Work Text:
November rain streaks the grimy Detroit apartment window, casting watery reflections across the cheap laminate floor. On the sagging floral couch, Agent Stone lies sprawled like a discarded coat, his socked feet propped on a lumpy cushion. He’s utterly absorbed in the flickering TV screen, cheeks flushed faintly pink from the warmth of the radiator clanking nearby. Across the cramped living room, Dr. Ivo Robotnik dominates the threadbare armchair. His long legs are folded beneath him like a brooding spider, fingers plunging rhythmically into an oversized steel bowl overflowing with buttery popcorn.
The movie drones on – some forgettable action flick Stone insisted on – its dialogue a predictable sludge of clichés. Robotnik’s lip curls. Repetitive. Derivative. Utterly beneath me.
Boredom ignites into mischief. With a flick of his wrist, Robotnik sends a golden kernel sailing through the stale air. Thwap. It hits Stone’s slack, slightly open mouth, squarely. A second follows, landing perfectly on his tongue. Stone jolts, blinking. A surprised chuckle escapes him, deep and warm like an engine rumble. He tilts his head back, mouth opening wider like a baby bird, eyes never leaving the screen. Catch me, the gesture says.
Robotnik obliges, launching another precise arc. Popcorn rains down – some bounce off Stone’s nose, others land on his worn Henley. Stone catches a few deftly, chewing slowly. Still, he doesn’t move his supine body an inch. Instead, his hand snakes out blindly, fumbling across the sticky coffee table littered with takeout menus and discarded tech manuals. He finds his phone. Thumbs fly silently. A soft ping echoes from Robotnik’s pocket. Stone drops his phone back onto the sticky vinyl tablecloth with a soft clatter.
Before Stone can fully register the sound, the armchair creaks violently. Robotnik is a swift, dark blur crossing the small space. He doesn't sit beside Stone; he simply collapses onto him, full deadweight, pinning him to the cushions. Stone grunts softly under the sudden pressure – warm, heavy, smelling faintly of lattes, motor oil, and salted butter. Robotnik buries his face against Stone’s collarbone, tangling a possessive hand in the fabric of his agent’s shirt. His body is rigid yet relaxed, a strange tension humming beneath the stillness.
Stone shifts slightly beneath the unexpected weight, breath catching. "You alright, Ivo?" he murmurs, his voice thick with surprise and a tenderness he reserves only for this one infuriating man. His hand hesitates, then lifts, hovering near Robotnik's shoulder blade.
A muffled grunt vibrates against Stone’s sternum. Robotnik’s grip tightens infinitesimally. "Shh," he commands, the word muffled completely by fabric and flesh, yet utterly clear in its intent. "Pillows don't speak."
Stone freezes. Then, slowly, a smile blooms across his face. His hovering hand lowers, settling gently on the Doctor's back, fingers spreading wide against the curve of tense muscle beneath the thin lab coat. He stares resolutely at the ceiling, ignoring the explosions still flashing silently on the TV. The rain drums steadily against the windowpane. His pillow is surprisingly warm.