Work Text:
Agent Stone loved being the Doctor's assistant, he really, truly did.
But, by God, did he miss being a proper agent. The lab was by no means a small space – Stone had suspected for the last few months that the Doctor had been subtly extending its walls, right under Commander Walters’ nose. Truly devious. But, it was a chicken coop compared to what used to be his free-range life of ambushes and military raid training and massive obstacle courses. He missed his rifle, having been forced to switch to an easily concealable handgun.
Recently, Stone had often found himself wistfully remembering his life before he was assigned to Robotnik, on one occasion two days prior, it got him in trouble for being an “inept, distractible mortal.” He had simply taken a second too long to realize the Doctor had been talking to him.
This morning was no different. Everything has been so calm lately. The Doctor hadn’t had any assignments, so he was happily working on his personal projects, and incredibly, hadn’t caused any major structural damage to G.U.N. Headquarters. So, Stone’s paperwork load was seldom.
With nothing to do, the agent resigned himself to the corner of the room, a safe distance from the Doctor as to not startle or overcrowd him, but close enough to hear his requests. His computer screen was asleep, as it had been for the last hour. Besides the silent, tiny analog clock’s hand shifting every second, the only movement on this side of the lab was Stone swiveling his chair back and forth, ever so slightly.
In the sufferance of his boredom, he allowed himself, for only a brief moment, to let his mind wander back to today, one year ago.
That entire week, the other agents were dropping like flies. Most were taken back to base the first few days for little mistakes, but had slowed once they’d collectively realized how picky these guys were being. Stone had no idea what this selected group (of what started as about two-hundred men, now down to eight of them,) were doing all the way out here in the middle of the Sierra Nevadas, but he did know he would not be one of the failures, even if he was the last man standing. Because he didn’t fail, ever.
Besides them all obviously being outstanding soldiers, the one thing they all (or at least, the many he had asked) had in common was blood type. Stone had decided it was probably a coincidence, and stopped trying to figure out what they were being tested for by the third day.
When he and his seven bunk mates woke up that morning at 0600 hours by their own internal clocks, each one was incredibly confused. Where was the Drill Sergeant? Was the extra time some kind of reward? Crash and the other guy seemed to think so, and they decided to catch a few more minutes despite Stone’s word of warning.
Ten minutes later, four of them stood in a line, fully dressed and beds made. Garcia had lagged behind, and joined their line at 6:08 am.
They stood there, quietly, for another twenty minutes. By now, breakfast was moments away from starting, and each of the boys (besides the two still asleep) were antsy. Stone and Chase were the only two that didn’t show it. The two blondies, whom Stone did not recall the names of because they were very annoying and he was very petty, seemed to agree through some secret telepathic language to get going. They walked out without a word.
The Drill sergeant did show up eventually, and when he did, he yelled at the two “excuses for men” still in their bunks. They were booted on the spot. Stone thought Drill Sergeant had been merciful, and they should be grateful, because he’d seen much worse punishments for much more minuscule things while in the army. As the 3 of them, Garcia, Chase, and himself walked to breakfast after being excused, a tower of a man in funny glasses and a black coat, despite the nearly 90 degree weather, pulled Garcia away, for “just a moment.”
Stone and Chase ate breakfast together, and Stone had opted to sit next to the other man rather than in his usual spot across the table. He knew this place was the furthest thing from a romantic setting, but he'd noticed the little pink triangle on Chase's duffle bag and was certain the other man had seen the matching one on his. He’d had a few unprofessional daydreams already, and sitting together like a date would only fuel the fire he was only kind of trying to put out.
When they’d had a moment to stop by the bunks later that day, their beds were the only two not fully stripped and vacated.
Several hours later, the sun was about 30 degrees above the horizon, and the sand burned hot through the fabric of his uniform. It was a live-fire trial out on the flat desert.
Stone had been lying on a ridge, breath even, heartbeat steady. His rifle—matte black, customized by his own hand, and scratchless despite the years it’s accompanied the private—rested against his shoulder like an extension of his spine. Wind rolled across the expanse, throwing dust devils and weeds through the air. He didn’t blink.
This was a test for two things. A new technology the agency had gotten their hands on, small, white, peculiarly egg-shaped drones with a little red lens in the front. And, it was a test for him. A sharpshooting test, they’d told him. Bullshit, he thought.
Chase was across the range, they were facing exactly north and south so neither was blinded more than the other. He had the same kind of rifle and was given the same number of rounds. They were given the same task, too.
This was a competition.
It was unfortunate, really, to have no choice but to crush this guy. Really, they could have had something there, a story that would probably make a good book one day. At least the poor man would get thrown out knowing he tried his best, right?
Whatever.
The first drone shot into the air about a hundred feet, and Stone didn’t flinch. He tracked its arc with his eyes only, then moved the rifle a hair to the left, and fired. The drone burst apart midair—no explosion, just a stutter, and then gravity took over as it spiraled down like a shot bird. Two more emerged in its wake, faster this time, changing altitude erratically like they’d learned something from their now dead sibling. It was mostly creepy and only a little cool, Stone decided. The wind was negligible and the light was manageable, so he fired two more shots in succession, the gun kicking back softly. That was three down in less than nine seconds.
This went on for another little while, and much to his inner chagrin, Chase had dropped a few of his own. Not without the two bullets that missed, though. Both times had given the agent the sliver of a smile, even when thinking back on it.
Stone’s head was resting on his fist, in a loose grip, his elbow propped up on the armrest of his chair. He let out a serene, contented sigh.
“If I wanted a statue, I’d have one made. Go get me my latte, Stone.” Robotnik growled with a bothered glare. Stone nearly jumped out of his skin, and literally jumped to his feet with a sincere apology leaving his lips, feeling like he’d been yanked out of a dream. Had he really let himself get so comfortable here, to let his guard so far down? It was almost nice, he realized, to feel that safe in a confined area. He had never even felt that relaxed in his own apartment, in comfy clothes with Lottie the tuxedo kitten (a rescue) curled up in his lap. Perhaps being Dr. Robotnik's assistant wasn't so terrible, after all.
Stone hastily made the Doctors’ latte, and brought it to his employer in record time. If Robonik hadn't been so pissed at Stone’s incompetence, he might’ve been impressed. With a glowering stare into the cup, Ivo’s voice lowered as he ordered, “Stone, pin yourself to the wall.”
Nevermind. It was kind of terrible.
The agent obliged with a sigh, preparing himself for the belittling screaming he was sure to receive, but it never came. Instead, the Doctor got up in his face, barring his teeth but didn’t say a word, not for a long, uncomfortable moment.
Just as Stone was beginning to formulate a, “Doctor, are you alright?” the latter scoffed, pulling back just an inch.
“What’s- the matter with you?” Robotnik grunted out, as if it physically pained him to genuinely ask that question, a far cry from how he threw the question towards worthless G.U.N. agents that regularly pissed him off.
“...Sir?”
“You! You’ve ignored my summoning of you twice ,” the Doctor thundered, his hands clawing into the wall on either side of Stone’s head, “and now this ?” He vaguely gestured to the mug of coffee on the table beside them, incredibly bothered. The agent didn’t quite understand, but was remorseful nonetheless.
“I apologize sir-” Stone began, but he was cut off.
“Seriously? What. is. going. on, you human equivalent of a computer lag!”
“I’m sor-”
“And don’t you dare apologize again.” Robotnik threatened darkly, fisting a hand in the back of the agent's perfectly combed hair.
The shorter man gulped, a twinge of genuine nervousness (and maybe just the slightest bit of arousal) in his expression. The Doctor picked up on the prior, which made him ease up slightly. The look reinforced his confidence of being in total control. Meanwhile, Stone was at a loss for words.
He had no good or plausible excuse for his behavior, and surely he couldn’t tell the Doctor the truth. That he was bored? Robotnik would either be so offended at the remark he’d – well, Stone doesn’t know and he doesn’t want to. Never in any scenario would he dream of insulting the Doctor like that, because he was the genuinely furthest thing from boring! It was more of Stone’s issue, but he knew the Doctor wouldn’t see it that way. Or, he wouldn’t believe it to be possible. He’d think his agent was lying to him, and the punishment that pertained to that kind of sin was most certainly the worst kind. So instead, what came out of him was:
“I’m… In need of physical stimulation, sir.”
Well that didn’t come out right.
Robotnik squinted his eyes. Stone continued, hoping to save himself before the Doctor processed the unintentional implication. “I haven't been called out for a mission in months , sir. I need to get this out of my system.”
Robotnik's expression was utterly unreadable, and a drop of sweat accumulated on Stone's forehead. He knew he was surly in for one, but his mouth betrayed the voice in his head that was yelling at him to ‘Shut the hell up already!’
“I love being your assistant, but I also miss combat?” He confessed, eyes straying downwards.
The few seconds of pause felt neverending, as Stone berated himself in his mind for saying such things. It was severely unprofessional. Robotnik's grip loosened, and his hand slid down off the wall.
“You want to go outside?” The Doctor asked, incredulously. “Roll around in the mud and get dirty with the other meat puppies?”
Stone fought to suppress a whine. The sheer embarrassment would kill him if he didn’t kill himself first. Did he have to say it like that? Then, abruptly, the Doctor stepped back with a huff, rubbing his hands together like he was wiping away the entire encounter. “Fine,” he gritted to himself. “Go make me something to eat and run a maintenance check on the badniks.” He ordered with a nonchalant wave of his hand.
Stone blinked. “Yes, sir,” he said quickly. Relief washed through him in waves. Perhaps he would live to see tomorrow.
The next day when Stone arrived, there were piles of new, sizzling protective gear and weapons scattered across the lab floor. One particularly explosive looking one blinked red in the corner with what he sincerely hoped was a friendly rhythm. And slumped over his desk, amidst the chaos was the Doctor, who was snoring gently, goggles pushed up into his dark, unkempt hair, fingers still twitching like he was assembling something in his sleep. Despite that, the badniks were awake and facing himself, like they were awaiting instruction, for some reason. Stone stepped over everything the best he could and approached the desk with caution. Right on top of the schematics was a single sticky note, and written in bold, jagged scrawl:
“Put on the gear and escape the badniks. They’ll be shooting lasers. Don’t die.”
There was a tiny heart drawn at the end. Or possibly a missile.
Stone smiled with unadulterated excitement, and reached for a helmet.
“Don’t die,” he repeated under his breath. “No pressure.” And in his head thought, ‘Thank you, Doctor.’