Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It happened at a holiday party. 

…Well, the first spark flew upon tinder long before that, but, everything blew up on Christmas.

Christmas. Already Robotnik’s most favoritest time of year! A pervasive reminder of everything he never had: family, friends, love, a soul…and soon, it would also be a reminder of what he could have had, but didn’t. He could have had an agent who really gave a shit about him. Really understood him. Maybe harbored affection for him, in some strange way, in some strange way he’d never understand. He could have had someone in his corner who wasn’t in control of his paycheck. He could have had someone who didn’t want anything out of him.

Instead, he got Packard.

Agent Packard.

Among the first of the agents who had signed up for the CAT Program. 

Robotnik had hated the idea, at first. Despised it wholly and totally on principle. What did Walters mean, he wanted him to have somebody? It would be good for his mental health? Robotnik’s mental health was fine. Dilapidated as it had always been! He didn’t need some clueless idiot bumbling around, fucking up his space and clogging his ears with trivial nonsense.

That’s the thing about being a genius. You get so used to inferior lifeforms being stupid that, when one of them has an intelligent thought, you don’t see it coming.

And Robotnik didn’t. 

Agent Packard had ignored his panic attacks and meltdowns like anyone wise ought to, but Robotnik had not seen it as wisdom: he had assumed it to be the fear he was used to. Because he was an explosive man when he’d had enough, and that scared people. That made them uncomfortable. And idiots tended to avoid that which was uncomfortable, rather than to understand why it was uncomfortable. (He had long thought that emotional reactions scared people because people, especially men, were taught that having emotions was bad or scary or embarrassing.)

Agent Packard had, also, begun to anticipate Robotnik’s moods. What made him antsy, what made him angry, what got him talking and shut him up and motivated his strokes of genius. Packard had learned that Robotnik was so terribly unused to someone being in his space that it was almost easy to distract him out of his tirade simply by reminding him of the more intimate details he knew. Robotnik’s food aversions, or the kind of fabric softener he preferred, or the allergy he had to fake metals which was the reason he was turned off of getting piercings. Agent Packard had seen some of his tattoos and had beheld his complicated dynamic with Commander Walters and knew that Robotnik kept his lab cold so he could keep his skin covered.

Agent Packard had also, on occasion, on very rare and extremely humiliating occasion, coaxed a laugh or two out of Robotnik. So what? He was funny. Charismatic enough that he could sell just about anybody on just about anything, with this confident look in his eye that asserted he was the right man for the job. That he had everything under his control. That he had all the correct opinions.

Robotnik saw it as humoring the agent, at first. Fine, alright, whatever, tell him some stories from training. Talk about how utterly ridiculous that film was. Profess his thoughts on how the world should look. Robotnik was interested; this was a fascinating creature who lived life in such a specific way…something to be studied, something to be…to be gawked at, or laughed at, or…or maybe appreciated. Sometimes. When it had been a long and lonely night and Robotnik just wanted to feel like one of those mythical “normal people” he’d heard were rumored to exist somewhere binary and excruciating. 

Months passed. Packard slipped his way into Robotnik’s quiet life, and he filled the sterile white walls of the labs with jokes and stories and opinions. The way he said certain things became vocal stims for Robotnik. The way he did certain things became the way Robotnik did them, too, like tucking the hoods into the hoodies instead of leaving them hanging in the folding process. 

Agent Packard was allowed to touch Robotnik. Robotnik wasn’t sure how he felt about it, but the agent was permitted to slap a hand down on the doctor’s shoulder every now and again like Robotnik was one of “the boys” Packard would go out drinking with. The people Robotnik would hear stories about. The people Robotnik envied. 

Dr. Ivo Robotnik, in all his years of life, had never before had a real friend.

Months into having Agent Packard around, and he could pretend he did, every odd day.

Things weren’t perfect. They disagreed politically, and Packard got weird about it when Robotnik wanted to leave a space because it was getting too loud or crowded. And, Packard couldn’t get enough of other people, while Robotnik had had enough since his first miserable year of life. Packard talked at too high a volume and gave him instructions too much too fast. Packard had no patience listening to Robotnik ramble excitedly about his robots—actively told him he refused to pretend to be interested in it. Packard spent too much time talking up the communal breakroom, and wore this body spray that triggered Robotnik’s headaches, and didn’t understand why they had unisex restrooms in the complex. 

But you need to understand: Packard was the first person Robotnik had ever had stick around to stick around. Packard was the closest thing to a friend Robotnik had ever kept. Packard had forced his way into Robotnik’s life and settled himself down on the recliner. And there was nothing about Packard’s more idiotic opinions which Robotnik thought couldn’t be fixed via being better educated on humanities and sciences. So Robotnik forgave that about him.

And then Robotnik started forgiving his ignorance towards his sensory problems.

And then Robotnik forgave him for gripping his shoulder and shoving him playfully and touching him without his express permission in general.

And then Robotnik found forgiven a thousand tiny sins which began to bury him in their weight.

And month five rolled around. September. 

Robotnik had a panic attack during a meeting. A panic attack Agent Packard laughed off for him at the time, smoothing things over with the higher-ups and their colleagues. 

…A panic attack Packard proceeded to joke about to every willing ear. These were jokes toeing the line between offensive and acceptable, and these were jokes Robotnik did not find funny but assumed it was his fault, because he rarely found jokes to be very funny. And anyway, what did Robotnik care if his agent was using his poor mental health to advance himself socially? Robotnik cared not for other people. Barely cared about Agent Packard, in all honesty—frequently wondered if Packard was just filling a predestined shape decently enough for his mind to find it passable. Figured that was what he was to Packard himself, if not just a grossly exaggerated paycheck.

So Robotnik forgave that, too, because he’d already forgiven so much and wasn’t feeling like educating this stupid agent.

…

…The jokes got worse.

Some of them started sounding a suspicious lot like the rumors which always seemed to follow Robotnik’s name. He was heartless, unstable, had been replaced by a machine of his own creation years ago…and Packard started calling him a basket case. Made jokes like calling him the ol’ government ball and chain, calling him an obsessive (but loveable!) little weirdo, calling him impossible to understand. 

By late October, Agent Packard was speaking of him like he was some burdensome child he was forced to care for—a poor, unfortunate thing was Robotnik, and Agent Packard was the only one willing to put up with him. The only one even capable of tolerating him besides maybe Walters, but, you know, Walters didn’t reach out to him often for anything but work, so it was basically only Packard which the doctor had. 

And so November flew by in a haze. Robotnik’s anxiety started getting worse, getting bad. Agent Packard played cricket noises on his phone during meetings any time Robotnik went on a tangent. Robotnik stopped taking on extra projects, trying to limit his workflow to keep up with how exhausted he was growing. Agent Packard made flippant comments about the “science experiments” left on every available surface. Robotnik retreated inwards. Packard called him lazy and uncooperative during their monthly check-in.

Some behaviors of Packard's grew in their intensity: Robotnik complained about anything, and Packard made an ill-spirited joke out of it. Robotnik got anxious or overwhelmed and blew up, and Packard threw it in his face: seriously? That’s dramatic, even for you. Quit embarrassing yourself. Leave the room if you’re going to act that way. No, don’t look at him, he’s just acting out for attention.

We’re going to the meeting today. No migraine of yours is stopping it.

Get those reports in by two. I don’t care. You’re going to have them in by two.

What are you doing? I said, what are you doing? This isn’t your personal time. Work on something productive, like one of the thirty projects you have due way too soon to be fiddling with random parts.

Go to the meeting, Robotnik.

Turn the music down.

Go put on actual clothes, you’re at work. Not at home. 

Don’t use the company card for that, Jesus Christ. It’s three dollars.

Go clean up your study, man. Seriously. That’s disgusting. 

Ugh, that show sucks so bad. I’ve got a better idea.

Email Commander Walters back. Now. 

Fucking hell, how can you stand to work next to that mess? Take care of it, now. 

Oh, my God. Stop yapping. I didn’t ask for a fucking dissertation.

Dude, do you ever shut up?

…When December rolled around, Dr. Robotnik was an anxious mess. He was always in unusual form during the holiday season, but this one was…something else entirely. Because when he would have spent his time overthinking about how unloved he was, he was spending it thinking about how unlovable, how uncooperative, how irritating he was to the only two people who willingly continued to know him. And he was irritating, yes. He knew that for fact.

Packard was constantly getting annoyed at him. He was irritated with him over his pickiness, irritated with him over his state of dress, irritated with the mess Robotnik couldn’t clean and with the haphazard order he completed his tasks. And Robotnik was irritated with Packard over Packard constantly being irritated, but…but, he was only ever irritated with Robotnik. To everyone else, he was the same charming man whose world Robotnik had been so taken in by. So obviously, constant irritation was just a side effect of lingering around Dr. Robotnik for extended periods of time. 

Agent Packard told him they were going to the holiday party. The yearly holiday party Robotnik always delighted in skipping. When Robotnik refused, Packard yanked him up out of his chair—and Robotnik was still reeling from that harsh, unexpected touch when they pulled up to the restaurant.

Dr. Robotnik sat there miserably while Agent Packard drank and laughed and partook in festivities and customs which were alien to a man who’d never had anyone drag him into the fray. Commander Walters tried to talk to him, but Robotnik brushed him off, and when that didn’t work, he ignored him until he gave up.

They always gave up. No matter how hard he tried, when things got difficult and his mind played tricks, they gave up. The nuns at the orphanage. The other kids, desperate for friendships but not desperate enough. 

Everyone always gave up on him because he was difficult. Because he was uncooperative at best and actively sabotaging things at worst. 

And he was too hot, and it was too loud, and he felt crowded by the narrow halls and dim lighting and he’d had enough. He wanted to go back to his lab and rot there. Not here, with an audience. With a room so full and disconnected from him that he was suffocating. He needed out.

But Packard was his ride. Packard was a lot of things he depended upon, really. His schedule, his deadline, his break time—Packard ran his life how he saw fit. More of a personal assistant than a CAT Agent, really, and when had Robotnik forgotten that? When had Robotnik let that man’s head get so inflated? Why was he in charge of so much he wasn’t supposed to be?

“Packard,” Robotnik remembered himself grumbling. “When can we leave?”

He’d approached the man while the agent was talking to a group of their colleagues. Ones who found Packard utterly charming, utterly enthralling, ones who were busy eating up whatever story he put in front of them.

“We just got here! Come on, man, lighten up. I’m sorry about him, he’s a grinch.”

Ones Robotnik was apparently embarrassing him in front of.

“Yes, yes, a real grinch. When can we go? I think I’m having an allergic reaction to all this cheer and good will.” 

“You just gotta get into it. Anyway…”

“Packard. Really, I want to leave. I don’t want to be here anymore, and you’re my ride.”

“God, could you be any more needy? Just because you want to scurry back to your little cave doesn’t mean I can’t have a little fun every once in a while.”

“Packard. I don’t feel good. I want to leave.”

“You never feel good. What is it, this time? A migraine? Your anxiety? Just have a drink or something, it’ll go away.”

“I don’t drink, and I’m overwhelmed. I want to go back.”

Packard gave Robotnik a taste of his own medicine, and ignored him when brushing him off didn’t work.

Robotnik kept trying to get his attention back. Dread rose in him, buoyant as a buoy in the Dead Sea. Packard talked over him like he wasn’t even there. Kept telling his stories, stories Robotnik had heard change from time to time,  fine-tuned to get the best reaction. He knew the pauses, by now, and exploited them. Still nothing.

“Packard. Packard.” 

Still. Nothing. 

Growing distressed, Robotnik impulsively took him by the arm, a call of the man’s name and title falling from his mouth—

“Fucking hell, what do you want now?! I swear to God, you’re the clingiest man I’ve ever met. Can’t I get a break from you and your whining?”

Robotnik’s lungs shuddered on the inhale. “Packard, I need to go.”

“I don’t give a shit! I’m trying to have a conversation—”

“Please, can we just, just leave? I-I need out of here.”

“So go! Just leave me the hell alone for five minutes. Why can you never just let me live my life?”

“I can’t just leave. I came here with you.”

“It looks like you’re staying until I decide I want to leave, then.”

Robotnik’s jaw clenched, a lump forming in his throat. He felt so powerless. Trapped, ignored, unwanted. Guilty, somehow, and he didn’t particularly enjoy that thought. Enjoyed it and the others so little that his heart pumped harder in his chest, frantic to end this situation.

“I-I need to leave. I can’t, I can’t stay in here, there’s—”

“Ohh, there’s too much noise? Too many lights? Oh! God forbid! Is it people?! Dude, c’mon. Seriously. Can you just act normal for once in your life? You’re so embarrassing.”

His hands were shaking. “I need to go,” he pleaded.

“You’re gonna go back to whatever corner I left you in and wait.”

“I can’t, I need—”

“Fuck’s sake!” 

And Packard put his hands on him. And Robotnik flinched, staring into wide and angry eyes.

“Just shut up!” Packard snapped, squeezing his shoulders. “I’ve put up with you for eight goddamn months! You’re sooo fucking lucky you’re the commander’s favorite, otherwise I would’ve decked you by now. Hell, anyone else would have a long time ago! You are not what I signed up for!”

By now, the whole party had slowed to stare. 

Robotnik’s panic welled up and trickled down his face, the panic attack locking him firmly in position.

“I have no idea how you’ve lived this long, really! Always bothered by every little thing! You know, out here in the real world, nobody has to go home just because their idiot fucking paycheck refuses to have a good time!”

People are staring. 

“I don’t know what you’d do without me keeping you in check—you barely function.” 

Walters is staring. 

“You’re supposed to be my partner, but it’s like I got stuck with the world’s most obnoxious two-year-old. I’m sick of this! I’m sick of your shit! Find your own way home. I quit.”

Robotnik’s eyes refocused on Packard’s face.

Quit.

He’d quit.

He’d quit, and Walters had ridden Robotnik back to the lab that night, and he wasn’t with Packard anymore. That was five years ago. Packard had been fired half a decade ago by Commander Walters himself.

And Robotnik was alone.

…

…

…Walters remembered that night vividly. 

He regretted ever accepting Packard into the CAT Program. Regretted a lot of things about the handling of that particular agent, but regretted, especially, setting him up with Ivo. Gerald’s only remaining family. A boy who’d grown to a man whom Walters cared for, despite his… many, many peculiarities. 

The CAT (soCializing Agent Tactic) Program had but one purpose: create strong bonds between people suited to each other’s emotional needs to build a sense of community and improve both parties’ mental health. CAT Agents were paired with anyone working within the complex which G.U.N. didn’t want to risk upsetting. 

Ivo, they both knew, could not be fired. He made up the molecules in every breath of air taken for granted by the government. Whether it had occurred to Ivo or not that he also couldn’t quit, Walters had no idea, but it rang just as true: Ivo had nowhere and no one but the G.U.N. complex. 

And Walters worried about that. Worried his gray hairs into white ones, and worried his white hairs into vacationing wherever they’d fallen out at. Probably the shower. It was usually the shower.

Walters worried for Ivo and his isolation. That was why he had assigned him a CAT Agent in the first place, while the program was still young and developing. And the CAT Program had seen amazing success in its six years of operation! But the nightmare that had been Packard had Ivo worse than ever. Most people had been intimidated into “forgetting” what they’d seen at that fateful holiday party. Some of the stupider ones had been fired and forced to sign additional NDAs. The CAT Program had been paused and redeveloped to ensure the wellbeing of both parties, and the rumors had died down significantly.

The ones sprung from the event, anyway.

But hauling a sobbing Ivo into his Jeep Wrangler after publicly firing Agent Packard…the memory was burned into Walters’ mind. He couldn’t forget it. He felt like he’d failed Ivo, failed Gerald, failed entirely. Agent Packard had seemed so likeable—maybe Walters had been impulsive.

He wouldn’t be this time.

Oh, no. He’d been monitoring this one for three years, making sure no one else picked him up just in case. And while he threw good agent after good agent into Ivo’s destructive powers, he knew, deep down, none of them were the right fit. But, Agent Stone…

Agent Stone, who didn’t get along well with his peers, who had patiently waited to be chosen by somebody, anybody for three entire goddamn years…Agent Stone, who was patient and sturdy and actively despised the rumor mill— he was perfect for Ivo. Walters knew it deep to his core. 

And the eagerness to please the agent had gained after three straight years of being passed up, that would be a meaningful bonus.

Yes…Agent Stone would be perfect for Ivo. 

Ivo just…needed to get tired of driving CAT Agents to insanity, first.

Chapter Text

Agent Stone had had a hard life full of hard decisions and hard to swallow pills.

All he wanted now, three years past when he assumed his flawless career would carry him right to where he wanted to be, was to be somebody’s agent. Preferably somebody kind and accommodating of his well-hidden eccentricities, but he could deal with whatever came his way.

So long as someone actually did come his way.

At some point.

Please? 

…He’d been patient for three years. And he had two left, as per his contract with the CAT Program, or he would have to resign from it and move on. Because G.U.N. didn’t like stagnation. And because HR worried about letting an agent stay in unwanted limbo forever.

That was where Stone was, right now.

It was exceedingly unusual—his situation. He was a highly successful agent, and sure, his people skills were only put to use when he felt like it, but he really had been trying with the long string of doctors and special agents and generals looking for someone to work with. He’d spoken to them. He’d smiled at them. He’d put forth his best qualities and been half-honest about his worse. But they always fled, in the end. Even after looking interested. Even after Stone got desperate and made to manipulate them (a ploy he was still ashamed of). 

But Stone needed somebody. And being the initiator was fully okay with him, and he could deal with unreasonable hours, and he didn’t really celebrate holidays, nor have friends, nor have family, nor have anything outside of himself and his extensive list of hobbies, so his time could be theirs. 

He could be theirs. Somebody’s. Anybody’s. 

At first, he’d suspected Commander Walters—founder of the program, and very active within it—was turning people away from him on purpose. He wasn’t the right fit for anyone yet, Stone had decided of himself, and needed to become more. So his list of hobbies expanded: he got better at cooking, he learned to sew, he read up on different disorders and what kind of support someone with them might need, he relearned how to hotwire a car and googled knitting tutorials and brushed up on his barista skills and so much more. So, so much more. 

But still, nobody wanted him enough to choose him.

And oftentimes, he felt like nobody wanted him at all. 

He was going out of his mind trying to prove himself to some invisible force who decided his fate. Taking on more dangerous missions to show off his capability, learning archery and other things he thought might be difficult to prove his dexterity. Read classic literature and children’s novels and non-fiction and every genre he could think of to ensure he was ready for the rare intelligent conversation with someone coming from an obscure field.

He could cook, he played multiple instruments, he spoke more languages than he could remember but they were written down somewhere if you wanted to take a look, he was intelligent and willing and God, please, just pick him, he’d do anything you asked. 

…He had two years left to catch somebody’s attention and hold it. Nobody new would officially be hired and seeking an agent for about three, but he kept an open mind. Tried to, anyhow. Because after a very hard life, one started to realize that there really was more out there than bad luck and malintent—statistically, there had to be. And alongside that was always the thought that things could change, drastically, in a single instance. You never knew what was coming next until it came.

So Stone tried to be ready.

Rejection after rejection had hit. But Stone was a very sturdy man, unbreaking though not unchanging. He adapted to trends in the CAT agent niche, he threw himself headfirst into other challenges to keep his confidence up, he practiced conversation with the old women in the knitting club at his local library. 

…And then, he became aware of a similarly powerful force to his own invisible, isolating force.

That force’s name was whispered in fear, dread, horror. 

He got Marcy, professed Agent Henrich tearfully. 

We’re organizing a goodbye party for Agent Finch, said some secretary he didn’t know, they got picked by that awful devil of a man, and decided on a career change.

Dave’s in the hospital. The doctor got him.

Agent Pierce is planning on going on vacation next time he needs a new agent. I think I might join her.

Can you cover for me tomorrow? Please? I’m gonna fake sick. I heard the doctor’s driven out another agent.

Don’t leave the breakroom. The doctors out there, right now.

If I ever get picked, I’m going to move states. Better yet, Canada sounds great this time of year. Or any time of year the doctor’s prowling for new prey.

Walters is basically just feeding his least favorites to that mad doctor of his. Ought to be on our best behavior next time he visits.

Don’t make eye contact. You might get picked.

Don’t say his name! You never know when his things might be listening.

“Don’t look! What the hell are you doing?! He might see you.” 

Agent Flynn yanked Stone back from the door of the breakroom, where a large number of government agents were currently cowering with the lights shut off. Flynn was an…interesting character. A gossip for sure, but they tried to stay out of the drama they liked to listen in on. Agent Stone didn’t like them, of course, but he didn’t like any of the other CAT agents. Didn’t tend to like people in general very much. 

He wrenched his arm out of Agent Flynn’s hands, brushing off the touch like it would purify something tainted. 

I don’t understand the fear, Stone thought to himself. We deal with life-threatening situations constantly, but one man? One man, and you all start hiding in your coop? 

He’d not come in here to hide. He’d come in here to refill his water bottle at the sink, and then the flock had appeared, and he’d gotten stuck listening to them clucking and hissing in fear.

…Twenty minutes of sensory hell listening to other people breathe, and Agent Stone was finally released. Someone was sobbing, and several people were ranting angrily. Apparently somebody very well-liked had been chosen.

Stone sighed. He did stay away from Dr. Robotnik, yes. But not because of these idiots and their inane cowardice. 

Because he’d requested to be Robotnik’s three years ago and gotten denied.

And Stone was petty.

…

…Robotnik, too, was petty. He’d rejected the first 35 agents Walters had tried to set him up with, claiming they were bad because Walters had terrible, awful taste. Then, Walters had made him choose. So, Robotnik claimed he was too busy to review profile after profile. 

Walters scheduled a day specifically to get Robotnik to choose an agent.

Robotnik chose, and ran the poor girl off in two hours.

Walters scheduled another day.

Robotnik brought his next agent to tears.

This pattern had gone on for three years, now.

Robotnik was very, very tired of allowing grubby-handed strangers into his space.

But tormenting agents into quitting satisfied some part of himself. He wasn’t sure what to do without that. And so the pattern continued, and Walters hand-fed him a mix of G.U.N.’s best and worst. 

Agent Cavendish lasted a whole three days. A new record for CAT agents—not that Robotnik had really put his heart into driving him off. His little clique brought the man flowers when he returned to the training grounds, or so Robotnik had heard from his badniks. Idiots. It’s not like he went off to war.

“Robotnik.”

“GAAH?!”

A screwdriver flew off into the ether as the doctor flinched, staring up wide-eyed at… Walters. 

“WHAT do you want?” Robotnik snapped, pressing a hand to his chest. Cavendish hadn’t even been gone two days—usually, he was given at least a week between agents.

Walters had this look on his face Robotnik didn’t understand. He tried to mimic the expression, but couldn’t get the almost-smile quite right. “Let’s go get you a new agent.”

Already? “I’m busy,” Robotnik replied. “In case that wasn’t blatantly fucking obvious.”

“Come on, Ivo. I’ve got a good one in mind.”

“I’m not in the mood to humble one of your idiot hotshots. I have three deadlines to meet by the end of the month, and it’s the 23rd.”

“This is something different, Ivo.”

“You say th…stop calling me that.”

“Robotnik, I mean it. Come with me.”

“No.”
“Robotnik.”

“...”

“Ro botnik.”

“Fuck, fine, if you’ll let me finish this!”

…Twenty minutes later, and Robotnik found himself scowling as Walters gleefully led him through a swarm of terrified agents. Whispers spread through the lot like a brushfire. Robotnik had taken roughly fifty steps into the commons before they started to scatter like mice.

Good, he thought, you’d better run. Some of you might be next.

When Walters finally ushered him through the door to the grossly oversized breakroom, seriously, why did they need such a big breakroom, what exactly constituted a break to these people, there was only one agent left. 

“Agent Stone,” came Walters’ voice. “How are you, this evening?”

“Very well, sir, thank you.” replied the agent. “And, yourself?”

Robotnik’s brain tuned out of the conversation. 

Agent Stone.

He knew that name. 

There were whispers about that name. Not fearful whispers, no, but there were whispers. Robotnik tried to place what the rumor mill claimed. Agent Stone, Agent Stone, Agent…

“I’m sorry, what?”

…Puppydog Eyes. Agent Puppydog Eyes was currently directing the intensity of his gaze at Robotnik, for whatever reason.

“The doctor is in need of a companion, and you are the most qualified candidate,” Walters explained. “I know you’ve been waiting a damn long time for the right partner…”

“Sir, I…don’t mean to speak out of turn, but I applied three years ago—back when we still used the application system? And I was rejected. I don’t understand…”

“Ah…yes. I recall you were in that first batch Dr. Robotnik rejected en masse. That was when you first caught my eye. Pay no heed to that; the doctor was in a…mood, so to say—”

“A mood I am still in, Commander,” Robotnik interjected. He made sure the man’s title sounded out in his most mocking sneer to date. “As I have professed on many an occasion, I find your taste in people not just disturbing, but entirely and wholly disagreeable. So what, pray tell, did you think interrupting me at work and hauling me down here would do?”

Walters shot him a dirty look. “Robotnik, my boy—”
“Not yours in any sense of the word. Ew.”

“—tell Agent Stone a little bit about yourself.”

Agent Puppydog Eyes was looking at him with both bewilderment and hope. 

Robotnik wanted to hit him.

He strode forward, milking those few inches he had on the man for all they were worth, and circled him. 

“6’2”, Cancer, I dislike the beach because I hate the feeling of sand in my everywhere. If I had one month left to live, I would make sure the rest of the world only had a week. Worst quality: genius. Best quality: evil. You use a cologne I fucking hate, and it makes me want to punch you. If Walters doesn’t let me leave in the next thirty seconds, I’m going to. Any questions?”

“What cologne do you prefer?”

“What.”

Robotnik stared down at Agent Puppydog Eyes. 

Agent Puppydog Eyes lived up to the title.

“My cologne bothers you. Is there a particular one you’d prefer I wear?”

…

…Fine. If that was how Agent Death Wish wanted to play, then Robotnik would surpass him.

“Mine is the only one I can stand. I have a spare bottle.”

Agent Fucking Insane responded, “Really? That’s wonderful, doctor. I’ll switch over immediately.”

Robotnik blinked. Blinked again. Blinked a third time, just for good measure. He looked to Walters, all while Agent Fucking Insane’s full attention remained on him. Unwavering. Strange. What the fuck. “What’s wrong with this one?” the doctor demanded.

“Nothing is wrong with Agent Stone,” Walters said with a smile. “He’s very eager to do a good job, is all.”

“Eager. Tch. A bootlicker, then? What, do you think my ego could use some tending? I can tell you right now it doesn’t.”

Walters huffed, “I think you could use some tending, Ivo. Which is exactly what I will be briefing Agent Stone on before he starts with you tomorrow.”

Suddenly mortified, Robotnik withdrew from Agent Bootlicker’s personal space and scowled at the old man. “You’re not going to brief him.”

“It’s standard procedure.”

“The hell are you gonna tell him? I won’t be coddled, nor babied, and nor will I be treated by anything close to your instructions.”

“Ivo, as the person closest to you, I think I’m exactly the right person to be…”

“I refuse. I will brief the bootlicker.”

Walters went quiet. 

Then:

“Okay, Ivo,” he sighed.

“Don’t fucking call me that.”

Chapter Text

“First and foremost,” said Commander Walters, “are you comfortable with high levels of unexpected and or aggressive physical contact?”

Not what Agent Stone expected the secret brief to start with, but he could roll with it.

“Yes, sir,” he replied. Not exactly true, but also not entirely a lie. He needed to be able to stand somebody in order to be comfortable letting them touch him. Usually what put him off people was high school behavior and stupidity—neither of which were features Dr. Robotnik had thus far exhibited, in Stone’s eyes. But the aggressive aspect…well, he could live with it.

“Great. You worked as a barista in college. Can you still make a latte?”

“I can, sir.”

“I know from your evals you’re familiar with anxiety and panic attacks. Are you capable of the patience required to help another person through one?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What about overstimulation? And meltdowns?”

“Yes and yes, sir.”

“Are you easily offended by empty threats or insults?”

“No, sir.”

…Really, this brief felt more like an interview than anything. But, he supposed he was learning something from it: the doctor was an expressive man who had a very, very long list of reasons to be uncomfortable on a daily basis.

Stone answered several political questions, was asked about his knowledge on robotics and Netflix dramas, and found himself responding, once, with, “Yes, sir, I’m aware the world is a sphere. No, sir, I do not believe you to be a lizard.”

And then came the kicker:

“You’ll need to move into the quarters bordering the doctor’s. Better to have you on-site. It’s a spacious apartment above his laboratory, and like his, covers exactly half the length of the lab. You’ll have plenty more space than you probably do in that… place… you already live. Is that fine, and will you need any financial assistance in furnishing the space?”

“Uh…I, that’s fine, sir, and no, I won’t need financial assistance, sir.”

This…was happening.

He had a partner. He was somebody’s partner. 

And Dr. Robotnik had chased off half of the current CAT agents, sure, but he wouldn’t chase Stone off. No, Stone was determined. Stone would have him. Robotnik would grow to want him.

Eventually. (Hopefully.) 

…The fact he was to wear Robotnik’s cologne…oh, he was half-sure the doctor had been serious about that, yes. And the part of him who believed was in love with the idea. He would smell like his new partner. Some other part of him recited the fact that cats share their scent with others to mark them as part of their unit, and…and gods, that really was a terribly romantic sort of thought. He would smell like him. Smell like his partner. His partner who had told him he wanted to punch him in the face upon first meeting.

His partner who was—evidently— very opposed to having this role in his life filled. But no matter.

Agent Stone had waited three years for this position, and his whole existence to have somebody, and…

…and, he’d had a hard life. And had coped by becoming the person he’d needed to have, but hadn’t had. And now, he just wanted somebody to dote on and love with all his might.

He’d been chosen. 

(Forcibly shoved at Dr. Robotnik, really, but it wouldn’t matter in the end! He’d win him over!)

(He… had to.)

(Robotnik was his last chance at getting what he wanted in life.)

(God, I can’t fail. I won’t let myself fail.)

…Commander Walters had moved on from questioning him to, ah. Effectively calling his favorite scientist a needy wreck.

“—ease don’t leave him alone for long periods of time. He does need reminded about deadlines and meal times occasionally, but you can’t be controlling or pushy about it. He has had some rather nasty experiences with CAT agents in the past; please be patient with him. It’s not about you. He’s…I don’t know what, but he is it. And, he’d never admit it in a million years, but I’ve also long suspected that he’s severely…flesh-hungry? Is that what they call it? But he shrinks away from me most of the time when I touch him. I don’t know if he’s just tolerating it because it’s me or because he knows he needs to get it from somewhere, but if you can help him feel more comfortable…and he’ll need total loyalty, unconditional commitment…”

…Unintentionally, the commander made the doctor sound quite helpless. He was fretting about him like a mother worries over her only son, and Stone was starting to wonder about some of the things he’d heard revolving around Robotnik’s long-dead grandfather. Particularly that grandfather and Walters’ relationship.

“Oh, and if he…” Walters pauses his novel to sigh. “If he starts showing signs of overwhelm, or anxiety, please just…listen to him. We had an…issue, once. A very bad one, and I had to step in.”

Frankly, Stone couldn’t tell whether or not he liked how the commander was dealing with Robotnik’s various disorders. It was clear he cared and wanted to make sure Robotnik was accommodated for, but…well, maybe it was Stone’s own independence which was driving that attentiveness to rub him just slightly the wrong way. He had a problem with being spoken for. Not that Walters necessarily was speaking for Robotnik, but—oh, he was overthinking this. Why was he overthinking this?

…Nerves, he realized. I’m nervous. Really nervous.

I want to be able to meet his needs, and Commander Walters is laying them out for me on a silver platter. 

Ten minutes of Walters’ motherhenning later, and Agent Stone’s attention span was screaming for relief. Finally, finally, the man let up.

Only to ask Stone something he’d completely forgotten was important when dealing with this program.

“I’ve done a lot of talking about what Dr. Robotnik’s needs are in the context of this companionship. What are your own, agent? Surely, you’ve put some thought into what you need in a partner—you’ve stayed with the program three long years.”

Stone willed away the heat in his cheeks.

He didn’t exactly know. 

And from the embarrassment sprung panic: oh, God, he didn’t know! He had no idea! Communication was a two-way street, he couldn’t fuck this up, he couldn’t fuck this u—

“Loyalty as well, sir. Uh, someone who will be committed—eventually. Somebody…” Somebody I can fucking stand. “...to care for.”

His strung-together response sounded so… domestic. So painfully domestic. He kept talking, in the hopes it would get easier to say those words to his commander.

“I need to feel…wanted. Needed. Necessary. I enjoy taking care of other people, sir. And I don’t need reciprocation in the same form. I…really, just being allowed to… dote is all I need.”

Walters remained quiet for a beat and a half too long. 

Stone forced a neutral expression. Had he missed a social cue…? Don’t fuck this up. Don’t fuck this up.

The commander frowned. “...Is…that—wait, is that it?”

“Uh—yes, sir. I think so.”

“I’ve given you an entire laundry list of needs for Robotnik, and all you can come up with is, what, six sentences? Seven?”

“I don’t need very much, sir. I’m an independent type.”

“You’ve thought this through?”

“Yes, sir.” Lying through my teeth…

Walters frowned. Contemplated. “Hm. Al…right, then. I suppose all that’s left is to have you sign an NDA. I was serious about not giving Robotnik word of this briefing.”

The pen was cold in his hand, writing so smoothly over each line. 

Smooth like the ceramic in his hand as he eyed Agent Flynn across the breakroom. They were talking to Agent Pierce, leaning a little too close into the man’s personal space. Annoyance flickered in Stone’s fingers—when were they going to ask him out? The feeling was clearly mutual.

He breathed a quiet sigh of relief when Agent Pierce sauntered past him, throwing him a nod of greeting as his hand hit the door.

Agent Stone set down his mug and cornered Agent Flynn.

“What do you know about Dr. Robotnik?” he asked. 

Agent Flynn jumped, and glanced around as though he’d spoken the devil’s name in a Catholic church. “Je-Jesus, Stone, don’t spring that on me! I mean, that…I—what, what are you talking about? I don’t know anything about him. What are you asking me for?”

“You’re the only person I really talk to,” Stone said patiently, “and I want to know more about him.”

“I…” That wide-eyed look on Agent Flynn’s face…why were they looking at him like that? The same way they stared out the window on the breakroom door when Dr. Robotnik came around…

“What do people say about him, again? They call him the devil?”

“...They… might, I don’t know. I don’t like gossip very much, it’s rude.”

“But useful, sometimes.”

“...Agent…Stone, look, um…” Agent Flynn refused to make eye contact, staring at some point past his head. “...I-I heard you, um. Got. Um. I heard you finally got chosen! Con graaats!”

…That was when he spotted the reflection in their eye. Something glowing red behind his head; an eye within their eye.

One of the doctor’s security drones, hovering there silently. 

Watching. 

Observing. 

Oh, my God. He could be…

Stone chose his next words carefully.

He could be listening.

“Yes, thank you. That’s why I want to know more about Doctor Robotnik; I want to understand him. Starting with his reputation, and why it is the way it is.” 

Agent Flynn’s eyes flew somehow wider, focusing at long last on Stone’s. 

“I need to go. I think, um, I left my car in my… g-goodbye, Agent Stone.” 

And they fled, leaving their coffee on the counter.

Agent Stone stared after them.

The drone floated into his sightline, and he blinked at it a few times, processing. Both for show and for real; it was a beautiful machine to behold. A cold white shell, egg-shaped, with darker paint surrounding and extending from its bright red sensor. Something in him screamed that this thing had been created by the hands of a master; something in it seemed alive. 

“Ah, hi,” Stone tried awkwardly. “You’re one of Dr. Robotnik’s drones, aren’t you? What’re you doing so far from him?”

The drone rumbled and ticked—the first noise he’d ever heard one make. From a slot that opened under its eye, a long ticket like a receipt printed. Stone looked between the eye and the slip of paper. The drone advanced forward to the point it was only a centimeter from his nose.

Wide-eyed, he asked: “Is that…a note you want me to read?”

Beeeep boop beeeep beeeep, boop, boop boop boop, came the drone’s mechanical reply. 

That…sounded a little like Morse. Stone did not know Morse. But it was three letters, he thought, and all distinct from one another…he was willing to gamble that it was a yes.

So he took the ticket in his hand, and the drone backed up abruptly to sever the paper from itself, and Stone read the typed message. 

I

WANT

YOU

DEAD.

Consider yourself adequately briefed.

—Dr. Ivo Robotnik

…Oh. 

Nice that he thought to sign it.

Chapter Text

“First and foremost,” said Commander Walters, “are you comfortable with high levels of unexpected and or aggressive physical contact?” 

Robotnik growled at the screen. Seriously? He wasn’t that touchy.

…Not anymore, at least.

“Yes, sir,” Agent Dumbfuck replied politely. 

“Do you have any allergies?”

“Just seasonal, sir, and I take something for it daily.”

“Do you have pets?”

“No, sir. I don’t intend to get one, but I’m not against the thought, either.”

“What working hours are most comfortable for you?”

“Whatever hours are most comfortable for the doctor, sir.”

It was like watching a shepherd command his dog: every question was responded to in the most pleasing way, in the most pleasing tone. Disgusting—no, revolting. Did Walters want to give him a lapdog? A punching bag? What was this?

Bullshit. 

I smell bullshit. Something’s off. 

Why do I know the name Agent Stone? 

…Really, the information took very little time to retrieve. A testament to his genius. (And his beautiful badniks! Oh, what glorious spywork they could do…)

Gossips called Agent Stone a lone wolf. Polite but completely (and intentionally, not that these inferior idiots could tell) unavailable. He spoke almost a dozen different languages with startling fluency, and was the top of the stealth program until three years ago. Three years ago. 

What happened three years ago?

Three years ago.

Three years ago, Robotnik had heard a hell of a lot of yelling in Walters’ office right before a scheduled check-in. The old man was going off on somebody—that dinky little American flag shaped pencil holder of his clattering to the ground in an audible plastic massacre—and from what Robotnik had heard, they deserved it.

Someone had abandoned their entire unit in an underground tunnel system. Gone completely rogue. Walters was pissed, and the recipient of his Robotnik-level crash out had evidently been in the wrong for abandoning both their team and their mission, however briefly, all over something decidedly less important than saving millions of human lives.

Everything out of the other person’s mouth had been convincing platitudes. Apologies, acceptances of wrongdoing, sincerity so sincere it sincerely made Robotnik want to gag. But they did say one thing which spoke to themself, one irritating thing:

“The reasons were personal to me, sir. I’m sorry. My judgement was clouded.”

Agent Stone had been shunned by many of his past teammates, left alone to try to rebuild his reputation, left to his thoughts. Robotnik had been slightly curious about the slew of CAT agents Walters had sent his way a month later, but turned the whole pile down once he realized who was among them.

And again, Walters was trying to assign him somebody with a history of abandoning human beings. 

Absolutely fucking not. 

The death threat idea had come to him easily. More easily than the cologne debacle, but he still ensured his beautiful baby pulled from a hollow in its shell his own preferred cologne in a sleek black tube. After the death threat, of course, to deeper hammer home just how unwelcome this moron was in his life.

This moron who stood before him now, cornered and wearing Robotnik’s cologne.

(Robotnik found this out when he charged the man upon seeing him through the doorbell cam of the lab, removing the infernal agent’s personal space with a few confident strides.)

(Confident strides which brought him centimeters from Agent Stone, who smelled very nice and was very well groomed and looked very hopeful and—)

“Doc-Doctor! Robotnik, Doctor Robotnik, hi!” the agent exclaimed softly. Big, round eyes, a clean hairline, thick eyebrows, and he…

Oh, my gods.

I fucking fucked myself. 

I made sure he smelled nice. This—that’s—this is his fault! For being…GAH, I won’t be undone by the trivial—!

…Robotnik remained quiet, trying to intimidate. Kept his gaze cold, his expression unimpressed.

Agent Stone offered a smile. “I’ve…waited a long time to be somebody’s agent, I’m not gonna lie. I’m eager to make the most of this chance.”

Chance. What an idiot. 

“As such…I mean, maybe you already know…? But—my loyalty is to you. I feel the need to inform you Commander Walters briefed me against your wishes. I took notes, in case you weren’t aware and wanted to know everything he said.”

“...You’re telling me this.”

“I…am. Legally, not a great choice, because I did sign an NDA, but…there are loopholes.”

“So you’re a criminal.”

“For…you, sir…?”

Robotnik huffed through his nose.

“Doctor.”

“Doctor! I’m so sorry, doctor, I’m used to—”

“I don’t care. What are you doing here?”

Agent Stone looked…hm. Unreadable expression. It was just giving something in between hopefulness and hopelessness. 

Doctor “Impossible to Work With” Robotnik could work with that.

“I start with you today, doctor.”

“Exactly. Why are you still in the hallway?”

“Because y…”

…It was here Agent Stone began to realize what sort of man he was dealing with. Or—Robotnik hoped, anyway. 

The agent blinked, taken aback, and drew his posture somehow straighter. He trailed inquisitive eyes over Robotnik’s face, lingered, and then he said: “I wouldn’t wish to enter your space without your express permission, doctor.”

Robotnik…didn’t know why. He didn’t know why, but his face flushed and his lungs froze and he gave up the game entirely— “What-whatever, freak. Just go, just get, just— GET INSIDE before I let my badniks make you into a meat smoothie!”

“Yes, doctor!” Agent Stone chirped happily, smiling and squeezing past him without making direct contact.

…

…Five years ago.

May, perhaps.

Dr. Robotnik stood stiff before Commander Walters. 

“You,” he snarled through gritted teeth, “have got to be kidding me.”

There, in a bulky gray suit with zero personality and five mysterious stains, was a stranger in his laboratory. In his space. Standing next to his rejected father figure with an unhealthy amount of investment in his social life. Unbelievable!

“Hey, dude, how’s it hanging?”

Well, would you listen to that. He even SOUNDS like an ex-frat boy.

“Why have you brought me a sad little man, Walters? Do you intend for me to gut him and replace his parts with machinery?” the doctor snarked.

Walters gave him a tight shut your mouth smile. Oh. So this was important, was it. “Dr. Robotnik. As you know, a personal project of mine has recently taken flight.”

“...No.”

Oh, God.

“No. Walters, I am not going to hang out with this lowlife just because you said so. I have shit to do— adult shit. I don’t have time for my mommy to pay the local nerd to be my best bud.”

“Ivo, this will be good for you—”

“No the fuck it will not!”

“You need a social life!”

“Jesus fuck, how many friendship bracelets do we need to make in order to get this over with?”

…uh.

Well.

That… hadn’t been Robotnik.

The doctor blinked owlishly. Took a step back.

Made an impulsive decision.

“...Hm. Acceptable lack of tolerance. The expectant smile on your face angers me, but I can be forgiving if it means you’re praise dependent and thus easy to manipulate to my will.”

“Damn,” chuckled the agent, “you ever met Merriam Webster? You’d love that guy.”

“...Technically, Merriam-Webster are three people, if you’re going there.”

“Woah, nerd alert! Can I borrow you during exam week?”

“No. Now shut up so I can get back to doing actually important things.”

By July, Packard was clapping him over the shoulder. Playful shoves were a regular (unwelcome!) occurrence. Robotnik stomached listening to Packard jabber on and on about playoffs and goals and chicks, and…and, and one night, one late night, when Packard wound up falling asleep at his desk—

I will not be taken advantage of again. I am in power here. Agent Bootlicker will not be allowed to touch me or my property or my probably-still-there heart, and I’ll defeat the purpose of this stupid fucking program once and for all. 

…The first week of Walters' brand new organic dog chow went terribly. For Agent Sisyphus, mostly, but Robotnik wasn’t having a great time, either.

Anytime Agent Espresso Machine tried to bring him coffee, Robotnik dumped it down the front of his pristine black suit.

When Agent Walters Junior brought him food, Robotnik dropped the plate on the floor without looking up from his work. This happened so many times that Agent Occasional Intelligent Thought stopped using ceramic dishware.

Agent Just Fucking Stupid, Actually found his tries at conscientiousness thrown in his face, and learned to pack several spare suits per work day, and took insult and demeaning comment and verbal hit after verbal hit like all of this was fucking nothing.

Robotnik rejected his praise, rejected his attempts to connect, rejected his presence. Rejected him. 

…Agent Immune To Rejection retaliated in gentle acceptance and quiet support.

…Agent Stone felt like he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

This was all his worst fears come to life. The doctor didn’t want anything to do with him—he placed him in a faroff corner with a dairy crate for a desk and refused to be within five feet of him. Stone found himself rejected again and again, and it was somehow worse to be directly rejected to his face, oh, God, how had he forgotten how much worse it was? It felt like he was wrong just for being. Like the whole world could see behind his mask to the incorrect being he truly was. How undeserving he truly was. How unworthy. 

Agent Stone was…spiraling, evidently. Fantastic. 

Just fantastic.

I work my whole life to be the best I can be, and it’s not enough for my last remaining chance at the life I want. Can one ascend to godhood? Is that possible, or is that only in the Percy Jackson books?

Wait. WAS that even in the Percy Jackson books?

Fuck. I need to reread them. But I have to read that book on robotics first, learn a little coding, see if there’s a let’s build like gamers have let’s plays, or…or…

…oh, my God. I’m going insane.

I can’t do this.

I can’t fucking do this!

“Doctor, are you going somewhere?” Stone forced himself to ask. He didn’t feel very hopeful anymore, but…but if trust could be a choice, maybe hopefulness could be, too. Did…did he even have the choice to make that choice? It didn’t feel like it. Oh, God, did it not feel like it.

Dr. Robotnik flat-out ignored him. Adjusted his coat, changed into a different pair of control gloves, and shut down the lights for the lab like Stone wasn’t even there.

…That broke him.

Tears welled in his eyes—a badnik, set off by his movement in the dark, hovered forward to nose at him curiously. All his life, he just wanted to love and be loved. He was done with field work. He didn’t want that life anymore, with the danger and the violence and the world constantly on the precipice of ruin. He wanted to…wanted to sit with someone on a couch and not have that weird crisis moment of indecision— do I sit right next to them? Should I sit as far away as possible? If they take the middle cushion on a three-cushion couch, am I supposed to just pick a side or is that a signal to not sit with them? Will they think I’m weird, will they assume I hate them, is there even a right answer?! 

He wanted to stay up late on work nights and enjoy gentle-voiced complaints about the unreasonable hours. 

He wanted to stand beside somebody and watch their profile turn into a shared glance that meant something.

And deep within the cavernous recesses of his soul, Aban wanted skin and saliva and heat and warmth and showering together and getting married and separate bedrooms so they could each have a private place to retreat to when the world got too much and I’ll never have that, I’ll never have it, oh my God, I’ll never have it…

I’m so…

…oh, shit. 

I haven’t eaten since breakfast, and it’s four o’clock. 

God, I can’t even do that right. Fuck.

Okay. I’m pulling it together.

I’m…I’m going to eat lunch, and maybe I’ll feel less unstable, and maybe I’ll even feel okay tomorrow morning. No more staying up all night just to get to work on the backlog of activity reports. I have to bring my A-game. It’s the only way.

I…can do this.

I have to.

I need this.

Stone breathed in deep, then sighed all his air out onto his empty plate. Two hours since the doctor left, and Stone was still waiting. Checking his work phone, then checking his personal phone, then re-sifting through his emails to make absolute sure he didn’t miss something. Typing out a message to the head of scheduling, then deleting it because no, that’s a stupid idea, don’t embarrass yourself, then re-typing it and realizing how obsessive he sounded, then…

…then the world was half-there.

Drifting, floating.

Alive and unaware.

Dreamy and dreary.

And then it was dead-dark and silent.

He woke to a lockscreen which read 1:41AM.

Brushing crumbs off his face and beard, for he’d planted his cheek directly in the shallow moon of his plate, Stone sat as far back from the crate as his spine would allow and contemplated how he’d gotten here.

Chapter Text

Agent Stone had had a hard life.

That much was obvious.

And when Robotnik had walked back into his lab after driving a long distance in thick silence (after a specific type of metal, you see), he’d seen Agent Stone slumped over face-first in an empty saucer atop his crate. Thought immediately back to the early days with Packard, to when he’d caught the man sleeping and settled his own coat over his back, and had decided not to make the same mistake twice. Even for a sight so… utterly pathetic. 

He’d thought little of it and shut the door to his apartment behind him in full silence. Stone wouldn’t be joining him in living at the lab for another week; after Robotnik’s first dozen victims, Walters realized a two-week gap between hiring and moving in would be necessary. Nobody had moved in since. And nobody ever would. Robotnik deserved to be alone.

Ah… needed, he meant. 

Robotnik needed to be alone.

Yes…

…which was not the reason why he rewound the security footage by the lab’s doors to see what Agent Stone got up to whilst his assignment was away. That was just curiosity.

“Doctor, are you going somewhere?” Agent Honeytrap asked over the recording, all adoring eyes and sweet intonation.

Robotnik watched himself change his gloves and walk right out the door. The footage switched to night vision.

Stone stared after him.

Stone’s breathing grew tense.

Stone’s…expression crumpled, and…and, his shoulders shuddered, and a badnik bumped into him trying to figure out the problem, and…

…I’ve seen so many of them cry. There’s no reason for him to be different. 

…Why is he different?

“Nothing is wrong with Agent Stone. He’s very eager to do a good job, is all.”

The agent, now sobbing, put up a hand to harmlessly block the badnik from getting in his face. “I’m—hh, sorry, it’s fine, I’m fine, it’s okay!” 

“What working hours are most comfortable for you?”

“Whatever hours are most comfortable for the doctor, sir.”

Agent Stone offered the badnik a shaky smile, unsteady and fake. “See? It’s okay, nothing to worry over, I just…I…haven’t eaten in…oh, dear.” He swiped both hands over his face, smearing away tears. “I’m, I’m gonna go eat,” his cracked voice came again. “I’m gonna go eat and feel better. That’s what’s wrong. That’s the problem. I’ll be okay. I’m…”

“I…really, just being allowed to…dote is all I need.”

…Packard had always made Robotnik feel needy. Needy and soft and stupid for not being capable of letting the world tear him apart and surviving it. Packard had made Robotnik feel small and too loud and too much, and…and if Robotnik felt like looking past all the hurt the man had caused him, he would acknowledge within himself that Packard’s lack of care for him probably birthed itself from some kind of fear or hurt in his own past. Hurt Robotnik couldn’t see clear, didn’t know the extent of, but could tell was there.

Agent… ugh, Agent Literally Just Doing His Job was…in Robotnik’s position. 

And Robotnik was…being a Packard.

And Robotnik hated Packard.

And the lab got colder at night.

And it was now very, very late at night.

And Agent Stone woke up bleary and disoriented at 1:41AM and brushed the crumbs off his face and felt something thick and unfamiliar fall down off his shoulders. Something thick and unfamiliar with a familiar-sounding weight as it hit the ground. Stone hummed to himself, if only to test his voice, and twisted to pick it up—not a hard chore; he was sitting on the ground, after all, because when you have a dairy crate for a desk there isn’t exactly enough height to warrant a chair.

A…coat.

A black coat.

Nobody else had access to the lab—and nobody would be granted such so late at night—and…and the coat smelled like him.

Which meant it smelled like… him. 

…I’ve had a hard life full of hard decisions and hard to swallow pills.

I’m not going to fall for some love-bombing bullshit after being treated as I have been. I know better than that.

But…this is his coat. That’s all, so far. I’m jumping to worst case scenarios.

I…he…laid his coat over me?

He laid his coat over me.

He laid his coat over me! 

Alright. Fine. Cue the very un-due fluttering in his chest. 

Oh, my God, oh my God, oh my God oh my God this is PROGRESS!

He was getting through to him! Actually getting through to him! Something he was doing was working, his persistence was paying off, he—oh, shit, he was getting ahead of himself, but…but, progress! 

Stone shook his hands, trying to calm himself down. Okay. Okay! 

Now…am I able to leave without setting off his security system…?

…

…I could probably finish off the last of the reports before sunlight.

…Robotnik stared at Agent Stone’s sleeping form. Stared like he had last night, only he was now nestled into Robotnik’s coat like it was something precious and comforting to him. Something he treasured, something he wanted or needed or Robotnik didn’t know, alright? 

All he could do was stand there and stare. 

In the moment, rather.

When he’d first laid his coat over Agent Stone.

He’d stood in the doorway—leaned on it, actually—and felt this… awful squeezing sensation in his chest. I can do this, he’d thought to himself. It’s just a coat. A tiny gesture with no real meaning, other than that I am better than Packard.

I am better than Packard.

I am better than…

…gods, why did I make sure he smelled like me?

Robotnik had hovered there, stooped over the man currently sleeping face-first on an empty plate atop an upturned crate on his laboratory floor, after depositing his coat upon its intended target. Sat with his decision and knew he would not take it back. He’d crouched down to Agent Stone’s level, watched him breathe and frowned at the way his face had been smushed against the ceramic.

…I didn’t think twice about it last time. Just threw my coat over that idiot and walked away.

What had Walters said of his time with the CAT Program? Stone’s been with it…three years? A typical contract lasts for five years.

G.U.N. isn’t looking to hire for a while, and nobody else…needs a CAT agent, and…

…that…makes me his last chance. Sort of. Unless something unexpected happens, and the position opens up for someone else, but…

Robotnik now stood in the doorway once more, watching Agent Stone sleep. His face was no longer pressed into a plate, but rather the keyboard of his likely dead laptop. Frankly, Robotnik…had a lot of questions about the man. What had happened on that mission three years ago which caused him to abandon his team? Why the switch from stealth extraordinaire to CAT agent? And why did Robotnik keep looping that clip of him crying, even after he’d set his coat over his shoulders? Just—the way his expression had crumpled, like he’d been holding out hope until that very second Robotnik walked out the door, like… gods, I’m his last chance, aren’t I? That’s what he thinks. That’s a logical thing to think.

…Stone was waking up.

Robotnik’s whole body flushed a bright red—or so it felt, anyway—but it came too suddenly for him to plan around it.

5:40AM, on the dot…Stone usually set an alarm, the unconcerned (and very, very, very small) part of Robotnik’s brain guessed. Was probably a man of habit. Such a consistent little fucker…

“Mnh…?”

Stone rose his head up, rubbed a hand over the key marks on his face (was Stone’s palm warm? Why was Robotnik wondering that…?), and paused.

Tugged the doctor’s coat closer.

Breathed in deep and sighed and smiled.

Really smiled.

Smiled so hard it drew a not lovesick sigh from Robotnik’s mouth wh at the fuck where had that come from—

Wide-eyed, Stone froze.

Robotnik stood straight.

“Si- Doctor, h—doctor, hi, good morning, what, um—”

Why is my face so hot? Why did I just stand there?!

“I-I wasn’t—I mean that I didn’t intend to be, um, to—”

What’s wrong with me?! WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?!

Stone gave a shaky sigh, and stood up, holding tight to Robotnik’s coat and visibly bracing himself for—

“You…put your coat around me. At some point.”

Such a gentle voice speaking such brutal words.

Robotnik clenched his jaw. Swallowed. Ignored the shaking of his fingers, plain and pale without his gloves on. 

“...Thank you,” Stone murmured.

…Oh, gods. I can’t fucking do this. 

“Shut–just, it’s not…it…ge-get to work, dumbass. I don’t have time to coddle you.”

Hurt flashed across the agent’s face, but he visibly pushed it down. “Yes—yes, sir! I—y-your coat, here…” 

“Just put it over my chair by the console.”

“Of course, doctor.”

“And. Remember to eat breakfast. Or whatever.”  

“O-Okay! AH—I meant, yes, doctor!”

“And, um. Bring me some as well. I am… hungry.”

“Yes, doctor!”

He…should NOT be this happy about being ordered around.

Whatever.

This just means I’m better than Packard. It doesn’t mean Agent Cute Smile wins, or anything.

I will not be defeated by the trivial.

Chapter Text

Walters was certain, this time.

Certain and sure and so very eager to see them do well together, and the gathering was precisely what they needed to bond! Giving Ivo an example of acceptable behavior toward one’s CAT agent…yes, it was a stroke of genius, and it would provide a bonding opportunity as well! 

The gathering—er, convention? Luncheon? No, no, it wasn’t a luncheon—would take place somewhere nearby. Perhaps it would be best held in the building itself, or perhaps the local park would suffice. Or! Perhaps! Perhaps, that lovely new cafe only a mile from the complex with all the outdoor seating, yes, perhaps that could work. Perhaps, even, it would boost morale among everyone in the complex.

Perhaps Agent Stone was seeing things.

Agent Stone,

Attached are the details for a CAT Program picnic. Please show this email to Dr. Robotnik directly, as he has managed to block me and IT is yet unsure how to fix what he did this time. Come in casual but work appropriate clothing, and email me personally for any accommodations either of you may need. Food and drink will be covered by GUN. Hope all is going well, happy almost two weeks!

The Office of Commander Walters

The email…sounded like a complete and utter nightmare. He had to go out somewhere with the doctor, when all the man ever seemed to want was to stay in his darkened lab and shut out the noise and light? He had to tell Robotnik about it, meaning he’d have to approach him first? God. 

I’d better do it when I bring him his coffee, Stone thought. That way, I won’t seem so out of place reentering the room out of the blue.

In the days since the…coat incident, Stone had gained a little confidence in what he was doing here. Robotnik was reluctant. Robotnik was averse, and avoidant, and guarded, but he had made some difference in the man’s life, Stone knew, because the coat…the coat, and the way Dr. Robotnik had been watching him…it meant something. It did. It had to—

…Okay, I know I’m desperate, but, c’mon. That really was progress. 

Even if Robotnik had gone right back to throwing coffee on him and berating him for standing too loudly.

“Doctor,” Stone called softly. He stepped into the doctor’s study and set down today’s latte within reach, but distant enough to keep Robotnik’s notes out of the potential spill zone. Stone had done a lot of watching the doctor move about and interact with his environment thus far, and had noticed a distinct lack of grace and instinctual know-how. It was common knowledge that Dr. Robotnik was autistic, and dyspraxia was a common trait in autistic people, so…Stone took that into account when important documents or glass objects were involved, just in case. (Maybe he was motherhenning. So what? He had somebody to motherhen. Leave him be!)

“What infernal liquid have you brought me today, Agent Stupid?” the doctor muttered. Stone knew not to reply unless the doctor looked him right in the face. He gave him time to dislike the first few sips, before bracing himself for the inevitable—

“Clean that up. You’re disgusting. No wonder you didn’t make it as a barista.”

…I did not know he remembered that about me. 

“Right away, doctor.”

It was habit, now, and Stone made quick work of mopping and changing and readjusting his tie. 

“Um…doctor?”

Dr. Robotnik stiffened, and slowly turned around in his chair.

“I didn’t realize,” he drawled, “you’d been given permission to speak to me. Who authorized that, I wonder?”

“I-I have an email for you from Commander Walters...”

Robotnik paused.

Then, he let out a long groan and stood and piloted his lanky form right into Stone’s non-existent personal space. He smells like me, Stone’s animal brain whispered. I smell like him. I exist and so does he.

Shaking fingers unlocked his phone and angled his screen a few degrees leftward for Robotnik to view.

Seconds passed. 

…More…seconds passed…

…oh, my God, please do something, this is worse than you spilling coffee on me, I hate—

“Details, agent. Click.” 

“Yes, doctor.”

A tap of Stone’s thumb brought them to a colorful work picnic invitation. It gave a date, time, and location; a QR code to RSVP with; a link to a detailed itinerary and events list… oh, that’s useful, actually. Reassuring. 

…He’s leaning his chin over my shoulder.

He’s…oh, he smells nice. His shampoo, is that…?

Ugh, he has such a handsome profile.

Pretty-eyed men…Christ.

I wish I could kiss him on the cheek.

…

…I did not mean to think that.

All of the sudden, at the top of Stone’s to-do list was don’t flush, stop thinking about it, he’s just attractive, quit FLUSHING!

“Pre posterous,” Robotnik mumbled by his ear, “this is the dumbest idea he’s had in a long time, and that, agent, is saying something.”

Stone swallowed. “I…think it could be nice, you know. Maybe. If we… lied to ourselves…”

Stone’s distracted comment drew a—... what? It, it drew—it drew a laugh from Robotnik, startled and genuine and very visibly regretted as the roboticist cleared his throat and withdrew himself from Stone’s space entirely. 

“I’m calling Walters and seeing if it’s mandatory. Though, gods know, if I received any invitation at all, it will be mandatory for me, specifically.”

Robotnik turned to look at his agent.

“Go…be pathetic by your crate. I don’t want to see you again until you bring me lunch.”

…Of course, ordinarily, Stone would have been quite put out by hearing that. But he’d just made his doctor laugh, and been told he was allowed to make him lunch, and today was a good day, maybe—and he hadn’t even had to lie to himself.

I made him laugh. I made him laugh! 

…Why the fuck did I laugh? Robotnik stressed as he tore into his sandwich. It wasn’t even that funny. It caught me off-guard, I can hold a poker face better than—shit, this is really good. Did he season it?

Robotnik wasn’t a bad cook. But he generally preferred to eat out, because it was easier and he had the money and maybe it didn’t make his body feel all that great, but at least he could reliably taste the same things over and over. Everything he ever made himself tasted bland. Which, on some days, that was ideal, because Robotnik didn’t always want to taste or experience texture or eat at all, really, for the whole experience occasionally became his personal hell. But generally speaking… fine. Robotnik didn’t really know how to make good food, whether it was cooking or baking or putting the right meats and cheeses together in a sandwich.

Agent Could Poison Robotnik Easily, apparently, knew well how to make good food. Knew well to weaponize it, also. The sandwich came in right after Walters finally found it in his heart to call Robotnik back—yes, the picnic was mandatory for him, specifically, because Walters had a lot of unresolved tension betwixt himself and the grandfather Robotnik never met. Wonderful. Robotnik would probably have still been stewing about the unfairness of it all to this moment, were it not for Agent Not Just Anyone Can Cook and his strange ability to make a three-ingredient sandwich taste like ambrosia. 

Moving on autopilot, Robotnik set aside a pinched-off morsel for Hephaestus. 

And then, he froze. 

He’d…only ever offered the gods food some stranger had made. Offering them this—offering Hephaestus, in particular, this—felt… intimate. Intimate in a way he wasn’t sure he could describe. Almost like he was accepting Stone’s presence. Which he wasn’t. He was just offering something he enjoyed to one of his gods, and that was it. It was a good sandwich. It was a good sandwich. 

…I’ve been thinking about that sandwich for too long. It’s been two days.

Agent Stone will be cleared to move in starting tomorrow, if I don’t drive him off.

I…need to do something. But, what? None of my other tactics have worked thus far.

…

“I’m—hh, sorry, it’s fine, I’m fine, it’s okay!” 

Ignoring Stone hurt the man. Robotnik knew that. He could use that against him, and ice him out and refuse his delicious sandwiches and get rid of the espresso machine entirely—

…The early-afternoon scene of Agent Stone, with his face in his laptop and his body hunched over his milk crate and Robotnik’s own coat tugged over his shoulders, floated back to mind.

Countless agents had fled the lab crying. More than that had passed him judgemental looks and cast him fearful glances and prayed to whatever would listen to them that they wouldn’t be chosen next. Years ago, Stone had applied. Two weeks ago, Stone had been hopeful, rather than apprehensive. But Packard had shown Robotnik what friendship could do, and Stone had abandoned his teammates and gotten himself lowered a rank all to…

Oh.

Huh.

That was a thought.

Stone’s rank.

He’d been the top of the stealth program for years, and Robotnik had, in fact, done his research all those years ago. Some of it, anyway…and Stone was intelligent. 

Obviously.

Extremely skilled at his job, if he was the top of the program. 

Clearly capable of working alongside others when necessary, if he’d been accepted as a CAT. And he’d been accepted right after that folly, whichhh…did not add up.

No, no, that didn’t add up at all. 

“Ivo, it’s three AM, are you o—”

“Why was Agent Bootlicker accepted into the CAT Program?”

A missed beat, and some shuffling. Robotnik heard Walters pull the string of his bedside lamp.

“Is this…an emergency?”

“Yes—”

“Don’t just say yes because you’re impatient.”

“It is an emergency, thank you!” Robotnik snapped. “Stone will be cleared to move in tomorrow, and I…I know he abandoned his team. Right before he got accepted. Why would you accept someone like that, and immediately throw him my way?”

More shuffling. An old man grunt.

“What’re you on about? Y’know, you’re not supposed to discuss government business like this over the phone.”

Robotnik sighed shortly, “Who’s gonna be listening in, Walters? Us, ten minutes from now? Anyway, three years ago. He was the first face in the pile. Back when the CAT Program still ran on applications?”

“Yes, I know, what about it?”

“After…everything, the first person you give me to vet is somebody who so recently abandoned his entire team?”

“...You don’t know?”

“No, clearly not. What?” 

Walters huffed through his nose. Gave Robotnik two hour-long seconds to plan his funeral. 

“Boy,” he began, “Agent Stone is the most loyal man you’ll ever meet. We had an operation within an operation, and apparently did a damn good job covering for it if you didn’t dig it up. Stone was instructed to abandon his team and refocus on the primary, and he complied to the letter.”

“This comforts me how?”

“Let me get to my point, Ivo.”

“Robotnik.”

“If you’re calling me at three in the morning for personal reasons, your name is Ivo.”

“…”

“My point is, Stone is a very capable and loyal man. And he quit field work for a reason. Don’t you think maybe you can infer from there?”

“I don’t like inferring,” Robotnik grumbled. “Give me the answers I want, or I’ll email every one of your superiors a screenshot of your search history.”

“The answers you want…you wanna hear that Stone’s untrustworthy. Am I right?”

…Robotnik sat there, still, in the silence. This phone call was quickly veering off towards territory he rathered not broach. 

Walters took his silence for agreement.

“That’s exactly what he’s not. If I need someone to erase my existence, I’m coming to you. But if I need someone to stick by me…I’d want it to be Stone I was relying on. If you sit there holed up in your lab forever, holding onto every reason you can muster to convince yourself it’s not safe to try again…well, it’s not gonna be safe. ‘Cause you’re making it not safe.”

I don’t like this. I don’t like this. He needs to stop talking.

“The only way you’re gonna know if Stone is safe is if you try even a fraction as hard as I know he’s trying for you, right now.”

“I don’t…”

“I think you might only be able to see it once you fall down and realize somebody caught you, this time.”

“Goodnight.”

And Robotnik hung up.

And Robotnik curled around his pillow in bed.

And Robotnik tasted Agent Safe Or Unsafe’s latte on his tongue and set it back on the desk and didn’t say a word.

Stone’s smile said it all.

Chapter Text

“Why did you yell at him, if he didn’t actually do anything wrong?”

Walters had audibly tapped to mute the call, unknowingly failed, cursed, and had tapped to unmute (once again missing the button).

“Ivo. Please just text me next time.”

“I want to know now.”

“You couldn’t let me sleep for five more minutes until my alarm went off? You know my schedule…”

“Why did I hear you yelling at him?”

“Someone else was in the room—”

“Who?”

“Classified.”

“General Butters…that’s an odd call.” General Butters had, then, part-timed as the head of HR, but you wouldn’t call the head of HR unless you were dealing with a repeat offender. Walters had involved him strategically, Robotnik had been sure. Still was sure. Sort of. “What was the mission?”

“Ivo, for God’s sake—I’m hanging up.”

“Am I to understand Butters was unaware of what Stone had been instructed to do?”

“Yes. I mean, classified. Goodbye, Ivo. And, good morning.”

The old man had hesitated, then hung up. Ivo had mumbled out an answering, “Good morning,” under his breath. Everything in the whole world had stopped.

And then Robotnik had come back to his senses and started scheming ways to force Agent Harpocrates to spill the intimate details of Project Spider. And further ways to delay his moving in.

Now, hours later, Agent Stone was stressing. Bad.

I have to make his colleagues like me, he thought on repeat. I have to make sure Commander Walters likes me more than he already does. I have to make sure we avoid anyone from my old unit.

We can’t run into them.

Jesus Christ, not now.

He knew the doctor’s aesthetic game was strong. Stronger than his own, for certain—so he put extra effort into teasing his hair, and wore a crisper shade of black dress pants, and slipped on that one silky dark purple dress shirt, and…a little eyeshadow never hurt anybody, right? Deodorant, scentless lotion, the doctor’s cologne, snipping some hair from his sideburns because it was a little too long and made him look unkempt…he wasn’t being too self-conscious, was he?
No. No, ridiculous.
No such thing.

Two hours of perfecting and nail painting and readjusting later, and Stone…still wasn’t satisfied with the result.

Perhaps because it still looked like himself, in the mirror.

I’m not enough, his reflection mumbled. I need to be enough. Why can’t I be enough?

They’ll all be looking at me. Pulling apart all string and sinew. I can’t look like myself, act like myself.

Why do I still look like me?

…

…There. An eyelash out of place.

Nothing would stop him today.

Not even how loud and crowded the venue was, or how many food smells punched him in the face, or the fact he was pretty sure his nose was running from the powder of the eyeshadow, God, he was so overstimulated, he regretted waking up—

“Agent Barbie Doll,” Dr. Robotnik called dryly, “go fetch Walters.”
The roboticist’s long legs were crossed at the knee, and he sat on the only unoccupied garden table on the back patio of the café. Funnily enough, this was the same café Stone did barista work for many, many years ago. The place had long since changed hands, and he much preferred the new decor and menu.

“Right away, doctor,” Stone chirped.

It had to be a work party.

Picnic. Whatever.

Walters was an asshole, Robotnik thought to himself. And he regretted letting this CAT agent bullshit run for so long. It was time somebody shot it down.

Agent Stupidly Attr—A Little Well Dressed Today retrieved Walters in no time, expertly extirpating the older man from a conversation which had gone three minutes and forty-five seconds further than Robotnik would have preferred.

“Ivo! Robotnik! So happy you could make it,” Walters beamed.

“I’m firing Agent Stone,” Robotnik stated bluntly.

…Oh. That’s…how odd. Walters hadn’t even flinched. But Agent Stone—previously statuesque Agent Stone—had. What the fuck did that mean, and why the fuck did Robotnik want to know?

Walters offered Robotnik a gentle smile. “Robotnik,” he began, “have some heart. Agent Stone is doing his best for you, and you know you can’t really fire him. If you two need more time before he moves in, that’s perfectly—”
“I want him gone. I don’t care. He’s insufficient, stupid, needy, and annoying. I want nothing to do with him.”
“Doctor, if I’ve done something to displease you…”

Robotnik’s surprised gaze turned to his agent.

The agent.

THAT agent, that specific one, the one who had opened his mouth out of turn and wasn’t particularly important in Robotnik’s life.

“...I implore you to tell me, so I can make sure not to—”
“Did I tell you to speak.”
…Agent Stone blinked, panic settling into the corners of his wide brown eyes. “N…No, doctor.”
“Then why are you, dipshit? Learn some fucking manners.”

“Robotnik! That is incredibly rude of you. Agent Stone is only doing his job, and trying to improve upon it because you said you were dissatisfied!”

Walters was shot a particularly cold, sharp glare.

“And who the fuck are you, to tell me who to associate with, and who to play nice with, when Packard was your fucking fault in the first place?”

…The old man stiffened.

Ivo stepped closer.

“And now you ‘invite’ me here, to a work party, and you think I’m just going to be alright with that?” He snapped, voice rising. “I’ve let you play around in my sandbox for too long, Walters. I am tired of bowing to something sooo beneath me—do you wanna know why I’ve been so patient with you all this time? Do you?”
“Robotni—”
“I chose to pity you, and would you look at that? The third major choice in my life I’ve made that’s blown up in my face. Right up there with looking for what remained of my family and ever letting you put me in the fucking CAT Program in the first place! I can’t decide which I should define as my number one fuck-up, but if I had to guess, going looking for my family led me to you, and without you, I’d never have had a chance to—...”

…

…

…Silence.

Deafening silence.

Even passersby had stopped to listen, stopped to gawk and to, to…

To watch, as Agent Stop, What Are You Doing? Where Are You Taking Me? guided Ivo back through the café. Agent Fuck Off, Leave Me Alone brought him out of the venue, to the sidewalk, to the shade, where they waited for the driver someone, not Ivo, someone else and not Ivo, had called. Agent Don’t Open The Door For Me helped him inside the vehicle. Agent Why Are You Sitting So Close To Me? offered him some hard candy. Strawberry-flavored, a little too intense on his tongue, but it brought him back enough for him to recognize the portents of oncoming hyperventilation, and…

“Agent—” he snapped. Or, tried to. Failed, because his voice came out all thin and breathless and afraid.

“Doctor, it’s okay. We’re going back to the lab. It’s okay.”

Agent Why Couldn’t It Have Been You? smiled at him. Reassuring, and warm, and awful to his nervous system.

Fuck.

…

Fuck.

Agent Stone sat in the blue-illuminated dark with his fingertips on the keys.

Who the hell is Packard?