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A job like Ivo Robotnik’s will take you many places that are downright bizarre. But no place has been as strange as the place he finds himself now, maybe the last place anyone who knows the Doctor would ever imagine him in. Certainly not this well-behaved, at least.
He’d promised himself he’d never be in this situation again.
He sits among the brainless rabble, in a graduation ceremony, wearing a graduation gown, all complete with the ridiculous cap and all, waiting for his turn to go up stage. He isn’t even sure how they managed to get him into a gown. To be honest, he’s been out of it all day.
Obviously, he’d studied and graduated in person, back when he was younger and fresh out into the world, but soon found all human interaction to be anywhere between horrifyingly demeaning and mind-meltingly dull.
Bullies, he discovered pretty early on, are a plague that extends far beyond high-school years, and they always fixated on him, a freakish, scrawny-looking kid with with early gothic tendencies, the minute he walked through the door. And to his chagrin, Walters had been very clear his PhD privileges would be permanently revoked if he so much as threatened any member of the student body (or members of the faculty) with one of his magnificent creations, so there wasn’t much else he could do but endure. Besides, the overall learning speed was 200% slower than what he could achieve if he simply went through the syllabus by himself.
In short, there was simply no reason for him to suffer through the horrors of in-person education any longer.
(And secretly, although he wouldn’t admit it, not even to himself, having to stand on that stage as you are handed your diploma, knowing full well nobody in the audience is cheering for you while the rest of your classmates stop to get their picture taken and run to hug their proud families at the end is, in ways he lacks words to describe... disheartening. And it’s not like he was ever the kind of man able to make friends to compensate for the lack of relatives, so instead of a well-earned celebration after the ceremony, it was always a quiet ride home in his government-assigned, armored truck with a disgruntled agent at the wheel sending him dirty looks the whole time.)
By PhD number three, he’d learned to use his position in the government to get any and all studying materials delivered straight to the comfortable confines of his lab, where he could carry out any assignment or project as well, and really, he didn’t need any more than that to graduate top of his generation. Then his diploma would be delivered to his proverbial doorstep as well. A perfect system.
So of course, incompetent waste-of-oxygen imbeciles had to do what incompetent waste-of-oxygen imbeciles do and ruin it.
Apparently, some so-called students in the university’s newly incorporated online program had attempted to commit fraud, so the school had insisted he needed to come in person for the graduation ceremony in order to get his diploma and newly acquired title validated. He’d tried every trick in the book short of murder and extortion to get out of it, but it was just no good. It seems there’s no escaping the headaches of bureaucracy, even at his level.
So now here he sits, leg restlessly bouncing up and down under a navy blue gown that itches slightly along his neck and exposed wrists, staring with barely concealed hatred at the short, wrinkled man with a full head of white hair behind the podium on stage, calling the names of his no doubt mediocre classmates so they can be handed their no doubt undeserved diplomas to the sound of applause filling up the room.
The lights are too bright, the auditorium too warm, and the seats too uncomfortable. His hand worries unconsciously at the hem of his gown, twisting the fabric around his fingers tightly before letting it go and then starting up all over again. He watches the considerably younger students pause at the edge of the stage, standing proudly with a big smile plastered on their faces, waiting patiently for an unnecessary amount of camera flashes to go off and capture this moment for their family albums or whatever before finally moving on.
He feels like he’s going to be sick.
He knows he has no one present among the audience to cheer for him, no one to stop for, no one who cares enough to want to preserve this moment from the clutches of time with a well-framed picture. And once again, the whole thing is ridiculous. He should be above such senseless, emotional drivel, he shouldn’t care and yet…
There’s a pressure in his chest that goes all the way to his throat and doesn’t let him breathe properly. He tells himself he must’ve eaten something gone bad, even though he hasn’t eaten anything at all today.
He stands up. It’s his turn. Sort of. Because the people in charge love to drag out the torment, and students are made to move into the theater's wings to wait — to save time on their trip up stage, he assumes. He feels even more out of place among all those twenty and thirty something year olds, although he at least has enough wits around him to dismiss that thought as quickly as it comes. The whole process has “humiliation ritual” written all over it.
The line in front of him gets shorter and shorter. The applause technically doesn’t wane with any student, but it is glaringly obvious when a particularly beloved person walks on stage, the cheers incrementing obnoxiously, a stray holler or hoot breaking the rules of decorum. He scoffs to himself. He thought this supposedly prestigious establishment was serious about its repute.
He can already picture the way their mindless applause will turn from joyous to polite, but even so, when it’s his turn to walk into that stage, he will do so with his head held up high, just as he’s always done. With this resolve in mind, he manages to school his features from wide eyes to a scowl of arrogant indifference, and readies himself to stride across the stage with the same conviction that’s gotten him this far even with every odd against him.
Finally, his name is called. With the title of Doctor correctly attached, as per his specifications. One thing they managed to get right.
But with his request fulfilled, he gets the last push he needs to walk out there like he owns this fancy little shit hole they call an auditorium. Just as he predicted, the applause dims to a few scattered claps here and there, but he does a great job of keeping an “I’m better than all of you mouth-breathers that need your mommy to tell you your special” expression intact, until—
“Bravo, Doctor!”
Stone.
His voice, his cheer breaks through everything else and shoots straight through Ivo’s heart, warming it up something fierce. He doesn’t even have the chance to think about how he should keep his composure, not with the awed and childish excitement sparking inside his chest like a forest fire, faster than his rational brain can catch up. The string hanging from his stupid graduate cap almost switches sides all on its own with how violently he turns to try and find him in the crowd.
Even with all the people gathered in the audience, he locks eyes with his agent in less than a second. And it’s in part because he makes himself impossible to miss, giving him a standing ovation like an idiot among the disapproving glances of the unfortunate guests beside him.
Ivo didn’t tell him where the graduation would take place. He didn’t buy him a ticket. He didn’t even give him a hint of when the ceremony would start. Stone must’ve gone through a lot of trouble just to be there, making a fool of himself as he cheers him on to make sure the Doctor wouldn’t miss him, looking so proud anyone would think this isn’t his fifth PhD but his first.
But what really sets Ivo’s heart racing is the sight of the camera hanging from his agent’s neck.
He barely registers as he takes his diploma from some no-name’s hands and walks away without even bothering to look at them, much less shake their hand. No, his mind is too preoccupied trying to decide what’s next, time around him slowing down the more his thoughts race. Does he stop at the edge of the stage like all those jackass students before him he just mentally obliterated? Does he risk the possibility of that camera somehow not being for him, and standing there in humiliation? Most importantly, does he allow himself to indulge in a wish that is so pathetically human in such a disgustingly open way?
But then he can’t help but look back at Stone, and the man is still looking at him like that and… his hands are firmly on the camera, as if preparing in case he decides to stop for him…
So he does. He stops for him, before he can chicken out.
He sees Stone’s entire face light up and his body instinctively responds to it, standing straighter, feeling more like himself than he’s felt all day. And because he can’t be anything less than what he’s built himself to be (and because he’s a showman before anything else) he throws the skirt of his graduation gown aside like a matador’s cape, stands with one foot jutting forward, and throws his head high in a somehow elegant, completely over the top pose.
A dozen flashes go off, and Ivo doesn’t have to look to know they all come from the same camera. He can’t help the amused tilt of his lips, but he has a feeling Stone will have the good sense not to comment on it. Once he deems enough time has passed for the agent to properly capture all of his dazzling glory he turns his head to face him again.
Stone is being utterly ridiculous. He seems stuck in a loop of bending low and then leaning back and then almost lounging in the tight space between seats as if to get a closer look at him. The people seated around him complain as they’re forced to move around or be elbowed in the face. Ivo knows his agent well enough to know it’s one hundred percent on purpose, all for the Doctor’s amusement, and he can’t help the laugh that bubbles up his throat. He thought it’d be scarier, to be known the way Stone knows him. But all he feels right now is positively giddy.
Eventually, he gets all but dragged off stage and Stone has no choice but to sit down before security kicks him out, but even that isn’t enough to dwindle the warm feeling in his chest. The rest of the ceremony goes by fast and easy, and it doesn’t feel so much like he’s underwater in a deep, dark pit. It feels like sunshine and a breeze after stifling heat. Ugh. It’s ridiculous.
Finally, it’s over. Graduation caps fly, and the sound of confetti cannons being set off makes some bystanders in the audience flinch. The graduates laugh and cry and hug each other like sentimental fools. Ivo can’t even bring himself to judge them this time, too focused on the sight of his agent.
His agent. Ivo locks eyes with him again (or maybe they never really looked away) and he looks radiant, framed in his view by the golden confetti and soft lights encompassing him. Stone takes one last picture of him. Ivo decides to grant him one more smile, only to realize he was smiling the whole time.
——— *
When he walks outside, the students around him rushing to their loved ones to celebrate, he can’t help but look around for his own… companion too. He doesn’t even think he managed to be discreet about it. How embarrassing.
Even though Ivo knew he’d be there, a feeling concerningly similar to relief floods him when his eyes finally find him, farther away than the rest of the crowd. He’s leaning against his motorcycle, looking so handsome and proper, a bouquet of red and white carnations in hand. Ivo scoffs. So ridiculous.
Stone pretends to spot him, even though Ivo knows for a fact he’d been watching him the whole time. Ivo skips his way to him, an endeavour not hard to accomplish with those long legs of his.
(It was such a nice, disconcerting feeling, to be greeted by someone who was genuinely happy to see him, and not a stranger in a suit who looked like they’d rather be anywhere else but dealing with him.)
“Forgive me, Doctor, but I believe it’s tradition.” The agent excuses himself, handing him the bouquet.
“Yeah, yeah. Save your excuses for someone who will buy them, agent.” He retorts, although the bite is somewhat dulled when he accepts the roses and pulls them close like somebody could take them away from him. “You’re already in enough trouble as it is, showing up uninvited like that.”
Stone, to his credit, pretends to be sheepish. “Apologies, Doctor.” He’s not sorry at all, the bastard. “Should we head back home?”
Ivo hums. “No use in hanging around the dull-eyed masses.”
“Agreed.”
Stone circles the motorbike to fetch the helmets. Ivo is about to tell him off for bringing that death machine instead of the perfectly functional mobile lab when the sight of some students watching them from afar cuts him short. The group of graduates are all staring at Stone, the way he pictures a dog would stare at a dangling steak. They all have the common sense not to approach, though. Good, he thinks. This one’s mine.
He can’t even process the absolute insanity of the thought he just had before Stone hands him the helmet. “Hop on, Doc.” He grins, taunting in that discreet way of his.
Ivo rolls his eyes. “You better drive properly, you absolute maniac.”
“Of course.”
Ivo didn’t believe him one bit. He had a feeling Stone liked it when he clung to him every time he took a sharp turn.
——— *
Surprising a genius is near impossible. Ivo has no idea how Stone keeps doing it.
When they finally reached the lab, after a harrowing ride that definitely went way over the speed limit, despite what Stone would claim, he was greeted by the sight of his lab turned into what was basically a candle lit dinner. One of the badniks, J3S-S1, finishes hanging up a “Congratulations” banner over the table. Ivo arches his brow, turning to glare at his agent, who doesn’t even bother acting apologetic this time.
“And this, is it tradition, too?”
“No, sir, I just wanted to treat you.”
Ivo is effectively stripped of all retorts, caught off guard by the out of the blue sincerity. And that was definitely on purpose, too. Cheeky bastard.
To hide the blush he can feel rising in his face, he makes for the table. He does wait next to the chair, though, and turns to stare at Stone expectingly once he’s sure he can control his expression again. “What, not going to pull out the chair for me? That’s just poor form, agent.”
He really meant it as a joke for once, but the look on Stone’s face, like he’s just committed some great, unforgivable sin, is much better than the simple amused grin he was originally going for. Stone rushes to his side, and he’s almost tempted to race to sit before the agent can get there. For some inexplicable reason, he doesn’t.
Stone pulls out the chair for him almost like a butler would. It’s equally absurd and endearing, and he’s not sure how he feels about that. “Here, let me take care of that for you.”
Ivo doesn’t get what Stone is referring to until he reaches for the bouquet, still in his hands. He hands it over quickly and dismissively, as if that could cover up for the almost protective way he’s been holding on to them this whole time. Stone barely manages to suppress his grin, turning to hand the flowers to J3S-S1, who’s apparently done fussing with the banner.
“Go get them a vase, would you, little one?”
J3S-S1 beeps a cheerful affirmative.
Ivo sighs. “Et tu, Brute?”
The little bot’s lens blinks at him in a half-hearted apology before skirting away. “Don’t get too mad at her, sir. She just wanted to congratulate you, too.” Stone enables her, finally taking a seat himself.
As nonchalant as he would like to appear, Ivo can’t deny the food before him makes his mouth water. Damn his agent for being such a good cook. And it’s his favorite, too, because of course it is. He rolls his eyes at nothing, just for the principle of it. Stone looks at him with that adoring glance of his regardless.
(He would never admit it, not even to himself, but he feels like something old and broken has just settled into place within him. Something that he didn’t even know was there, or tried to forget about. Somewhere in his chest, some hidden gear, rusty and chipped away at, just started to turn again, and it wasn’t painful at all.)
The food is delicious. There’s music from his own playlist playing softly in the background. He's home and accompanied. He feels… happy.
Stone smiles mischievously at him from behind his fork. “So, what did you think of the ceremony, Doctor?”
Oh, he’s clearly baiting him. Ivo happily falls for it.
For the next few hours – even the Doctor loses track of just how many – Ivo gets to tell Stone everything about his fifth PhD. From the pathetically uninspiring professors that he verbally obliterated on a daily basis, to the laughably easy assignments he was forced to waste his time on, to the terrible planning and execution of the medieval torture they dared to call a “ceremony.”
Now, as he’s dramatically retelling the many stories he didn’t even realize he had, to somebody who is genuinely and joyfully listening, none of them seem daunting or asphyxiating anymore. Looking back, they were just fun. All because he had someone to laugh about them with.
——— *
A few days later, when Stone forgets his phone at his desk, Ivo can’t help but peek when the screen lights up with some unimportant notification. That’s how he finds out that the last picture Stone took of him, smiling with glee he didn’t recognize in himself, holding on to his graduation cap in mid-throw with the golden confetti flowing like stars around him, is apparently his agent’s new screen saver.
He turns away quickly, that warm feeling in his chest just a bit more than he can handle this time. Protocol demands he tells Stone to get rid of it. It’s unprofessional.
He never mentions it.