Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

76kg.

The number stared back at him, unflinching. Same as last time. 76kg.

It was a healthy weight for his height, technically. And within the acceptable range for G.U.N.'s standards. Still, Stone couldn’t stop looking at it—like the longer he stared, the more he could will it lower.

“You can step off now, Agent,” the technician said, her voice curt but not unkind.

Right. He blinked, nodded, and stepped down, eyes flitting anywhere but the scale now. He took his file from her hands with a quiet, automatic “Thank you,” and turned to leave.

It was stupid. Really stupid. Laughable, even. A grown man spiraling over a scale reading like a teenager after discovering Tumblr. He knew he wasn’t fat. He was one of G.U.N.’s top agents, for god’s sake. Peak physical form was part of the job. But something about weighing more than he had in his early twenties clawed at him. Made him feel... wrong. Off. Heavy.

Maybe in high school, he’d flirted with disordered eating. Microscopic. Just a phase. But didn’t every kid go through something like that? He hadn’t expected it to creep back in his thirties—like some old, forgotten injury aching in the cold.

Not that it was affecting him. Of course not. He hadn’t started tracking calories in his head on autopilot. He definitely didn’t buy a Fitbit because he *had* to know his step count (24,000 on a standard day—without training). It was on sale, okay? As for the gym membership... well, he was still thinking up a reason. Not an excuse. A reason. Even if he hated Planet Fitness. Their customer service was shit. Stupid walk in only cancellation rule.

“Ah! Stone! Just in time!”

The familiar voice snapped him back to reality. When had he made it back to the lab?

“Yes, Doctor,” he said quickly, slipping the file into his work bag without glancing at the number again. 76kg. “I was just about to start your latte. Did you need anything?”

Robotnik’s grin stretched wide as he tapped a few buttons on his glove. “A new baby’s joined the pack! Come meet her, Stone—don’t be rude!”

Stone followed, forcing a small smile. The badniks always seemed to adore him, like he was some kind of father figure. Which was ironic. They weren’t even programmed to understand what a father was.

“She’s a beauty, Doctor,” he said, the words drifting out more like a sigh than a compliment.

“B-e-a-utiful!” Robotnik beamed. “She’ll be magnificent. I switched up her build—she’ll weigh a bit less than the others.”

Weigh.

76kg.

How much did the badniks weigh? Did Robotnik prefer them lighter? Did he—

Does he think Stone's too heavy?

Would he even notice if Stone lost weight? Would he care?

“Oi, space cadet! I’m talking to you.”

Stone flinched. “Sorry, Doctor! I think it’s a great idea—lighter means faster, right?”

Robotnik rolled his eyes. “Obviously. That’s why I did it, imbecile.” He turned back to his newest machine with a cooing hum. “Go make my latte, Stone.”

Stone nodded and headed to the small, sterile kitchen in the private quarters. The lab’s cold steel walls were broken only by the few warm touches he’d added over the months— nice curtains, a mug rack, a small clock, actual food in the fridge. Robotnik had complained at first, but never made him take them down.

A standard latte was about 100 calories. With goat milk, more like 160. He used half a cup per drink—60 calories from milk, plus espresso. He made three a day on long shifts. Nearly 500 calories from lattes alone.
492, to be exact.

The thought made his stomach twist.

What the hell was wrong with him? He was an agent. He burned through calories just walking from meeting to meeting. Still, that number stuck in his mind like a splinter.

Latte finished, he returned to the lab with his usual composure. “Your latte, Doctor!” he said with forced cheer.

Robotnik took it, sipped, and hummed with satisfaction. “It’s efficient, Stone.”

That single word warmed him more than the steam from the cup. He looked down, rubbing his hands together absently. “Thank you, Doctor.”

“Yeah, yeah. Off you go, Agent.”

Stone slung his bag over one shoulder and turned toward the exit. “Have a good night, Doctor.”

Robotnik grumbled something in response—noncommittal, but familiar. Stone smiled faintly at the sound, the corners of his mouth twitching in something between affection and exhaustion.

Chapter Text

Stone hadn’t meant to stop by the store. The detour was unplanned, like most of his bad ideas lately. He definitely hadn’t meant to buy a scale. Carrying it up to the register felt humiliating—like walking around with a confession taped to his chest.

The cashier scanned the box with a light chuckle.
“Well, you sure don’t look like you need a scale. Trying to lose a few pounds though? I get it.”

He froze.

What the hell was that supposed to mean?

He hadn’t said anything about losing weight. Did he look like he still needed to? Did she not realize he was probably in better shape than anyone else in this store? That he could take them all down in under five minutes if he had to?

“Yeah…” he muttered, eyes down, grabbing the bag and walking out before his shame could solidify into words.

------

He didn’t know how long he’d been staring in the mirror.

How had he never noticed it before? The softness in his face. The slight bulge at his waist. It was subtle—barely anything—but now it was all he could see.

Why would G.U.N. want someone like this?

Why would HE want someone like this?

Would Robotnik even look at him the same, if he noticed?

He’d ruin the doctor’s reputation at this rate. Dr. Ivo Gerald Robotnik—the unmatched genius of their era—being shadowed by a bloated, weak, undisciplined mess of an agent. A joke in a suit.

His face felt damp.

Crying? When had that started?

Why was he crying? He wasn’t sad. Not exactly. But then—what was he?

Ashamed? That he let it get this far?

Embarrassed? That he was 30 and still dealing with this?

Confused? This didn’t happen yesterday. Yesterday he was fine. Right?

Overwhelmed? Disgusted? Maybe all of it. Maybe none of it. The noise in his head wouldn't let him think straight.

He wiped his face and pulled his sleep shirt over his head.

Maybe dinner would help him calm down.

...Dinner?

Really?

This was about his weight, and he was already thinking about eating?

What kind of agent couldn’t keep it together for one damn day?

Still, technically, he’d moved around a lot today. Tomorrow would be long, too. If he ate tonight, maybe it wouldn’t matter. He could work it off.

Yeah. He’d eat tonight.

Except he had that meeting with Robotnik in the morning. He needed to fit his suit right. Look sharp. Professional. Worth keeping around.

God—why was this so hard?

He was a grown man. This shouldn’t still be happening.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and stared at nothing, bargaining with the thoughts.

Okay. Two and a half days. He’d eat again in two and a half days. That gave him time to reset. Get himself back in line.

He stood and went to brush his teeth, as if that small ritual could seal the decision in place.

He wasn’t a failure. He wasn’t a quitter. He was going to do this.

Just... don’t ask him what this is.

Hell if he knows anymore.

Chapter Text

He stood in front of the mirror, shirtless, pants unbuttoned, toothbrush hanging limply from his mouth as he stared at himself. The early morning light was soft, forgiving—but he knew better. He knew where to look. The faint swelling under his jaw, the slight redness in his eyes, the way his stomach didn’t look flat enough today.

He rinsed his mouth, spit, and leaned closer to the mirror. His jaw clenched.

He walked to the kitchen, avoiding the fridge. Not out of forgetfulness—out of discipline. The thought of food this early felt like stepping off a ledge. If he ate, it might start. One bite could unravel everything.

Instead, he opened a cabinet and pulled down a bottle of antacid. Two chalky tablets. He let them dissolve on his tongue as he made himself a lower calorie latte. Burned his tongue again. He didn’t care. It dulled the hunger and kept his hands from shaking—for a while.

His uniform was hanging on the back of a chair: black button-down, dark slacks. Simple, plain. The kind of clothes that didn’t cling, didn’t hug too tight. He’d tried to wear tighter stuff before in high school when his eating was disordered. Got compliments. It made him spiral. He couldn’t stop thinking about how he looked, how he should look, how he could make himself smaller again.

In the bathroom, he spritzed cologne, combed his hair. Straightened the lines of his shirt. Adjusted the collar to hide his embarrassingly not visible enough collar bones.

He checked his work bag twice—wallet, keys, breath mints. Always the mints, he remembered. Then he stood by the door, hesitating. Not because he didn’t want to go, but because he didn’t want to spend the whole day pretending. Pretending he’d eaten whenever an idiot colleague might ask. Pretending he didn’t feel dizzy sometimes after all the walking he’ll do. Pretending he was fine. That used to be the worst part when he was younger. But the first day was always the hardest.

He took a final gulp of his coffee, popped a mint in his mouth, and started practicing the thin smile he wore at work to keep idiots off his back. The one that said: 'I’m okay. Don’t ask. Don't talk to me unless you’re the doctor.'

Then he left.

And the world didn’t know the war he was already losing before 7 AM.
----
Streetlights buzzed overhead, casting a pale orange hue across the empty sidewalks. The sky was a soft steel blue, not quite dark, not quite dawn. He walked alone, his breath showing in short puffs. His jacket was zipped to the top, hands stuffed into his pockets, head down like he was trying to disappear into himself.

His stomach churned. It wasn’t hunger exactly — it was more like absence. A hollow, throbbing space that reminded him of what he promised himself last night. 2 days. That's all. 2 days.

Now he was walking it off. That’s what he told himself, anyway. Walking it off. Fixing it. Resetting his mind.
As he neared the corner deli, he glanced in. Muffins in the display case. Egg sandwiches under heat lamps. Coffee brewing. His body screamed for it — for something warm, something to fill the ache — but he walked past. Eating this early would ruin everything. He hadn’t earned it. Not yet.

The G.U.N. building wasn’t far now. He slowed down to buy himself time before he had to put on his work face. He rolled his shoulders. Breathed deep. Tried to feel normal. He felt better knowing he’d see his doctor. Robotnik really was the highlight of his day.

He took a deep breath, and walked inside.

Chapter Text

It’s harder to not think about it than he thought. He wasn't the kind of guy to always think of food or his body, but damn that's all that filled his mind.

He walked a bit more, the city beginning to hum behind him — traffic lights changing, shop gates rattling open. But this part of town stayed mostly silent. Fewer civilians. More concrete. Fewer windows.

The G.U.N. building loomed ahead, blocky and gray against the sky. Government-issued security. Cold, clean lines. flag outside shifted lightly in the wind, brushing against its pole with a steady flick-flick-flick.

He approached the side entrance, badge already clipped to his belt, the routine practiced to muscle memory. A flicker of his ID under the scanner. A nod from the guard, who barely looked up.

“Morning,” the guard muttered.

“Yeah,” Stone replied. That was all. Voice low, tired. He didn’t need more than that.

The lobby lights were sterile and bright — too bright for this hour. His shoes echoed off the polished floor as he made his way toward the elevators. No one else was there yet. He liked that. He could breathe a little before the others arrived. Before the questions, the meetings, the protocol.

The elevator dinged, and he stepped inside. Pressed the button for the lower-level offices. As the doors closed, he leaned against the wall and shut his eyes just for a second.
The doctor was probably already here. Stone smiled at the thought, Robotnik was probably already complaining about how late Stone is and how bored and tired he’s been without a latte.

Oh, his latte.

Stone reached into his bag and double checked the small thermos he always keeps Robotnik’s latte in for travel meetings. Still warm.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, and Stone stepped out onto the main operations floor. The halls were wide, gray, and sterile — no windows, just matte-painted walls lined with security panels and silent cameras watching everything.

He moved with practiced efficiency, his shoes muffled against the military-grade tile. His ID badge swayed lightly as he walked, catching the occasional flicker from the overhead fluorescents. He passed a few early arrivals — some nods, a muttered “morning” here and there — but he kept his pace even and his expression blank. They didn’t need to know how much effort it took to look normal.

His stomach gave a faint lurch, and he swallowed hard.

Not now. Just get through the meeting. Don’t think about food. Or yesterday. Or anything else.

He ran a hand through his hair, adjusting his collar as he neared the conference room — Meeting Room 3B, stenciled in white on the door. The air outside it was colder. Tighter. He could already hear the muffled voice of Robotnik grumbling to one of his badniks inside.

You’re fine. You’re in control. Just sit, listen, speak when spoken to. Smile if you have to.

His fingers were cold when he reached for the handle. He wiped them on his pants and opened the door.

Chapter Text

“There you are, Agent! Took you long enough!” Robotnik snapped, arms crossed. “I’ve been stewing here alone for an hour and a half!”

Stone stepped inside, smiling softly, pulling the thermos from his bag with practiced flourish. “My apologies, Doctor,” he said brightly, handing it over. “I brought your latte.”

Robotnik snatched it with a grunt. “You’re lucky I love your lattes, Stone—or you'd have been vaporized on sight.” He took a long sip, letting out a sigh. “It’s freezing in here, don’t you think?” He rubbed his hands together, his scowl deepening.

“I agree, sir,” Stone replied, hugging his own arms close for warmth.

The cold pulled at memories—high school hallways, hollow mornings, skipping meals to feel in control. He hadn’t felt cold like this in years.

“I’m surprised no one else is early,” Stone said, scanning the empty room. “Aren’t they higher-ups?”

“Pfft. Higher-ups shmigher ups.” Robotnik rolled his eyes. “They’re lazy, Stone. That’s why we’re better than them.”

We’re better than them.

It used to be 'I’m better than them', back when Stone had just started working for him. Somewhere along the way, it had become we.
He wasn’t about to question it. In fact sometimes, in bed, he thought about it while he—

“So, what do you want to do for lunch, sycophant?” Robotnik interrupted with a huff.

Lunch.

Shit.

He forgot they always had lunch together on meeting days. His mind scrambled for an excuse—something believable.

Stomach bug?
Lingering cold?
No appetite?

“I can’t really think of anything right now, Doctor,” Stone said, casually flipping through his notes. “Had a big breakfast. Food’s the last thing on my mind.”

Robotnik leaned back in his chair with a shrug. “Suit yourself. I might just heat up some cup noodles later. I think I’ve still got a pack at the lab.”

Stone’s stomach twisted. “That’s not enough to fill you, sir. What about something from the fridge?”

Robotnik scoffed. “I’m not a child, Stone. And there’s nothing worth eating in there.”

Damn it. He couldn’t just let the doctor survive on dehydrated noodles. Not when his Ivo deserved something better.

He’d pick up a decent sandwich for him from that deli on 5th. Something filling. He wouldn’t get anything for himself, of course.
Control. That’s all it took.

As the higher-ups trickled in, Stone greeted each of them with polished charm while Robotnik muttered venomous commentary under his breath. Stone almost broke composure more than once—some of the insults were creatively vicious.

Luckily the meeting should distract him from his thoughts, and the pang in his stomach about lunch. He took a deep breath and relaxed his nerves when Walters began to speak.

Chapter Text

The meeting dragged on for nearly two hours, filled with bureaucratic droning and power-pointed nonsense. Stone took notes with quiet efficiency while Robotnik audibly sighed, rolled his eyes, and muttered venomous commentary under his breath.

Every so often, Stone passed him a sticky note with a deadpan sketch of someone in the room getting vaporized. Robotnik smirked each time, his expression softening only for Stone.

Once the last higher-up had finally filed out, Robotnik groaned like a man emerging from a coma. “I swear, Stone, if I have to sit through one more slideshow about funding distribution or security protocol reviews, I will wire the projector to explode mid-sentence next time.”

Stone smiled, standing to gather the abandoned printouts. “I can add it to your calendar, sir.”

Robotnik stood and stretched his back with a loud pop. “Ugh. Right. Lunch.”

Stone’s stomach twisted. He’d hoped Robotnik would forget. No such luck.

“Still not hungry?” Robotnik asked, narrowing his eyes as he packed away his notes and empty thermos.

Stone shook his head. “Still full, Doctor. That latte really held me over.” He kept his voice light, the lie sliding out like a reflex.

Robotnik grunted. “Suit yourself. But I meant what I said earlier—I’ll just make me some cup noodles or something.”

“Of course not,” he said quickly. “Actually… I was thinking I could swing by that deli you like. Grab you a sandwich before we head back.”

Robotnik paused, suspicious, but intrigued. “The one with the rosemary bread?”

Stone nodded. “And the smoked turkey you claim is the only one worthy of your palate.”

Robotnik waved a hand. “Fine, fine. Make it fast. I’ll wait by the car.” He swept past Stone, lab cape billowing, muttering something about not wasting genius on an empty stomach.

Once he was gone, Stone exhaled. He gathered his bag and smoothed his tie with practiced hands.

Stone wouldn’t get anything for himself. He told himself he wasn’t hungry. That he'd eat later.

That he was in control.
That it was fine.

But the cold that clung to his fingers said otherwise.
—---------
The wind had picked up.
Stone walked with his collar pulled high, gloved hands shoved deep into his coat pockets. The meeting building faded behind him, and the sidewalk stretched on, gray and uneven. The sky above was overcast, not quite threatening rain, but dull enough to wash everything in a metallic haze. He could feel the cold through his slacks—sharp, insistent—and knew it wasn’t just the weather.

The deli was five blocks away. A manageable walk. He took this route every time the doctor wanted a sandwich, always at the same pace, same posture, same purposeful stride.

His body reminded him he didn’t eat breakfast with a pang low in his stomach, but he pushed it away. It wasn’t hunger, not truly. It was noise. Static. Something he could outlast.

What mattered was the sandwich.

Stone rehearsed the order in his head like a mantra.

Smoked turkey, rosemary bread. Mild mustard. No tomato. Add pickles. Sharp cheddar. Toasted.

He could hear the way Robotnik grumbled when it was wrong—“You’d think a genius wouldn’t need to specify every time, but apparently sandwich science is beyond these people”—but Stone never got it wrong.

A tiny part of him liked that. That he could provide this one small thing that made Robotnik sigh and close his eyes for a moment when he bit into it. That he could give him warmth. Something substantial.

The deli door jingled as he stepped in. The blast of warmth hit him immediately, tinged with sharp spices, roasted meat, and yeasty bread. It should have made his stomach grumble. It didn’t.

“Afternoon,” the man behind the counter greeted with a smile. “Usual?”

Stone nodded. “Yes, please. Toasted. And don’t forget the—”

“Pickles. I got you.”

Stone offered a tight smile. He stood near the window as they made the sandwich, watching passersby hurry along with scarves and coffee cups. His reflection in the glass looked paler than he remembered. His cheeks a little hollow. He tugged at the hem of his coat, feeling vaguely exposed.

The man handed him the warm sandwich, neatly wrapped. “There you go. Want anything for yourself today, sir?”

Stone shook his head. “Just this.”

“You sure? We’ve got that lentil soup you liked last winter—”

“I’m sure.” The words came out sharper than he meant. “Thank you.”

He paid and stepped out into the cold again, the warmth of the sandwich against his gloved hands like a secret he wasn’t allowed to keep.

Back in the direction of the lab. Back to Robotnik.

Chapter Text

The lab was quiet when Stone returned. The overhead fluorescents buzzed faintly, casting long shadows across the polished floor and half-finished machines. Stone’s shoes clicked with every step, carrying the sandwich in both hands like it was something sacred.

Robotnik noticed Stone from his lab chair and immediately shed his gloves, tossing them haphazardly onto a nearby console. “Did they toast it this time?” he asked, already reaching for the wrapper.

Stone nodded, setting the sandwich on a clean tray before placing it down beside the doctor’s usual seat. “Perfectly. Pickles and sharp cheddar too.”

Robotnik grunted in satisfaction. “Finally. One thing today hasn’t been an utter disappointment.”

Stone busied himself by hanging up Robotnik’s coat and straightening a few wires on the desk, pretending he didn’t notice the way the smell of the sandwich filled the lab. It was rich—warm rosemary, melted cheese, smoked meat. A meal. A real one.

He didn’t sit.

Robotnik took a bite and sighed through his nose, visibly relaxing as he chewed. “Mm. Stone. You’re wasted on fieldwork. You should’ve been my personal lapdog, fetching anything I need.”

“It’d be an honor,” Stone said, brushing invisible dust off a monitor. “But then who’d bring you your lattes?”

“Good point.” Robotnik took another bite. “You’re a man of many indispensable talents.”

Stone smiled brightly, back still to him, "Thank you, doctor."

“So?” Robotnik asked, voice muffled by food. “Still not hungry?”

“No, sir.” Stone tapped a few keys, checking lab diagnostics that didn’t need checking. “Still full.”

There was a pause. Not long. Just enough.

----------

“Hmph. I’ve always thought breakfast was a waste of time,” Robotnik muttered. “Too many people use it as an excuse to eat sugar and call it fuel.”

Stone didn’t respond. He didn’t trust himself to.

Robotnik kept eating, humming softly in contentment. Stone glanced over his shoulder once—just long enough to see the doctor chewing thoughtfully, eyes narrowed at some schematic on the table, hair a mess, crumbs on his chin. Stone felt the familiar twist in his gut. Hunger—not for food, but for something else. Something harder to name.

Eventually, Robotnik crumpled the wrapper and tossed it into the trash bin with a perfect arc. “Delicious. I feel ten percent less homicidal. Good work, Stone.”

“I live to serve,” Stone murmured, still not sitting.

Robotnik wiped his hands with a cloth and gave him a sidelong glance. “You’ve been quiet.”

“Just focused.”

Another pause.

Then, with something almost soft in his voice, Robotnik said, “You’ll tell me if you start malfunctioning, right? You’re no use to me in low power mode.”

Stone blinked. That was as close to concern as the doctor ever got.

“I’m fine,” he said gently. “Really.”

Robotnik didn’t press. He never did.

And Stone went back to work, standing beside the doctor at the console, the cold settling deeper in his limbs while his stomach stayed hollow—and ignored.

----------

The hum of machines filled the silence throughout the lab all day. Robotnik adjusted his goggles and hunched over a circuit array, fingers moving with obsessive precision.

Stone stood beside him, tablet in hand, cataloguing every adjustment without missing a beat. It was how their afternoons usually looked—shoulders nearly brushing, voices low, minds almost perfectly in sync. To anyone else, it would have seemed like just another workday. But to Stone, the air felt slightly heavier, like each breath had to be consciously drawn.

The lack of food was catching up to him.

He moved carefully, precisely, as though sudden motion might betray him—might make his body speak the things he refused to say.

“Status on the drone recalibration?” Robotnik asked, without looking up.

Stone blinked back the fog creeping in at the edges of his vision and cleared his throat. “Complete. Tuning parameters are stable, no desync between command and propulsion.”

Robotnik grinned. “Excellent. Maybe this one won’t fly itself into a canyon wall.”

Stone forced a small smile. “One can only hope, Doctor.”

The next few hours passed in a blur of code, soldering, and field testing. They moved between labs like they were attached by invisible string. Robotnik barked orders. Stone anticipated half of them. Somewhere along the way, Robotnik handed Stone a wrench without looking, and Stone passed him a data chip at the exact moment he reached for one. They worked like a machine with two minds.

But Stone’s body wasn’t cooperating.

His hands started trembling slightly by late afternoon—just enough for him to keep them stuffed in his pockets when he wasn’t typing or carrying something. He told himself it wasn’t noticeable. He could hold out.

Robotnik didn’t say anything, but every so often, he glanced over with narrowed eyes. Brief. Quick. Almost casual.

Eventually, they paused in one of the smaller test bays. Robotnik leaned back against a workbench, pulling off his goggles, face smudged with oil and satisfaction.

“God, I love watching things explode in just the right way,” he said, exhaling deeply. “Stone, remind me to patent that blast funnel design. It’s genius.”

“I already made a note,” Stone said softly, entering it into his tablet with steady fingers. He had to grip it harder than usual.

Robotnik studied him a moment longer, then looked away.

They didn’t get dinner. They rarely did anyways. Robotnik’s mind burned too hot to pause, and Stone… well, Stone told himself that was convenient.

At some point, it got dark. Robotnik kicked his feet up onto a desk and began idly sketching something on a whiteboard—something wild and likely . Stone dimmed the lights without being asked, then returned to sorting files, the glow of the screen casting soft light over his drawn features.

“I should head home now, Doctor,” Stone said, rising from his chair with a quiet stretch. His arms reached up over his head, back arching slightly as he tried to shake off the stiffness in his muscles.

Robotnik didn’t respond right away. His eyes were still fixed on the screen in front of him, fingers twitching near the keyboard. After a beat, he gave a low grunt. “Hmph. About time.”

Stone smiled. “I hardly make a difference around here."

At that, Robotnik let out a sharp, dry laugh. “If only that were true. Your dumb questions drive me nuts.”

Stone slung his bag over his shoulder and made for the door, then paused, glancing back. “Try not to stay up all night, alright? You need your rest.”

That earned a scoff and a flick of plastic—a cap from some half-disassembled device—sent lazily in his direction. “Don’t get sentimental on me, sycophant. I function perfectly on three hours and spite.”

Stone laughed, kicking the cap out of the walk way. “Sure you do.”

Robotnik didn’t reply this time. He was already leaning back over the desk, muttering to himself, fingers dancing again over scattered parts and glowing screens. But Stone didn’t leave right away.
He stood in the doorway for a moment, watching the other man with a quiet expression. There was something oddly peaceful about Robotnik in this state—deep in thought, completely absorbed, the harshness of his voice smoothed out by focus.

“Goodnight, Doctor,” Stone said at last, softer this time.

Robotnik didn’t look up. But his hand twitched slightly, almost like he meant to wave—then thought better of it.

Stone lingered just a moment longer before stepping out, the faint click of the door behind him swallowed by the soft hum of the lab.

Chapter Text

The air outside was thick with humidity, the kind that settled against your skin and clung like a second shirt. The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, leaving the city awash in sodium streetlamp glow and the occasional flicker of darkness. Stone walked slowly, his strides measured, like every movement required calculation. His polished shoes tapped gently along the pavement, bag swinging lightly at his side.

The further he got from the building, the more the sounds changed—less mechanical hum, more distant traffic and the occasional murmur of passing conversation. He didn’t really hear it. His head was full of static, the kind born from a long day, from low fuel, from restraint.

The sandwich smell had followed him all afternoon. It haunted his coat, clung to the fibers of his shirt like a taunt. That hollow ache wasn’t hunger anymore—it was just a presence, a companion.
He passed the late-night deli on the corner, the one where he’d picked up Robotnik’s sandwich. Warm light spilled from the windows, and he didn’t look inside.

His apartment wasn’t far. Just a few more blocks, just a few more carefully placed steps.

When he reached the building, the doorman gave him a nod. “Evenin’, Mr. Stone.”

Stone nodded politely. “Evening, Marcus.”

The elevator ride up was silent, save for the soft whir of the machinery and the hum of tired fluorescent lighting overhead. His reflection stared back at him in the metal panel—tie slightly askew, sleeves wrinkled, dark circles under his eyes deeper than usual. He adjusted nothing.

Inside his apartment, everything was in perfect order. Spotless counters. Straight picture frames. The same ambient lighting he always left on to keep the place from feeling too empty.

He placed his bag down carefully, removed his shoes, and loosened his tie with a mechanical sort of grace. His fingers hovered over the fridge handle but didn’t pull. Instead, he turned away and poured himself a glass of water from the tap, letting it run a second longer than necessary. He sipped slowly, then placed the glass down and left it half full.

He sat on the edge of the bed and let his body finally slump forward, elbows on knees, hands folded loosely. His stomach curled, protesting the absence of anything real inside it—but he didn’t move to fix it. He just sat there, the room quiet around him, the city murmuring softly outside the window.

The ache behind his eyes pulsed gently. He closed them.

It had been a good day, by his new standards.

Robotnik had eaten.

Robotnik hadn’t been too stressed during the meeting.

He’d said Stone was indispensable.

And Stone had smiled, and laughed, and stood perfectly still while his body quietly fell apart.

He’d made it through the day. That was enough.

Tomorrow would come. He’d wake up. He’d suit up. He’d show up.

And maybe—maybe he’d eat. Maybe he wouldn’t.

But the Doctor would be there. The machines would run. And that would be enough.

Stone leaned back, letting his head rest against the pillows eyes still closed.

“Goodnight, Doctor,” he whispered into the silence, one more time.

And the room, in its stillness, said nothing back.

------------

The clock on his nightstand read 1:13 a.m.

The room was dark except for the soft orange glow from the streetlight outside his window, casting faint shadows across the ceiling. He laid on his back, eyes wide open, chest tight. He hadn't moved in nearly an hour. He was tired, but not tired enough. Empty, but not comfortably so.

His stomach ached in that hollow, echoing way — the kind of ache that made his jaw tense and his throat feel tight. He rolled onto his side. Then onto his back again. He pressed a hand to his abdomen.

‘You made it through the day. You did what you said you would.’

No breakfast. No lunch. Dinner skipped under the excuse of overtime. Just coffee. Water. Focus. Discipline.

But now the silence was loud.

The hunger wasn’t just physical anymore. It was crawling under his skin. In his teeth. Behind his eyes.

“Don’t,” he whispered aloud. Just to fill the space. “You’ll ruin everything.”

But he was already out of bed.

Barefoot, still in his undershirt and sweatpants, he padded toward the kitchen like a ghost — silent, careful, but pulled forward like something had taken the wheel.

He opened the fridge. Cold air spilled out over his hands. His brain was already racing, making calculations even as his fingers twitched.

Leftover pasta. The sandwich he didn’t eat. A box of protein bars. Almonds. Peanut butter. A frozen waffle. A bottle of syrup.

Too much. All of it. But that’s the point, right?

He started slow. Just a piece of bread. Then another. Then peanut butter, straight from the jar, eaten fast and rough off the spoon. No chewing. Just swallowing.

Then came the pasta, cold. He didn’t bother heating it up. It was about filling the space. Quieting the ache. Quieting the thoughts. The shame came fast, but it never stopped him. Not in the middle of it.
By the time he stood up straight, the edge of the counter pressing into his hip, there was a mess of wrappers and crumbs around him. The fridge door was still open. His hands were shaking.

Too much. Too fast. He was doing so well.

The ache in his stomach was different now — full, bloated, painful. Not satisfied. Never satisfied.

He stared down at the food on the counter. Half a sandwich left. The rest of the granola bar box.

He pressed the heel of his palm hard against his eyes.

"Stupid. You were doing so well."

The next part was already decided. Even before his body started reacting, even before the nausea hit — he already knew what came next. Something he hasn't even thought of doing since high school.

The bathroom light flicked on a few minutes later.

The door clicked shut.

And the silence returned.

--------

The bathroom light was still on, but he couldn’t bring himself to go back and turn it off.

He lay curled on his side, back in bed, the sheets twisted around his legs. His skin was clammy with sweat, and his throat burned — raw and sore like it had been sanded from the inside. The taste in his mouth was metallic and sour. He hadn’t even rinsed. Didn’t care. Couldn’t move.

His body felt hollow and heavy at the same time.

Too much. Too little. Always too much, always too little.

He pressed a hand to his stomach. It didn’t ache anymore. It just existed. He hated it. Hated how quiet it was now, how obedient. It had gotten what it wanted, and now it rested. But he didn’t.

His mind wouldn’t shut up.

You ruined it. Again. You were clean all day. You were in control. You’re weak. You’re disgusting.

He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. The streetlight glow outside blinked faintly through the blinds, casting lines across his face, his eyes, the wall behind him.

The air in the room felt thick, like it hadn’t moved in hours. The silence wasn’t peaceful — it was suffocating.

His heart was still racing, even though he wasn’t doing anything. Just lying there. Just existing in the after.

He thought about getting up again. Brushing his teeth. Drinking water. Turning off the light. But even the smallest movements felt impossible.

You deserve to lie here. Filthy. Unfixed.

He exhaled through his nose, long and slow. Blinked. Tried not to cry. He didn’t want tears — that felt like attention. Even from himself.

Instead, he stared up into the dark until the lines blurred, until his body went numb, and eventually — whether from exhaustion, shame, or pure depletion — sleep found him.

Heavy. Cold. Dreamless.

Chapter Text

The alarm went off exactly at 6:00 a.m.

Stone’s eyes were already open.

He lay still for a moment, staring up at the ceiling with perfect posture even in bed, hands folded over his stomach like he was preparing for inspection. The alarm buzzed once more before he reached out and shut it off — not with urgency, but with the same measured efficiency he applied to everything else.

The room was clean, orderly.

Quiet.

He sat up slowly, with control. No stretch, no yawn. Just a quiet, mechanical movement — like winding himself back into function.

Last night flickered through his mind like static. The kitchen. The food. The bathroom floor.

And the part that hadn't happened since he was a teenager — since before the military, before G.U.N., before he ever met 𝘩𝘪𝘮.
He didn’t sigh. He didn’t allow that. But his jaw clenched. Just once.

He rose, walked to the bathroom. The light was still on.

Of course it was.

The mirror caught him immediately — sharp cheekbones, dark eyes, neat hair pressed flat from sleep. He looked fine. He 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘥 fine. That was the point.

He turned the faucet on and began washing his face. Twice. Then once more, just to feel the cold settle into his skin.

When he brushed his teeth, he didn’t look at his reflection. He didn’t need to. He knew what he’d see — the flushed cheeks, the faint swelling along his jawline, the blood vessels that had burst in one of his eyes. Small things. Things no one would notice. Not unless they were looking too closely.

And no one ever looked that closely.

No one except maybe the Doctor.

He pressed his mouth into a line at the thought, then rinsed and dried his face. Clean towel. Precise fold. Everything in its place.

Back in the bedroom, he dressed in silence. Shirt first — crisp and black — then the pressed G.U.N. slacks, the belt, the boots shined the night before. His tie hung perfectly even, the knot neat and high. He tugged on his jacket last, smoothing the fabric down his sleeves with practiced fingers.

Not one hair out of place.

It was always easier when things looked good. He’d learned that young — how polish could hide almost anything. How a straight back and a pleasant smile could hold people at arm’s length better than cruelty ever could.

In the kitchen, the fridge sat closed. He didn’t open it. He knew what was inside. He wasn’t going to clean it up yet.

He poured himself a cup of coffee.

He took a sip. Swallowed. Let it burn.

The clock on the wall read 6:42. He had eighteen minutes before he had to leave. Just enough time to compose himself into the man everyone expected to see.

He sat at the table, legs crossed neatly, spine straight, hands folded in front of him — like a soldier in an empty chapel. He stared out the window, watching the street below begin to stir with life.

You slipped. Just once.

The voice in his head was calm. Controlled. Just like his own. No longer degrading him.

It won’t happen again.

And it wouldn’t.

Not because he 𝘸𝘢𝘴 better — but because he had to be.

—--------

The streets were still quiet, the sun not yet fully risen. The city was dressed in soft grays and golds, the edges of buildings just beginning to catch light. Everything was clean and still — exactly how Stone liked it.

He walked with purpose, shoulders squared, hands gloved and folded neatly behind his back. Each step was measured, silent, but deliberate. His polished shoes clicked faintly against the concrete, perfectly timed. His coat billowed just slightly with each movement — a tailored silhouette against the morning haze.

Anyone passing by would see discipline. Elegance. A man unshaken. Impeccable as always.

Inside, he was quiet. But not calm.

There was a familiar weight in his chest — the kind that couldn’t be steamed out or hidden beneath a good collar. He hadn’t purged in years. Not since high school. Not since he was seventeen and still trying to make himself small enough to be invisible and perfect at the same time.

And yet, last night.

He hadn’t slept. Just stared at the ceiling. Reviewed protocol reports in his head. Counted backward from one hundred. Thought about the Doctor. Thought about control. Thought about the taste of syrup still coating the back of his throat. Thought about the Doctor again.

He adjusted the cuff of his sleeve.

“It won’t happen again.”

He said it aloud, softly, like a mantra — not for anyone else. Just for himself. Spoken with the same tone he used when reassuring Robotnik, or issuing a command to an underling. Calm. Efficient. Unyielding.

The G.U.N. compound came into view at the end of the block — tall and gray, just beginning to cast its long shadow across the street. The American flag snapped in the breeze overhead.

Sharp. Symmetrical. Symbolic.

Stone’s jaw flexed, just slightly, as he reached for his ID badge.

The guard at the gate barely glanced at him.

“Morning, Agent.”

He offered a pleasant nod. “Good morning.”

No smile, but not cold. Just precise. Just enough.

He passed through the security checkpoint with the same grace he did everything. Controlled. Immaculate. Seamless.

Inside the building, everything smelled like disinfectant and static. The walls were a familiar, lifeless gray. The lighting was harsh. Comfort wasn’t part of the design here.

Which suited him just fine at work.

The walk to the elevators was quiet — just the faint buzz of lights overhead, the distant hum of tech coming online. He liked this time of day. Before the chaos. Before the work.

Before anyone could see through the shell.

As the elevator doors opened and he stepped inside, Agent Stone took a long, slow breath.

Straightened his jacket.

Smoothed his hair back once more.

By the time the doors closed, the mask was already firmly back in place.

----------

The doors to the lab slid open with a hydraulic hiss.

Stone stepped inside, heels soft against the polished floor, already noting what had changed overnight — a monitor had been moved, wiring was exposed again beneath the central workbench, and one of the badnik drones lay in parts on the floor like it had been disassembled mid-tantrum.

He walked the perimeter of the space, coat still on, hands behind his back as he began tidying with almost unconscious precision. A coil of wire was returned to its proper hook. A loose stylus was straightened next to the console. A cup — empty, cracked — was carefully picked up with a gloved hand and tossed in the bin.

Each motion soothed a tiny edge of his mind. The quiet chaos of the lab was familiar. Expected. Tolerable.

What wasn’t familiar — what was new and loud despite its silence — was the lingering discomfort in his body. The acid burn in his throat. The slight tremble in his right hand when he reached for the control tablet.

He ignored it.

There was no room for weakness here.

He tugged at his sleeve. Smoothed his collar. Reset his posture. Back to work.

Stone perked up when he heard the rhythmic stomp of heavy shoes behind him. Then the doors swung open with their usual dramatic flair.

Dr. Robotnik swept in like a hurricane with a pulse.

His coat flared out behind him, goggles perched on his head, gloves half-on, holding a half-crushed energy bar in one hand and gesturing wildly with the other.

“Stone! There you are. Have the surveillance logs from Sector Nine loaded or do I need to build a better assistant out of coat hangers and resentment?”

Stone turned just in time to greet him with a perfectly calm nod.

“Already queued, Doctor.”

He tapped his tablet and sent the feed to the primary screen overhead.

“Would you like it with or without time-stamped overlays?”

Robotnik paused mid-stride. Blinked. Then smiled — wide and unhinged.

“Ahh. That’s why you’re still my most tolerable organism on this miserable planet.”

Stone didn’t react outwardly besides a smile. Inwardly, the words hit — like they always did — somewhere deep and half-buried.

I’d kill for you.

Even though you don’t need me.

You’re the only reason I try.

The only reason I wake up.

“Very good, sir.” He turned, walking toward the central console, keeping his movements precise and professional. “There’s also a flagged anomaly in last night’s thermal scan — I’ve highlighted the frame.”

Robotnik was already talking over him, spinning into a new theory, launching into a rant about vibration frequencies and unauthorized energy signatures — the kind of storm only he could ride.

Stone stood beside him, nodding when necessary, answering when prompted. Efficient. Steady. A calm eye in the storm.

But underneath the composure, he still felt it: the burn in his throat, the hollowness in his gut, the memory of the mirror.

Robotnik didn’t notice.

And that was for the best.

------------

The day unfolded the way most of them did: with noise, motion, and brilliance laced with madness.

Robotnik paced the lab, fingers flying across holographic keyboards, muttering to himself, sometimes laughing, sometimes barking commands. He was a force of nature — volatile, electrified, utterly focused.

Stone stayed a step behind. Always in sync. Always steady.

He handed the Doctor tools before he could ask. Pulled up data files before Robotnik could finish the command. Adjusted machinery, ran diagnostics, intercepted interruptions. Efficient. Polished. Invaluable.

“Stone,” Robotnik barked around midday, eyes glued to the monitor, “I need the Phase-Three schematics. And coffee. Now. Preferably in that order.”

“Of course, Doctor.”

Stone moved without hesitation, boots silent on the lab floor. He fetched the schematics first — already queued, already annotated. He handed them over with a slight tilt of his head, then turned to retrieve the latte.

His stomach twisted at the smell of it — bitter, rich, warm — everything he hadn’t let himself have. Everything he wouldn’t.

He set it down beside Robotnik wordlessly.

“You’re unusually quiet today,” Robotnik muttered, not looking at him.

Stone’s heart missed a beat — but his face didn’t change.

He offered a faint smile. “Just focused, sir.”

Robotnik grunted. “Hm. Good. We’ve got no room for fragility today. None.”

Stone nodded once. “Understood.”

It was always understood.

---------

Hours passed.

The lab filled with noise: electric hums, beeping drones, Robotnik’s voice slicing through silence with manic precision. Stone moved like a shadow at his side, catching the pieces before they fell. Making sure the mess never touched him.

By late afternoon, his legs were aching from standing. His throat felt dry, his chest tighter. He hadn’t sat, hadn’t eaten, hadn’t stopped moving — but that was the goal. Motion meant discipline. Stillness was dangerous.

A badnik exploded near the ceiling. Robotnik cackled.

Stone didn’t flinch. He just marked it for cleanup.

-----------

Near evening, Robotnik finally paused.

He stood in front of the lab's main screen, fingers laced behind his back, his coat dusted with scorch marks, goggles perched crooked on his head.

“This plan,” he muttered, voice lower now, “this one will work. I can feel it.” His grin was wide, teeth bared. “We’re close, Stone.”

Stone stood beside him, hands clasped behind him, eyes focused forward.

“We always are, Doctor.”

There was something like silence between them. Not comfortable, not warm — but not entirely cold either. The kind of silence that comes when both parties know the other too well to speak unnecessarily.

Robotnik’s gaze flicked to him for a second, unreadable.

“You don’t need to stay late tonight,” he said, almost offhand.

Stone blinked. That was unusual.

“Are you certain?” he asked carefully. “There’s still work to—”

“I said go.” Robotnik waved a hand. “I’ll only end up yelling at you, and frankly I don’t have the energy.”

Right. Stone would just get in the way.

Stone nodded once. “Very well.”

He gathered his things with smooth, deliberate movements. Nothing rushed. Nothing uncertain. But as he turned to leave, Robotnik called out behind him, “Stone.”

He paused.

“Yes, Doctor?”

A pause. Then:

“Don’t forget to eat something.”

Stone froze.

It had only been two days, how did the doctor already notice?

Stone thought he was doing well.

Thought he was good at hiding it

He kept his back turned. Kept his face neutral. And when he did speak, it was with that same velvet politeness, perfectly composed:

“Of course, sir.”

Then he walked out, heart thudding quietly in his ribs.

Robotnik, as always, didn’t look back.

Chapter Text

Today was the day.

The one date he’d been dreading all month — circled in red in his planner, branded into the back of his mind.

Weigh-in day at G.U.N.

He didn’t need a reminder. His body had been counting the days for him. Every skipped meal, every dizzy spell, every hollowed-out morning was logged somewhere beneath his skin.

The last time they weighed him, he was 76 kilograms.

That number had haunted him.

It had lit the match.

It had been exactly one month since the spiral began again.

The same disorder he thought he’d outgrown. Buried. Survived.

But it came back — cruel, demanding, louder than ever. It carved itself into his routines, stalked him through work, and smothered him at night. There was hardly a moment he didn’t feel it breathing down his neck.

The only peace he found anymore was in the doctor’s lab — standing beside Robotnik, silent and focused, pretending none of it touched him. And in a way, it didn’t. Nothing ever touched him when he was with Robotnik.

But now, standing outside the small medical office, clipboard in hand and jaw locked tight, he felt raw.

“Step on the scale, please, Agent,” the medic said, flipping through her file without looking at him.

Stone exhaled slowly through his nose. He stepped forward, back straight, shoulders tight, and placed both feet on the scale like he was bracing for impact.

He stared down at the glowing red numbers.

69.0 kg

His breath hitched. Barely perceptible — but it was there.

He hadn’t seen a number in the 60s in years.

The woman raised an eyebrow as she jotted it down. “Roughly fifteen pounds down in twenty-eight days,” she said. Her tone was neutral. No praise. No concern. Just data.

Stone stepped off the scale, expression unreadable.

Fifteen pounds.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

He thought about the past month. The hunger headaches. The three binges he hadn’t been able to stop. The shame afterward. The purges — violent, efficient, necessary. But they hadn’t erased his control. Not entirely.

He’d done it.

A flicker of pride broke through — small, fragile, but real. The tiniest curl of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah,” he murmured, barely audible.

He took his chart back without another word, nodded politely, and turned to leave.

The hallway back to the labs felt longer than usual. He walked slowly, head down, heartbeat steady. Not happy — not really — but... lighter. Aching, but victorious.

He was going to see the doctor now. And somehow, that made everything else quieter.

—--------

Later that day, the lab buzzed with the low hum of machinery, screens flickering with equations only Robotnik truly understood. Stone stood by one of the consoles, eyes fixed on a live feed from one of their drones in the field, but his posture was tighter than usual — arms crossed too close, jaw clenched too hard. Robotnik clocked it immediately.

He always did.

It wasn’t just today. It had been building for weeks.

Skipped lunches. Dismissed coffee breaks. That too-clean deflection whenever food was mentioned. And quieter — so much quieter. Stone was never loud, but lately he’d been retreating further into himself, smile taut, voice thinner around the edges. A little more tired every time he said “Yes, Doctor.”

Robotnik didn’t say anything. Not yet.

But when Stone stepped out for a brief field check-in and left his folder on the main desk, Robotnik’s eyes flicked to it.

Medical charts. Weight logs. G.U.N. compliance forms.

His fingers hovered for a moment.

Then he opened it.

69.0kg.

Fifteen pounds lost in a month.

The scribbled notes from the medical tech were vague, clinical — just the facts. But Robotnik didn’t need commentary. The number was enough.

He remembered the last time he’d noticed Stone skipping lunch. Remembered the way he brushed it off like it was nothing. Brushed everything off like it was nothing.

But this… this was something.

He stared at the page, face unreadable.

Of course he knew what it meant. The pattern was unmistakable. He’d seen it in other morons and on television.

He closed the folder quietly. Set it back exactly where it had been.

When Stone returned, Robotnik didn’t look up immediately. Just kept typing — letting silence stretch between them.

But eventually, without turning:

“You’ve lost weight.”

Stone blinked. His body went still. “Sir?”

“I said,” Robotnik repeated, slowly, “you’ve lost weight. Quite a bit, according to the records.”

Stone swallowed. “I… I suppose I have. I hadn’t noticed.”

“You did,” Robotnik said flatly, finally turning toward him. “You’ve noticed every gram. Don’t insult me.”

Stone didn’t answer. His shoulders were rigid. Every part of him screamed to escape the conversation, but Robotnik wasn’t done.

“You think I haven’t noticed the missed meals? The headaches you try to hide? You’ve been quieter. You’ve been shrinking.” Robotnik’s voice wasn’t cruel, but it was sharp — dangerously focused, like a scalpel. “And now I see it in black and white.”

Still, Stone didn’t speak. Not yet. Not until the silence stretched long enough to break something in him.

“I’ve been managing it,” he said at last, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m still showing up. Still working. I haven’t—”

He stopped himself. Bit the inside of his cheek.

“You haven’t what?” Robotnik asked, a little softer now. a little.

Stone stared down at his gloved hands.

“I haven’t let it interfere,” he said. “Not with this.”

Robotnik regarded him for a long time. Then he stood, slowly, and walked over.

He didn’t touch him. Just stood beside him — presence enough.

“This is the part,” Robotnik murmured, voice low, “where I say something trite. ‘You don’t have to do this to yourself.’ ‘You’re not alone.’ All those weak little reassurances that people parrot in these situations.”

Stone glanced at him, wary.

“I won’t insult you with that,” Robotnik said. “But I will tell you this: if you let this consume you — if you keep treating your body like an enemy — you will break. And I don’t intend to lose the only person in this entire building who actually functions.”

Stone almost smiled at that. Almost.

Robotnik leaned in slightly, voice razor-sharp.

“You’re not some fragile thing, Stone. I expect better than this idiotic behaivor.”

A long pause.

Then, more quietly: “And if you need help… I’ll find it for you.”

Stone’s throat tightened.

“I just thought… if I got the number lower, maybe I’d feel better.”

Robotnik gave a single, humorless breath of a laugh. “Numbers don’t save you. Trust me. I’ve built entire empires on that lie.”

Silence again.

Then Stone, quietly: “…Thank you, Doctor.”

Robotnik waved a hand dismissively and returned to his console. “Get back to work. And eat something. Preferably not one of those nutrient bars that taste like drywall.”

Stone turned back to the console, throat still tight, but lighter somehow — like something unbearable had shifted slightly off his shoulders.

And for the first time in weeks, he let himself take a deep breath that didn’t hurt.

Chapter Text

Stone still hadn’t figured out how to call what he was doing “getting better.” That word felt too big. Too final.

But he was trying.

And in its own quiet way, that counted for something.

He sat at his usual desk in the corner of Robotnik’s lab — the same one he’d worked at for years — but it felt different now. Not because the environment had changed, but because he had. Just a little.

He ate lunch here now.

It had started two weeks ago. Just an apple. Something small, quiet, unobtrusive. He’d pulled it out of his bag and set it on the corner of the table with a hesitance that made his own stomach turn. He
didn’t even remember eating it. Just the fear. The way it sat heavy in his gut after, like a question he couldn’t answer.

But nothing bad happened.

He didn’t spiral.

The number didn’t change.

The world didn’t end.

And so, the next day, he tried again.

Today, it was a wrap and a banana. Unwrapped carefully, hands steady even if his heart wasn’t.

He still hated the act of eating. Still second-guessed every bite. But he was doing it — and that had to mean something.

He kept his posture formal, composed, as always — but there was something looser in his shoulders now. A breath less shallow. His uniform still hung a little too loosely at the waist, but at least it
wasn’t worse.

Across the lab, Robotnik worked with his usual surgical focus. The quiet whir of a calibrating drone filled the space. Stone didn’t expect him to say anything.

He did notice, though. He always noticed.

Stone could feel it in the doctor’s glances — brief, wordless acknowledgements that didn’t push or pry. That was the gift, really. Robotnik never coddled him. Never looked at him like something broken.

And so, even when Stone struggled — even when he spent his nights sitting in the shower, palms flat on his ribs, wondering if he could live like this — he kept showing up.

Kept trying.

He still kept track of the number. Of course he did. It was burned into the back of his skull like a brand. But he wasn’t chasing it anymore. Not the same way.

He picked up the banana and peeled it, slow and even, eyes fixed on his hands to keep them from shaking.

From across the room, Robotnik’s voice broke the silence.

“Still pretending those nutrient wraps aren’t disgusting, I see.”

Stone looked up. There was a half-smile waiting on his face, automatic but not empty.

“They’re efficient,” he replied simply.

“Efficiency isn't flavor,” Robotnik muttered, returning to his work. “You deserve better sources of fuel.”

Stone paused. The comment sat oddly in his chest. He wasn’t sure if it was meant to be kind or critical. With Robotnik, it was always both.

“…Maybe I’ll try something else tomorrow,” Stone said. Quiet. Honest.

Robotnik didn’t look up. Just nodded once.

Stone stared at the last bite of his wrap, the pit of discomfort still tight in his gut — but beneath it, a flicker of pride. Small. Real.

He was still here.

He was still trying.

And that had to be enough — at least for now.

---------------

The G.U.N. medical wing smelled like antiseptic and static. The floors were too clean. The lights too bright. Stone sat on the edge of the exam table with his uniform shirt folded neatly on the counter beside him, arms crossed, posture tight. He looked like a man ready for interrogation — not a check-up.

“Agent Stone?” the medic said, stepping into the room, clipboard in hand.

He didn’t look up. “Yes.”

She smiled politely — the kind of professional smile that didn’t reach the eyes — and flipped through his chart.

“You’re due for your quarterly. Basic metrics, vitals, bloodwork. Shouldn’t take long.”

Stone nodded once. “Understood.”

She moved through the motions quickly: temperature, pulse, blood pressure. He sat perfectly still, like staying rigid would hide something. Like she wouldn’t notice the hollowness in his frame, the
slight tremble when she asked him to roll up his sleeve.

Then came the scale.

His throat closed as she gestured toward it.

“Just step on, please.”

He moved like clockwork. Off the table. Onto the cold metal platform. He didn’t ask what the number was. Didn’t want to. But he saw it anyway. It blinked up at him in sharp, unfriendly digits.

71.3kg.

Up from 69.

His stomach dropped — and with it, his mask nearly slipped.

But he swallowed, turned his face blank, and stepped back off the scale. His heart was racing. Stupid. Unreasonable. He hadn’t binged. He’d just eaten. Like a normal person. Like someone trying to stay upright.

“You’ve gained two kilos since last month,” the medic said flatly, making a note.

He braced for something worse — a look, a warning, a comment like last year’s "That's a bit fast, Agent, don't you think? Don’t wanna be too heavy one day." — but it didn’t come. Just a nod, a scribble, and the scrape of the clipboard being set aside.

“Have you noticed any changes in appetite, digestion, fatigue?” she asked.

Yes. Yes. And yes.

“No,” he said.

She checked the box anyway.

She didn’t ask about mood. Or sleep. Or the dark circles under his eyes. Not her job, probably.

By the time she wrapped a cuff around his arm for the blood draw, he was deep in his own head — counting ribs, mentally retracing every meal over the last four weeks. The number wouldn’t leave him alone.

Up two kilos.

Failing again.

No control.

He flexed his fingers against the table and tried to exhale slowly.

Later, back in the elevator, he held the envelope of results under one arm like it weighed more than the building. He didn't plan to show Robotnik. He didn’t think he could. Not yet.

But the doctor would know. He always did.

And Stone… he wasn’t sure if he wanted to be called out or left alone.

Maybe both.

Maybe neither.

—----------

Absolutely — here’s the scene where Robotnik notices. He doesn’t confront Stone directly, not yet. But he sees it. He’s always seen it. And this time, the silence between them isn’t cold — it’s protective.

The lab door hissed shut behind Stone as he entered, envelope still tucked under his arm. His posture was impeccable as ever, spine stiff, chin up — but Robotnik didn’t miss the tension.

He never did.

Stone always carried himself like glass: elegant, sharp-edged, and just brittle enough when the light hit wrong.

“You’re late,” Robotnik muttered without looking up from the interface. His fingers flicked across a holographic schematic, data scrolling too fast for most eyes.

“Medical ran behind,” Stone replied evenly, placing the folder on the nearest table — not directly into Robotnik’s space, but close enough to be seen.

“Dead, dying, or just poked and prodded until you wanted to scream?”

Stone hesitated. “Routine physical.”

“Hm.”

Silence fell between them, broken only by the faint click of metal limbs from a spider drone weaving through wiring on the ceiling.

Robotnik didn’t turn around. But he tapped one finger against the edge of the console, once. Twice. Then he said, without inflection:

“71.3.”

Stone froze. Just enough for it to show in his shoulders.

Robotnik finally turned his head.

“I saw the chart,” he said. “The med wing uploads everything. Bad security design. Excellent for meddling.”

Stone didn’t meet his eyes. “I didn’t authorize—”

“I don’t care about authorization,” Robotnik cut in. His tone wasn’t harsh, just… direct. Focused. “You lost fifteen pounds in a month. Then gained four. That’s not math. That’s a pattern.”

Stone swallowed.

Robotnik studied him for a beat too long. Not clinically — not like the med techs, with their boxes and baselines — but with something closer to curiosity. And concern. Buried, of course. Behind snide detachment.

“You’ve been quieter lately,” he said, more softly.

Stone looked at him, finally. “I’ve been focused.”

“On the work,” Robotnik said. “Or on starving to death where I can’t see you?”

The words hung in the air like acid.

Stone’s jaw tensed. He didn’t respond. Couldn’t.

Robotnik sighed and turned back to the interface.

“I’m not your therapist. I’m not going to drag you into a heart-to-heart about feelings and food and what your mother did or didn’t say to you in high school,” he muttered. “But I will say this: I notice
when something’s eating my agent alive. Especially when it’s himself.”

Stone blinked hard. His throat burned. He hated how much that stung.

“…I’m trying,” he said quietly. “I’ve been… trying.”

“I know. I never said you gaining weight was bad. No one but your mind said you gaining weight was bad."

That surprised him.

Robotnik didn’t offer comfort. Just continued typing, as though the conversation was already over. But there was something gentler in the cadence now. Something… careful.

“You’re not built to quit,” he added after a beat. “Which is why I keep you around.”

Stone stood there a moment longer. Still, silent, hands folded behind his back like a soldier on his last leg. Then — finally — he nodded once, and moved to his station.

No more words exchanged. But the air felt different.

A little less sharp.

A little more bearable.

---------

The sun bore down on the G.U.N. training field like punishment.

Agent Stone stood at the edge of the obstacle course, waiting for the whistle. His uniform was regulation— pressed, flawless, exactly the way he always wore it— but already clinging damp with sweat at the back of his neck. His jaw was tight. His fingers trembled at his sides in the briefest of twitches.

He hadn’t eaten anything solid in nearly 36 hours.

He told himself he didn’t need it.

He told himself control was more important.

The commander called his name, barking orders for the unit to sprint, climb, vault, fire. Stone gave a sharp nod, eyes ahead, shoulders squared like iron.

He was fine.

He was always fine.
When the whistle blew, he moved fast— sharper than the others, like precision made him invincible. His boots hit the gravel hard. He launched over the first hurdle, dropped into a roll, came up firing at the pop-up targets with ice-cold focus.

But somewhere between the third barrier and the rope climb, something in his chest slipped. It wasn’t pain. Not at first. Just a tightness— like his ribs were shrinking, curling inward, squeezing
everything vital.

He reached for the rope.

Hands wrapped. Feet braced.

He pulled.

His vision burst with static.

The sun flared white.

The ground rushed up like a fist.

He didn’t remember falling.

Didn’t feel the thud of his body hitting the training mat, the panic of the soldiers yelling, or the way the instructor cursed as they dropped to their knees beside him.

When he came to, he was somewhere cold.

-------------

The ceiling above him was white, sterile, humming faintly with recessed lights. The sheets beneath his back were stiff, tucked with military precision. The beeping at his side was steady. Unforgiving.

Stone blinked slowly, throat dry, lips cracked.

He was in the G.U.N. medical wing.

A saline IV fed into the crook of his arm. Monitors tracked his vitals. The training field was long gone— replaced by this pale, sharp place that smelled like antiseptic and disappointment.

He turned his head slightly. The movement made the room tilt. His stomach turned with it, hollow and angry.

A nurse noticed him stirring and crossed the room with calm authority.

“Agent Stone. You’re awake.”

He nodded once, barely.

“You collapsed mid-training. Lost consciousness for a full minute. We stabilized you and ran a full panel. You were severely dehydrated. Blood sugar bottomed out. Your core temperature dropped. Do
you remember what happened?”

Stone opened his mouth, but no words came. A lie sat on the tip of his tongue.

I’m fine. Just overdid it. Didn't sleep. Pushed too hard.

But even he didn’t believe that anymore.

“…Yes,” he said finally. “I remember.”

The nurse glanced down at the clipboard, tone neutral but firm. “You’re underweight, Agent. Significantly. And judging by your labs, this isn’t a one-time thing.”

Stone looked away.

The silence in the room grew heavier.

“You’ll be kept here for monitoring for at least 24 hours. After that, G.U.N. command will decide next steps. They’ve already alerted your direct supervisor.”

His stomach sank.

The doctor.

Of course.

-----------

He lay there in the silence after she left, staring up at the ceiling like it might offer answers. Like it might punish him the way he deserved.

He'd told himself he was in control.

He told himself that if he just ate less, trained more, skipped one more meal, he'd stay sharp. Needed. Strong.

But now he was here. Hooked to machines, weak and small beneath a military-issue blanket, alone in a room where everyone could finally see it.

The failure.

The truth.

Not fine.

Not in control.

Not anymore.

The door opened with a soft hiss.

Stone didn’t look up at first. He recognized the footsteps. The rhythm. The deliberate pacing that announced the doctor before he ever spoke.

Stone’s throat tightened.

“You're not dead,” Robotnik said flatly, stepping into the room without ceremony. “What a relief. I was beginning to think I’d have to start interviewing new agents.”

He came to a stop beside the bed and looked down at him, arms crossed. The sarcasm hung in the air — but there was no venom behind it. Only tension. And something else, quieter.

Stone finally turned his head to meet his gaze. His eyes were dull, ringed with exhaustion. “Doctor,” he said softly.

Robotnik studied him in silence for a moment. Not just a glance — a calculation. The way he scanned readouts, diagnostics, threat levels. Except this time, it was personal.

“You collapsed,” Robotnik said, as if the fact was somehow still beneath him. “Mid-rope climb, from what I gathered.”

Stone looked away. “Yes.”

The word felt like an admission.

There was a pause.
Robotnik clicked his tongue, irritated — but not with him. With the situation. With the weakness. “They said you hadn’t eaten. Blood sugar in the red. Dehydrated. Heart rate erratic.” His voice was cold
but tight. “What the hell have you been doing, Stone?”

Stone let out a small breath. “Trying.”

That stopped Robotnik.

He didn’t answer at first. Just stared.

“Trying?” he echoed finally, his tone lower, more dangerous. “Trying to what? Starve yourself into a promotion?”

“No,” Stone said quietly. “Trying to fix it before it got bad again.”

Robotnik’s jaw tensed. “And how’s that working out for you?”

Stone didn’t answer.

The silence that followed was heavier than anything said aloud.

Robotnik’s hands lowered. He took a step closer, eyes narrowing. His voice dropped a little. Not soft, but… quieter.

“I saw your file. The weigh-ins. The notes you didn’t think G.U.N. would bother attaching. I’m not stupid, Agent.”

Stone's mouth twitched, just slightly. “I never said you were.”
“You didn’t have to.” Robotnik’s gaze lingered. “You’ve been losing weight rapidly. Skipping meals. Avoiding labs during break hours. I assumed you were being obsessive — but this...” He motioned vaguely toward the IV. “This is self-destruction. With paperwork.”

Stone’s throat worked, but he didn’t argue.

Robotnik sighed, the sound sharp and frustrated, and turned slightly away — pacing to the foot of the bed. He stared at the monitor, then at the floor, then finally at Stone again.

“I can’t afford to lose you,” he said finally, voice like a razor just starting to dull. “Not to this.”

That stung. In a strange way, it warmed him too.

“You won’t,” Stone said. Quiet, but sure.

Robotnik walked back over, leaned in, and rested his hand briefly — just briefly — on the rail of the hospital bed.

“Then get better,” he said. Not a request. Not quite an order. Something in between. “And stop trying to hide it from me. That’s the part that really pisses me off.”

Stone nodded slowly.

“I will, Doctor.”

“I know you will.” Robotnik’s eyes narrowed faintly. “Because if you collapse again, I’m replacing all the lab chairs with treadmills and forcing you to code standing up for a year.”

Despite himself, Stone let out the tiniest laugh.

Robotnik straightened, satisfied enough for now. “Rest. Recover. And don’t make me come back here. Hospitals give me hives.”

He turned on his heel and walked toward the door, the hiss of it opening behind him like a curtain drawing closed.

Just before he left, he paused. Didn’t turn back.

“You’re not alone in this, Stone,” he said.

Then he was gone.

----------------

The medical wing had grown quieter.

Stone lay still, the saline drip rhythmically hissing beside him, pretending to rest as the nurse returned. She was middle-aged, kind-eyed, but clinical — the kind of efficient that didn’t miss things. She’d
introduced herself earlier, but he hadn’t caught her name. He hadn’t really been listening.

“I’m going to do a quick throat check, Agent Stone,” she said, slipping on gloves. “Your bloodwork came back with some red flags — electrolyte imbalance, low potassium, inflammation markers... I just want to rule out a few things.”

He nodded, barely. Didn’t argue. He was too tired to lie convincingly.

“Open for me.”

Stone hesitated.

Then did as told.

She angled the penlight gently, peering in with professional focus. Her movements slowed after a moment. She leaned slightly closer, her brows knitting together.

Stone felt it — that silent shift. That pause where someone sees more than they expected.

“Mm,” she said softly. Not judgmental. Not cruel. Just… thoughtful.

She stepped back and removed her gloves. “You have visible erosions at the back of your throat. Burn patterns consistent with frequent exposure to stomach acid.”

Stone looked away.

“Have you been vomiting intentionally?”

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t have to.

She made a small note on her chart, then sat down in the chair beside his bed. “I’m not here to scold you,” she said gently. “I just want you to know what’s happening inside your body.”

Stone’s jaw tightened. Great. A pity party.

She continued, her voice calm. “Your esophagus is inflamed. The tissue damage explains why your voice is hoarse and your throat burns. Over time, this kind of exposure can cause ulcers. Tearing.
Even rupture.”

He still didn’t speak, but his hands curled slightly in the blanket.

“You’ve lost too much weight too quickly,” she said. “And now your body’s showing signs it’s breaking down.”

Stone stared at the ceiling, willing himself not to feel it. The shame. The panic. The guilt. All of it.
“You’re not the first soldier to come through this wing fighting a disorder like this,” she said after a moment. “You wouldn’t believe how many we’ve seen. You’re just the first to collapse on a drill this quarter.”

A faint, bitter breath left his nose. “Great. Glad I’m setting records.”

Her smile was sad. “You don’t have to keep doing this to yourself.”

“I don’t know how not to,” he said quietly. Voice raw. Honest.

She didn’t rush him. Just sat there.

“I used to be clean,” he added. “Since high school. But this past two months… I couldn’t stop.”

“You still can. But you’re going to need help.”

He turned his head slightly toward her, just enough to meet her gaze.

“Would you let us get you that help, Agent?”

For a long moment, he didn’t speak.

Then, in the softest voice yet—

“…Yes.”

The nurse nodded, stood, and quietly stepped out of the room, leaving Stone alone with the sound of the IV and his own breath.

But something in the silence had shifted.

Not judgment.

Not punishment.

Possibility.

Chapter Text

It had been almost a month since Stone collapsed in the training yard.

A month of meal plans. Check-ins. Quiet accountability.

He still had bad days — tight mornings, guilt-heavy nights. But they didn’t spiral like they used to. He kept track. Drank water. Let his body feel full without punishment. Ate lunch at G.U.N.
headquarters without disappearing into the corners.

Robotnik never brought it up directly again — but Stone noticed the small ways he showed awareness. The thermos that came with an extra protein bar. The brief nod when Stone actually finished his sandwich. The unspoken understanding when Stone requested a quieter day post-appointment.

It mattered more than Stone could admit.

Now, on assignment overseas, Stone walked side by side with the doctor through a sterile, towering corridor of the international G.U.N. complex. The white floors gleamed. Their footsteps echoed in sync. Their briefing was in five minutes, and Stone carried the folder tucked neatly under one arm.

He felt good. Tired, but steady. His uniform fit a little better now — less loose, less skeletal. He’d even slept through the night without waking from a food nightmare. Progress.

And then he saw him.

A fellow male agent — tall, sharp, lean. Almost fragile-looking under his gear. Gaunt cheekbones, collarbones visible where the neckline dipped, wrists thin where his gloves stopped. He laughed at something another soldier said, stepping past them in the hallway.

Stone’s stomach dropped.

𝘏𝘦’𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘮𝘦.

It hit fast. Unwelcome. Automatic.

His thoughts stuttered mid-step. His breath skipped once.

His face is narrower. His jaw. His waist. His—

“Stone.”

The name snapped him out of it.

Robotnik had paused, just a step ahead, turning slightly to look at him. His brow was arched in that half-curious, half-impatient way he always used when Stone lagged behind.

“You zoning out on me, Agent?”

Stone blinked, straightened his posture immediately. “No, sir. Just—momentary distraction.”

Robotnik stared at him a beat longer than necessary. His gaze flicked down and back up, reading him.

Stone masked it with a quick smile, one he’d practiced for years. “I’m fine.”

“Hm,” Robotnik muttered. Not buying it, but not pressing either. “Let’s hope you’re more focused in the meeting. They’re idiots, and I need someone in the room who isn’t.”

Stone nodded, walking beside him again. The agent from earlier had disappeared around the corner.

He stared ahead.

He grounded his breath.

You’re not competing.

You’re not thirteen.

You’re not broken.

The thought looped like a mantra. A quiet act of resistance.

Robotnik launched into briefing talk — security flaws in the northern perimeter, something about supply chains being intercepted. Stone nodded, locked in, took mental notes.

But underneath it all, the thought still buzzed in his mind like a dying fly.

He was thinner than me.

And then, softer — from the part of him that wanted to get better:

That doesn’t mean anything.

It doesn’t change your value.

You are healing.

He didn’t believe it all the way. Not yet.

But he didn’t skip lunch that day either.

That had to count for something.

-------------

The conference room was cold — the kind of air-conditioned chill meant to keep minds sharp and sweat nonexistent. Stone sat beside Robotnik, posture perfect, hands folded neatly atop his folder. His
nameplate read Agent Stone — Strategic Analysis Division, but no one ever looked at it.

Across the long oval table, G.U.N. officials filled their seats. Representatives from multiple regions — some stone-faced, others bloated with power and ego. Stone recognized several from past briefings, all wearing sharp uniforms and sharper expressions.

And across the room, he was there again — the same thin agent Stone had passed in the hallway. Sitting confidently. Joking under his breath to the colleague beside him. He didn’t look tired. He didn’t look like he ever second-guessed a single calorie.

Stone’s stomach clenched.

He kept his face neutral as reports droned on — coastal intel leaks, robotic perimeter discrepancies, a minor security breach two weeks ago.

He focused. Took notes. Didn’t stare. But his skin buzzed.

He looks good like that.

Not sick. Just small.

Is that what I looked like at 69kg? Was it better? Was I—

“Agent Stone,” one of the regional heads interrupted his thoughts.

Stone looked up instantly. “Sir?”

“Can you confirm your analysis on the drone interference we observed in quadrant six?”

He could. He’d written the report. “Yes. It appears to be an internal disruption caused by electromagnetic feedback from one of our own patrols. I’ve run recalibrations on the flight path. If we patch the
software by the end of the week, we’ll avoid another incident.”

A pause.

Then a nod of approval from the chair. “Good work.”
Robotnik didn’t look at him. But Stone noticed his hand curl slightly under the table. A near-imperceptible motion of approval — one finger tapping once. Their private language.

𝘐 𝘴𝘢𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵.

𝘠𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘦.

Stone let out a slow breath.

It helped.

----------

The hallway was quieter after the briefing ended. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead as the crowd dispersed — agents muttering into earpieces, directors heading off in twos.

Stone walked beside Robotnik again, his hands back in his pockets, shoulders tight. He didn’t say anything for a few paces.

Robotnik finally spoke, eyes still on the path ahead. “You were distracted.”

Stone hesitated. “Yes.”

“Because of that skeletal agent with the unfortunate haircut?”

Stone snorted, just once. “That obvious?”

“You were analyzing him like you were planning a coup.”

They kept walking.

Then, more quietly, Robotnik added, “What was it?”

Stone’s throat was tight. “He was thinner.”

“And?”

Stone clenched his jaw. “I felt like I should be, too.”

Robotnik didn’t laugh. Didn’t mock. He simply stopped walking.

Stone halted beside him.

Robotnik turned toward him now, arms crossed over his coat. “That man is probably freezing to death under that uniform. He likely hasn’t had a bowel movement in three days. And if he passes out on
a mission, I’ll personally assign him to mop the underside of my hovercraft.”

Stone blinked. “…Right.”

“Do you want to pass out again?” Robotnik added, voice quieter now. “Because you’re just starting to look like yourself again. The version of you that doesn’t crumble mid-sentence.”

Stone looked away, biting the inside of his cheek. “No.”

“Then eat dinner tonight.”

Stone didn’t respond.

Robotnik raised an eyebrow. “That wasn’t a suggestion.”

That earned a ghost of a smile. “Yes, Doctor.”

Robotnik nodded and started walking again, slower this time. “You’re not perfect. You’re recovering. Don’t confuse the two.”

Stone stayed beside him in step. A little steadier. A little warmer. The self-hatred was still there — quiet, crouching in the corners of his mind — but so was this. This grounding. This tether.

By the time they made it back to their assigned quarters, Stone had already decided he’d eat.

He didn’t want to disappoint the Doctor.

But more importantly—

He didn’t want to disappear again.

Chapter Text

Therapy Log — Entry 17
Location: Geneva, G.U.N. HQ, Mission Quarters
Date: July 28th
Time: 21:48

Today was harder than I expected.
Not in the way that leaves bruises — just the kind that wears you down like slow water on stone. (no pun intended ha) I was fine, until I wasn’t.
I saw someone thinner than me.
That’s all it took.
It hit fast — a rush of comparison I didn’t invite. One second I was walking beside the doctor, the next I was mentally shrinking myself again. All those old rules came flooding back. “Thinner is safer. Smaller is better. Control means everything.” I know they aren’t true. O̶r̶ ̶I̶ ̶w̶a̶n̶t̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶k̶n̶o̶w̶ ̶t̶h̶a̶t̶.̶ But in the moment, it’s like those thoughts have a louder voice than I do.
He looked fine. Healthy, even. But all I could think was:
“I should look like that. I used to.”
I hate that this still happens. I hate that one glance can unravel a month of progress. But I didn’t skip the meeting. I didn’t leave the room. I answered when spoken to. I didn’t spiral completely.
And I didn’t starve myself today.
That has to count.
The doctor noticed. Of course he did. He always notices more than he says. He brought it up without pity, without lecturing. Just… reminders. Warnings. Humor, sharp enough to ground me. It worked. Mostly.
He told me I’m not perfect. I’m recovering.
I’ve been thinking about that all night.
Recovery doesn’t feel like a straight line. It feels like standing in a minefield where the ground shifts depending on who walks by, what they weigh, how they laugh, or what their bones look like through fabric. But today, I kept walking.
That counts too.
Dinner was hard. I stared at the food too long. I measured every bite. But I ate it. Every single bite. No rituals. No skipping.
I want to be better.
Not just alive — better. Present. Whole. Capable. Not hungry in every room.
I’ll keep showing up.
Even if it’s quiet. Even if no one sees.

— Aban

Chapter Text

Stone walked into the lab right on time, as always. His coat was buttoned, his expression unreadable, the telltale rhythm of his polished shoes echoing through the corridor before he even reached the door. He looked put together. Alert. Professional.

But Robotnik didn’t look up right away.

He was fiddling with a coil of wiring from a prototype drone, goggles pushed up into his hair, a coffee steaming nearby that Stone had brought him the day before and reheated for the third time.

Stone stopped just inside the threshold, waiting for the usual quip or demand.

Robotnik finally glanced over.

And his gaze stalled.

Not on Stone’s posture. Not his attire. But his face.

More specifically — his neck.

“…You’re inflamed,” Robotnik said flatly, gesturing vaguely toward Stone’s jaw.

Stone blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Right there.” Robotnik’s finger made a loose, circular motion toward his own jawline, mirroring the area. “Your parotid glands. Slight swelling. Just subtle enough that someone without a fully functioning brain wouldn’t notice. Lucky for you, I happen to have the opposite.”

Stone stiffened slightly. He touched his jaw instinctively, thumb grazing just beneath his ear. It did feel tender, now that he thought about it. He hadn't checked in the mirror before leaving.

He swallowed. It ached a little. He masked it with a shrug.

“Maybe I’m fighting something,” he said casually, walking deeper into the lab, already aiming for the table of tools that needed reorganizing.

“Mm,” Robotnik hummed, unconvinced. “How convenient. A virus that only inflames the face after one’s dinner mysteriously appears in the trash even after they consumed it.”

Stone froze.

He turned, slowly. “You went through the trash?”

“I went past the trash,” Robotnik corrected, adjusting a lens on his goggles. “It reeked of bile. So unless our air ducts are now infested with stomach acid, you’ll forgive my curiosity.”

Stone didn’t speak. His hand rested on the edge of the table now, fingers pressed into the cool metal. His throat burned, but not from illness.

“I’m fine,” he said after a long pause.

Robotnik looked at him for a moment too long. Then: “No, you’re not.”

Stone’s jaw tensed. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything,” Robotnik said. His tone wasn’t cruel, but it cut all the same. “I’m simply observing. You’ve been quieter. You haven't eaten in front of me in days. And now, the telltale swelling of a man trying to lie to his own biology.”

Stone didn’t respond.

The lab was too quiet now. Only the faint hum of the machines and the high whine of an unfinished circuit filled the space between them.

After a few more seconds, Robotnik sighed. “You’re still fighting, aren’t you?”

Stone hesitated. His shoulders dropped slightly. Something in him caved just a little — not enough to collapse, but enough to let the truth leak out.

“I’m tired,” he said softly.

Robotnik didn’t press further. He simply nodded once, then reached into his coat pocket and tossed something lightly across the room.

It landed on the table near Stone’s hand: a protein bar. Nothing fancy. Just… something.

“I have more work to do,” Robotnik said, turning back to his drone.

Stone stared at the bar. Then at the doctor’s back. No lectures. No questions. Just… a reminder.

He didn’t open it right away.

But he didn’t throw it away either.

--------------

The lab was nearly empty, save for the faint hum of machines and the occasional flicker of screens. Late afternoon light filtered in through the tall windows, casting long shadows across the cluttered workbenches.

Stone sat on a metal bench near the back, shoulders slightly hunched, fingers nervously twisting the wrapper of the protein bar Robotnik had tossed his way earlier that day. The bar remained unopened.

Without much fanfare, Robotnik appeared beside him, arms crossed, an eyebrow raised. His expression was his usual blend of impatience and sharp calculation, but today there was something else — a flicker of reluctant concern.

“You didn’t eat it,” Robotnik said flatly, voice cutting through the quiet.

Stone’s gaze flicked up, wary. “No.”

Robotnik scoffed softly. “Figures.”

There was a long silence. The two sat side by side, the quiet between them feeling heavier than the room’s sterile walls.

Robotnik cleared his throat, awkward in a way Stone rarely saw. “Look, I’m not good at this—this feelings stuff. I’m better with machines than people.”

Stone gave a half-smile, bitter but understanding.

“So,” Robotnik continued, fiddling with a loose wire on the bench, “if you wanna stay alive and not keel over again, you kinda have to eat. Like, actually eat. Not just stare at food like it’s an enemy combatant.”

Stone shifted, uncomfortable under the gaze.
“I’m not here to nag,” Robotnik added, voice dropping a notch, though his tone still held that sharp edge, “but you’re hiding something. I can see it. You move different. You talk less. You avoid meals like they’re a trap.”

Stone swallowed hard, fingers tightening around the wrapper.

“I’m tired of pretending,” Stone admitted, voice low, raw. “Tired of acting like I’m fine when I’m not.”

Robotnik blinked, then nodded once, stiffly.

“Good,” he said gruffly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Admitting that is… probably the least embarrassing part. Though don’t go thinking I’m getting all soft on you.”

Stone let out a breath, the tension easing a bit.

“I want to get better,” Stone said quietly. “But some days, it feels like I’m fighting myself more than anything else.”

Robotnik looked away, then back, eyes sharper. “Well, fighting yourself is a damn tough opponent.”

Stone nodded.

Robotnik glanced at the wrapper in Stone’s hands. “Open it. Eat it. If you don’t, I might have to start messing with your assignments until you do. And trust me, you don’t want me to do that.”

Stone cracked the tiniest smile.

“Alright,” he said. “I’ll try.”

Robotnik grunted. “Try harder.”

They sat for a moment longer, the silence now less heavy, almost companionable.

“Don’t expect me to get all touchy-feely,” Robotnik said, standing and stretching. “But if you need me, say so. Preferably without the dramatics.”

Stone nodded, “I know, sir.”

Robotnik nodded, then paused—just long enough for it to feel deliberate. Too deliberate.

“We’re going out tonight, Agent,” he said, tapping a few commands into the interface on his glove. Around them, the badniks whirred softly and began retreating to their charging docks.

Stone blinked. “Out?”

“A restaurant,” Robotnik clarified, almost dismissively. “Some G.U.N. function. Dinner. Mandatory, I’m told.”

The word hit like a slap.

Dinner.

Stone’s posture didn’t change, but something in him locked up—tight and invisible. His breath caught behind his ribs.

A dinner meant sitting at a table. Meant waiting staff, courses, conversation. Meant food. In front of people. Watching. Noticing.

“Oh,” he said softly. “Right. Of course.”

He managed a nod, but it felt wrong—too slow, too rehearsed.

Robotnik rubbed the back of his neck, scowling at the air, then waved a hand impatiently as if trying to shoo away the discomfort crawling up his spine.

“Listen,” he started, then stopped.

God, he hated this.

Feelings were chemical distractions. Unreliable. Slippery. He preferred machines—machines did exactly what they were told, no second-guessing, no guilt, no hollow pit in the stomach when someone
you relied on looked like they’d just been told to walk into a fire.

He folded his arms. Unfolded them. Huffed.

“It’s just... a dinner,” he said finally, as if that helped. “One meal. You’ll be fine. You—you’ve done worse, haven’t you?”

Stone gave the faintest nod, but it wasn’t convincing.

Robotnik sighed, scrubbing a hand over his mouth. “You’re a top-tier agent, Stone. Tactical, disciplined, irritatingly punctual. You’ve infiltrated terrorist cells and defused nuclear bombs midair.”

He gestured vaguely toward the door. “You can sit at a table and chew food with morons. You’ll survive.”

Still no answer.

Robotnik hesitated, then stepped in closer. Not much—just enough that his voice dropped a little, less lecture, more... something else.

“I don’t care what you weigh,” he muttered. “Or what you eat. Or don’t eat. You’re still my right hand. You’re still you.”

The admission sat between them like an awkward, misshapen gift.

Then, in classic Robotnik fashion, he ruined it.

“Besides,” he added briskly, stepping away, “if you make it through this without causing an incident, I might even let you redesign the lab’s espresso machine. The current one’s trash. Probably
sabotaged by that useless barista in R&D.”

Stone’s mouth twitched. Barely. But it was there.

Robotnik caught it and pretended not to.

“Suit up,” he said, turning back toward his console. “I want you looking intimidating enough to ruin the appetizers.”

Chapter Text

The restaurant glowed with low, golden light that made everything seem a little more polished, a little more unreal. Chandeliers hung like static stars over the private G.U.N. dining room, casting rippling reflections across crystal water glasses and tightly arranged silverware.

The long table held about twenty agents and officers — ranking personnel from various sectors, all invited to this monthly “unity” dinner. White tablecloths, leather chairs. Assigned seating, of course.

Agent Stone was two seats down from Robotnik, and surrounded.

He wore his G.U.N. dress uniform — crisp black with gold buttons, insignia gleaming. As always, everything was perfectly pressed. Not a wrinkle out of place.

His plate was full.

Grilled swordfish. Creamed potatoes, lightly salted. Haricots verts glistening with olive oil. A warm roll rested beside it all, split and buttered by the server before she even reached his chair. Dessert sat waiting in the center of the table — rich mousse, small fruit tarts, slices of almond cake dusted in powdered sugar.

Everyone was eating. Forks clinked. Glasses touched down. Small bursts of laughter peppered the table as wine flowed and officers began to relax.

Everyone was eating… except him.

Stone sat with his back straight, hands folded neatly in his lap. He nodded at a comment from the lieutenant across from him. His eyes flicked to the corners of the room now and then, noting exits, servers, camera placement. Easier than focusing on the smell of butter and salt.

He hadn’t taken a bite.

And they noticed.

“Stone,” a voice piped up — Agent Kilson, as always the first to pounce. She leaned her elbow on the table, swirling her wine lazily. “You’re going to let that fish go cold? Chef trained in Marseille. That
plate costs more than some of our daily travel per diems.”

Stone offered a polite smile. “I’m just not that hungry tonight.”

“Still? You skipped lunch at the compound too.” Kilson raised an eyebrow. “Saw you walking straight past the mess hall around 1300. What gives?”

Before he could reply, Agent Conners cut in. “He’s probably intermittent fasting. That’s a thing again, right? You skip breakfast and lunch so you can eat like a pig at dinner.”

Stone’s posture didn’t shift, but something in his jaw tensed.

Kilson grinned. “Well, if that’s the case, he’s failing. Because he’s not even doing the ‘pig’ part.”

Laughter circled. Not from everyone — but enough. The way it always did. Just loud enough to be heard, just soft enough to be unchallengeable.

Another officer leaned toward him — a younger man from intel, trying too hard to belong. “Hey, no offense, sir. You just always seem like you’re counting something in your head. Calories, probably.”

More laughter.

Stone’s smile thinned. He reached for his glass of water and sipped it.

Across the table, someone else said, “My sister’s like that. Super strict. She’ll eat like a rabbit all day and then act like she’s better than everyone else at dinner parties. It’s exhausting.”

“And she’s probably still not happy,” said another. “I mean, come on. Just eat the damn bread roll. You’re not getting deployed tonight.”

Stone didn’t answer. He could feel his heart beating faster — not with fear, not with rage, just with that awful electric hum that came from being seen when you didn’t want to be.

He looked at the plate. Steam no longer rose from the fish.

He looked at the mousse.

He was starving. Not just today — for weeks. He’d been working on normalizing meals again. Small steps. But never in public. Never like this.

His stomach hurt. Not from hunger — from tension.

Then, without thinking too much about it, he reached.

Not for the greens. Not the fish. He reached for the dessert spoon, scooped a modest bite of the mousse, and brought it to his lips.

Silky chocolate. A hit of espresso. A raspberry buried beneath.

He swallowed.

Dead silence.

Someone — a woman farther down, administrative staff — muttered, “Huh. Dessert before dinner.”

Then.

“Seriously?” Kilson again. “All that fuss and you break it on chocolate mousse?”

A few more chuckles, this time not even trying to hide the judgment.

“Must be nice,” someone added. “The rest of us try to eat clean, and he skips straight to sugar.”

Stone’s hand dropped to his lap. He didn’t look at anyone.

He felt every bite he hadn’t taken — every protein gram uncounted, every bite-sized judgment landing like darts. Shame bloomed at the back of his throat, hot and acidic. Like he’d lost something.

Control. Ground. A battle he hadn’t meant to fight tonight.

And no one cared.

Robotnik finally glanced over, having heard every word but let it all stew. He arched a brow at the table, then shifted in his seat slightly and addressed no one in particular:
“Funny. The moment a man decides to enjoy something, the room declares it treason. Especially when that man does all their work daily.”

That got a few tight chuckles, no real apologies. No one wanted to challenge Robotnik — not when he was vaguely disapproving.

But the damage was done.

When the check came — courtesy of G.U.N., of course — Stone stood a little too fast, smoothing his jacket, grabbing the dessert plate without a word.

He followed behind Robotnik as the party made their way toward the door, leaving behind the untouched entrée and that soft roll the server had buttered by default.

—-----------

The box of mousse sat untouched on the desk.

Stone stood in the small, sterile bathroom of the government-issued hotel room, bracing both hands on the edge of the sink. His uniform jacket had been neatly hung over a chair, shirt collar
unbuttoned, tie stripped off. The mirror above the sink caught his reflection in pieces: pale, drawn, tired around the eyes. His knuckles were pressed white against porcelain.

He hadn’t eaten anything else all day. Not lunch, not breakfast. Not even the green beans from dinner. Just that bite.

One bite.

And they all saw it. Commented. Laughed. Labeled him.

He’d told himself it was okay. That he deserved to taste something for once. That it was just mousse. That Robotnik hadn’t cared. That it hadn’t mattered.

But the truth of it settled into his gut like wet cement. Heavy. Disgusting.

He could still taste it. The sugar. The cream. It clung to his mouth like guilt.

“You couldn’t even handle one spoonful,” his mind whispered. “You’ve ruined everything you worked for. All that progress. And for what?”

His throat tightened.

He tried to pace the small space — three steps forward, three steps back. His heart was hammering. Not out of panic, exactly. More like pressure. The mental noise had gotten too loud again. Every breath felt full of static.

He didn’t want it inside him.

Not the mousse. Not the judgment. Not the shame.

The bathroom was quiet. The mirror didn’t offer sympathy. Just the sight of his own clenched jaw, the way his shoulders shook.

He didn’t even fully decide to do it.

He just knelt.

The tile was cold beneath his knees. One hand on the rim of the toilet, the other hovering in front of his mouth. Like he could undo the hour, the night, the bite.

It didn’t take long.

He was already empty. His body barely had anything to give up.

But he stayed there after. Knees aching. Eyes closed. Head against the wall.

He didn’t cry.

He didn’t speak.

Eventually, he flushed, rinsed his mouth, wiped his face with a damp towel, and stood. Robotic. Like something in him had stepped aside and let the ghost take over.

He didn’t touch the mousse on the desk.

He didn’t send the check-in message to G.U.N. Command.

He just shut off the lights and lay in bed, still in his undershirt, eyes wide open in the dark.

There was a knock.

The knock was soft, but firm.

Stone didn’t move at first. He lay still in the bed, staring at the ceiling like he hadn’t heard it. Maybe if he didn’t acknowledge it, whoever it was would go away.

Three more knocks. Slower. Measured. Robotic.

Stone sat up slowly, his body aching from the purge and the sharp stillness that followed. He pulled on his shirt as he crossed the room, buttoning only the middle few. He didn’t bother looking through the peephole.

He already knew.

He opened the door.

Robotnik stood there, still in his coat, hair wild from the wind outside, one glove still on. His brow furrowed the second he saw Stone’s face.

No greeting. No smirk. Just an immediate and unsettling silence.

The doctor’s eyes flicked over him — his sunken cheeks, his too-pale skin, the faint red around his eyes, the slight tremble in his fingers.

Then he sniffed, once.

Subtle.

But Stone saw the shift in his expression. That brief hardening around his jaw. Robotnik’s eyes lingered on the edge of the bathroom door down the hall, where the light was still on.

Stone stepped back without a word and let him in.
Robotnik entered slowly, glancing around the small hotel room. His gaze caught briefly on the mousse container sitting, unopened, on the desk. Then the faint smear of damp towel still on the sink. The toothbrush. The too-quiet air.

He said nothing for a moment. Just turned to face Stone.

“You vomited,” he said bluntly.

Stone flinched.

It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t scolding. It was just fact — like he was confirming the weather.

“I didn’t mean to,” Stone murmured, voice rough. “It was just one bite. They all— They said—”

He stopped.

Robotnik’s expression didn’t change. But he took a step forward, scanning him with a kind of clinical gentleness Stone wasn’t used to from him.

“They always say something,” Robotnik replied evenly. “That’s the easiest part of their day.”

“I didn’t even finish it,” Stone added quietly, as if that changed anything.

Robotnik reached out — paused — then, uncharacteristically careful, placed a gloved hand on Stone’s shoulder. It was stiff, like he wasn’t sure how touch was supposed to work, but the intent was there.

Stone closed his eyes. The contact hit harder than any lecture would’ve.

“I’m trying,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “I really am.”

Robotnik gave the faintest nod. “I know.”

The words were strange coming from him. Honest. Not laced with sarcasm or performance.

Stone didn’t cry. But something cracked in his chest — like a weight shifted just enough to let a breath through.

“You smell like bile,” Robotnik said after a beat, wrinkling his nose.

Stone let out a laugh. Small. Exhausted. Real.

“I’ll brush again.”

“Twice.”

Robotnik walked past him, inspecting the place like it was a malfunctioning machine. He opened a cabinet. Closed it. Sat in the desk chair like he belonged there.

Stone leaned against the wall, watching him.

“I don’t know why you came,” he said finally.

Robotnik didn’t look at him. “I do.”

Silence settled between them, soft and full of all the things that didn’t need to be said. Outside, the wind pressed against the windows. Inside, it was warm. Still.

Robotnik tapped a finger on the desk once. “Go rinse. You’re not sleeping in that state.”

Stone nodded once. Then disappeared into the bathroom again, a little steadier than before.

—-----------

Stone stepped out of the bathroom again, this time with damp hair and a fresh shirt. His face looked a little less washed out, the color returning just barely to his cheeks. He moved slowly, deliberately, like each motion had to be thought through first.

Robotnik hadn’t moved.

Still in the desk chair, fingers laced together in front of his mouth, one boot rhythmically tapping against the floor. The doctor watched him without blinking — dissecting, calculating, but not speaking.

Stone crossed his arms over his chest. “You really didn’t have to stay.”

“I know,” Robotnik replied. “But clearly someone has to.”

The words weren’t warm, but they weren’t cruel either. Just… honest. Robotnik’s brand of care — inconvenient, brash, but undeniably present.

Stone sat down on the edge of the bed, head bowed slightly. His voice was quiet, like he was afraid of hearing it aloud.

“They act like I’m weak for eating… and I act like I’m strong for starving.”

Robotnik made a small, thoughtful noise. “Mm. That sounds like something a therapist would say. Are you quoting, or improvising?”

Stone gave a half-hearted smile. “Improvising.”

“Good. The therapists would’ve added a metaphor about inner children or some equally useless nonsense.”

A beat passed.

Stone’s fingers twisted in his lap. “Sometimes I wish you’d just tell me to stop. Tell me it’s stupid. That I’m being irrational.”

Robotnik tilted his head. “Do you want me to lie?”

Stone looked up.

And Robotnik softened — not in his expression, not really. But something in the tension of his shoulders eased. He stood and crossed the room, then sat beside Stone on the bed, not close enough to
crowd, but close enough to anchor.

“You’re not stupid,” he said. “You’re hurting. And unfortunately for both of us, I’m not built for emotional finesse. But I notice things.”

Stone blinked. “Like?”

“Like your uniform’s hanging off of you,” Robotnik said simply. “Like you didn’t touch your coffee all week. Like you’ve been chewing the inside of your cheek bloody when no one’s looking.”

Stone glanced away. Embarrassed. Exposed.

“And,” Robotnik added more quietly, “like you’ve been trying.”

Those last three words landed like a hand on the back — firm, unexpected, grounding.

“I see it, Agent. You’re trying. That’s all I care about. I don't give a damn if you eat mousse or kale or hydrogen.”

Stone chuckled under his breath, then rubbed his face. “You’re so weird.”

“Yes, well. You’re emotionally constipated. We all have our curses.”

Another beat passed. Then:

“…Are you going to sleep?”

Stone shook his head. “Not yet.”

Robotnik didn’t move. “Then I won’t either.”

They sat in silence for a long time, the kind that no longer felt heavy, but calm. Unspoken understanding settling in the spaces between breath.

Stone leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. Just for a second.

“Thanks for coming.”

Robotnik didn't reply at first. He leaned forward, adjusting his gloves, then stood and pulled a blanket from the end of the bed.

He tossed it over Stone’s lap with a gruff, “Don’t mention it.”

But his hand hovered at Stone’s shoulder just a moment longer than necessary.

And that, for Stone, said everything.

“Just so you know, I’m a sleep cuddler.” Stone said, smile evident in his voice.

“Oh god.” Robotnik huffed, putting a pillow over his own face.

Despite his complaints, it was the best he’s ever slept in years.

Chapter Text

There wont be another chapter for the next few days, sorry everyone! My own ED is kicking my ass so I'm feeling ill and I'm only gonna be working on that haha (ᵕ—ᴗ—) but I should be back to publishing very soon!（´∇｀''）

Chapter Text

The alarm didn’t go off.

He’d turned it off the night before. He remembered lying in bed, staring at the glowing red digits of the clock, debating whether to give himself the morning off from the usual drill. He didn’t need it today — he’d be in meetings, nothing physical. Nothing he couldn’t power through with caffeine and a pressed uniform.

So when Stone blinked awake, sunlight already filtering through the blinds, he didn’t feel startled or rested.

He just felt... heavy.

Not tired, exactly. Just weighed down.

His birthday.

It took him a minute to even remember.

He sat up slowly, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The hardwood floor was cool under his feet. Familiar. Neutral. Safe.

The kind of morning where everything was just quiet — no urgent messages, no calls, no footsteps above or below. The city hadn’t even fully stirred yet.

He rubbed a hand over his face, then down the side of his neck. His jaw ached faintly — he’d been clenching it again in his sleep.

There was no celebration waiting for him. No plans he’d made, and no intentions to make them. Birthdays were just something to get through — something to *endure* without drawing attention.

He padded to the bathroom. Caught his reflection in the mirror.

He didn’t linger.

By the time he’d showered, shaved, and slipped into his dark G.U.N. uniform, the man staring back looked as polished as ever. Not a hair out of place. Tie knotted precisely. Collar straight.

But his eyes were tired.

He poured himself a black coffee, took one sip, and left it on the counter.

The thought of food never crossed his mind.

------------

He didn’t tell anyone it was his birthday. No one had any reason to know, aside from the official file — and even then, it wasn’t like G.U.N. made a habit of celebrating birthdays. Especially not for quiet, efficient men who never asked for anything.

He preferred it that way, honestly.

The last thing he wanted was attention.

Still… as he walked toward the transport for headquarters, a thought surfaced he didn’t like:

'I thought I’d feel different by now.'

Like maybe if he’d healed more, fixed more, "been better", today would feel lighter.

It didn’t.

Just another day. With a tighter collar.

-----------------

The room buzzed with low conversation — a handful of agents gathered around the long conference table, settling in before the debrief. Standard routine. The lights overhead were too bright, the coffee stale, and the chairs always slightly too stiff. Everything exactly as it always was.

Stone kept to his usual place at the end of the table. Polished, straight-backed, expression unreadable. His hands rested calmly on the table’s edge. No twitch. No fidget. Controlled.

“Hey, Stone.”

He looked up.

Agent Keller — younger, a bit overeager, the type who still smiled when he spoke — approached with a small white box in hand. It had a ribbon on it. Cheap, but thoughtful.

Stone’s heart dropped the moment he saw it.

“I uh…” Keller scratched the back of his neck, sheepish. “I know you don’t really make a thing of it, but… Happy Birthday. Figured you should at least have a little something. Got it from that bakery on Fifth. The one with the window full of macarons?”

Stone blinked.

A few other heads turned. There was a half-hearted murmur of “Oh, it’s his birthday?” from across the room. More eyes.

Keller set the box in front of him. “It’s just a single slice of cake. Vanilla. Nothing too crazy.”

Stone stared at the box like it had teeth.

Why did he remember?

“Oh. That’s… unnecessary,” Stone said, managing a faint, polite smile. “But thank you.”

Keller chuckled, brushing it off. “Don’t mention it, man. You’ve covered my ass enough times in the field. Consider it a peace offering for all the paperwork you probably shielded me from.”

He gave a friendly tap on the table and walked off, just like that.

Stone sat there, spine rigid, the little box still in front of him.

It was light. Probably no more than a few hundred calories, if that. But his skin burned with embarrassment. He could feel the eyes on him — real or imagined — wondering if he’d open it. Wondering if he’d eat it.

He left the box closed.

Later, the meeting was over. Peers were dispersing. The box still sat by his hand, untouched.

He picked it up on his way out. Didn’t look at anyone.

No one said anything, but he could feel their eyes tracking him again.

------------

The doors opened with a hiss. The low hum of circuitry and robotic whirring filled the air. Robotnik was hunched over a console, typing rapidly, wires snaking across the table like veins.

He didn’t look up. “You’re late.”

Stone stepped inside, coat still on, holding the cake in both hands like it might fall apart if he shifted wrong.

“Someone gave me this,” he said quietly.

Robotnik finally glanced up. “What is it?”

Stone opened the box and set it on the edge of the nearest counter.

“A birthday cake.”

Robotnik straightened slightly, eyebrows twitching upward in brief surprise. “It’s your birthday?”

Stone nodded once, not meeting his eyes.

Robotnik stared at the cake. Then at Stone. Then back at the cake.

“Why bring it here?”

Stone was silent for a moment.

“I thought maybe you’d want it,” he murmured. “I’m… not hungry.”

Robotnik’s eyes narrowed, voice skeptical. “Since when do you assume I want food just because you don’t?”

Stone swallowed, a flicker of something crossing his face — embarrassment, shame, something quieter.

“I just didn’t want to throw it out.”

Robotnik leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “You can say no, Stone. You’re allowed to not eat it. Even if it’s wrapped in candles and well wishes. People survive worse offenses.”

Stone managed a thin smile, tight and strained. “It’s not that simple.”

Robotnik was quiet. The hum of the lab filled the pause. Somewhere, a cooling unit clicked on.

“You haven’t eaten today, have you?” Robotnik said finally, his tone not accusatory, just… tired.

Stone didn’t answer.

Robotnik tapped a knuckle against the table.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” he said, not cruelly, just blunt. “I’m not going to clap my hands and make this go away. And I’m not going to eat a pity slice of cake on your behalf. But I’ll listen. Or not. Sit there in silence if you prefer. That I can do.”

Stone blinked. Something small and tight in his chest gave.

“I didn’t want to feel like a failure today,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “But all I’ve done is avoid, deflect, lie.”

Robotnik nodded once, slow.

“Welcome to the human condition,” he muttered, then added, quieter, “You’re still here. That counts.”

Stone looked down at the untouched cake and, without a word, closed the lid again. He set it aside, out of sight.

“I think I just wanted to be with someone who wouldn’t judge me for not eating it.”

Robotnik didn’t smile, didn’t soften. But he nodded.

“I can do that.”

And for a while, they just sat — the lab humming around them, the cake forgotten, and Stone breathing a little easier in the silence.

-----------------

The lab had long gone quiet. Robotnik hadn’t said another word about the cake. Stone hadn’t either.

The white box sat on his kitchen counter, lit softly by the dim yellow overhead light. The rest of the apartment was dark. His jacket hung neatly by the door. Shoes aligned perfectly. The room was spotless. Of course it was.

He sat at the small table, the cake now on a plate, a fork beside it. One of those single-serve slices — thin, neat, with a decorative rosette of buttercream at the corner. Vanilla. The smell was faint but sweet, almost childlike.

Stone stared at it for a long time.

There was no one here. No one watching. No one would know.

But he would.

His fingers hovered over the fork. Then finally — slowly — he picked it up.

The first bite was tiny. Just a speck of icing and crumb. It melted on his tongue before he could even process the flavor. He closed his eyes.

The second bite was bigger. The third faster.

And then he was just... eating it. Silently. Mechanically. A slice of birthday cake eaten like a mission he didn’t ask for but had already failed.

He scraped the plate clean before he even realized what he was doing.

And then it hit him.

All of it.

The salt came first — a sting behind the eyes. Then a tremble in his hands. He dropped the fork. It clattered against the plate like it had betrayed him.

He tried to breathe through it. Pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. Gritted his teeth. But the tears came anyway — not loud or messy, just slow and endless. Like a faucet left on, unable to stop.

He hated himself for it.

Not just for eating. Not just for feeling guilty.

But for the fact that it was his birthday. And the only thing he could feel — even in this stillness — was shame.

He leaned forward, elbows on the table, face buried in his hands.

Not one single part of him felt full.

-----------------

He’d stopped crying eventually. The tears dried before the guilt did.

Now he sat back in the kitchen chair, cold coffee from earlier untouched beside the plate. The air felt heavy. Like it knew what had happened here.

Stone reached for his phone, half on instinct, half on masochism.

12:03 a.m.

His birthday was officially over.

He opened his messages. Scrolled. Checked again. As if maybe one had slipped past his notifications somehow. Maybe there’d been a glitch, a delay, anything.

Nothing from his father. Nothing from his mother.

He wasn’t surprised.

But that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.

He stared at the blank space under their contact names, then locked the screen.

It wasn’t the first year they’d forgotten. Or ignored it. He hadn’t gotten a real birthday message since university — maybe not even then. Not unless it was tied to a passive-aggressive remark or a long-winded comment about his life choices.

It used to make him angry. Now it just made him feel small.

They probably wouldn’t even notice if he didn’t show up for the holidays. Hell, they might be relieved.

He set the phone face-down on the table and pushed back from the chair, slowly, mechanically. His legs felt like lead. His chest like glass.

----------------------

It was a bad day. A very bad one. His worst birthday in years even.

A comment from a superior. A glance in a mirror. The failed self-assigned goal. A skipped meal that turned into two. A long look at the liquor cabinet in his apartment. The locked box under his bed. The one with old things.

Stone sat on the floor, back against the bed frame, that box inches from his fingertips.

He hadn’t relapsed on anything else in years. But tonight the edge felt thin.

He thought about how easy it would be to disappear. Just a little. Just once. Just enough to not feel.

But he didn’t open the box.

He just sat there. Breathing. Shaking.

And finally, he crawled into bed still clothed and faced the wall.

Chapter Text

hey everyone! sorry for not updating in so long, my own 3d has been kicking my ass haha. I should be back soon! <3

Chapter Text

The mission brief was short and clinical—typical G.U.N. efficiency. A rogue weapons shipment tracked to an abandoned textile mill on the river, prototypes of a failsafe drone rack that had to be secured before some private buyer could move in. Nobody wanted collateral. Nobody wanted civilians hurt. Stone checked the dossier, the map of vents and choke points, the feed of thermal sweeps. He filed it away with the same neatness he used to fold his uniforms.

“Two teams,” Robotnik said, voice flat, the way it was when a variable was a possibility instead of an outcome. “You take entry. I’ll overwatch the perimeter and comms. We sweep, we secure, we evac on the signal.”

Stone nodded. He clipped the radio to his collar, checked his weapon, checked his harness. He had done entry dozens of times. He had done “power through” when the ache set in. He had done “one more sweep” in the teeth of fatigue. This time, he told himself, he would be precise.

They moved through dusk, six feet apart, shadows sliding along cracked brick. The mill smelled of oil and damp cloth. Light from the moon cut the smoke in thin slashes. Stone’s breathing was steady, rehearsed. His glove fingertips brushed cold metal and then warmth as his radio crackled.

“Entry,” murmured Agent Keller at his left. Keller’s voice was young and small in the concrete cavern.

Stone led them down a stairwell lined with rusted looms—narrow, claustrophobic. He counted steps, keyed a hand signal, opened the first door and slipped in. The warehouse opened like an exhale: crates stacked in neat geometry, tarps draped like ghost sheets. He could see the drone racks tucked behind scaffolding, faint LEDs blinking like distant eyes.

He should have eaten before. He should have taken his pills before he left. He told himself he didn’t need to—meetings were a few hours ago; the morning had been manageable; he could do it. A foolish arithmetic: one skipped step plus one controlled breath would equal competence.

Halfway through the first sweep his vision narrowed. The edges of the world softened like the halo around a light through a fogged visor. Stone tightened his grip on his sidearm and told himself the numbers—clear, rational—until the numbers blurred. He tasted copper and a hot metallic alarm went off in his mouth. For a second he was a spectator inside his own skull, watching the world tilt.

“Stone?” Keller’s whisper was a distance away. “You okay?”

He forced a nod. He took another step, then another, and the floor pitched. The world unspooled: a loose board, a boot snagging, the heel of his hand slamming against rough wood. The radio skittered across the floor and out of reach. Someone shouted—Robotnik’s voice, sharp, too close. He felt a heel of booted foot, a hand anchor his collar, then the unmistakable tear of a wire and the sound of something heavy collapsing.

A crate shattered. The drone racks shuddered as a jury-rigged power conduit failed and arced, throwing a flare of light across the room. Sparks speared the air. One of the prototype drones—small, blunt, meant for perimeter recon—woke with a whine and swiveled. Its targeting array misread the arcing conduit as a hostile thermal signature. In the chaos, the drone’s trajectory clipped the overhead scaffold.

Stone saw Robotnik below the scaffold—turned, shouting into his comms, hand extended toward the terminal logs. A hanging beam loosened. It swung. For a breathless horrible second, the beam dropped toward Robotnik.

Stone's body hesitated, then moved without thinking. Hunger had hollowed him, but muscle memory had not left. He lunged, sliding on oil-slicked concrete, fingers closing on Robotnik’s sleeve. He shoved. The beam missed—barely—clanging a hair’s breadth from Robotnik’s shoulder. The drone overcompensated and struck the scaffolding; a box toppled and crushed Stone’s ankle. Pain flared white. He gritted teeth and held Robotnik up with a shoulder, felt the world float and tilt as adrenaline and fear braided into something hot and clean.

“Get clear!” Robotnik screamed, voice raw. Keller dragged a stunned tech clear; the rest of the team pushed for the exit. Stone tasted blood in his mouth, the metallic tang making his stomach roll. He tried to stand, ankle burning hot, and nearly fell back.

Robotnik’s hand found his face—brief, not tender, but real—and he barked, “Stone. Your comm—shit, where is it?”

Stone crawled, every movement a calculation. He found his radio, fingers fumbling, then the first aid kit. The drone’s circuitry sparked an angry rhythm in the dark. Stone’s head swam; his next breaths came shallow and fast. Somewhere in the chaos, someone was shouting that the perimeter was secure and the crates were contained. Someone else said the buyer’s team had been driven off. Stone couldn’t tell if that was good or incidental.

The evac was messy, urgent. They moved Robotnik to the van slung with G.U.N. gray, lights low to avoid drawing attention. Stone leaned against the rear doors until the world stopped spinning. His ankle throbbed, but he barely felt it beneath the thud of his pulse.

You could count it as a narrowly averted disaster. You could say the mission succeeded.

But later, in the sterile brightness of the infirmary, with gauze and the smell of antiseptic and Robotnik’s tempers unspooling into tight, controlled sentences, the arithmetic resolved differently.

Robotnik’s wrist had taken a nasty bruise where the beam had glanced by his shoulder. The medics patched them both up, but Stone’s hands trembled when the medic handed him water. He realized, with a clarity that was almost obscene, that his lapse—his decision to skip the small stabilizers, to ignore the quiet erosion of strength—had put Robotnik directly under a falling beam. If he had been slower, if the drone had locked a millimeter differently, they might have been hauling a body out instead of carrying a bleeding agent to the van.

Later, when the adrenaline bled out and the fracture of consequence cooled into a clean, aching fear, Stone sat on the edge of the infirmary cot and let the enormity settle in like sediment.

He replayed the moment over and over: the slide of his boot, the way light haloed the scaffolding, the seconds that stretched when he lunged. Each replay was a small hammer. He had almost lost Robotnik, and it had been because of choices he had the power to change.

Robotnik did not hover over speeches. He was brisk, economical. “You nearly got us killed,” he said, not to shame but to state fact. The sentence was devoid of melodrama; it landed heavier than any shout.

Stone’s throat closed. “I know,” he said, a single, quiet thing.

They flew back to the apartment in silence. Robotnik sat with his arms folded, jaw clenched. Stone watched the city blur by and felt a rupture inside him—shame, terror, and a peculiar, sharp love that had no language except the need to be better.

That night he didn’t sleep. He lay awake and mapped the small, concrete steps that had led to the edge: missed meals, skipped meds, the promise to “power through.” One by one they looked trivial. Together they were a fault line.

Two days later, Stone did something he hadn’t done in years: he made an appointment.

He started small because the small was what he could do without imploding. He told Robotnik on a wet, quiet morning as Robotnik reviewed a set of schematics.

“I booked an appointment with a physician,” Stone said. “And a nutritionist. And—” He paused, throat tight, “—a therapist.”

Robotnik didn’t look up at first. Then he did, and for a fraction of a second the mask of command slipped. “You booked them?”

“Yes.”

Robotnik’s reply was blunt: “Good. Keep the appointments.”

Stone’s pulse stuttered into something like relief. “I want to be in shape,” he said, voice low. “I want to be able to keep you—keep everyone—safe. I can’t do that like this.”

Robotnik’s mouth twitched, almost a smirk. “Practical motive,” he said. “I approve of the reasoning.”

It was not flattery Stone needed. It was a directive he could follow. He signed up for the physical check, then for counseling with someone G.U.N. recommended. He called the medic back and asked, clumsy and honest, about sleep meds and adherence. He swallowed pride and let a nurse talk him through a basic nutrition plan—small breakfasts, regular protein, hydration. He set alarms on his phone for meds, then for meals. He packed lunches the way he packed ammunition—methodical, deliberate.

Stone began to attend therapy. He sat in a chair and told a stranger about the quietness where he used to breathe, about the hunger that had been a method of control. He listened when the therapist named patterns. He practiced breathing exercises until they felt mechanical and then suddenly useful. He learned to recognize the exact moment his thinking narrowed into “not enough” and to force his body to do the opposite—eat, rest, reach out.

Robotnik was not sentimental, but he watched. He tightened mission parameters to include mandatory health checks. He pushed Stone into physical training two mornings a week—not punitive, not indulgent, a regimen: mobility work, balance drills, core strength. “If you’re limber, you don’t snap under pressure,” he said. “We both do better.”

Stone showed up. He showed up on hard days and soft days, on mornings after insomnia and nights after a bad dream. He missed an appointment and went to the next one. He ate in small increments until plates stopped feeling like tests. He learned to take medication without the ritual of self-judgment. He apologized to Keller, to colleagues, for the sloppy aftershocks and accepted the small, human corrections without curling shut.

No one announced a triumph. There were no grand speeches. A recovery isn’t finished in the first week; it is a commitment of days. But the shift was real and steady. Stone’s hands trembled less. He slept better when he took the meds on schedule. His reflexes on the range sharpened. Robotnik trusted him without being asked to, and the trust was like a scaffold that held until Stone could stand on his own.

One evening, a week after the mission, Robotnik found Stone in the lab at dusk, standing at the counter with a plate—Keller’s macarons from that bakery on Fifth, an intentional, clumsy echo of the slice Stone had once eaten in private. Robotnik’s eyebrow lifted.

Stone set the plate between them. “I’m not done,” he said. “But I’m choosing to be better. For myself. For you. For the team.”

Robotnik looked at the macarons, then at Stone, then reached out and took one, not with theatrics but with a narrow, approving nod.

“Keep it that way,” Robotnik said. “Be useful.”

Stone laughed, a short, real sound that belonged to the man who folded his uniform neat. He picked up a macaron and took a bite. It tasted like something he had almost missed—sweet, fragile, ordinary—and he realized ordinary could be enough.

Chapter Text

Stone stood in front of the mirror, buttoning his uniform shirt with steady hands. No hesitation, no tremor. The fabric lay flat against his chest, crisp, clean, sharp. His reflection didn’t look hollow anymore. His jaw wasn’t clenched from nights of grinding his teeth; his eyes no longer rimmed red from sleepless cycles of caffeine and avoidance. He looked—
well.

And it wasn’t an accident.

Months of appointments had bled into something real. He hadn’t missed his medication in weeks. He ate breakfast every morning, small but steady, not an afterthought, not a punishment. His body was stronger, sharper; training drills no longer ended with him secretly lightheaded or leaning too long against the locker room wall. He’d rebuilt himself brick by brick, patient, deliberate. He had hated how slow it felt at first, but now—now he was standing here, whole, and the slowness looked like a foundation.

The memory of that mission still lingered sometimes, in dreams that broke cold sweat down his spine—the beam swinging down, Robotnik almost crushed. It was the pivot point. The moment he knew he couldn’t risk fragility anymore. He had chosen recovery then. Tonight, standing in his own skin without flinching, he knew he’d followed through.

He straightened his tie, smoothed it flat, and exhaled.

-----------------------

The lab buzzed with its usual chorus—machines humming, the rhythmic clatter of keys, the sharp scent of solder and oil. Robotnik was bent over a console, his goggles pulled up onto his forehead, eyes flicking over a wall of cascading code. He muttered to himself, as he often did, making adjustments, rerouting a circuit, stabbing at keys like he was fencing.

Stone stepped inside quietly, carrying two mugs. One black coffee, one herbal tea. Robotnik always forgot to drink water when he was buried in schematics, so Stone had learned to compromise.

“You’re late,” Robotnik said, without looking up.

“Right on time,” Stone replied, setting the mugs down. “You just lose track.”

Robotnik hummed, neither denying nor confirming. His gaze lingered on the tea for a moment, sharp and questioning, but he said nothing. He picked it up anyway.

Stone took his usual place at Robotnik’s side, not behind him, not hovering, but beside him. The balance had shifted over the months. He wasn’t a shadow anymore. He was a partner.

Robotnik clicked through another string of commands before finally leaning back in his chair. His eyes cut to Stone, assessing.

“You’ve looked… less insufferable lately,” he said, voice dry.

Stone’s mouth curved faintly. “I feel stronger. I’ve been consistent.”

“Consistent.” Robotnik repeated the word like he was testing it for flaws. “As in no skipped meals, no collapsing in the field, no sabotaging yourself into near death?”

“Yes.” Stone met his gaze without flinching. “I’ve been steady. I’ve done the work. I’m not perfect, but—I’m recovered, sir. I don’t doubt that anymore.”

For a moment, the lab’s hum filled the silence between them. Robotnik studied him, eyes sharp and calculating, like he was dissecting a machine for weak points. But what he found there made his expression shift—just slightly, but enough. Something softened.

“Recovered,” he said again, quieter this time.

Stone nodded. His throat was tight, but he forced the words through. “I didn’t just do it for myself. I did it because I want to be here. With you. Alive. Useful. Present.”

Robotnik set the mug down carefully, as though it were suddenly fragile. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes pinning Stone where he stood. “Do you understand how close you came to being a liability?”

“I do.” Stone’s voice was steady. “And I also know I won’t go back there again. Not now. Not after everything.”

The silence stretched again. Then, unexpectedly, Robotnik’s mouth twisted into the smallest smirk. “Good. I’d hate to waste all this work breaking in another assistant.”

Stone huffed out a short laugh, tension easing from his shoulders. “You’d miss me.”

Robotnik’s eyes gleamed. “Undoubtedly.”

The air between them changed, thick with unspoken things. Stone’s chest tightened—not with shame this time, not with hunger, but with something warm and certain. He had earned this moment, the right to stand steady and not falter under the weight of it.

Slowly, deliberately, he stepped closer. Robotnik didn’t move back.

“You’ve been the reason I’ve kept going,” Stone said softly. “And now I want to keep going for myself, too. But it’s you who made me realize I was worth the effort.”

Robotnik tilted his head, gaze sharp as a blade, but his voice was almost a whisper. “You’re sure you’re not saying this out of gratitude or weakness?”

“I’m sure,” Stone said, no hesitation. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

The hum of the machines seemed to fade, the whole lab shrinking down to just the two of them. Stone leaned in slowly, giving space for refusal, but Robotnik didn’t move. His eyes flicked down, then back up, and that was all the permission Stone needed.

Their lips met—firm, certain, not tentative but inevitable. Years of silence, loyalty, unspoken devotion condensed into a single point of contact. Robotnik’s hand came up to grip Stone’s collar, pulling him just a fraction closer. Stone’s fingers brushed the edge of the console, grounding himself in the reality of it.

When they parted, the air between them felt electric. Robotnik’s expression was unreadable, but his voice was low, rougher than usual.

“Finally,” he muttered.

Stone smiled, small and genuine. “Finally.”

And for once, he didn’t feel hollow. He felt whole. He felt home.