Chapter Text
The entrance door to the Crab hisses shut behind Stone. He likes the sound of it, likes the sound of all the machines the Doctor builds, really. There's something soothing about the various hisses and hums and clicks that have surrounded Stone for years now. Never loud or jarring or screech-y. The pinnacle of engineering, machines that sound as clever and intricate as they are.
But the hiss, the final click of the door is lost in the sudden blare of orchestral music from the sound system in the control room, and Stone sighs instead.
Quietly, to himself, of course. Softer than the hum of the Crab's walls around him.
But the music lowers abruptly. "Stone?" The Doctor barks. Stronger than yesterday. Stronger everyday, thankfully, but not… not like before.
"Yes, Doctor," Stone answers, making sure to keep his tone as crisp and measured as always as he enters the control room. The telenovela continues to play on the screen, with the volume significantly low. Stone recognises this one: Teresa.
"Good, you're back. Hand me my taco compañero."
Stone takes a moment while the eponymous protagonist says her iconic, "Entre ser o no ser, yo soy…" (Between being or not being, I am...) He takes a deep breath. "They're… not ready yet, sir."
The telenovela on the screen freezes with a flick of the Doctor's gloved hand. His gaze is cold, incredulous. "Since when do you make the meals yourself, Stone?"
"Since I hand-fed you gazpacho during your recovery, sir." Stone's response is immediate, unthinking. Then he winces a little at the tone of it. It's not like he cooks all their meals everyday; they get takeout more often than not. After the… incident with the Emerald, the convalescing Doctor's needs barely left Stone with enough time to make a proper meal. The Doctor's moods, even less so. There had been days when the Doctor refused to let Stone out of his sight, coming up with increasingly complicated orders as excuses to keep him next to him. On those days, Stone took every little opening he got to rush outside and find the nearest place to get takeout from and rush back to the Doctor's bedside.
And then there were the days the Doctor couldn't seem to bear the sight of Stone. When he would lose himself into games and telenovelas with singular, mind-numbing focus. Those were the days that Stone, with his own brand of stubborn determination, would cook. He had a ranked list of the Doctor's culinary likes and dislikes and he used this knowledge mercilessly to whip up elaborate, aromatic meals to entice the Doctor into finally letting him bring food into the control room his man cave.
It is this and more that made Stone say what he did just now. The worry that seems to have found a permanent place in the bottom of his heart. The bones that still stick out under the Doctor's pale, newly-grafted skin. The laser sharp focus of his incredible brain dulled and ringed by the purple under his eyes.
The Doctor glares at him in the ensuing silence. Stone almost opens his mouth to apologise when the Doctor sighs roughly. "Come here, Stone."
His tone is mild. Dangerous, Stone thinks with a sudden spark in his chest. He enters the room, sweeping easily past the discarded takeout containers and soda cans. Just as he approaches the Doctor's chair, the Doctor says, his voice still silky-fanged-smooth, "Pin yourself to the floor."
Stone obeys with an instinct born from years of habit. He is prone in the next second, the ridges of the metallic panels digging into his belly through his shirt, his shoes squeaking softly on the glass beams of the floor LEDs. He presses his bearded cheek to the cold metal and wraps his own hand around his collared neck, and holds his breath and waits.
An agonising moment of stillness passes, and then — the breath caught in his lungs rushes out in an audible gasp when he feels the cold rubber sole of the Doctor's indoor slippers press onto his knuckles.
"Do I detect resentment in your tone, Stone?" The Doctor murmurs. Quieter. Silkier.
"Never, Doctor," Stone breathes, then gasps again when the foot presses down harder.
He's strong. Practically as strong as he was before. Embers of hope burst aflame in Stone's chest, the pure joy of it making him even more giddy.
The foot presses down even more for a second or two, hard enough to choke him, fuck —and then the pressure relents. The cool rubber sole is dragged away slowly, moving along the line of his jaw almost like a caress.
"That's what I thought," the Doctor murmurs. He slouches back in his seat and his eyes flit to the screen, his hand waving the telenovela to continue playing. It has skipped forward to another scene altogether, and Stone feels warmth pulse through him as the character onscreen states, "El amor no se toca, se siente!" (Love is not touched, it is felt!)
This is when Stone realises that the Doctor is wearing his glove today, for the first time in what feels like eons.
We are SO back, Stone thinks gleefully.
"Order in," the Doctor barks, despite seeming fully focused on the screen. "I don't want your snivelling anywhere near the kitchen. Your misplaced anxiety will make the food go bad."
Stone only smiles. "Whatever you say, Doctor."