Work Text:
Insomnia remains one of the few aspects of life that Robotnik cannot quite get a grip on. He's gone through all the usual solutions — pills, therapy, sleep studies, meditation, warm milk and smooth jazz — and at some point had simply decided it wasn't a problem that needed solving. No, the real problem is utilizing his extended waking hours appropriately. He's too exhausted to sleep and he can't look at computer screens without developing a migraine, which nixes approximately 87% of his usual activities. It also means his motor skills are nowhere near primed for fine-tuning laser emitters. Worst of all, Stone's asleep, which means no coffee, no cleaning service, and no rubber-ducking with a live studio audience.
What's a mad scientist to do at two in the morning with no dough-boy to monologue at or laser to tinker with?
The answer, of course, is to fill in with a mobile Yorick while he burns off energy walking laps in his secret compound.
Without the sleek white armor casing, the new egg prototype is a mass of moving steel, with a surface full of parts that shift and change the topography of its shape like a flowing river. Robotnik's found himself staring into the mechanics many times, fantasizing about riding around the gears and joints. To think that he could create something so perfect, so precise, so beautiful... Is it any wonder that the sight of his drones normally fills him with pride, considering what marvels they are?
Normally, that is, because the prototype following Robotnik tonight is going through one hell of a rough patch. The US Government (derogatory) had mandated he use a specific targeting system due to some stupid constitutional amendment or whatever, but, big surprise, that targeting system was discontinued years before the technology Robotnik uses even existed. So, guess who has to rebuild the entire system from scratch and needs to share the results with the government (double dog derogatory)?
"If you guessed this guy," Robotnik concludes his monologue-slash-internal-narration, "Then you get two big fat thumbs up." He glances back to the drone to see if any of that stuff about the government landed, but of course, the drone doesn't actually understand anything he's saying. It's just recording him while he notes down its various shortcomings; it has no comprehension of humor, much less a good sense of it.
"Cold, emotionless steel," he sighs. The drone drifts off course and bumps into the wall. "If only you didn't still require a human touch... Note: prototype still failing to maintain correct distancing over long distances. Lap three's looking like it's going to be more of the same."
Robotnik's next sigh is more of an irritated groan. "If I didn't know Stone would finally snap and turn me into mincemeat, I'd say it's time to attempt using the Marzocco."
Like clockwork, mentioning Stone's name pushes Robotnik to indulge in his latest hobby project, and he pulls up his AR workstation to dig through the fat file he's compiled on his flunky. What had started out as the mother of all background checks over a year ago has ballooned in scope, becoming a mess of virtual red string and haphazardly saved documents. Government personnel files, college records, online media profiles, receipts and bank account numbers and so much stuff! All because nobody else had bothered to scrape beneath the topsoil and find all of this for themselves.
The only truly factual information he knows about Stone comes from government records, where Stone's bounced between the CIA, the DEA and the NSA like a federal pinball. Even then, it's rudimentary information like his age, notes about his psychological profile, his various test scores... Even the name listed is so unremarkable that it may very well be fake, a fact that's easily confirmed when he looks it up on Facebook and finds dozens of bot accounts.
"Just how did he slip in through the cracks like this?" he asks the drone, which bobs elegantly over a counter in response. "It's like nobody bothered to read his file. Then again, I can't say I blame them. It is excruciatingly boring. So much so that it must be on purpose."
Robotnik shuts up once he and the drone exit the mechanics bay and make their way down the corridor to the main laboratory. He's too close to Stone's room; the last thing he needs is for that little monster to overhear him while he's digging up dirt. If Stone knew he was thinking about him when he wasn't around... Well, talk about embarrassing.
He continues to flip through the various notations he's made over the past twelve months. The digital conspiracy board he's built up is the only way for him to keep track of this human personification of a shell company. Robotnik's usual methodologies don't quite work with the deluge of false information floating out there about the man who might be Stone.
Of course, he could give up. It would be easy enough to write Stone off as a man desperate to pretend he isn't a semi-sociopathic, masochistic hit-man for the U.S. government. He wouldn't be the first agent Robotnik's met who wears a mask to hide the empty person beneath. But Stone's history is a meaty bone to chew on, and Robotnik can't help but grind his teeth down and hunt for the marrow.
He's going to dig up every buried secret Stone's thought to hide. He won't be satisfied until he's peeled back the layers and gotten to the ooey, gooey center. Every secret Stone's kept, every ulterior motive, every thought he has — Robotnik will learn it all.
Lost in thought as he is, Robotnik doesn't immediately notice that the drone has stopped following. It isn't until he reaches the lab that he turns around and finds the egg far down the corridor, its adorable glass eye flashing red rings at him.
Great. Just great. With a heavy sigh and an even heavier eye-roll, Robotnik retraces his path back to the drone, which has stopped in front of a nondescript door with a simple key-card lock. While there are several of these rooms in the hall, only one of them is occupied; and just Robotnik's luck, that's exactly where the drone has stalled out. Chances are high that it's picked Stone up on its heat map, which means it's likely targeting him now instead of Robotnik. A few minor adjustments should set it right —
There's a quiet thump and a small, startled yelp from the other side of the door. A dozen possible causes spring to mind, but the fat of his paranoia causes the worst theories to rise first. After all, Robotnik's list of enemies is long and still growing, from Silicon Valley nutjobs, to congressmen, to prominent officials from foreign countries. Certainly some of those people have learned about Stone and his increasing monetary value. He's inserted himself into nearly every facet of Robotnik's work, and while Robotnik has no doubts about Stone's loyalty, others might see him as an easy route to classified secrets.
That's pretty much the first and last thought Robotnik has on the matter before he swipes his key-card through the lock. The door barely beeps admittance before he throws it open; in fact, he's thought this through so little that he simply doesn't know what to do when he finds no ninja assassins or sniper drones to confront.
What he does have in front of him is Stone, sprawled out on the ground beside his bed, his legs tangled up in the top-sheet still tucked under the mattress. Practically still asleep, Stone can only blink heavily up at him; the vulnerability combined with the way his long shadow falls across the display sends warmth blooming in Robotnik's gut — something he refuses to analyze now and will pretend to forget about later.
"Doctor?" Stone croaks.
Oh, crap. He has no excuse to be here. No good one, anyway. What's he supposed to do, tell Stone that at the barest hint of distress, he assumed the worst and burst in to stop his imminent murder?
Hah! No way in hell.
"What are you doing on the floor?" Robotnik barks, turning to glare accusingly at his peeled prototype. "This useless piece of garbage registered a threat in here!"
He grabs the drone and shoves it into the room, which bobs uselessly in the air until it hits the back wall, stops, and begins rotating slowly back around.
"I'm... sorry?" Stone's confusion is palpable as he squints and wriggles his way fully onto the ground, the sheet wadding up in his lap. There's a trace amount of sweat across his extremely bare shoulders — in fact, there's just way too much of Stone on display for Robotnik's comfort.
"You're on the floor," Robotnik repeats angrily.
"I... guess I must have rolled out of bed."
"I'm surprised you don't restrain yourself at night, you deviant."
Stone's eyes briefly go saucer-round as he pulls a uniquely new face, one far less reserved than his day-to-day expression of sexual desire. It means that Robotnik will have to play a little less rough, lest he give Stone the wrong impression of his late-night visit. Then again, if he were so inclined, he could use that vulnerability to his own advantage...
Stone's face fails to resolve into anything beyond an uncomfortable grimace. "...Wait, why are you in my room?"
"I told you," he snaps, "The drone!"
"Oh." Stone lifts a hand to rub at his sleep-crusted eyes and the sheet shifts with him, revealing the barest hint of his hip bone. It's a delicate balance beam Robotnik's found himself on — one that risks Stone making more out of this home invasion than it is — but the reward at the other end is a chance to dig into that juicy marrow of hidden truth. As delicate as he may have to be, curiosity always gets the cat, and the dog always finds the bone.
"But, since you're up..."
Robotnik looks around the undecorated room before flopping bonelessly into the standard desk chair, long legs stretching out as he rolls towards Stone like an extremely ominous crab. Stone's reaction is suitably intimidated, with a clear splash of blood rushing to his cheeks for color. The brazen display of his actual emotions is a thrill, pushing Robotnik to get out his trowel and bury it in Stone's mental garden bed.
"...Maybe you can help me with a little questionnaire I'm whipping up."
"Um." Stone yanks the top-sheet back up his waist in a surprising display of bashfulness. "Maybe we could do this —"
"Great, first question! True or false: your mother's maiden name is Mohamed."
Stone's reddening face immediately flattens into a grimace of genuine irritation, something Robotnik has only ever seen directed towards other people. No wonder common folk seem to find him so unsettling.
"I'll take that as true."
"Have you been reading my file again?" Stone cranes his neck to look at his clock, "It's 2:30 in the morning, Ivo —"
"Excuse me?"
Stone scrunches up his face. "— Sir."
"I thought you were at my disposal, Stone?" Robotnik leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and his chin on his fists. Stone stares back up at him, but his expression is full of complicated emotions and Robotnik, unfortunately, cannot possibly interpret them. He's never even seen somebody look at him the way Stone is now.
His expression finally evens out with an exasperated eye-roll, and Stone tugs at the sheet in a way that fails to cover anything while managing to reveal most of his left calf. Robotnik doesn't take the bait, assuming it even is bait, which he certainly isn't!
"Three questions, true or false." Stone says, holding up three fingers. "I'll give you the name as a freebie."
"Wow, look at you, calling all the shots." Robotnik makes a show of considering the offer as he leans back into a comfortable slouch (that happens to be a safer distance from the degenerate showing hitchhiker leg). "Fine, it's a reasonable request, given the situation. And I'll forgive you these bitchy little outbursts, since you're being so receptive."
"Gee, thanks."
"You are so welcome." Since the name is technically correct, he might as well confirm the rest of it. "You have a full nuclear family with both parents, a sister, Jennifer, and a brother, Ahmad, all living in Calgary."
"True." His exasperation congeals into a frown, clearly suspecting ulterior motives. "But I don't — they're not in my life. They don't know anything about me or my work. We haven't even talked in years."
"That's very apparent from their various social media accounts. It seems to me that you don't exist to them — or anyone, for that matter."
Stone cringes as though he were punched in the sternum. It's no surprise to the doctor that he'd managed to find a soft spot, but what shocks him is how he feels... less than great about it. He's made far worse observations before, but this one is missing the little triumphant thrill that he's used to whenever he gets under Stone's skin.
"True," Stone grunts, gesturing vaguely towards the door. "I hope that third one was worth it."
"Oh, don't be like that. Let's keep this pleasant."
Oh, now there's an expression Robotnik recognizes, although it's a dirty look Stone usually reserves for the people he wants to murder. He decides to pull back, ease up, and follow a less confrontational line of questioning.
"Come now, this can't be the worst interrogation you've ever faced, and you've been doing so well. I'll even toss you a softball. You have degrees for mechanical engineering, computer science, and biomedical engineering."
"I didn't — no, false."
Robotnik waits for some hint of explanation, but Stone only glares at him. Well, if he's going to be like that ...
"You flunked out of some key biology classes, didn't you? I understand. Organic sciences are practically the same as underwater basket weaving, but if you couldn't hack it..."
A lightning flash of outrage crosses Stone's grim expression. "That's not — I didn't flunk out. I chose not to continue. I didn't want to pursue three degrees at once."
"You could have, though. You're more than capable of it."
It's a dig that hits the right nerve, and Robotnik is pleased to be pleased by it.
"Yeah," Stone sighs, "Yes. True."
"So then, I assume the reason you didn't is because you were hobbling yourself to fit in with your peers." He gets a stiff, short nod in response, but decides against forcing Stone to admit it out loud. "And now you're now crawling along behind me when you could have been so much more." He clicks his tongue. "You're going to have to do something about that if you expect to keep up."
Another nod as Stone drops his gaze to Robotnik's boots. Robotnik fantasizes about stomping on his bare foot, but decides against it at the last moment, leaping to his feet instead and laughing when Stone instinctively yanks his foot away.
"Fantastic. See? Wasn't that a nice bonding exercise?"
Stone's deep, exasperated breath gives away what his face won't. "Yes, sir."
He takes a fistful of the sheet around his waist and pushes himself off the floor, but Robotnik sees a little too much anyway and spins around before Stone's fully standing. That's his cue to leave — if Stone gets his wits about him, he might take this opportunity to bully Robotnik in turn, and their little game of sadomasochistic chicken will likely lead to Robotnik making decisions that could impede future schemes.
"Sir," Stone calls as Robotnik reaches the door. Robotnik half expects to find him spread out on the bed like a nude throw blanket, but when he turns around, Stone is only sitting on the edge of the mattress, covered from the waist down. He points out the mass of machinery that's been floating idly in the corner.
"Oh, whatever. Bring it to the lab tomorrow morning."
Stone nods. "Sure. And... sir?"
"What?"
"I am absolutely at your disposal, so you don't need an excuse to be in my room." His expression cracks into a sly, toothy smile, completely at odds with the gentleness of his voice. "I know you like to switch up where you work."
"Despite your best efforts, Stone, I have yet to develop a Pavlovian response to your presence, and I therefore doubt that being in proximity to your unconscious body will enhance my work-flow."
Stone nods, his smile finally softening to join his tone. "Sure, doctor. I'm just letting you know."
"Whatever, you miscreant."
Robotnik makes sure to slam the door as hard as he can when he leaves, even if it's an impotent gesture of his general disgust. As he makes his way to his own room off the laboratory, he finds his fantasies have wandered from the internal maze of his drones to the more simple, visceral pleasure of imagining the noises Stone might make if Robotnik had only decided to grind his boot down on that tender, bare foot. How much damage would he risk before he finally asked Robotnik to stop? Would he beg? Would he be as frightened as he had when he'd nearly hit the Marzocco? What will it take to see that again?
He doesn't know, but he can't wait to find out.