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Stone closes the bathroom door behind him, not meeting Robotnik’s intense gaze.
The handle of the pocket knife is cool in his clammy hand. He doesn’t bother trying to hide it — Robotnik already knows what he was doing in there — just ducks past the disapproving older man and heads to the kitchen to disinfect the blade.
“You’re not even attempting to be subtle anymore,” Robotnik remarks disapprovingly, following him to the crab’s kitchen.
“No,” Stone murmurs in response. It might be the wrong answer, but he doesn't have the energy to overthink his every word right now. He finds the bottle of rubbing alcohol behind the black-tinted nail polish remover. Hmm. He really should’ve painted his nails instead of cutting up his thighs again. Foresight is 20/20, no?
He flicks open the cap and pours some on a rag, which he uses to wipe the knife clean, gaze fixed on the sharp edge of the blade. Part of him wonders what Robotnik would do if Stone pulled his sleeve up right now and sliced through an artery. It’s not that he wants to. It’s not even an urge, just a passing thought— albeit, a very concerning one, but far from abnormal these days.
The weight of Robotnik’s gaze lies heavy on Stone’s back.
“I don’t understand what compels you to injure yourself. It does nothing to improve our situation.” The words aren’t scathing, but carry a harsh tone, words repeated over and over to an unresponsive listener. “In fact, it worsens it considerably, because now you’re injured.”
Stone shrugs. He doesn’t have a good answer, doesn’t have the words to explain to Robotnik how physical pain is simpler than emotional pain in the grand scheme of things. At least, not in a way the doctor could understand. It takes a great deal of effort not to point out that binging microwaved burritos doesn’t improve Robotnik’s situation — and yet he still does it, so who is he to judge Stone’s way of coping — but the last thing he wants to do is hurt Robotnik.
So he bites his tongue.
He finds himself doing that a lot these days.
“Would you give that to me if I told you to?” Robotnik asks, gesturing to the knife, and Stone frowns down at the old, scratched up blade, considering.
He’s always been weak where Robotnik is concerned.
“Probably,” he settles on. “But I’d just find something else to use.”
Robotnik huffs. “You said you would quit.”
“I said I’d try to.”
“Bzzzzt. No, you said you would. Eidetic memory, sycophant, eidetic memory,” Robotnik says. He’s scowling, arms crossed, leaning against the doorframe. He’s still in his pajamas, a worn black tank top and grey sweats. His soft red bathrobe was discarded at some point during the night.
Another heat flash, probably.
Robotnik may be mostly recovered these days, but his body will never be the same, and the lingering evidence of severe physical trauma will haunt him until the day he dies. If Stone had been more competent, Robotnik never would’ve received those injuries in the first place.
“I don’t know what you want me to say. Clearly, I failed,” Stone says, shutting the pocket knife and slipping it into his pocket. He closes the lid to the rubbing alcohol with a click, replaces it in the medicine cabinet, and tries to ignore how appealing taking all the pills in the cabinet is becoming with every passing moment.
“You're not going to clean your wounds too? Disinfecting the knife does nothing if you’re going to leave the actual incisions to be infected by bacteria, imbecile.”
“I use the knife for other things, doctor, that’s why I clean it. And I’ve never had an infection last for more than a week, so what’s the point? It’s not worth the effort.”
“The point is you may not always be so lucky. Aaand that you’re a huge hypocrite, considering you acted like you were the one with the goddamn medical degree the entire time I was healing from my accident,” Robotnik spits the word like it’s personally responsible for his failures, “and insisted on treating my injuries like I was some sort of invalid who would die if all my bandages weren’t changed exactly according to your ridiculous control-freak schedule.”
“I care more about you than I do myself. Surely that isn’t a surprise to you?” Stone asks, attempting to squeeze past Robotnik and slip out of the kitchen, but Robotnik blocks the way with a scathing glare.
Great, Stone’s trapped.
“Of course it isn’t a surprise to me!” Robotnik snaps. “What is surprising to me is how you believe neglecting your own health will in any sort of way purify you. Were you just born wanting to die a bloody martyr, or did mommy and daddy send you to Catholic school instead of hugging you as a child?”
“No, I didn’t start wanting to die until I was twelve, and my parents couldn’t afford to send me anywhere other than public school. Plus, they were Christian. Not Catholic,” he deadpans.
Brow furrowing, Robotnik asks, “What’s the difference?”
Stone stares at him for a long moment, incredulous, then bursts out laughing.
Scowling, though there’s something relieved in his expression and his shoulders have relaxed ever so slightly, Robotnik demands, “What’s funny?”
“Sorry sir, I forget some people didn’t have hyper-religious upbringings.”
“No, no, continue laughing at my expense,” Robotnik says sarcastically, though it’s a softer sarcasm than usual, not as biting around the edges. Much like the man himself these days. A pause, and then,
“You said you began wanting to die when you were twelve. Implying that this is an urge that still exists.”
Stone’s breath catches in his throat. He is silent as his namesake. Even his heart seems to forget to beat, if only for a millisecond.
“Words, Stone. Or nod. Or shake your head! It’s not a complex question, do I or do I not need to put you on suicide watch?”
“I don’t have a plan,” he evades.
“You never plan for things, your impulsivity nearly gets us killed just as often as it proves useful.”
Stone scowls. “It’s a good thing, then, that you’re the epitome of planning and stability.”
“Watch your tone, Stone.”
“Look, sir, if I was put on suicide watch every time I thought about killing myself, I’d have spent my entire life in a psych ward. At which point I would be justified in trying to kill myself, because that’s a miserable existence.” He sighs and rubs his eyes, then continues, softer, “They’re just thoughts. I can ignore them most of the time, and if I start not being able to, I’ll tell you. Can we drop this now?”
“No. I… care. About you,” Robotnik says, making a face as if the words physically pain him to say — and who knows, they might. The doctor has never been one for expressing affection. “If you were to die, especially of something as avoidable as suicide, I would be very displeased.”
“Only displeased?”
It’s intended as a joke, but Robotnik doesn't seem to find it funny. He scowls, leans forward, grabs Stone’s shoulder, and pulls him close so that the two of them are nose to nose. “Devastated. Anguished. Heartbroken. Inconsolable. Take your pick, you insufferable barnacle.”
“Are you sure it wouldn’t be better?” Stone asks, voice sounding small even to his own ears. “For both of us? If I was…”
“No. Are you the genius here, Stone?”
Stone shakes his head.
“Exactly. Don’t question me, not even in your own head, understood? Or I will personally ensure that you live up to the title of ‘barnacle’ and handcuff the two of us together until you can be trusted not to make an erroneous decision regarding your livelihood.”
For the first time that night, Stone smiles for real. Laughing wetly, he says, “Understood, doctor.”
And then he doesn’t stop laughing, and the tears start to pour, and the next thing he knows Robotnik is pulling him in for a hug and he’s crying into Robotnik’s tank top, bawling his eyes out uncontrollably. Every time he tries to stop, another sob rips itself from his throat in painful protest.
His legs hurt.
He wants to feel better.
All he’s ever wanted is to feel better.
But he never does.
And it hurts.
It hurts so, so badly.
“It never stops,” he half-whispers, half-sobs into Robotnik’s shoulder. “Please, sir, make it stop. I want it to stop.”
“Hush. You’re okay, Stone. Everything is fine. We’re alive, and we’re safe, and as much as I despise to admit it, that’s all thanks to you. You did that. You could’ve left me to die —”
“Never, sir.”
“Sycophant. Be. Quiet. You could’ve let me die, but you didn’t. I’m here, and I’m alive, and it’s because of you. Everything good here is because of you. Get that through your thick skull, because I loathe to repeat it.”
“I can’t believe you.” Stone whispers. “I’m sorry, sir. I just can’t—”
“Try. You’re the most stubborn, obdurate, inexorable, unyielding human to ever walk this god-forsaken planet. You’re capable of adhering to the truth despite whatever lies your mind may be spewing at you, of this I’m certain. And lest you forget, I’m always right. Always. Capiche?”
Stone presses himself closer to the doctor as if it will help him escape the minefield that is his own mind, his face warm and wet with tears. “What if you’re wrong? About this? About me?”
Robotnik is quiet for a long second. Then he pulls back slightly and grabs Stone’s face, glaring into the depths of Stone’s soul with a conviction that’s been glaringly absent ever since his fall. It’s back now, intense and unyielding.
“I’m not.”