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Closed meetings were such a bore, but at least it was finally over. Robotnik banged open the doors from the conference room, startling all of the assistants and associated staff waiting for their superiors in the foyer-- except Stone, of course. He barely glanced over, keeping a tight grip on the other man’s hand where he’d been… studying it carefully? A moment later, though, Stone was up and at the coffee machine on the counter, as if nothing strange had happened at all.
By the time Robotnik’s long strides took him to Stone’s side, the latte was ready. He accepted it wordlessly and jerked his head to one side, and they started to leave the building.
The walk didn’t continue in silence, though, as Robotnik’s curiosity got the best of him-- “What in the name of Newton were you doing with that lackey’s hand?” He hadn’t bothered to look back at Stone as he asked the question, but he could hear the stumble in the man’s step. Amateur.
“Practicing palm reading, sir,” Stone answered. “I believe it could be useful in getting close to targets, gaining trust and encouraging them to let down their guard, can facilitate smoother pick-pocketing, assassination, or other close-quarters work.”
Huh. Interesting. “And you chose now to do that because…?” Robotnik asked, still walking ahead, not bothering to make his pace anything other than what was comfortable for him-- and he was impatient to get out of here.
Stone answered, “I’ve been practicing it on everyone I’ve come into contact with lately, sir.”
This did get Robotnik’s attention enough to glance back at Stone over his shoulder. “That is patently and demonstrably untrue, Agent,” he said. “You’ve been hiding this from me, and I want to know why.”
“Doctor, sir?,” Stone sounded unsure for the first time this conversation, “I assumed you’d want nothing to do with such a hands-on activity that didn’t benefit you directly.”
Which was all accurate, of course, but Robotnik wasn’t about to contradict himself. “Well, you know what they say about assumptions, Agent Stone. I won’t be left out of your dataset just because of some misguided notion you have of sparing my feelings.”
A moment of silence, hesitation perhaps?, then Stone answered, “Understood, sir. May I surmise this is not an immediate demand, given we still have--”
“Yes, Stone, you can shut up now,” Robotnik interrupted, “let’s get home to the lab, I’m exhausted of dealing with the proles. No dilly-dallying, chop chop, Agent!”
Stone had probably expected Robotnik to forget about the palm-reading thing, foolish man that he was. Like Robotnik forgot anything interesting.
It was nearly a week later that Robotnik was stiff and actually noticed for once. Especially his fingers, which reminded him that Stone had definitely continued to avoid the topic.
One way to fix that. Robotnik walked right up to Stone, probably in the middle of some kind of email, and presented his hand. “You failed to mention the palm reading habit of your own accord,” Robotnik said, “so it’s happening now, whether that’s convenient for you or not.” He smiled wide enough to make sure Stone could see, letting him know he was aware it was actively not convenient.
Stone blinked up at Robotnik and turned around in his chair to face his superior fully, and to Robotnik’s irritation didn’t himself look irritated at all. “Of course, sir,” he said, voice level as ever. “I’ll need to remove your glove,” he said, glancing up at the Doctor, barely waiting for Robotnik’s nod before he started to tug at the fingers.
If Robotnik had thought of it, of course he’d need to take off the gloves for this, but it hadn’t quite connected. If he’d considered it beforehand, he could have taken off the glove himself.
Instead, Agent Stone was pulling at the leather, sliding it across Robotnik’s hand, already feeling more vulnerable than he’d been in ages.
And then his hand was bare, and after setting the control glove aside, Stone’s hands were on it-- warm skin to skin, nerve endings firing in ways Robotnik hadn’t had to deal with in what was almost certainly years. Decades, perhaps. Slightly rough fingers against his own calloused hands, grasping his hand to hold it level and open.
One of Stone’s hands grasped Robotnik’s fingers, the other cradling the back of his hand as Stone rubbed his thumb along Robonik’s palm, following the creases. “Well, this here means you had a rough childhood,” Stone said, after a moment.
“No shit, Sherlock,” Robotnik snapped.
Undeterred, Stone kept his attention on Robotnik’s hand before him. “You’re hard working, to your own detriment.”
“Tell me something I don’t know, Stone,” Robotnik replied, but found his voice less sharp than before. Not just the skin contact, but the pressure of Stone’s grip on his, soothed something in his aching joints. That was all, there was absolutely nothing else to it.
Stone continued giving Robotnik bland statements, things he already knew about the Doctor-- was that the skill, then? Reading people, telling them what they expected to hear? He could admit the utility in that, how for the average human it would lower those defenses, as Stone had suggested before.
“You’re…quite lonely, but not willing to get close to anyone, protective of past hurts,” Stone said, and Robotnik found himself yanked out of the reverie.
A moment of stillness, then Robotnik yanked his hand back just as hard as he’d been shaken himself, and said, “I must have misheard you, Agent, what was that?”
“You’re lonely, sir. According to your palm,” he said, clearly enunciated-- not much different from the first time, but Robotnik knew that Stone knew that he’d heard him the first time.
Robotnik didn’t respond verbally, just grabbed his glove off the desk and put it back on, turning around to return to his own workstation in a huff.
Maybe there was something to that palmistry stuff after all.