Chapter Text
For the first time since his assignment here, Stone finds that his hands are shaking as he runs the espresso machine with the same muscle memory that has carried him through every day previous.
It doesn't matter to him in the slightest that the “bodyguard” job had been meant to be a temporary assignment. That he’d been tossed back into the depths of the agency as little more than a glorified cover-up after his most recent special-ops had gone so painstakingly perfect that he’d wound up with a target on his back and a hit put out on his head. Lie low and wait, the order had said, and impatiently he had obeyed.
It hadn't been the first time since selling his very life to a three-letter government chain that his identity had been scrubbed, life started anew. He had known what his job would be — Find, kill, in, out. Hit the target. Protect the asset. The ‘asset’ changed through the years, often by the day, but his role remained all the same. Loyalty meant nothing more than whatever the assignment dictated it to mean, until — Until.
From the moment he’d stepped into the Doctor’s lab, he knew they would have to drag him out by force. One moment he was biding his time, eagerly waiting for the boredom to subside by way of being thrown face-first into battle again. The next he was clinging to a cup of hot coffee that had not been made for him, and desperately hoping this would be his life until the end of it.
A cup of hot coffee not all that different from the one he is currently preparing, and a hope that has never once left his chest. It’s almost funny, if he really thinks about it. But then he thinks about leaving again and suddenly it isn't funny at all.
He could have fought it more, when he got the call. Maybe he should have. But the Doctor has vastly more important things to worry about than a leave of absence just long enough to execute a hit or whatever the hell they need him for now.
He finds himself wishing that he’d made himself more expendable throughout his career. He can hardly look the Commander in the eye and say fuck your war, the Doctor needs his lattes precisely at 7 a.m. without making waves that will only serve to disturb Robotnik’s work.
Doing what he’s been asked to do and ruthlessly trained to carry out has never once felt so damn pointless as it does when he finally carries the latte over to the workstation, silent if only because he has nothing kind to say about their benefactors and he doesn't want to come across as strangely weak as he currently feels.
He finds the Doctor at his workstation, covered hands working effortlessly over a new prototype Stone has never seen before, and for a moment he runs the possibilities of just how long he can stand here and watch him before —
"A little late. Do try to keep up, agent."
Ah. Just as expected.
Perhaps strangely to anyone else, the no-bite criticism hand delivered by the Doctor cradles Stone’s turmoil damn near instantly. The snippy words are a cool cloth to fevered skin, and he loosens a breath he had only barely realized he was holding.
“I’m sorry, Doctor,” he soothes instantly, equal parts humbled and satisfied that any number of seconds that he could possibly run late will never go unnoticed under those ever-watchful eyes. “I’ll do better next time.”
Next time… In one week. Seven entire agonizing days before he returns stateside.
The thought twists in his chest, but then his dark eyes catch a glimpse of the blueprints and he smiles in spite of himself. God, he’s being ridiculous. Doctor Robotnik will be fine without him, of course he will —
That train of thought almost immediately proves to be too harsh to dwell on, so he smothers it out just as quickly as he’d stoked its flame in the first place. One task at a time. There are no room for his emotions in this equation.
And yet… He hasn't mentioned it once. The realization is noted as he carefully passes the drink over. The order had come the day previous, and he thinks that surely the Commander would have contacted his most prized asset about the change by now.
Which means that the Doctor is at peace with it. That he doesn't mind.
The thought comes with a low wave of disappointment, one that masks the quiet knowing that clings to him. But not entirely, because he knows, god he knows...
Even if Robotnik is entirely unbothered by this, even if he is looking forward to the solitude — He is still hardly one to bite his tongue about the chain of command messing with the routine of his lab. He is not one to bite his tongue about a five-point-seven second delay to his latte, for crying out loud.
Stone pushes and prods this line of reasoning around in his head for what feels like a small lifetime. To openly brandish potentially unknown information to the Doctor is… Laughable, really, but surely he should say something…
Finally he settles on a low-spoken remark and states, “I’ve already programmed the espresso machine to keep your favorite settings on default, and I’ve hand-ground enough of the imported coffee beans to last the week.”
He goes bone-still as Ivo stops moving, steaming drink freezing just a ways off from his parted lips. Stone watches his dead tilt as he turns in his seat to face him, eyes already narrowed.
"Make sense, Stone." The order is every bit as blunt and direct as all orders from the Doctor are, and Stone inhales a breath that threatens to shake.
Oh.
Stone can feel his lungs tightening beneath the scrutinizing gaze holding him in place. Any other day he wouldn't dream of buckling beneath that look; if anything, he has only ever reveled in it. But absence and distance are heavy weights above his head, and all too pitifully he knows that there will be no avoiding these all too bitterly human emotions.
He clears his throat and tries again, reminding himself not to employ too much focus on the fact that his half-hearted first attempt has just distracted the Doctor from his incredibly vital work.
“So you shouldn't have any trouble running it while I’m away,” he says carefully. Quickly he adds, “Not that I would ever expect you to have trouble with such a task. Or any task, for that matter.”
To something that might have been called surprise, Stone can only watch as the Doctor’s expression shifts into visible displeasure. Annoyance, perhaps, and of course — His routine is being so rudely disrupted. Stone shoves down the senseless well of pride that lifts in his chest, the whisper that he just may be wanted here.
“Away,” the Doctor echoes. “You’re going away, and not a single person thought to clear this with me? Tell me, Stone; when exactly did they, and you for that matter, intend to inform me of this?”
Stone's brow furrows, wide-open expressions always giving him thoroughly away within these walls. “Walters called me last night —”
After he left. Ah.
For a moment, the agent allows himself to exist in a world where this doesn't make sense, where it would surely be a mistake of some kind that only one of them knew what the other did not. But the order had come from the same man who had taken to calling before Stone's arrival, knowing damn well it would be him fielding the nonsense any and every time the Doctor was occupied.
Which, when it comes to Walters… Well. As far he is concerned, the Doctor deserves to be perfectly occupied at all times, if it means avoiding that level of senseless drivel.
“I'm sorry, sir.” It is his second apology in nearly as many minutes; this entire ordeal is a bruise to the pride he takes in his service here that will be aching for days to come. “I should have…”
Should have… What? Called his employer after he had long since left his job site? His leaving is already a rare enough occurrence as it is, provided he has any say in it. A phone call is an intimacy he will never be so lucky as to afford. So he settles on facts, blunt and simple —
“Fieldwork. The D.o.D. got involved. They're extracting me in an hour.”
— And he stays in place, unflinching even as the Doctor’s eye twitches. He tries to calm the well of regret that finds him when the man he looks up to like no other discards the cup onto the nearest surface, seemingly immediately forgotten about. Stone watches it be abandoned and bites down on his tongue to keep from wincing.
“An hour,” Ivo repeats, running a hand through his hair and barking out a laugh. “An hour!? Oh, I will be sending a strongly worded email. Or three. I expect you back immediately after and ready to return to work, agent, is that understood? Anything less and I’ll fire you myself.”
It's a familiar feeling, the instant aching and then even quicker soothing that chases after the Doctor's every word. The negative emotion that radiates off him in waves is the ache, but the demand that Stone return is so soothing he can nearly forget.
His smile is soft but genuine as he nods his head. "Of course, Doctor. I'll be right at your disposal from the moment I land back here."
That thought, ah, he needed that. It's far preferred to thinking about leaving. It's far preferred to wondering when he had become so enveloped in this man that the thought of leaving burns so much.
It soothes the ache even further when the Doctor scoops the cup up "Good. I'll be sending a couple of badniks with you, of course."
He takes a slow sip of the latte then, and Stone lets out a breath when no complaints about the drink follow. That, at least, he has done right today. Watching Robotnik pull the cup to him and taste the drink shakes off the lingering ache in Stone's chest. Or, whatever of it can possibly be shaken off, at least. He's still every bit as pleased to have pleased. Distantly he even feels something akin to relief, just knowing that at least there's one solid thing about his continued presence here that the Doctor might deign to miss.
"Until then, I trust you can complete at least some of your regular work. With any luck, I won't fall too far behind."
"Anything you need, Doctor." The words are embellished by a barely-contained grin as he moves to turn away from the work desk, only a bit hesitant to increase the distance because at least he is needed here for one more hour.
He stays within speaking distance, ready and eager to retrieve anything the Doctor might need. And in the meantime, he has a schedule to settle that isn't his and countless amounts of correspondence to thoroughly destroy, Commander be damned. He busies himself in an instant, eager to please in a way that feels more biting now than it has since day one.
In his effort to not get caught staring — to not get caught being useless — Stone almost doesn’t notice the shifting and tapping of the control gloves just a ways away. The pieces don’t fully click into place until a glistening pair of badniks are hovering just behind him.
“There,” the Doctor says. “Make sure these go with you, no matter what those imbeciles say.”
Stone finds himself fighting against a well of emotion that burns far more than it soothes at the sight of them. It's a quiet thing, a silent thing, but it is indeed... Something. A gesture from the Doctor, from his Doctor, and all because he's leaving...
Okay. Enough of that.
"I won't let them out of my sight, sir."
It is a silly thing to say and he knows it — The badniks are in full control of this situation, not him. Never him. But he can't even find it in himself to care if he sounds juvenile or stupid; the Doctor is sending him away with something, and that is enough.
"They're just as incredible as always. If not more so," he adds softly, absentmindedly running a hand over the shell of the nearest drone.
Almost immediately, Robotnik is turning his back on Stone, attention returned to the prototype ahead of him. He hears him click his tongue before saying, "Of course they are. I built them."
A bought of silence follows, and Stone is just about to get back to work — Doctor’s orders — when he speaks again.
"Recently," he adds, still not looking up. "Faster and smarter. Those'll get a handle on things quickly if anything gets out of control - but I expect they won't have to. I'll be rather disappointed if they have to fire so much as a single shot, agent. See that they don't."
Recently.
Perhaps stupidly, this word alone makes Stone stop short for just one fleeting moment. He was giving him recent models to take..?
It makes sense, of course. Everything the Doctor does makes sense. That is simply a given as undeniable as the air inside his lungs. But all the same he finds a fickle and all too human part of him is latching onto the concept of even the most temporary gift from this man being placed in his hands — Because that is something that he surely needs far more than all that aforementioned air in his lungs and then some.
He latches greedily onto the directive that he has been given. An order is safer than the gift, much safer than saying thank you until his voice cracks and shakes and god forbid, breaks.
"I'll see to it that they don't at all cost, then, Doctor," he promises, and just like that he is grinning again and utterly failing at hiding it.
It’s a bold promise to make, given that Walters has told him nearly nothing of just what this little assignment might be. But he has come back from far worse than whatever the Commander could possibly have planned for him, and that had all been before the Doctor. After him is a given.
"Get to work. If you start now, maybe you'll have less to do when you return." The measured voice, paired with an idle flap of a gloved hand, snaps Stone back into the present.
"Yes, sir."
The words roll off his tongue as easily and naturally as any sign of obedience towards the Doctor is meant to be, his hands already reaching for a task.
It only aches a little bit to be reminded so easily that this is his place, his job, and he is being pulled from it. But… He’ll be back. And besides, he still feels rather ridiculous for deigning to assume that his absence will be noted as thoroughly by the Doctor as it will be by himself. Besides, leaving isn't all bad.
No, it is. It absolutely is all bad, but... It affords him a certain give to his words that he otherwise might have bitten down so early in the work day.
"I really am sorry, sir." There is a sickening sincerity in the apology, a rather dramatic pause, and then — "I'm so sorry you're going to have to use your own coffee machine."
Such a ridiculous remark should land him a date with the punishment of a lifetime, but the worst thing he can do now is banish Stone from the lab so much as one minute early, and somehow the agent simply knows that won’t happen. What he isn’t expecting is for the man to glance up at him and smile.
"You're lucky I loathe to use it, agent. Your job security surely relies on it."
Ivo's tone is light, edged with amusement, and the response he receives is more than enough to tempt Stone to push his luck.
"Just don't get too skilled with it in my absence," he bites out around a grin. "Or allow the badniks to scan it. Otherwise you might be tempted to leave me out there."
It is an unpleasant thought on its own, but also deeply, deeply amusing. It would be quite the way to go — Bleeding out in a field somewhere in Nevada or god only knew where else, and all because his employer had figured out how to work a coffee maker.
It's as close as he is yet willing to get to accusing the Doctor of ever being unable to work his way around a latte like his assistant could.
“Giving me ideas, Stone?” Ivo’s expression shifts into something more familiar, something mildly more mischievous.
In response, the agent doesn't even bother hiding his snort. When he speaks again, every word is bitten out around a grin. "It isn't my place to give you ideas, sir. But… I'm not worried.”
Stone finally shakes himself in part out of his stupor, following the earlier directive and getting to work. He listens to every last word without ever once slowing the movement of his hands against the workstation. Besides the rapid drumming of his fingertips against the surface of a screen, the crease of his brow is the only indicator that the Doctor does not hold his undivided attention.
That, and the smile still on his face.
Not that he will expect it, per say. Undivided attention. Not after having so clearly told him to get to work. If anything, the insubordination lies in the fact that Stone has continued to speak at all.
He has already meticulously organized the schedule for the impending week of his absence, ensuring no overlap and solid breaks for the Doctor to indulge in his work in between any government meetings.
Meetings. There are, bitterly, more of those than he would prefer. But there are still far less than there were originally — Just a few red dots scattered across the calendar that he was woefully unable to reschedule. It is difficult to imagine such a thing occurring without him now, and the thought is an uncomfortable one.
He absentmindedly hopes that the Doctor will simply elect to blow them off, but it is hardly his place to suggest such a thing. Still, the urge is strong enough that he bites down on his tongue to stop himself from giving it life.
Instead, he simply frowns down at them briefly before wiping his expression back into an impassive mask —
“I’ve already had the badniks compile data on the composition of the lattes you make. It would not be such a leap to train them in making them. But I still expect you back in one piece, agent. Making my drinks is a task far, far below my babies. They were built for more.
And just like that, the sound of the Doctor's voice dredges up another, admittedly rather unprofessional, grin. What no doubt should have been a painful jab instead warms his heart with a weighty reminder that he is needed here, if only to take menial tasks away from the Doctor's prized creations.
“Ah,” he concedes somewhat proudly, “I should've known you would have already given the scans over to them. Always five steps ahead, sir. But of course I wouldn't dream of making the badniks take on such a chore — It is perhaps my favorite part of any day."
No doubt an odd pastime for a man about to go back into the field for the thousandth time or more in his life, but his favorite all the same.
In response — still responding, and Stone tries to ignore what that does to his heart — Ivo snorts.
“When you go, Stone,” he says, hands still flying over the soon to be weapon, “Inform those idiots that next time, they’ll require my approval to send you into the field, or they can take their chances with continuing to entrust me to stock their armory.”
Stone falls silent in the face of a direct order for far longer than he would like to, and for far longer than he would in most cases. He is readily beaming at the words, careful to rein in a heavy-handed grip on his composure and, god forbid, common sense before he allows himself to speak again.
When he does, at the very least his voice is measured and calm. "I absolutely will, Doctor."
The weight of those words are still rattling around in his brain. The looming distance is still threatening to shake loose a thing, or two, or perhaps a thousand, that are far better left swallowed. The sight of the Doctor — leaned over his work, turning something over in his grasp that could no doubt change everything for those ungrateful bastards — Is certainly not helping.
The extraction time arrives far too soon, but he is satiated by the amount of work he has managed to accomplish in the feeble amount of time he was given.
"Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?" he asks, wondering if he looks halfway as desperate to be asked to scrub a counter top clean as he currently feels.
Perhaps if he elects to do it with a toothbrush then the extraction team will be forced to leave him right here.
Ivo sets down the weapon in his hands in favor of raking his ever-watchful eyes over lines of code on the nearby holoscreen. Stone takes in the sight of the Doctor — gently discarding a coming-to-life weapon that was just clutched in his hands — and feels a sharp ache in his chest.
The feeling only deepens with the privilege of watching those dark eyes drag over endless lines of code, no doubt just as perfect in its execution as anything he has created past or present.
It feels like an eternity before he speaks again, but speak again he does.
“Just get it done quickly.”
And Stone chokes on what he already knows cannot be his response.
Take care of yourself, I won't be here to help. Don't overdo it, I won't be here to stop you. Don't kill anyone, I won't be here to fill out the paperwork and your time should not be wasted on office drivel. Get some sleep, real sleep, in a bed and not on the desk, but if you're going to insist then the blankets I brought are in the closet behind the wall with the medkit that I just restocked —
There are so many words hanging in limbo that Stone bites down on his tongue again, this hard enough to taste copper. He reminds himself for perhaps the thousandth time in the last twelve or so hours that he is being ridiculous. The Doctor did this without his busy hands taking on menial tasks for years; he can and will survive another week.
And in the meantime, Stone is quite certain that he can portray himself to be not nearly so ‘invaluable’ as he was before this assignment. It is true that once, he’d thoroughly believed himself to be made for field work, but that was Before. Now he is living decidedly in the After, and he has no intentions of going back now — At least, not in the long term.
There had been nothing he would not have done from day one here to tear down the walls between himself and the Doctor, to meticulously craft it into something that more resembled a pathway. In truth, he had believed he’d already succeeded in making himself thoroughly unwanted to everyone else around them by now. Clearly he is going to have to step it up — Quickly. And that is an order now, he notes with a grin he has no need to hide.
“I will, Doctor,” he promises, trying and failing not to veritably light up at the sight of the badniks ready to follow behind him as he reluctantly moves for the door. “I will be quick and thoroughly inefficient for our Commander while I'm away.”
A slip of the tongue, perhaps, but he’s fairly certain they both know damn well that he means what he said.
With that, he shoves himself out the door before he can do something stupid like say everything he's still biting back, or list off the name ideas he's working over in his head to give the drones.