Chapter Text
In all honesty, he should have seen this coming.
Stone’s running on fumes and the two-hour nap he took on the flight back home. His head aches in a way that speaks to the concussion he’d just barely avoided, his eyes burn absently from either the bright light of day or the lack of sleep, and his mouth tastes like copper. The strap of his new duffel bag digs painfully into his wrenched shoulder. There’s about 6 more hours of being upright awake ahead of him before he can finally go home lay down in the brand new break room on the second floor of the lab. All he has to do is get inside, deliver the doctor his midday latte, and then take stock of what has unfolded while he’s been away.
Stone hates solo missions. Never mind the fact that most of his military career for the past decade has been one solo mission after another-- he’s good at what he does, yes, but that doesn’t mean he has to enjoy it . Hours that bleed into days that bleed into potential weeks away from the lab. Anything could happen in the time that he’s away. He’s confident in the security measures protecting the lab and Robotnik himself (the doctor would punish him severely for doubting the capability of his babies) but that doesn’t stop the bone-deep squirm of anxiety at the thought that something could happen and he wouldn’t be there to stop it.
A deep breath. He flashes his watch at the scanner by the door, sighs through the sudden tightness in his chest. His face feels hot in comparison to the cool air of the lab that greets him as he walks inside. Some of the tension in his shoulders and spine dissolves immediately upon entering, and he feels ten times more tired than he had mere seconds ago. At least it’s not so bright in here , he thinks with a wry huff.
He heads for the kitchen first. Loud, thrumming music fills the lab with a heavy bass-line. It’s slightly muffled by the walls of the main lab and the kitchen, but still recognisable. Reznor’s growling vocals are a slightly jarring backdrop to Stone’s unwinding in the privacy of the lab’s kitchen, but he’s honestly worked with less. Going through the motions of preparing the doctor’s latte makes him feel less like a walking line of tension and more like an exhausted bag of meat. His throat tickles a little, and he clamps down on the cough that tries to escape.
Grind, measure, level, tamp, pull. Deep breath in as the espresso trickles into the cup. He thinks briefly of making himself a latte, just to make sure he stays upright, but the smell of it is actually making him a little nauseous. Odd.
Between one long blink and the next, the shot is done. He goes for the milk in the fridge, right next to the frothing jug. After all this time, he could do the entire process in his sleep. Foam the milk, pour the shot into one of the doctor’s favourite mugs-- this one proclaims, in bold comic sans, NO ONE’S MORE EVIL THAN YOU!-- layer the foamed milk on top, etch a quick badnik into the foam with a toothpick. He decides to curry some favour in one of the few surefire ways he knows how-- the lightest dusting of cocoa powder around his careful sketch, just enough to pique the doctor’s sweet tooth.
Latte secured and duffel bag abandoned in the doorway of the kitchen for now, Stone follows the artistic whine of interference into the main lab. Inside, the lights have been further dimmed in order to enhance flow state. Robotnik sits hunched over the main worktable, the newest badnik prototype lying flayed open before him. There’s maybe a third of the table left untouched by the absolute whirlwind that is an unsupervised Robotnik, the rest of the space cluttered with tools, parts, blueprints, and what looks like three laptops fused together. (He doesn’t want to know.)
Stone weaves his way through the chaos until he can approach the doctor’s rolling chair. He can’t announce himself properly while the music is this loud-- and it is so loud. He can hardly think. For a single, terrifying moment, he gets a rush of vertigo that makes him stop in place and take a few deep breaths, lest he drop the latte on the floor-- so he does the next best thing. He waits until the song fades into the next, something with a less pounding backline, and then chimes, “Your latte, doctor!”
Robotnik flinches hard enough to scoot his chair back several inches, and then he whirls around. Stone’s left enough space between the two of them that when he launches out of his chair towards him and stalks over, Robotnik has plenty of time to wrestle the panic off his face. He still looks a bit rattled, though it dissolves into the usual fare: irritation that turns into realisation into irritation again at having his needs met without any input of his own. He snatches the mug from Stone’s hands. “You’re late, Stone. I was expecting you at 9.”
Stone dips his head, deferential, apologetic. “There were some setbacks. I got back as quickly as I could.”
Robotnik visibly deflates a little as he takes the first sip of the latte, and then perks all the way back up. He has the frenetic energy of two back to back all-nighters. Stone takes another look around the lab, and notices a significant lack of takeout containers among the rampant mess. Makes a mental note to order something easy and filling for dinner. Soup, perhaps. Sandwiches . His stomach flips unpleasantly at the thought. He ignores the unusual bout of nausea in favour of drinking in the doctor’s pleased expression. “Delicious as always, agent. Just what I wanted. Now that you’re back, do something about that. ”
He flaps a hand in the direction of Stone’s own workspace, tucked off in the corner. Takes another sip of the latte, milk foam clinging to the bottom of his moustache. Stone’s hands itch to wipe it away. He swallows around another tickle in his throat. “Your phone has been ringing all morning. You’re lucky I didn’t dismantle it entirely.”
Stone closes his eyes. If the person calling his work line on a Thursday morning is the same one who sent him on the mission in the first place, he’s going to pitch himself out the third floor window. Robotnik cackles at his visible dismay and meanders back over to his work table. Stone resigns himself to desk work for the rest of his shift. The music is still blaring despite his arrival (not that he thought it would go any differently) and it makes his head throb in tempo with the synths. He sorts their cluttered inbox, writes a pointed email to Walters about his post-mission report and their pre-planned schedule for the month, and assesses the new funding missives.
Despite the ambient chill of the lab, the thermostat cranked down to the optimal flow state temperature, Stone feels… warm. Face flushed, ears burning. He chalks it up to the headache steadily pulsing behind his eyes, but that doesn’t make it easier to ignore. He fidgets with his collar with one hand, the other sorting through the mail that’d come in while he was away. The fabric at his throat is uncomfortably damp. There’s a petition from one of the doctor’s many academic programs, a reminder on updated HR policy, another petition…
The pain gathering behind his eyes flares. He takes a cautious peep over the top of his monitors at the doctor, who is already buried in his work again. A tiny break won’t go amiss. Lying his head down on his desk and shutting his eyes makes the pain ease a little, and the surface is blessedly cool against his hot face. There’s a gross, wet itch in his nose that makes him sit back up, wiping at his nose with the back of his hand. Embarrassed, he casts a glance around his desk for tissues, but no dice. If he skirts around the outer ring of the lab, he can get to the bathroom without risking disrupting the doctor.
Quietly as he can (entirely silently), Stone rises from his chair and steps away from his desk. Raises his hand again when the itch returns, a sort of miserable understanding settling in. He almost never gets a runny nose unless he’s sick, which means congestion is soon to follow and--
The sudden bout of nausea as blood rushes to his head is enough to make him stop in his tracks. Stood up too quickly, he justifies to himself, only to immediately lose track of the thought as he catches sight of the dark red smear across the back of his hand. He blinks dumbly at the blood, even as more of it drips down his face. The foul taste in his mouth returns. His head throbs. Moving towards the bathroom again takes a herculean amount of effort, one foot in front of the other. When was the last time he had a nose bleed? Did he get it on his desk? On the floor? He cups a hand over his mouth and nose at the same time his stomach swoops violently and his slow stride turns into a freefall.
The last thing he thinks before he hits the refreshingly cool lab floor is: I’m going to have to mop that later.