bothered.

Eventually, however…an excuse to leave the lab came up.

“Would you like to break for lunch, doctor?” he asked. (Maintaining his poker face through every syllable, pretending the idea wasn’t water in this desert Robotnik had inexplicably created.) “It’s been four hours since breakfast.”

Four hours Stone had stayed in this heat, and Robotnik caved unexpectedly quickly. So Stone fled to prepare him a sandwich—yes, prepare. Not buy or order. He wouldn’t be caught dead. No. His doctor deserved better than that. If he was so intent on nourishing his mind, then Stone would ensure, despite what little control he had over the man’s eating habits, that his body, too, would be nourished. (Don’t read into that. Please.)

Another hour in the heat went by before anything of note happened.

Stone was lost in a daydream about penguins and glaciers when Robotnik barked— “Agent.”

Immediately at attention, Stone replied: “Yes, doctor?”

“Take off your blazer.”

“Of course, doctor.” Stone didn’t even hesitate, just glad to have the damn thing off him. He also thanked his lucky stars he’d thought to change his original dress shirt for a spare before returning from their lunch break. The next thirty seconds to a minute of his life were seconds he would have loved to stop and examine in the moment. Unfortunately, he didn’t get the chance, because he was ordered to sit in Robotnik’s desk chair and the man’s hands were on him. 

Stone was in hell. Still is, in case anyone might have been wondering.

It was a long moment before the doctor made any effort to speak, his fingertips barely making contact with his agent’s shoulders. When he did speak, it was in a grumble: “You’re an idiot,” Robotnik told him. Thrown and, frankly, more than a little out of sorts after whatever the day had been, Stone stumbled out a very confused, attemptedly gentle apology. One which got him berated.

After Stone had sat through that, let the doctor blow off steam, relieve some tension, reassert his position over him (in the company, in the company, in th-), Agent Aban Stone took a very deep breath. The first of many.

“...Doctor…?” he tried. Carefully measured tone, carefully monitored tension in those fingertips of his doctor’s.

“For God’s sake, what now, Stone?” Robotnik snapped, fingertips retreating slightly.

It was a fair question that he had. Robotnik always explained his orders to Stone. But take off your blazer, sit down in my chair? No explanations. And it was seeming that asking questions was…not the correct response, but he was going to try, anyway, because Robotnik’s moods could flip on a dime. Maybe inquiring was the solution to the puzzle cube. The answer to the riddle which would give him entry. “What are you, um…doing?”

“Tha-That’s none of your concern, you thoughtless hunk of muscle!”

Bzzrrt! Wrong answer. Please don’t try again.

Shit, thought Agent Stone. Whoops. He tried again: “Right. I forgot. I’m a Ken doll.” 

One who isn’t supposed to be reacting. I get that, now. 

“Exactly,” Robotnik spat. Then— “What?”

“Please, proceed, sir.” Don’t mind him, Stone wanted to say. He’ll be the wall against which Robotnik hurls rubber ball after rubber ball, if that’s what the man needs of him. “Don’t let me get in your way.”

“Don’t tell me what to do, sycophant. I’ll have no snark out of that mouth,” the doctor scoffed.

“My apologies, sir,” Stone professed with all the sincerity in the world.

“Your apologies are both frivolous and meaningless.” 

Robotnik punctuated this with a delayed clearing of his throat.

Those fingertips returned. He was trying again. Trying…whatever this was. And whatever it may have been, Stone was all-in. Horribly confused and feeling like he’d already made a misstep, but all-in.

Dr. Robotnik’s fingertips pushed a little pressure into Agent Stone’s shoulders, the position of his hands exactly the same on each side of him. Stone shut his eyes, concentrating on the sensation. It was a very light, very unsure touch. It didn’t roam, and it didn’t… seem exploratory? But maybe the exploration was internal. Because Dr. Robotnik never touched anyone. The closest he came to touching people was faking out handshakes and letting his gloved fingers brush against Stone’s own bare ones. And whatever had happened two weeks ago. And whatever had happened when Ivo had pinned him against the wall himself, which he wasn’t addressing because he absolutely could NOT consider that right now. Not with Ivo’s bare palm engulfing the round of his shoulder.

This is hell. This is hell. I don’t know what he wants out of this, him touching me is very, very different to him yelling at me. This is—

“This is fine, naturally,” Robotnik uttered, his breath hitting the top of Stone’s head. His voice had wavered. That uncertainty, that…that nervousness. What was happening? What the hell was he doing? 

Quick as he could think to, Stone replied with an assurance. “Of course, sir.”

Bzzrrt! Wrong answer. You were warned, dumbass.

Save for the three seconds it took Robotnik to process Stone’s words, his hands retracted immediately. Faster than Stone managed to croak out a startled: “Sir?” Robotnik was out the sliding door, out a good number of doors. Calling off for the day on account of, “Heatstroke, or some other slop you senseless swines would lap up.” Leaving Stone to…feel things.

And he’s always feeling things.

Blooming, burning, settling like the once-boiling water in a pot removed from the burner. Never still waters within him. But this? 

This pounds in him like a headache. 

Like he needs to pop his ears. 

Like this one instance— three, if he dares to consider this touch connected to the other recent ones—rules him like Jupiter rules the stolen gods.

Astounding work, Agent, he thinks to himself. You’ve worked with the doctor for three years, and you still can’t anticipate his tonal shifts. 

The doctor is a supernova, he thinks, and he’s glad to be obliterated by his explosive temper if it means the man has somewhere to channel it all.

…This isn’t that, though, is it?

Like an octopus exploring a cup with its suckers, Robotnik had explored the feel of Stone’s shirt with his bare fingertips. Had allotted him multiple little fuck-ups. In the past, moments like that—fragile moments, deceptively important moments—had ended in supernovas and quiet reflections. Responding to the doctor’s… alternative… means of communication takes thought, takes precision. 

Aban Stone is incredibly capable of being precise.

Monday morning dawns, and there is very little room to be wrong.

Dr. Robotnik, as expected, strolls in and demands his latte. Agent Stone, as expected, delivers it right to his palm. And, as expected, neither addresses whatever yesterday was.

The lab is back to being cold.

Agent Stone will not allow his doctor to be.

When Robotnik has tinkered with enough badniks to constitute a normal person’s full workday, Stone strikes.

“Doctor?” Stone calls lightly from his right.

A solid five seconds passes before Robotnik realizes he’s spoken.

Without looking up from the robotic dissection he’s been enacting on and off for the last hour, the doctor grunts out a flat: “What.”

“I was…wondering something.”

Robotnik tenses. Stops what he’s doing. Spins in his wheely chair to give his agent a very, very unamused expression. Agent Stone knows better than most that his doctor loathes cliffhangers. Loathes being led to a conclusion unnecessarily. Loathes the large majority of things he’s deemed as “unnecessary,” really. 

With a jolt, Stone recognizes that his doctor isn’t in a pussyfooting mood, and rushes to his conclusion.

“Um, you have steady hands. Much steadier than mine with fi-finer movements. I wanted to paint my nails last night, but I…” he trails off. This was easier to word in my head. But, he won’t give up. “...found my own skills to be unsatisfactory, sir. Would you mind painting them for me?”

Fine. Good, yes. You pushed the words out! Time to see what he does.

…With Robotnik still potentially feeling vulnerable from yesterday, Stone saw this going a precious few ways. 

Robotnik could panic and retreat further into himself.

Robotnik could see the olive branch and worry he’s been made, causing him to lash out.

Robotnik could—

—give him a skeptical once-over, and mumble: “I assume you brought the…polish with you, or you wouldn’t have asked.”

Huh? “Y-Yes, sir. I have it in my pocket.” Of course, Stone knows better than to reach for it. That might spook him. In any situation, especially one of this sort, it’s best to let the doctor feel in control of the variables one presented him with.

Robotnik slowly comes to stand, stalking nearer. The sight is not unlike a cat approaching an unsuspecting robin. 

“Which one?”

“Left pocket of my blazer, sir.”

“This one…?”

Into that jetted pocket goes Robotnik’s gloved hand. Stone consciously measures his breathing. Sure, the doctor’s form bleeds into his bubble quite frequently, but they don’t touch. When Robotnik’s hand returns from the warmth of Stone’s pocket, the man appraises the two bottles with a critical eye. Sparkly black and sparklier red. Colors chosen intentionally, of course. 

“And what pattern,” the doctor mutters stiffly, “were you intending to effect, sycophant?”

Stone keeps his cool. “I-I was thinking an alternating pattern…? Like: red, black, red, black?”

“I know what alternating means, you clueless clingfish. I suppose I…approve. Of this. The colors and the pattern and the fact you, helpless as you are, require the aid of someone far superior to yourself.”

Stone finds himself being dragged to once again sit at Robotnik’s chair.

Ivo settles upon a clean space on the desk (probably the only non-cluttered surface in the entire lab) and aggressively gestures for Stone to give him a hand. Before the agent can get a word of appreciation in, Ivo is muttering.

“The muscles in my fingers are, naturally, trained to be working in the small spaces some of my babies have inside their casing. One flinch could entail the displacement of hours of work,” he’s saying, “so I simply do not flinch.”

Starting with Stone’s left thumbnail, Ivo paints every other nail black. The brushstrokes are fluid, confident—a lot of his earlier badniks and tech had hand-painted logos, Stone knows. Hand-painting those would probably render painting his agent’s fingernails something akin to child’s play. (Of course Stone has thought about those early days. Back before his Robotnik had the funding and resources to create his badniks, his babies. Those long hours which had to be long. Dreams curtailed by rent. Oh, Stone has thought about those days, alright. Wished he could’ve been there, making his doctor take breaks and marveling in his brilliance. Seeing underneath it. The wires it took to make the stage lights glow just right.) 

Stone aches. 

Robotnik is stalling.

The realization comes with due shock. Due elation. 

There is, in the bending of his long, dextrous fingers, an irregular slowness. Not hesitation, no—far too calculated, far too…too… purposeful. His doctor is prolonging the contact intentionally, for whatever reason may lie wrapped in layer upon layer of skin and vein and skull. Whatever’s in that head of his, Aban is more than happy to sit here and let it fester. To hope for it to infect every part of the doctor, growing in him like something evil. 

When his voice takes its first shaky steps through the air, it’s a little less composed-sounding than Aban would have liked.

“Immaculately executed as always, doctor,” he praises him gently. Mindfully. As though too much praise would frighten him, but too little would, also, see him retreating. 

Their eyes meet; a scene of Ivo’s design. He stares at Aban for a long moment, and Aban stares back. Dark eyes, his doctor has. Dark and cold, but not in a cold way. There is that familiar animal warmth in them—evidence they belong to something living. There is that familiar intelligence to them—evidence they belong to a thinking, considering thing. There is also—oh, isn’t that peculiar?—an un familiar sort of tension in them. Aban has seen Robotnik afraid. Missions gone awry and sponsors pissed off enough to try using their newly gifted tech against its creator. Poorly concealed panic attacks and rough days spiced with overstimulation and migraines. This is something new, though. Something Stone hasn’t seen before. 

Is he upset? 

He looks upset.

Was this the wrong move?

I wish he’d just use his damn words, but I know he struggles. Maybe if I said something first, he’d feel more comfortable…?

Stone’s lips part, ready to fish for something to say, to confess, to ponder.

Robotnik beats him to it.

“Your…” A clearing of his throat. Yes, that voice had sounded uncharacteristically soft, for Dr. Robotnik. “... hands. Are…warmer than mine.”

That warmth, thereafter, flees Aban’s hands and clings to his cheeks. “Oh,” is all he could breathe.

Ivo holds his gaze stubbornly. Ordinarily, it is Aban pushing himself beyond his nerves to try. Try something, try anything. Try to be patient, or try to be inquisitive, or try to be good, just good, anything good. Good for Ivo. Good for Robotnik. Just good. But Ivo, now, is the one trying, while Stone pushes every thought to the back of his mind and does his damndest to stay still. Don’t do anything to scare him off. Be a Ken doll. 

“You’re an idiot,” Ivo decides.

“Yes, sir. I mean—sorry, sir.”

“More of an idiot than usual, I meant.”

“Oh,” again. This isn’t a one-sided conversation. He’s not meant to be a Ken doll. Fuck. “Um. Yes, sir, I agree.” I agree wholeheartedly. The problem, sir, is that you’re holding my hands while my nails dry.

Huffing, Ivo finally averts his gaze. “What’s causing it? Overwhelm?”

“Oh. Um. Oh, n-no. Um, well. No.”

That was a lie. Stop lying. He’ll know.

“Is… something about this interaction not…the correct way to have gone about it?”

The uncertainty in Ivo’s eyes is genuine. Now, he may have spoken the words in a very annoyed, irritated, flat tone, but—that is all he has, when it comes to moments like these. Soft moments. Scary moments. Moments when his genius turns into overthinking to the point of boiling over.

He needs Stone to adjust the heat.

“No, doctor, I…am just feeling very content.”

“You’re typically more fluid in speech.”

“Ah…maybe I’m a tad overwhelmed, but not in the bad way. Like…how you feel when a new episode of La Última Pasió—”

“I knew what you meant, agent,” Robotnik snaps. “I’m not inept.” But his eyes are still averted, so either something very interesting is happening with Stone’s fern in the corner (Roquel), or everything is…okay.

Everything is okay.

Taking a risk, Stone leans forward. “Thank you for painting my nails,” he says, softly. 

Ivo meets his gaze once more. Stalls. Breathes. 

“It has not been an entirely unwelcome experience. I see the…necessity, in this.”

“Oh.”

…that little oh is uttered into the open air, as his doctor has slid from his desk and promptly vacated the lab. Again. 

Chapter Text

Fact. 

Neurotypicals, allistics, they don’t go about their days feeling the weight of their clothing on their skin, the shifting of hairs on their heads. 

Another fact.

Nobody on this miserable planet walks around feeling the weight of nail polish on someone else’s fingernails.

But Dr. Ivo Robotnik does.

Doctor Ivo Robotnik is sitting at a conference table somewhere in Fuckall, Indiana feeling the faint weight of nail polish on Aban Stone’s fingernails. Wondering how long it’ll take the man to pick at it, if he even does. Wondering which nail will find itself chipped bare first, red or black? Wondering this, and wondering that, and—he’s getting called out by Walters for not paying attention.

“You’re a bigger idiot than I previously assessed, for expecting me to pay attention to this circle jerk. I’d rather not be any more a voyeur to the failures of the U.S. government than I’m forced to as a citizen.”

A response no one else would dare give, let alone give and actually get away with. 

Agent Stone just snorts and fidgets with his fingers. 

Robotnik is fine.

…

Robotnik is absolutely not fine.

His dreams spread through his waking mind like fingertips, accented in alternating red and black, could spread over his bare lower back. Press into his braincase like a warm palm could press into his chest, gently guiding. Raise goosebumps with every nebulous, half-lucid thought, the way Stone’s fingers might if they trailed up his arms and— fuck. Fine. Ivo is touch-starved, whatever. It doesn’t matter. It matters even less that Stone is the only person whose touch he can maybe sort of tolerate. The man would probably throw himself off a building if Ivo told him to. That doesn’t necessarily mean Stone would want to throw himself off a building, no matter how many reassurances he shouted on the way down. Ivo knows well that people lie to appease others. It’s sort of the antithesis to his entire persona, hello?

Ivo shoves this all deep, deep down. Where his memories of the orphanage live. Where his lonely memories of college live, where the fact he had to steal to pay his way through classes until the government picked up on his genius lives. Where everything that upsets him goes to fester.

Following the meeting, the drive back to the hotel is dead silent.

Some tough guy with a license to kill is driving for Robotnik and Agent Stone, who apparently were deemed incapable of making their own way back. Stone is staring out the window with those big brown eyes of his, dark as black coffee in the dim light of dusk. The storm will break soon, Robotnik notes, staring past his agent’s head and looking up into the worrisome clouds. It isn’t just going to pass overhead: the tightness at the back of his skull would have knotted itself up further. As it stands, the migraine is as gentle as a toddler petting a cat. Unpleasant, but at least guided by the promise of impending escape.

The drive takes them through a brush of suburbia. White picket fences, town cars, playsets in lush green lawns mowed to the bitchy neighbors’ standard. AKA, everything Robotnik never had. At first, he assumed Stone came from this life, winning this nightmare job as reward for a lifetime of quiet complacency and polite competence. But as the years dragged on, Robotnik never heard his agent utter a word about family, or friends, or pets. No childhood memories. No nostalgia. He still knows nothing about who his agent was; all he knows is who the man is. That’s enough if Stone wants it to be enough.

Everything stops, suddenly. A playground ball has been flung unceremoniously into the road, and the driver has paused to let a kid of about twelve, maybe, dash into the road to snatch the thing back up like it’s something precious. It will be, one day, probably. “Remember that ball we had that almost got run over?” Robotnik imagines the kid, in their fifties, recounting. “We used to toss it around in the backyard while we waited for Dad to get home from work, and Mom would make us ants on a log, whatever those are.” The kid waves at the driver, who waves back, and the world resumes—but not before something catches Ivo’s eye.

An old bloodhound, staring out through a glass door, filling its sad eyes with all the green of the grass in its yard. It’s…a shockingly pitiful sight. A very domestic observation. Or, is cliché the word? Melodramatic, maybe?

It just…it looks so upset. So regretful. What, did it not whine for a walk enough during its visibly long life? Its skin drags down from its jowls, pulled to the point of melting by the same gravity which ensnares its long, black-brown ears. It stares with such an intense longing, such a deep grief. Such mournfulness that Ivo almost wants to tell the thing, “Look, I wish I were you. Life beyond the glass isn’t so great. You don’t wanna be off-leash, trust me.” To be the hound behind the glass, searching for answers among the aphids and ladybugs of its front lawn—that is a privilege. To be able to sit there, restricted by something bigger than you, something perhaps divine or perhaps societal, and dream about a better life, rather than be sitting out in the rain with no shelter but no bounds, feeling in full the truth that somewhere better doesn’t exist? A privilege. 

But, then…Ivo still is that mutt behind the glass, isn’t he?

Because late at night, surrounded by blankets and enclosed in a bedroom he never decorated, he lays there and he pictures what is beyond that glass inside his head. Pictures skin and hair and lips he cannot and should not have access to. Dreams up the feeling of breath hitting his ear. Make believes hands, worshipful, gently squeezing his waist and his hips and his own goddamn hands, which he’d never let anyone else touch, because he hasn’t made a machine that could perform the finer motor functions necessary for his creations and he never will, because then G.U.N. won’t have any use for him, and nor will anybody else. 

He sits and he stares beyond the glass, eyes all sad, whining pathetically for something he thinks would be better. When better is a nebulous concept in and of itself and he should stop thinking about this. Because any dog that gets beyond the glass regrets it. Because to be the hound behind the glass is a privilege, and he has not had as many privileges in his life as he should have.

Robotnik comes back to his body to find a tension coiled there. Settled inferior to his heart, though the nasty creature beats as frantic as the rain hitting the windshield. God, when did it start raining so hard? A government vehicle like this should really be sound-proofed, shouldn’t it? What fucking idiot built this thing? God—God, it’s getting so loud. The vehicle is really such a tight space. Closing in. Practically. Practically closing in, not literally. But maybe the rain is slowly denting the shell of it, and it’s literally closing in, and—

“Stone.”

…What weak piece of shit said his agent’s name like that? With a wavering voice that almost made his name something laughable, because stones are supposed to be strong and stable, and that was…

“Doctor—are you alright?”

…that was Ivo’s voice, saying Stone’s name like that. Shit. It just, it was the first thing he thought to do against the rising panic. He doesn’t know why. He prays he doesn’t know why, anyway.

“It’s…it’s too loud.” 

Robotnik slams his eyes shut. If he can’t see the rain crashing nearly white against the windows, it’ll be less overwhelming. It would be nice if he’d thought to grab his earbuds, which he normally is never without, but his mind has been elsewhere, as of late, and Stone is right there, so if Ivo could just be sure it’s okay to reach over, that’d be great.

“Would you like my earbuds?” Stone asks carefully, likely assuming Robotnik would have used his own had he been in possession of them. 

“Shut the fuck up,” Robotnik responds, because it’s all that makes him feel in control. 

Stone does, in fact, shut the fuck up. He doesn’t say a word in response to the command. Nor does he say a word in response to the fact Ivo has unbuckled and slid rightward into the middle of the backseat, and you bet your ass he doesn’t comment when Ivo steals the earbuds right out of his agent’s ears, plunges them into his own, and then steals Stone’s left hand, too, while he’s at it. 

In four, hold four, out four, hold four again. Belly breathing to stimulate the vagus nerve. Sit taller, don’t hunch. Tell your body it’s not in danger. Keep your eyes shut and don’t think about what Stone is thinking. He’s a fidget toy. Just a fidget toy. I don’t have to explain myself to him, he knows I get overstimulated. My anxiety is obvious. 

…That was not a comforting way to say that.

He’s not judging me. And if he is, fuck him, I’ll just have him fired. But then I won’t have Stone. I need Stone. Nobody else on the planet, just him, and I have his hand in mine, and he’s interlocking our fingers, and I’m fine. It doesn’t matter. I don’t know what I’m talking about.

I’m overthinking this.

His hand is so warm.

We’ll be at the hotel in about ten minutes. Ugh, then I’ll have to walk in the rain. My hair’ll get wet. It’s so many feet between the parking lot and the entrance, and with the way it’s coming down, my hair might get soaked. And then I’ll be itchy, does anyone else’s scalp get itchy when it’s wet the wrong way? Is that normal? I don’t care if something about me is normal, what am I on about? Why’s there gotta be so much of a distance between the parking lot and the entrance? Seriously. I’d tell the driver to drive us right up to the sidewalk, but it wouldn’t do us any good. There’s an unnecessary stretch of sidewalk that connects the entrance to the parking lot. Driving up isn’t even an option.

Why did that dog have to look so sad? It could rival Stone’s expression whenever I tell him to stay in the lab while I go handle a meeting. I never tell him that, anymore, do I? Since when did Stone become a necessity to me?

That’s scary. No, no. That would mean that I’m scared, and I’m NOT scared. Not of anything. Not of being in a car during a thunderstorm, and not of losing Stone to some…some nebulous idea in my head. He’s mine. I’m not letting go of his hand. He’s mine, and he’ll stay mine, and I’ll never share him with anyone.

…Unless he wants me to. For him, I’ll bend. 

What the hell am I thinking about?!

…It’s a very long ten minutes.

The moment they pull into the parking lot, Rootnik urges Stone out of the right side backseat and through the downpour, slipping out after him still clutching his agent’s hand.

Into the lobby, up the stairs (neither of them are fans of elevators), down a hallway—Robotnik makes good on his promise: he hasn’t let go of Aban’s hand. Never will, if he can help it, but practicality says he’ll eventually have to. But not yet. 

…Stone has watched Robotnik for so long. 

And Robotnik burns for not knowing if it’s reciprocal. In reference to the need to be touched, naturally. Has Stone stared at the back of his head for this many years without ever wanting to fix Ivo’s hair? Has he stood there, watching Ivo work, but not really thinking of him? Are there ever times he’s afraid to go to sleep because he knows his dreams will boil over with impossible and inappropriate domesticity?

Fact: Ivo Robotnik is touch-starved. He aches and he yearns and he’s withered away to a husk, at this point. Telling himself his skin isn’t soft enough to draw anyone in, anyway. Telling himself that if he says something mean enough, he’ll never have to worry about missing what a hug feels like again, because he’ll forget the feeling with time and move on with his life. Still, Ivo Robotnik is ridiculously, unbelievably, embarrassingly touch-starved.

But maybe Aban Stone is not.

Maybe Aban Stone hates being touched as much as Ivo Robotnik pretends to. Maybe Aban Stone likes his job so much because he gets to avoid all the morons lower down the food chain, gets to avoid mixers and holiday parties and water cooler talks. Maybe Aban Stone hates other people, in general, so much that he took a job with somebody who he thought also hated other humans unconditionally thinking it would ensure human feelings never, ever had to get in the way of his smooth, easy, wonderfully impersonal work life. And now, Ivo Robotnik has made his life difficult, uncomfortable, to the point his cheeks are flushed long after their Olympics-worthy sprint to the lobby. 

And G.U.N. could, he’s sure, in some way fire Stone, if they really, really wanted to. So Agent Aban Stone doesn’t get to yell at people when they make him uncomfortable, or tell anybody off without the doctor’s express permission, or do anything but be quietly complacent; politely competent.

Backtracking every happy little twinge he’s felt since he stole Agent Stone’s hand up from him, Ivo abruptly drops it. Scoffs like the agent said something stupid, and turns away, and rakes a hand through his wet hair. Itchy. Itchy until it dries. So fucking annoying. Maybe he should walk down to the lobby and complain at the desk about the seriously mind-fucking amount of concrete bullshit that he had to cross before making it to the too-dry smelling air of the front lobby. Yeah, he’ll do that. That’s his prerogative: annoying the poor fucks forced to spend time in his presence.

He makes it to the step in the process of leaving where his hand meets the doorknob before Agent Stone stops him dead with a (rushed) question.

“Do- Doctor, where are you going?”

Robotnik doesn’t even think before he snaps around to snarl: “To inform the proles who mind the lobby that their infernal mile-wide sidewalk is a sin upon this already unholy earth!”

Stone pauses, pulls out his phone. Robotnik, patient, waits. Stone frowns at the screen.

“Sir, I don’t think they can do anything about it. They probably get complaints all the time. Why don’t we just—”

“Did I ask for your input, dipshit? Here’s a hint: the answer’s no.” 

…Huh. Robotnik is staying put; isn’t proceeding with his original plan. How interesting. 

The agent chews his bottom lip for a moment. Those sad, sad eyes. They come back to Robotnik, an image of that old bloodhound’s face overlaying Stone’s. Ivo can’t leave it alone.

“What? Don’t look at me like some mutt that wants its owner’s affection, use your fucking words. You’re a grown-up. You know your ABCs. I’m sure you—” 

“Please, don’t run this time.” Stone says softly, delicately, like he’s uttering a prayer to a god he’s sure will strike him down. “Just stay put another minute.”

…

…

…God (and  Zeus, and Odin, and Tangaloa, and the spiteful Universe itself) really just… ugh. Everything hates him. He hates himself. 

Ivo has to choose his words carefully. He’s not ready for this. He’s never done this before. The rule is run before someone else does, and he just got asked to stay put by the only person in the world he’d ever even consider listening to.

“...What…for…?” he mumbles through his teeth. Bared like an animal.

Fact: Ivo is freaking out.

So is Stone, apparently, because he’s cradling the hand Ivo touched like it’s been injured, or something.

I’ve fucked up. I fucked up. What do I do? What CAN I do?

In four, out four, nope, you messed up the pattern. In four, hold four, breathe slower if you’re just getting more out of breath. Are you breathing with your belly? You’re not even thinking clearly, dipshit. You didn’t even notice you haven’t worn your control gloves since Tuesday. Did you just not feel like putting them on? Too much effort for you? Or were you pressing your nose up to the glass and hoping it would crack with the pressure? Moron. 

“You’ve…” Stone begins. Then, he begins again. “You’ve been off, lately. Extremely off. Maybe…even not yourself, and I just want to make sure…I want to ask you if you’re okay.”

Ivo Robotnik swallows. It reminds him he’s only had a small bag of Doritos today. What a time to remember to eat.

“I don’t see why you need to shove your nose into my business,” Ivo growls. Teeth are still bared.

His agent replies calmly: “Your life has been my business for years now, doctor.”

Robotnik is ready to refute that and lay into him, maybe drive him to quit all on his own, when the breath is ripped right from his lungs. The fight, torn mercilessly from his body. Aban is giving him puppydog eyes. Dear God, put his picture in the dictionary. He hates him. Ivo hates him so, so much. 

“Please?”

“Aban, would you quit fucking looking at me like that.”

“Oh. I—sorry…?”

Face officially on fire, Robotnik crosses his arms and faces askew.

“...’M fine.”

“I’m afraid I don’t find that to be a sufficient answer.”

Strike the idea of Stone’s complacency.

“Well,” Ivo starts. “Then…” Ivo stops. “Just—I don’t, I don’t know. I don’t know! Alright? I don’t know, I don’t and that’s enough. That should be. So leave me alone.”

In the aftermath of Ivo’s fluster, and of his hand gestures turning into an imitation of a helicopter with broken rotor blades, Stone breathes in that response.

“That day you forgot your control gloves. When I handed you your latte.”

“Shut the fuck up, agent.”

“And then when the lab’s temp jumped up super high.”

“I said shut up.” 

“You agreed to paint my nails without a fight.”

“Agent.” 

“Saw the necessity in it,” Stone continues.

“I’d appreciate it if you shut the fuck up,” Ivo tries again.

“And then, on the drive here. When you got overwhelmed—”

“Please—”

“—you came closer and reached for me, and y—”

“Aban, please!” 

…well.

Out of all his approaches (being rude and then being slightly more polite about being rude), inadvertently letting his voice break is, evidently, the most effective. 

Aban looks up at him, wide-eyed. Worried. Maybe he thinks he’s gone too far. Maybe he’ll let this go.

Aban steps forward.

Nope. Not letting him go. Fuck! 

Betraying everything he’s ever learned, Ivo stays rooted to the spot. Something is approaching the glass. Hands, with fingernails painted in alternating red and black, the colors of devotion, are extended, palms-up, for him. For Ivo. And Ivo’s sure, Ivo’s sure Stone would do anything he told him to, and anything he thought his doctor might want him to do. But what does Aban actually want, in this situation? What does he want, here?

He said he wanted Ivo to stay put.

Ivo can do that, maybe. For him, he can. He will.

Stay put in this situation and deal with it. 

He’s a grown-up.

He knows his ABCs. 

“I’m…” Ivo begins. Then, he begins again. “...I need this.”

This being his hands, placed delicately in Stone’s, as though he’s only half-sure they should be there.

“You need this,” Aban repeats dumbly. He has the wherewithal to add: “Okay.”

Ivo meets his eyes, uncertain. 

Aban clarifies further with, “That’s okay. I…need this… too.” 

And all Robotnik can think to say is— “Oh.”

They stand there staring at each other, soaking in the warmth of human skin, and Ivo wonders if Aban is aware of how often he is the one being watched. He could be. Maybe it’s been a source of confusion for him for as long as it has Robotnik: why is he staring at me like that? Is there something wrong with him? Do we need HR? 

…Do we even HAVE an HR department?

Suppose they won’t be needing one, considering it’s obvious they both know their ABCs.

…They’ve watched each other for long enough, Ivo decides quietly to himself, a week after the hotel in Fuckall, Indiana.

It’ll finally be gone from his mind, he thinks—the question of what Stone’s skin feels like. The answer to that is breathing steadily under his ear as he presses his cheek further into his agent’s bare chest.

Fact: neurotypicals, allistics, they don’t go about their days feeling the weight of their clothing on their skin, nor the shifting of hairs on their heads. They don’t notice the weight of nail polish on their fingernails, nor do they feel it when an eyelash is just slightly out of place. 

But Dr. Ivo Robotnik does.

Dr. Ivo Robotnik hates the feeling of it when his fingerprints meet and rub together. Dr. Ivo Robotnik’s whole back tenses up when someone he doesn’t like taps him on the shoulder. Dr. Ivo Robotnik had to turn his socks inside-out until he was fifteen, and now, with his whole world sleeping soundly under the weight of his octopus-like clinging, Dr. Ivo Robotnik is—for, perhaps, the very first time—grateful he feels every little sensation. 

He doesn’t want to miss a thing.