Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“STOOONE!”

“...Stone!”

“Agent.”

“Agent Stone…?”

He’s used to it, by now.

The constant litany of meaningless titles. Stone, he supposes, has a ring to it. Something uncanny there, in the fibers of the word, which tells him exactly what is expected of him. 

I’m everything I ever needed to be, he thinks when he hears it. I’ve become Stone. 

Dr. Robotnik, similarly, has become Doc to him. Doc, Doc, Doc. The one person he can comfortably admire. The person he hopes will drink from the same cup as him. His Doc. 

But Stone has remained Stone. Loses the Agent, sometimes, though, which he…appreciates, sort of. It tells him more of what is expected of him: stay here, with me, like we’re better than everybody else —the doctor utters it in the barely-there quiet space between the S and the T, where sound is, for a fraction of a fraction of a second, withheld. And Stone stays.

By God, does Stone stay.

He listens to the love of his life berate everyone that breathes the same air as him, and he tidies the Doc’s workspace when it gets too cluttered and starts stressing him out, and he dyes his hair when that beautiful, vulnerable ginger starts poking through like the glowing tips of a fire. Stone stays, and Stone holds his poker face through the painfully domestic life they share.

But God fucking damn it, sometimes, he just wants to power down. Blip out of life for a little while, and come back with the answers. All this stress isn’t good on him. He’s getting overwhelmed.

They both are.

Overwhelmed, and exhausted, and angry—and no less afraid. Maybe more so.

Stone would follow the doctor to hell and back. Stone has followed him into the line of fire, and led him out bloodied and safe. 

But Stone is tired.

Tired of hearing his name called over and over, tired of always being the support—when is it his turn? To need somebody? 

Of course, he knew what he was getting into when he applied.

Often, Stone wonders about what moment truly did him in. What sentence, rant, action, gesture, silence—what part of their lives sprouted the first branches that intermingled? It’s as hard to say as it is to define a new species. Life evolves as it pleases, and it evolves slowly and on a scale so grand it becomes tiny and unaccountable again. Tiny little adaptations, small tweaks in the structure of the genome, random mutations and natural selection and different mates chosen for wildly different reasons…

Species don’t come from one single birth which changes the entire lineage for good. Species come from a bunch of little changes in a bunch of animals that, on their own terms, taking as much time as they do, all start to resemble one another more than that other group, far from here, which used to be the same as ours. We can establish a population of common ancestors—a species in themselves—and identify that a split happened, but the long and short of it is that the split wasn’t one solid thing we can name and be familiar with. It was a nebulous collection of seconds in the history of evolution that grew to be a minute wrapped up in an hour.

So Stone will muse on close calls. On late nights, on stray hairs, on whispered gossip during meetings and on almost-smiles. But all those seconds collected into minutes which grew in their insistence upon existing as something new and separate, and the truth of the hour is that Stone is in love with Robotnik.

…There is, however, still that common ancestor to speak of.

One of the reasons Stone applied to be his in the first place.

Before and during the first swelling of affection in his heart, the speciation, we’ll call it, there was already an understanding of Ivo Robotnik held high and precious in Stone’s mind:

They were alike, and different within their alikeness. 

Different brains which were different for a lot of the same reasons, though not always in the same ways.

Before Robotnik, Stone had preferred working alone.

Even back in his early days with G.U.N, he would be sent off on missions with a team and return early, alone, and successful. Nobody else was on his level. His superiors were impressed, but pissed, and so Stone learned to lie down like a good dog when they asked. Roll over if the moment called for it. Maybe even fetch. His youth was full of similar experiences. With no family to be with him, he felt alienated from the kids at school, so he’d bond with the teachers. But the moment he went off-script was the moment he was reminded who held the authority. So, again: lie down, roll over, fetch. It’d been a lifetime of shapeshifting into whatever sad sack in charge of his future wanted him to be. 

When they first met, Robotnik treated him like he treats anyone whose IQ falls below his: like a toddler who just claimed to understand particle physics and then spat in your eye. It took a very long time for Stone to see the cracks in his armor, to understand the man behind the HR violations. But, the way Robotnik was so unapologetic in his unpleasantness…the way he just existed as he did, taking up that much space and throwing other people’s hypocrisy in their faces and outright refusing to roll over, it just…it was…it was breathtaking. He was breathtaking. Pure momentum in the gangly shape of a violently autistic man who gave up on the system which gave up on him. He was everything Stone—angry and neglected and bitter on the inside— wished he could be. 

In the same world which taught Stone to say yes, of course sir, sorry sir, Robotnik said no, fuck you, you’re ignorant and also annoying and I’m taking your breakfast burrito. 

It was glorious.

And it made Stone feel like a coward.

Which he was not, by any means, and nor was he entirely devoid of agency, but when you’ve had to fight like hell to be allowed to sigh audibly, it’s a shock hearing someone who’s had a similar life yell.

Meeting Dr. Robotnik changed Stone’s life for the better. Gave him back the drive he lost, and multiplied it because he’d found purpose. Now, he has had time to learn all the hobbies he’s been curious about over the years. Crocheting, acrylic painting, making clay sculptures, origami, latte art (obviously), playing acoustic guitar, or the fiddle, or the lyre, the ukulele, the kalimba…he has so many new hobbies, he can barely keep track of them. So many new romantasy novels on his shelf, so many reading goals on Goodreads that he’s met and doubled and tripled. He bakes, he cooks, he works on his bike, he volunteers at a no-kill animal shelter to help socialize feral cats—there is so much he occupies his deeply appreciated freedom in personhood with.

But he doesn’t…talk about it.

Doesn’t mention that he took a fifteen minute break to sort out his anxiety before a storm broke. Doesn’t mention that he just finished his first crochet project using glow in the dark yarn, and yes, it turned out exactly how he wanted it to, thank you. Doesn’t mention his new Venus flytrap, or that a part he needed for his bike just came in the mail and he’s excited to go home, or that he actually drinks more tea than coffee because he likes less sugar in his tea and it’s better for him. Nobody knows that he avoids caffeine most of the time. Nobody knows that he can’t stand black licorice. Nobody knows he’s a picky eater; he’s a huge fan of Sherlock media; he’s slept with a heating pad for the last three years and only takes hot baths and showers and he runs warm, he promises, and his skin is moisturized and soft and he smells good, why doesn’t anybody know that, why doesn’t anybody want to find out? Why doesn’t Robotnik?

Stone is the invisible man. Stone is just a rumor. Stone is a complete contradiction of his namesake, actually, because he’s flexible to the point of fluidity. 

He’s a man with a very full and vibrant inner life, and all anyone wants from him is lie down, roll over, fetch. And because of that, and either by the fault of or in spite of his fluency in impersonal conversations, Stone has no fucking idea how to make real friends. So he doesn’t. He goes to coffee shops and makes small talk about the long lines, and he asks what aisle the macaroni is in, and he watches videos on YouTube of people embroidering beautiful designs onto clothing while they tell stories from their lives, or talk about their days. Sometimes, only sometimes, when he’s alone and lonely enough to compartmentalize the embarrassment, he pretends to be one of those YouTubers while he’s embroidering, or drawing Zentangles, or dusting. Or eating dinner. Or…any time wants to talk about his day, really.

“STOOOOONE?!”

The sound comes again: his doctor, yelling for him like a wayward dog. Stone blinks, readjusts his tie, and leaves behind a trail of featherlight steps as he floats farther into the room, into the doctor’s awareness.

“Yes, doctor? My apologies, I was lost in thou—”

“Wasting my time. Remind me of what day we have that conference.”

Biting back the sting of being so quickly interrupted, Stone replies: “Thursday.”

Robotnik turns in his spinny chair, facing Stone with his fingers steepled and his eyebags dragged down and prominent by the weight of his workload. “That’s the deadline for the C-473 prototype.”

“Yes, sir. A busy day.”

“I hate Thursdays. They suck. We shouldn’t have Thursdays anymore, Stone. They’re awful.”

Stone allows himself a little bit of humor. “Would you like me to cross them off the calendar, Doc?”

“Tch. Go back to your corner, Dwayne.”

…Dwayne?

He types the name into his phone, and the words Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson come up almost immediately. Oh, he thinks, that guy from Moana? That’s funny, because I’m called Stone, and—

“Agent, I lose faith in you every time you Google one of my references.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I’m still, ah, stuck in my own niche online.”

“Didn’t ask, don’t care.”

His doctor spins back around to the console, and Stone sighs, almost imperceptibly.

Maybe a little too perceptible, actually, in retrospect, because the doctor spins his chair back around. 

“Did you just sigh at me?” he asks. 

A lethal question.

Stone fumbles, embarrassment and anxiety shaking up his insides like they’re waking their family members to warn them of a house fire.

“I-I um, no, I was just breathing.”

…I’m ashamed of myself. All these years a liar, and I fall to pieces when—

“Breathing a sharp exhale, Agent. Why don’t you Google the definition? You know what, I’ll save you the time: that’s called a sigh. You’re…what, are you irritated?” 

Robotnik, of course, accuses him in a perfect model of what irritation sounds like.

“No— no, no, just a little tired, maybe.”

“So you admit it was a sigh?”

“I…in retrospect—”

“The more tales you fabricate, the bigger the insult you’re throwing in my face. Need I point out how poorly I enjoy being insulted?”

“I’m sorry, sir, I don’t mean to insult you!” I’m not panicking, this is fine. Everything’s okay. “You just caught me very off-guard, is all.” I can smooth this over if I’m smart about it. 

…

…Robotnik sits back. Studies him. Looks him over like a blueprint in a language he’s started to figure out.

Stone sizzles under the attention.

It’s gone.

Robotnik has turned back to the schematics on his console.

Robotnik has been turned away from him, actually, for so many hours that Stone is lying face-down in his bed and playing the scene on repeat in his mind. Still on a high because of it.

…Look.

He lives for praise. A good job, or a decent work, or a that’s adequate, I guess, sycophant. It stokes the coals of his motivation, reignites his drive to do well at whatever boring-ass task he’s been ordered to complete. Playing the book against itself is stimulation for him. Following the rules to learn how to  exploit them is comforting; gives him that feeling of control.

But that little moment of inadvertently stepping out of line—Robotnik had looked at him. Questioned him. Listened to what he said. Only to use it against him and prove himself correct, but Stone had gotten a few stammered sentences in and Robotnik had noticed his irritation.

It is here, in his bed, shifting to curl up with his heating pad sandwiched between his stomach and a firm body pillow, that Stone makes a very dangerous decision.

The dog who lies down is the dog who doesn’t get one-on-one time with its trainer.

And the game, Dr. Robotnik, is on.

Chapter Text

“STONE!” 

The doctor’s voice rings out from his private study. It’s one of the few personal rooms attached to the lab, and unlike Robotnik’s bedroom, Stone is more or less allowed inside. Ordinarily, he’d be thrilled to be in Robotnik’s living space. But today is another bad day.

It’s been four days since the sigh incident. Stone isn’t proud of how quickly he lost his nerve, and he’s also not proud of how…how desperate he got, that he was on board with going to such an extreme. 

He’s been trying to put it out of his mind, honestly. Really, he has. He’s been trying to be satisfied with pre-packaged, standard issue praise from the higher-ups; with Robotnik pulling him into his world one moment, shoving him back among the common folk the next; with early mornings and late nights and never not being on call. To be satisfied, because he is everything he ever needed to be: strategic and private and flexible.

The only flaw, here, is that he can’t stop obsessing over that…that rush. That rush of feeling seen, feeling scolded and therefore important enough to need yelled at. It’s like he’s a kid again, acting out before that understanding grew in him that nobody with the authority to make him less of an outsider wanted to be reminded he existed outside of their commands. “Roll over,” would say the biggest in the room, and Stone would.

But today.

Today. 

Today is not a day on which he’d prefer to be rolling over.

Today, he’d woken at four in the morning from a nightmare. 

Cold and feeling like his body wasn’t enough to protect him, with that angry-helpless feeling squirming around in his chest like a toddler with a fever trying to kick off their blankets. So much noise, in that dream, that his ears hurt upon waking. So many memories bubbling right at the surface, simmering, making the pot of his head sweat. 

All the clothing touching him felt wrong. Tainted, somehow. And so he threw off the tank and slipped into a loose t-shirt, but that didn’t feel right, either—too casual, domestic, vulnerable—and so he opted to wear one of his work shirts. Kept the shorts, though, because it’s August and he’s sensitive to heat. Is that ironic? Him being sensitive to heat, but constantly craving it? He’s not sure if that’d be a correct use of the word. 

With more buttons neglected than actually buttoned, Stone had made his way into the kitchen to scavenge a snack from his pantry. A benefit of working with G.U.N: his pantry is a vision of abundance. The fruits of his labor, surely. He grew up repeating meals, eating leftovers twice or maybe thrice a day, lending money to his revolving door of caretakers if there wasn’t enough to go around. Stealing that money, before he had a job, and then continuing to steal it sometimes because there still wasn’t enough to go around.

Gratefulness had welled up in him, an encore of the way he lived back when a steady income without constant near-death experiences was new and novel and felt oh-so temporary. 

It still does, sometimes. It feels like the fight was never meaningfully won, like a battle within a war that, ultimately, had already been decided before he could lift his voice to the choir.

Living off three hours of sleep would once have been considered a luxury. But with a spoiled body now accustomed to at least eight hours and unwilling to give up what it sorely lacked for so many years, so many decades—three hours isn’t enough. Three hours isn’t enough to help him manage his anxiety, nor is it enough to keep him on track, nor is it enough for him to feel human and worthy and secure. So when he saw he was out of Cheez-Its, there was this brief flicker, this brief pulse in the nerves buried deep in the pit of his stomach. He cried a little. 

That desperate, helpless anger…that I can’t fix this, why would you give me this problem? The powerlessness and the awareness of his irrationality, that he no longer has to hold onto food for as long as he can and that he is an adult with a cushy government job that funds his crochet obsession, mixed together into something ugly and nasty. Something inside him with teeth and dull canine claws. Dull claws which would leave that cold, thorny feeling if they dug into his unbreaking skin. Teeth which bit prayers into his skin, prayers for things he didn’t want to admit he wanted; he still needed.

Snacking didn’t help much. Nor did wallowing in self-pity, nor doing breathing exercises. Checking the weather for the day kind of made things worse, honestly, because that only made him wish he’d gotten more sleep. Sleep will fix me, he thinks to himself as he shakes sugar into his tea, and I’ll survive until tonight. Even if it rains—

“Agent Stone!” 

Robotnik’s voice cracks like lightning across his mind, jolting Stone from his thoughts. The mug tips at his startle, and hot tea is spat onto the back of his hand.

“Fuck!” Stone snaps, managing to suppress the urge to hurl the damn tea to the breakroom floor and instead set the mug down calmly. Still, he is without his usual fortification, his programmed reticence, and so he whips around to glare at his doctor. “The hell are you yelling at me like that for?” he asks with tongue and teeth. “I just got here.” 

And almost immediately, sharp and poignant, guilt bites up his thoracic cavity like a school of piranhas was let loose within. 

He’s never snapped at the doctor, before. Never shown his irritation, not even in their earlier days, and never has he imagined doing it, so there is no script for the apology he wants to give rushing to the forefront of his mind. Just guilty silence.

Robotnik just stares at him. Maybe looks a little wounded, if Stone squints, but it’s more offense and annoyance written on the older man’s face than anything else.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot how much concentration it takes government dogs like you to glitter glue two halves into a whole brain cell. Just to catch you up to speed on what you’ve missed in the last seven minutes and thirty… four seconds on planet Earth, I’ve been yelling for you.”

…

…Something about being referred to as a government dog (or maybe a lot of little instances of condescension, like the little details of speciation which become defining traits) becomes his tipping point.

“Have you ever tried using your cell phone? Or any of the dozen other machines in the lab to contact me?” Stone’s voice remains clipped, remains unsteady, upset.

They stare each other down a moment, feeling out this… shift. This change. Something momentous, weird, new-but-not-new. Something built to.

Stone holds eye contact, brows furrowed and posture rigid. He’s exhausted. His anxiety has just been stimulated the way one stimulates a hibernating bear with a sharp stick, and he’s a little bit over having to talk himself into loving where he’s at in his life. Robotnik, meanwhile, cannot keep eye contact for the life of him. Those dark eyes of his dart all over Stone’s person, like he’s examining the agent to make sure he hasn’t been replaced by a defective version of himself. Stone wonders if maybe he has.

As always, always, Stone decides himself to be first to fold. He opens his mouth to—

“I prefer…I mean, it’s not like I haven’t…that…”

…Robotnik beats him to it. Huffs all indignantly, like he thinks explaining himself is beneath him, but he’s doing it anyway.

“That’s not what I wanted to do, so I didn’t do it. Y-You deserved it, anyway. You’re five minutes late with my latte.”

Left dumb, Stone utters flatly: “...I’m five minutes late to work.”

“Why?”

“I lost track of time this morning.”

“You wake up at the same time every day, how did you lose track of time?”

“I woke up earlier than expected.”

“How early?”

“By two hours.”

“Did you go back to sleep?”

“No,” Stone responds. It would’ve been a bad idea, considering how my nightmares tend to take advantage of my tired brain. They only would have returned.

Robotnik, still indignant and off-balance, is scowling at him with wide eyes. His arms are crossed, and he’s tapping the fingers of his control gloves against his jacket. “Why the hell not?”

A sigh. “Why are you interrogating me?”

“Because you’re—! You’re being weird, agent. Explain yourself.”

“No.”

…No?

…No. 

No is not, by anyone’s standard, the correct response from someone meant to be so obedient.

But, then again, he’s not inherently obedient. Loyal, loyal and devoted and dedicated, but not truly obedient. Maybe he’s been among those who made the mistake of assuming obedience in him. Joined their ranks after so many years being shoved into shape, molded to meet impossible standards, rigid and world-ending expectations, and now he looks at himself in the mirror and sees it all reflected back. But obedience is not in his blood and cells and sinew. That’s loyalty.

And it is not a betrayal to tell Robotnik no, and so he does.

Robotnik crowds him. Probably intends to walk him backward into the counter, but Stone isn’t moving. Not feeling flexible, right now, he thinks. Sorry, Doc.

They’re close enough for Robotnik to realize what’s going on.

He pushes it just two inches farther before stopping, nose-to-nose with his agent.

It is then Stone realizes that the doctor is not going to give up immediately at the first sign of resistance. That’s…not…how things go, with people, typically. What the hell?

“You’re going to tell me exactly why you were late, sycophant,” Robotnik mutters. 

Stone, still a little in shock, doesn’t hold back. “Shall I add working on your listening skills with you to my daily to-do list, sir?”

Robotnik, wide-eyed, falters.

“You can’t…talk to me like that, you’re supposed—you’re my agent...”

“Yeah. Your agent. Not your dog. You’d be wise to learn the difference.”

With that, Stone—desperate to escape the situation—picks up his tea very mindfully, and walks out of the room. Directly into his own office, where he has everything he needs to make Robotnik’s lattes. Why not have it all in the breakroom? Because a Badnik could capture the process, and then his doctor might have no use for him, one day, and decide to be rid of him. And Stone won’t have that.

Unlike himself, Stone takes a couple of minutes to sit down and steady himself before jumping into making the latte.

That had been…

Entirely unprofessional of him? Rude? Mean, inappropriate, unwarranted?

…a little thrilling, honestly.

He’s never had someone keep on him after he’s sent them such a clear cue to fuck off. A hint of a push is all it ever took to make someone lose interest in his inner world. Robotnik, he had to physically walk away from.

Scientist’s curiosity, perhaps? There’s no way he missed the cue. (He could have absolutely missed the cue.) Maybe…Robotnik was bored?

Bored, and capable of finding something else to care about very, very soon.

…He paid attention to me again.

He looked me right in the eyes, and he was barely an inch from my face, and he called me HIS agent.

…Oh.

…Oh, Stone is never rolling over again, is he?

Remarkably, the rest of the day passes peaceably. Robotnik is strange around him: jumpier, or perhaps jittery is the word. Mumbles acknowledgement instead of ignoring him when Stone reminds him of the conference tomorrow.

Well…actually…the rest of the day is peaceful, save for right now. 

Robotnik’s been going on and on about Walters, about that conference tomorrow. Normally, Stone would love listening, but with the day he’s had…he decides to—

“Sir, we have to go to that conference. Sponsors won’t fund you if they don’t know who you are.”

Predictably, Robotnik doesn’t like that.

“Don’t repeat that ancient relic’s words at me, Stone. I’m not stupid.”

“Of course not, sir. Just petulant.”

“Exac—...”

A full five seconds of silence Stone withstands. 

…Robotnik is backing him into the wall. Or, trying to.

Midway through the intimidation tactic, he huffs. “Why aren’t you moving, syco-freak?”

“I don’t feel like it,” the syco-freak replies.

His doctor pouts. Pouts. An angry little expression that awakens the part of Stone’s brain responsible for cuteness aggression. Oh, if only the Doc was comfortable with me touching him…

A half-second after Stone has that thought, Robotnik’s hands are pressing into his chest and pushing. He’s too caught off-guard to consider the implications of folding immediately, so that’s what he does. Pliant, he’s guided backwards until his shoulder blades hit the wall. Very much reminded of the few inches Robotnik has on him, also. Jesus Christ. His freckles. Laid sparingly into his skin like they’d dripped there.

“Stop being defiant,” Robotnik orders him hoarsely. “I don’t like it.”

“Maybe I do,” Stone responds carefully. He looks into his doctor’s eyes, wide and confused and quite possibly the most beautiful part of the man. So sharp, usually, but softened when it is only him and his agent. Expressive and traitorous. “It sure gets your attention.”

Robotnik recoils. “Tch— attention? Is that what you want? You’re not here to get my attention.”

“You have mine every second of every day.” 

Here, Stone leans forward a fraction, straightening his back to meet the other man as closely on his level as he can.

“I think I ought to be allowed to have a little, too, sir. All I want is a little.”

He’s touching me. He’s touching me, he’s touching me, he’s touching me!

Robotnik is touching him! One hand gripping the lapel of his jacket, the other fisted and resting upon the warmth of his breast where his jacket has been shifted askew. He leans into his agent almost inappreciably, glaring yet drawn. Like a feral cat starting to lean into human touch. And oh God, Stone’s going to need to lie down after this. Lie down and breathe and cover his skin, hide it, hide the shame trickling down his back and hide that he’s a tiny bit overwhelmed by nothing, literally nothing, oh my God. 

“You.” Robotnik bares his teeth. “Are not winning.”

Stone takes a long, indulgent look at the doctor’s hands tangled up on his chest. 

“I think I am, sir.”

Chapter Text

“Doc—tor?”

This awful, horrible sound: hearing himself fail to breathe in. The sound of air skipping and the grinding of his voice trying, trying, trying to come out, to ask for help. On the other end of the phone, there is a sigh.

Aban doesn’t know who it is, but they’re annoyed with him. Annoyed with him while he can’t breathe.

“Doctor,” he repeats more insistently. Strangled, horrified, believing this is the end. Doctor, doctor, where is he? God, he’s going to die. The ER shoved him out, refused to treat him. Too busy. They were too busy. He’s going to die like every other animal out there. The terrifying sound of his body struggling to breathe. The sensation of feeling his throat close up, like hearing the ticking of your pacemaker suddenly off-beat. I can’t breathe. I’m not breathing. I’m going to die.

A final plea: “Doctor, please—”

He wakes up.

Gasping for air, drawing in long, smooth pulls just to be sure. Filling his lungs all the way, then immediately worrying he’ll hyperventilate, but needing to be sure. Just to be sure. Just to be sure.

Only a dream, he thinks, it was just a dream. You’re okay. I’m okay. 

Just…shit, just a really bad nightmare.

He sits up in the 5:30 half-dark of his room, the room which is empty and upsetting in the quiet. He can hear the fan in his window, dutifully spinning away, bringing air to his skin and replacing the heat surrounding him. His weighted blanket is bunched at his feet, and the sky outside is an over-saturated robin’s egg blue. There are texts from Robotnik: texts which are comforting and insulting alike despite that they are only the usual notes for part orders: needing this, that, and oh, maybe something like this part, too, just in case I need another. Much more to order than usual– Great. That’s more stress. 

…Nono, stop the spiral before it starts. Life itself isn’t out to get you. You’re not important enough for that.

The self-deprecation, oddly, is what helps to ground him.

Aban lays there in his bed after stretching the blanket back out across his body. Everything feels wrong, head to toe, and with a nightmare about suffocation—which is one of his biggest fears as far as death, despite, ah, other things related to hands around his throat— he can’t stop checking to make sure his lungs work.

He crochets to make the thoughts go away. To get his brain productive and working on something tangible. He’s not even sure what he’s making, honestly. Maybe another little Badnik plushie to add to his collection? While he works, he loads a video on his laptop.

It’s a video of someone eating breakfast and talking into the camera. There’s this whole wonderful genre of videos made for lonely people like him where someone is eating a meal with you and asking you how your day was. And he tells this stranger about the nightmare, and they react neutrally because it’s a video made to catch a wide variety of people living a wide variety of lonely, isolated lives.

Aban swaps out what yarn he’s using, opting instead for the plush red stuff because his fingers keep shaking and the hook keeps slipping out. 

He’s just starting to sort of get into it when his phone buzzes.

The Doc’s calling? Is everything alright…?

Peace lost and replaced with more stress, he snatches up the phone and answers the call.

“Good morning, doctor!” he greets cheerfully.

“It’s going to storm.” 

The words are grumbled, almost angry.

“I’m out of ibuprofen.”

Shit. I was supposed to replace his stock threefold last week. I’m such a fucking idiot.

“I’ll go fetch some now and be right over,” Stone promises. He’d already stood from his bed when he heard out of-.

An mh sort of noise, and he hears Robotnik shifting the phone against his shoulder and pouring something. Probably coffee—the tolerable stuff he keeps on hand for when his migraines hit and Stone isn’t there to brew his lattes. They take longer, anyway. A little emergency caffeine was a good idea.

“Stone,” the doctor calls again. His voice is softer, maybe a little breathy.

“Yes, doctor?”

“...Stay on the line, but don’t talk to me.”

“Of course, sir.”

Right. Robotnik’s anxiety always spikes when his migraines come on.

Stone is up and dressed in less than thirty seconds, heading out the door of his apartment building to find swollen and dark clouds overhead. It’s about six, now, and there aren’t any people around. Cars, too, are missing from their usual places. The world is slow and humid, and Stone worries about the rest of the day. Relaxes a little as he remembers it’s Wednesday, and the workday will be normal.

After a lightning fast shopping trip, he’s in the lab and handing over the painkillers. This weather does no good for his doctor. 

It’s a long while before Robotnik shows up in Stone’s office. A once-in-a-blue-moon event. Stone looks up from a little glass hourglass toy, its liquid blobs of blue and pink floating down from a V at the top. He’s been watching it drain then flipping it over for… way too long, really. Just needing a distraction from the needling of his anxiety.

“Stone,” Robotnik says in a quiet tone, “are we… going to that conference?”

The agent frowns. “That’s not ‘til Thursday, sir.”

“I’m fairly certain today is Thursday.”

…Oh, fuck—what time is it?! 

Stone stands abruptly— “Shit, we need to leave now. I-I’m so sorry, sir, I don’t know what’s wrong with me today, I’m not normally…”

“I know. Let’s go.”

…No scolding?

No reprimand?

The doctor must still not be feeling well.

…Stone isn’t either, honestly. 

He’s more used to dealing with trauma nightmares than he is with regular ones. Waking up genuinely afraid, waking up gasping for air and uncertain if he was really choking in his sleep or not? That was not normal for him. All the trauma in the world, he could deal with. But this mundane bullshit shouldn’t affect him. Not after everything. So why—

Robotnik’s hand, all of a sudden, rests on his thigh.

They’re in the car.

Driving towards that stupid-ass conference Stone doesn’t want to deal with. 

Stone’s tense. There’s this storm brewing overhead, yes, but there is also one in the pit of his belly. Threatening him with teeth and dull claws, telling him how it intends to eat him: uncooked and still thrashing. Its voice is deep. Barely a voice; more of a growl. Sent from some fiery pit, but the Thing itself is cold. Cold, but it feels, and so it knows how to hurt him. The Thing has his senses on high alert. Don’t you know the storm is breaking? it asks, drawing a butcher’s knife claw along his skin. And his skin doesn’t break, but the claw sinks into the dip created by its weight. Can’t you hear the rain, pitter-pattering upon the roof of the car? 

Isn’t it overwhelming, like dragging your raw brain over a gravel parking lot, salty dust working into the rips? Isn’t it overwhelming to watch the rain fall?

Subconsciously, Stone bounces his leg. He can’t run. They’re on the highway, and by God, he will not buckle in front of his doctor. They will not pull over, he will not cave, and the doctor is…stopping him from bouncing his leg. Stone’s eyes, wide and animal, shift to stare at Robotnik.

Robotnik, who is glaring at him.

“Stop that, sycophant. I can’t focus.”

Stone…can’t get his words out.

Robotnik looks at him a moment longer, then turns his head away, taking back that hand.

He doesn’t love you, the Thing’s cruel voice whispers. He only loves his machines. They cannot die or be taken from him. They cannot fail, they cannot buckle. But you can.

And you will. 

Resorting to his imagination to save him, Stone imagines a warmth at his back instead of the carseat. Those are arms around him keeping him in place—not a seatbelt. 

It’s okay, he conjures a new, kinder voice. I’m meaner than the Thing. I will protect you.

…

…

…His voice sounds like Robotnik’s, the Thing sighs. You and I both know it.

You haven’t had a hug in fifteen years.

You barely remember the sensation well enough to imagine it, don’t you.

Stone’s lips twitch as he thinks up a reply. I’ll know it one day. I won’t forget it, then.

From whom? the Thing counters. Who would want to take your weight? You hold so much of other people’s. That’s too much.

I’m not too much, Stone thinks firmly. And I can be loved. And I will. One day.

Improbable, considering your line of work and general lack of interest in other people.

Stone sighs harshly through his nose.

His eyes are stinging, and the rain is falling like bullets upon the car. The vehicle lurches, all of a sudden, and the driver blows the horn. Through the partition, he can hear an angry voice muttering about red lights. 

Stone grips the fabric of the seat, trying his damndest to be still. To not fidget, not flinch. Not buckle. He’s so tired of this. The constant litany of meaningless titles, the constant war within himself to hold the right shape, the fact he has to sleep with a heating pad to mimic human warmth and bursts out crying when people kiss in rom-coms. 

“Stone, I told you to stop bouncing your knee. And what do you do?” Robotnik’s voice breaks the hold his thoughts have on him. “You start clawing up the backseat. This is nice fabric, you know. Costs a pretty government penny. Don’t wreck it just because you’re feeling fidgety.”

“Sorry, doctor,” Stone chokes. Oh, God. I can’t do this. I need out.

Robotnik’s expression changes, becomes this wide-eyed sort of thing like when you break something as a kid. “I didn’t…that’s n—why-why are you…? Don’t—don’t do that.”

…He’ll never want me, now.

In lieu of obeying the doctor’s command, Stone starts really crying. His face crumples, embarrassment and anxiety coalescing into one big monster as the Thing wins over. Shoulders shaking as he desperately, desperately tries to keep still, fold it all back into himself in a neat little package. 

“Please,” Robotnik is urging him. The scientist shifts in his seat, turning to face Stone, the middle seat an ocean between them. “Please, stop crying, I—what did I even say? Shit—Agent—i-if you need to fidget, I’d be a hypocrite to-to reprimand you, the government won’t care about a couple loose threads, it’s okay…”

It…it isn’t meant like that, but the phrase it’s okay being directed at Stone just makes him cry harder.

“I’m sorry, I’m s orry, I’msorrydoctorI’mtryingIswear—” 

Shut up, you fucking idiot, stop crying—what am I, five? Breathebreathebreathe…

I need out of here, I need to be alone, I’m going to lose my damn job!

“Just—what—how do people—” Robotnik gives a frustrated grunt, hands flailing in an array of aborted gestures. He eventually settles on running gloved fingers through his dark hair, stressing. “What do you need?” he asks in some poor facsimile of a calm tone. 

Stone hides his face in his hands, forcing his bones to unlock. “I don’t know, I’m sorry, I d-I don…”

“...Can I…touch you, or would that be…?”

Thoughtless, Stone replies breathlessly: “That’s fine.”

The doctor’s tired face comes back into view as delicate, bare fingers curl around his wrists and pull. 

“Don’t curl in,” the Doc murmurs gently, “your body will think there’s a threat.”

Stone pulls air into his lungs as though it’s being discontinued. That nightmare floats, heavy, over his head. I feel like I can’t get my lungs full enough. 

Robotnik, meanwhile, has unbuckled and slid into the middle seat. Intelligent hands slip from Stone’s wrists to his hands, ensuring he doesn’t feel trapped. The doctor’s bare hands touching his own…he’s not sure whether he’s crying from embarrassment or from relief, at this point. Probably panic, actually, if he…

…he’s not thinking anymore.

Robotnik is shifting both of Stone’s hands into one of his own, while the other raises hesitantly toward his agent’s face. Slow, purposefully non-threatening in how he holds it. Aban holds perfectly still, would have held his breath, if he could have, as that hand nears his face and starts pushing tears off his cheeks. “Just, um, breathe with your belly,” the doctor instructs him nervously. “And focus on me.”

Noticing Robotnik’s shaky hand angling a certain way, Aban’s starved heart practically lunges for him, and he presses his cheek into the warmth of Robotnik’s palm and oh. Oh, that’s worse. 

A trembling breath escapes him. He’s sure, so sure, that Robotnik will rip his hand away any second. But oh, oh goodness, is Aban going to be selfish. Just this once. Just this one time, when it almost feels okay. 

Robotnik’s breathing has changed. Whether to soothe himself or guide Aban is unclear, but it seems to serve both purposes. The scientist’s thumb brushes over Aban’s cheekbone experimentally. The agent could’ve mewled at how good that felt. 

“You’re…mm…you’re okay.” The words fall from his doctor’s mouth like he’s embarrassed to be saying them. He’s never seen the man so uncertain. “It’s alright. You’re…I-I’m here, so, obviously, you…are well-protected. And…essential, to me. I wouldn’t like to see you replaced. So. You are. Um. A…priority. To me.”

Oh, God. A priority. He’s—he’s trying, for me, and I’m essential, and God…

Aban drags in a shuddering breath, raising one hand to press over Robotnik’s so he can smoosh his face into it more firmly. He doesn’t want to ever forget the feeling. It may never come again.

“Thank you,” his voice comes high. Stressed, strained in a way he hasn’t heard since his mid-teens. “I’m s…sorry, I…is this o…I’m sorry…”

Robotnik looks like he’s been kicked. 

Oh, God, am I making him uncomfortable? I’m making him uncomfortable, fuck, fuck!

Stone lets his hand fall from Robotnik’s just in time for the doctor to let go of his hold on his agent’s other hand, suspended between their laps. It’s over. Stone was allowed a little kitten lick of affection, of personal and positive attention, and now it’s gone and he’s got to be enough for himself. Everything his child self ever needed to be. Whatever the biggest man in the room wants as a lapdog, because Stone wouldn’t want to rule the world alone.

Hands. Two of them.

Hands on his face, warm and with long, trembling fingers his tears break apart against. 

“You’ve helped me every step of the way since we met,” his Ivo murmurs softly. 

Lips. Two of them. 

Lips pressed up to his forehead, warm and unfamiliar but oh fuck, does he want them to be. 

“Stop looking at me like I’m going to shove you out the car door any second.”

…oh.

It’s…it’s his turn, finally.

His turn to want; his turn to need and not be shoved out for putting stress on the budget. His turn to have hobbies and interests and a life outside of being a shadow, a cookie cutter, a shapeshifter made of teeth and dull claws. It is finally his turn to have support which will not be ripped from him, and he doesn’t know what to do. So he just… cries. Cries and pushes Ivo’s hands harder into his face so he can feel it all, feel the fact his doctor cares about him and is willing to touch him above all Earth’s other hairless apes. Mumbles thank you s, and I’m sorry s, and whatever placating nonsense he can think to throw out, just in the hopes it’ll keep everything okay. Keep Ivo okay and wanting to touch him and be near him and maybe love him, just a little bit, in some tiny agent-and-doctor way—if such a way exists.

And if not, Ivo Robotnik has always created new things no one else had the brains nor the balls to understand. 

When the car stops, Aban is vaguely aware Ivo is guiding him out of the car. Leaning over him to open the door, unbuckling his seatbelt like the agent isn’t capable (which, honestly…he may not be). Holding him to his side, his fucking side, and not shying away when Aban’s face becomes buried in his shoulder. They’re back at the lab, Aban notes hazily. They’re back at the lab, and Ivo uses a subtle-smelling laundry detergent. Only one of these things makes sense.

Fragile and timid and rubbed raw from dragging himself through life, Aban is half-lying against Ivo, head propped on his shoulder, and feeling the weight of everything. Pushing himself, and reshaping himself, and poorly looking after his own emotional needs.

Turns out those are pretty important, after all. Damn.

And it also turns out that Ivo Robotnik has no clue what the fuck he’s doing, but is trying anyway. In…a very confused, all over the place tactic. But the trying is the part that’s working. And, well, Aban has always loved listening to him talk.

“...and the surface of Mercury is hot as fuck, by the way, because it doesn’t really have much of an atmosphere…”

“...it’s okay to, um, take breaks. Keep that in mind. I need you functioning, and emotions, they-they count…”

“...placoid scales make up their skin, but if I remember correctly, they’re also what makes up a shark’s teeth, so that’s really something to chew on, hah—”

“...you don’t talk about your home life ever, but if you need to, I mean, the complex has a couple shitty therapists, and we’re together all the time, so it could also be beneficial— convenient— for you to talk to me, because I’m…I’m here, and a genius. A roboticist by trade, but I… ugh, have emotions, unfortunately. So I am aware you do, too. Despite what Walters may believe. He’s an idiot, anyway, and I’m glad we missed that stupid meeting. It would’ve been a waste of our precious time. Efficient as always, my dear agent. Ah… ahem. Anyway…”

…Eventually, Aban can’t stand to just lay there in the dark anymore. Carefully, oh-so carefully, he takes Ivo’s hand in his own. Studies the long, body fingers he’s never before seen like a paleontologist diagnosing a strange new fossil. There comes a lull as he does this. Quiet little thing, it is. Aban decides to break it gently.

“...thank you. I’m…sorry I let myself get to that point. It shouldn’t have…I should’ve been…been more…I don’t know. Just, thank you.”

His Ivo sighs underneath him. “I’m glad you’re as dense as I am, otherwise this would be very embarrassing for me.”

Aban barks a laugh—and by the curl of the Doc’s lips, that was another goal met to perfection.

A beat later, though, and Ivo sighs. “Stone…I don’t…what’s gotten into you, lately? No answer is required of you, but know that it has thrown me. You’re normally so…impassive, and yet you almost seemed to be irritated with me in the last…ehh…however long it’s been. I can’t fathom as to why. I haven’t been doing anything differently, which must, naturally, mean you’ve been very tolerant of something but it’s started to wear on you. Is it just…you’ve met me. Is that…it? The thing?”

Aban doesn’t give that thought the time of day, and he doesn’t want Ivo to, either. “No. No, I’ve just been…driving myself up a wall. I…I—this was very childish, but I realized I wasn’t getting enough out of the few social interactions I have in a day, and being, um… annoying you and defying you meant someone was at least looking at me because of something I’d done or said.”

“Oh…”

“I could’ve reached out to anyone, at any point, but I didn’t.”

“I could have…asked you how your day was, too, but I didn’t. Or, um. Thanked you. For your lattes, or anything you do, really. You do a lot. I know that because I don’t notice until the rare event it’s gotten skipped. I…”

Ivo huffs through his nose.

“We’ll have to make an appearance at the next one. The conferences, I mean. We’ll have to go to next month’s.”

“I’ll try to talk Walters out of it,” Aban mumbles. 

“Mgh. Don’t bother. They’re important, and the more we attend, the more we can get away with missing.”

A hush falls over the two. They sit, melting into one another, on the couch in Ivo’s living area. The lights are out save for a small warm-toned lamp in the corner shaped like a mushroom. Some part of Aban is vaguely thrilled to be in the love of his life’s living space. The rest of him is just… so tired. Tired enough to yawn.

“...You might benefit from a nap.”

“Nn…I don’t like napping alone.”

“Then you won’t. Let’s go.”

Their eyes meet. Cold and warm brown, both dark and left bagged by the stress of the day.

“Okay,” Aban half-whispers.

Okay.