Chapter Text
When Ivo feels that first spark of consciousness, it feels as though he’s trying to wade through memories that do not belong to him.
But then again, quite a bit of his life has felt like that, hasn't it?
Being dragged from orphanage to orphanage, parent-less and alone and endlessly surrounded by a falsified 
And maybe it hasn't always been that way. There had been a time — years and years for that matter, thank you very much — when he had known to the depths of his soul that he was on top of the goddamn world.
He'd dragged himself out of the dirt and into doctorate after doctorate. He had carried himself throughout G.U.N., throughout the surrounding areas, and most certainly throughout his own lab as if he owned each and every bit of it.
And really, hadn't he? He could have obliterated it all in the blink of an eye, and yet he willingly chose to spare it — The whole lot of them.
As far as he had been concerned, that meant it all belonged to him.
But all of that had been before the mushroom planet. All of that had been before the fall from the Mech.
And all of that had certainly been before his body had been obliterated into microscopic atoms and blasted across every corner of the known universe.
In spite of it all, Ivo finds that he is painfully aware of all of this and more — But it is no more than the awareness one might possess for a story told on a stranger's tongue. It’s a story passed from one to the other and mangled into mincemeat unworthy of even the lowest of the lowest.
He might know of it. But he certainly cannot feel it. He can’t feel the memories. He can’t feel emotion. And he most assuredly cannot feel his body — If he even has one of those in his possession anymore at all. If it’s still there, he can’t seem to find it.
All of it is nothing more than a pitifully empty void of distant memory and nothing else, nothing at all.
You can handle this, he tells himself. A ghost, a murmur — A whisper somewhere amongst the rotation of the planets. That’s all he is now, right? A fading voice, a dying star.
Ivo Robotnik had been nothing.
Ivo Robotnik had been everything.
Ivo Robotnik had been a god.
And now…
Now it seems that he is nothing once again.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
When Ivo wakes up the first time, he feels as though each and every one of his memories are well and truly his again.
He remembers his wayward, vagabonding childhood. He remembers the first time his hands touched metal and circuitry and made it come to life. He is able to drag his way through it all more solidly, and with more fragments of emotion behind it this time.
He remembers the exact way the dirt on Mushroom Planet had felt beneath his palms, how the grit of the sand had sounded as it was being crushed through his fingertips.
He remembers the smell of burning metal and broken debris as he spiraled towards the ground, weaponized Mech still towering over his all too human body.
He remembers it all. And he decides, immediately, that he fucking hates all of it.
Memories. Worthless, useless, pointless rubbish, he would grumble if he had yet regained the ability to speak. You can take them all back and shove them for all I care. I don't need a single one of them.
The voice that finds him after his silent tantrum is not a thought. If it is, then it can’t possibly be his own. It is far, far too —
You can handle this.
— Hopeful.
After all, for all the time that he’s been lying there — and where exactly is here, while he’s bothering to think about it? — He still hasn't managed to move a singular muscle.
Not for a lack of trying, given the depths of his intellect. It doesn't take a genius to know that he needs to move; he just so happens to be one. Really, it’s entirely unrelated.
So yes, he has tried — and quite valiantly, while he’s at it — To move his body. To fully open his eyes. To discern even one singular detail about his surroundings.
Not a single one of his efforts has thus far proven successful.
But Ivo Robotnik is more powerful than the limitations of something as ridiculous as a human body, and he will not allow this to stop him —
At least… In time, he will most assuredly not allow this to stop him.
That is what he tells himself when the void of Nothingness seeps over his conscious all over again.
Because in the meantime, in that very moment…
The limitations of humanity seem perfectly capable of stopping him in every imaginable way.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The longer Ivo is forced to lie there, the more he remembers.
And the more he remembers, the more he thinks about Stone.
Stone. The man who had stayed by his side after they'd assigned him to, long after Ivo had tried to push him towards the brink of insanity and back again. The man who had waited for him when he was lost to the planet they'd once shared. The man who had joined him all over again. The man who had dug through the rubble for him. The man who had nursed him back to health bit by boring bit.
The man who had saved his life. The man who he had left behind.
At first, he tries to purge the memories into the very back of his head and even further. They couldn't do anything to serve him here — Anything other than remind him over and over about the man he'd left behind.
So when he opens his eyes and finds himself face to face with that very same man —
His body — the upper half of it, at least — remembers how to move so abruptly that the force of it is dizzying. He all but entirely launches himself forward, hands shaking as he clings to the familiar figure. Trembling fingernails dig into his sides, his stomach, his hips, the back of his neck — Anywhere and everywhere that he can possibly hope to reach. The sight of his once-was assistant is all it takes for him to find the strength to move something other than his eyes.
“You’re alive,” he murmurs. “You’re here. Stone…”
The breathless words fall from his lips in a dazed rush, one that is so unlike him it’s difficult to put a name to the well of emotion overtaking him.
In the haze of it all, it takes him entirely too long to realize that Stone hasn’t moved a muscle.
He doesn’t wrap his arms around him. He just kneels there, unmoving other than the barely perceptible trembling in his body.
It takes damn near more than Ivo has in him to pull himself away, his hands already lifting to cradle Stone’s face. In the haze of it all, he finds himself thinking that he’s beautiful, so goddamned beautiful Robotnik could choke.
“What happened?”
It’s horrifically strange and unfamiliar, the way Stone’s face twists into a sneer. Unfamiliar — One thing his Stone is most decidedly not. Silently, Ivo wracks his brain for an explanation, fighting to make sense of what is kneeling right in front of him — Another task that is most unfamiliar to him, having to try so hard just to understand something that should be so simple.
“You happened.”
Stone’s voice is little more than a croon, strange and unnerving and so, so unfamiliar.
It doesn’t make any sense, and all over again Robotnik is struck by just how drastically his life has changed in such a short span of time. A mere matter of years ago, a human being proving themselves unpredictable was damn near the only thing that made any sense. Stone turning his back on him would’ve make the utmost sense. It would have been rather moronic on his part, but stranger things have certainly happened than a man being a moron.
But this is Stone. This is Stone.
The wracking of his brain is moving in nauseatingly rapid waves now, looking for something, anything to explain something, anything.
This isn't real.
That now familiar and still all too calm voice is entirely too quick to assure him of that. His own thought, of course, but these days they seem to be clinging to that far too annoying little flare of hopefulness.
“I can assure you that this is entirely too real, Doctor.” The long familiar and somehow all the more calm voice of his Agent says — No, corrects. Corrects his thoughts.
It feels like ages before Ivo’s vision focuses enough to fully take him in. He looks…
“Stone,” Ivo murmurs again, battered body still refusing to move more than what it takes for him to move his eyes.
Yes, Stone. But without a doubt not his Stone.
Ivo takes in the sight of him properly this time, that hopeful fog having lifted enough to lend him a proper view. An illusion, then. The first glance had without a doubt been his Stone, and this is not His Stone. The vision ahead is bitterly unfamiliar.
Grown-out hair giving way to a messy and unfamiliar curl pattern, overgrown beard half covering a grin, tattered purple coat not unlike the one he himself had fallen from the Mech in, gloved hands digging into the floor like some sort of feral animal.
Ivo curls his lip and sneers at him.
“Doctor,” Not-His-Stone greets, voice strangely deadpan in contrast with the smile tugging at his mouth. “It’s good to see you. It’s been quite some time.”
Good to meet you, Ivo corrects bitterly in his head — And watches as Not-Stone tilts his head considerately.
“Ah, yes, I suppose it feels like a first meeting for you,” he practically purrs, lifting himself onto his knees and folding his hands delicately over his lap. “Don’t worry, Doctor. You’ll adapt. You always do.”
“You can read my thoughts,” Ivo states, theory confirmed a little too quickly for his liking.
“Yes.”
“Because I’m dead.” Truly, the only possible explanation.
"Yes."
"And this is... What?" Ivo murmurs. If he could, he'd brandish his hand around in tune with the words. "Hell? Purgatory?"
That strange little smile widens at the question, but at least Not-Stone finally moves. The stillness is far more unnerving. “Something like that.”
“This isn’t what I thought being dead would feel like,” Ivo concedes, finding that he can finally twitch his fingers. He tries to focus on that — pinky, ring, middle, index, thumb, thumb, index, middle, ring, pinky, over and over again.
“And what did you think death would feel like?” Not-Stone croons down at him, head titling again in that strange, unsettling way of his. “Before the Crab days, you considered yourself largely invincible. Tell me, Doctor — If not this, what would you like death to be?”
Annoyingly, the question is enough to break his focus on rebuilding the strength in his hands. Ivo lifts his head — good, at least he can manage that again — And pivots his gaze rather painfully to take in the rest of his surroundings.
They're in a goddamn sterile white room.
Of course they are.
How nauseatingly fitting — No one and nothing other than Stone. And not even his Stone for that matter; just A Stone.
Just the two of them and a lifetime’s worth of regret still looming over his head.
“What do you remember?”
“Enough with the stupid questions, Stone —“
“What do you remember?”
Cutting him off, as if Ivo possibly needs any more evidence that this bastard is most assuredly not his Stone. At least he knows that his mobility is slowly returning to him more and more, because this little number earns Not-Stone an open-mouthed sputter from the Doctor.
… Fine, then. If that’s how he’s going to be.
“Based on the incredibly obvious fact that you can somehow read my mind — stolen nano-tech, I’d presume —“
“You’d presume incorrectly.”
“— I would next assume that you already know damn well what I remember.”
The expression on Not-Stone’s face shifts into something ever so slightly more thoughtful, and Ivo resumes his finger exercises as he triumphantly hums in response.
The sound cuts off rather abruptly when Not-Stone speaks again. “I wouldn’t have to read your mind to know that you’re doubting the reality of this, Doctor. I know you well enough to guess that much in any lifetime. In any timeline. After any death.”
It’s a simple answer. A calm one. A logical one.
And yet Ivo feels his blood run cold beneath the veins. He doesn't have time to further ponder the question if whether or not he even has blood in his veins anymore.
He still can’t stand up, and it takes him entirely too long to realize the reason for that has shifted from a lack of mobility in his weary bones.
His body is firmly rooted in it’s seated position by a rope tied around his waist. Stone has remained close enough to reach, close enough to touch — But that doesn’t mean Ivo can properly move.
“What do you want from me, Stone?” There is the slightest tremble to his voice, his skin tingling in a way that almost reminds him of the very first millisecond of the Eclipse Canon explosion.
A smile, then. A real one — Broad and bright and somehow far more menacing in its appearance than the sneer had been. “Finally asking the right questions, Doctor. I want to show you something. In fact, I want to show you everything.”
There isn’t anything Ivo can do when Stone snaps his fingers and the rope — not rope after all, then; some sort of tech that he can’t quite make out — Shifts abruptly upward to subdue his hands, too.
There isn’t anything Ivo can do when Stone places his hand delicately beneath his jaw and moves his head to one side.
And there isn’t anything Ivo can do when his eyes catch sight of the mirror on the far east wall, and it all fades to black.
Chapter Text
2013, ten years previous to the events of Montana...
Doctor Robotnik knows that Stone belongs to him, and Stone knows that he belongs to Doctor Robotnik. Unfortunately for the both of them, G.U.N and the countless number of other brain-dead three-letter government operations within its umbrella decidedly do not know that.
The only other person who does know that, having had to sign off on the payroll exchange with his stupid, ancient fingers and a fountain pen… Is Commander Walters.
Since having Stone assigned to him it would seem that the higher-ups had all but entirely forgotten about his agent. He supposes that every soldier within a hundred mile radius is simply too damn relieved that they no longer have to schlep themselves out to be cracked one by one to pull Stone away for anything more than the occasional weapons class or the one-off mandatory meeting. Meanwhile, the oversight over his own tasks had lessened somewhat significantly since adding Stone to oversee his daily going-ons.
They have been damn near attached at the hip. And all the better for the both of them — Robotnik is so not about to waste his precious time learning how to operate the overpriced coffee machine Stone covets like a dragon with a hoard of gold.
Besides, he can… Appreciate the steep decline in oversight more than he needs to despise the fact that it only comes on the condition that he keep a babysitter on board at all times. Of course, he’d always known this was a possibility, if he’d ever once bothered to keep any of the countless agents they’d saddled him with nearby; but it was hardly his fault they’d never once bothered to send him one worth keeping around until Stone. It’s a win all around, really!
However, the United States government in all its goddamn glory can not possibly keep its hands out of its own endless well of stupidity for long, and so it shouldnt be all that surprising when he gets the call. If anything, he should probably be surprised that it had taken more than a full calendar year — Eighteen months, to be specific.
One year, six months, four days, three hours and thirteen minutes, to be exact, but who’s counting?
Robotnik is fairly certain that nothing on this forsaken planet exists solely to piss him off quite so much as having to pick up the damn phone to begin with. No one knows this better — well, other than Stone, of course — than Commander Walters. So his blood boils extra quickly when he gets a "Wait, Ivo, there’s something else we need to discuss —" as he finally moves to hang up.
Any other time he would never have bothered to answer in the first place, but seeing as how Walters knows his whereabouts at damn near all times and is all too happy to send a lackey or two towards the lab if he deems it necessary, well…
Besides, he’s found that answering the one-off call buys him enough good graces to ignore the rest for at least a month before anyone comes knocking at his door with false pretenses of “concern.” Before Stone, it would have been two days at best, so an entire month is goddamn beautiful. And because he’s feeling a little bit generous in the face of that little arrangement, he even throws the holoscreen up so they can have this little impromptu chat face to face.
He tries not to be too bothered by the fact that Walters has finally seemingly learned to call before Stone’s eight a.m. arrival, robbing his assistant of the chance to keep the Doctor far, far away from the line. Their lengthy discussion of the newest model's recent accuracy ratings has already taken more time than it really warranted, and now this? He doesn't bother to hide his irritation as the Commander so blatantly demands more of his precious time, but at least he can be newly pleased that the camera at least makes his displeasure abundantly clear.
"What is it now?" he demands. "I have actually important shit to do, or have you forgotten about the mile-long list of upgraded tech you seem to be in constant need of? If you’re trying to add to the workload right now, dont even think —"
"Relax, relax, it's nothing like that. Nothing for you to blow a gasket over," the Commander cuts in. He sounds every bit as gentle and placating as a lion tamer thrown into the pen smeared in fresh blood, and shockingly, it does nothing to ease Robotnik’s nerves. "I’ve just been meaning check in again about Stone. It seems that this latest one is really, hm… Turning a new leaf for you, right?”
Oh, for the love of — It’s been eighteen months, you insolent imbecilic bastard, why the fuck are you —
"What, exactly, are you asking me? Clearly he gets his damn job done. Thats all I’ve ever needed in an assistant.”
The look Walters shoots into the camera looks utterly unconvinced, which, okay — Fair enough. He hadnt exactly taken the time to find out if any of the quite literally dozens of other agents had been able to ‘get the damn job done’ before he’d sent them fleeing from the lab.
“So there havent been any issues? Concerns? Anything at all you’d like to report? Because he hasnt. Made any reports, that is.”
Which is strange. Weird. Unheard of. Are you threatening him? Did you find something to blackmail the poor sucker with? Did you somehow track down his long-lost family just so you can hold them hostage? Robotnik fills in the blank with a drawn out roll of his eyes.
Because of course Robotnik has no doubt that Stone comes across as the perfect little soldier to his higher-ups — Diligent, professional, the ideal lapdog with a gun always in hand. None of them have enough braincells rattling around in their thick skulls to notice the disdain their agent quietly carries for each and every one of them, Walters included doubly.
On the other side of the coin, he doesnt hesitate to do anything the Doctor asks of him with a stupidly unwavering smile on his face. More than that, he figures out where he’s needed without being told and stays out of the way when he’s not. Most of the time, in fact, he’s mastered the art of being silent — Until the clock runs out and they still find themselves in the lab, huddled over the same workstation and talking until one of them inevitably passes out.
He’s… well. Robotnik doesnt dare use the word ‘perfect’ to describe the sycophant, but… Besides, in any regard, he has no intentions of letting Walters chew on any of those little tidbits.
"If I didnt have five PhD’s in my possession, I might think that you’re trying to convince me to get back to the ten-day turnaround routine,” he finally sighs.
"No, Ivo, not at all,” Walters huffs, face souring as he no doubt recalls the years worth of complaints to mind all at once. "I'm glad you’re content. Thrilled, in fact. I just… thought I’d ask." A beat, and then he adds, "I've heard some new things recently, that's all. Water cooler chatter, as they say."
This gives Robotnik pause. Sure, there are myths about himself out there, many of which he's perpetuated and reinforced for the sake of his own amusement, but Stone? What could they possibly have to say about him…?
He's being led. Damn it, he knows he's being led —
"Just tell me what you're clearly dying to tell me," he snaps. "My time is precious, and I have other things to do than stand around here waiting for you to hang up the damn phone."
“Oh, there’s just some… Off-the-record talk about him, back at the CIA. I didn't think it was anything at first, but... Well. They said he could be... A little odd. Obsessive."
"They referred to it as 'hyper focus' in his file," Robotnik grunts. "You're not telling me anything I don't already know, but what else is new?"
“In case you somehow havent noticed, Walters, I actually do have better things to do than stand around here waiting for you to hang up the damn phone."
If the Commander is offended by his snark, he doesn't show it. If anything, he seems all too eager to indulge. "I suppose it just caught me as strange, especially when I ran into his old direct supervisor at a board meeting yesterday afternoon. Just… Someone of his caliber being placed at a desk job, or even just assigned as a bodyguard at all… I thought maybe he had done something wrong to warrant such a drastic drop from all that high-profile field work. Figured if there was something off about him, you would’ve picked up on it.”
Field work… Vaguely, Robotnik knows that he had to have known that. Even if he hadnt been told directly, Stone’s ‘field work’ skills had spoken for themselves during the attack that marked the very beginning of his employ. That had been plenty enough for him, even though he’d combed through Stone’s file back then, too, and found very little of note.
But something about the damn near reverence with which the Commander speaks with gives him pause.
The long-silent glare he sends into the holoscreen doesn't give away any of that, and neither does the sourness in his voice when he spits, "So then why send him here in the first place if he’s so indispensable?"
"Like I said, I only just found out," the Commander replies. Well, at least his embarrassment finally makes sense.
“Again, I didn't realize the extent of it until I ran into Major Bordeaux,” Walters says, although already he is raising an eyebrow pointedly into the lens. "You know, I hadn't exactly made it a habit to put a second thought into your assistants back when they didn't last the week, Ivo. Forgive my surprise that this one’s still around for me to bother looking into. So yes, of course I made sure to scope out the little record-breaker as soon as I got the chance to ask his old C.O. And anyhow… Apparently he wasn’t sent to you.”
Robotnik doesnt even attempt to touch on or dissuade the all-too poorly hidden question of just why Stone has outlasted the others. He isnt so sure he’s ready to answer that one even to himself; he sure as hell isnt about to cop up to it out loud. But that last bit…
Walters is enjoying this, he can see it all over his smug, smarmy, stupid little face, and now he’s waiting for him, Doctor Ivo Robotnik of all people, to ask —
“What do you mean he wasnt sent to me?” he all but hisses into the screen, earning himself another infuriating, placating smile. One would think Robotnik had just willingly slammed his foot down into a bear trap for Walters entertainment with the way he grins, but at least he opens that big dumb mouth to answer the goddamn question.
“I was told that when your assignment came up again, he was the first one to formally request the transfer. And it was denied. His superior officer fought him on it, but he was persistent, and now — Well. There he is.”
Damn this smarmy, short, five-foot-nothing, grey-haired, sorry little excuse of a bastard —
"Alright then," Robotnik grunts. “Like I said, Walters. No complaints on my end.”
“But hey, his record is clean, and from what I’ve seen he's... A really friendly guy. As far as I can tell, he’s a strange case, but a harmless one. That said, if you've had any concerns...”
Robotnik smiles into the lens. The attempt goes over like a lead balloon if the Commander's expression is anything to go on. "No," he bites out. "I have no complaints. I'll be sure to let you know if that changes."
“Well, good. Cause now would be the time to bring them to me, before they try to move him again."
God fucking dammit, the gall of this man. “Before they — What?”
“Oh, yeah, sorry… I thought I said something earlier. The guys at the D.o.D. said they’d likely be looking to put him back in the field sooner than later, so just make sure you get him to leave some notes behind for the next guy they send your way, yeah?”
Robotnik slams the button to end the call before the Commander can see his face twisting. Walters might be reveling in catching himself with a tidbit of information not yet in the hands of his protege (yeah you wish you old fuck), but he does not know and will not know that the thought of losing Stone’s assistance could maybe, kind of, sort of, possibly, maybe almost start to bother him.
Robotnik tosses his phone somewhere into the depths of the lab and hopes that the stupid thing breaks. That wont happen, of course; he designed the casing to be indestructible, after all. But only when he hears the inevitable but still satisfying crack of the device bouncing harmlessly off the wall does he throw himself down into his chair and launch himself back into the workload he already knows he will not be able to focus on.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Stone’s arrival comes fifteen minutes early as always so that he can go straight to the kitchen and have that ever-ready latte right on time and already in hand. Robotnik grinds his fingers down against the prototype he’s been slowly chipping away at, his knuckles going white against the surface as he waits. He bides his time impatiently until the hot coffee is sat down safely on his desk and that familiar voice is somewhere behind his head —
Robotnik doesn't really hear it when Walters finally calls to tell him that Stone is needed on a two week recon mission in so much as he feels it.
It starts somewhere in his throat and slides down into his chest, where it bunkers down and settles itself in as a dull, restricting ache. It is a tightening, twisting, annoying little thing that rivals perhaps any physical discomfort Robotnik has ever known, and what’s far worse than that primitive little realization is the one that follows immediately after — No piece of technology crafted by his immaculate mind can take this away, because it’s cause is wholly unavoidable.
Stone is leaving.
Okay, so what? Who cares? Certainly not him, not really, not in any way that could be called relevant or significant or god forbid, sentimental! This juvenile little wave of tense discomfort is simply born from possession, because really, how dare they take away something that rightfully belongs to him at such an inconvenient time?! Walters knows better than any of the other mouth-breathing pentagoons just how many deadlines are coming up, and now he truly expects him to make it happen without the capable hands of his assistant on deck at all hours for the first time in two years —
A dangerous line of thought, it would seem. His chest tightens again, his heart rate has elevated, his face is flush, his hands are shaking, and goddamn Walters is mouth-breathing something into the phone that sounds like his first name and he can barely even make sense of it.
“Ivo? Ivo? Did you hear me? We need you to send Agent Stone to the command center at —“
Click. If it wasnt explicitly against his air-tight government contract to block, report and delete the Commander he would've done it a long time ago. Somehow hanging up right in his stupid face just doesn't feel quite as satisfying.
Nor does it soothe the shaking in his gloved hands.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Stone comes out of his room — Robotnik asks himself why he had ever once thought that was a good idea, because now he’s going to be reminded of just how empty it really is for two whole weeks — In pitch-black tactical gear with his usually-hidden service weapon now on full display at his hip.
Yes, yes, his room. Ever since the agent had come back so exhausted he could hardly stand after a particularly grueling field mission — thus far the pentagoons hadnt sent him away for more than a two day period, as if that wasnt bad enough! — The simpleton had insisted on sleeping in the panic room down the hall.
Never mind the fact that it had been Robotnik himself who had cleared the room out, had a bed brought in, and presented it to him as an option in the first place. He fought off a very stupid and juvenile little grin at the memory of Stone’s face, lit up like the goddamn sun when he’d presented the emptied and then refurnished room to him. Yes, never mind the Doctor’s hand in any of it. All of it is Stone’s doing, and Stone’s doing alone —
Stone, who is now slinking over to the espresso machine — Robotnik finds to his deepest-rooted annoyance that the familiar hiss of it soothes the ache in his chest for a moment — And brings a steaming-hot latte to the Doctor’s desk precisely at 8 a.m. just like always, as if nothing is changing, nothing at all —
But after that he stands against the wall with his hands folded in front of him, uncharacteristically silent and looking every bit like a toddler who’s just found himself hopelessly lost in the supermarket. A toddler with massive, unfairly expressive eyes that could not be more clearly screaming I don’t want to leave.
Deciding that he would sooner take off his control gloves and lob his fingers straight into the trashcan than make sense of why that sight makes his stomach hurt, Robotnik peels his eyes away from the agent and fixes them instead on the mug.
“So,” Robotnik preens, breaking the silence in a tone he has to fight to keep bored and pretending he hasn't noticed the ‘G.U.N. Sucks Ass’ carefully carved into the foam of his latte, “How long did they say you were gonna be in Mysteryville, Who Fucking Cares?”
“Two weeks,” Stone sighs in unison with Robotnik’s own mind, because of course he hadnt actually forgotten.
Robotnik gives a curt nod, takes a long, drawn-out sip of the coffee as he tries to think about quite literally anything else and fails; yes, he actually fails at such a simple task and suddenly he’s fighting off the urge to chuck the still half-full mug at the nearest wall. Or perhaps Stone’s head, would that make him feel better? Somehow he doubts it, but he catalogs it as an option worth a second review anyway.
Instead he indulges himself in a long-suffering sigh and turns himself around in his chair. He still avoids any very unwanted eye contact as he lifts his control glove and pulls his pointer and middle finger towards his chest, humming a satisfied sound as his latest project obediently lifts itself off the nearest shelf and floats straight to Stone.
“An upgraded smaller model Badnik. One with a vast assortment of both offensive and defensive capabilities,” he huffs, before the other man has a chance to ask. “One programmed to your voice commands. And to mine, before you go getting any ideas about subterfuge and hostile takeovers. I started on it after you utterly botched your last little Walters-mandated hitman stint — Something you managed to do with only two days away, need I remind you, so I guess we’ll just have to wait and see how much you can manage to fuck up in two whole weeks.”
It is unsurprising but still bitter aplenty that Stone doesn't seem the slightest bit burned by the dig, and instead chooses to regard the Badnik with every bit of awe and reverence that he has always saved for the Doctor and his creations. He has the little murder machine spin a curious path around his shoulders, and in response to the simple command the drone whirs and hums a delighted little sound that isn't at all a far cry from a cat’s purr.
“Anyways,” Robotnik snaps, recapturing the attention of both sycophant and drone alike, “It should keep you from getting your head caught too far up your own ass, if you play your cards right. It’ll come straight back to me if you go off and get yourself killed, so there’s no need to worry about any collateral damage. And if you give it a stupid name, as you are so wont to do, you’d better not tell me or I’m taking it back.”
He regrets speaking up again. Now that Stone’s attention has been pulled away from the little drone, those big stupid eyes are targeted fully on Robotnik again, and oh good lord is he going to cry —
“Thank you, Doctor,” Stone says, his voice unwavering in spite of all the distinctly not unwavering things his eyes are doing. The sight of it is hellbent on making Robotnik hesitant to speak for fear that Stone’s ridiculous propensity for sentimentality has suddenly become airborne. “I’ll take good care of it, I promise.”
“Uh-huh,” he finally tuts, still hoping he sounds bored and wondering just when, exactly, he’d started having to fight to feel boredom in the presence of another human being. “Welp. Have fun boot-licking and scrubbing good ol’ Uncle Sam’s dirty laundry. Oh and, do make sure someone bothers to let me know if you decide to get yourself killed so I can adjust the security protocols here. Wouldn't want anyone carting your severed hand all the way home and letting themselves into the lab just to slit my throat while I’m working, hm?”
He really hadn't intended to speak for as long as he had, and to rub salt in the wound Stone doesn't even bother to respond. He’s quiet for just long enough to remind Robotnik that all of this is his fault anyways, so he lets the coffee mug clatter to the desk and whirls around in his chair to face him fully — Only to stop short all over again at the delicate little smile now playing on the Agent’s lips.
His mood simultaneously lifts and sours at the sight, which only serves to confuse him further and goddammit he’s so tired of this man catching him off guard. “Is something amusing, Agent?” he bites out, and hates how he notices that Stone’s smile saddens almost immediately.
“Not at all. I just… I’m excited to come back home, Doctor, when this is over. Even if it’s only my hand that makes it back.”
Ah.
Home. He’d actually used the word home, without evening noticing, and of course the sycophant hadn't missed it. It’s more than enough to make his chest swell with this bittersweet sort of sentiment — oh god, it’s airborne, he fucking knew it — that can only reasonably be met with outrage, so he throws himself to his feet and descends on his government-appointed imbecile until the agent’s back is pinned against the nearest wall.
“This isn't your home, you sad little excuse for a coffee maker. Last I checked you do indeed have one of those and it is quite literally anywhere but here, where you might even be able to breathe down someone else’s neck for a change,” he spits and snarls and hisses and all manner of anything other than simply speaking, because his stupid chest still feels too tight with something that might be called panic if he were a lesser man except he’s not, and either way this is all Stone’s fault, has he mentioned that yet — “So why don’t you go ahead and scurry on back there to wait until Walters pulls on your leash?”
Stone looks up at him as unyielding as ever, except there’s still that unmistakable little bit of sadness in his eyes as he murmurs, “Doctor, I —“
“Get out of my sight.” The growl comes sharp and quick, successfully silencing his underling and sending both him and the drone obediently out of the lab without another word.
Robotnik watches him leave and then stares after the door for even longer, trying and failing — yes, actually failing, yet again — to convince himself that he doesn't regret choosing an outburst over simply listening to what his sycophant had to say.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
By day two Robotnik is cursing the very ground Stone walks on, even though that ground is now somewhere far out of reach instead of the same immaculate lab floors he himself is pacing.
Damn him.
Damn him for convincing him to eat often enough that his stupidly all too human body now craved sustenance in a way he had once so diligently trained it to ignore.
Damn him for the waves of caffeine withdrawal that had manifested themselves in a constant, throbbing headache.
Damn him for this feeling, this sense of gone, far, where that has latched its claws deep within his chest and refuses to let go.
Just… Damn him.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
They leave him unattended for a whopping, record-breaking four whole days before the replacement knocks on his door.
His worn-down nerves go from fraying to snapping from the moment the man — Agent Nameless, Nobody, Not-Stone — Enters the lab. Walters had assured him that they would be sending the second best of the second best, and god that man truly was an imbecile, wasnt he? Did he really think that who he hand-picked made any difference?
The name, the voice, the eyes, the very existence of this new intruder was an affront to everything Robotnik stood for, and he would make it known from the very first greeting. He was halfway tempted to turn on the espresso machine just so he would have something scalding and dark to dump on the fucker’s head, but somehow that thought made his chest hurt again — he’d once done that to Stone, after all — And so he opted for good ol fashioned screaming instead.
His uninterrupted work routine, gone. His handling of everything Robotnik expressly hated having to deal with, gone. His answering of the countless calls and emails, gone. His Stone, goddammit, gone!
When did he go from forcing this man to stand in a corner for hours on end to forgetting how to function without him?
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The next day, Robotnik fakes a tech malfunction that blows half of a new renovation into the sky while the construction crew is on break.
How was he supposed to know that the newest would’ve-been meeting hall wasnt the scheduled testing site for his demolition demo, Walters? You took his assistant away before he could remind him.
Chapter Text
“Oh, good. You’re awake. So — What did we learn?”
Not-Stone’s voice is entirely too calm, body once again crouched to the floor in that unnerving little way of his.
“What the hell was that?” Ivo’s voice in turn is a sputtered, infuriated spit; animalistic and enraged as he fights to make sense of, yet again, what the hell was that —
“Do you really need me to tell you, Doctor? You were there. You were there then, and you were there again just now. What did it feel like, seeing everything through his eyes? Hm, your eyes, that is — More than some odd years younger, of course.”
“What is this game, Stone?” Ivo snaps, twisting his wrists so sharply against the binds that he feels a sharp wave of pain run through his arms for his efforts. “What do you want from me? What are you getting out of this?”
“I think we should go back even further,” Not-Stone says, ignoring his questions entirely. “Maybe… Hm. Maybe the day that you met him?”
Not-Stone moves as if to stand again, and immediately Ivo wrenches his body towards him. “Don’t you dare,” he hisses. “Tell me what the hell this is or I swear to god —“
“You’ll what, Doctor? Kill me? You already did that.”
This little revelation — Revelation? Story? Tall-tale? Complete and utter bullshit? — Actually manages to give Ivo pause, lips parted and mouth agape as his rage sputters out all over again.
He isn’t used to being interrupted quite this much. He’s decided quite some time ago that he hates this, too; but Not-Stone doesn’t seem to have any intention on stopping, and it’s hardly as if he can do anything about it just yet.
He doesn’t even know how long he’s been here.
He just knows that it feels like it’s been a lifetime.
Ivo tells himself his own following silence is due to his need to formulate a plan. To grease his gears and manually, painstakingly switch them to turn in a different direction. To figure out just what, exactly, the hell he is going to do about this.
"I take it you saw all that with me, then?" Ivo huffs, still-tired and eternally overworked mind bitterly fighting to make sense of it all.
It had felt so…
“Real,” Not-Stone finishes, calmly, simply, absolutely fucking infuriatingly.
And of course, the bastard is right. Every single thing about the memories being forced down his throat had been viciously, viscerally real. He had felt every single moment of it just as vividly as he had living through it the first time, all those years ago. His tired, sunken, trapped mind had not even been aware that it was a memory.
And even now, he can still feel the weight of it pricking into his veins beneath the surface of his skin.
Even now, his hands are shaking for the remembering of it all. For the remembering of only one of so many times he lost his Stone.
“Real,” Ivo echoes, delayed, bitter. “It was real. Ten fucking years ago when it —“
“Fifteen years ago, Doctor,” Not-Stone corrects him, head tilting to the side like a dog waiting for a command that will never come. “We aren’t in Montana anymore. Haven’t been for quite some time.”
Fifteen. Not thirteen. Then it’s been an entire two years since —
“I already know what happened then,” Ivo spits, growling away the pit that threatens to open up in his stomach when he thinks about how much time has passed since he left his Stone behind. “I lived it. There isn't anything you can teach me, anything that I don’t know, anything that I didn’t already do, you imbecile.”
“Maybe not,” Not-Stone muses, eyes alight with a strangely rejuvenated sense of recognition. “You were in limbo for the equivalent of two earth-side years. Over and over again your mind was replaying those memories. Over and over again you were made to relive it. And over and over again, you found yourself missing him. I don’t need to tell you what you lost — You already know it.”
“Everything,” Ivo seethes. “I lost everything.”
“You lost everything,” Not-Stone echoes, the recognition in his eyes darkening noticeably to something more angry. “And what about him?”
“What about him,” Ivo repeats bitterly, but he doesn’t give Not-Stone a chance to give him another ridiculous not-answer before he continues. “Where is he, how is he, is he still alive, is he angry at me, are you angry at him —“
“Oh, please. It wouldn't be the first time one of you left one of me behind,” Not-Stone huffs, rising to his feet. He begins pacing a step to the side and then back again, as if holding still so close to the Doctor had suddenly become an unbearable task. Ivo follows the movements, wrists flexing against the binds already beginning to weaken with every pull. “And besides… It's not my job to be angry at him.”
“Then what is your job?” Ivo asks tiredly.
“To make sure that you can't do it again,” Not-Stone answers simply. “Any of you. The dead ones, that is. In case you haven't noticed, all of you Doctors have a propensity for dodging death. Escaping from it at the last possible second is most common — But you've been known to leverage against it and return from its hold entirely, a time or two. Do you truly need me to explain to you that such a feat has consequences? Time loops, black holes, fragments torn into the very depths of time and space itself — “
“Blah blah blah blah blah,” Ivo finishes, and feels an uncomfortable pinch of annoyance at the base of his spine as he is reminded all over again that this Not-Quite-Stone has successfully rendered him immobile.
He would have really liked to have flapped his hand along with those words.
No sooner than the thought crosses his mind, a soft little smile breaks out on Not-Stone’s face. In another lifetime, it would have almost managed to be comforting, but this is not another lifetime. Ivo has a distinct feeling that this version of Stone is meant to be better at that task than any before him ever has been — Why else would he be universe-approved for this bullshit? — And Ivo holds no doubt that this skill set goes doubly so for being more annoying than any other.
“In case you haven’t noticed, you’re talking to a genius,” Ivo continues, mentally throwing his hands about in tune with the words if only for the sake of his own stubbornness. “One who would have no doubt considered any and all possible outcomes and risks of any such completed plan, goal, task —“
“Considered, yes. I’ll give you that,” Not-Stone says, interrupting him yet fucking again. “But that doesn’t mean you’ll listen to the warnings. You and I have countless lifetimes and universes and multiverses’ worth of history together, Doctor. Truly, I think even you would be astounded to learn just how many of those worlds one or both of us have torn to shreds trying to get back to one another.”
"What about you then?" Ivo grumbles, only after a long enough bout of silence to put a pouting toddler to shame.
He finds, in his inner thoughts — the ones Not-Stone is no doubt still listening to — That he isn’t the least bit surprised to hear this.
After all, he’s still considering all the ways he’d like to tear this void to shreds if only to get back to his Stone again.
He's still rolling his stiff hands against the bonds as if considers his oh-so limited options. If Not-Stone cares in the slightest, he certainly doesn't show it. He barely seems to spare more than a glance at Ivo now, opting instead to steady the worn-down gloves on his hands —
Control gloves, Ivo notices, the realization coming far too late for his own liking. He's willing to give himself something of a pass on the slow response of his once — and forever — genius mind, if only because the buttons on both hands are so far worn down there's barely so much as an imprint in the leather anymore.
Stone gives him plenty of time to notice this, to watch him run his fingertips over the spaces where the buttons used to be — that explains that, then — Before he bothers to lift his head again and reply.
"What about me, then?"
And as it turns out, Ivo is already so, so tired of this little repetition game.
“What did your Ivo do to make you so well equipped for this job? What happened to you that guarantees you’re no longer a flight risk, that you wouldn’t even try to make your way back?”
By the time Ivo places the strangely genuine feeling in his chest — curiosity for another, how strange — He is already forced to regret the question.
You’ll what, Doctor? Kill me? You already did that.
Not-Stone’s smile has sharpened into something lethal. Ivo only has a singular heartbeat to notice before it’s all fading away again.
Chapter Text
Earth 03-485, 2027
It is no secret that General Tower hates the ground Ivo Robotnik walks on, so being ordered to assist in managing the man’s off-base laboratory felt… Strange. Strange, to say the goddamn least.
Stone and Ivo alike both know what this was from the moment they receive the email. Tower wants his Doctor dead, wants his position eradicated, wants his tech fully under his own control — Any moron could sniff that one out from a mile away. And really, what homicidal, power-hungry tyrant wouldn't have that goal in mind?
When they receive the order, Robotnik tips his head back in his chair and laughs himself to tears. “Can you see it, Stone? This means he has a plan. This means he thinks he can outsmart me.”
He can’t, and they both damn well knew it.
Robotnik isn't afraid of him. And besides, he has plans of his own, of course — Plans that will actually work, and really, when doesn't he?
So Stone does his job. He dutifully follows the Doctor all the way to the base. Stays right by his side in the makeshift lab they’ve been assigned to live out of. Stays out of the way as the General slowly grows bolder and bolder. He is every bit the good little assistant he always has been and always will be.
The Doctor extracts information. Stone gathers intel on the leaks that have been plaguing them outside of Tower’s base, the ones they both know good and goddamn well are being orchestrated by the General himself. Tower is every bit as dangerous as a bothersome fly, but the ones under his command are the slightest bit more telling.
There were four assassination attempts in the first six weeks. The bastard hasn't even tried to be subtle. Robotnik had laughed all through the first three, watching the babies and his agent crumble the half-assed hits on his life with ease.
But Stone caught a bullet in the shoulder on the fourth attempt, and Ivo had immediately been ready to abandon the entirety of their progress in one instant.
Stone had to be the one to refuse that time.
They attend the necessary meetings. They run the ordered demonstrations. They smile and play nice — at least, nice for Robotnik’s standards — when Walters makes the occasional appearance to ensure his favorite lab rat is doing his damn job.
Robotnik slams Stone into walls and screams at him about what a ‘worthless, lowlife, belly-crawling, sorry excuse for a coffee maker’ he is in front of the others, and then holds him close in bed every night.
No one can know, Stone, Ivo had told him all that time ago. No one can know what a beautiful liability you are to me.
They’ve been here for two full months when it happens.
Stone had left the lab to pick up the Doctor’s lunch when Tower found him, not for the first time and no doubt not for the last. He had been overly intrigued by the Doctor’s pet agent from day one, and for the first little while he hadn't escalated beyond strange looks and the occasional invasive question.
Until.
It had started with so-called “training assignments.” The General would pull all agents on site into the training facilities for grueling drills that Stone would run through with an all too practiced ease. Tower isn’t even remotely skilled at hiding how much it infuriates him that Stone passed every test thrown his way, and he responds in kind by amping up the assignment more and more and more.
Stone doesn’t break. Of course he doesn’t — For god’s sakes, he’s endured CIA torture tactics like it was a goddamn college seminar, this was nothing.
But Tower has been escalating in his own tactics — to call them torture would be such a pipe dream for the man, it was almost sad — Little bit by little bit. Every chance that he possibly finds to separate the agent from his Doctor, he has taken it.
And now today.
Tower finds him on his way back to the lab, walking through the rain and too eager to get back to Robotnik to care that he’s drenched to the bone. Robotnik had given him clear orders to play nice (enough), just until he can leach away enough of Tower’s resources that he deems this entire mission a success.
So Stone decidedly does not break the General’s nose for knocking the Doctor’s lunch order onto the drenched ground, nor for digging his hand against Stone’s ribcage and shoving him down to the ground.
He’s playing particularly nice by pretending that the General is strong enough to push him to the ground at all.
“’Left yourself open,’” the man croons from above him as Stone chants not on the okay to kill list like a mantra over and over in his head. “Isn’t that what Robotnik always says? Really now, agent, I’m sure he’d expect better from you than this.”
It is such a stupid thing. Juvenile, really. But it’s humiliating all the same, and Stone is so, so tired.
He wants this man dead so bad it hurts.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
It takes the majority of the day for Stone to convince the Doctor to let him leave the lab. It is the first time since their early days together that he’s been ordered around like this, and while he hardly minds taking directives from the Doctor, both of them know he can't hide here forever.
“Please, sir.” Please — A word he has long since learned Robotnik appreciates in a way he’ll never allow himself to admit. “We’re running dangerously low on supplies for the coffee machine, and I would just hate to be without it while we wait for an order that will inevitably get delayed.”
“Fine,” Robotnik finally grumbles, long after he’d nearly stopped asking. After so many hours of back and forth coaxing, he’d been slowly softening to Stone’s repeated request. “But only if you take a full Badnik escort, and only if you swear you'll steer clear and contact me at the first whiff of that bastard. I have to return to the main office this afternoon so my machines can run interruption-free maintenance here, so just meet me there when you’re done — I’ll be expecting you in no less than two hours. I really don't have time to murder anyone today, Stone, least of all a decorated asshat of a General, but I’ll find the goddamn time if he so much as looks in your direction.”
Stone nods diligently and makes all the promises he already knows he’ll break to get out the door. Just before he does, Robotnik suddenly reaches out and pulls him tight against his chest, holding him for a few beats of their erratic hearts before letting go just as quickly.
There is no doubt in his bones. Only that deep-rooted sense of duty to this man he adores, and the gnashing fear of what still lies ahead in his absence.
He isn't sure if it's the looming presence of what he knows he must do, or the lingering feelings the night before had sparked in him. But when Robotnik lets go, Stone reaches up and cradles his face in both of his hands.
“I love you, Ivo.” The words hang for a small lifetime in the still air between them. “I would do anything for you. Anything. Anything except let you die.”
It doesn't matter that Robotnik doesn't say it back. Stone doesn't need him to. All that matters is that Ivo heard him say it.
That Ivo knows he’s loved.
And as Stone finally makes his delayed exit from the lab, he thinks to himself that he would accept any torture this life had to give if only it meant the Doctor would hold him like that afterwards every single time.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Stone doesn't give Tower the opportunity to find him again. He takes the chance away by seeking the General out himself.
It isn't a particularly difficult task — The General spends so much time away when he isn’t seeking Stone out that his returns to the base are obnoxiously over spoken about. He follows the chatter from the supply store — The only place he’s been permitted by Robotnik to go following yesterday’s events — And leaves the Badniks behind as he treks all the way to the training facility damn near on the other side of base.
It’s hardly surprising that someone of the General’s position would want to spend his ‘free’ time surrounded by weapons of mass destruction, particularly ones that aren't exclusively run by the Doctor, but Stone feels his nerves rising as he paces up the paved pathway towards the heavy metal doors. He has no reason to be here, and if he’s spotted by anyone else before Tower shows his face, his goals might as well be crushed into the dust below his feet.
But with the closer proximity to the focus of his ire already on his side, all Stone has to do now is trust in the predictability of humans, and wait.
The waiting part turns out to be significantly shorter than he’d been expecting. The growing familiarity of General Tower’s sickening presence makes Stone want to be sick if only for the disgust of it all. This man, this lowlife, thinking himself comparable to the Doctor —
“Relax,” that sickening voice orders above him, crowding his back into the walled fence just outside the service building. “I’ve come to realize that a… Softer approach might be in order, so please. Allow me to apologize for my earlier conduct.”
Strange, how the brutal proximity makes it damn near impossible to believe that his apology is as oh-so sincere as it sounds. The sarcasm tastes bitter on his tongue, and he bites back the words.
“Truly, I just want to talk,” the General continues, finally letting up ever so slightly and pulling his head back to meet his eyes again. “I can tell you're smarter than you try to look, and after what transpired yesterday, I had a feeling you would find it wise to seek me out. I'm really quite pleased. You see, Stone… I have the strangest little theory that I've been working between my teeth for quite some time now. And I do believe I’m finally ready to put it to the test.”
“And what might that be?” he dares to question, although he regrets it damn near immediately as the General’s face splits into a grin that somehow stretches even wider.
He had come here for answers, a handful of tidbits to hand deliver to the Doctor if only to ease his mounting stress about his would-be rival’s barely-veiled threats.
Anything but let you die. He hadn't expected to be expected, and suddenly he deeply regrets leaving the Badniks so far behind, even as he knew Robotnik would be keeping an eye on their location to ensure Stone’s safety — And his obedience to his orders.
Neither of which had been honored, Stone realizes as his stomach sinks. He tries to quell his rising panic on behalf of his Ivo, because there is no way he underestimated the likes of General Tower. Up until now his every move has been so dreadfully predictable —
“All in due time, all in due time.” The sound of Tower’s voice eagerly, bitterly brings him back to the here and now. “And with you so graciously and predictably finding your way here, it seems we’ll have nothing but time.”
His grip tightens exponentially around Stone’s right-hand wrist as he produces a device from his pocket, holding it with a death grip in his free hand and immediately sliding his thumb over the screen to tap across a series of buttons.
The searing pain that shoots through his left arm is so sudden that Stone fails to bite back a cursing hiss under his breath, jerking the arm closer to him. He examines the barely perceptible scar, the place where Robotnik had implanted a tracking chip all that time ago. He stares at it questioningly, as if the slightly raised skin could possibly provide him with any answers.
And when that doesn't work he lifts his head back to Tower, brows knitting together and lips parting to ask for explanations that he already knows will not be given.
Tower beats him to it.
“I believe this next endeavor of mine to be all I need to enlighten me on just what it is that makes the good Doctor tick. Your arrival here has all but entirely proven it.”
The General makes steady eye contact with him, digging in his fingers somehow tighter as he slides his thumb over his screen one more time. The device lets out a low beep, and then another, and then another.
Between the first and the second, the device is pocketed and another dose of white-hot pain sears through the same arm Tower is holding.
An unfamiliar needle protrudes from the vein just above his wrist.
The service building just behind them is blown into the sky before Stone can remember how to breathe again.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
When Stone comes to, the first thing he is aware of is that he has absolutely no idea where he is.
The second thing he is aware of is that his arm really fucking hurts.
As his eyes focus on the dim lighting around him, he becomes aware of more and more, little by little.
Third — He is in an unfamiliar room with plain gray walls and very nearly no furniture.
Fourth — He is lying on a bed barely big enough to hold him, shoved into the farthest corner of the aforementioned room.
Fifth — He is handcuffed to the metal bed frame by his left arm.
Sixth — Tower is sitting in a plush chair in the opposite corner. Just… Watching him.
This is by far the least surprising detail.
“Where am I?” His voice is cracked from disuse. “How long have I been here?”
“You’re in my home.” The first answer is delivered through a mouthful of teeth, a too-wide grin, as though it is painfully obvious. The second question is completely ignored.
Stone leans his head back against the wall, idly rolling his neck to shake loose the tension that has been building there for he didn't even know how long. “You can do whatever you want to me,” he said plainly. “I'm not telling you anything.”
Tower’s expression softens at his words, and Stone feels a strike of panic in his chest. This is no longer that manic, too-wide grin, but instead a real and genuine smile that seems entirely too pleased.
It is as though Stone has just said exactly what he wants to hear.
“I don't need you to say anything, Stone. I don't need you to do anything at all — Not yet, at least. Right now all I need you to do is wait.”
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Tower’s assistant soldiers keep Stone fed on a perfectly timed three meals per day schedule. The food that is brought to him is fresh and warm and all very expensive-looking, rare cuts of meat and colorful arrays of fruit. Every time he’s tempted to refuse it, but he swallows that temptation when he thinks of the Doctor.
He’ll need to keep up his strength to get out of this place and back home.
In the evenings his binds are loosened and he is guided on circular walks through the dimly lit hallways, stretching his stiff, sore muscles eagerly. After that he’s brought into Tower’s personal quarters and allowed to bathe in privacy.
Tower reappears just as Stone has redressed himself in the clean clothes readily provided to him. He guides him back to the cot with a hand resting too firmly on his back, but the hand never raises to strike as he is left alone to sleep in peace. Or in his case, to plan in peace.
He knows what the bastard’s doing. He’s trying to shake his guard, to make him lower his defenses and raise his trust so long as the meals keep coming and the bathwater runs hot. Of course the General thinks he would be that simplistic — Stone has been nothing more than a government dog for damn near his whole life, and Tower has made it abundantly clear that he believes Robotnik has been keeping him under far worse conditions than this.
As if the Doctor isn’t the love of his life. As if the Doctor hasn’t given him everything merely by existing. As if he would ever, ever betray him.
What bothers him the most was that Tower hasn’t said more than two words to him since that first night. He has divulged nothing, asked for nothing, said damn near nothing. Some days he doesn’t make so much as one singular appearance.
Stone has been biding his time bitterly but patiently, saying nothing in return if only out of stubbornness. But as the days bleed together — How long has he been here? — Stone is beginning to think he was going to have to be the one to press his captor for information.
Fine, then. Stone can play the long game.
He’s suffered far worse than this.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Stone has been waiting day by day for blows that never come. No one speaks to him. No one makes any moves to hurt him.
It’s really starting to piss him off.
He damn near jumps to his feet when Tower enters the room he was being kept in for the first time in at least three sleep cycles. The eagerness is not missed, and even as Stone drops back down into the bed and settles an impassive mask back over his face, Tower looks far too pleased.
“You’ve been very obedient throughout all of this, Stone. I can see why Ivo kept you around.”
Stone is careful to ensure that his face does not betray the way his stomach flips at the mention of that name. He watches the General lean back into the chair, crossing one leg over the other and folding his hands in his lap.
“Oh, come on, now. There’s no need to bother with that little game anymore. Haven't you noticed your wrist by now?”
Stone’s brow furrows as he examines his cuffed arm. Of course he’d noticed it — The purplish-black bruising had only just started to fade, and the painful throbbing in the particularly swollen bend of his wrist had only just started to lessen.
“I suppose you don't remember what happened.” Stone says nothing. Tower carries on. “You were still quite out of it those first few days. It was my first time field testing my own special version of the sedative concoction — It is meant to have hallucinogenic properties as a failsafe for if your body fights off the sedation, and for a moment I feared I had overdosed you, Stone. You spent a full twenty-four hours thrashing around like a wild animal — And screaming his name the entire time.”
Stone’s body doesn't belong to him anymore. How else can he explain the way the blood in his veins had become ice, the way his stomach rolls and his chest tightens and his ears ring. He fights hard to remember, and almost immediately he wishes he’d fought harder to forget.
A hazy fog, suffocating, all around him. Limbs that are disconnected from his body, movements that he no longer holds any proper control over. Restraints on one hand, back pressed to a cold unfamiliar bed. A voice looming nearby. And through it all, his own voice, raw and hoarse, but still desperately begging for the love of his life.
Panic is an alive thing that had crawled into his bloodstream and clamped a white-hot hold over his lungs. He can feel the color leeching out of his skin as he scrambles to find that ease and control he had once so easily held in his hands.
And through it all, Tower still smiles.
“It is exactly as I thought, Stone. You’re going to help me break the doctor.”
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
“You’re going to help me break the doctor.”
And Stone laughs.
It feels good, actually. It hurts like a bitch, straining his stiffening muscles, but he laughs all the same and it makes him feel just the slightest bit more alive.
“Oh, please,” he huffs. “You watched me have a drug-induced breakdown and decided that I can somehow be leveraged against Doctor Robotnik? I’m an assistant, General, nothing more.”
But Tower’s smile doesn’t falter. Stone’s mask doesn’t, either.
“Maybe not on its own,” he muses, leaning forward and resting his head on his hands as if he was just all too eager to watch his captive’s face. “But you aren't the only one I’ve been keeping an eye on. Haven't you wondered why I brought you here only to find myself far too occupied to enjoy your company?”
Stone is growing increasingly frustrated with how insistent his tired body is on reacting to Tower’s presence. When the General rises to his feet and eases his body onto the bed next to him, he actually has to fight off the urge to flinch. The man has been prepping him to let his guard down for so long that his entire body feels coiled tighter than a spring.
But Tower simply produces a small screened device from his pocket and holds it out for Stone to see.
It’s a live feed.
It’s Ivo.
His Doctor is handcuffed to a table in a white-walled interrogation room, staring blankly at the ceiling. It all looks rather official, all above the book — And Stone can see that no one had laid an ill hand on him.
But he can find no relief even in that.
He looks like hell.
There are massive, dark circles shadowing the space beneath both of his eyes. His hair is unkempt, his skin faded into an ill pallor. He is wearing a t-shirt of all things — His shirt, he realizes, he is wearing one of Stone’s shirts — and god he is so damn gaunt.
Tower watches him take in the sight with a lazy, amused grin before ripping the tablet back out of his sight. “Tell me, Stone, what do you remember before you woke up here? Anything?”
Wracking his brain for drug-hazed memories is painful enough on its own, but every time he tries he is consumed all over again by the image of Doctor Robotnik and his empty, sunken eyes. What had happened to him? How long have they been separated? What are they going to do to him —
“An explosion.” The words are mumbled, unfocused. “I remember you… and then… An explosion. And there was something… Pain. In my arm.”
Tower nods slowly, indulgently. “Yes, that would be the drugs you were administered. A shame your body is so used to dosages of various injections — You should have told me, Stone. You could have died.”
“You'll have to forgive me,” Stone scoffs. “All part of the training. You should know that better than anyone.”
“Yes, yes. But most never adapt quite like you have.” Tower’s smile doesn’t falter. Stone fights off the urge to roll his eyes. He has to give it to the bastard — He seems to have perfected the art of patience during Stone’s time here. What a joke.
“The explosion,” he sighs. “What was that? And there was something else… The pain… It started before the needle.”
Tower’s grin broadens, head nodding eagerly as if he’s watching a toddler stack blocks for the first time without help. “Yes, yes, very good, Stone,” he preens. “The needle. The explosion. And…?”
He waits.
Stone blinks.
“His tracking chip.”
“Yes!" It takes truly everything in Stone’s weary body not to flinch at the volume of the exclamation. “Perfect, Stone. A chain reaction that you’ll find has worked beautifully in my favor. The chip all agents had to be implanted with to come on base, the one Robotnik altered for your case — Yours, offline. Permanently. The drugs in your system to keep you under for the first full week and then…?”
Stone hears his breath hitching in his lungs more than he feels it.
First full week.
He has conscious, lucid memories of being here for far, far longer than one full week. How long exactly has he been here…? How long has the Doctor been —
Tower’s laugh is something closer to a delighted giggle as he watches the pieces slot into place. “Grief is a hell of a drug when you care about someone, Stone. Robotnik has always been impossible to get to, really, because he has nothing he cares about… Or at least he didn't. Not until you. I must admit, the two of you put on quite a show for the rest of us. Hatred and abuse and everything the good Doctor is known for, but… Oh I just knew there was something else beneath the surface. And to think, all it took was a needle, a well-timed accident and a little bit of patience.”
Stone can feel the blood roaring in his ears, deafening and nauseating.
“Take a look at these,” Tower croons, sliding the tablet back over for his perusal. “Just look at the state he left his lab in…”
Stone can feel ice in his veins, white-hot and painful.
“And you should have seen him throwing himself around against those cuffs like a rabid animal. Walters has put up with a lot from his favorite little lab rat, but these newly improved homicidal tendencies are quickly proving too much to bear.”
Stone thinks he might lose the battle he’s fighting with the dizziness and nausea rolling in heavy waves throughout his body.
“He’s breaking, Stone. He’s sloppy. Dare I say stupid. And the rumor mill is doing my job for me. It’s beautiful, really, how it all fell into place. The leaks, the site explosion that has now been ruled as not an accident… Robotnik destroying his own tech, tech the government paid for… All the evidence is slotting right alongside his name. He might as well have signed and sealed his own death warrant.”
Stone doesn't need him to keep talking.
Stone already knows exactly what he’s doing.
And worse than that —
He knows exactly what he wants.
You’re going to help me break the doctor.
Stone smashes his face against the concrete wall until the blood runs so hot it burns.
Chapter Text
“That how you died?"
"From a broken nose? Not quite, Doctor.” Well no shit. “But I tried to play my way into the fucker's graces. Did what he wanted until I could see my Ivo again. Didn't go according to plan."
"He killed you before you got the chance. Liked watching the Other Me squirm more than he liked letting a thought play out.”
"Correct, Doctor." Once, it would've been correct as always. "Like I already said. This isn't about you, and it isn't about me. Your story came to an end the moment you died — And so did mine. It's all in the past. Nothing more than a reminder of how easy it is to destroy a timeline — And why we can't go messing in the ones that are closed and meant to be forgotten."
He ignores the way Ivo is clearly still reeling, grappling — doesn't the bastard know the weight of atoms being pushed and pulled through the fabric of time and space itself, dead or alive? — And simply opts to pace the stark white floor yet again, gloved hands folded delicately behind his back.
Ivo could swear that his face burns, as if it had been him and not an alternate of another man entirely who'd broken his nose on the concrete.
"Oh, boo-fucking-hoo," he spits out, trying and failing to ignore the discomfort welling in his chest as he slowly pieces together the imagery he's been given and the after effects they've left him with. "So you and yours had some separation issues. News flash — I don't care. If you have even a modicum of common sense, you will get me the hell out of here before I —"
Not-Stone has stopped his pacing again. Now, he simply stands still, looking down on the Doctor with such a witheringly bored look that it actually makes the genius close his own mouth.
The anger had been nice, for a moment. Refreshing. But it loses its use almost immediately in the weight of such bitter helplessness as this Purgatory he's found himself trapped in.
“Don't you think it counts for anything?” Ivo huffs, not bothering to keep the rage that is still trying to stay alive from making his voice tremble. “Dying for him? Dying to save him?”
“No, I don't,” Not-Stone snaps, voice immediately rising to a higher octave than Ivo has ever heard from him, louder than any not born purely from concern. It’s all but the only time Ivo has managed to actually get a rise out of him, and immediately the Doctor is on edge. “He wanted you to live for him, not die for him. Do you really think he's happy that you did this? Do you really think he's content with your decision? Do you really think he's done absolutely anything other than blame himself?"
And Ivo…
Can't really say that he's been given a moment to think all too much about that part.
But he certainly doesn't appreciate being reminded to, because now that he has, he's all but entirely forced to admit that Not-Stone has a —
"In fact, Doctor, why don't we go ahead and check in on him for ourselves?"
"You bastard, don't you fucking —"
Not-Stone doesn't listen. He never does, and it makes Ivo miss his Stone all the more for it.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Earth, two weeks after the events of the Eclipse Canon…
It's every bit as predictable and auto piloted as breathing. Stone closes his eyes, and what might as well be instantly, he was watching is all over again.
He sees it all.
The love of his life, a blip on a map on a screen they designed together in the lab — There one moment, gone the very next.
The love of his life falling from the sky down into the dirt below. What would've been a few final words, ones not even directed at him, and then just cold, dark abyss.
It didn't matter that he had gotten him out, then. In his dreams, they never made it that far. In his dreams, Stone had only ever watched him die.
And now, when Stone watches him die in his dreams, it is almost a reprieve from how it had felt to watch him die in the waking world.
Every moment without his Doctor had been, without a doubt, the darkest moments of his entire life. It comes in waves. He sees it in flashes.
Combing through the dirt, never once able to be certain that he wasn't looking for a corpse. So many moments of the recovery after had been hell, but nothing compared to not knowing if he would find him alive or not. If he would ever hear his voice again or not. If he would ever look into those eyes again or not, no matter how narrowed by rage they may be.
He supposed it made perfect sense that his mind went back to those moments each and every time he closed his eyes.
He hates his former self for ever grieving. In the Crab, he had not yet even known what it was to grieve.
It was simple enough, really. Bearable, certainly. He would watch him die and for every moment of it, he would be in his own personal hell. But eventually he would wake up, lying side by side with the man he loved, enveloped by warmth and weight in their shared bed in the Crab.
All would be right. All would be well. Ivo was okay, and they were gonna be just fine.
There had been little regret to be found, then. Each and every life he had taken in the past decade had been in the name of Robotnik, for the protection of Robotnik, and the soldier would be damned before he would feel regret over something so vital. He had gotten him out. He could look himself in the mirror and know, if nothing else, that his Ivo would be okay.
Stone didn't think of the past often, before. Certainly not the past that occurred before he met his Doctor. He doesn't care to relive a history that had stopped being worthy of recording on the day of that fateful assignment. His nightmares do not haunt him with the weight of war, but instead him with the weight of that one brutal, potential loss.
Now, the past is all he thinks about.
He doesn't even see the Fall anymore. He doesn't feel the weight of their year-long separation after Mushroom Hell.
He just watches him die again and again and again, swallowed into an abyss formed of space itself.
Ivo had made it look beautiful, somehow.
Stone wants to be sick just thinking about it.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Ivo is silent for what feels like an eternity.
For once, even Not-Stone seems disinterested in prodding a response out of him.
The memory had almost managed to feel familiar, despite the fact that it doesn't belong to him. Ivo had been forced to behold from an entirely different view. And as he sinks back tiredly, he finds that all of his memories are finding that same view, too.
This time, it's his Stone's eyes he's peering through when they finally open after the Fall.
It's Stone bringing him coffee in the mornings, both hands wrapped delicately around a warm cup that Ivo can feel the importance of now, feel the effort and the care and the love that went into each and every one.
It's Stone falling asleep at the foot of his bed like a baleful watch dog, still in the biker gear that Ivo had made for him when he had insisted on lugging a death trap around as a hobby when he very well could have just picked up painting instead.
This time, ever find, he's meeting his own gaze. Tired, broken, angry and everything else in between. It's Stone's eyes on him, and he feels the love the other man had each and every time.
And this time, he's forced to grapple with each and every one of his Stone's complicated, heavy emotions — Ones that are all directed at and in honor of Ivo himself.
Regret and guilt and grief and love, all pulling in his chest and creating a mess of something, many things he would have once not even been able to name.
"He loved you."
"Well he never said that! He never told me how he felt," Ivo snaps. "How was I supposed to know? How was I supposed to know —"
Not-Stone lifts and eyebrow, the gesture pointed and oh-so-exhausted, and how sad it is that that's all it takes for Ivo to give a defeated sigh and slump even further into the floor.
"Yeah yeah," he huffs. "I get it. It's pretty obvious in hindsight that he was giving me far more than he should have."
"For years and years —"
"I said I get it. Don't push your luck."
But in spite of the snapping, Not-Stone almost manages to look genuinely impressed with this little revelation of his, but he seems disinterested in properly commenting on it — The so-called good parts, at least.
The rest, he is entirely too happy to grind down on.
"You got to look at what he saw. Feel what he felt."
"So that's it then?" Ivo grumbles, more than content to change the damn subject. "You're angry at me for leaving him, leaving you? That's why you're doing all of this?"
"It's not my job to be angry at you, Doctor. And I'm not doing anything — I am simply preventing you from making it worse."
“Well if that's the case then why are you so angry at yours?" Ivo retorts, endlessly annoyed by how calm the other tries to remain. He rolls his head uncomfortably towards his left shoulder as he tries and fails to work some of the soreness out of his underused muscles.
Not-Stone doesn't seem to mind the movement. In fact, he seems entirely too content to watch Ivo writhe in the discomfort of waking up from an eternal void just to be forced to sit on his ass for days if not years on end.
"Who said I'm angry at him?"
"Oh, that does it," Ivo hisses, and only after a full five-point-seven seconds of staring at the other with his mouth agape in an undeniably trout-like fashion. "Is that not what this entire ordeal is really all about? He abandoned you to the whims of General Who's-His-Ass, and now you've set yourself up with a cushy job making sure the whole lot of us die miserable and then stay that way."
As he speaks, he makes sure to flourish a hand between the two of them as if there were a broad audience beholding the exchange. And as he speaks, Not-Stone remains as stone-faced as he used to be with the complete and total strangers, the nobodies, they were forced to run into back in G.U.N. headquarters.
"This is less about me than it is about you, Doctor. And I regrettably must inform you that it's really rather amusing how off the mark you are."
The simplicity of the statement — and the truth behind it that is so palpable Ivo can taste it — Is so goddamn humiliating that it manages to close his trout mouth.
"What about him, then?" he grumbles after a while.
"What about who?"
Ivo fixes Not-Stone with another withering stare, but of course the bastard has decided to find his gloved hands extraordinarily interesting all of a sudden. He knows damn good and well what who Ivo is talking about, and they both know it, but Ivo decides to give in to their little game for once and simply huffs before answering —
"Him, " he says again, making sure to force even more annoyance into his voice this time.
"I don't know," Not-Stone replies evenly. "I'm not supposed to go into the memories myself. Not without a Doctor here too —"
"Says who, god?" Ivo interrupts, and the sad little smile Not-Stone gives him is so pathetic and almost makes him feel sympathy for the poor bastard.
"You're asking to see what happened, then?"
"Is that not what I just fucking said? Stone I swear on my life —"
The bastard actually snaps his fingers this time when he sends the both of them back into the unseen but ever-present abyss.
Chapter 6
Notes:
Emetophobia warning for this chapter ‼️ if this effects anyone who would like to read please leave a comment and I'll edit out those sections for you personally to view :)
Chapter Text
Earth 03-485, 2027
“I love you, Ivo. I would do anything for you. Anything. Anything except let you die.”
It was the first time in his entire life that Ivo Robotnik had heard those three words, strung together in that particular way, directed at him from a sober-minded person. It was surprising and overwhelming all at once how warm and terrified and elated it made him feel.
It was with even more of that deep-rooted surprise that Robotnik realized that he desperately, desperately wanted to say it back.
His lips parted, but the words caught in his throat and he couldn't seem to make his lungs cooperate with him anymore. His mind and body, both well oiled and finely tuned machines, turned to a useless pile of rubble in this odd, beautiful man’s presence. Robotnik wanted to be mad about it, but try as he might he just couldn't be anymore.
So he kissed him instead, long and hard and slow, and hoped to all the things he has never once believed in that Stone would understand somehow without him ever having to say it.
I love you.
What an odd concept.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The sudden, overly loud knock on the door made Doctor Robotnik bump his elbow into the wall, so engrossed in his work and unsuspecting of mediocre company as he was.
He wrenched open the office door already looking and feeling ready to kill someone, pausing and simmering in his annoyance at the sight of a meek little agent looking up at him and clutching a tablet in both hands.
“I apologize for the intrusion, Doctor. I'm afraid I have some rather unfortunate news — There was a small explosion across base at the trainee service facility in the east quadrant. Nothing to be alarmed about; there was routine scheduled artillery testing on site today and it appears something malfunctioned.”
Robotnik didn't even attempt to conceal his eye roll, throwing up a hand and snapping, “Yes, yes, I've heard all the chatter about it over the coms already. Those assholes are always fucking something up, so you’ll have to forgive my lack of shock. Let me guess, you need a dispatch of drones sent there to clean up your goddamn mess again?”
The agent at least had the common sense to look embarrassed as he sheepishly nodded his head. “Yes, sir, right away in fact. But I assure you they will be returned in tip-top shape as soon as the damage is cleared out.”
Robotnik grunted in response, already moving to slam the door shut and continue on about his work when that feeble little voice dared to squeak up at him again.
“Oh, hold on sir! I almost forgot — I hate to be the one who must inform you of this, but it would seem a bit of your property was irreparably damaged today.”
Robotnik tore the door all the way open and slammed it straight into the wall as he whirled on the man, one hand clenching at his sides and the other raising in an accusatory point. “What were you fucking imbeciles doing anywhere near my lab?! You have no goddamn business — ”
The man shrank in somehow further on himself, lifting his hands in front of his chest protectively as though he expected the Doctor to strike him at any moment. A fair assumption, in fact — He was still seriously considering it. “Forgive me Doctor, but there has been no damage to your laboratory, of that I can gladly assure you.”
This gave Robotnik pause, enough to have him settling back down onto the ground instead of continuing to tower over the feeble assistant that is still pointlessly invading his space. “Then what,” he ground out, his tone lowering slightly but containing no less venom than it had only moments ago, “Could you possibly be wasting my valuable time to tell me? Just where and what of mine did you manage to break?”
The assistant narrowed his eyes, his features pinching with barely-veiled confusion, as though surely Robotnik should know what he was trying to tell him without him having to do the work of getting any words out. “I’m sorry, Doctor —“ Robotnik pinched the bridge of his nose, already more than sick of these half-baked excuses for apologies and formalities. “I thought you said that you had already been informed of the explosion in the trainee service facility off the east quadrant.”
Robotnik loosed a long, harsh hiss of a sigh, spinning on the ball of his heels and throwing his arms out in an exasperated field around him. “Of course I heard about the fucking explosion! I don't own anything in the fucking service facility off the fucking east quadrant, and none of my Badniks were dispatched there before some asshat decided to get handsy with a landmine, so get to the goddamn point or I swear on my life, I'm going to drag you down to the Command center and —“
“Your assistant, sir.”
Robotnik froze. The man turned his attention back to his stupid primitive tablet, dragging a fingertip down the screen until he found the line he’s looking for.
“Hm, I could've sworn it was… Oh, yes. Stone, it says.” He turned the screen towards the Doctor — ‘Stone, A.’ STATUS: PERMANENTLY OFFLINE. Robotnik could feel the color leeching out of his face, but the oblivious agent just kept talking. “Yes, I'm afraid himself and seven others perished in the accident, as well as three higher-ranking active service members. Now, not to worry though! I am told the Commander already has a replacement for you on the way —“
Robotnik’s hand slammed forward, wrenching into the man’s shirt and yanking him closer because what he was saying was impossible, there was no way, there was no — “Take me to him. Now.”
The agent looked up at him as though he has just grown another head. Worse than that, he spoke slowly and carefully, like he were talking down to a simple-minded child. “Sir, I’m sorry but, there is no body. The higher-ranking service members will have funerals scheduled as quickly as possible, but per protocol there were no resources spent on further identifying and disposing of the bodies of the rest. We have a confirmed list of the names on the microchips that were knocked permanently offline, and any remains have already been burned all together and will be scattered in the gardens when the rain stops. But again, sir, we have already put in an order for a replacement, so you wont be without…”
Robotnik was already moving for the transport road long before the useless agent thought to finally stop speaking.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Robotnik had gone to the rubble first, of course. He had circled his way through the remains of the facility, sending an array of Badniks to scan everything they could possibly find. They still somehow managed not to find a damn thing. Just dirt and dust and agents in suits filing over the ruins and grumbling something about faulty wiring and rusty old machines.
He had gone to the crematorium next, shoving his way through the doors with little regard to the staff prattling on about ‘privacy’ and ‘protocol’ and not even attempting to offer him any answers. He had gone as far as to run his fingers through the sickeningly massive and unfamiliar pile of ashen remains on the table, still waiting for a laying to rest that seemed bitterly low on anyone else’s priority list.
There is no body. Any remains have already been burned all together and will be scattered in the gardens…
He had learned nothing. He had felt nothing. But he knew one thing, and one thing for damn sure —
Stone was still alive.
He had to be.
Just that morning they had been tangled up in bed together, Robotnik’s hands and mouth idling a path all the way down his body. He’d lingered on the wound in his side again, the jagged scar, the —
Stone had taken a bullet for him, more than once. He’d killed for him, more times than he’d thought to count. He’d made it more than abundantly clear that he would die for him — But that didn't mean that he had died for him. He wouldn't dare. Robotnik had not asked him to go off and do that. In fact he had specifically demanded that he stop getting himself injured.
It had been more than four hours since the idiotic agent had interrupted his path, and Robotnik was still waiting. Stone would know that he would leave the main office just as soon as the scheduled maintenance was finished, so he’d gone back to the lab. He’d been sat at the console ever since his other options were exhausted, waiting in place as if any distraction he could possibly find would make him miss Stone’s arrival. But now he finally gave in to the urge to throw himself back to his feet and pace across the floor.
He had exhausted all his options. He had retrieved the powered-down Badniks Stone had named in the supply shop where he was meant to be, and scoured the camera feeds for anything useful. He had asked anyone he could ask, and that had been disgusting. He had searched every place he could search. He had checked the status of that wretched little microchip — STATUS: PERMANENTLY OFFLINE — on loop.
He had waited, and waited, and waited still, and still nothing.
Stone had been due back long before these four hours had ticked past him, a tardiness that he had never once shown himself capable of, but so what? Robotnik would forgive his lateness in time, with enough of that signature groveling he had come to know and appreciate all too well.
Stone would be here any minute. He would explain his unexpected absence, he would explain where he had been and how it had been somewhere incredibly far away from the blast site that he’d had no business being anywhere near to begin with. He would have a damn good reason for involving him in this entire mess, and while Robotnik would still find a way to be pissed off about it, Stone would smile in that stupid, naive little way of his and all would be forgotten.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
That night past Robotnik by in a painfully sickening blur. Stone still wasn't back yet, and he had finally given in and tried his damnedest to bury himself in his work while he waited. But the code he worked to chip away at blurred together into a string of mush, and a significant piece of the prototype that was due in three days broke in his hands after he tightened the wing on far too harshly.
The morning came, and he was still awake.
Still waiting.
Still nothing.
He was losing his feeble hold on his composure more and more as the day waned on. He’d already grown desperate enough to ask damn near every face he passed if they had seen Stone, offering descriptions that favored the more affectionate side of things far too much and made his chest ache even more. He was all but absolutely dragged to a meeting by a security escort of agents, to be briefed on the explosion with a cascade of silly, meaningless words like unfortunate and accident and unforeseen consequences. Worse than that were the promises — All the This wont happen again’s and the You are safe here’s in the world readily shoved down their throats. He had not quite made it out the door before the Commander made an unexpected appearance in the doorway, gripping Robotnik’s arm with an incredibly weak attempt at being delicate and gentle.
“I was sorry to hear about the assistant I procured for you getting taken out in this mess, Ivo. Especially after it took me so long to find one that could prove himself capable of winning your favor and keeping up with your routines. Normally I would attend the briefings on this latest unfortunate little incident over the comms system, but I thought I would bring you your replacement in person. I know how much you despise changes to your routine, so I didn't want you to have to wait too long. I can only hope this next one will bring you even more productivity than the last.”
It took Robotnik entirely too long to register just what the fuck Walters was talking about. His eyes glazed over and then focused again on the figure standing just behind him — A man, a stranger, in a monochromatic suit just… Waiting.
Waiting for him. Waiting for orders. Waiting for orders from him.
The sight of it was such a haunting duplication that it damn near threatened to choke him to death then and there, and Robotnik was quick to look away.
“How generous of you, Commander,” a voice purred. Certainly not his own.
Ivo had fixed his menacing gaze on Walters, but now it snapped to his side where General Towers had sidled right up next to him with a plastic smile painted across his face.
For what felt like a small lifetime Robotnik just stood there, frozen in place. No matter how fervently he fought it his eyes kept returning to the agent behind Walters, still waiting.
They had brought him a replacement.
Like it was that easy.
Like Stone was just a body, so readily discarded and forgotten.
Like Stone was really gone.
Like Stone was never, ever coming back —
Robotnik choked on his own barely-contained screams every step of the way as he tore out of the room, shaking the security detail that had been assigned to him and ignoring the frantic yelling behind him as he ran. Ignoring the Commander, ignoring Tower’s overly excited grin, ignoring the heavy weight of absence, ignoring it all until the door to his lab was slammed behind him and locked tight. Stone had his own designated clearance to get in, he wouldn't even need to knock —
Stone.
The permanence of death had never once truly occurred to him. It had been a presence that had idly surrounded him for his entire life, holding all the same hostility and threat of the oxygen that lived inside his lungs. It was pointless to dwell on it — An unavoidable thing hardly worth a second thought. Even his own avoidance of death was purely based on probability; invisible numerical sequences that the endless dredges of humanity so often failed to even open their eyes to.
He understood what it was, of course. Death. Human bodies were fickle, fleeting things; ticking time bombs with an internal clock that began counting down before the first breath had even been taken. There one moment, gone the next — It was all really rather obvious, wasn't it? It was simple. Any moron could comprehend something as uncomplicated as death, and Dr. Ivo Robotnik was certainly no moron.
So why was it, then, that he could not seem to understand this?
There one moment, gone the next.
It couldn't really be that simple, that cruel. No goodbyes, no singular moment of haltingly permanent realization, not even a corpse to cling to and then lower into the ground. It couldn't be that simple, because then he would have to face that he’d unknowingly been given only one last chance to say everything he’d ever felt about Stone and he had wasted it, squandered it, never to have another again.
He thought back to the first time he’d laid eyes on him, just another useless stranger in a sea of forgettable faces. He thought about how goddamn mean he’d been, and while he felt juvenile even just thinking that word it filled him with a rolling wave of regret. His restless mind carried him over every interaction the two had ever shared, every word, every touch, every moment —
Not enough.
It wasn't nearly enough, none of it, none of it was enough because a goddamn lifetime would not have been enough, and was this really it? He couldn't possibly accept that a meager number of months was their lifetime, the only chance they'd ever get, that Stone was truly gone and would never be his again.
He didn't register the pain or the exhaustion in his limbs when he threw the contents of his desk into the floor, but he did think about how softly Stone had looked at him as he’d straightened up the mess the last time. He did remember how cruel he’d been for months after Walters had delivered him. How he’d once been so eager to be rid of Stone and now that he finally was, it felt like his body didn't know how to function anymore.
His lungs forgot how to breathe. His heart forgot how to beat. Everything hurt.
Damn near every item in the entire lab had been thrown to the floor or shattered into pieces by the time Robotnik finally dragged himself into the panic room and the waiting bed they’d shared. His body ached and his hands were bleeding as he crawled into the bed, but he just wrapped himself in the blanket and breathed in the lingering remains of Stone’s scent. It was still there, still present, and for just one moment Robotnik could convince himself that he was still there.
But the scent would eventually fade away, even if he never washed the sheets again, and there would be nothing he could do to bring it back. It was that simple, primitive realization that finally broke the dam.
Robotnik curled in on himself and heaved choked, gasping sobs into the pillow until his skin was raw against its surface and his lungs burned and his chest ached. He cried until his body couldn't anymore, until the exhaustion finally lay claim on him and pulled him down into the depths of an unforgiving sleep — His first since two nights previous when Stone had been there, too, right there tangled up in his arms.
He dreamed of him all night long, and in his sleep he held him close. He felt his body heat and he ran his fingertips across his jaw. He saw that sleepy, adoring smile again. He cradled his face and he made promises he’d never be given the chance to keep.
And then he watched him die a thousand brutal deaths, one right after the other, until the morning came and long after still.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Robotnik came to every morning — or evening, he had long since stopped checking the time — curled over on his side, his face pressed into the pillow with both arms wrapped tightly around it.
The smell was fading.
By day four Robotnik was forced to drag himself out of the bed on the whims of nausea, cruel and unceasing. He emptied burning bile into the water until he was certain that he had choked up his organs somewhere amongst the mess.
He was so nauseous. Why was he so fucking nauseous —
Oh. Of course.
Stone.
Damn him. Damn him for making him eat often enough that his stupidly all too human body now craved sustenance in a way he had once so diligently trained it to ignore. Damn him for the waves of caffeine withdrawal that had manifested themselves in a constant, throbbing headache. Damn him for this feeling, this ache that latched its icy claws deep within his chest and refused to let go.
Grief.
It has a name, of course it does, everything does, he isn't stupid. But Ivo has never given any weight to it before, not so much as a second thought. It was a cataloged thing that he had lived his entire life up until this point ready to never once know, and now, thanks to Stone, he knew it all too fucking well.
Damn you. Damn you for doing this to me. Damn you for coming into my life and giving me all of this only to take it all away again and leave me alone to rot with it.
The equipment that hadn't been completely destroyed yet had been pinging him nonstop. He had missed meetings, briefings, the demonstrations in which he was meant to present the latest artillery line that now lay in pieces all over the lab floor. The Commander had called him countless times, and more than once there had been pounding on the door and shouting on the other side of it. He imagined that he didnt have too much longer before the thing was torn right off its hinges and he was dragged outside by force. The looming feeling of it twisted his insides with discomfort, but he figured that he deserved that much and far worse.
Had Stone been forced to live with that possibility each and every day? Or had he walked about damn near fearless, so confident that the Doctor would never fail to protect him should something go wrong?
Robotnik couldn't decide which thought was worse, so he elected to expel whatever still-lingering contents his stomach was holding onto instead.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
It was another week before Robotnik left the bed unless it was to stumble into the bathroom to be sick, and even then it was not by choice. As he had predicted, the door was cut right off its place in the wall and he was dragged out by force. General Tower was the first one through, and when he first laid eyes on Robotnik the Doctor would've sworn his face pulled into a sheet of actual surprise.
“Well I’ll be damned. You look like shit,” was the first thing out of his mouth.
After that he’d thrown around bitter-sounding pleasantries about how very very concerned they had all been, how he had left them with no other choice. And he hadn't, of course. To throw a bone at their feet, they had given him countless warnings that they were going to take the door down before they’d actually acted upon it.
He didn't bother motioning for the Badniks to stop the intrusion. When they weren't powered down, they had spent the days twittering around in idle circles, like they had not the slightest clue what they were supposed to do with Stone gone.
“That makes all of us,” he had grumbled more than once.
There was no bereavement leave for agents killed in site explosions on a confidential, off-the-grid base. To the rest of the miserable bastards he was forced to share oxygen with, Stone was nothing more than an object lost in the dirt. Easily replaced. Easily forgotten.
They still expected him to get up and go back to work, as though the world itself had not just come to a sudden, clattering halt. His body did, too — Every breath was a bitter reminder of that.
The sun still rose, still set. His stupid, erratic heart was still beating.
How fucking cruel.
Robotnik had not said a single word when Tower had broken into his lab. He’d continued his newfound silence even as the General placed a firm hand on his lower back and half guided, half shoved him outside. The light was blinding, but he had allowed himself to be led through it all the same. Explanations would be demanded of him, but he would have none left to offer.
Once, he had told himself that he kept people at a distance purely because of how goddamned stupid they all were. But there had always been another, underlying condition that had certainly never hurt his case — There was no one to lose. Nothing to miss. That entire racket had seemed like a dreadful waste of time, a massive pain in the ass. It would only serve to get in his way, or worse — To halt his plans while his body worked its way through this foolish, foolish process called grief.
What he had not expected was that he would become entirely unable to give a flying fuck.
It didn't matter to him that his plans had been halted. It didn't matter to him that much of his life’s work had been beaten to pieces on the floor by his own two hands. It didn't matter to him that his lab had been breeched, or that he was almost certainly about to lose his position and all the possibilities it readily offered him.
None of it mattered. Not at all. Not even a little bit.
So even as Tower peppered him with his many questions and his snide little remarks, Robotnik only bit down on his tongue and didnt say a word. Eventually he was left alone again.
He’d been handcuffed to the table the first time he’d tried to attack him, his tired body too exhausted to carry out the blow he’d begun. He would bide his time, for now.
Another opportunity would present itself for him to kill the motherfucker, a better one. And when it did, he would be ready.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
"You've watched this." It's the first thing on Ivo's mind. He can feel it in the air, feel it just as deeply as he still feels the loss of his Stone and Not-Stone alike.
"Yes." The answer is somber. Quiet.
"Many times."
"Countless."
Ivo still isn't looking at him. He isn't quite sure he can bear it. "You're not mad at him. You're not even mad at me."
"Of course not," Not-Stone all but whispers.
"You're mad at you."
"Until the end of eternity and long after."
"And you're not punishing me —"
"What's the point? You're dead —"
"You're punishing him," Ivo interrupts again. Not-Stone doesn't seem to mind all that much anymore. "You're punishing you."
"— And you've certainly allowed death to tune you in to far more this time around than you usually do.
"Could you go back?"
"I can't leave. This is my penance. This is my Punishment. I failed him. I left him behind, I left him all alone —
"Could you go back?" And this time Ivo does look up. This time his eyes meet Not-Stone's, and this time he refuses to look away as he raises his voice when he asks it again.
"All I can do now is try to preserve the fragments and remains of the rest of the universes in which we meet. All I can do is make sure that the dead ones stay dead so that the ones who made it out alive don't lose their fleeting moments together, so that they —"
"That's a yes then," Ivo half scoffs, half growls. Waves of emotion thunder violently in his chest, hands clinching absentmindedly beneath the binds. "Stone. Go back. Send me back. Fuck the other universes, fuck it all. Go back to him. And let me go back to mine."
"It's not that simple, Ivo —"
"Yes it is. I was wrong to leave him behind. And you can't feel it like I do — How he grieved you. How it felt. How it feels right fucking now." Ivo forces himself to keep speaking in spite of how his voice breaks and cracks, hoarse and rough and raw with emotions he'd never once in his life had to feel. "Send us back. Start over. Do it again. We're supposed to find each other in every single timeline. And damn it all to hell if we don't get to keep each other, too."
When Not-Stone moves to kneel and undo his restraints, Ivo doesn't hesitate to move into his arms. They hold each other for what feels like an eternity before it all fades to black again.
And when Ivo opens his eyes, he swears he can still feel Not-Stone's tears on his own face.
Chapter Text
Earth 03-485, 2027
Stone hasn't managed to quell the trembling in his bones by the time he makes it back to the lab. The bag of food in his hands is dutifully warm and fresh, but his own clothes and body are soaked right down to the bone.
Even still, Robotnik seems to clock right away that the shaking in his hands isn't from the rain.
“What happened?”
The words are a low, barely-contained flurry as Robotnik takes the bagged meal out of Stone’s hand and discards it on whatever surface is closest, not even seeming to care that he’s just put a hot bag of food on his very expensive console. Stone, of course, cares deeply and immediately moves the bag away from any of his devices.
Robotnik catches both of his now-empty hands in his own gloved ones, and against his better judgment, Stone finally looks up at him.
The Doctor casts a long, slow and deeply calculating gaze over him, eyes narrowed and brow furrowed in thought. Stone realizes that he still hasn't answered his question. He knows he needs to, he knows that, but every time he parts his lips to speak the words sputter and die on his tongue.
He just wants to go home. And that’s pathetic.
So he still isn't speaking, but Robotnik isn't either. He just watches him, and while Stone is still trying desperately to get the words out the Doctor lets go of his hands, letting them drop back down by his sides. Stone feels his stomach twist at the loss of contact, but then Robotnik wraps both arms around him and pulls him flat against his chest.
Stone sinks instantly into him, relief coursing through his veins in tune with the very blood keeping him alive, but almost immediately remembers himself and goes to pull away. “Doctor, the rain. I dont want to get your coat —“
Robotnik relents, letting him pull back, but he slides his hands back down to rest on Stone’s arms and examines his still sopping wet form more closely. Maybe its the way his shirt is crumpled in one place, or something in his face, or perhaps he can just smell the cheap cologne permeating the air between them, but Robotnik's face sours. After a moment he lowers his hands and digs his fingertips into the bottom of Stone’s shirt, pulling it up and over his head without warning. He discards the damp fabric in a heap on the floor — And then he freezes.
Stone follow’s his hardened gaze down, catching the ghost of a fresh red spot beginning to form on his stomach — One in the distinct pattern of fingertips dug too harsh, too tight into flesh. It had been a punch more than it was a push, really, and while it is hardly enough to bruise, the fact that it’s visible is more than enough to sour his mood somehow further.
“Tower?” Robotnik’s voice is barely a singular octave over a whisper.
Stone cant help himself; he visibly flinches at the name. Not being able to lay hands on the bastard that constantly pokes and prods at them has really begun to take it’s toll, and gnarled pinpoints of anger have more than met their mark.
Stone isn't used to sitting on his hands so much.
That seems to be more than enough confirmation for the Doctor. There is a clouding haze of emotions pulling at his features, moving too fast for Stone to read as his heartbeat picks up its pace. But there is one undeniable emotion that keeps flashing across the Doctor’s face, one that Stone couldn't miss even if he tried — Rage.
When Robotnik turns sharply on his heels and stalks out of the room, leaving him shivering and alone, Stone thinks he might collapse in on himself for all the nervous energy tugging down at his limbs. He stays gone for what feels like a very long time, leaving Stone to stew himself into a borderline panic. All he has to go on is a faint rustling that catches his ears from somewhere down the hall. By the time he reappears Stone is quick to move closer, words tumbling off his tongue in a desperate plea.
“Doctor, I’m sorry, please don't —“
Somehow that only makes him look angrier, and Stone stops moving and clamps his mouth shut just as quickly as he’d opened it. The other man finishes closing the gap with wide strides, stalking straight up to him. There are no words, no warnings as Robotnik’s hands move to his waistband, fingers deftly working at his belt. Instantly Stone’s shivering picks up even harder than before, both at the thrill of the Doctor’s hands and the chill in the air as his soaking wet clothing is meticulously peeled from his body. He moves obediently in sync with Robotnik, manipulating his shaking form until he is stark naked, and he waits.
The panic has begun to subside ever so slightly, but it still doesn't dissipate, even after Robotnik sidles an arm around his back and guides him down the hallway in the same direction he’d just come from. Every ghost of a touch sends violent shivers down Stone’s entire body, and he feels a strange and unfamiliar urge to cover himself. Embarrassment burns hot against his skin as he’d led away, towards the bathroom and —
For a moment, Stone cant seem to make sense of the sight before him, even as Robotnik closes the door behind them and slides out of his own clothes in tandem.
Steaming hot water fills the oversized and underused tub, a massive pile of soapy foam spilling over the top of the basin.
A bath.
The Doctor ran him… A bath.
Robotnik’s hands are on him again, gentle, so so gentle as he leads him to the tub and helps him step inside. They sink down together, as one, and Stone winces and then sighs as the hot water bites and then soothes the still-healing bruises that pepper his skin. The marks are a visual stamp of weeks worth of “training” sessions, ones that have really just amounted to Tower throwing him around for the hell of it — Knowing damn well he cant give it his all without killing the man he’s been explicitly ordered not to kill.
The Doctor pulls at his thighs until Stone stretches out comfortably, and then he slots himself into the space between his legs, overlapping their bodies so they can still face each other — And just like that, all of it is forgotten.
He still hasn't said anything, and Stone is so overwhelmed with emotion that he stays silent all the same. That swirling cascade of emotions only seems to rise as the Doctor lathers a fragrant-smelling soap into a cloth and begins to glide it over his body in slow, careful motions.
“I’m sorry.”
Robotnik’s quiet voice breaks the silence, but it also breaks the dam.
Stone dissolves into soundless tears as he collapses against the other man’s chest.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
“I’m sorry.”
Robotnik has been wracking his brain for something to say ever since he’d first laid eyes on those goddamned bruises some weeks ago, but he had come up devastatingly, infuriatingly blank. The sight has filled him with an anger so intense and overwhelming that he’d had to bite back every word and instinct in his body to try and prevent himself from scaring Stone in the process of finally getting them both the hell of out here.
After all, the man had been through enough in his lifetime. And for once in his life Robotnik finds that he would have done damn near anything to keep himself from making it worse.
The time they shared in private since after their first night stuck here together had been the only thing he could draw on to even remotely calm his mind. There had only been one bed, one tub — An oversight to their benefactors, but exactly the way life was meant to be to them. They’d been together for years, after all, and all those things were simply meant to be shared. So he’d latched onto those little moments, trusting that they would bring peace to his counterpart in that endeavor the same as they did himself.
Based on the way Stone’s entire body relaxes and ceases its trembling, it would appear that his assumption had been correct.
He’d stayed silent for far too long, still for fear of making it all somehow worse. Unfortunately for him, he’d been correct on that front, too. As soon as he’d opened his damn mouth to speak, Stone started crying.
Stone is crying.
Immediately Robotnik is filled with a distantly familiar sense of dread and regret. It is nearly identical to how he’d felt when he backed Stone up against the wall, all but screaming in his face about his desertion in the war if only to chase away his own mounting affections.
It is with a mercy that a lesser man might attribute to a god that Stone speaks while Robotnik is still fighting for something else to say.
“Why are you sorry?” he croaks, quickly wiping his eyes even as more tears quickly fill the gaps. “This is… God, this is amazing. It’s all I’ve ever wanted. You are all I’ve ever wanted.”
Robotnik decides to barrel through whatever word vomit might find its way past his mouth. If Stone is going to insist on rendering him speechless at every goddamn turn, he figures he really doesn't have much of a choice anymore.
“Why am I sorry?” It seemed that he picked a good place to start talking, because that question has so many answers that now he cant stop. “I’m sorry because I sent you out there when I knew that fucking stalagmite was roaming around loose. I’m sorry because I didnt put a fucking bullet in his skull the very first time he put his hands on you. I’m sorry that you have to be here, like this, with me, just so I can —“
Robotnik is still quite certain that there is no god, but it still feels like a religious experience when Stone leans forward and captures his mouth in a mind-numbing kiss.
“I’ve told you a dozen times and I’ll tell you a hundred more,” Stone murmurs against his lips. “There is nothing that could ever happen to me that would not make meeting you worth every second.”
The crying has fully stopped, and when Robotnik pulls back to look at him its as though all of it has melted away. There is a peaceful, almost dreamy haze in Stone’s eyes, and he cant seem to stop himself from smiling even if he thinks to try. Relief sinks through Robotnik then, and he carefully resumes washing the other man’s body as he kisses a lazy path across his jaw, down his neck and finally across his collarbone.
He freezes again when the lathered cloth grazes across the still-raw scar that had been torn through Stone’s abdomen with a bullet only weeks ago. He feels that strange, tight hitch in his throat, and pulling breath into his lungs suddenly feels so much harder than it had moments ago. He didnt need to be told that it was because Stone had been through that, through all of this, through so much, all because of him.
I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry —
Now that hes said it out loud, those words refuse to leave him be.
He just can't wait to get the hell out of here. To go back home and leave this all behind.
He doesn't know of the time spent apart.
It feels like heaven, sharing a bath with the doctor, and Stone almost entirely forgets what had him feeling so broken down in the first place. There is an intimacy in the way the older man washes his skin that Stone realizes he has never known before, and fears he would simply die if he never got to know again.
Stone doesn't know of the time, of the millennia spent apart.
He doesn't remember that in another universe, another version of him is being embraced by another version of his Doctor. He doesn't know of the apologies being whispered between them, or of the promises being made — the ones that they will really keep this to.
He only knows his Doctor, and the moments they now get to share.
Worth it, he thinks to himself and murmurs into the open air as Robotnik guides him to the bed and cradles him against his chest. Not for the first time and certainly not for the last. It is his last thought before he drifts off to sleep, and his first thought when he wakes up still tangled in the Doctor’s arms.
Worth it. All worth it.
WafflesIron on Chapter 2 Mon 13 Oct 2025 08:04PM UTC
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