Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

In all honesty, he should have seen this coming. 

Stone’s running on fumes and the two-hour nap he took on the flight back home. His head aches in a way that speaks to the concussion he’d just barely avoided, his eyes burn absently from either the bright light of day or the lack of sleep, and his mouth tastes like copper. The strap of his new duffel bag digs painfully into his wrenched shoulder. There’s about 6 more hours of being upright awake ahead of him before he can finally go home lay down in the brand new break room on the second floor of the lab. All he has to do is get inside, deliver the doctor his midday latte, and then take stock of what has unfolded while he’s been away.

Stone hates solo missions. Never mind the fact that most of his military career for the past decade has been one solo mission after another-- he’s good at what he does, yes, but that doesn’t mean he has to enjoy it . Hours that bleed into days that bleed into potential weeks away from the lab. Anything could happen in the time that he’s away. He’s confident in the security measures protecting the lab and Robotnik himself (the doctor would punish him severely for doubting the capability of his babies) but that doesn’t stop the bone-deep squirm of anxiety at the thought that something could happen and he wouldn’t be there to stop it.  

A deep breath. He flashes his watch at the scanner by the door, sighs through the sudden tightness in his chest. His face feels hot in comparison to the cool air of the lab that greets him as he walks inside. Some of the tension in his shoulders and spine dissolves immediately upon entering, and he feels ten times more tired than he had mere seconds ago. At least it’s not so bright in here , he thinks with a wry huff. 

He heads for the kitchen first. Loud, thrumming music fills the lab with a heavy bass-line. It’s slightly muffled by the walls of the main lab and the kitchen, but still recognisable. Reznor’s growling vocals are a slightly jarring backdrop to Stone’s unwinding in the privacy of the lab’s kitchen, but he’s honestly worked with less. Going through the motions of preparing the doctor’s latte makes him feel less like a walking line of tension and more like an exhausted bag of meat. His throat tickles a little, and he clamps down on the cough that tries to escape. 

Grind, measure, level, tamp, pull. Deep breath in as the espresso trickles into the cup. He thinks briefly of making himself a latte, just to make sure he stays upright, but the smell of it is actually making him a little nauseous. Odd. 

Between one long blink and the next, the shot is done. He goes for the milk in the fridge, right next to the frothing jug. After all this time, he could do the entire process in his sleep. Foam the milk, pour the shot into one of the doctor’s favourite mugs-- this one proclaims, in bold comic sans, NO ONE’S MORE EVIL THAN YOU!-- layer the foamed milk on top, etch a quick badnik into the foam with a toothpick. He decides to curry some favour in one of the few surefire ways he knows how-- the lightest dusting of cocoa powder around his careful sketch, just enough to pique the doctor’s sweet tooth. 

Latte secured and duffel bag abandoned in the doorway of the kitchen for now, Stone follows the artistic whine of interference into the main lab. Inside, the lights have been further dimmed in order to enhance flow state. Robotnik sits hunched over the main worktable, the newest badnik prototype lying flayed open before him. There’s maybe a third of the table left untouched by the absolute whirlwind that is an unsupervised Robotnik, the rest of the space cluttered with tools, parts, blueprints, and what looks like three laptops fused together. (He doesn’t want to know.)

Stone weaves his way through the chaos until he can approach the doctor’s rolling chair. He can’t announce himself properly while the music is this loud-- and it is so loud. He can hardly think. For a single, terrifying moment, he gets a rush of vertigo that makes him stop in place and take a few deep breaths, lest he drop the latte on the floor-- so he does the next best thing. He waits until the song fades into the next, something with a less pounding backline, and then chimes, “Your latte, doctor!” 

Robotnik flinches hard enough to scoot his chair back several inches, and then he whirls around. Stone’s left enough space between the two of them that when he launches out of his chair towards him and stalks over, Robotnik has plenty of time to wrestle the panic off his face. He still looks a bit rattled, though it dissolves into the usual fare: irritation that turns into realisation into irritation again at having his needs met without any input of his own. He snatches the mug from Stone’s hands. “You’re late, Stone. I was expecting you at 9.”

Stone dips his head, deferential, apologetic. “There were some setbacks. I got back as quickly as I could.” 

Robotnik visibly deflates a little as he takes the first sip of the latte, and then perks all the way back up. He has the frenetic energy of two back to back all-nighters. Stone takes another look around the lab, and notices a significant lack of takeout containers among the rampant mess. Makes a mental note to order something easy and filling for dinner. Soup, perhaps. Sandwiches . His stomach flips unpleasantly at the thought. He ignores the unusual bout of nausea in favour of drinking in the doctor’s pleased expression. “Delicious as always, agent. Just what I wanted. Now that you’re back, do something about that. ”

He flaps a hand in the direction of Stone’s own workspace, tucked off in the corner. Takes another sip of the latte, milk foam clinging to the bottom of his moustache. Stone’s hands itch to wipe it away. He swallows around another tickle in his throat. “Your phone has been ringing all morning. You’re lucky I didn’t dismantle it entirely.”

Stone closes his eyes. If the person calling his work line on a Thursday morning is the same one who sent him on the mission in the first place, he’s going to pitch himself out the third floor window. Robotnik cackles at his visible dismay and meanders back over to his work table. Stone resigns himself to desk work for the rest of his shift. The music is still blaring despite his arrival (not that he thought it would go any differently) and it makes his head throb in tempo with the synths. He sorts their cluttered inbox, writes a pointed email to Walters about his post-mission report and their pre-planned schedule for the month, and assesses the new funding missives. 

Despite the ambient chill of the lab, the thermostat cranked down to the optimal flow state temperature, Stone feels… warm. Face flushed, ears burning. He chalks it up to the headache steadily pulsing behind his eyes, but that doesn’t make it easier to ignore. He fidgets with his collar with one hand, the other sorting through the mail that’d come in while he was away. The fabric at his throat is uncomfortably damp. There’s a petition from one of the doctor’s many academic programs, a reminder on updated HR policy, another petition… 

The pain gathering behind his eyes flares. He takes a cautious peep over the top of his monitors at the doctor, who is already buried in his work again. A tiny break won’t go amiss. Lying his head down on his desk and shutting his eyes makes the pain ease a little, and the surface is blessedly cool against his hot face. There’s a gross, wet itch in his nose that makes him sit back up, wiping at his nose with the back of his hand. Embarrassed, he casts a glance around his desk for tissues, but no dice. If he skirts around the outer ring of the lab, he can get to the bathroom without risking disrupting the doctor. 

Quietly as he can (entirely silently), Stone rises from his chair and steps away from his desk. Raises his hand again when the itch returns, a sort of miserable understanding settling in. He almost never gets a runny nose unless he’s sick, which means congestion is soon to follow and-- 

The sudden bout of nausea as blood rushes to his head is enough to make him stop in his tracks. Stood up too quickly, he justifies to himself, only to immediately lose track of the thought as he catches sight of the dark red smear across the back of his hand. He blinks dumbly at the blood, even as more of it drips down his face. The foul taste in his mouth returns. His head throbs. Moving towards the bathroom again takes a herculean amount of effort, one foot in front of the other. When was the last time he had a nose bleed? Did he get it on his desk? On the floor? He cups a hand over his mouth and nose at the same time his stomach swoops violently and his slow stride turns into a freefall. 

The last thing he thinks before he hits the refreshingly cool lab floor is: I’m going to have to mop that later.

Chapter Text

The first thing he hears is Stone’s shoes scuffing the tile somewhere behind him. His eyebrow twitches. Stone knows the rules of flow state. And he certainly knows better than to be so careless with his footfalls to be heard over the KILLING MACHINE playlist. Sharp insult on the tip of his tongue, Robotnik swivels around in his chair just in time to see Stone trip over seemingly nothing and then hit the ground hard.  

His first instinct is to laugh, if he’s being honest. His spotless, efficient agent eating shit right in front of him? Come on. But then he wheels a little closer and sees the blood on his hand, and what looks like a small splatter on the floor near his head, and--.

It only takes three long strides to cross the distance between them, and Robotnik’s reaching for Stone’s shoulders before he even realises he’s stood from his chair. The sudden movement has summoned a badnik from her perch above the workspace, and she hovers just above them while Robotnik struggles to roll Stone over. His agent is entirely dead weight in his hands, which makes Robotnik’s chest and throat go tight in a way that he doesn’t particularly want to examine right now. 

Blood is smeared across his mouth, chin, jaw, and cheek, and actively drips from his nose as Robotnik gets him on his side. Nosebleed, then. Not a head wound. Fingers to his pulse offer a strong and only slightly elevated bpm, so Robotnik automatically rejects the more drastic diagnoses he could think of. Stone’s warm, a little too warm, when Robotnik checks his head for contusions. Fever? He did look pretty shitty when he came in. Just another thing to despise about Stone’s continued employment through G.U.N. His lip twitches into a sneer at the mere thought of it. He’s never liked sharing.

W475.N3 beeps discordantly next to his head. He waves a hand, and the drone jumps to scan Stone. His vitals project to one of the holo-screens back at the work tables, confirming what Robotnik deduced on his own. Pulse 110 bpm, temperature 103.1 F, respiration 24 breaths per minute, blood pressure 80/50 mm Hg. Fever, hypotension, fainting. For a moment, it’s just him, the drone, and Stone’s unconscious body. The blood trickling down his face makes Robotnik’s stomach churn unpleasantly, but he chalks it up to misplaced irritation at a biohazard in his own lab.

W475.N3 beeps again. Slightly more critical. Robotnik side-eyes his lovely creation, and the drone simply narrows and then widens her aperture in an approximation of a furrowed brow. It’s such an obvious mimicry of Stone that it makes him snort before he can catch himself. Another scolding chirp, and he pushes her away with a gentle hand before he loops his arms around Stone’s heavy torso and pulls…

…And nearly throws his back out, shit. He’s heavier than he looks. Nothing to do with Robotnik’s strength, which is perfectly satisfactory for his height, weight, and age. The best he can do with Stone’s unconscious (and entirely unhelpful) body is drag him into a loose-limbed sit, propped with his back against Robotnik’s chest. His head lolls backwards onto Robotnik’s shoulder, even breaths ghosting warm and light across his cheek and neck. 

With a sigh of relief and not defeat, Robotnik tells W475.N3, “Retrieve the stretcher from upstairs. Get one of your sisters to help, if necessary.” 

She trills in acknowledgment, and then zips out of the lab, headed for the transit channels that lead to the other floors. Stone doesn’t even stir, lying quiet and still against Robotnik. He finds himself waiting for the moment that the contact and warm weight of him becomes grating, but it never comes. If anything, it’s disturbingly comfortable to be finally resting after the 36 hour crunch spent without Stone’s caretaking interference.

It’s strategically beneficial to close his eyes for a few moments, fingers curled around Stone’s wrist-- the unbloodied one, he’s not an idiot-- to keep track of his pulse. He needs to stay on the top of his game while his imbecile agent is down and out. Resting his eyes is just part of that. Obviously. If he’s a little annoyed by how quickly W475.N3 returns with the stretcher and W476.M1 in tow, it’s only because he shouldn’t have to deal with any of this in the first place. Honestly, if Stone felt so fragile following his mission, he should have--. Well. No. The idea of him going straight home and not coming to the lab is somehow worse . Unconscionable. 

With the help of the girls’ arms and heightened carrying capacities, Robotnik manages to shift Stone onto the stretcher. He’s still warm to the touch, and very unconscious. The badniks heft the stretcher up oh-so-carefully between them, and begin the slow journey up the stairs to the break room. Robotnik goes to follow, before remembering the blood splatter cooling on the floor of the lab. He stares at the offending puddle for a moment, skin prickling uncomfortably at the sight of it. With a whistle, he summons one of the badniks from the nearby charging nests, and directs her to remove the impertinent biohazard that Stone left in his wake. Once she chirps in acknowledgment and zooms off to the supply closet along the far wall, he spins on his heel and follows the grim parade of three up the stairs.

In theory, Robotnik knows exactly how to treat a sick individual. He’s not an idiot. But in practice, well... He’s only ever had to care for himself, and he takes great pains to avoid illness. He can count on one hand the amount of times he’s suffered anything more than a pesky sore throat since he turned 20. And only one of those times was he forced to rely on Stone; he vaguely recalls sending his agent on errands for enough cough medication to knock out a large horse and food that wouldn’t upset his difficult stomach. He supposes that taking care of Stone when his only symptoms appear to be fever and unconsciousness shouldn’t be too difficult. 

By the time he gets up the stairs and to the small break room, the girls have already gotten him situated on the long, plush couch along the far wall. The room itself is something Stone had stood his ground over, after one too many overnighters spent on the cold, unforgiving floor of the lab. Since its introduction, they’ve spent a surprising amount of time here, and it’s been furnished appropriately. Comfortable couch, physical reading material, a closet of spare clothes belonging to the two of them, the outdated holo-screen that Robotnik couldn’t bear to throw away, converted to a sleek TV. There’s some new foliage around the windows that he’s positive hadn’t been there last week, though they don’t look neglected in Stone’s recent absence. 

He goes to eyeball his highly-advanced creations of love and labour, but they’ve disappeared. He turns his gaze on Stone, instead, like his unconscious self will fess up to using his precious killing machines to make sure his (un-approved!) plants stay watered while he’s away. Any sort of chastisement dies in his throat as he draws closer to the couch, brow furrowing slightly.

Stone looks… unwell. Face flushed, sweat gathering at his hairline, blood still smeared across his mouth and jaw. Belatedly, Robotnik realises he will have to clean that himself. At least he’s no longer actively bleeding all over the place. He looks around the break room, feeling oddly wrong-footed in his own lab for the first time in, well… ever. W475.N3 appears at his elbow with the first aid kit with a helpful chirp. W476.M1 is still nowhere to be seen, likely returned to her charging station downstairs.

“I don’t suppose you could do this,” Robotnik mutters, just to fill the odd silence. W475.N3 beeps all forlorn at him, and then rotates just enough to give an obvious, dramatic take to Stone’s unconscious body. Robotnik fights down a smile, moustache twitching, and pops open the first aid kit. W475.N3 helpfully holds the kit aloft as he roots through it for the wipes. He finds them easily, thanks in large part to Stone’s insistence on organising and stocking the various first aid kits around the lab. 

Holding Stone’s face while he’s unconscious feels far more intimate than Robotnik is even remotely comfortable with. He sheds his gloves after a moment of consideration-- he doesn’t love the idea of touching him without the safe barrier of the control gloves, but he hates the idea of Stone’s blood staining the fabric. The alcohol wipe is disarmingly cold in his left hand, and Stone’s jaw is jarringly warm in his right. His breath gusts hot and invasive against the unprotected skin of his wrists and palms, making Robotnik twitch as he swipes firmly at the blood drying on his upper lip and cheek. His facial hair, slightly longer and more unkempt than usual, is a bit ticklish against the pads of his fingers and the heel of his palm. 

All of a sudden, Robotnik is painfully, embarrassingly grateful that Stone isn’t awake for this. He would make it weirder than it needs to be. Looking up at him with that startled, disarming expression, unnerved but entirely trusting. Eyes wide, face flushing ever so slightly. His fingers twitch around the alcohol wipe. Focus, Robotnik. He goes through three wipes getting the blood out of his beard, and then off his hand, wiping him down meticulously. There’s blood staining his shirt collar, but Robotnik draws a hard line at undressing his unconscious employee, and just stands up from the couch. 

W475.N3 takes the biohazardous wipes from him and disappears out of the room with the first aid kit in tow, leaving him alone with Stone’s prone form. He tugs his gloves back on, donning his armour, and then… He glances down at Stone again. It would be easy to just leave him here, go back to the lab, finish out the rest of the crunch. His back twinges a little at the idea of getting back in his chair. Another sweeping glance around the break room. 

… He could relocate a bit of his work up here, if he pulled the table closer, shifted Stone’s legs a bit so he could sit on the couch. Good lighting. Change of scenery might help with the last leg of the prototype. He just has to close it up, anyways, which he could do anywhere, if he so wished. And he could continue to monitor Stone’s condition in the rare chance it worsens. It’s simply the most logical conclusion! And Ivo Robotnik is nothing if not logical.

Chapter Text

The matter at hand decided, Robotnik strides out of the break room and back down to the main lab floor, already assessing what he would bring upstairs to tinker with. The badnik prototype, the roll of his most relevant tools, his half-empty mug. It is surprisingly refreshing to leave behind the familiar chaos of the lab to head back upstairs with his new baby in tow, humming cheerfully under his breath. And he doesn’t even have to see Stone’s imperceptibly smug look as he makes a comment on “the benefits of a clean workspace” or whatever it is he keeps going on about!

Robotnik carefully deposits his charge on the coffee table in the break room, and pushes it along the floor until it’s closer to the far end of the couch, well within reach. Now the only thing to do is nudge Stone’s--.

He comes up short, blinking dumbly at the couch. Stone’s not on it. His absence doesn’t make sense, Robotnik’s brain highlighting the space left behind with several red arrows and question marks. He spins on his heel, a muted sense of panic rushing through him. Nowhere. He leaves the break room and peers out into the hallway, oscillating between bafflement and the faintest twinge of something he refuses to call fear. Standing in the otherwise silent hall, a faint noise reaches his ears. 

Following the sound to the half-ajar bathroom door at the end of the hallway, he finds Stone on his knees and retching into the toilet. Robotnik’s own stomach flips in sympathetic nausea, which he crushes into impartial disgust at the human condition. He lingers awkwardly in the doorway, caught wrong-footed. Stone’s bent over with both hands clutching the porcelain, and he sniffles all wet and pathetic when he finishes heaving, setting off all kinds of blaring alarms in Robotnik’s head. 

“Stone,” he says, clearing his throat when his traitorous voice comes out more concerned than annoyed. His agent jumps, and then slowly turns his head to face Robotnik in the doorway. His eyes are red, puffy, face a mess of tears and snot. The knot of disgust in his chest threatens to turn into something softer, weaker. Stone’s gaze is glassy and unfocused, and he croaks out, “Doctor?”

“Oh good, you’re delirious,” Robotnik sighs, resolve slowly crumbling in the wake of Stone’s unfettered, tear-filled puppy-dog eyes. He has to curl his hands into fists at his side to resist the urge to reach out to Stone as he unsteadily climbs to his feet. “Wash your face in the sink, Stone, you look like a…”

He sniffles again, and Robotnik’s words die in his throat. Stone’s expressions are usually more collected than this, a permanent sort of polite neutrality interspersed with earnest awe and admiration when necessary. To be able to see his eyebrows knit together and the line of his mouth wobble as he radiates dejection is… uncanny. Robotnik’s heart squeezes in a way that has him considering running diagnostics on himself. Once Stone’s taken care of, he tells himself, stubbornly refusing to look the sentiment in the eye. 

Stone’s still looking at him like a lost, kicked puppy. Robotnik groans, and looks away as he grits out, “Just… wipe your face, and come back to the break room. Since I can’t trust you to not fall over if I leave you unsupervised, I will be keeping an eye on you.”

Stone makes a noise, and when Robotnik looks back to him and sees his mouth open, to protest or explain himself or what-have-you, he just waves a hand. “ Ah! That wasn’t a question. Did you hear a question in there? Sink, you, now. ” 

The order seems to break through whatever brain fog Stone has developed in the meantime, and he about-faces to approach the sink in the corner. Robotnik allows himself to fidget while Stone’s back is turned, shifting his weight from foot to foot and flexing his fingers until the leather creaks. He’s painfully aware of his lack of experience in… caretaking… And while normally, he would happily embrace the opportunity to demonstrate his superiority in a new and unexplored skillset, he’s also aware that coddling his agent while he’s ill is a bad idea. 

While the water runs and Stone leans over the basin, Robotnik inches close enough to glimpse what Stone had been throwing up-- a cursory glance just to make sure he wasn’t vomiting blood. None, thankfully, but it’s significantly less than what he would’ve expected. Not that he’s an expert on expelled bodily fluids, necessarily, but the lack of substance is still… concerning. Just watery bile. He moves back to the doorway right as Stone turns the tap off and shakes himself like a wet dog instead of reaching for a towel. He gives another miserable little sniffle before turning back to face Robotnik. The open misery and exhaustion on his face keeps making Robotnik lose his words, an uncertain, nervous flutter in his ribs.

After a short silence where it becomes clear Stone isn’t going to speak, Robotnik turns and leaves the bathroom. Stone follows obediently, footfalls landing heavier on the tile than usual. Robotnik can’t find it in himself to be annoyed with the extra noise when it lets him ascertain that Stone is following him and not wandering off. When they enter the break room, Robotnik gestures at the couch, not quite looking at Stone. Gazing directly at him like this, rumpled and vulnerable and unhappy, is getting harder to bear. “Alright, lay down. If you need active supervision, one of the girls can watch you.”

Stone sits heavily on the couch, and then steadily melts sideways until he’s horizontal. He blinks several times as he processes Robotnik’s words, and then he asks, voice all rough and tired, “Where are you going?”

“To make you something to eat.” The words fall out of his mouth before he’s really thought about it. The tips of his ears start burning. “It’s about time for a lunch break, anyways. But don’t think this is going to happen again! This is a once-in-a-lifetime kind of thing, agent.”

Stone’s face falls and then inexplicably flushes, cheeks reddening. “Oh, doctor, no, I can do that. Let me--”

“And risk contamination of the kitchen? Absolutely not!” Robotnik snaps, crossing his arms. “I am perfectly capable of making lunch for today, and today only. If you move from that couch, I will forcibly restrain you.”

There’s a little chirp from the doorway, saving both of them. W475.N3 has returned, and she zips across the room towards Stone, scanning him without any prompting and then dropping into his lap. He reaches for her, petting at her shiny hull without much complaint. “Hi, Watson.” 

The drone beeps at him, and Stone just laughs, quiet and rasping. Robotnik takes the moment of distraction as the opportunity it is, slipping from the break room and heading for the kitchen before Stone can try and stop him. 

Almost immediately upon entering the kitchen, Robotnik nearly brains himself on the counter after tripping over an unexpected obstacle right in the doorway. When he whirls around to assess, his eyes fall on the dejected, slumped shape of Stone’s bag. Lying against the door-frame, unusually in the way for his usually fastidious agent. Hmph. Robotnik is never going to ignore the opportunity for some snooping. He crouches by the bag and flips open the top. 

There’s nothing overtly interesting in Stone’s luggage, just spare clothes and toiletries. The tracker Robotnik tucked into one of the inner pockets is still there, next to an unopened granola bar Stone swiped on his way out. Disappointed, Robotnik zips the bag closed and then uses a quick gesture on his left glove to summon a badnik. It brings AL02B to him, and the drone happily grabs the bag, little metal arms looping through the straps. He pats her as she draws up to his height, bag dangling. “Take that to Stone. Drop it on him, if you must. Keep him on his toes.”

She makes a delighted bzzrt! noise and then zooms off.  

Robotnik straightens up, dusting himself off. Back to the task at hand. He considers their options-- his cooking skills are a little rusty, but he has lived alone far longer than he hasn’t, and some things are simply unavoidable with such a lifestyle. The kitchen is well stocked, an effort on Stone’s part to keep him from starving while he was off on his solo mission. A quick survey of the pantry and fridge offers some easy ideas. 

Soup and sandwiches, Robotnik muses to himself. Easy enough.

Chapter Text

The sound of muffled shouting and the smell of something burning greets Stone the next time he opens his eyes. He blinks up at the ceiling of the break room for several long seconds, slightly bewildered. Then, things start clicking back into place. Feeling ill, collapsing, losing time, somehow making it to the bathroom before throwing up. Dragging himself back to the break room, following the doctor…

“WHY DO I EVEN BOTHER WITH--!” 

There’s a loud clattering noise from down the hall, in the direction of the kitchen. The heavy, warm weight on his stomach makes a quiet chirp, and Stone lifts his head enough to make eye contact with Watson, her dark red aperture widening and narrowing rapidly as she focuses on him. The scrutiny of the badniks used to unsettle him, but after all this time, it’s hard to be unnerved by the drones that trail after him for pets and praise. He pats at her shell with a hand that feels disembodied. His head feels… woozy. 

Another loud crash from the kitchen. A shrill beep of what sounds like the smoke alarm, followed by the woosh of the tiny fire extinguisher Stone stashed under the sink when they moved to the new building. Watson doesn’t seem concerned by the catastrophe happening a few doors down, so Stone doesn’t move an inch. He isn’t sure he could without throwing up again. His stomach shivers unpleasantly, and he closes his eyes again. Watson’s internal fans kick up a notch, and he can feel the vibrations through her titanium hull like a purr. 

He takes stock of himself while melting back into the couch cushions. Face hot, throat itching, head full of cotton and pain. Mild congestion. He hesitantly brings up a hand to probe at his face, but it’s free of the blood he thought would have dried all tacky and insufferable to his skin and beard. Did he imagine the nosebleed? He dismisses it for now. Nausea has been curbed, replaced with vertigo. He wishes he was in bed. Or in the shower. He still feels gritty from the field. 

For some god-awful reason, he’s still wearing his tie. Stone pulls at the knot until it comes free, and his fingers brush against the unusually stiff fabric of his shirt collar. He grimaces at the feel of it, and when he cracks an eye open to examine his fingers, the faintest smear of red lingers. That’s a yes on the nosebleed, then. But his face is clean. Oh. The weight of it all begins to sink in. The thought of the doctor wiping at the blood on his face makes his ears and neck burn in a way that has nothing to do with his fever. He would’ve removed his gloves, not willing to risk the fabric. Stone swallows hard, and it catches unpleasantly in his throat. 

He can’t stand being in this suit any longer. 

Watson gives a baleful vvrrm as Stone sits up, dislodging her from her spot on his stomach. He pats her before wedging a hand beneath her, scooping her up and re-depositing her on the couch as he stands. There’s a little whisper, a nearly silent pneumatic hiss, as one of her side panels opens, and Stone dodges out of the way just as a little metal arm makes a grab for his shirt. “I’ll be right back. Just changing.”

There’s a very disgruntled mechanical buzz as Stone pads towards the closet tucked away in the corner. If memory serves him, there is a comfortable t-shirt with his name on it, and one of his last favourite pairs of sweatpants. After one too many spilled chemicals at the old lab, Stone had started keeping a go-bag in his car with spare clothes AND shoes. Now, at the new lab, he’d simply moved his go-bag’s usual items into the break room. 

It feels criminally good to finally shed his suit. He doesn’t bother with modesty-- if he cared about privacy, he would’ve quit months ago-- and just changes in front of the open closet doors. He spies his duffel bag tucked underneath the coffee table, and stuffs his folded up suit inside it once he’s clothed. He considers checking in on the doctor now that it’s gone quiet, but Watson beeps rather imperiously at him from the couch when he looks at the doorway. 

Stone resettles on the couch. The brief time spent upright has only served to remind him of his headache, and an uncertain kind of hunger that makes his stomach rumble. He vaguely remembers Robotnik telling him he would make lunch, though that could just be the fever talking. He can count on one hand the amount of times the doctor has used the kitchen for himself, much less for Stone.  

Still, the idea of the doctor making him something to eat makes his face all warm. Or maybe that’s just the fever. Stone presses the back of his hand to his own cheek, distantly alarmed at how hot he’s running. Mix of both?  

It’s easy to lean back into the cushions and cuddle up to Watson, who seems content to just sit there as he pets lazily at her shell. She’s significantly colder than him, and he feels half-tempted to curl all the way up and rest his cheek against her metal bulk. His slow blinks turn into long stretches of hazy unawareness as a miserable sort of ache starts in his legs and works steadily upwards. He hates being sick. The body aches make him feel every inch of wear and tear he’s collected over the years. His eyes sting hotly for a moment, and he just sighs through it. Sniffles a little. 

A noise in the direction of the doorway makes him jump. Stone’s eyes snap open, and he frantically blinks through the wetness obscuring his vision as he turns to look over his shoulder at the door. Robotnik freezes in his tracks, a wooden tray balanced in his hands and a badnik hovering just beyond his shoulder carrying a pitcher of water. They stare at each other, deer in opposing headlights, for a moment that stretches on a little too long. Stone cracks first. 

“You made lunch,” he says, dumbfounded. The doctor flushes ever-so-slightly, the tips of his ears reddening, moustache twitching as he fights down a defensive snarl. He still seems a little on edge, even as he comes closer and sets the tray on the coffee table, avoiding Stone’s gaze. “Yes, obviously . I said I was going to. Did your fever spike and compromise your painfully average brain?”

The badnik (who Stone now recognises as ALPHA) floats closer and Robotnik takes the pitcher from her little pinching claws. She gives Stone a cursory scan, before pushing insistently into his space for pets. He obliges, if only to give him something to do with his hands while his heart attempts to leap into his throat. “Hello to you too, honey.”

He peeks at the tray over ALPHA’s shell. Two plates of slightly scorched looking grilled cheese sandwiches, two bowls of chicken soup. A packet of the emergency saltine crackers for bad days. An empty glass. His eyes start burning again. He lifts a hand to rub at his face before the tears can spill over, but he doesn't quite make it. The doctor makes a strangled noise of concern, or maybe fear, and mortification wells up inside Stone so fast that he can't keep his voice from shaking as he rushes to clarify. “Shit, sorry--. Sorry. It looks good. Thank you, doctor.”

ALPHA lazily floats away from him when he takes his other hand off her hull in order to wipe at his eyes better. Robotnik looks wildly uncomfortable when Stone finally gets himself under control again and can meet his gaze, but he spares Stone the indignity for once by not saying anything. All he does is take his plate and bowl and set up on the far end of the couch, leaving Stone with the slightly less burnt grilled cheese. He grabs his plate, and when Watson doesn’t budge from his lap even when he sits up properly, balances the dish on her shell carefully. 

Robotnik makes a disgruntled noise, scowling at him. “Don’t use her as a table.” 

“She doesn’t mind,” Stone replies, lifting the plate briefly to check the drone’s lens. Watson stares placidly back, beeping softly. “See?”

“If I find a single greasy fingerprint on her, you’re going to be cleaning the entire hive,” the doctor warns, though the threat is undercut by the way he is meticulously dipping his sandwich in the bowl of soup perched dangerously on the arm of the couch. Stone smiles down at his plate, and takes the first tentative bite of the sandwich. The holo-screen flicks on with a gesture from Robotnik, and the familiar sounds of a telenovela fill the room as he eats.

He really wishes he could say something romantic like it tasted better than anything else because the doctor made it for him, but honestly, he can’t really taste anything. It’s hot, though, and pleasantly crunchy. More importantly, it doesn’t upset his stomach after the first few bites, and makes him feel a little more real as he chews. The soup is much the same-- settles in his stomach with pleasant heat, doesn’t taste like much, and it leaves him feeling on the brink of sleep all over again. He makes himself drink a glass of water before sinking back into the couch. On the holo-screen, a couple is having an impassioned argument that he only partially understands. 

His gaze drifts from the program to the doctor. He’s not wearing his usual lab coat, instead dressed down to his black compression top. It makes him look smaller. His goggles are gone, too. Control gloves swapped for the thinner, washable ones he uses for eating when he can’t use utensils. 

“You’re staring,” Robotnik says, side-eyeing him. There are crumbs in his moustache. Stone blinks long and slow at him. “... Stone?”

His face feels all warm again, and it takes effort to open his mouth. His head feels heavy. “... I think I’m sick.”

Robotnik makes a noise that sounds suspiciously close to laughter, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. Even though he doesn’t know why it’s funny, Stone can’t help smiling. He turns his face into the couch to hide it before the doctor can see it and get embarrassed about slipping up. He finds himself doing this sort of thing a lot, especially now that the doctor has gotten used to his presence in the lab. Little adjustments so Stone can soak up the moments when Robotnik drops his guard and acts a little more human, not acknowledging the break in code so he doesn’t go back to his defensive snarl. Like coaxing a feral cat , Stone thinks. The distant hum in his ears turns into coherent words slowly, like someone’s fine-tuning his hearing with a dial.

“... even more ill than I thought. Are you listening? Stone?”

“Mmhmm,” Stone mumbles, turning his head back towards the doctor without opening his eyes. There’s another huff of almost-laughter, and a quiet beep from Watson. A flash of red light dampened by his eyelids as he’s scanned. 

“Fever’s gone back up. Don’t give me that look, I know what I’m doing.”

Rustle of fabric. Clink of the dishes. Sudden movement as Watson is removed from his lap, and then hands close around his arms. He slowly opens his eyes, confused. “Okay, Stone, up and at ‘em. If you even think about vomiting on me, I’ll drop you.”

His head spins dangerously as Robotnik levers him up off the couch, but he manages to get his feet underneath himself, bracing himself on the doctor. He feels like he’s dreaming. There’s a hand on his hip, an arm slung around his lower back. One of his own arms has been flung across Robotnik’s shoulders. He squints at the floor. Un-glues his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “Wh.. where are we going?”

“Secret,” Robotnik responds, sardonic, “Just guess.”

Even with a fever of 104, Stone recognises a trap when he sees one. He keeps his mouth shut. They shamble out into the hallway, a blurry orb of silver and black leading the pack. Robotnik brings them to the elevator, and leans Stone against the wall of the elevator while he does something with the buttons. The wall is cold and solid and there’s a low thrum coming from it that nearly sends him back to sleep if not for the hand still resting on his hip, keeping him tethered and aware. 

Robotnik has to pull him into action when the elevator stops, arm slipping right back around his lower back like that’s something they do now. They shuffle out into the newly revealed hallway, somewhere entirely unfamiliar to Stone. 

He knew, to a certain extent, that the doctor had claimed the top floor of the lab as his own personal quarters. He also knew that the doctor valued his own privacy above all else, and as such, he’d never even come close to venturing up to the third floor. He let the badniks take care of the cleaning up there, going so far as to hand off packages and the like so they could shuttle deliveries up to the doctor’s rooms.

They stagger past a few open doors, and Robotnik waves at them with his free hand as they pass. “That’s the game room, here’s the closet where the extra bedding is, that’s where the girls hang out..”

They come to a stop outside a door that’s been left ajar. Stone blinks muzzily at the door, the world spinning unpleasantly around him. He almost asks the doctor why they’ve stopped moving, but then there’s a deep sigh and Robotnik pushes the door open with his foot and brings them inside the room. 

It’s a bedroom. It’s dark, sparsely furnished. A bed and a nightstand, a small dresser. A mirror and a little desk. A built in closet with its doors half shut. Stone takes as much of it in as he can before Robotnik shuttles him over to the bed and pours him onto it. His limbs feel like eels, limp and unresponsive. A cold chill ripples through him and he blindly fumbles for the edge of the blanket that he’s lying on top of. By the time he manages to wrestle his uncooperative body beneath the covers, Robotnik has slipped out of the room. A childish burst of fear squeezes tight around Stone’s heart, but then the door swings open a bit further and the doctor returns, carrying a glass of water and a bottle of pills. 

Robotnik rattles the pills at him menacingly. “You’re going to take two of these and then go to sleep like a good little patient, capiche?” 

Stone reaches out one hand obediently. He squints at the bottle, trying to see the label, but Robotnik’s already unscrewing the cap and shaking two white pills into his palm. Well, it’s not the worst time to be poisoned, if he’s being honest. He’s already nauseous. Stone swallows the pills and drinks the proffered water, reluctantly handing the glass back to Robotnik when he’s done. His hands fall to the blankets, twisting the topmost blanket between his fingers idly. It’s soft. Softer than anything he has at home. And a nice, dark purple. 

Robotnik clears his throat, and Stone jumps. Right. Still there. Stone blinks up at him, trying to interpret the strange look on his face, but the darkness of the room obscures just enough of his eyes to make it exceedingly difficult. Either that or his brain is melting. After another beat of silence, the doctor sighs. “Is there anything else you need, or can I return to my work?”

Stone glances around the room, trying to grasp onto a singular coherent thought in order to respond to the question. It’s a real one, as far as he can tell, so he wants to have a real answer. The best he can come up with is another question-- “What is this room, doctor? It’s… it’s not your bedroom.” 

That, at least, he’s certain of. He remembers seeing floor plans, back when they were still overseeing construction. The master bedroom had been marked quite clearly at the end of the hallway, and was twice the size of this room. So what was this room for? The doctor didn’t exactly receive guests . 

Another odd look passes over Robotnik’s face. He looks… embarrassed?

“... it was going to be a surprise,” the doctor says, a little sullen. “I know you’ve been sleeping on the couch in the break room. Even though it makes your shoulder worse. I thought this would be… more efficient.”

Oh. Butterflies flare to life in his stomach so abruptly that Stone nearly mistakes them for nausea. He tries to hide how pleased he is at the admission, still twisting the blanket between his fingers, enamoured with its softness. By the way Robotnik clears his throat again and crosses his arms, he fails to keep his delight off his face entirely.

“I see,” Stone says, trying for polite and landing on terribly besotted. “... Thank you, doctor. I’ll go to sleep now.”

The relief that visibly sweeps through Robotnik is almost enough to make Stone laugh. His shoulders slump, and he uncrosses his arms, shaking out the tension with a little flap of his hands. “Excellent. If you throw up on the carpet, it’s coming out of your paycheck. The bathroom is through there.”

He points across the room to a door Stone hadn’t noticed before, and then he strides out of the bedroom without a backwards glance. Stone gives it a few seconds, and then the doctor comes back into view just to bark, “I’ll leave one of the girls with you, to make sure you don’t aspirate in your sleep or something equally stupid. Yell if something dire happens, but don’t expect me to come running.”

Then he whirls away again, and Stone sinks all the way back into the plush pillows. There’s a quiet whirr as Watson peeks into the room, and Stone pats the bed next to his hip. She happily drifts over and settles beside him, her internal fans chugging away in a mechanical mimicry of a purr. 

“He gave me my own room,” Stone whispers to the little drone. She beeps twice, a little staccato beat that he’s come to learn means they’re laughing at him. He laughs back, and closes his eyes, one hand bumped against her cool shell and the other tangled in the blanket. The last thought he has before sleep claims him again is: How did he know what my favourite colour was?