Archive of Our Own ^beta

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."

Chapter Text

"How in the bio-tastrophic post-apocalyptic hell did they survive that horde?" The Doctor practically yells.

Stone shrugs, gathers some noodles with his chopsticks, and says mildly, "It's a zombie apocalypse movie. Most people would employ suspension of disbelief."

"Most people," the Doctor scoffs. "I am not most people, Stone."

Stone smiles. "You're certainly not, Doctor."

"Hmph." The Doctor ruffles his dark hair in frustration, ruining the neat and slick way he styles it. "Why the hell are we watching this movie anyway?"

"The premise intrigued you, sir."

"Bah!" The Doctor slouches back on his armchair so violently the soup in his bowl nearly spills over. His movements and statements are more exaggerated than usual, and Stone has to fight to hide his grin.

"Brain dead media for the brain dead," the Doctor mutters, then says, louder, "You know, Stone, if I was turned into a zombie, I would literally starve. Not a single human brain in the entire world would offer me the nourishment that a zombie of my calibre would deserve."

"It's a good thing you aren't a zombie then, Doctor."

"Shut up, Stone, I'm trying to watch the movie."

Stone simply mimes zipping his mouth shut and keeps eating. The Doctor says nothing but slurps his noodles so loudly that Stone nearly laughs at the incongruity of the sound while some poor sod meets a tragic and gory death onscreen.

"Ridiculous!" The Doctor snaps after only a few more minutes, bits of chewed noodles flying out of his mouth. Wordlessly, Stone offers him a paper napkin which the Doctor takes as he sets forth his rant argument.

"The probability of this group of idiots surviving a global catastrophe with near-zero attrition is so small it would sum the combined IQ of this bunch of found fami-losers!" He casts an imperious glance at Stone, eyebrow raised. "Do you know how small that would be?"

Stone has worked under the Doctor for well over a year now, so he knows when the Doctor seeks unthinking agreement from him and when the Doctor actually wants him to answer. This, he knows, is the latter case, so he sets his chopsticks down. "So assuming a global population of…"

Robotnik's stare sharpens instantly. "At the time of release of this drivel? Say five billion."

Stone nods. "And assuming the zombie conversion rate at… 99%?"

Robotnik clicks his tongue. "The scene is set in a very limited portion of the globe, let alone the country."

Stone nods again. "95%."

"Eh." Robotnik tilts his head. "98%."

"98%," Stone amends. "Giving us a probability ratio of zero point zero zero zero zero—"

"— zero zero zero one." Robotnik finishes with him. His entire focus bears down on Stone, gimlet eyes locked onto his face, mouth pursed the way it does when he's thinking hard about a problem. The movie plays on unseen on the screen.

"You're right sir, it's very small," Stone murmurs and swallows hard, and Robotnik's eyes flit down to his throat — making Stone's heart skip a beat — before coming to rest on his face again.

"Hmm." Robotnik hums, then wordlessly turns back to the movie. Stone stays unmoving for a long moment, his heart still racing, before he picks his chopsticks back up with tingling fingers.

They watch the rest of the movie in silence as they finish their food, save for the Doctor's occasional wordless grumbles. When the credits start to roll, Stone gets up to take their empty bowls away. He's almost left the room when the Doctor says suddenly, "I changed my mind."

Stone pauses and glances at him over his shoulder. "Sir?"

"I probably wouldn't starve," the Doctor says, voice all nonchalant. Eyes intent on Stone's face.

And Stone can't hold back his smile. "Good to know, Doctor."

Chapter Text

"Let me be clear about one thing, Stone."

"Yes, Doctor."

"I hate pet names. So don't go about expecting me to call you snooky-pookie-snuffalumpagus or any other kind of brain-and-tooth-rotting nonsensical mot de jour, you hear me?"

"Understood, Doctor."

"Good. Can't stand the vile practice. An absolute decline of semantic integrity."

"As you say, Doctor."

"Yes. Yucky, to put it mildly. I — where are you going?"

"It's… time for the weekly badnik recalibration exercise, sir."

"Did I give you permission to leave, Stone?"

"… No, Doctor."

"Get back here, then."

"But the badniks—"

"Screw the badniks, get back here or I—mmph!"

"…"

"…"

"Better?"

"Yes. Hmm. You should always — mm— listen to what I say, Stone."

"Always, Doctor."

"… My Stone."

"Heh. Yours, Doctor."

Chapter Text

Agent Stone can't remember the last time he brought flowers to a grave. He wracks his brain, uncovers memories from his colourful past that he swore to forget, and finds… practically nothing. The only thing that comes close is a faded memory from back when he was six years old, a single daisy clenched in his fist, standing with the rest of his class at a shallow grave of the class hamster.

He had been confused by the other kids' confusion. Several of them did not seem to understand what was happening. Many seemed to think that Fuzzy the hamster was actually in a farm somewhere.

Don't they know, he remembers thinking, what it means when someone dies?

No, Agent Stone has not visited many graves in his life. But that certainly does not mean he doesn't know grief. Loss. The way the world —shifts, like the catastrophic collapse of a fission core when someone important is gone. Forever.

Don't be melodramatic, Stone. The Doctor's voice chides him. It's not the end of the world, jeez.

It isn't. It isn't the end of the world and the proof of that hovers in the sky above him, even in daylight. Many so-called experts have appeared on TV and published articles speculating how long the 'Eclipse Aureola' is going to last in the sky. Estimates range from weeks to centuries. A few have even tried to cause alarm about the latent radiation cloud being pulled in by the ever-dancing Earth's gravity. Others talk about the effects, both positive and negative, of such a cloud on space travel. Social media is filled with aesthetic shots of the sky. People are creating art, making songs, crying divine intervention.

Almost no one's talking about the moments leading up to the explosion. Nothing true or important anyway.

"Friend or family?"

The question jolts Stone out of his musings. He looks away from the unmarked tombstone to see a middle-aged woman standing at the next grave. Her makeup is flawless, her hairdo severe, her pantsuit expensive. She holds a humongous bouquet of flowers which matches the gaudy showiness of the gravestone in front of her.

"Sorry?"

"You've been here a while," she says, sounding slightly apologetic. "I was waiting for you to leave. To give you some privacy, of course."

"And yourself, too," Stone points out, and her thin lips quirk into a brief smile.

"Yes." She turns away, faces the grave in front of her. "Well, I'll leave you to it."

Stone ignores the clear signal to end the conversation. "What about you?"

The woman looks startled, and a little annoyed. "I'm sorry?"

Stone nods at the ornate marble at her feet. "Friend or family?"

She looks like she doesn't want to keep the conversation going. "Colleague, actually."

"Wow. That's a fancy bouquet for just a colleague." The woman only frowns, but before she can answer, Stone takes a step towards her. "Can I see it?"

"Excuse me?" She makes no effort to hide her irritation now.

"I—" Stone sighs and smiles at her, humourless but wry. "I didn't have the time to get a proper bouquet." He gestures at his hands. "Could you spare a lily, maybe?"

The woman clearly wants to say no. She looks suspicious and judgemental in equal measures.

Stone's smile slips away. "I know it's weird. Sorry, I just." He sighs again. "I just. I didn't know what to get. Just one flower, and I'll leave it here and be out of your hair."

The woman huffs. "Fine. Sure." She steps forward and offers the bouquet to him. "Pick one."

Stone flashes her a quick, relieved smile. "Thank you." He steps forward, grabs the paper wrapping the bouquet and pulls.

The woman stumbles forward, but the knife slides into her neck before she can so much as gasp. Stone holds onto her and her flashy bouquet between them like they're embracing. Her eyes are still open, terrified. Her breath gurgles in her throat. Her blood drips down her coat and onto the petals. How thoughtful of her to get red flowers.

"I'm afraid I lied to you, Ms. Wheeler," Stone says matter of factly, dragging her over to the tree behind the graves. Her fingers tremble weakly against his coat when he lowers her gently to the ground. "None of the Robotniks have graves, you see. Not that anyone knows of, anyway."

Her bloodshot eyes widen in shock.

"You know this, of course, as one of G.U.N.'s directors." He leans her flagging body against the trunk of the tree. "Specifically one that presided over both the Shadow and the Eclipse Cannon projects. I hear your family was very influential in pushing the Cannon into completion. Lobbying for its design, its uses. Fanning the flames of the old man's grief so he could give it to you. You really wanted something big and shiny to flaunt in your arsenal, huh." He glances down at the showy, bloodstained flowers. "Guess that's a running theme for you."

The woman's fingers twitch on his coat, a final, feeble effort. Stone grabs her hand and gently but firmly pulls it away and places it on the flowers.

"It's both, by the way." He murmurs. "Friend and family."

The light leaves her eyes and her entire body sags into the grass.

"…Yeah," Stone murmurs. "I figured you wouldn't understand."

He stands up, smooth and unhurried, and brushes imaginary lint off himself. Whatever little blood had sprayed onto him is lost in the dark twill of his coat. He glances up at the corona of colours in the sky.

"One down, Doctor," he tells it. Then, squaring his shoulders, he walks away into the gathering dark.

He leaves the bunch of daisies on the unmarked grave. Whoever it belongs to probably won't mind.

Chapter Text

"This is the schedule for Mondays and Thursdays," the man mumbles, shuffling over two sheets of paper that look well worn. "The next is for Fridays and Saturdays. The next two are for Wednesdays and Sundays but you gotta alternate them. Tuesdays are updated every 17 days so what I have is obsolete."

Stone slides the papers over to himself wordlessly. Several of them are blurred in places. Two of them have a stained ring of coffee from an ill-placed mug. One of them is splotched with speckles of something dark in the corner. Blood, of course.

The man — Stone has forgotten his name already — winces as if the silence insults him. "I know. It's a mess. It's, fuck—" He ruffles his sandy hair with a trembling hand. Some dandruff is displaced onto his shirt from the movement. "It's fucking impossible, man. Sorry. I just," he sighs again. "Good luck. Try and stay alive until he fires you."

Stone only raises an eyebrow slightly, but gives him a brief, polite smile. "Sure. Thanks."

The man looks at him like he's crazy, which... Has he looked in a mirror lately?

"You think I'm exaggerating. I thought so too." He laughs weakly. "The guy is impossible to please. He will quiz you constantly. He will manhandle you. He will try to maim you. He will make you regret you ever decided to join G.U.N.—" He takes another hitched breath. "I didn't want this. Just messed up some paperwork and they shoved me down here. Thought it would be easy going, y'know? Fetching coffee and filing reports?" He shudders. "I'd take a field posting anyday."

Stone doesn't say anything. The ramble is starting to bore him, frankly.

"So, uh. What did you do?"

Stone looks up from the first sheet of paper where it begins:

06:04:30 - Latte at 154.5 F - dark roast Colombian - 70/30 goat's milk - 0.42 oz sugar - black cup #7 - Froth 12mm from rim - no spoon

"Sorry, what?" He asks distractedly.

"What did you do to get this posting?"

He's looking at the second schedule—

(06:24:25 - Latte at 152 F - extra dark Nicaraguan - 65/35 goat's milk - 0.49 oz sugar - red cup #2 - Froth 7.4mm from rim - black teaspoon #13)

— and says, perhaps too casually for the other man's sanity, "I just asked for it."

The man gapes at him. Stone sets aside the sheets with an internal sigh and brings back his polite smile. "I saw the opening posted on the portal and just took it."

"So you had no idea?" To his credit the man seems genuinely upset on Stone's behalf. "No one even told you what to expect?"

Stone shrugs slightly. "I was told what to expect when I applied."

"And you're okay with this?"

Stone only shrugs again.

The man leans back so roughly his chair screeches harshly on the cold tile. "Wow. Just. My contact is in there somewhere." He nods at the folder stuffed with more sheets of paper. Stone's fingers itch to organise them. "There's a support group for former assistants. The meetings are remote because one guy, the organiser, is in a wheelchair." A pause, as if the man seems to want to elaborate on how that person became wheelchair-bound. But Stone's aggressively polite expression seems to cow him, and he mumbles instead, "Send me a text and I'll forward you the details."

"Sure," Stone says again. The polite smile is starting to hurt his facial muscles. "Thanks." He already knows he's never going to text this man.

The man sighs, then stands up with another distressing shriek of his chair. "Well, good luck, I guess."

Stone shakes his hand and brings out the hand sanitizer as soon as the man leaves the room.

He's never seen Dr. Robotnik before. There is no picture, no bio on the internal employee database. His full name isn't even mentioned anywhere, just a small notation of 'Dr.I.R.' in any projects or missions he was a part of. And boy, those projects. Even with the higher clearance login that he pilfered from his boss, all the reports on the Robotnik projects are heavily redacted. What little Stone does see though, is enough to pique his interest the way nothing has before. Dr. Robotnik is clearly leagues ahead of any scientific expert in the entire planet.

So he had expected someone… much older. Going by the rumours, probably someone so divorced from humanity he's more machine than man —

"Bzzt. Zwrrrp. Skrewwwwsh." Doctor Ivo Robotnik — younger, taller, handsomer than Stone expected — makes fake robot noises as he turns to look at Stone. "Who the hell are you?"

Stone's polite smile is already in place, though on the inside he is reeling, completely caught off-guard. "Agent Stone, sir. Your new assistant."

"What? What happened to Agent Dan?" The Doctor barks.

"Do you mean Agent Cole, sir?" Stone only knows his predecessor's name now thanks to the sheer multitude of emails that had been forwarded to his brand new inbox.

"No," Doctor Robotnik says, rolling his eyes as though talking to someone especially stupid. Stone feels a frisson of annoyance, his back stiffening up. "I mean Agent Dan. Mr. Dan-ny Dan-druff."

And that's — okay, that's a little funny.

"Ah." Stone keeps his smile small and polite. "He got reassigned."

"He GoT rEaSsIgNeD," the Doctor echoes in a mocking tone.

The smile slips away from Stone's face and he can't help but stare, wordless. He had been expecting everything from cold and aloof to brash and violent. In the first five minutes alone since he stepped into this lab the first time, Stone has seen enough tech to make him feel excitement the likes of which he hasn't felt in decades. Doctor Ivo Robotnik seems to be a true polymath of the highest calibre, surpassed by no one, and Stone is eager to work with him, to see how he can contribute to the Doctor's scintillating work. Like an unknown chemical reaction waiting to be sparked into existence.

But Stone did not expect… this.

"Well, at least I don't have to look forward to delicate sprinklings of dermatitis in my workspace," Doctor Robotnik says with a careless wave of his hand. Then he peers at Stone. "Unless you suffer from the same impediment?"

Stone opens his mouth to answer but gasps out loud instead when the Doctor grabs the lapel of his suit and drags him down none-too-gently on the table in front of him. It takes everything Stone has to not lash out reflexively — already his fingers have grabbed the Doctor's elbow, ready to break it. He freezes entirely, every muscle locked stiff.

He will manhandle you.

Agent Cole hadn't been exaggerating, then. Stone breathes carefully through his nose while the Doctor's gloved fingers rake through his short hair roughly. "Hmm," the Doctor murmurs casually, "guess not." Then Stone is shoved away abruptly, with the same surprising strength, and it is only through years of experience in balancing his body that Stone does not stumble.

"Been having café à la pityriasis capitis for a while, let's see if I remember what coffee is supposed to taste like."

Stone watches the Doctor take a sip, holding his breath as if this is the biggest judgement he is ever about to receive in his life. The Doctor smacks his lips, then frowns. Stone feels something sinking in his chest.

"What the hell did you put in this, milk-flavoured water?"

"I — I used the milk in the fridge, sir."

"Get out."

"… Sir?"

Doctor Robotnik looks at him, and Stone feels a shudder crawl down his spine. Thank goodness looks can't kill.

"Get me a cup of good coffee, or don't come back. Capisce?"

He can't be serious. "Sir—" And then he has to duck, because the cup of coffee comes flying at his face, launched with unerring aim. What the fuck?

"You're right, I spoke too hastily," the Doctor's voice is still smooth. "Clean this mess up, and then get out. And then get me coffee."

The Doctor turns away and Stone is left staring at his back, aghast.

"Tick tock, Agent Not-Dan," the Doctor sing-songs without turning around, and Stone scrambles to pick up the shards of the coffee cup and go about looking for something to wipe the spilt coffee with.

He hesitates at the doorway before he leaves.

"Sir," he begins, but is interrupted by a sharp "Doctor."

"Doctor," Stone amends. "Which cup would you like your coffee in?"

Doctor Robotnik doesn't answer, elbows deep in the mess of tubes and wires in front of him.

"Doctor?"

"What will it take for me to GET SOME PEACE AND QUIET HERE?" The Doctor thunders and whips around. Stone is impressed. He's never seen a person more capable of expressing his fury in a way that could make any person in the vicinity shit themselves.

"Mondays are black cup number seven sir — Doctor, and you just broke it."

"Do I look like I fucking care?! Get me black cup number thirty-three!"

"Will do, Doctor."

"OUT!"

Stone isn't proud of it, but he runs.

There aren't a lot of people who know Stone very well (not a lot of people alive, anyway). His co-workers and teammates only see what he wants them to see: quiet and polite, keeps to himself, smiles a lot. Not loud or clever or noticeable, average in every possible way. Forgettable.

(No one thinks about how an average person could not have even applied to be a G.U.N. agent, let alone be employed as one. No one thinks twice about his unerring aim in the midst of a skirmish. No one looks at his long roster of missions and thinks about the ease with which he can perform so many complex, specialised assignments.)

They don't really know him. They don't know the precise paths of his ever-ticking mind or the degree in nanobiomechanics, they don't know about the scars on his back, the titanium plates and bolts in his limbs, his strict daily training regimen. They don't know about his ever-changing brood of potted plants, his love of spicy food and silly puns, his morbid and cutting humour, his annual tradition of rereading all of Austen's works and watching, with rapt attention, Colin Firth blustering in a dripping wet shirt onscreen.

They don't know that he can be petty and spiteful.

And game recognises game.

It's not lost to him that all the differing schedules and the obsessively precise instructions point to a very specific purpose. The purpose being: keep the assistant out of sight (and consequently out of mind) at all times. Dr. Robotnik clearly does not want an assistant. It is possibly a part of his unseen and excessively secret contract with G.U.N. He's forced to accept another presence in his incredible laboratory, but he's clearly not playing nice.

(Stone didn't get to see the details of a lot of Dr. Robotnik's past projects, but from what little he has seen, he has come to understand that Dr. Robotnik has certainly never played nice with anything.)

And then there's the coffee. The instructions are as frustratingly hyperspecific as they are for the rest of the day's tasks, but something about it is different than the others. He thinks of the gleam in the Doctor's pale eyes as he picked up the cup. The small twitch of his frankly magnificient moustache as prepared to take a sip. The disappointment-tinged fury when he didn't like it.

The conclusion is clear. Preparing coffee may just be another frustrating, unimportant task shoved onto his assistant's plate but it's certainly not insignificant. Because the Doctor likes coffee, likes it a certain way. It is a chore, an indulgence, and a test all rolled into one.

It is a crack in the impenetrable façade that Stone is allowed to see. Something beyond the rumours, the technical papers, the redacted reports. It excites Stone. Finally, a challenge with a real prize to look forward to.

He sits down at his brand new workstation (on the far side of the lab, with four other rooms between him and his boss) and starts doing his research.

"Good evening, Doctor."

"PAH!" The Doctor jolts so hard he almost falls out his seat. It makes Stone's chest swell with a small, almost fond feeling of amusement. "Who the hell asked you to sneak about like a goddamn cat Agent Not-Dan?"

The polite smile is back on Stone's face, though it doesn't feel so difficult to keep it now. Easier to be the calm and mild foil to the Doctor's campy exuberance.

"Apologies si— Doctor," Stone says smoothly. "I didn't want to disturb your work."

"And yet you have," the Doctor sniffs. "What are you—" The disdain melts from the Doctor's face. "Is that dark roast arabica I smell?"

"Colombian, as specified, Doctor." Stone holds out the tray with the single black cup full of steaming coffee topped by a delicate layer of foam.

A quirk of a frown passes by the Doctor's face before he grabs the cup without another word. And the entire universe seems to hold its breath along with Stone as the Doctor takes his first sip.

His face is carefully blank when he leans back. "What did you put in it?"

Stone's heart is racing. "Market research from caffeterias showed that Austrian is the most suitable option of the goat milk variety. Brewers and drinkers have consistently rated its creaminess and flavour as most preferable for both hot and cold coffee drinks."

Dr. Robotnik takes another sip and narrows his eyes. Then he lifts it carefully, so he can see the number Stone himself etched on the bottom of the mug.

"I don't have thirty-three black mugs," the Doctor says. The frown is back on his face. Stone is starting to sweat.

"I went to the original suppliers, Doctor, and requested another batch."

The pale eyes are on him now, as intense as any laser beam. "They only make them in batches of three."

Ah, so he was right. The Doctor does know exactly what is in his lab at all times. Meticulous.

"I misspoke. Another consignment of nine new batches." Stone smiles a little wider while a bead of sweat trickles down his back. "I took the initiative to place the same order for the red cups as well, Doctor. We now have the same number of black and red cups, as we did before."

The Doctor huffs and turns away. "We do, do we," he mutters, though it sounds rhetorical so Stone doesn't answer.

"You may leave," the Doctor drawls, suddenly focused back on the screen in front of him. The faintly steaming black mug is placed at a careful distance, though not so far that the Doctor can't reach out and drink the rest of it.

Stone will count this as a win. Anticlimactic as it may be, at least he didn't get a cup of hot coffee thrown at his head.

"Good night, Doctor," he says as pleasantly as he can manage, and starts to back away.

"Six AM tomorrow, Agent Stone," the Doctor says, still without turning, and oh.

A grin spreads across Stone's face, wide and thrilled. The challenge is won, the test is passed. The spark is lit. He feels giddy.

He wants more.

"I'll be here, Doctor."

Chapter Text

"Ah, there you are, Stone!"

Stone takes care to not whip around too suddenly, and he keeps his relief muted when he greets him. "Doctor." He'd be more effusive with his feelings but he can't. They have an audience, after all.

"And who is our little friend here, hmm?" The Doctor — looking remarkably put together — skips down the few steps from the metal doors and strides in, his coat slashing behind him with flair. Six badniks float around him like an aureole, with one of them playing a familiar song which sounds really fucking good in the acoustics of this cold block of a room. Stone can't suppress his smile. No one really does style the way Ivo Robotnik does.

"Mr. Jager," Stone raises his eyebrows to indicate he knows the name is fake, "was telling me about his friends." He turns back to the man tied up in the chair looking rather worse for the wear. One eye is nearly closed shut with a swelling bruise. His mouth is bloodied and there is a knife buried in his thigh.

Stone is normally more circumspect in situations like this, but Mr. Jager is the reason for the entire right side of his body pulsing with pain like a giant bruise, and Stone is feeling petty. So sue him.

"Start over," Stone barks, switching back to German. "Tell us about Fritz and the contract."

Jager is wheezing loud enough to be heard above the music pulsing around them. "I told you everything already," he drawls, voice slurring, "you piece of shit."

Stone whips out another knife and drives it through the man's other thigh. "Tell the Doctor what you told me," Stone says pleasantly over the man's screams.

"You're a fucking lunatic!" The man howls.

Robotnik sighs theatrically. "You prolonging this is not helping you," he says, also in flawless German. He leans down and narrows his eyes at their captive. "Imbecile."

Jager spits on the Doctor. "Fuck yo— AAAAARGH!" Before he's even finished speaking Stone backhands him so hard his head whips back with a sickening crack on the chair — the sound of which is lost in the man's scream when Stone yanks out the first knife and slams it in just below his right shoulder instead.

"Talk."

The man is practically blubbering with fury. "There's a drop off location! It's in Fritz's phone! That's all I know I told you!"

"We already have Fritz's phone," Stone says, shaking his head like an exasperated parent. "You have to give us something, Herr Jager."

Satisfaction roars like a flame in his gut, but then his attention is diverted instantly by the Doctor's quiet, "Stone."

Stone turns away from the pathetic man in the chair immediately. "Yes, Doctor?"

The Doctor steps so close Stone almost twitches back, if only because they're not alone. "Are you ambidextrous?"

Something cold and heavy drops in his gut. Oh dear.

"Yes, Doctor."

"Hmm." The Doctor stares at him as though he is trying to xray his skull. "And yet you've only used your non-dominant arm in the last five minutes."

"I—" No use hiding it. "I've been—" The gasp slips out before he can stop it. The Doctor's hand sweeps firmly down his arm, the one whose hand is holding onto his gun through sheer force of will. When the Doctor brings up his hand, the glove is glistening with something dark and sticky.

"Shot," the Doctor finishes for him, his face a tight, blank mask.

Then Mr. Jager does something very stupid.

"That's not all I did to your sissy boy here," he snarls, spitting a thick glob of blood on the concrete floor. "Just you wait until I get out of here you fucking crazy —"

Robotnik lifts a single finger, and a small hole that was not there before is smoking in the middle of Mr. Jager's forehead. His body slumps immediately, and Stone is left gaping in surprise.

Robotnik turns back to Stone as the Badnik near his left ear powers down its laser gun.

"We could have gotten something useful out of him," Stone tries.

Robotnik scoffs. "You know as well as I do that torture is not an effective form of interrogation. Besides," his eyes narrow when Stone gasps again as he places his hand on Stone's side, "I don't like it when people touch my things."

Stone's heart is racing and he's only half-sure it's because of the pain. "All the stolen Badniks accounted for, sir?"

Robotnik grunts, his eyes never leaving Stone's face. "The rest are sweeping the perimeter. Fractured ribs?"

"Among other bruises," Stone admits, then winces when the Doctor seems even more angry. "You, sir?"

"Only a bruised. EGO!" Robotnik whips around with a sudden yell, Stone's pistol in his hand, and he empties the entire clip into the dead man's torso.

Stone sighs softly. The adrenaline has started to wane and he can feel the crash coming. "Feel better, sir?"

Robotnik swivels back to him and grabs Stone's jaw, leaning in so close Stone actually stops breathing. "No one," Ivo repeats in a hiss, his nose practically brushing against Stone's, "touches my things."

Stone swallows hard. "Understood, sir," he breathes. He can feel his warm breath on his face, the comforting texture of his gloves on his jaw. Smell his own blood on those gloves.

Robotnik's beady eyes flick over his expression. "Let's go home," he murmurs, still soft with latent fury.

"After you, Doctor," Stone whispers, and smiles.

Chapter Text

Stone is, normally, a reasonable man. He has his gripes and his bad days, sure, but on the whole, he's a practical man. Decades of viewing the world around him with a cynical lens meant that Stone rarely hoped or wanted for things. Not in any deep or meaningful way, at least.

That changes when he becomes Ivo Robotnik's assistant. For the first time in his entire life, Stone learns what it means to yearn.

It's inevitable, really, the way he falls for the Doctor. The man is every bit as difficult and misanthropic as the rumours claim, but Stone gets to see him beyond all that. He sees the true force of his genius mind, working with a focus sharp as a laser beam, producing marvellous hypotheses and blueprints alike that make Stone's brain practically explode with awe. He sees the scrupulous way he builds his machines as aesthetically supreme as they are technologically. The pristine and orderly condition of his lab, often at odds with his chaotic personality, showing that the Doctor does indeed have an incredibly organised mind. Stone sees all this mere weeks into his tenure as the Doctor's assistant and has already decided by then that he never wants to leave.

Of course, he begins to see the Doctor even more clearly as time passes. The way his eyes gleam with suppressed excitement every time he tests a new module. How steady his long fingers are as they delve into the innards of a dismantled machine. The way his moustache twitches ever so slightly when he drinks his coffee. The boom of his voice softened to a croon as he hums an obscure Canadian song from the 70's while he works. The swell of his biceps when he moves heavy equipment around by himself. The way his coat edged with a dangerous red sways with the swagger in his walk. The thick, sterile warmth of the Doctor's control gloves on Stone's neck, his jaw, in his mouth. The Doctor's voice in his ear, stubble against his cheek, breath on his —

"Spacing out on me, Stone?"

Stone jolts back to the present with a short gasp. "No Doctor," he tries.

"You're a horrible liar, Stone," Robotnik says, eyebrow raised. "Am I not interesting enough for you? Care to share with the class?"

Stone feels his face turn warm — well, warmer than it already is. "It's nothing, Doctor."

Robotnik only stares at him for a long moment. Then he bends the knuckle of his pinkie finger, and Stone gasps at the jolt of electricity that pinches him.

"Try again," Robotnik says, clearly trying hard not to look smug. And Stone yearns, his fingers curl with the need to touch him, to taste that smug almost-smile.

"J-just you, Doctor," Stone blurts. "Thinking about you."

"Oh? Keep talking."

Stone swallows, tips his head back to take a breath. "Just… to touch you, Doctor. I want, I want—" And then he gasps again, because there goes that sharp buzz again, right onto his nipples through the tiny white chrome clamps attached to them.

"You want," Robotnik murmurs. "What about what I want, Agent Stone?"

"I want — ah — I want what you want!" Stone blurts, breath hitching, as the current is suddenly continuing on and on. "Please, please, sir please—"

The current switches off and Stone slumps back down onto the bed. His whole body feels aflame with need, every inch of his skin hypersensitive from the clamps' onslaught.

"You know," Robotnik says, his voice suddenly louder, more casual, "the little pornography I have seen so far all seemed so trite. Conversationally speaking, of course. But in a practical setting, I have to admit—" Stone whines as the clamps come to life again —"that the triteness is apt. And I have to say, Stone, trite as it sounds…" Robotnik leans down, so close his lips brush against Stone's jaw, "You beg so prettily."

Stone can only whine louder in response, driven speechless by sheer overstimulation.

"美しい," (Beautiful) Ivo murmurs, and this is it, Stone is going to come right in his pants—

The clamps die down so abruptly he feels his cock throb almost painfully with the denied orgasm. When he blinks his eyes open his eyelashes are wet.

"Not so fast, Agent," Robotnik says, sounding infuriatingly normal again. Stone can see the holoscreen above his head reflected in Ivo's dark eyes.

"Is that," Stone wheezes, "tracking my arousal?"

Robotnik stares at him like he's incredibly dumb. "Of course."

"Of course," Stone repeats weakly. He needs to catch his breath, damn it. "How?"

Robotnik stills. "You want to know now?" And Stone freezes, too. He understands what the question means. The bionanotech degree is burning a hole of curiosity in his head but it can wait. This moment, this entire setup, is so rare an event that Stone isn't sure he'll get to experience it again.

Not that this is their first time… together, and Stone is fairly confident that it won't be their last. It's just… the pace of it. Stone is still wearing his pants, his shirt half-unbuttoned. His tie wrapped securely around his wrists that are crossed above his head. The nipple clamps that Ivo crafted for him. And Ivo himself, straddling Stone right above his clothed, straining cock, fully bare like he never has been before, exposing reams of pale skin that Stone is aching to touch but cannot.

This is a planned, organised affair, and no burning bionanotech question can compare to the way Ivo's pupils have dilated so much his irises are practically invisible and to how much Stone loves it.

"Not now," Stone admits. "If that's alright, sir."

Ivo's grin is practically a leer. "More than alright with me, Stone," he says, and then actually settles onto Stone's lap. "If you couldn't already tell."

Stone lets out a quiet groan, he can feel the hard length of Ivo's cock pressed against his own.

"Mm," Ivo hums as he begins to rub himself against Stone, a lovely flush creeping up his pale neck. "Don't get ahead of yourself, now." He stops moving abruptly to flash him a grin. "Get it? A head."

Stone gasp-laughs. "You're a riot, as always, sir."

"Thank you, sycophant," Ivo practically purrs, moving again, but so harsh this time that Stone gasps another moan.

"Sir, please—"

Ivo presses down harder. "Sir?"

"Doctor! Please," Stone cries.

"Please what?"

"I… Let me feel you!" Stone's hips buck up involuntarily. "Doctor — Ivo, please—"

The rest of his broken words die in his throat because Ivo's mouth is now on his and he's kissing him so intensely Stone feels like he'll melt into a puddle. Simultaneously he feels clever fingers unbutton and unzip his pants, and Stone moans loudly into Ivo's eager mouth when he feels the varying texture of the control glove wrap around his cock and give it a firm stroke.

Ivo leans back when they're getting out of breath, his entire face flushed, his moustache quivering. "You could climax just like this, couldn't you?"

Stone gulps, trying to catch his breath. "Yeah," he rasps.

Ivo hums. "Tempting. But not this time." He raises himself off of Stone but with his knees still straddling his hips. "I have plans," he says, eyes gleaming like he's watching a Badnik performing a test run. Stone feels like he would do anything to have Ivo keep looking at him like that forever.

A finger that's barely trembling reaches up to the other palm and presses two buttons. And then Ivo arches his back, head tipping upward, mouth dropping open as Stone hears an unmistakable wet sound. His own mouth opens in shock. He didn't —?

Head still tilted up, cheeks still beautifully flushed, moustache still quivering, Ivo looks down at him through his eyelashes.

"What part of 'I have plans' did you manage to miss?" Ivo asks, sounding as imperious as ever despite the breathy quality of his voice.

Stone huffs a strained laugh. "All of it, clearly."

"Clearly," Ivo echoes softly, then glances at the slick plug hovering next to him. "Performed adequately, I suppose." The gloved fingers move as if they're typing. "Recommend another trial for a bigger sample size to evaluate."

"I'll give you something big to evaluate," Stone mumbles.

Ivo barks a laugh so delighted Stone feels his chest swell with pleasure. He almost never hears him laugh like this.

"Good one," Ivo says approvingly. "Now give it to me." With sudden strength he straight up rips Stone's pants and underwear off of him. And before Stone can even react to that, he sinks down onto his cock.

Stone writhes, his fists clenched tight in their silken bonds. "Oh god oh fuck," he whines. Ivo's breathing is clipped and harsh, his chin tucked down now, his gloved fingers digging almost painfully into Stone's sides. He slides down another inch and a soft moan breaks through his gritted teeth.

It takes everything Stone has to hold himself still, to keep himself from ending this far too soon. Ivo's inner walls are slick and tight and perfect around his cock.

"You feel so good. Fuck, sir, Ivo—"

"Shut up," Ivo wheezes harshly. Stone purses his trembling lips shut. "Your stupid, fucking, voice —ah!" Another inch or so down. "I have a plan, stop trying to derail me!"

Stone only swallows hard and shakes his head.

"Infuriating, imbecillic, in— ah!— toxicating—" And he is fully seated on Stone's cock now. Stone can feel the smooth skin of his ass on his thighs where his muscles flex reflexively. The fingers suddenly dig deeper into his sides, and Stone heaves a wet gasp as Ivo raises himself up without further ado. He is so slick Stone's cock slides out of him with no resistance.

"Op-optimal lubrication," Ivo murmurs, sounding pleased. "Noted." And then he guides Stone's cock back into himself again.

He begins to ride him with a steady, grinding pace immediately. Stone cries out again, his wrists chafing against the silk tie, heels digging into the mattress. Ivo, ever the performer, tips his head back and moans, loud and filthy, again and again as he bottoms out.

"Doc— Ivo, please," Stone hiccups.

The steady pace stutters. Ivo's voice is hitched breathless. "Thought, I told you to, shut up." The pinkie finger bends again, and Stone moans loud enough to match Ivo — the clamps are on again.

Stone practically contorts himself as he arches his back from the overwhelming sensation of pain and pleasure. His entire body is covered in sweat, and that's what makes the next thing happen so easily. His right fist slips through the knotted tie, finally, finally free. He doesn't hesitate for a single second, and surges up from the bed and pounces on Ivo.

"Stone what the fu—" Ivo yells shrilly as he falls onto his back, then cuts himself off with a truly filthy groan when Stone slides into him again.

"God, yes — let me, please, Ivo, let me fuck you—"

Ivo slumps back with another wordless moan, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. It is permission enough, and Stone hooks his elbows behind Ivo's knees, curling him into himself as he begins to thrust into him.

The nipple clamps surge on and Stone feels near mindless with pure need. He fucks into Ivo in deep, harsh, punishing thrusts, forcing his ever-so-flexible legs up, up, until he can hit that perfect sweet spot inside Ivo that makes him keen.

"So, so, perfect," Stone wheezes, moving so fast and so hard sweat drips down his brows and off his nose. "Fuck, fuck, Ivo—"

And Ivo says nothing in response. He is reduced to a moaning, whimpering, wordless mess, face flushed so red Stone can almost feel the heat off him, mouth slacked open so wet and inviting Stone crashes his own mouth onto him. The kiss is barely one, a mere meeting of lapping tongues, keening moans, and harsh breaths, lips slipping off each other's as Stone truly pounds into him the way he never has before. On and on, over and over, until Stone loses all sense of time, completely focused on nothing but Ivo and his incoherent moans; his sweaty skin sticking to Stone's hips with every thrust; his red, wet, open mouth latched onto Stone; his tight, smooth, wet hole drawing his cock in again and again and again…

"Come for me," Stone whines, licking his jaw with the flat of his tongue. "I want to feel you come, please, fuck—"

Ivo only responds with his hand scrabbling down to his untouched cock bouncing wetly between them. Stone practically slobbers as he watches him stroke himself— just two or three quick, harsh tugs, and Ivo is coming, thick spatters of his cum landing across his torso and even his pecs as Stone keeps ramming into him without pause, the loudest, filthiest yet groan spilling from Ivo's slack mouth.

Stone moans in response, and as if Ivo's climax was some kind of trigger, he fucks him harder. The bed beneath them is creaking alarmingly, and even louder is the wet sound of Stone's hips slapping against Ivo's ass. He's rutting into him like a mindless animal, his senses blazing alight with the feel, the sound, the smell of Ivo Robotnik.

Stone lets out another wordless whine— he's so, so, so close but he just, he just needs—

And then Ivo, still lax and wheezing and red-faced, clenches around him. Stone's moan is practically a yell as his orgasm rips through him with the force of a tsunami, and he comes harder than he ever has in his life, pumping Ivo full of his spend, still thrusting, fucking into him as he does it. It lasts longer than usual, and Stone is blinking stars out of his vision and tears off his eyelashes when he comes to a trembling stop.

The clamps blessedly turn off immediately, and Stone lets go of Ivo's legs and slumps onto him bonelessly. He can feel Ivo's cum sticking onto his own torso, his cheek, as he breathes an evocative "Fuck."

Fingers curl lazily into his short hair. "You did," Ivo murmurs, and Stone feels a vague sense of delight at how hoarse he sounds. He hums and settles more comfortably on Ivo's chest, wrapping his arms weakly around him. Ivo's legs are crossed casually behind his thighs, keeping his cock lodged inside him even as he softens.

"That was more… intense than I hypothesised," Ivo muses. Stone only hums happily. "Decent birthday present then?"

Stone lifts his head at that, stunned. He hadn't even realised, never expected—

Ivo is watching him carefully, so Stone smiles and says, "More than. That was the best sex I've ever had." The loudest, roughest, absolutely mind-blowingly filthiest sex he's ever had too, though Ivo might not be in the mood for such descriptors in the post-coital zone, so Stone says nothing more.

"Of course it was," Ivo says, moustache twitching smugly, which only makes Stone smile wider. "Of course," he echoes softly and then he can't not scooch forward to kiss him, still wet and open-mouthed, but lazy and warm and relaxed now. Ivo's hum when they disengage is pleased, and Stone has to lean in and kiss him again. And again.

"All — mm — all the equipment performed… mm, satisfactorily," Ivo mumbles through their kisses.

"Everything except this," Stone agrees and thrusts into him once, grinning, just to wring that hoarse gasp from him, which is drowned by a loud creak. "I don't think the bed is structurally sound, Doctor."

Ivo hums again, his ankles crossing tighter behind Stone. "You think it needs replacing?"

Stone nips softly at his jaw. "I do."

Ivo's heels nudge against Stone's ass. "I agree." A familiar small, devious smile spreads across his face and Stone's heart feels like it's about to burst with affection.

Ivo grabs Stone's face, gentler than usual. "Let's wear it down fully first, then."

Stone grins back, hands gripping Ivo's sides. "Okay, Doctor."

Ivo huffs a soft chuckle, his eyes dark and sparkling, and curls the little finger on Stone's cheek.