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The Crab was quiet.
Stone stood outside the main room of the mobile base, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, waiting. The walls around him thrummed softly with the ever-present hum of the hidden facility, but it wasn’t the sound he was listening for.
It was the television.
Another episode of La Última Pasión played, the dramatic tones of a telenovela weaving their way into the air. He could hear the overacted gasp of the heroine, the deep, brooding monologue of her lover, and the inevitable orchestral swell that accompanied a romantic betrayal. Even without seeing it, Stone was pretty sure he could guess exactly what was going on at the current point in the episode. It was predictable, a well-worn routine.
If you could call it that.
This had become their existence: Stone would wake up, check on Robotnik, bring him breakfast that often went untouched, then stand back and watch as the day bled into night. Stone had never known the doctor to be still before - not truly. He had always been a man of movement, of ceaseless invention, of frenetic, boundless energy that defied logic. The Robotnik of before would have paced the length of the room, conducting grand imaginary symphonies with exaggerated sweeps of his arms, or spun wildly at the console, twirling as he rattled off calculations only he could follow. He would have listened to his deafening music at all hours of the day, dancing and jumping around to the beat as he worked.
Now... he barely moved at all.
Stone looked into the room, and frowned. The crocheted blanket - Stone's blanket - lay draped over Robotnik’s lap, the fabric looking heavier than it should. It had been meant for warmth, for comfort. But Stone saw it more as a weight now, like it was keeping him pinned.
Stone hated that blanket. He hated that chair, that show, that TV. He hated everything that had brought them to being here, undersea in the Crab mecha.
He hated that Robotnik was so still.
The doctors that Stone had bribed for secrecy in Mexico had been very clear. Physical therapy was non-negotiable. If Robotnik didn’t move - if he didn’t try - his body would adapt to the stillness. Muscles would weaken. Nerves would forget. If he let himself stay like this for too long, the damage could be permanent. The thought of it made Stone’s chest tighten. Not because of the medical consequences, but because he knew Robotnik. He knew how much the man thrived on control, on precision, on motion. The idea of Robotnik being stuck - of being less - was eating away at the Doctor, even if he refused to admit it.
Stone pressed his lips together, considering his next move. He couldn’t force Robotnik. That would backfire spectacularly. But he had to do something.
Stone had been careful not to push too hard. Not yet.
Because pushing Robotnik before he was ready would only make him dig in deeper, make him lash out in ways neither of them had the energy for.
But the silence was getting to Stone. The inaction.
Something had to give.
Stone exhaled slowly and stepped forward. His shoes barely made a sound against the floor as he moved into the room, but Robotnik’s eyes flicked toward him all the same. Just a glance, an automatic assessment. A habit that still lingered, even now.
Stone didn’t speak right away. Instead, he reached for the console, queuing up a playlist - one of Robotnik's favorites. The first song crackled to life, and the sound was almost jarring in the space. Loud. Over-the-top. Theatrical.
Familiar.
Stone realized that he hadn't heard this song, anything from this playlist, since before the fall.
For the first time in weeks, the room felt like the Doctor's. The grandiosity, the chaos, the sheer, unapologetic indulgence. Every track had once been part of his world, woven into his work, into his movement. Every song was a reminder of the man Robotnik had been before. The man who had once pirouetted through the halls of his labs, conducting grand symphonies only he could hear. The man who moved.
But now, Robotnik just stared at him with tired eyes, expression unreadable as he remained sprawled out, his long frame draped over the chair like a marionette with half its strings cut. The TV flickered, casting soft shadows over his face, but it was clear he wasn’t really watching. Not really there.
Stone stepped closer, extending a hand.
"Dance with me."
A beat.
Then - predictably - Robotnik scoffed.
"Don’t be ridiculous, Stone." His voice was dry, scratchy from disuse, but still carried that sharp, cutting edge as his gaze flicked to Stone, then to his outstretched hand, then back to the TV with an accompanying eye roll.. "You want me to waltz across the room with these useless limbs?" He jerked his leg, kicking Stone's thigh with a force clearly not meant to hurt, "oh, what a delight, Stone!" His tone was sharp, biting. But there was no real fire behind it. Stone found himself wishing there was. Because at least that would be something to remind him of how Robotnik used to be, before the fall.
Instead Stone caught the sliver of something else beneath his biting tone. A flicker of bitterness. A frustration Robotnik wasn’t willing to voice outright.
But Stone knew him too well to miss it.
He didn’t lower his hand. Didn’t retreat.
"Just for a little while," he said, quiet but firm. "No big moves. No grand gestures. Just... a little. Doctor, you need to..."
A pause.
Robotnik’s gaze flickered. A tiny shift, but Stone saw it.
A hesitation.
A curiosity.
A... longing.
"...please?" Slowly, Stone reached down and laced his fingers through Robotnik’s. He could feel the tension in the Doctor's grasp, the way his fingers curled in, weak but still there. Still him.
Gently, carefully, Stone pulled.
Robotnik let himself be led.
At first, it was barely anything. Just shifting, just sitting up straight. Robotnik’s muscles resisted, stiff from weeks of disuse. Stone could feel the way his fingers tightened against his, the slight tremble in his limbs as his body adjusted.
It wasn’t easy.
But it was movement.
A step.
Stone stayed close, letting Robotnik lean into him as much as he needed to. He could feel the weight of him, heavier than usual, like his body wasn’t used to holding itself up anymore. The doctor gritted his teeth, an expression flickering over his face - one that Stone knew meant he was already irritated with himself. Already calculating every tiny failure.
But Stone didn’t let him dwell on it.
Instead, he shifted, adjusting to better support him. Then, slowly, they moved.
It wasn’t much. Just a sway, a slow shift from one foot to the other. Nothing like the erratic, high-energy movements Robotnik would have once thrown himself into. No grand gestures, no exaggerated flourishes. Just a quiet rhythm, something steady. Something simple.
And then - so small that Stone almost missed it - Robotnik’s lips twitched.
Not a full smile. Barely even there.
But it was something.
Stone felt something warm press against his chest. He exhaled, his own lips curving slightly in response.
Progress. Small, halting, imperfect, but progress nonetheless.
Robotnik tired quickly.
Stone could tell the exact moment when his body started to give. His steps slowed, his weight leaned heavier against Stone’s shoulder, his breaths grew uneven. His face twisted slightly, exposing frustration at the limitations of his own body.
Without a word, Stone guided him back toward the bedroom.
Robotnik didn’t resist.
Once inside, Stone adjusted the heated blanket, settling it carefully before helping him onto the bed. His movements were practiced, efficient, gentle but firm. He had done this before - too many times to count.
And this time, Robotnik noticed.
His eyes flicked to Stone, narrowing slightly.
As if just now realizing how much had been done for him over the past few months. How many times Stone had adjusted, adapted, stepped in without asking for anything in return.
Stone ignored the look, tucking the blanket around him. Then - hesitating only briefly - he settled on the edge of the bed, reaching for Robotnik’s hand once more.
Just like before, his grip was weak.
But still there.
Stone let out a slow breath, watching the rise and fall of Robotnik’s chest.
It had become a habit now. Watching. Making sure.
The fear had never left him - the quiet, gnawing thought that one day, he’d wake up and find Robotnik’s body had given up before his mind ever had the chance to fight. That the weight of the fall, of the failure, had crushed him completely before Stone could save him.
But tonight...
Tonight, Robotnik had danced.
Not perfectly. Not effortlessly.
But still.
Stone gave his hand the smallest squeeze.
They still had a long road ahead.
But for the first time in weeks, the crushing weight on his chest felt just a little bit lighter.
Step by step, they would get back to where they had been before.