Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

How will I dream when I am older?

Will I be just a little bit colder?

…

I wonder if I’d be as fun considering the bags that I’d be bringing

Nowhere to go. No one to see

No one will come find me. Nowhere to run

I cannot drive

Thank God that I’m alive

In his younger and more or less vulnerable years, the nuns of the orphanage had told young Ivo Robotnik many advices, some he has had disregarded when he was grown. Most of those things were to be considerate, kind and whatever it has to do with the seven virtues. “Before you judge someone,” he’d been told one too many times, “just remember that some people haven’t the advantages you have had.”

Ivo, at the moment, did not understand why they would say so. What advantages did he have as an orphan? No parents did not mean he didn’t have a curfew and strict people as his guardians. The nuns never elaborated on any of their advices, always settling on “You will understand when you grow up”.

Because of those cryptic advices that had got Ivo pulling all-nighters to understand them in the more social sense and not scientific, he was never talkative to the other children, nor the nuns for that matter despite their best efforts. He always kept to himself, secrets or otherwise, a habit that had made him a victim of quite a few teasing scenarios that border-lined bullying. In spite of the frustration and humility he had suffered through those teasing sessions, the nun had never done anything to help, chalking it up to them being young and that there hadn’t been any real harmful intents behind them. Robotnik had not believed that, and he would not start now.

When he was in his adolescent years, his intelligence surpassed his peers, subjecting him to many asking for favors of doing their work, expecting him to finish them accurately without asking for something in return. He was taught to not expect anything from anyone in return for something he did for them, so he did as he was advised, though begrudgingly.

However, Ivo believed that the advice only applied in situations when he gave them his assistance on his own accord. Though, it was hard to decipher which situation was which under some circumstances, and due to having to constantly provide clarification to everyone who enquired about it annoyingly, Ivo stopped offering his help to people all together. That was when the bullying started. People not getting what they want when they asked for it, so they resorted to demanding for it. If that didn’t work, then some form of physical or psychological persuasion was involved.

Ivo didn’t fight back for the most part as their method of persuasion were petty insults and threats that didn’t sound threatening as they intended it to; too basic and overrated. Despite that knowledge, when things got more physical, Robotnik tended to lose himself in the heat and adrenaline, ending up being the one punished for starting the fight. It was frustrating for the young prodigy to be punished for standing up for himself, more infuriatingly so when the nuns pinned the blame on him when he told them of it. Ivo avoided fighting back ever since, subjecting himself to constant juvenile torture throughout his childhood years. Unnecessary tension built up over time, bottled up in his being ready to spill at the slightest inconvenience.

His outbursts occurred more often in university, when he was out of the surveillance of the orphanage and into the real world, a place where he had a voice that could be ignored. That didn’t bother Ivo one bit, and slowly he climbed the ranks and outshined his peers and competitions. His professors had to admit that he was a clever student, though his unruly behavior and disrespectful attitude could overshadow his talents and gifts at the present and in the future.

Robotnik had been and still is a stubborn individual, he didn’t care for his professors’ opinions on him, especially when it regarded his education; the fact that they had admitted to his superior intellect amongst his peers means they really did not know what to do to prevent him from reaching greatness, and whether or not his attitude affects his future was a problem for future him to solve. Considering his high intellect, he would know how to mask up his rotten attitude to appease those around him.

Young Ivo swore to himself he would do everything in his power to become his own self-fulfilled prophecy, to elevate the ranks and rise above all. Over the years of constant hindrance from his peers, Ivo had persisted and grudged through with minimal complaints, dedicating most of his waking hours to his studies and achievements, rightfully obtaining his title as Doctor Robotnik. He continued to prosper, triumphing in the fields of his interests - biology, science, engineering, etc.

He became quite successful and established a name for himself among the high ranking figures, however one defined the word ‘success’. If being successful meant having a large quantity money, then Doctor Robotnik has just that. If success was defined by his personal material possessions, then Doctor Robotnik has already got it: property, jewelry, assets, you name it.

Despite earning his fortune and being the talk of town, there was one thing the well-known Doctor Robotnik didn’t have, and that was company. Sure, he’s got people that were willing to put up with his horrible attitude to get a chance to work alongside him, or to just take credits for themselves, but Doctor Robotnik has never had a companion who would put up with him outside of work or any kind of professional settings.

It sounded lonely, because it was; Doctor Robotnik had all this wealth but no one deserving enough to share it with. The people that the Doctor had to endure were basic, ignorant and obtuse, or were being deliberately so. Either way, there were no one Doctor Robotnik found deserving enough to be by his side. The standards he set for this figurative companion were undeniably high, but he believed he deserved the best.

Doctor Robotnik may be a man of higher intelligence, that did not mean he didn’t succumb to his mortal cravings for companion as mentioned. For a long while, Doctor Robotnik was conflicted by his longing for a companion, and was partially against the idea that came to him during that time.

However, the advantages outweighed the disadvantages, surprisingly irritatingly enough, and when Doctor Robotnik had made up his mind, almost every night there would be a party at his estate however small or extravagant. Sometimes, when he is in a good mood, there would be a garden party in the following morning. As good as his mood can get, but either way, there is guaranteed to always be one.

People flock to his parties like pigeons to a park, pecking eagerly at the seeds and grains thrown on the ground along with all its pebbles and filth. It was all because there was a chance that they could meet the famed doctor, to become his trusted companion and benefit from it, but even if those chances were low and almost non-existence, they still come since they could always try their luck with others of status.

Doctor Robotnik did not organize the parties all himself even if he is the host, he had people assist him in the setting-up, following his specifics and orders to make as splendid a party as one could make. These people were sworn to secrecy, and in return, their secrets were safe with him, for a time. If one were to betray what they had clearly agreed on, Doctor Robotnik was never merciful in letting a betrayal go. Let’s just say, working as an unappreciated underling of the Doctor still came with benefits of their own. Not everyone understood that.

The Doctor would watch from his usual spot on the second floor’s balcony every night, observing those simple-minded people flit about, engaging in conversation with others and laughing with high, fake voices. From where he was, he could hear everything; every mocking and condescending word, every dirty secret, every deal and conditions, every cry. To make up for the whispers he couldn’t decipher, he had his techs and machines to pick them up, storing them for later inspection.

His status and reputation didn’t just come from him succeeding in the field of technological advancements and innovation, Robotnik was infamous for uncovering the secret griefs and pleasures of even the most mysterious and obscure people as well, all because they didn’t have even two brain cells not to come to his parties. Robotnik became a liability; no one got passed him with any kind of tricks without having to bear witness to their confidential information being handed to them on a silver platter.

It was one more of the many reasons why some people were eager to be in his favor; to have their untold pleasures and guilt kept safe in the hands of a man who could ruin the world with his words alone if he had wanted to; it was the highest of honor.

Chapter Text

I try and I try and I try

But everybody wants to put me down

They say I’m going crazy

They say I got a lot of water in my brain

I got no common sense

(He’s got) I got nobody left to believe

…

Anybody find me somebody to love

Can anybody find me someone to love?

It is of any other day in the calm and prospering city of Washington, DC. People minding their own business, wandering about on the lively streets, the golden sunlight falling softly on the roofs and shoulders of strangers, finding themselves warming the counters and tables inside shops and homes. Women and men hang around each other outside of small coffee shops, talking discreetly and in hushed tones of affairs, jobs and such trivial matters.

Robotnik sits in his garden, people-watching as a way to pass time. The clothes they wore are more modest and casual than what they had on yesternight. Women giggled and talked in honeyed tones to each other, their husbands and each other’s husbands. The single men looked to be thoroughly enjoying themselves in the company of many conventionally beautiful ladies, their hands wandering in the air in complicated gestures as they spoke to capture the eligible ladies’ attentions.

The genius cringes at husbands whose eyes wander and linger on other ladies, their hand place excruciatingly lovingly on the shoulders of their spouses while their mind was on the way another woman moves. The wives are none the wiser of the silent, uncommitted adultery, giving attention only to their friends and the aimless topics they were discussing.

Robotnik is glad he sat himself far away from them to avoid getting potentially hit in the face or to see the lust-filled eyes of those desperate men. The smiles they exchange are exaggerated, meant only to please their conversation buddy. The laughs are pitched and soft, but the tone rang deafly in his ears, a constant vexed chime that might induce headaches and migraines. Robotnik’s face morphs into a frown, hidden by the shadow of an umbrella that shield him from the ever brightening sunlight.

The Doctor turns away from the people, his eyes focused and wide as he works on the blueprints of his latest personal project. Luckily for him, he can work on this without disturbance as everyone are occupied with the conversations held by their new-found short-term companion. He doesn’t know what it was they were talking about that have them so invested in it. Either way, it wasn’t exactly his type of conversation or crowd, so Robotnik spends most of his times hidden away from the party goers.

His anonymity is the direct result of his infrequent appearances in his own parties, due to that fact many new attendees and even employees do not know what he even looked like. His name and reputation were the only thing that attracted these new faces, giving them hope of meeting this well-known figure unexpectedly in the party.

Robotnik gets up and stretches, his bones popping satisfyingly. Robotnik sighs, his mustache twitching with the minute motions of his mouth; he passes the tables and flowers bed which people gathered around earlier, flashing them his most welcoming and softest smile before hastily walking out of the garden and disappearing into his home. The murmurs of the people outside are intelligible but present, itching his ears as he catches his name being mentioned in one of the ladies’ speech about courting him. Robotnik cringes visibly.

The Doctor’s face returns to its resting frown as he walks away from the garden’s door, the clicking of his costly shoes bounces off the walls and ringing back at him as he walks the corridors, turning corners to the main area. There are a few maids talking with each other as they sweep and clean the space, making sure people can come to a spotless equivalent of a ball room. He leaves them be to their chattering.

Robotnik hands the butlers and maids he encounters later on each a small paper of specifics that needed to be prepared for the party that night. His employees knew by now that greeting, thanking or replying with affirmatives to indicate they heed his orders were insignificant, so they only acknowledge him with a nod of their head or a glance his way.

Robotnik much preferred that, people not bothering him with trivial things, and he intends on keeping it that way. He might be strict but he isn’t cruel; on breaks, the butlers and maids are allowed to wander the house, to talk to, laugh with and insult each other as freely as they want. If they ever had trouble with something that they, with their simple little minds, could not solve, they are free to call for assistance from Robotnik. He never liked it when he is called, but it doesn’t happen often.

Robotnik wanders his house another round, his mind thinking of new projects to occupy time or about the proposal a man made two nights before. Eventually, Robotnik returns to the garden. There aren’t as many as there were before, most of the couples having already left during his time away. Robotnik watches from the stairs as one of the women plucks a rose from his garden, giving it to her friend with a giggle. Robotnik narrows his eyes but doesn’t make a move to stop them. He may hate people disrespecting his property, but he has a reputation and a name to uphold, and public confrontations will not be a great front for him. If he wants any more dirt on people, he will need to be amiable.

“Doctor Robotnik,” one of the butlers spoke, his voice low and unhurried.

“What is it?” Robotnik spared the man an answer though light irritation sounded in his voice, his attention still on the ladies and gentlemen, observing as they gather and buzz around different flower bushes like bees and butterflies.

Robotnik tunes out the man immediately when he opens his mouth, telling him about the people of interest returning to the party in hopes of meeting him, of the supplies that had been delivered in preparations of the nights to come and the new bartenders that will be coming in the following night. Whatever else that he wanted Robotnik to pay attention to becomes words in the wind quickly.

Robotnik hums noncommittally and the butler leaves, granting him his peaceful solitude. Robotnik’s mind begins to wander again, back to his current personal problem and how he is supposed to solve it.

Loneliness is not an easy issue; one cannot simply drink the problem away as they please or put it in a box and forget it. It is a gnawing feeling that tugs at one’s heartstrings, not serious enough to be addressed but too difficult to resolve on one’s own. Robotnik finds himself with that same feeling, taking up most of his brain capacity when he lies awake on particularly quiet nights, staring up the empty ceiling and listening to the distant chirps of crickets and cicadas. It becomes a major hindrance as he often finds himself daydreaming about a partner, a friend, someone who would laugh alongside him with the same sincerity as the people of Washington, DC or other places would to their close friends and lovers.

Robotnik hates that he is feeling so. Why a genius such as himself need to bother with finding a companion picked out from the unwashed masses? Maybe because humans are social creatures and live in large communities, so the need for at least one companion, whether that companion is another human or an animal, they still want another being close while maintaining solitude. Robotnik thinks that is the main reason, and he doesn’t deny it himself.

The Doctor is snapped out of his thoughtful trance when the clinking of shoes passes by him; it was just a butler going about his duties around the estate, helping his co-workers move in the supplies, ingredients and materials. Robotnik follows the butler to the kitchen, the foods already planned out and about to be prepared. Robotnik wanders the kitchen, tasting each dish to see if they are good enough for the general public and moving on with other things.

He supervises the setting up of the décor, making sure there aren’t any incidents occurring during the furnishing. He uses his machines to get to the higher places of his home, adjusting the positions of each decoration, then signifying to the rest when he is pleased with its placement. There are a lot to adjust and fix, so Robotnik assists his employees with his machines. Again, he might be a strict man, but he isn’t cruel.

Robotnik returns to his room to prepare his attire for that night, laying out multiple choices on his bed and pondering about each option. He wants to give off a different air each night even if he doesn’t frequent the front yard, garden and main area as often, so choosing the appropriate outfit is of paramount importance to Robotnik.

When Robotnik settles for a maroon fit, trying it on in the mirror and nodding decisively. Tonight a new orchestra is coming, the previous one was terminated since Robotnik was not sure of their musical talent and competence. He still left a good word for them, hoping that somewhere, someone will accept their mediocrity. Robotnik has higher standards than the average person, he understands that, but he isn’t going to change any time in the near future.

When the preparations for the party is completed, Robotnik returns to his room, keeping to himself for the rest of the day until the night. Maybe he would take up the man’s proposal, but there would always be the need for conditions. Can’t have anyone taking advantage of him now.

~ ~ ~

The night is as vibrant as it is lively, and Robotnik is pleased with the amount of new faces flocking to his home-held parties. Men and ladies come and go as they please, most were attracted to the colorful enthusiasm of the party like moth to light, pulling their companions with them as they mingled in crowds. Champagne and wine pour endlessly, brightly colored cocktail glasses floated through the throng of people, being passed from one person to another, the content never seeming to be emptied.

The bar is mostly empty beside the more socially awkward sitting there, but they don’t look purposeless or alone. The chatters that came from that area was quiet and general, the bartenders half-listening to the loners as they worked their shifts. Robotnik squints, not recognizing a few bartenders’ faces. His memory jogs back to what that butler has told him earlier in the day, about the new employees coming in. Robotnik hums in acknowledgement to no one, sipping the deep red wine that swirls delicately in his glass.

On the buffet tables just to the sides, garnished stands of desserts and plates of baked hams crowded against plates of hors-d’oeuvres and salads of harlequin designs and diverse recipes. Robotnik watches unimpressed as they are emptied among the varying assortment of pastries and meat, his appetite non-existent. The plates are never seen emptied, always being replaced swiftly and rather hazardously by butlers and maids that wore dashing bright gowns of primary colors to blend in with the eye soring mix of people.

Twin girls in blue dresses skip into his yard, their arms intertwined with their boyfriends’ as they smile and giggle childishly. The girls separate with the boys, gliding through the sea of changing faces, enthusiastically engaging in conversations with women whose names they don’t even know. It is far past formality in Robotnik’s parties; people come for the contentment of their hearts nowadays, forgetting about their fears and worries as they rub shoulders with people of no identity. Only the people who knew Robotnik came for business, and even so, they don’t often see Robotnik and stop bothering to seek him out.

Robotnik smiles when he witnesses one of the boyfriends already mingling with another girl, her pearly teeth shining beneath red painted lips. Oh how sinful is the scene, but the silent pleasure Robotnik takes in watching people fumble with the consequences of their actions is ever delightful. The confrontations are always the central highlight when the night becomes brighter and rowdier.

Robotnik leans away from the railings of the balcony, the colorful lights flashing down below. Turning on his heels, Robotnik heads back into the confines of his home. Robotnik walks down the stairs as people pass him, none the wiser of the host. He watches from atop the double staircase at its central platform, the people that move elegantly among the whisperings and chatters of the night, holding one another torturously close and smiling half smiles of contentment. All so greedy, so naïve and awfully mundane, even in a lavish party like this.

The Doctor has long since acknowledged that he has pleasures and greed of his own, but none of them were as horrible as the ones he has picked up during these fancy gatherings. Throwing parties do have advantages after all, even if he still hates needless social interactions. Robotnik decides he should go down and greet some guests, though it wasn’t a thing he does often and these people should not be considered guests either. Guests are invited, but the people present come without invitation; the majority of them aren’t invited, not personally anyways.

Robotnik descends from the stairs, chatting up the first person he saw. A man that was younger than him by a few years, his complexion bright and fair. He is accompanied by his fiancée, a woman that came from a well-known family. She is a nepotism baby, that bit was clear, and her fiancée got engaged with her only due to her money judging by the way he compliments her and often mention about her family’s company. Robotnik only smiles and nods along, being the ever agreeable gentleman people view him as spare for his employees.

The man, Mr. Anthony as he introduced himself, invites Robotnik over to the bar, offering to get him a drink. How incredibly ill-mannered the man is, not enquiring more about his new party companion as Robotnik has. The Doctor accepts the invitation either way, trailing behind the couple with a neutral expression that neither showed contentment nor resentment. It is for the best that people don’t know what he is thinking, or feeling.

When they arrive at the bar, it is rather deserted and slightly messy spared for a few butlers bringing drinks to and from it, and the occasional couple that came stumbling in for more drinks. Robotnik takes a moment to gaze at his surroundings; most people are drunk - that much was obvious -, dancing and singing along with the orchestra like gypsies or students on graduation night. Robotnik bobs his head slightly to the jazzy tune though he cares not for the song being played; the blue cocktail jazz floats through the air, mingling with easy laughter and the elegant jostling of bodies. This orchestra is more competent than the last, and they put effort into making sure they don’t slip a note when people bump into them accidentally.

The Doctor perks up at the slightly muffled voice of his party companion, turning back to him with a false wondering expression. “What would you like, mister?” Mr. Forgot-his-name-already asked, already handing his lovely rich fiancée a tequila sunset.

Robotnik’s mustache twitches almost irritatingly at the addressment. He did not go through several years of constant academic and social pressure to earn 5 PhDs then suffer through a few more decades of people disregarding his skills and intellect just to be called ‘mister’. Robotnik just smiles stiffly - the man was clearly uneducated on that matter - and pretends to ponder his choices.

There is one person manning the bar - where did the other dimwits go? - and he is one of the new bartenders. He squints his eyes at the stains on the counter and wipes it away, the bar more or less presentable now. He is of darker complexion, a neat beard graced the lower half of his face and not a hair out of place, his eyes a deep brown and full brows that furrowed in concentration, but somehow still managing to look relaxed. Whenever the lights fall on him, the soft changing hues make his skin shine like caramel. His sleight of hand is adequate, carefully and skillfully mixing drinks and pouring them neatly into glasses to serve the drunken mass.

Robotnik nods in approval of this acceptable bartender, deciding he might as well have a chat with him to determine whether or not he is not just a pretty face. He waves Mr. Forgot-his-name-already away, excusing himself as being occupied by a business that came up suddenly. The man gives Robotnik an understanding look, leading his fiancée away with a hand on the small of her back, biding him farewell that barely made it above the roaring of music and chatter.

Robotnik taps the counter, the dull sound drowned out by the noises. He does not expect the man behind to notice, however the bartender perks up per his silent request, as if his ears have gotten so used to the music that it was just a passing wind by the moment. He eyes Robotnik, his hands wiping a cup and placing it back on the shelf of assorted drinks behind him.

The Doctor is not much of a drinker, he at least tolerates wine, so it takes him another moment to actually decide on what to drink. Robotnik settles on ordering a peach bellini and the bartender got right to it without a second word. Robotnik watches as he swiftly peels the peaches and blend them into soft puree. He carefully pours the puree into a champagne flute and adds the chilled prosecco, the cool smoke radiating off the glass bottle’s surface dissipating into the night sky. The dark-skinned bartender picks a small silver spoon with intricate designs on its handle, carefully mixing the cocktail until perfection. Fresh mint and slices of peach are placed as the finishing touches.

Robotnik takes the glass as it is given to him and sips the content tentatively, his brows furrowed skeptically. Sweet and savory is what Robotnik thinks of once the flavor hits his tongue. He sighs through his nose, blowing the white bubbles at the top of the glass, face falling from its usual resting scowl to something softer and more relaxed. This is simply one of the best drinks he’s had that was made by someone else he doesn’t know and care for. How bizarre that information is.

Where did the wine glass he was holding moments before go, anyway? Doesn’t matter.

Robotnik drinks the cocktail slowly to savor the taste though the contents are draining quickly without knowledge. Before he knows it, the glass is empty besides for the bubbles that was left behind and he is out of breath; Robotnik parts with the rim of the flute, sucking in lungful of air that is long tainted by the lingering smell of expensive alcohol, cologne and perfume. Robotnik’s face wrinkles momentarily at the shift before he schools his expression, glancing back up to the bartender. The man has been seemingly watch him drink it with odd fascination, his eyes shimmering in the light and mouth straight as a line. How peculiar.

“What?” Robotnik felt like enquiring, his voice clipped as he slides the glass back to the bartender. The strange man takes it and wipes it down with a damp cloth, his mouth quirking into a small smile. Robotnik cocks an eyebrow with an unimpressed expression, observing his outward behavior and replaying the moment before in his head to determine what it was that he’s done to amuse this nobody bartender.

“Excuse me, sir,” the bartender apologized and begins handing Robotnik another peach bellini unsolicited, this time in a coupe with no peach slices, and instead garnished with a sugary rim. Robotnik takes the glass regardless, this time without downing it all within a minute or less. The second time around is still as pleasant as the first, so Robotnik relinquishes the glass to further indulge in the drink. Robotnik might not be fond of alcohol, but maybe he would it give a try times again if this is what it will be like on every occasion.

The night stretches on, Robotnik stays glued to the bar and only talking with people that come within his vicinity, his voice ever so cheerful to please his conversational buddy. Regarding the topics of these conversations, they are general and horribly mind-numbing, but they luckily never last long. None of them possessed the knowledge of who he is and doesn’t bother asking, but that is just swell for Robotnik as he can avoid having to make another forgettable acquaintance. It still irritates the Doctor to no end when they addressed him as ‘mister’; couldn’t a simple ‘sir’ suffice for these brainless people?

The bartender whose name he hadn’t bothered asking continues to hand him his unasked-for cocktails, one after another, all of varying recipes and colors. He seems to have picked up on the fact that the Doctor is not much of an alcohol enthusiast, so all the drinks he is handed have relatively low alcohol content. The peach bellini is easily one of the best as it was the first adequate drink he’s had in a while, but there were strong competitors like the Piña Colada, Sex on the beach - who the fuck named this? -, and the Tonic Rickey - a mocktail, but that was alright. Two of his likely all-time favorites, however, are the vodka espresso and the Irish coffee.

The bitterness of alcohol and espresso mixed together - for the Irish coffee, the velvety and sweet layer of cream on top smoothing and addicting – makes his night ever the more enjoyable. Robotnik cannot stretch how much he favors caffeinated drinks, but despite being a genius, he can never work the machine and make himself a good cup; the taste is always burnt and the smell is less than pleasing. It was a failure, an insecurity, but no one has to know about it. Robotnik will surely remember the bartender for this, maybe even give him a raise for such refreshing beverages if he manages to keep the image of his face in mind with the numbing of alcohol.

The party carries on throughout the night; Robotnik is tingly and floaty considering the amount of alcohol he’s consumed in such a short amount of time, his frown still present though relaxed. The Doctor looks up to the night sky, the stars twinkling dimly, hardly able to compete with the lights of the surface’s festivity. Robotnik leans his elbows onto the counter behind him, the warmth radiating off him making it rather uncomfortable under the layers that hugged him. Hours pass but in the Doctor’s drunken state, only a moment of time has gone by. Fortunately, the bartender has stopped handing him alcohol, and rather gives him a cold glass of water. The crowd changes, never staying the same as the night grows old and some people begin departing, though laughter is easier by the hour.

The bartender works his shift diligently, staying only an arm’s length away from the Doctor until the barest of sunlight pierced the dark clouds. Robotnik leans away from the counter, his suit slightly soiled and excruciatingly suffocating as he makes his way back into his estate. He doesn’t bother with the people that pushed each other around, pulling at shoulders and sleeves as they leave the party, some in single file, others in swarms.

His professionalism persists despite the internal battle of soberness that rages on within his body. The Doctor reaches his room with minimal contact with the party goers, and after locking the door, doesn’t waste another moment to begin stripping, impatient with the smothering intoxication that had built up within the confinement of his suit.

Robotnik sighs contently when he is freed from the fabric cage, the untouched coolness of the room raising goosebumps on the wide expanse of pale freckled skin. Robotnik pads to his closet, his eyes drooping slightly with drowsiness, the alcohol working its soon-to-be-horrible effect in his body. He is not a man of a good sleeping schedule, but thanks to the intoxicants he’s consumed, the bed has never looked more comfortable and inviting.

The drunken genius falls onto his bed, the plush mattress and pillows breaking his fall. Soft snoring fills the dark room, Robotnik uncaring of the things that go on around him. He stays sleeping, uninterrupted by dreams or thoughts - for the first time in a while - as the sun continues its ascend, slowly but surely until the roofs of houses and billboards cannot stop its honeyed rays of lights.

~ ~ ~

Robotnik does not get out of bed in the morning despite the sunlight sneaking through the curtains, opting to stay in and try to get back to the blissfully deep and empty sleep that he’s gotten yesternight. People might be wondering where he went - those who knows him, at least - but he knew that they will not attempt to look for him or even request of his appearance.

The headache that slowly makes itself known throughout the morning keeps getting worse and Robotnik wonders when was the last time he’d gotten hungover. Throwing on the most decent outfit he bothered finding, the genius makes his way down the flight of stairs and into the kitchen area; it is unlike the one used for meal preparation for the parties, but rather just your standard kitchen with all the kitchenware and equipment.

Robotnik finds that some maids and butlers are hanging around, presumably taking their time to start the day. He ignores them as he has little to no energy to put up with their shenanigans. If they slack off, he would know and their pay would get docked, that is all there is to these simpletons. Unless it was a betrayal, but that has only happened a handful of times in the past, no one dares to go against him anymore.

Robotnik makes himself coffee, waiting by the electric percolator as it boils the water, the invisible steam warming the counter and his forearm. Despite knowing exactly how it works, the coffee is bitter, sort of burnt and nowhere near perfection or his preferences, but he swallows the black liquid he made without so much as a complaint or a further frown. Who is there to complain to, either way? It is of his own incompetence that he doesn’t have the ability to make a half-decent cup of coffee. Robotnik glances sideways as he parts from his cup, watching as some of his employees begin to leave the area to carry out their daily tasks and makes preparations for the night.

A familiar face appears among them, but Robotnik can’t bring himself to bother. He turns to the stove, makes himself a simple breakfast and sits at the dining table, slowly chomping down on his breakfast; butlers and maids pass him as well as the familiar person, none acknowledging him in the way that is annoying. Robotnik finishes with his food and cleans his dish, the headache persisting but tamed.

The day goes by like a flash, Robotnik barely paying attention to anything but his work. Once the commission is finished, Robotnik takes it and leaves to their designated location. Robotnik hates having to leave his house for long periods of time, no less drive far away from it, but if he wants the money that is compensation for his hard work, he would just have to let some things go.

The interaction went fine besides the price negotiation – apparently someone could not hold up his end of the bargain, a bargain Robotnik oh so willingly accepted despite it not being beneficial for himself and only his buyer. In the end, Robotnik got what he wanted and departed without so much of a “It was a pleasure doing business with you” or a farewell. He understood well that that man would not be involving himself with Robotnik again after that interaction, but the Doctor made sure that if he wanted to sabotage him and his business, whatever incriminating information of that affair he has in New York or of his embezzling his company funds will surely not be kept in the dark much longer.

Robotnik arrives home to the scent of coffee wafting through the estate. The scent is warm and welcoming, a hint of something sweeter to calm the dark bitterness. He is immediately drawn to it, his shoes clinking incessantly as he hastily makes his way back into the kitchen. The smell lingers but no one is there save for one displaced spoon in the sink; Robotnik stands staring at the percolator like a dumb-founded idiot.

His mind ponders about the person that was making their coffee. There are many here that drinks coffee, himself included; Robotnik has been more or less present for every single time they did it but never once had it produced such an alluring smell. Robotnik frowns more at himself than the situation. He does not know who it was, and if there is one thing he hates more than humanity is not knowing; information holds the key to everything, without it Robotnik cannot determine his goals and succeed.

Whoever this is Robotnik has to keep a look out.

The genius doesn’t linger further on the subject, his mind letting it go easily as he has other important matters to focus on. The day passes by and night time comes, Robotnik present for the festivity but doesn’t join it below. He sips on his wine, eyes drawing lazily over the crowd beneath his balcony. The butlers and maids were told in advance that they are allowed to slack off, to enjoy the party as everyone else it; they are doing exactly that, gladness washing over their poker faces as they are let off the hook by their strict boss.

Robotnik dwells on personal matters, letting his mind get carried away by the brisk evening wind. Companion, a friend, someone that actually cares for Robotnik like everyone else caring for their beloved ones; for the majority of his life, Robotnik lived in solitude with minimal contacts with acquaintances. Robotnik had tried to act more likable, often going against his own ruleset to please people.

He hated those days, hated his younger self for being so desperate for validation and companion, and he still does to some degree. Unfortunately, that desperation stayed with him but has mellowed down to a distant longing, a raging forest fire that has died down to an ember.

The one time he managed to get himself a friend was in his junior year in university; they had been close, gone out with each other a few times and every once in a while Robotnik would buy him a gift. It had been nice while it last, having someone who was willing to put up with him for an extended period of time. Robotnik found on that the platonic affection had been deceitful, just something to lower his defenses. Robotnik is forever glad that he had gotten out of the predicament in time, and had wondered what he was planning to do.

Whatever it was, it wasn’t worth his time to recall it; the betrayal committed in cold blood, the distant memories of the bitter past making it worst and unpleasant to remember. Robotnik downs the rest of his wine, his head tips back to accommodate the running liquid. Robotnik sighs as he returns to looking down at the sea of drunkards, couples and friends alike; a sigh escapes him, fogging up slightly in the night’s cool air.

Robotnik retires to his room for an early night, discarding his wine glass by the table near the balcony. He changes into something more comfortable to sleep in, loose black pants and a breathable shirt to match. Robotnik crawls into bed and lays on his back, staring up at the ceiling as he usually would.

A companion. A friend, someone close to him; the relationship doesn’t have to last years, it could last for a few months for all he cares, but the feelings involved must be genuine. That is all he asks for; he and this imaginary friend may have arguments, they could even fight and physically harm each other, but the feelings involved in their friendship has to authentic, legitimate, real.

The genius turns onto his side, muffling the noises of the party outside by his thoughts alone. Robotnik doesn’t want to think about his longing anymore, he wishes he never has to think about it again, but it occupies his mind whenever it is quiet, when equations, personal projects and commissions aren’t bouncing around in there.

Robotnik lets the white noise lull him to the sleep, trying to block out his childish craving for someone beside him, someone to love him as they love their friends, their family, their life. Robotnik doesn’t think he would ever stop hating this part of him, the part that acknowledges his solitude and isolation.

Chapter Text

I was never looking for her
Till I found her
Now I find her everywhere
She's always there
See her in my morning coffee
Glaring at me
Through glassy surface there
The way she stares

Robotnik sits quietly in a group of three girls and four men all talking animatedly in a corner of the party. The ugly scent of alcohol and flora danced in the air, causing Robotnik to wrinkle his nose ever now and then. He has since long forgotten the men’s name, settling to refer all of them to as ‘sir’, ‘gents’ or ‘mister’ while gesturing a hand in their general direction. The Doctor is not keen on formality with others, but for the sake of image he will put up with it. How double standard it is for Robotnik to expect formality towards himself and disregard it when it comes to others; Robotnik entertains the thought sarcastically.

Two of the three girls, Lucille and Lucy, are talking rather haughtily about Lucy’s late husband. Robotnik appreciates a good gossip every now and then, but the attitude in which Lucy talks about her having a part in his will with such voice he can only describes as a shrill makes the Doctor grimace internally. Lucille, either a friend or sister, cheers Lucy on and gives agreeing statements to all the horrible things she says about the deceased man that might or might not turn out to be false.

It is understandable to be frustrated to not be involved in the will and inherit the property one think they rightfully deserves, but it is another problem to be screaming all the unconfirmed dreadful things of the deceased testator to a group of untrustworthy strangers with a voice that sounds like a hysteric’s or a whistle.

Robotnik sighs into his wine glass, enjoying the gossip but hating the gossiper, taking a half-ass sip of the gradually warming liquid. The bar is crowded with people once more, this time by a large group of close friends, all cheering two people on to down their drinks. He isn’t able to spot the bartender behind the counter due to the gathering. Either they are there or slacking off thanks to the ever growing festivity. Robotnik is counting on them being present, and if he is wrong, they will pay for it.

One of the men raises his hand out of the blue, drawing attention to himself as well as interrupting Lucy’s rant about how her husband was cheating on her and has a mistress in Brooklyn who was involved in the will. The girls and men turn towards him, their head crowding the table’s center instinctively to better hear him. He bends along with them, his mouth hidden almost completely under his mustache, his volume just half an octave higher, “Have any of you ever met Doctor Robotnik?” His voice carries across the table, but to the clamoring cheerfulness of the party, it is but a hushed whisper.

The man in questions perks up at the mention of his name, thrown off guard by the sudden nature of the question. What does this man want to know about him? Why is he asking these unknowing people about him? There has to be some kind of ulterior motives here, or this man is naïve enough to think people would talk freely about Robotnik.

The other girl beside Lucille tilts her head in a childish way to express her eagerness to hearing the reason behind the inquiry, while the two girls quietly fuss about it to each other. Robotnik doesn’t say anything, playing with the forgotten liquid in his glass as he observes them, his face scrunched up as if in deep thought.

“I heard a few things about him, heard he’s a man that doesn’t want trouble.” Said the older lady beside Lucille, placing her chin on her hand with a small smile on her lips, as if she is thinking of a mischievous plan. Robotnik glances at the woman skeptically, trying to recall her face from anywhere. The answer is no.

“You should think? I heard he’s killed people that had worked with him.” Stated Mr. Raised-his-hand-and-interrupted-a-good-gossip; he sounds assertive of his yet to be denied statement, eyes darting around as a thrill passes through all the table occupants, all except for Robotnik.

The older woman looks taken aback by the statement, her proud smile fading and brows knitted in concern and curiosity. Lucy and Lucille begin muttering amongst themselves, their hysterical gestures stifling the whispering of voices. The Doctor grunts in acknowledgement; the minor sound being passed for the winds and noises of people near them.

“That sounds horrible, why would he do such a thing?” Lucille exclaimed quietly, her voice tinged with concern and fear. Lucy shows her approval by the bobbing of her head, glancing cautiously around her as if watching out for the host, completely unaware that he is seated in the same table as her. Robotnik would laugh if it isn’t for the topic that is currently being discussed and the slow building tension.

“I knew a man that knew all about Robotnik. He’d said that the man had been a German spy, that is until around the end of the war,” Another man spoke up right beside Mr. Raised-his-hand-and-interrupted-a-good-gossip. The third man nods along with the statement, showing acknowledgment rather than agreement.

Robotnik has heard his fair share of false rumors about himself from the mouths of others, but this takes the cake. To say he kills or double-cross people during the war is untrue, but not entirely false. He has made it clear to people in association with him that they worked things his way as per agreed to on the contract, and the consequences that follows insubordination are dire. But to end their lives is quite a far stretch.

“What happened to your associate? You stated you ‘knew’ him.” Robotnik asked, feigning concern but the curiosity is there, eager to know the identity of this man.

The man that is being addressed doesn’t answer, his face a bit grim and skeptical, but an easy dismissing smile breaks through it. Robotnik nods, his own smile barely visible; he darts his eyes away, staring at somewhere far, uninteresting and at nothing in specific.

Eventually they move on from the disturbing topic and things get boring once more; Robotnik leaves the table, bidding farewell to his uninteresting and forgettable companion. Now with no one he finds interesting enough to engage in conversation with despite standing in the middle of a sea of ever changing faces, Robotnik saunters to the bar where the group of friends is slowly dissipating; girls who see men that catch their interest and boys who want to prove themselves to the world gradually part from their little group.

Three of his employees - two faces he recognized and one familiar to a degree - tend to the bar, wiping glasses and pouring drinks for the uninvited party goers; Robotnik was right after all, how lucky for them. He sits down at one of the unoccupied stools, careful to not position himself to close to the still ongoing drinking contest beside him.

Robotnik observes the contest for a moment or two, taking time to examine the people. This time they have boosted it to three competitors, two guys and a girl. They are drinking quite vigorously, the bartender closest to them pouring an almost endless supply of whiskey shots. The bronze liquid glistens in the light, the few condensed droplets of water falling onto the counter top, mixing with the spilled whiskey prior. Beads of sweat gather at each participant’s brow, sliding down their temple in one clean route before dropping onto the nearest surface they are able to find. Their smiles stretch wide with entertainment from their friends’ little drinking match, laughter boisterously loud in the louder party.

The girls’ evening gowns were stained and bunched up, some wearing outfits more revealing than the rest as they continue their constant but dying cheers and whoops of encouragement. Robotnik thinks he’s had enough of the crowd, turning to face the people behind the bar and crossing his legs. One of the bartenders he knew approached him, whipping up for him a gin and tonic as he usually has during these parties.

Robotnik takes the highball glass, not bothering to thank them as he takes a swing of the clear-opaque liquid. The taste is almost dulled out due to the many times Robotnik has drunk it, making the drink less slightly enjoyable but still acceptable. The party goes on without Robotnik who is still turning the information over and over in his head about the rumors of him killing his associates, or people in general.

“Having an alright time, sir?” A voice pierced through the noises and his trance, making him lift his head up to look at the person, his resting frown increasing minutely. It was a rhetorical question, Robotnik concluded, not bothering to answer it.

A familiar bearded face smiles at him, pushing over a warmed mug filled to the brim with the dark, bitter-scented Irish coffee. Robotnik accepts the drink, wondering exactly what is the man’s motive for offering him one of his now-favorite alcoholic and caffeinated drink unknowingly. Robotnik picks up the mug and takes a sip from it, the muscles in his face relaxing, letting out an appreciative sigh as the warm coffee travels down his esophagus.

Robotnik leans back slightly as he places the mug down, licking his upper lip clean of the soothing cream that has gotten stuck; the Doctor wipes his mustache clean of any traces of the cream as well, but if none had gotten on it, the gesture is there just to be safe. Despite the calmness the drink has brought him, the cogs in the Doctor’s mind is still turning, trying to recall where he has seen the man and exactly why he is being so unknowingly kind towards him. Does this employee not know of his attitude towards others like him?

As if a light has been turned on in a dark room, Robotnik eyes snap open to the memory of spending an entire night by the bar. Robotnik has received many drinks made by the man throughout the night, starting with a peach bellini and delving into other alternatives, all unasked but given in an almost friendly and carefree manner. Robotnik takes another sip of the coffee, eyeing the familiar bearded bartender as he works his shift as usual, brows knitted together in something akin frustration as he pours another six shots for the drinking group.

Robotnik thinks for a moment, evaluating the decisions in his mind as he watches the man interact with his co-workers. Being close enough to listen and having the ability to drown out every noises around him to focus, the genius is able to pick up a few sentences from the conversation that they were having despite having never paid attention to his employees’ side talks and casual asides, mostly just giving mind to the context of the conversation.

Robotnik gets bored half-way through of them discussing their routine, finding time when they are simultaneously available so that they may go hang out somewhere. Turning back to his Irish coffee, Robotnik relish once more in its bittersweet simplicity while reading the labels of each bottle on the shelf as a quick pass time.

The bearded man comes back around where Robotnik is sitting, settling his cloth down on the shelf behind him. He is watching Robotnik drink again, for some reason, an easy smile plastered on his face. “You haven’t answered my question,” the man quipped with a playful grin, referring back to the question he asked moments ago.

“That question was rhetorical, and by definition, it is asked to make a point or make a dramatic effect rather than to get a proper answer.” Robotnik replied with a flat tone, his face a deadpan expression.

The bartender chuckles easily, seemingly amused by the answer the Doctor has given him. Robotnik raises his brow, more or less intrigued by the reaction; no matter if the person knows him or not, whenever he replies with something akin to the previous answer, they show disinterest in engaging in further conversation with him. This man, however, finds his unseemly remark entertaining, his laugh inoffensive.

“I suppose not a very alright time, then?” The man asked once more, pulling back a strand of hair and that has fallen out of his neatly made bun, tucking it behind his ear tentatively to make sure it doesn’t slip.

Robotnik shrugs, not really knowing himself if he is enjoying the party he set up and the people. The bartender nods in understanding, opting to hand Robotnik a glass of iced water; the Doctor faintly remembers dragging himself back to his room drunk, only sober enough to not lash out at anyone in his vicinity; he takes the glass, not wanting to end up like last time and acknowledging the sentiment behind it. The bartender smiles once more and leaves to tend to his work, helping the others prepare drinks that are to be brought out by the butlers.

The genius stays at the bar, leisurely enjoying his coffee while watching a small commotion break out not far away. It seems there has been a bit of a misunderstanding as a woman starts shouting at the top of her lungs about her cheating spouse. The man denies the allegation, placing a hand on his wife’s shoulder while whispering to her muted, presumably comforting words in hopes of persuading her to calm down. It doesn’t resolve so and soon the couple storms out of the party in tears and worry. Robotnik smiles amusedly behind his mug; a good argument between couples is always a good start or end to a party, in his opinion.

Robotnik ends his night short after he finishes the drink, pushing the cooled empty mug further onto the counter so it would not be knocked off by the fumbling intoxicated idiots; he takes one last sip from the warming glass of water and leaves. It takes a bit of struggle trying to get through the main area without having a girl or two asking him to be her company for the remainder of the party. Robotnik, as politely as he could muster up, denies their advances and moves quickly, hoping to get back to his room without another encounter.

He does, luckily, get back without having to talk to another person regardless of their gender. The genius sighs, slumping against his door while he stares off to a distance in the dimly lit room. These parties are entertaining, something new in his repetitive routine, but at times they are predictable and the people he meets are never as interesting as he hopes they’d be; as he’s stated before, despite coming and becoming one with the festivity of such a lavish party, everyone is still awfully mundane, only ever once in a while does Robotnik encounter an interesting conversation like the one not long before.

At least the bartender lightens up his night by a little with his peculiar attitude. Robotnik doesn’t sleep for the entirety of the night, working mainly on his sketches and plans for renovation to his estate and machines, making sure of every little detail and to makes plans for correcting possible flaws. When Robotnik gets stuck at a dead end with those, he turns to working on the commissions; he doesn’t hate working on commission but he doesn’t like them either, it is similar to doing one’s homework when all one wants to do is sit around and do their own things.

Robotnik couldn’t care less than he already does, opting to work with the simplicity of getting his rightfully earned payment instead of focusing on how the people perceive or acted around him or make annoyingly basic comments about his creation. It seems to do its work, Robotnik’s ever working mind drowning the sounds of music and people, ignoring the tapping of rain on his window and the light that illuminated and warmed a part of his room.

~ ~ ~

Staying up all the way through the night without a single drop of water or a morsel of food after drinking alcoholic beverages isn’t the best kind of all-nighter, but Robotnik can manage a few less hours of sleep as long as he doesn’t start hallucinating and his anxiety levels aren’t through the roof.

Robotnik is groggy early the morning after, as anticipated; his eye bags more prominent and hair tousled, some strands sticking up in weird directions as if he had conducted an experiment with static by rubbing something vigorously on his head. Robotnik yawns loudly, fairly concerned about his image though nobody would want to bother him with questions about his unusual morning appearance.

Still wanting to retain some dignity, Robotnik pads to his bathroom, carding his finger through his hair, effectively smoothing out the unruly curls and knots, fixing his mustache in the process so that he may look half presentable but not necessarily formal or uptight. Once he deems his appearance acceptable, Robotnik wanders out of the bathroom and down the flight of stairs.

A simple glance outside the window is more than enough to tell the genius that some people had stayed overnight and had guest rooms provided for them; the women and girls look refreshed and energized, the men don’t look half bad themselves, some in casual outing attire. Looking down at his own attire, Robotnik realizes belatedly that he is still in his suit from the day before; his tie is crooked and waistcoat wrinkled from hunching over his work desk, the material is slightly dampened all over. Though it kind of grossed him out, the situation with his clothes isn’t dire and so Robotnik settles for smoothing his hand over the fabric for now, ignoring the rest until after he’s had breakfast.

On his way into the kitchen, Robotnik passes multiple butlers going to and fro from the back kitchen to the garden, likely trying to accommodate the guests’ thirst and hunger. He wonders, briefly, why those dimwits don’t go out and get their own breakfast instead of ordering his employees around like they own the place.

Once the genius arrives at the kitchen, the smell of coffee hits him like a sledgehammer; Robotnik has to take a moment to actually process the scent, his tired mind still trying to catch up to his current state due to the lack of sleep. It has been nearly three weeks since Robotnik smelled that aromatic scent, making Robotnik really wonder on the identity of this coffee drinker, if they were part of his staff or just a passing face.

He directs his eyes to the electric coffee percolator, the whirring of mechanics still working to infuse the boiling water with the grounded beans, giving the liquid its rich coffee taste. One of his employees, the peculiar bartender from yesternight, stands towering over the machine, his attention absorbed in making sure the black liquid doesn’t overflow as he pours it into his mug, simultaneously occupied with whisking the milk steaming in the saucepan, ensuring that it doesn’t burn. His hair is more or less unkempt, the black locks falling down and resting on his shoulders.

Robotnik eyes him skeptically, slowly approaching until he is standing by his side, eyes trained on the way his hand moves to pour the milk and create an art above the coffee he’s just made. The man glances sideways and catches Robotnik’s eyes. There is no urgency in them, no fear or anticipation, just slow recognition. He smiles, bending at the wrist as he raises his hand for an awkward wave, greeting Robotnik as if he isn’t his boss and just a friendly acquaintance.

“Hello, sir.” The bartender said, his voice levelled and casual like he might disturb the morning peace by talking too loudly.

Robotnik sniffs, not entirely sure if he should be greeting his employee so casually. This one, he is new and haven’t been able to meet Robotnik in person. Or as in person as his co-workers have instead of meeting at the bar in crowded, sweat-filled parties with casual flings happening on one side and relationship confrontations on the other. If anything, this man probably thinks Robotnik is one of the other guests staying inside and wandering about, which is slightly insulting to think about but nonetheless a possibility.

The bartender doesn’t bother with trivial small talks as he gets back to his coffee, raising the mug to his lips to take a careful sip of the still steaming drink. Robotnik is half tempted to request that he makes another cup similar to his, but he decides against it and focuses on making his breakfast. The genius knows he is not adept in socializing as he likes to be, opting for people to start talking first before he gives his own opinions; most times when he does begin, the majority of the conversation would be filled with sly and witty remarks, some jokes fouler and more vulgar than the rest, all to piss of the person that has the displeasure of putting up with him.

A butler passes them, stilling for a brief moment when he lays eyes on Robotnik standing in a close vicinity to the bartender, his brows knitted together. Luckily, the butler doesn’t have to approach as his co-worker turns his back to leave the kitchen. Robotnik watches from the corner of his eyes as the butler starts a casual conversation with the bartender before getting to the main point: Doctor Robotnik.

For a moment, the bartender just listens with a stiff posture; Robotnik is not sure of the emotions passing on his face as he’s got his back turned towards him, but he waits for another moment or two until they are finished talking to see it. Robotnik sees the point when the conversation is coming to an end, the bartender nodding his head slightly while the butler keeps glancing behind him to Robotnik.

However, instead of turning back to apologize for his insubordination, the bartender just walks off after saying a few simple words that Robotnik was not able to catch. The makes the butler rather worried so he follows his co-worker, trying to talk sense into his head about the anticipated onslaught of insults for their mediocre performance and disrespectful attitude.

Observant eyes follow the unnamed bartender’s strides as he disappears into the corridor that leads to the garden, his co-worker following him close behind with an exasperated expression. Robotnik chuckles lightly, finding the begrudging respect his employees have for him amusing, pairing that up with the odd concern for their new co-worker. As far as Robotnik remembers, none of his older employees had ever cared that much for the newer ones, only warning them of the rules and instructing them on what to do; if they are ridiculed by him, they would just give them advices or warn them not to do so again. It is only after a while do they get along and actually look out for one another; still odd either way.

Robotnik pushes the thought aside as it isn’t an important matter and how people interact with one another is not something he should worry about. Robotnik eats his breakfast in silence, the quiet murmurs and giggles the only sound that came from the property, more specifically outside. He looks out to the garden once more, watching as the people from yesternight seemingly have taken interest in some of his employees, inviting them over for pointless conversation.

The Doctor leaves to his room, taking a moment to look over his sketches before heading to the bathroom to change out of his dirty attire and change into something much less grimy and more pleasant. Robotnik sheds the layers one by one, throwing them into the hamper with accurate aim but rather carelessly. For a moment of silence and uncomfortable bareness, he stares at himself in the mirror, the visage of him staring back with equal unease and spite.

Robotnik acknowledges that some find him attractive in appearance, at least by conventional standards, but the genius does not wholly believe so; he does not entirely possess a good self-esteem. Robotnik can be seen often boasting of his skills, most times about how he is always right and that shows people something, it shows people that he loves himself to a degree. Regarding his intelligence, Robotnik has nothing but great things to say about it. Robotnik is often dismissive, however, when it comes to appearance.

He finds himself feeling undesirable to every possible gender in the world, sometimes at the most inconvenient times of the day; pale complexion and gangly limbs, dark bags under his eyes prominent due to the lack of a proper sleep schedule and his attitude towards others aren’t exactly kind. It is, by his knowledge, that people desires those that fits into simple standards that is expected of most people - kind, smart, tall, attractive, affectionate, et cetera - and he doesn’t quite fit into that mold. One may be a genius but it does not imply that they can eradicate their insecurities by means of science.

Robotnik tears his eyes and attention away from the mirror, throwing on his clothes hastily so that he can go about his morning. The Doctor fixes his turtle neck, making sure the neck is not strangling him or itching the skin at his throat. Once pleased, Robotnik takes off to the garden, strolling past the guests and employees until he reaches his usual seating area.

The genius is surprised to find a steaming coffee mug at the table, set on a coaster that he is sure hasn’t been there before. It sits beside a quarter plate, on it a small slice of red velvet cake decorated with cake crumbs and a tiny chocolate-dipped wafer. A pastry fork, a simple yet intricate design that stretches down to mid-handle, laid beside the plate wrapped in a pristine white napkin.

The set-up looks innocent and almost adoring or affectionate, but Robotnik eyes it like he can smell the stink of poison off of it; it is a bit of a stretch, but despite having the best house security system he knows of, that doesn’t stop people from the inside from trying to eliminate him. Against his best judgements - and perhaps the alcohol after affects might still be in play - the genius sits down beside the display and takes the coffee mug, bringing the delicate porcelain to his lips to have a taste of the coffee that he has yet to determine tolerable. He half expected himself to start choking or foaming, but instead finds his tense muscles going lax slightly, leaning involuntarily into the backrest of his chair.

The coffee, a latte it seems, is better than all the coffee he’s had the displeasure of consuming before. Though whole milk does not entirely fit into his preferences, but he has never really explored his coffee preferences, consuming whatever he deems acceptable and doesn’t spit out immediately. Robotnik parts from the rim of the mug, takes a brief moment to look at the warm liquid slosh around in its porcelain boundary, and dives into for second longer sip.

While still enjoying his beverage, the Doctor motions one of the butlers to him with the intention of enquiring him about this little display. One of them approaches, his shoes sounding against the stone path that winded through the garden. He leans forward slightly, attentive with anticipation as if Robotnik is about to scold him for something he has no knowledge of doing.

“You don’t happen to know who set this out, do you?” Robotnik asked with the faux politeness well known to every employee in the estate.

The man takes a moment to examine the coffee mug that Robotnik held in his hand, the cake and fork that laid untouched on the table. He looks at the display for a long moment, brows knitted together in the middle as if he fails to understand, then it soothes with eventual clarity tinged with confusion. Without saying a word or making a noise, the butler jabs a thumb towards a group of ladies that is currently being entertained by a dark-skinned man, a charismatic smile plasters on his face.

Robotnik looks closely at the man, watching as he engages in whatever conversation the ladies have dragged him into, being quite well-mannered and keeping his voice soft and unassuming. Robotnik thinks it is actually getting concerning that this man is making more and more appearances and affecting his life, considering that he is fundamentally just his employee and a nobody bartender - despite the genius’s opinions on his exceptional skills and drinks.

The butler turns leave upon sensing that his presence is no longer needed, murmuring to the rest of his co-workers that happens to be around at the moment. Robotnik watches the man for the majority of his morning, taking occasional sips of the coffee that has gotten cold and bites of the sweet cake that laid untouched for the first few minutes. For a man that has only been here for nearly a month’s time, he is getting along exceptionally well with the guests and his co-workers, as well as Robotnik; it is as if he was already familiar with the working etiquette prior his job.

Robotnik gets up from his seat and strides towards the bartender currently occupied with keeping his guests entertained, leaving the plate and mug on the table for the rest to clean up. The moment Robotnik comes within his field of vision, the man stops talking almost immediately, stepping away from the women to give space for Robotnik to walk past or stand. The Doctor glances side-ways at the man while he turns to face his guests; this man has treated Robotnik as an acquaintance unknowingly that he was speaking to his employer. It seems that the conversation with his co-worker in the kitchen has changed his attitude.

Robotnik was about to scoff internally until a second glance tells him otherwise: the dark-skinned bartender is still smiling, his eyes soft and seemingly focused only on Robotnik as if he is looking at a close friend who has just gotten better after an accident that made them bedbound. That sparks a light in Robotnik, and not the good type of spark either. Is he being bold? Does he think just because Robotnik was nice to him for the past weeks during parties, hanging out at the bar and accepting drinks that it makes him his friend now?

Robotnik is still unsure about that hypothesis, but it does seem a likely possibility. As Robotnik converse with his guests, trying his very best to be polite and cheerful when he gives his answers and asks questions; all the while, the butler-bartender stands close, speaking when spoken to, laughing politely as a way to discreetly dismiss questions or statements. The Doctor’s attention is divided between appearing pleasing to his guests and closely examining and picking apart the man’s attitude.   

When Robotnik takes his leave, he bids farewell to his kindly ladies and gentlemen guests, dragging the unnamed bartender with him in the guise of wanting to have a “friendly and private” conversation. Once safely within the confines of his home, Robotnik’s gentle expression fell, a foul scowl in its stead as he crowds the man’s space. The bartender holds his gaze, taking slow steps backwards until his back hit the wall.

“I do not know what you are trying to get at,” Robotnik started, his voice low and each word punctuated with anger, his brows knitted together in frustration and eyes slightly squinted at the man.

“Stone.” He said with one quick breath, interrupting Robotnik’s scolding. The Doctor stops briefly, processing the man’s - Stone’s - name.

“Stone,” Robotnik repeated with bite, and to his surprise, Stone gives him the smallest hint of a smile playing at his lips, “but if you think handing me a few drinks with a smile will make us ‘friends’, then you need to readjust your attitude and thoughts. From now on, you will address me as ‘Doctor’, and if you fail to heed my orders, I will make sure you compensate for it.”

It is meant to be a threat, a warning of what he should expect if he keeps up his insubordination and playful attitude, but Stone only nods, his face neutral and eyes trained on Robotnik. The Doctor huffs, leaving Stone pinned against the wall in the corridor as he walks further into the house, the figure of the man disappearing behind the wall that separate the areas of the house.

From outside, the butlers assist each other in bringing crates of fresh lemons and oranges, peaches and apples from fruiterers in New York and California. They were talking quite lively with each other, smiling faces with soft laughter like the breeze whenever one of them cracked a joke. Robotnik passes by the sidelights, glancing outside to observe his employees for a brief moment. Clearly companion meant everything during this day and age, especially since the Great Depression started; to have a shoulder to cry on, to have comforting words murmured to oneself, to have the warmth of another beside oneself during slumber, it is the minimal obligation anyone would ask for.

The genius returns inside the house, making a bee line for his workshop, hidden in plain view with little to no one besides himself having access to it. Once he enters the dimly lit room, Robotnik sighs a relieved breath, feeling belonged in the one place of his entire house that no one has the knowledge to aside from his sleeping quarters. For the remainder of daytime, Robotnik stays cooped up in the workshop, soldering metal parts together and adding additional adjustments to his personal projects and some commissions.

~ ~ ~

Robotnik observes Stone from his spot in one corner of the garden, the man opposite to him going on about some deal, trying his best to make the terms and conditions appealing to the stubborn Doctor. He predicted it must have been rigged with how much benefits the man is spewing, the contract laying untouched before him with the signature line staring at him with its non-existent eyes.

Stone is none the wiser about his employer’s intense gaze, making drinks of alluring aroma, sparkling colors and tasteful decors with deft hands and a calm expression; in addition, he assists his co-workers with serving the drinks, weaving through the crowd with great effort to balance the drinks on the tray. Occasionally, he would be seen chatting with a girl or two, wrapping them around his fingers with an easy smile like a puppeteer, easily influencing the conversation with just a quirk of his lips, a flick of his wrist or the rise of his brows.

Robotnik narrows his eyes, puckered brows becoming more prominent as he continues his observation, attention divided between hearing a dolt talk about his very ‘exclusive’ deal and watching a charismatic bartender carry out his duties and responsibilities. Robotnik expects the bartender to mishandle some of his tasks, possibly damaging something so that he would have to come over to apologize and excuse his incompetence, but the small flaws he made during his shift are easily concealed by his exceptional ability.

It is quickly becoming a bore that Stone is not messing up like how some of his less accustomed co-workers are, so he turns back to his more or less dull conversation that will most likely end up with his refusal of cooperation or alliance. It did indeed end that way, and the man sulks away with sheathing disappointment though still trying to keep up his false image of professionalism, Robotnik watching him go with mellowed disdain.

Sighing, the genius gets up from his chair, first looking around the area and spotting some gossiping groups. Robotnik signature smug smile appears on his lips; the Doctor walks past the groups, managing to catch a few words and make sure his listening devices underneath their tables worked. When he ensures that he will get the information he wants, Robotnik walks with purpose to the bar, his flair unmistakable even to the busiest and half-minded employees. They discreetly part the way for him to the bar in guise of pushing through the crowd to get drinks to the guests that needed them.

Robotnik is caught off guard - again - to see Stone already has his eyes on him though his body works to prepare drinks for a group of distinguished gentlemen conversing about their work. Robotnik sits down at his usual spot, far away enough to not touch shoulders or elbows with them, but close enough to hear the chatter over the myriad of other sounds.

“Evening, Doctor.” Stone said smoothly, his attention immediately taken away from the men the moment he is finished serving their drinks, focusing solely on Robotnik with gleaming eyes. Robotnik grunts noncommittally, his hand coming up to fix his man-bun, some strands of hair falling out of place forcing him to just retie it.

All the while Stone watched, his frame unmoving in Robotnik’s field of vision as he fixes his Titian hair into the neat bun from before, making sure to leave some neat tufts covering the side of his face for style. Once he is pleased, the Doctor straightens up and catches Stone staring not-so discreetly, expression rather open and obvious; it looked like he had just witnessed the most beautiful person in his life smile at him. Robotnik raises a brow, snapping Stone out of his trance with an awkward chuckle.

Stone schools himself, giving Robotnik a questioning look like he did the first time when Mr. What-was-his-name invited him for a drink. Considering how the man had likely guessed that he is a coffee enjoyer - caffeine addict to put it bluntly - since the day he handed Robotnik cocktails unprompted and landed on the vodka espresso and Irish coffee, the Doctor wonders what is holding him back from making one of those drinks.

The unannounced staring contest goes on between them, the Doctor’s eyes narrowing minutely while the bartender’s smile slowly disappears until it is just a small line across his face. The situation is surely awkward, but none of the two is willing to address it.

Robotnik takes advantage of that awkward silence filled only with the background noises to take note of Stone’s appearance. His neatly trimmed beard still adorned the lower half of his face, full brows raised naturally; his eyes are the color of grounded coffee beans, a deep brown that can hold anyone’s attention captive. The man is conventionally handsome, more so than Robotnik himself; his heart ached and a pit in his stomach formed, insecurities rising but the Doctor refuses for it to show.

“Oh, you just want your usual.” Stone blurted it out like it was a question, but his face is flushed with embarrassment, turning away immediately to prepare the drink. The edge of the awkwardness has been taken off, and Robotnik leans back slightly to try and relax himself, careful to not fall of the stool.

Mere moments later, his drink is delivered to him in a glistening martini glass, the dark liquid moving within its glass confines. Robotnik takes the glass, nursing the delicate thing in his hand as he picks out the two coffee beans atop the drink before taking a sip. The bitterness of alcohol and coffee hit his throat, making him frown for a fleeting moment before it soothes over like waves crashing upon the shore. Robotnik hears something akin to a huffed laughter or chuckle from the bartender, but he doesn’t bother looking up otherwise he’d see that insufferable smile again.

Just like the rest of the nights he’d spent at the bar, time passes surprisingly quick but too slow, every time the Doctor looks down at his watch, it either shows that about ten minutes has passed or merely a minute, which is rather ridiculous. Robotnik, luckily or not, has Stone to entertain him whenever he has the time to cross to the side of Robotnik’s spot at the bar.

Each time he comes over, Stone would lean down, his voice quiet enough that only Robotnik could hear through uproar and clamor of the party that becomes more lively as the night darkens. “Doctor,” the bartender would say before telling Robotnik anything, as if warning him of his presence. Robotnik appreciates the sentiment or the considerate attitude as he is quite a jumpy person; even though that knowledge is a tad humiliating, but it is a fact that he must embrace as part of himself.

The first time he discovered that easily frightened side of himself was way back in the third grade; he screamed rather loudly, maybe even screeched, when he didn’t notice that his teacher had entered the room despite her wearing heels. For the longest time, he thought he will never be caught off guard, but it seemed that being wrong every once in a while is a good thing.

Stone stands now before him, leaving his upper body weight on the elbow that supported him on the counter, talking in a low voice that’s barely above a whisper considering the thundering music and chatter of the party. Robotnik looks at Stone over the top of his glass, sipping the last drop of the drink before sliding it across the table to Stone who dutifully refills it while still talking incessantly about one of his co-worker.

There is one thing he likes about socializing, that is he gets to join in on gossips from time to time and smack talk people. Stone’s ways with word and witty remarks of his co-workers always manage to make Robotnik bark a laugh at least twice per person. As the night stretches on, the bartender grows bolder and more friendly, almost abandoning the formality that they both had agreed on; Robotnik, however, is tipsy enough to let it pass, but Stone never misses a moment to correct himself, saying his title like it’s the most important thing and needed to remind him of it in each sentence.

By the end of the night, the Doctor is buzzing pleasantly unlike how he would feel after consuming a large amount of intoxicants, his smile lopsided and easy. The bartender hands the drunk genius a glass of cold water, which Robotnik takes gratefully and chugs it down. The genius sits and thinks for a while, frowning then starts internally reprimanding himself eternally for being soft and easy on Stone despite implying to him that he will not be so kind to him.

Maybe he should start being what he meant to be, immediately the following morning would be a good start if not earlier this morning or tonight. Pushing himself away from the bar, Robotnik fixes his tie loosely around his neck, ensuring that he doesn’t suffocate from his rising body heat. More people have gathered around the band and dancing near them or on the steps of his estate. That just gives him more of a reason to not enter from the front and go through the trouble or pushing through whirling duos of couples or groups of friends.

As he heads to the back door of his home, where the garden is, Robotnik hears a faint something being said to him from behind. Turning back, the Doctor is surprised to see Stone waving goodnight to him almost childlike. Robotnik scowls at the immature display, though the bartender certainly cannot see it. The Doctor resumes his track, heading back to his room to or not to get a night’s rest, or just to nap for an hour or two and get up again to work on his projects and commissions.

As Robotnik walks, his minds dwells on the bartender’s intention; whatever the man is planning to do - get under his skin, manipulate him to let his guard down, take advantage of his friendly attitude - Robotnik is not going to let his plans come to fruition. Robotnik trudges up the stairs with more sobriety than a drunk man should have when he enters his home, ensuring that he is to avoid the people going up and down between the library, the restroom and just exploring the estate in general.

He encounters his employees who looked more cheerful than he is currently feeling, going about their duties while mingling with the masses. Robotnik glares at they as pass him by, carrying trays of yellow and orange cocktails and hors d'oeuvres, making sure his aim is accurate so that they feel the metaphorical daggers pierce their beings; petty things he does out of spite. Robotnik continues to ascends up the stairs, reaching the door of his room without further bothers and troubles.

He enters his domain of solitude, the room slightly less dim as it bathes in the golden lights of the party outside. Robotnik strides to close the curtains, clutching the fabric in his hands and he gazes down to the front yard. His eyes roam and skim through the crowd, watching the faces as they split into wide smiles and laughter erupts from their throats burning with the stink of alcohol. His eyes narrow, brows crease as he watches their drunken display of affection towards one another.

Dark sunken eyes continue its aimless and dreary excursion through the crowd, landing on the bartender that is talking cheerfully with his co-worker, voice muted in the festivity. Robotnik’s gaze lingers indefinitely on Stone, watching as his face goes through different emotions like a child watching the bright moon come out of hiding, bathing the earth in its pale light.

Time froze momentarily, suspending Robotnik in the state of being awestricken by the bartender, his eyes glued to his every movement; every flex of his arms, the craning and canting of his neck when he looks up to the shelf or behind his co-workers, the muscles rippling under his skin as he catches the falling glasses from a group of inebriated ignoramuses, the gentle split of his face as it forms a smile that rivals the brightest star or the sun itself. Robotnik purses his lips at the sight, his chest constricting spontaneously making it hard to breathe.

Robotnik ultimately leaves the curtains open, crossing to the opposite side of the room whilst his grasp holds firm, trying to get away while still too stubborn to let go of the view that had bewitched him.

~ ~ ~

Robotnik wakes slowly the following morning, consciousness leisurely trickling into his slightly sleep-deprived and inactive brain, the foggy haze of slumber dissipating with the fluttering of eyes and lashes. The pale morning brings a calming breeze into his room via the crack of his door, making the genius curls further into the soft blanket that wraps around him, his grip like a vice keeping it close to him.

After a few minutes laying idly numb in his bed, staring at nothing and dissociating, his mind becomes more aware of his surroundings and the time. Robotnik lets go of the blanket and throws it off his body, his eyes still adjusting to the environment that gets brighter as the seconds tick by. He throws his legs over the edge of his bed, stretching his arms above his head as a yawn rips through his being.

The genius gets started immediately on his morning routine, going through everything on near autopilot, only tripping over his foot once when he was putting on his pants. Robotnik makes his way downstairs, the guests wandering more freely about this time around; the Doctor stops at the center of the main area, casually watching the guests pass with breakfast, drinks or small pastries. Lazily he diverts his attention looking out the sidelights and glass panel of his front door, observing as water pours down on the Earth’s surface, the almost rhythmic pitter patter of the droplets on the glass and roof providing a soothing sensation.

Robotnik wanders to the kitchen, his eyes catching on the muted purple shirt of the bartender. The Doctor gives himself a few scolding words for his imbecilic behavior from yesternight and stalks over to the counter. The man recognizes him almost immediately, giving him a mild smile that sends Robotnik’s heart skipping a beat or two, either in anticipation or irritation he can’t decipher.

From that moment of the day, Robotnik has made even the most menial tasks difficult for bartender, making sure he knew the extent of Robotnik’s so-called cruelty. Robotnik thought back to the bartender’s expressions, the way his brows creased slightly when he caused an inconvenience to his work, the way his jaw hanged somewhat agape as he spilled and dirtied the floors that were cleaned not an hour before. He tries everything he could think of, watching as Stone is ever so close to breaking, his patience hanging on a thin thread, but he persists and grudges through all the horrible things the Doctor has done to him in the last twelve or so hours.

Besides paying special attention to and cataloging the bartender’s moods and emotions, the genius has seen the fleeting glares and glances as some of his employees passed by them. Their concerned faces, filled with seething anger and agitation, at the same time relief flooded some of them knowing that Robotnik has a new favorite somebody to pick on besides them. The Doctor takes note of that, making sure to cause them distress as well so they won’t get their hopes up in the near future. It is, after all, unfair for Robotnik to only treat one employee unfairly or with prejudice while the rest gets off scot-free. He will not let that happen, not when they are on his payroll; no matter the gender, their racial background, skin color, religion or any of the sorts.

Robotnik, after some time, decides that it has gotten boring to bother his employees and strides to his workshop, spending some time to further correct the flaws of his inventions, personal or otherwise, and perfect the exterior design and interior functions so it may appear pleasing to the clients that commissioned them and work as its creator intended it to. The Doctor always retains the gleefulness of a child when he witnesses his creations function as it is meant to; it is like enrichment for him, the joy that a child feels when succeeding in their endeavors however insignificant they are.

When he runs out of projects and commissions to do or has simply gotten bored of them, Robotnik goes to stand outside his porch or garden, keeping to the dryness that his extended eaves provided. Robotnik watches the cars pass on the slippery street, their roofs wet and windshields foggy. The Doctor observes as the heavy droplets land and slide down the leaves and petals of flowers and plant in the garden, his mind blissfully and annoyingly empty. He ponders about his life, pleased to know it turned out the way he had wanted it to but disappointed that he was not able to acquire the one thing he set out to have.

Robotnik sits down on the steps that leads down to the grounds of the garden, head bowed resting in his palms as the rain keeps falling and falling. His insecurities and flaws are painfully obvious, and he is using them as an excuse to be a jerk. He thinks back to all the times he’d attempted to get along with others, only to be pushed away; he had thought it was because of them, but now having time to reflect on his past, it was all him.

Despite not wanting to admit to himself of his conflicted feelings towards the bartender, he acknowledges that Stone might be the closest thing to a friend he would ever have, and he is ruining that potential friendship by being a bastard of a boss.

Guilt swallows his being, and for a moment in time, all he could see is Stone’s face, scowling at him with barely contained anger. The face that has once looked at him with nothing but adoration, soured by his own making.