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Stone's body was alight, burning with the heat he knew the doctor was experiencing first hand. He refused to take off his suit coat. If Robotic had to suffer, Stone would too.
“It's been a real drag!” Dr Ivo Robotnik shouts, eyes filled with tears, mirroring Agent Aban Stone's. “Thanks for nothing!”
BOOM.
Stone drops to the ground in screams, pure agony consuming him, being the only thing he's able to register.
Kind-hearted bystanders in London's streets go over, trying to talk to him, trying to touch him.
The doctor touched his shoulder like that.
Weeks have gone by since the Eclipse Cannon exploded.
Agent Stone works at a coffee shop, his nametag reading Aban S.
He doesn't make his steamed Austrian goat milk lattes anymore. The coffee shop doesn't sell them.
He works the closing shift so he can watch the sun go down and the space debris come out in it's bright orange, glaring at him.
“I miss you, Doctor,” he whispers into the silence, the doors locking for the night. In the reflection on the glass door, he can see himself.
He hasn't really looked in a mirror for a while, refusing to see what Robotnik saw. His whole body is numb, unable to feel the grime from not showering for weeks. He assumes this is what death feels like. Or hopelessness might be this.
Truly alone. Forevermore.
He's surprised that nobody has said anything to him. Maybe they know who he once held. Who once held him.
He fights the urge to slam his head against the glass until he finally feels again. Maybe until he feels his soulmate's breath on his neck, the sharp words digging into him in attempts to anger him.
He'd welcome it all with gentle hands again. He'd welcome Ivo with gentle hands again.
“Mick.” He nods at his roommate. Stone rents a room in the man's apartment, and he's not sure the landlord knows he's even there.
“You've got to get in the shower, man. You look bloody knackered, and you smell like shite.” Mick looks him over, struggling to hide the disgusted curl of his lip.
“Yeah, I'll make sure to do that.. I need some rest.”
“Ay, you're not going in your room until you wash your arse. That room is minging, too. Fix it and stay or I'm throwing your shite in a bag an’ out the door,” Mick states. “Change the bloody locks too,” he mutters as he walks away.
He wants to sink into the floor, into an invisible puddle of the man he once was.
Alas, he goes into the bathroom and strips, noting the plain shirt and jeans and a new pack of boxers on the counter. He does not look in the mirror.
He does, however, run his thumb over the little stars and moon on his hip bone. It used to be a little raised, like a scar or a new tattoo. He used to trace the shapes to help himself relax, knowing that somebody was waiting for him.
Now it's flat against his skin.
He doesn't dwell on it, knowing where his thoughts would go. He pulls back the shower curtain and puts the water to a temperature that makes him shiver.
“I’ll miss your lattes with steamed Austrian goat milk... I love the way you make 'em!”
He nearly slams his head against the off-white tiles. He used to do anything to hear the voice that now haunts him in the silence, the only voice in his head. No inner dialog, just the doctor in his ears.
He closes his eyes but that seems to make his heart thump harder against his chest. He halts his breathing, clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides so as to not claw at the skin on his thighs.
FUCK.
He slaps himself
His eyes open and he takes a breath. He cups his hands to catch some water and splashes it on his face. It's freezing.
Shampoo, rinse.
Conditioner, let it sit while he washes his body (just the essentials: dick and balls, ass, pits), rinse.
He sits for a few moments in the cold. It isn't cold anymore, his body adjusted a while ago.
Don't people usually cry in the shower?
He feels physically incapable of crying. Filled with this hollow rage that he can't quite describe.
“If I can't rule the world, I might as well save it.”
WHY? Why would he sacrifice himself for this cruel world?
Both Stone and Robotnik have suffered their entire lives because of the world's cruel hands.
Worst cards dealt to those with so much potential. Always.
With a heavy sigh, he turns the knobs, shutting off the water. He regrets it within milliseconds.
It was nice to pretend that he didn't have responsibilities for just that short moment.
His head hurts. There's probably some ibuprofen in the medicine cabinet.
He steps out and quickly dries with a towel. As he's drying his hair he considers a haircut, feeling how long it's gotten these past few weeks.
He closes his eyes for a moment and orange bursts into the night sky.
He opens his eyes, only to see someone in the mirror. It's a second before he realizes it's himself.
“Oh,” he says simply. But none of this is simple anymore. (It never really was.)
His beard is growing out, reaching his neck, unkempt. His cheeks are a little sunken, and his ribs are starting to print against the taut flesh on the side of his chest.
“Oh.”
He remembers 10 years ago, when Commander Walters told him that he would be assigned to a job nobody can keep. If he couldn't stay with Doctor Robotnik, he couldn't stay at G.U.N.
He remembers 10 years ago, when he met the man with gaunt cheeks and bags under his eyes and a wrist he could wrap his fingers around twice.
He remembers 10 years ago, when plates stacked with food would be thrown at his head with the information that it was too much for a god, as the doctor claimed to be.
He remembers 8 years ago, when he held Robotnik as he sobbed. He remembers flushing the vomit in the toilet. Stone remembers being proud of him for managing to hold it down for longer than 30 minutes this time.
Stone remembers how helpless he felt at the times when the doctor had relapsed.
What would Ivo think?
Ivo…
And that's what makes him shatter. A little whimper escapes him as his eyes burn from the effort of holding back his tears. Then the dam bursts and his knees feel weak and he's kneeling on the ground like he once knelt for his soulmate. His untrimmed nails dig into his back, surely drawing blood, and he just holds himself.
“You were more than just a sycophant to me… you were a syco-friend.”
“Aban!” The door shakes with how hard Mick slams his fist against it.
It takes a moment but he quickly wipes his tears and takes a breath.
“Yeah?!” He shouts back through the door, getting up and wrapping a towel around his waist.
“Hurry up, bruv, I've got to use the loo.”
He quickly puts on the clothes and unlocks the door, quickly walking past Mick to get to his room.
Thankfully(?), Mick says nothing.
Wow. It is awful.
The stench of his own rotting burned his nose and made him scrunch his face. Is this what Mick was talking about?
Yes. It was.
He puts his clothes in the empty hamper; if he doesn't shower, he can wear them for longer, so there's no point in buying enough to fill a hamper, right?
The sheets are dirty from him picking at scabs or scratching himself until he bleeds, desperate to feel something. The sheets are dirty with sweat from nightmares. The sheets are dirty with mildew after laying in bed after walking home in the rain after work.
His nightstand housed various plates and utensils and trays from when Mick would bring him food occasionally or when Stone would order something for himself when the aforementioned housemate was gone for work.
Water bottles strewn about on the floor with colored pencils and crumpled sketchbook papers. The occasional sock here and there, and a stuffed animal or two that he had bought in an attempt to comfort himself (unsuccessfully).
Damn.
He takes a breath and tries not to gag. Mick had left a few trash bags on his bed. His lip twitches ever so slightly in a failed attempt of a smile.
Stone grabs one, opening it and wincing at the sudden loud sound- it's been a while since he heard one, in all honesty, and he's not even wholly there at the moment. He's not sure where he would be, though.
The metal forks and spoons are most definitely stained, unsalvageable. The ache in his chest burns with guilt as he picks things up and throws it to the trash.
“One thing at a time, Agent,” the doctor hissed. “You need to calm down or you'll stress yourself to death.”
Another deep breath. He'll have to wash everything. But one thing at a time.
Once the nightstand is cleaned off, he checks the drawers. He throws away anything in there. He moves to the bed.
Three hours later, he's putting the sheets and blankets in the wash, praying that it would at least help, if not fix it.
“Aban,” Mick calls. “Where are you?”
He pokes his head from the laundry room.
“Oh shite. You actually cleanin’, mate?” He asks with mild surprise.
“The shower helped,” Stone admits quietly, looking down.
“Ah. That's good then!” Mick pats him on the shoulder. Stone tries to pretend it doesn't hurt. “Proud of you, lad.”
“Thanks, Mick.”
His coworkers notice. He's got a very slight pep in his step, but it's a jarring difference from the greasy man they were working with yesterday.
“Aban!” Elise smiles. “Hey, you look nice today.”
“You always look lovely, Stone," the doctor coos.
“Yeah, I- I think I'm getting out of the funk, yknow?” He smiles brightly.
Ashton notices too, gives him a smile too.
Things are looking up.
Though when he looks up, he still sees Doctor Robotnik waiting for him.