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Robotnik pulls the trigger, the crack of a gunshut echoing loudly in the confined space. The bullet flies from the barrel and misses Stone’s head by barely more than an inch.
Deafening silence follows.
Then the two lattes fall from Stone's grip and splatter across the lab floor, light brown liquid running in rivulets across the dark tiles, but neither man pays the mess any mind.
“Doctor, what — ?” Stone gasps, bewildered and desperately attempting to get a grasp on the situation. His shift just began, so he can’t have done something to piss the doctor off already — at least, not to an extent that warranted homicide.
Robotnik has deep bags under his narrowed eyes, observing Stone with the same violent intensity that they do everything else. He doesn’t answer Stone’s inquiry. This in and of itself isn’t unusual, but the lack of any response whatsoever definitely is.
“Did I do something?” Stone asks cautiously, trying to keep his eyes fixed on the doctor’s face rather than the barrel of the gun. The doctor’s finger is still on the trigger, but is there another round in it?
And why didn’t the doctor call on the badniks instead? What sin could Stone possibly have committed to deserve death in such a personal manner? Well, personal in comparison to the badniks, anyways. It’s not as if the doctor’s hands are around Stone’s throat — not that Stone would mind if they were — but for some reason, Robotnik being the one to pull the trigger feels much more intimate than a shot from a badnik.
“No. But I don’t need to explain myself to you, agent no-one!”
Oh.
Huh.
That stings a bit. It's been a long time since Robotnik has called him something insulting in a non-affectionate way, however unconventional, especially something so basic. Stone much prefers when the doctor refers to him as sycophant, or idiot, or imbecile, or stupid, or Stone, or — rare, but by far the superior option — my agent .
There's always a possessive undertone to that one that makes Stone preen, even under the doctor's condescending gaze.
“Of course not, doctor,” Stone says, biting at his bottom lip and allowing his eyes to flicker between Robotnik's glare and the barrel of the gun, then back up again.
The doctor's finger is still tense on the trigger — except this time, it's aimed for Stone's heart.
So the first shot had been a warning then.
Is this a test of some sort?
“Is there… something I can do for you, sir?”
“Yes. Stay still. I need to get some target practice in, since unfortunately I've found that my lack of usage of my hand-held, long-distance weapon skills has caused a decrease in their aptitude and accuracy.”
Stone frowns. Why is Robotnik pretending that the initial shot had missed by accident, or lying about his skills having gone rusty in the first place? He'd used Stone's gun to shoot out a small control panel two-hundred feet away at their last visit to GUN headquarters, purely to spite Walters and show several other arrogant government superiors that they had much less control over the situation then they'd presumed.
Is he trying to intimidate me? Stone wonders, and then it clicks, like a fumbled light switch in the middle of the night. No, not intimidate — he's trying to scare me into leaving. For good. But why now? Why all of a sudden? It can't have been something I did wrong, or he would've just fired me — or made his aim true.
The decision is a surprisingly easy one. He locks eyes with the doctor. “Okay. Go ahead.”
This startles Robotnik, who falters for a second before scowling and fixing the gun back to Stone's chest once more. “If you think I'm bluffing, then you're an even bigger imbecile than my previous calculations determined.”
“Oh, no sir, I know you're not bluffing,” Stone says, voice level. “If you feel you need the practice, then go ahead. But you might want to call a janitor first, because I won't be around to clean up the blood, and you have better things to do with your time then dispose of a body.”
“Shut up,” Robotnik bites out, showing his gritted teeth like a cornered dog, despite the fact that he's not the one with a gun pointed at his heart.
Granted, that's what makes it such a good indicator of Robotnik's current mental state.
“Do I not get to say some last words, sir?” Stone asks, careful to remain non-threatening and appear as calm as he can, though his heart is running a marathon in his chest and his decades of training are screaming at him to either neutralize his opponent or get the hell out of there, preferably both.
But Robotnik isn't Stone's opponent. Not now, and not ever. Stone can, would, and will die for him if that's what it takes.
“You think I'm joking? It would take .027 seconds for the bullet to penetrate your ribcage, go through your heart, and come out the other side. You'd be dead before you hit the floor. I don't do sentimentalities and I don't care for the human race — I could kill you now and sleep like a baby tonight.”
Cute.
“Okay then.” Never breaking eye contact, Stone steps forward and very slowly crosses the lab, closing the distance between the two of them.
He stops right in front of Robotnik’s outstretched arm.
Closes his eyes.
And presses his forehead to the gun’s muzzle.
The doctor inhales sharply, and Stone braces himself.
When the explosive pain doesn’t come, he softly speaks into the deafening silence, non-judgemental, neutral, efficient. Like a good little government dog, though his actions right now would be anything but pleasing to his government superiors. “Do it, sir.”
It’s a gamble. He knows it is. There’s a very real chance that the cold barrel of the gun’s muzzle against his forehead will be the last thing he’ll ever feel — but he’s been ready to die since he entered GUN training at fourteen years old. Really, it’s a miracle that he’s lived as long as he has. The vast majority of recruits he’d trained alongside are long-gone, either resting in a government graveyard or left behind to decompose in the light of the dying sun after some long-forgotten conflict that the higher-ups could’ve easily avoided had they possessed even a smidgen of the doctor’s common sense.
Not that Stone pities them.
They knew what they were signing up for when they joined the army; and subsequently, GUN.
Stone was too young to really understand, but now he does.
And if this is the way he dies?
Well…
What priest doesn't dream of being a sacrifice at the altar of their chosen god?
“What are you doing?” the doctor demands, in lieu of putting a bullet through Stone's skull.
Stone tilts his head ever so slightly, leaning into the cool metal. It will leave a mark later — if he survives to see a ‘later’, that is. “Either get rid of me, or let me serve you. I’d rather die than quit, and I know that’s what you’re trying to make me do — well, I’m not going to. So either keep me… or kill me. It’s your choice.”
“Agent…”
Licking his lips, Stone lets a sardonic grin spread across his face. “You’ve read my file. Do you know why I never stuck with one assignment for more than a year or two, with that being on the higher end? Because I get bored, doctor. I’ve been bored since I was a child, and the longer I stay in one place, the worse the boredom becomes — I’ve been told I can become something of a loose cannon when it gets bad, because I’ll do anything to make it even just a little bit less intense.” He opens his eyes for the first time since he pressed his head to the muzzle of the gun, and his smile deepens, wry and resigned, as he looks up to meet Robotnik’s wide-eyed gaze. “I haven’t been bored since I met you, sir.”
His voice cracks at the end, something vulnerable and small and broken slipping through his calm facade. There’s a desperation in his tone that he never lets anyone hear, but Robotnik is different. Robotnik is the only one who truly sees him, who outsmarts him and shoves him around and likes his latte art and makes him feel alive.
Robotnik stares.
There’s a long moment of heavy silence, and then,
“Get me another latte, Stone,” Robotnik says, turning away. He clicks the gun’s safety back on and places it next to a messy stack of unfinished, doodle-covered paperwork on his desk. “And clean that mess up before someone slips. Imbecile.”
Stone smiles.
“Of course, doctor.”
Because Stone is to Robotnik what an angel is to god. He will follow orders, without complaint, because that is the purpose of the air in his lungs and the blood in his veins.
This is love.
This is love.
This is love.