Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

After what feels like forever, Infinite finally releases his quills. Sonic pulls off and away as he smears the back of his ungloved hand over his muzzle, taking the spit and otherwise off of his mouth and chin with it. He learned to ignore the taste and swallow after he figured out wedging his thumbs into his fists is at least something else to focus on during it all. It never quite takes away the soreness in his jaw and throat afterwards, though.

Settled back on his haunches, he gives Infinite a flatter look than he means to. It's a bit hard to dig up the usual enthusiasm when his knees ache something fierce. Kneeling on metal for this long's not exactly his idea of a good time by any means.

“So—” Sonic starts, clearing his throat and swallowing back the bitter salt-thick spit when his voice rasps more than he expects it to. “About that run.”

Infinite cards a hand through the quills behind his ear idly with a low hum.

Sonic tries not to let the annoyance flicker across his muzzle. He knows Infinite will just use it as an excuse to not bring up Green Hill or Emerald Coast or wherever else the jackal figures is good enough to turn into a racetrack for a few minutes. He also didn't just spend the last however long sucking this guy off for nothing.

A leather clad hand falls along the side of his jaw and a grimace slides onto his snout before Sonic can stop it.

“G.U.N. 's early files claimed you were nearly identical to the so called ‘Ultimate Lifeform’,” Infinite says, softly sneering Shadow's title more like an insult than anything else.

Sonic chews at the side of his cheek to stop the words on the tip of his tongue. He imagines turning his snout into Infinite's palm, snapping his teeth into the thumb petting at him the longer it stays there, but he stays still instead. He waits. He's run head first into enough dead ends to know it doesn't get him anywhere far in here.

“Quite a foolish observation, don't you think?” Infinite asks, swiping a claw under his eye, close enough to make Sonic’s quills flex as it nicks the delicate skin.

“Yeah, well…” Sonic laughs through a clenched jaw, “didn't you make the same mistake?”

Infinite's grip tightens around Sonic's muzzle as he yanks his face up towards him. He fully bares his teeth under the cage of gloved fingers trapped over his snout, eyes narrowed and face gnarled up as far as he can muster. Blue-yellow eyes regard him coldly. Flat and dull. The scar etched deep into Infinite's brow and cheek stands out in the low light without the usual mask to hide it.

Infinite hums consideringly, turning his face slightly as if to appreciate it from a new angle, under a new light. “I suppose like this I can see the resemblance.”

Somehow, the wall beside the couch is made of flowers. Chewed up in them, devoured by it. Which is weird in itself. He remembers falling asleep next to Shadow on it, curled up on the opposite side of the cushions, but not how he got here. Or there. Or wherever this is now.

Upside down, Sonic stares at the dripping petals. Their hungry, teeth-lined mouths slick with drool. He keeps his head tipped back over the sofa's soft arm, his view narrowed onto the wall and only the wall. The longer he lies there, the more he can no longer tell what's under his quills anymore. If it's fabric or fur. The give of someone else's arm. Someone’s chest. A wood-slat floor, a bed. Something harder, something colder and farther away.

A heavy weight abruptly settles itself onto his legs, draping along his hips before settling firmly on top of his chest. It presses down all at once. He's not sure if he’s breathing anymore or if he ever was. Dew and spit slides down the petaled wall and falls onto his snout. There's a sudden jostle, the sound of something's jaws finding purchase. He can't feel it. He can't feel anything besides the weight. Crushing. There's another hard yank and the scattering splatter of liquid sticks in his ears. A whine punches out of his throat noiselessly. He tries to lift his leg, but there's nothing there. No response. He's stuck in place. He can't even look down to see what it is. His breathing chokes. The thing on his chest presses down harder. Harder. A sound rings in his ears. Metal grinding into metal. He can't breathe. The sound grows louder. He can't move. And he's—something’s there, it's teeth buried in him, his ribs caving under its weight and he's—

A hand falls on his shoulder and the pressure vanishes all at once as he slams his fist into whatever grabbed him as hard as he can. A clatter follows. A punch of air from someone else's mouth. He needs to— Something brushes his ankle and he jerks away from it, breaths hissing fast through his teeth. He kicks his leg out and catches whatever it is under his foot. He has to— He scrambles up onto the arm of the couch, shaking limbs pulled in close.

“—onic! You're not there anymore.”

What? His face scrunches, throat hoarse as he pants harshly.

He jerks his head to the side, scrubbing at his quills to smooth them back down, fingers trembling, knuckles aching right where he struck something. He's—where is he? It's…Rouge's apartment. Right. Yeah. And that means.

Shit.

He looks over and sees Shadow collasped on the floor beside the couch, his legs sprawled in front of him like he took a hit and fell with it. There's a hand pushed into the side of his muzzle, a dark purple-red smear of blood under his nose.

“Oh, shit, dude, I—” Sonic slips unsteadily off the couch with a weak laugh, his hands held low. “I totally didn't mean to do that.”

“It's fine…” Shadow says, pushing himself to his own feet with a labored grunt.

“Is it?” he asks with a miserable flatness, ears pressed back tightly.

“You were distressed. I thought waking you up would make it better.” Shadow grimaces, swiping at his snout, more blood coming away on his glove with it. “Obviously, not.”

His chest clenches. He must've hit harder than he thought…“I—” Sonic huffs, scrubbing at his face. “So you're saying I was—what?” He laughs, out of breath, rife with something he can't even name. “Having a nightmare?”

Shadow regards him with a slow glance up and down the whole of him. “Something like that.”

He frowns. It's not there anymore. He looks down at his hands and clenches them. The shakiness in them still betraying him, swirling all over like he's a bad step from going unsteady again. It's gone, though. Whatever that was. Whatever he can feel making his heart race even now. It's like it never happened at all, and yet he can still somehow feel it right there regardless.

He smiles instead. He picks up the feeling and puts it somewhere he doesn't have to deal with it right now. “Okay. Sure. Whatever. I don't even remember what I was dreaming about, so it probably wasn't that bad.”

“Do you enjoy being this needlessly stubborn?”

“Yeah.” Sonic crosses his arms. “Maybe I love it.”

Shadow mutters something under his breath, shaking his head before heading for the kitchen without another word.

His stomach sinks at that, his feet moving before he can think better of it. “Where’re you going?”

“To make dinner.”

His eyes dart towards the tiny time display on the microwave. How did he not notice that many hours passing? Surely he would have noticed it, felt it, something— “Already?”

“You’ve been asleep all day.”

His attention turns to where the sun is setting outside the balcony doors. Two sleeping pills did a better job than just one then, but his skull feels dry, his mouth even drier somehow. It feels more like he went twenty rounds with Zavok and took every punch square on the skull than any kind of rest. His stitches itch, the bandages, too. All of it. He tugs at the hem of his shirt and then plucks at where it sits on his chest with a grimace.

“You should be able to go without the shirt if it's bothering you,” Shadow says, rummaging around in the guts of the kitchen without a glance towards him.

Sonic smirks, shakily, without the usual backbone of reassurance as he tries not to look at every exit all at once. “You just wanna see me topless, huh?”

Shadow closes the cabinet door with a tired sigh. “Keep it on forever then. I don't care either way.”

He idles in the wake of the quick rebuttal, a smart remark of his own somewhere on the tip of his tongue, but the tightness in his chest and throat keeps it from leaving. The quiet stretches on too long after. The opportunity to fill it with something else passes and he looks at the apartment door again. He looks at Shadow. He tugs at the sleeve of his shirt and wonders if eight hours of shut-eye and then some is enough to warrant a run already.

“Are you going to help or not?” Shadow asks.

He frowns, fingers twitching like the door knob’s already within reach. “Well, you could ask a little nicer.”

“Just get in here already.”

There's a relief he tries not to dwell on too much in being given the answer he didn't realize he was even waiting for. Staying or going—he at least knows which one is supposed to happen right now. Which one is easier to deal with.

Sonic turns on his heel with a smile, away from the door, hands raised like an old habit he can't quite shake off. “Okay, fine. Just tell me where ya need me.”

‘Helping’ is a loose and relative term for what he manages to do in the kitchen. It's easier this time to find a flow without Shadow haranguing him all the while about overdoing some steaks. And out of all of the things he could've guessed that the ‘Ultimate Lifeform’ didn't know how to do, making pancakes never really crossed his mind. So much for all the fancy recipes and meticulous cook times when three ingredient flapjacks exist.

He uses the pan to toss the pancakes up and catch them perfectly on the gooey side. It's a trick he used to do to entertain a way younger, way antsier Tails when he had to cook him breakfast. Shadow doesn't seem to be as much of a fan of the artistic flair as Tails, and makes his impatience more than known by citing a lack of efficiency while leaning against the counter, arms carefully crossed. Deep down, Sonic knows the guy's just jealous. It's not like Shadow knows how to flip a flapjack the fun way let alone make one from scratch apparently.

By the time they're sitting at the kitchen table with everything plated, he's already winded. Which is…new. Or not new-new, but not something he thought he'd have to experience ever again. It was supposed to just be a fluke. Something that only happened a thousand and one moments away from here. He doesn't get tired. He doesn't ever feel out of breath. Those things aren't synonymous with Sonic the Hedgehog.

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat and rubs his side at the answering sting. There's a hot feeling under the bandages. He can only assume it's a string of stitches that's grown angry beneath them. Amongst the swirl of everything, the Doc had mentioned swelling in the first few days and some irritation. He hadn't expected it to smart and pull like this exactly, though.

He tries to less than subtly tug his shirt away from where it keeps snagging against the dressings. And somehow, despite the discomfort there, it's far easier to think about the claw marks in his sides rather than the burning even lower. The dull ache gathered all the way from one hip to the other. Deeper. Harder to ignore.

“Is it uncomfortable?” Shadow asks, eyeing him from across the small table.

“Eh, it's not the worst I've ever had. Let's just say top surgery still beats this one by a mile, least I can put my arms over my head like this. Hysto sucked a little, sure, but mostly just from the stupid—” He trails off at Shadow's blank stare. “Uh…”

“Why would you require surgery?”

Awesome. Fifty year old grandpa, space station living, he probably should've seen this coming. “Guess I just came with a few manufacturer's parts that I thought were a little extra.”

Shadow's eyes drift down to where the usual dual faded scars on his chest are now hidden under his shirt, the accompanying pinhole drain marks tucked up higher, underneath his arms. The tiny intermittent hysterectomy ones that have faded to almost nothing on his belly as well.

Sonic squints. “Have you really never heard of—”

“I merely assumed they were from combat.”

“No way!” Sonic laughs, slapping a hand on the table and leaning forward. “Egghead's got some robots with a weird sense of humor, huh?”

Shadow's ears flick back, his muzzle wrinkling.

“Listen, why don'tcha ask Rouge for a crash course sometime, I'm sure she'll be more than happy to break it down for ya.”

“That won't be necessary.”

Sonic blinks. “Whaddya mean?”

Shadow picks up his own silverware, shifting his plate ever so slightly with his knuckles without looking up at him. “You're Sonic the Hedgehog regardless.”

Sonic's ears perk forward as he smiles smaller this time, the first sincere one he's felt in a while. “Sure am! And there's not a hedgehog who can match me.”

Shadow curls his lip up at him in a put-on sneer, still playful around the edges. “Perhaps they should have excised the overinflated part of your brain during the operation, then maybe your head wouldn't be quite so big.”

“Wow.” His jaw almost drops, almost—but he laughs instead, too loud and long. “Look who's talking, pal. Mister dubbed yourself the world's Ultimate Lifeform before I could get two words out. Even flexed with the whole teleportin’ thing, too! Nice touch by the way. Heck of a’ introduction.”

“Tch…as if you wouldn't have shown off as well.”

He smiles knowingly. “Maybe.”

He reaches for the table syrup and his side pulls again, worse this time. He grabs at the burn of it and clenches his teeth, a small sweat breaking out on his brow. Usually it's not this hard to just ignore the pain. Shake it off, grit his teeth and swipe off the blood so he can get to the next Badnik already. It's different when he's stuck sitting in a chair in someone else's kitchen and forced to feel every single inch of it. It doesn't help that there's aches and pains in places he'd rather not deal with right now. Not when his clothes are getting beyond uncomfortable, the bandages even more so. All he knows is it's not going away and it's not like he can go out on a run to forget about it or do anything else about it. Replace it with a different kind of hurt, a way more pleasant one.

He's just…stuck.

Shadow pushes his chair back and his ears flinch down at the sharp sound. He taps his fingers on the table, watching as Shadow grabs something from the cabinets below the counter and sets it on the table. He doesn't miss the way this is a little too familiar by now. Another first aid kit. Another instance of Shadow offering to bandage him up. He's not sure how he keeps ending up here. Again and again and—

“I can put something on it that will help, but you'll have to lift your shirt,” Shadow says.

And he's glad at least, that Shadow's giving him the ability to do it himself instead of grabbing at him this time. Maybe they're both starting to learn a thing or two here. Maybe.

“I knew you just wanted to see me shirtless, dude.”

Shadow sighs. “Just do it or don't.”

He yanks up the hem of his shirt, bunching it under his chin to hold it in place and out off the way while Shadow works. Shadow crouches beside him and slowly peels back the bandage without another word. It takes some fur on the way with it and he winces. Getting hit full on by a Badnik fist: nothing, the sticky side of a strong bandaid: a real killer apparently. He's starting to find the small stuff hurts a lot more for some reason.

He hisses through his teeth at another biting sting from the disinfectant before Shadow sets it aside. Once Shadow gets the bacitracin solution applied, the relief is almost instantaneous. He stares carefully at the tabletop as Shadow smooths a collection of new dressings into place with a firm hand on his waist. His ears tip hot at the sensation. He glances at Shadow's hand still resting on him. Somehow he can feel someone else's hand there, far less kind, pressing into the growing indents between each of his ribs. Leather clad knuckles kneading cruelly at a fresh wound and sticking in further, until he has to grit his teeth, grin and bear it. ‘If you would simply learn to stay still, these things wouldn't happen, would they?’

He jerks his head to the side, ears tensed back. He closes his eyes and when he opens them again Shadow's already sat down again on his side of the table, eyeing him over his plate.

Right. Okay. Food. Eating. He's supposed to be— He grabs up the bottle of syrup. It pours out slowly, in one thick spill, and the smell lingers, sticky and way too sweet. He wishes there was chili oil, hot sauce, something else to add to the pancakes instead. Anything else. He rakes his fork over the pancake’s face. His stomach clenches uneasily and he scrubs at the smell stuck in his nose.

“Kinda wish there was like a pill or somethin’ that'd just make it easy to get all your food for the day at once,” he says, the words leaving him merely more noise to fill the growing quiet rather than coherent thought.

“A pill?” Shadow asks slowly.

“Yeah. I mean, I don't really gotta lotta time to sit around stuffin’ my face constantly, so—”

“You have time right now.”

“Right. Wouldja look at that.” Sonic grimaces. “Guess I do…”

He cuts a piece of pancake off and jabs at it with a loud tink from the tines hitting the plate. He sticks it in his mouth. It's sickly. He has to lock his teeth tight to keep from immediately hawking it back out. There's an impression curled under his jaw, like a hand hinging it open, fingers pressing food to the back of his throat. Maple-cinnamon sticky. He can hear himself coughing, gagging after he finally swallows. Infinite's muzzle rests against his brow after, hot and humming. ‘Very good.’ Another unseen hand smooths up his side and then wanders lower over his chest and down over his belly.

“Sonic?”

He drops his fork. It clatters too loud on the tabletop and he fumbles for it, sending it hurling off the table and spinning out on the tile.

“Shit, man, my bad.” He laughs. He grits his teeth. His stomach lurches and bile thickens his throat.

He picks his fork up off the floor and sets it down a bit too hard on the tabletop. He reaches for the orange juice instead, hoping for safer territory, something he can use to wash back the sudden queasiness at least. He can feel Shadow staring at him the whole while. His fur damp with sweat, palms tacky. He stops mid-sip when the filled glass is stuck under his nose. The smell grows worse, caustic and unavoidable. He doesn't remember setting it back down. He doesn't remember letting it go.

He stares at the rim of his plate and the table and sees a small round pill, citrus-flavored, tinged yellow-orange, in the palm of a leather glove instead. Feels it pressed between his teeth, pushed into the back of his throat with harsh fingers. The same taste, the same smell. Somehow. His chest winds tighter.

He scrubs at his ears and swallows loud enough it crackles in them. Focus. Okay. Focus. He can do this. He just needs to eat his food. He just needs to eat. If he doesn't eat he'll feel worse and then it's more pills and more stuff shoved down his throat and—

“Sonic?”

“I'm fine.” He looks up. He laughs. He smiles. He— “I'm good, I just…”

The taste doesn't go away, and there's fingers petting over his nape and between his legs that aren't supposed to be there and Shadow's staring at him from across the table and nowhere near him and the lights take on a dimmer, harsher cant. The image only broken up by buzzing striations of fluorescent light, cell bars, a hand shoved into the side of his face, holding his muzzle shut, keeping him in place and there's someone on top of him, inside of him and he—

He jerks up from his seat and grins even tighter, teeth clenched even harder. Cold sweat slicks the fur on the back of his neck. “I gotta go.”

He makes it to the bathroom just before he throws up. Or tries to. It's nothing really. All air and what mostly digested food he managed to shove in his mouth earlier in the day. His stitches ache with an undulating pain starting low and ending high in the burn in his throat. He rests the side of his face on the rim after and breathes heavily. His head pounding. His ears gummy.

The bathroom door creaks open quietly behind him.

Shadow slowly crouches down next to him and sets down a glass of water that he gropes for immediately. He gets a loose hold on it, but Shadow gently grabs his wrist before he can get it to his mouth. He stiffens, heart jumping as his eyes flick between Shadow’s, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the act to finally fold in on itself, for any of the unwarranted kindness to make sense.

“Drink it slowly,” Shadow says and then releases him.

He hesitates, eyeing the glass before he nurses at it slowly. No filmy powder or bitter taste follows and his shoulders finally relax. While he drinks, Shadow uncaps a small bottle he recognizes from the first aid kit. The astringent stench of rubbing alcohol smacks into him instantly.

“Hold this under your nose,” Shadow says, holding it out towards him.

“Huh? What's that gonna do?”

“Just do it.”

He grabs it from Shadow and sticks it under his snout. When he breathes in, it's sharp and more than potent. It goes right to the back of his mouth and sits in his nose. Before long, the sour heaviness in his gut diffuses. It leaves him a tad lighter between the ears for it, but at the least his stomach has stopped rock walling his esophagus.

“Where'd you learn that trick?” he asks, holding it back out to Shadow.

“From someone else a long time ago.” Shadow recollects the rubbing alcohol bottle and caps it before placing it aside. “I assume certain solid foods are out of the question then.”

“No,” Sonic says. “I'm fine, seriously. it's just…it's whatever, I can eat just fine usually.”

“Clearly.” Shadow sighs. “We can start small. Meal replacement alternatives exist, and it's no use feeding you anything else right now if it's just going to come up later. It'll cause more harm than good.”

“Well, I handled that food from earlier just fine.” He did. He knows he did. ‘It's no use feeding you when you merely waste it.’ His chest clenches. He kept it down. He ate it and didn't spit it back out. He didn't waste it. He knows he didn't.

Shadow says nothing. Just stares. Somehow that's worse.

“I didn't upchuck it behind your back, stop looking at me like that, dude.”

“Regardless, you're still underweight. Malnourished, if the doctor at Headquarters is to be believed.”

“Okay? And?”

Shadow grits his teeth, muzzle wrinkling like he's frustrated at him for not understanding what he isn't grasping here. “I have to make sure you're keeping food down.”

His shoulders hike at that. “Listen, I don't need you to come in here and hold my hand, I'm totally f—” Sonic jolts to his feet and his head rushes, his hearing cutting out like someone's jammed their fingers into his ears.

He catches himself on the wall, and then realizes the wall under him is a lot warmer and softer than it should be.

Shadow makes a displeased sound against him. “You clearly haven't eaten enough today to be steady on your feet.”

His muzzle goes hot. He shoves out of Shadow's arms, ears pressed back. “Stop tellin’ me what I can't do already.”

Shadow's snout wrinkles. “I’m not telling you what to do, I'm simply making an observation.”

“Well, it kinda feels like it from here.”

“Fine.” Shadow scrubs a hand down his face and drops it at his side with a sigh. “Then conduct yourself however you see fit.”

“Great. Awesome. That's fine by me.”

There's a moment of hesitation, a concerned furrow that takes root on Shadow's brow. It almost looks like Shadow wants to reach out for him again, say something, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides uncertainly.

“Well?” Sonic asks before he can stop himself. “You stickin’ around for the autograph or something?”

Shadow crouches down to grab the water glass and leaves the bathroom at that, the door shutting behind him far more quietly than it should. Something about it all immediately makes the tension in his shoulders wash away. His chest clenches instead.

Shadow's just trying to help... He knows that. He heads for the tap and washes off his hands, scrubbing the spit and bile off his snout for good measure before swiping his hands over his quills, more self soothing than vain as he only glances at the mirror briefly before turning away from it. Shadow wants to help. Sure. He gets that now. But he also doesn't want to be babied or coddled or handled with kid gloves and treated like he's stupid here. He frowns at the tile under his feet. But Shadow's not doing any of that either, is he? Not really…

He slinks his way out of the bathroom and back towards the kitchen. An apology plays over and over again in his head. Not a great one. Not even a mediocre one. But it's better than nothing. Shadow's already there, dumping ingredients into a blender and muttering to himself. Before he can open his mouth and mangle his way through saying sorry, Shadow turns it on. There's a minute or so of standing there awkwardly, listening to it grind away, where he debates calling it quits and heading for the bedroom to curl up under the bedsheets instead. To just forget about it entirely. To take the easy way out here.

“Here,” Shadow says, disconnecting the container and pouring the contents into a tall cup before he can manage to get any words out.

A straw is added to it a moment later, one Shadow must've dredged up from somewhere, curly and translucent blue, bendy in all the places a straw probably shouldn't be. And Shadow must've added a generous amount of lemon or lime juice to it, something to offset the rest of it. The sour notes make it easier to tolerate at the least. He sips at it slowly, the chill aching his teeth slightly as he watches Shadow tidy up the kitchen before he's ushered towards the living room with a tired wave of a hand and a quiet ‘go sit down’.

He settles on the couch and promptly shoves the abandoned stuffed animal doppelganger up under the coffee table with his foot. It squashes up against the metal frame, distorting oddly in places, face folding in on itself, stubby hedgehog legs disappearing under it without a trace. He frowns and presses it further under the table until he can't see it anymore. Until it's out of sight and out of mind. Shadow must've shoved it off the couch last night once he found it wedged into his arms. For a moment, he has to wonder if Shadow knows it was himself that put it there. If that's the reason he left it discarded on the floor or—

“What do you want to watch?” Shadow asks, cordial, somehow too easy, as he grabs the remote from the coffee table.

“Eh, anything's fine with me.”

Shadow switches over to the DVD player’s input and Sonic snorts when he sees what Rouge must've put on at some point during the day while he was conked out.

“This one? Really?”

“Apparently she likes the actor that plays the Forger.”

“Mm, you know what, that tracks actually.”

He settles back into the couch, legs pulled up criss-cross onto the cushion, smoothie loosely cradled in his lap. The opening credits play and Shadow seems to unstiffen as well, the awkward tension from before easing out as Shadow leans back into the cushions, pulling one leg up onto the sofa, his knee almost brushing his. He finds himself looking at Shadow's face instead of the film. There's the same sort of tiredness etched there that he saw on him the day before when he caught Shadow sleeping on the couch. His ears tip hot as he remembers the way Shadow's foot felt pressed up to his when he made the impromptu decision to take up the other half of it. He can't help but wonder if Shadow woke up and saw him first, or if Rouge woke Shadow up to point it out to him later.

And he's still not entirely sure why none of them woke him up earlier, why they just meandered around him and let him continue to play dead weight in their living room for so long. He still can't quite wrap himself around the idea that they've let him stick around this long at all.

Especially Shadow.

A loud sound from the TV snaps his attention back to it and his face goes even hotter. He can only hope Shadow didn't just witness him staring at him for who knows how long. At the least, it doesn't feel like he's about to have a heart attack anymore. He gets three-quarters of the way through the smoothie concoction before he calls it quits and sets it on the coffee table. When he looks back up, the scene playing out is in a hallway the characters walked through earlier, except it's become entirely untethered as it warps and then starts to rotate.

He laughs, more a sharp puff of air through his nose. “Oh, man, I totally forgot about this scene.”

He can practically feel the way Shadow’s eyes flick over towards him.

“Ah, sorry,” he says, scratching at his muzzle. “It's just weirdly kinda accurate how they got the whole illusion-dream thing going on in this.”

Shadow's quiet for a moment. “Accurate how?”

Sonic waves a hand vaguely. “Those Phantom Ruby gizmos or whatever. They're always a bit wonky. I mean, yeah, sometimes they're like the normalish, borin’ stuff in this, but otherwise—” Sonic gestures at the screen while looking over at Shadow. “They're all taffy ‘n putty.”

Shadow’s ears flick down. “Did you spend a lot of time inside of illusionary spaces?”

“Sure.” Sonic shrugs. “Kinda.”

Shadow's quiet again, a frown slowly taking root on his muzzle.

“Hey, it's really nothing big, honest. I mean, it was nice sometimes.” Sonic presses his hands into his own thighs, pushing at the muscles with the heels of his palms before repeating the motion. Like he can expel the sudden jitteriness from himself. “Seeing home ‘n stuff. He'd let me run around in Green Hill, too. I even got to see Tails Workshop, y’know, the one in Mystic Ru—” His teeth click shut so abruptly he almost bites his tongue. His heart stutters in his chest with a sudden flash of heat under his fur that turns into a cold chill.

“The Ruins?”

Sonic laughs and jogs his leg. “Uh, yeah. Yup, that one. Emerald Coast, too. Guy didn't even have the courtesy to get rid of the orcas. Can you believe it? I think he thought it was funny watchin’ me run around or something.”

“Sonic.”

Sonic looks over at Shadow, wincing at the unamused look Shadow levels him with. “What?”

“If he brought you to the other locations for ‘running around in’, why did he take you to Tails’ Workshop?”

“Oh? So you learned his name finally?”

“You're deflecting.”

Sonic grimaces and his foot tacks against the ground faster than ever. “Look, I dunno. Just cause he could, I guess,” Sonic says. “That guy was weird. Into weird stuff.”

Shadow's silence is heavier than anything else.

Sonic hunches slightly, leaning away as much as he can without seeming like he's trying to bolt.

“Such as?” Shadow asks finally.

“Oh, y’know, nothing too big—” He kicks one foot back and forth, heel hitting the couch rhythmically. “I guess we sorta had sex in there.”

“In the Workshop?”

“Well, no, cause it’s all just fakes. But yeah, sorta, in a way.” Sonic shrugs with one shoulder. “It's not like it's the only place we hit up either, so…”

Shadow's eyes don't leave him, but nothing leaves Shadow's mouth either. The dead silence itches at him the longer it lingers.

“I mean, I wanted to do it. There wasn't really a bed in my cell ‘n all. An’ lying on metal all the time gets pretty old, messes up the quills after a bit—” Sonic smiles at Shadow. “And hey, fake beds feel pretty close to real ones anyway.”

Shadow's face pinches up, his brow furrowing.

“Y’know, I've tried to do the math, too. With the days ‘n all. How many times we had sex and everything. I'm not even sure if he's good enough to make illusions of himself that’ve got everythin’ in order, but he totally had to be in two places at once a lot, right? Like, how could the guy’ve been railing me at noon and burning down the next village at one? Just doesn't really add up, does it?”

Not like he ever talked a whole lot when we had sex anyways. So who knows.” Sonic tips his head back against the couch, gesturing towards the ceiling vaguely. It’s like someone else is running his mouth, like he can't stop talking even if he wanted to. His heart beating somewhere in his throat all the while. “Like he'd always come and stuff, duh, but I mean, c'mon. The guy almost dropped the sun on us, I feel like some illusion spunk’s not outta this guy's wheelhouse by any means ‘n—”

Shadow makes a sudden sound.

He blinks at the ceiling, the texture of it coming into focus abruptly, everything snapping back into place all at once. He rolls his head to the side and looks over at Shadow. He looks more than tense. Beyond uncomfortable. His fists curled at his sides and ears tight against his head.

“Uh…?” He swallows thickly. “You good, dude?”

“I—” Shadow's hand comes up to swipe over his own muzzle, holding over it for a lingering moment before dropping away. “Can we discuss this another time?”

“Oh.” A sticky, heavy feeling settles all over him, his stomach flip-flopping with it. “Uh, sorry, yeah. Sure...my bad.”

It's basically undeniable now. Shadow thinks he's gross. Because yeah, of course he would. Why did he even say all of that? Geezus, who even does that? Shadow was down here fighting a war alongside everyone else, and he was just up there messing around when he should've been— Why didn't he just—

There were no survivors on the Death Egg. Just you. Geezus. Who says yes to fucking the enemy? Who does that? You should've been there to stop it. To save them. Why weren't you there? What kind of hero gets on his knees when the world is burning? Pathetic. People died up there. And you didn't. Why didn't you take the noble way out? Disgusting. There were no other survivors from the Death Egg. Just you. Just. He raped you didn't he? No. No. Because if it was, then— It can't be rape because that's not—it’s not— If it is. If. No. Then why does he keep coming back to it? Why does he— Why can't he stop being so fucking—why can't he—why—why

He pushes himself to his feet and heads for the hallway, only stopping to glance back over his shoulder when Shadow pauses the film. “Think I'm gonna hit the hay early.”

Shadow doesn't say anything further. His chest tightens at that.

Look what you did. Look what you did. He knows. They know. You know what you did. You wanted it didn't you. Your—your—

“Is it okay if I snag your bed for a nap?” he asks, voice flatter than he means for it to be.

Shadow seems to hesitate for a moment. “Yes.”

Why didn't you just say no why didn't you say no why didn't you—

“Cool. See ya later.”

Only once he gets the door shut behind himself does it go a little bit quieter. He slips under the sheets and curls into himself. Knuckles’ words sit at the forefront despite his best efforts to ball them up and throw them away. All of them. Every single line. He replays that conversation in his head as many times as he does the one he just had with Shadow. He's not even sure how he screwed up both so badly. How he keeps screwing them up. Maybe his mouth really is just better for other things.

—he was right. They all are. Better at being a slut than a savior. They didn't come to get you because maybe they finally realized they were always better off without you, not even a hero just a whor—

He shoves his hand down his boxers before he can think about it. Heart thudding in his ears, every inch of him jittery like a live wire. He thinks about the time in the fake workshop, on the fake couch in the live-in area of the fake Tornado hangar. Something semi-proper for once. The lighting drawn low. He could almost fool himself into thinking maybe it was all something romantic. Or at least something he wanted. Hot all over as he laid back on the cushions. Smiling on reflex as Infinite settled between his legs and draped over him. No mask. Snout to snout. He'd wound his arms behind Infinite's neck and pulled him into the kiss first. And he'd laid there after and thought about how soft the fabric felt, the foam, Infinite’s fur against his. How warm everything was. How he didn't mind this, whatever it all was because at least it was something.

He'd woken up in his cell later. Cold. Alone.

so you wanted it so you wanted it so you

His face crumples up in a frustrated snarl and he wrenches his hands out of his boxers. He presses his thighs together, feet pushing at the sheets. He needs to get rid of the heat between his legs, but it's not going away and he can't finish like this. And Shadow won't fuck him. Won't even touch him or look at him. Not now. Nobody will. Not like this.

He shoves his snout against the pillow and his eyes go hot for the first time in forever. He could just leave and find someone else to take care of it. He could. But then he'll have to start back at square one with healing up after. That is if they aren't put off by the fact someone played scratching post and chew toy with him. Damaged goods, or whatever. Used up. No one's ever going to want him like this. Not when they can see it all on him.

disgusting disgustingdisgustingdisgustingdisgustingdisgustingdisgustingdisgustingdisgusting

He grabs one of the pillows and shoves it between his legs and holds it tight. It'll have to do. He grabs at his own throat and suddenly it's someone else bearing down on it. His vision narrows, blurs, stripes and darkens at the edges. There's a snout huffing in his ear, a tongue on it, teeth latched into it and tearing, someone grunting and groaning over him as the fingers dig into his neck harder. He imagines the indents of a cell floor under the side of his snout, being shoved into it, hit, spit, taken, smothered—

He winds back down after he finishes with full-body shivers, panting hard. Blissfully numb all over as he rolls over to stare at the ceiling. Nausea thickens in his throat all too suddenly when he remembers where he is.

again you did it again you

He shouldn't be doing all of this in Shadow's bed. And certainly not with the guy's pillow. He kicks the pillow off the edge and listens to it thud limply against the floor. Now he'll have to figure out where the guy keeps clean cases for them tomorrow…

He'll fix it later. He'll…His eyes drift shut before he can stop them. He'll get up in a sec. Just a sec. He just needs to.

A sharp knock on the door startles him awake. His heart practically leaps out of his mouth as he scrambles upright and stares wide-eyed at it. He glances down at his boxers and grimaces. At the least, they're dry now. Small victories. He tugs the top sheet over his lap just in case.

“You can come in,” he says, and wow, his throat sounds bad. Geez.

The door opens and Shadow steps in, a bowl in his hands, one that's a little bit less shallow and nearing something like cup territory.

“What's that?” he asks, pulling his legs in closer, remembering what happened out in the living room like watching a bad movie, the urge to cringe at everything he said more than overwhelming.

Shadow steps over the pillow fallen on the ground, giving it a cursory glance before ignoring it. Sonic's ears fold down in silent mortification.

Shadow holds out the bowl towards him. “Rouge insisted I bring you some.”

“Oh…” He takes it and glances down at it. It's slices of strawberries in some kind of watery cream mixture. “Uh, thanks? I think?”

He's not exactly the biggest fan of strawberries, despite Amy's insistence strawberry shortcake and all adjacent desserts are superior in every way, but it's something cool and easy to eat at least. And Shadow looks enough like a kicked puppy that he's not about to say no to him either. He polishes off as much as he can muster and sets the spoon inside with a sharp clink. Shadow collects the bowl from him without a word and goes to leave.

“Hey, uh—” he starts, ears tilted forward. “Did you wanna, I dunno, maybe share the bed again? I feel kinda bad about constantly putting you out on the couch.”

Shadow considers it for a moment. “If it means you won't sleep on the floor.”

“Listen, sometimes a real good spot on the floor is where it's at.”

“And the sand in Green Hill? Is that somehow comfortable to you as well?” Shadow asks.

“Honestly, yeah, that was pretty cozy, not gonna lie.”

Shadow huffs. He's starting to understand that's the way Shadow laughs most of the time, and that the slight crinkle in his muzzle isn't just annoyance, it's amusement.

He lifts up the sheet for Shadow as a silent prompt. He can tell the clean freak in Shadow is conflicted about returning the bowl to the sink and washing it out already. After a moment, Shadow finally concedes and sets it on the nightstand. With his shoes removed and gloves neatly folded and set aside, Shadow accepts the offer and slips into the bed beside him.

There's a noticeable amount of space between them, himself kept carefully contained on his own side, and Shadow with his limbs drawn into himself as he stays sitting upright and tensed, like he's about to go into a fight instead of get some shut-eye. That same feeling from before swamps in slowly, aching in his chest.

“Do you always take your gloves off when you sleep?” Sonic asks. A pitiful attempt to break the ice, but an attempt nonetheless.

Shadow settles further against the headboard and Sonic takes it as a win. “Yes, why wouldn't I?”

“It's just—” It's not like he really has room to talk here, he already shucked his off a while ago. And the last time they shared a bed he wasn't wearing any after his kitchen-shower freak out fiasco or whatever that was. So…maybe it's really not as big of a deal as everyone makes it out to be if even Shadow of all people doesn't see it as something weird to go gloveless. “Nevermind, forget about it.”

Shadow side eyes him and readjusts until he's finally laying down, tucked under the sheet before pulling it over his shoulder as he turns his back towards him. Abruptly, he realizes Shadow has the only pillow left on the bed under his head right now.

He stares at Shadow's quills and debates whether it's better to just go without one or risk getting up and embarrassing himself by rummaging around for a new case for the one he messed up earlier.

Shadow sighs loudly. “The clean pillowcases are in the linen closet.”

Without a word, he slinks out of bed and snatches the new pillowcase from the closet before returning to change it out and shove the fresh one back onto the bed. He lays down again and stares at the ceiling, fingers tapping where he's folded his hands over his stomach.

“Next time you decide to use one of my pillows, at least put a towel between you and it.”

He snorts. “Gross, dude. Whaddya think I am drippy or something?”

“You're not the one who has to constantly smell you on it.”

He wrinkles his snout. “Have you ever considered, like, vaporub under the nose? Some plugs? I feel like it's against some kinda code of conduct to go around smelling everyone's business constantly.”

Shadow says nothing.

“Look, I don't mean that in a bad way, it's just—” Sonic’s face scrunches up. “Don't you get tired of it or something?”

“No,” Shadow says.

Sonic turns over onto his side, arm folded under the side of his face as he looks at Shadow’s scrunched up quills. “Really? Never?”

“I don't see what good it would do regardless.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It's useful,” Shadow asserts. “It's not meant to be a hindrance. It's how I was designed.”

“Yeah, totally.”

Shadow's shoulders tense up, quills bristling. “What are you trying to get at here?”

“Nothing. Just wondering how much they had to sell you on that up in that tin can to make you believe it.”

In a rush, Shadow turns over to face him finally, his eyes narrowed. “There's no ‘selling it.’ It's the truth.”

Like this, almost snout to snout, it's nothing like fighting with Shadow topside. When they're at each other's throats in Green Hill or running around somewhere else and bashing each other into the dirt. There's only a few inches of bed left between them now, if that. And where Shadow's hand fell is close enough to his own that he can feel the heat radiating from it. His eyes dart down to where Shadow's fist is curled up on top of the sheets.

“What?” Shadow grits out.

He stares at the red stripe on the back of Shadow's hand. He pokes it before he can think better of it, his fingers lingering in the wake. Shadow tenses under his touch.

“The other Black Arms don't got these exact ones,” he says quietly, only glad Shadow hasn't yanked away from him, that he doesn't have that same look he had on his face earlier, like he was going to throw up, like he'd seen something putrid and rotting.

“So where do you think you picked ‘em up from?”

“Some part of my creation most likely.”

“You mean your other dad's side of the family?” Sonic asks cheekily.

Shadow rolls his eyes. “No.”

“Then where'd ya get it?”

“The Black Arms all share a similar color scheme. I'm no different.”

“Huh?” He taps the red stripe again. “But they don't have just the stripes going on like this.”

“Doom’s Eye does,” Shadow says.

“Eugh. That guy…” Sonic grimaces. “Talk about a creep with a capital C. He was practically stalkin’ you that whole invasion! ‘Shadow, kill the enemy soldiers, turn on the glyph crystals.’ Man, whatever. He's the jerk that went out for milk and never bothered comin’ back.”

Shadow huffs out a laugh.

He grins at that. A win is a win. “I'm glad you didn't, y’know—help them take over the planet ‘n all.”

“Likewise…”

“I know it got a bit iffy there with the memories stuff and the, like—” He finally lifts his hand away from the back of Shadow’s to waggle his fingers at him. “Weird junky influence and all, but it's good to have you on our side. Or at least, your own side. Honestly, whatever side you wanna be on that isn't a buncha hungry aliens.”

Shadow hums consideringly, his face gone slack the further he relaxes into his pillow. He's never seen Shadow like this before, but it's almost like the more he talks, the more tired Shadow gets.

“Hey, did I ever tell you about Shahra?”

Shadow makes a negative sound under his breath, eyes drifted shut.

He launches into the story of the Arabian Nights and the World Rings and his showdown with the Erazor Djinn. By the end of the tale, Shadow's more than asleep. And it must be both later and earlier than he thought, because light starts to scatter through the curtains. The sound of traffic picking up and the doors of the other apartments opening and closing drowns out everything else before long. He listens to Shadow breathe and doesn't move his hand away from where Shadow's knuckles have accidentally brushed up against the back of his own hand. He finds himself watching the way the light plays across Shadow’s face, a softness to him that he never noticed before.

he pities you he thinks you're weak and pathetic and disgusting and

He shuts his eyes and shoves out everything else besides the fact there's someone else beside him, breathing, alive. Real. He rests his hand over Shadow's and the warmth bleeds into his palm. Before long, he finally falls asleep.

He's forgetting something. He knows what it is, but he can't remember, he just needs to remember so he can…so he can….

He jerks awake, tense all over, ears pricked towards the door that he swears he just heard click shut. When he looks over, Shadow's already gone, the indention of where he was still left behind, the sun more than high in the sky outside the window, the curtains drawn back to start the day. His hand brushes over the spot where Shadow was laying and it comes away warmed. There's a sound from the kitchen, the fridge opening and shutting and then the front door soon after with the sort of finality that means Shadow has more than likely left the apartment. He falls backwards onto the mattress at that, scrubbing at his face before sighing, an arm slung lazily over his eyes.

What is he forgetting? It's gonna eat at him all day if he can't remember what it is…

He slides out of bed, yawning, stretching his arms over his head with a pop-click from his shoulders. On the bed, there's small collections of fur shed into the sheets, a handful of blue quills spined into the pillow itself. It's nothing like he remembers it being on the Death Egg, but it's also enough to make him dust it all up into his hands as best he can before dumping it into the wastebin beside the nightstand.

Finished, he brushes off his hands and looks around. Shadow's most likely headed off to HQ and Rouge's either done the same or gone off who knows where. It's just him in the apartment then. Okay. He scrunches his face, trying to recall the day before, all the little things about it, and parts of it come up fuzzy. There was something. What was that thing he told himself he needed to do again? He scans the room slowly. Something, something, uh, phone? Call someone maybe? Sure. But who…

His eyes land on the closet door and he's in front of it before he can even blink. He slides it open and sees the safe from way before, from when he first snooped around in Shadow’s room. The keypad looks simple, but he knows he's never going to be able to guess the combination all by himself.

Like a lightbulb snapping on, it all comes stumbling back into his head.

“Tails!” Oh, shit. He totally forgot he meant to call him. Amy, too. He frowns. He'll get to Knuckles eventually, but that one's more of an in person, round two kind of endeavor.

He thumbs at the transceiver watch on his wrist, searching through its features to find the call only function. Video calling isn't exactly in the books for him at the moment, for a number of reasons. It rings enough times he's afraid for a moment Tails won't pick up. Which…fair. That's fair. He's not exactly been super stellar in a lot of departments lately, but—

“Sonic?”

“Hey, bud!” He winces. Too eager. Okay. Reel it back. “Quick question for ya. If you were going to set a password on the weird safe in your closet what would it be? Hypothetically.”

“Well…I'd probably make it something simple and easy to remember if I had to access it frequently. So, for most people I'd say a four digit code is relatively quick to recall, but anything longer than that might be a little more difficult depending on the person.”

“Of course. Sure.”

“And I probably wouldn't keep anything valuable in a safe that isn't super well hidden. Maybe some things I wouldn't want to get damaged, but definitely not jewels or anything like that. Hypothetically, of course.”

“Yeah. Hypothetically. And, let's say, hypothetically, I'm staring at a safe
right now. Would you be able to help me crack it?”

“Sonic,” Tails starts, “are you inside of an Eggman base right now?”

“Nah, just Rouge's apartment.”

Somehow Tails seems even more nervous at that prospect as the sounds of fidgeting increases over the connection. “I really don't think she'd want you getting into her things…”

“What? Dude, are you chickening out right now?”

“No! I just—” Tails sighs heavily and it crackles down the line. “She's practically the only person that can go key to key with me. Do you know what kind of damage she could do to my network if she found out that I—”

“Relax, Tails! It's not hers anyway, it's Shadow's stuff.”

“Shadow…? Wait.” Tails pauses. “Are you in Shadow's room?” Tails asks incredulously, voice rising in pitch at the end.

“They’re both letting me crash here for a couple days while I—” He grimaces. “While we handle some stuff. Nothing too big.”

“So, you want me to help you get into Shadow's safe then?”

“Sure do. C'mon, dude, I know you've gotta be at least a little bit curious.”

“All right,” Tails concedes with a smile he can practically hear. “Let's do it.”

“Yes!” He fist pumps the air before realizing Tails can't see it. “Okay, just lemme know what you need, bud.”

“First up, is there an electronic keypad or a dial?”

“Keypad.”

“And how many digits does it let you put in before failure?”

He squints, trying to remember his first failed attempt. “Five. Yeah, definitely five.”

He hears typing on a keyboard from Tails’ end, and he didn't realize how much he missed the ease of this, of them solving something, putting two and two together. It's not face to face, side by side, not like how it used to be. But it's still something at least.

“Try 62742.”

“Got it.” When he inputs the code, there's a thunk and the door comes free when he tugs on it. “Woah! Awesome work, dude.”

Tails laughs and he can hear the desk chair creak as Tails most likely settles back into it smugly. “I have my moments.”

“So, how'd you figure it out?” he asks as he pulls the door wide.

“First off, there's only a few things Shadow cares about, really. That we know of, of course. I figured that he also has experience with keypads considering the ARK had a more antiqued telecommunications system. So, I pulled up what one of the ARK communicators looked like and found another reference for how each number corresponds to certain letters on older telephones. The rest was easy.”

“Lemme guess,” Sonic starts amusedly, “it spells out Maria.”

“Yup.”

“The guy's nothing if not predictable.”

“Well, what's inside?” Tails asks. “You gotta share now since I helped you get in.”

“All right, all right. Hold on a sec,” he mutters before taking it all in.

His fur pricks, ears strained forward as he stares at the line-up of firearms on the upper shelf of the safe. Some kind of insert bought to keep them secure, neatly lined up, ammo boxes collected in another compartment beside them.

“Well, he definitely has a thing for guns.”

Tails laughs nervously. “I guess we already knew that from the Black Arms incident.”

“Yeah.”

And at the least, that whole thing is more than behind them now. Shadow's issues with his memory had caused more than a few hiccups along the way. He still remembers the way Shadow's eyes looked when he first came upon him at the start of the Black Arms invasion. Confused, desperate, angry at something or someone, like he didn't remember what had happened on the ARK, but that something was wrong regardless. It didn't help that he had Doom whispering in his ear the whole time, making things even worse.

“Is there anything else?” Tails asks.

He looks lower, getting on his hands and knees as he sees the corner of something tucked up under the lowest shelf. Gnabbing it between his fingers, he pulls it free. A large manila envelope slides out, the kind with the little metal clasp to keep it neatly shut and everything.

“Huh…”

“What?”

“Guess he's got mail.”

“Are you gonna open it?” Tails asks.

“We came this far, don't see why not.”

For a moment, he hesitates. Shadow probably doesn't want anyone to see what's in here. The guns he gets, those are supposed to be stored like this, it's unsurprising, practically a boring find. If not one that scratches at him in a way he'd rather not inspect too closely. He's only glad he has no idea where to even start with handling a firearm, let alone loading one and getting the safety off.

He undoes the clasp and tips the envelope until the contents slide out. He'll put everything back exactly how he found it after. No harm no, no foul. He blinks at the tape deck, the unlabeled cassette inside of it, the retro headphones tangled around it that tumbled out alongside it all. A round data disk falls out next, encased in a heavy-duty plastic cover. Weird. Another smaller envelope spills out last and he snatches it up instead. It's thick and off-white, yellowed with age at the seams and where the glue bit at it over the years. When he pours its guts into his hand, a stack of Polaroids greets him. Distorted in places, warped like they'd been held near a fire too long. He frowns as he files through them.

The first one is obviously a photo from the ARK, of the Professor sitting in a chair with Maria standing at his shoulder. He flips to the next one and it's some kind of laboratory. Empty and sparse except for the backdrop of stars outside the large windows. He goes to the next one. Shadow’s settled on the edge of an exam table, hooked up with wires and nodes, looking away from whoever took the photo and towards the same windows from before. Another one. It's Maria this time, pointing up at the ceiling of the observation deck—he recognizes the floor, he's pretty sure he can't forget it—with Shadow kneeled beside her, following her lead. There's something softer about him in these photos. Something he can't quite place. Younger maybe. Less…whatever he is now. It's—

“Sonic?” Tails asks.

He snaps back into himself. This definitely isn't something he should be seeing. He shoves them all back in the envelope and puts everything back where he found it in a rush before shutting the safe and locking it again. His face burns hot. The realization he knew all along hitting him only after he'd already done it.

He shouldn't have touched that. It was obviously private.

“Sonic? What happened?” Tails asks.

“Nothing, I—” He looks over his shoulder like Shadow’s already going to be standing there. An empty room greets him instead. Shit. Shit. Something else. He needs to think of something else. Do something else. “Hey, do you think you could figure out how to rig up something so we can get two-player on an old console, but long distance?”

“Hm…” Tails hums, seeming to contemplate calling him out on the abrupt subject change. “Yeah, definitely. Just give me a sec, and I'll need the name of the console when you get a chance.”

“Can do.”

Maybe it's a coward's way out, but he jogs out into the living room and far away from the safe and the guns and its photos and everything else about it that he can't quite put a name to.

“No, no—” His pixelated car skids off the blocky race track and abruptly explodes into tiny 8-bit smithereens. He slams his controller down with a groan. “What?! That's literally cheating! You're literally cheating, dude!”

“Nope, that one was fair and square,” Tails says smugly. “You're just mad you're the one who missed the shortcut this time.”

“No way! My guy can't even use it, c'mon.”

Tails laughs. “Maybe next time check those stats before you pick your vehicle.”

Sonic rolls his eyes. “Yeah, whatever, pull up another race already and let's see how you do this time.”

“You're on.”

It took a bit of finagling and rummaging around in the kitchen and media cabinet for him to find what he needed, but they somehow got a decent setup going. He's only lost six out of ten races, but it's definitely the controller he's using being all weird. One hundred percent. Tails whoops loudly over the call as he wins another race. Sonic shakes his head, smiling. He feels…good. It's the best way he can put it. For once it's just this and nothing else.

He glances over his shoulder, fingers tapping at the controller as he picks it back up. He should probably apologize to Tails. He should. For everything. For making Tails think he was dead that day. For not being there for six months. For leaving him all alone like that. For leaving him behind when he shouldn't have. For being a shitty big bro and an even shittier friend lately.

He clears his throat. “Hey, bud. I…”

There's an abrupt beep-beep tone that cuts through on Tails' end of the call.

“Oh, shoot! I really really need to finish this thing for Amy real quick,” Tails says, the sound of him scrambling up and grabbing something echoing from the speakers on his transceiver. “I'll call you later, Sonic!”

“Yeah, sure thing, bud.”

Tails hangs up and the line goes dead. He watches the little line flatline on the transceiver, only jumping ever so slightly from the static left behind from the disconnected call before he finally cuts it off on his end too. Slumping back against the couch, he gropes around for the remote and hits the power button. He stares at the blacked out screen, face flat. From this angle, he can barely make out the reflection of familiar blues and tans, of his stuffed animal counterpart still trapped under the coffee table right where he shoved it.

see? all alone again. it always comes back to this doesn't it doesn't it doesn't i

The kitchen tiles are cold under his bare feet as he trudges into it. There's a note on the counter, bright neon green. He plucks it off and reads over it dully. ‘Take two every four hours if needed’. The pain pill bottle and mechanical timer settled beside it start to make a lot more sense. He tosses the note back onto the counter and heads for the fridge. There's another note waiting for him there, this one more detailed, explaining what he can eat and what he should avoid for now. Nestled below it, he finds another one with Rouge's own handwriting. ‘Call if you need anything <3’. He pulls both of the notes off the fridge and tosses them onto the counter with the other one he already ignored, hot all over from head to toe.

He's not some house pet, and he's not a complete idiot either. He looks towards the hallway, the balcony, and walks into the living room instead to stare at the front door. His hands work in and out of fists, eyes jumping from the knob to the seam of light sneaking in under the decayed weather strip. Like sleepwalking, he finds himself back inside the kitchen a moment later. No one's here except for himself. The tiles sting under his feet at the realization. His wrists ache and itch without reason. He wrings at them and then shakes them out in an attempt to get rid of the feeling.

A glance at the wall clock proves fruitless. It'll be a while before either of them come back around.

they're not coming to get you they're not coming they're not going to save you no one's coming to

He's pacing back and forth inside the kitchen before he realizes it, his stomach turning over and over, his chest starting to go too tight all over again. He can't tell if it's hunger or nausea or both or neither. He opens the fridge and stares at the labeled tupperware containers neatly stacked to one side, pre-portioned, pre-made, his name in dry erase marker on the lids. He bypasses them for the egg carton and smacks the fridge door closed again with his foot. He can make his own food. He doesn't need anyone to cook for him or spoon feed him here.

burden you'll always be a burden to them dead weight pathetic

It takes a bit of rummaging around until he finally finds where the pans are stashed. He sets it on the stove with a thud and goes to dig the olive oil out of the pantry. Black pepper. Hot sauce. Anything to drown the taste of them in after. He lets the oil heat up before cracking two eggs into its belly, quickly washing the slime of the viscera off his hands under the tap before scraping them dry with the handtowel until his handpads sting.

He watches them turn from clear to off-white, going opaque at the center and edges. The wall clock ticks away loudly in the silence. He stares at the counter. The reflective metal trim of the stove top. Hands settle on his waist and he whips around, heart in his throat to see nothing and no one. He scrubs his hands over his sides, pushing the sensation off and away, tugging at the hem of his shirt, pulling at it until a hem in the neckline pops.

“It's fine, man, you're fine, just forget about it.” Great. Talking to himself again. He thought he kicked that habit to the curb already.

He huffs, smoothing his hands over his quills and taking a deep breath. Okay. He just needs to turn the eggs over. Easy. Spatula. He needs a— His eyes rove over the countertop. Where do they keep the—there it is. He leans over to pluck it out of the container pushed up against the backsplash and the edge of the counter digs into his hips. There's teeth buried in his shoulder, someone draped over his back, heavy and huffing around his blood and fur, pinning him down into the metal bench under his chest and stomach, spread knees dug into the floor, hips carved against the lip of it on each thrust forward. He jerks away so fast the spatula slips out of his hand and smacks into the pan’s handle, sending it flipping up on the stove. Oil splatters onto the stove top and hisses and spits. One of the eggs nearly slips out and he rights it all as fast as he can, panting frantically through his teeth.

he's there he's there still there you never left you never left you never

He digs the heel of his palm into his brow until it hurts. His wrists feel heavy. His fur sticky and too tight. His other hand massages at his shoulder, kneading at the scar tissue, at the sensation of spit and blood gathered and drying that isn't there.

wash it off wash it off wash it off

“Okay! Okay, maybe, just…” he trails off, eyes jumping towards the hallway. “A shower. And then food. And then…”

Wait. Can you shower with stitches? Geez. He can't even remember what the Doc said anymore. He wasn't supposed to with his surgeries, but only after so much time. And he's not about to call Shadow here. Hell no. The guy already probably thinks he can't take care of himself half the time and he's not about to reinforce that rhetoric. He's probably busy doing more important stuff anyway. There's no point in bothering him for no reason.

The eggs start to pop incessantly and he knows he's overdone the frying on them by now. He plates them and stares at them, twisting the fork around in his hand. The metal tines flash under the overhead light and he hears panting in his ears, someone breathing hard, wet, frantic. He drops the fork onto the countertop with a clatter and screws his eyes shut.

Right, yeah. Yeah. Fine. Whatever. It's— Sonic scrubs at his face and sighs. It's whatever. He'll just shower first and then eat after. It's a foolproof plan. He's long overdue for another one anyway…

What could possibly go wrong?

The shower helps.

It also doesn't. His heart won't settle down for even a moment after he steps out and towels off. More quills and fur come away and he stares at them caught in the fabric and littering the bathroom floor and he throws the towel down over it all in a futile attempt to cover up the evidence. In the living room, he finds the tablet Shadow handed over to him before his bath yesterday.

He rifles through it, finding a collection of books downloaded, romance ones, crime thrillers, way too many texts on gemstone composites and minerals. He can only assume this is Rouge's device then. It only takes a few minutes of reading about calcite before his eyes start to glaze over, restlessness turning him to clicking into the same browser he opened before. The news article he opened in the bath spills out onto the screen and he skims it, back to front, front to back, xeroxing every word into the back of his eyelids. It's pretty much what he expected from an op-ed section. He just never expected to see an entire article span dedicated to himself like this. More specifically his quote unquote ‘slow descent into depravity’. He wrinkles his snout, swiping his thumb over the screen to highlight a section of the interview portion where a woman he's never spoken to, doesn't even know, has more than a lot to say about him.

‘I don't think he understands how many kids look up to him. I mean, he's on everything these days. TV, cereal boxes, they've even made action figures of him. You'd think he'd understand he needs to conduct himself a little more maturely. He's a role model, and frankly, as a parent, I don't think he's safe for kids to be around. Did you see that last piece TKZ put out? The things he's getting up to, it's not something I'd want my teenager to stumble across and think ‘well, if Sonic is doing it, then I can, too’.’

He grits his teeth and closes the article. He tries to look at anything else and then opens the history tab and pulls it up again. The title glares back at him. ‘Hometown Hero or Another Childhood Celebrity Off the Rails?’

He's not a celebrity. He's not a role model. He's not even a hero. He's not supposed to have kids looking up to him like that. Commercials and TV spots and all the stupid things he signed on for when he was younger. Maybe it was just the attention. Money. Paying rent. Helping Tails establish his workshop network across the Islands and then the continent proper. But contracts are forever if you don't read the fine print. It's not like he can tell them to stop putting his face everywhere and anywhere they want to put it.

He lets the tablet flop over onto his stomach, his eyes roving over the ceiling instead. After a moment, he picks it back up and closes out of all the tabs. He opens a new one, fingers hovering over the keys. One letter and then the other follows, and it's like they have a kind of their own. When he looks back up at the search bar, indecent assault stares back at him.

‘Blood found in fur. Semen. Possible evidence of Indecent/Sexual Assault. Patient declined further examination.’

The results scroll out over the page and he hits the first one.

A person commits an offense if, without the other person's consent and with the intent to arouse or gratify the sexual desire of any person

(1) touches the anus, breast, or any part of the genitals of another person;

He immediately closes the search results and opens up a fresh page, throat tight.

indecent assault vs rape

He hits search. The first few results he scrolls past. A forum entry presents itself and he lingers over it. [Serious] Male victims of sexual assault, harassment, or rape, to clear some common misconceptions, what were your experiences like?

When he opens the forum board, he skims through the answers, scrolling too fast to read too much, vision unfocused and too fuzzy to catch onto anything. There's snippets of things, repeated words and phrases and a common sentiment that's easy to gather the further he goes. It's a feeling he hasn't felt in a very long time. Like an outsider looking in. A suggested list of Q and A threads sits at the bottom. He scrolls through them, a small part of him hoping maybe there's at least one person who's asked a question that's just like him.

[AITA] why doesn't my boyfriend understand that women would rather die than be r**ed?

It's not what he's looking for in the slightest. There's a handful of down votes on it as much as there are up votes. He clicks on it anyways. A sinking feeling drags at his stomach as he reads through the top answers.

‘I’d literally rather slit my throat than live with that’ ‘its cause he doesn't understand we'd rather get mauled to death ☠️.’ ‘guys just don't get that literally any girl would rather choose to die than be 🍇d. they just dont have to deal with this bullshit🙄’

there were no survivors on the Death Egg. there were no survivors. there were no other survivors. just you. no one else said yes except for you. no one fucked him except you. you let him. you let him. you let him. you let him. you wanted him to—

‘He raped you, didn't he?’

He closes out of the forum board and swipes at the sweat clumping his fur, the sting in his eyes.

No. He can't call it that. He can't. Obviously. Because. Because…

anyone else would've just slit their own throat, right? chosen the airlock instead. died a hero. died a—

It's not what happened in that cell. It's not the same. He's a stain on that record if he lumps himself in with the people in that first forum thread, with people like Shadow who never deserved for any of that to happen to them in the first place.

He pushes the tablet off of his stomach and lets it fall onto the couch cushions. He turns over, curling his knees up towards his chest as he stares at the TV and gropes around for the remote blindly.

he wanted to live he wanted to see his friends again he wanted to get out he wanted to get out he did what he had to he just did what he had to he just did what he had—

really? are you sure that's all it was?

He turns on the TV and switches over to the DVD player input. Shadow must've not finished the movie off last night then. It’d explain all the food cooked and boxed up in the fridge that wasn't there yesterday. He continues it, watching it idly, arm half-hanging off the couch, limp and lifeless.

why did he tell Shadow any of that last night. why. he shouldn't have ever said anything. so why did he—

it's because you grabbed him that night. you're no better. you're just as bad. how many people have you hurt. how many people have you—

He screws his eyes shut and twists over onto his back, reaching for the tablet again before he can reconsider it. Flickers of moments, pieced together loosely and ill-fitted, flit through his head, grinding at the edges like broken glass. The collie in the car, too past drunk to know half of what he was doing, the badger bartender who just wanted to make sure he didn't end up face down in the street. More and more. Faces, no names. Shadow staring at him, wide-eyed from the couch, limbs drawn in like he'd bit him, like he was going to keep biting him. Some kind of rabid, feral dog gone bad.

He scrambles for the remote, switching it all over to cable instead. He flicks through channels for something to fill up the space between his ears that isn't himself. An action movie, guns, fight scenes. He lets it play out and watches it like it's the most riveting thing he's ever seen. Before long, the stoic tiger leads a gazelle in a tight red dress back to his room, all stereotypical, raunchy, the kind of thing he'd roll his eyes at if the way he grabs her and hoists her against the wall to mouth at her neck didn't make his heart race. Every drop of blood goes south before he can think about it. The actors end up in bed with each other before long and his hand finds its way under the hem of his boxers alongside them. It's not even good. It's not even satisfying. He comes down from it and the movie’s long moved onto something else and he stares at it like he's seen a ghost. Still restless. Still hot all over.

He swipes his fingers off on his shirt and snatches up the tablet again. He opens an incognito browser, following a familiar routine he hasn't done since he hit puberty like a freight train and then the second round of it hit even harder. At least with porn he doesn't have to read the comments. At least he doesn't have to accidentally see his name or what they think about him or anything else. At least he doesn't have to think about it at all. About anything. He can just disappear for a little while...

…

It's only when he glances at the time display in the left corner that he realizes it's been hours of the same routine. That he even zoned out at all. He's beyond over-sensitive when he finally yanks his hand out of his shorts. It's not even a blissful numbness anymore. He's practically chafed. Aching. On this side of a little too raw. He doesn't even remember coming this time. The last thing he watched idles on the screen and he quickly exits out of it. ‘Brutal’, ‘extreme’, ‘rapeplay’, the title a scatter of words that sends bile up behind his teeth. He's tacky with sweat, the fabric from his shirt sticking to him in all the wrong places, his calves stuck like velcro to the sofa cushions.

There's no spike of adrenaline left. No doped up wave crash to get him to sleep, to knock him flat and out on his ass. His hand is tacky with slick at the fingertips, finger pads pruny. And somehow he can still smell breath-wet metal, fevered sweat mingled with too cold steel, the raised lines of it pressed into his shoulders. He can hear the grunting in his ears. Huffing. Labored breaths. Smell his own blood where he's driven ragged, blunted claws into his palms as hard as he can.

Laying on his back, he stares up at the ceiling light and the unease grows. He can't tear his eyes away from the recessed metal casing. The bright glare of it. The way it never turns off. His heart stamps in his chest, mouth dry as he tries to swallow and look away, but he can't. He can't. He counts the lines that unfurl from around the light, the spackled ceiling plaster fading into smooth metal, the whole room shrinking in around him. His cell. His bunk. His. All of it. It's all he has. This is all he has now; the hands that grab him by the knees and wrench them apart.

It's like his arms are locked to his sides all over again. A wire wound through his jaw, clenched shut so tight his molars ache. He thinks he tries to say something. His breath whining out of his chest in rapid seams through his teeth. It's. it's.. it's…

There's a superposition. Two negatives sliding over one another, clear through the whites, coherence somewhere underneath. He knows where he is, he knows exactly where he is, but he doesn't at the same time. There's fabric cradled under his shoulders, the bite of unkind steel roughly gnawing at them on each thrust. His hands grab at the cushioned foam under them, at nothing, at themselves. Unyielding metal. Everywhere, always.

He counts the lines on the ceiling overhead. Five…. Fifteen…. Thirty-eight... Forty-one... For—his jaw cinches harder. Hot air collects sticky in the junction of his neck and shoulder from someone else's mouth—ty. Where? His eyes jump along the seams. He lost track. He has to start over. He has to. There's tiles slipping around overhead, everything dead still and frantic at the edges. One. He forgets how to breathe. Two. Three. Four. Everything burns right where it shouldn't. Fi— five? Six? No. No. Not again. He can't do it again. He can't. He can't he can't he—

He doesn't want to be here anymore. He wants to go home. He wants to—

He jolts upright, wide-eyed, shaking. Knees locked, hands grabbing at his chest like he can smother out the beating there. He laughs and feels the reflexive smile slide into a grimace, his breath leaving him faster than he can suck it back in. His head aches, his entire body. From his neck to his navel to his tail. Like he's thrown himself through a Badnik’s gears, let himself get chewed through them again and again. He laughs like it's being wrenched out of him, loud and tight, his eyes hot. Practically burning. He smears at them shakily with his hands before slapping them tight over his muzzle as he dry heaves into stale air and curls over his legs.

“Shit…” He feels beyond sick now. From his stomach all the way to the back of his throat. “Get it together already, man.”

He smacks the heel of his palms into his ears and snarls. He needs to go for a run. Fight someone. He needs a drink. He needs to do something. Anything else besides sit here. He's sick and tired of feeling sick and tired.

Maybe he just needs to fuck someone.

He doesn't even care who or how or why. Maybe he misses the rush of it, the crash, the numbness, the nothingness. The floating away, the forgetting, the far away drag. Maybe it's because it's someone actually looking at him, talking at him—not even to him, but touching him. Just there, real and there, and something else besides himself. It's just anything else. Holding him, fucking him; it's all the same thing anyway. It's all the same. It all does the same thing. He just needs to be anywhere else right now. Drunk or high or passed out or fucked or all four at once.

Shadow isn't here. Rouge isn't here. No one's here. He's all alone again. He draws his legs in tight, chin resting on his knees, arms wrapped around himself. He stares at the door.

It's just him up here. It's just him…

Shit. Maybe he is losing it.

Another shower. He can take another shower. That's something he can do. Maybe it'll put his head on straight or something. He's pretty sure Tails has rambled about something like that before. Some kind of mammal-water reflex thingy or other. Yeah. He can do that. He'll just go get clean again.

filthydisgustingpatheticyouveseenthewaytheylookatyouhaventyou

He scrubs dully at his arms as he stands, a thickness that isn't really there settled over his fur. Invisible dirt, stubborn grime. He'll wash up and then try to make something to eat and then figure out the rest of his evening after. It'll all be fine after. Shadow and Rouge have to come back eventually. They'll be back eventually.

They'll…

He looks at the door to the apartment.

It's fine.

He's fine.

They'll come back.

He'll come back.

He's beyond tired of the stitches. He can feel them right there under his skin, like every single one is chewing into him, crawling their way deeper and deeper. He scrubs and scrubs and scrubs at them under the spray of near scalding water and thinks about knocking on the neighbor's door, about finding out who the owner of the deep voice he heard outside was. If that blue dog chick he saw at the complex before is around anywhere. Someone. Anyone. Literally anyone else. He doesn't care anymore. It doesn't even matter. It never really did or does. that's not true though, is it? Just another warm body with a pulse who wants to fuck him and touch him and grab him just because they can.

He thinks about grey fur and claws and endless rows of bared teeth. He thinks about jerking off, about shoving his fingers inside himself so far that he ruins all the progress he's already made with healing. About finding someone else who will make it even worse. Someone that'll make him bleed until there's nothing else to even think about. He scrubs his hands over his throat and pushes his thumbs in. He feels like throwing up. He feels like he's going to fall apart, scatter into pieces of meat at the bottom of the tub. It all feels so much larger than him. Bigger. The need. It's all he can even think about.

He presses his face into the chilled tiles and reaches down between his legs and ignores the way his side pinches and pulls and burns the whole while. An arm wraps around himself. His own, no one else's. he's not coming back this time is he is he is he. Dull nails dig their way into one of the long scratches down his side. He hears the pop-tear of the stitches before he feels them.

He'd anticipated the footsteps. He'd anticipated the food and water in Infinite's hands. He'd anticipated a lot today and still he hadn't anticipated Infinite trying to rope him into an actual conversation. Maybe it's because he’d usually be at the cell’s bars by now, waiting for the jackal to no-clip through them already. Today, he's tired. Plain, simple, and he spent the last who knows how long having to convince himself he didn't hear the Tornado's engine outside his cell. That there's no way for a plane to fit in the corridor regardless. He knows that. But it didn't stop it from being right there. Like he could reach out and touch it if he tried.

“A conversation wouldn't hurt now and then, would it?” Infinite asks.

So now Infinite feels like opening his mouth for once. Great. “Maybe if you gave me literally anything to look at ‘sides the walls I'd be a little more chatty.”

“Such as?”

He perks up at that. And he hates himself all the more for thinking there's even a chance Infinite might listen to him for once. “I, uh,” he clears his throat, swiping a hand down his muzzle as he racks his brain for literally anything besides all the blanks he's suddenly drawing. He really didn't think he'd get this far. “I dunno, a book, I guess? Some paper ‘n a pencil maybe. Dealer's choice.”

“And have you given a reason for me to provide you with any of those things?”

No. Not really. Not today at least. He knows how he could, but—

Without another word, Infinite tosses in a protein bar and a half-filled water bottle. The latter rolls lazily along the floor, the inside a sloshing collection of powder tinted water. His mouth tastes chalky at the sight of it. He knows the cap isn't sealed on this one, they almost never are.

Definitely a no go on the water then. He snatches up the foil wrapped protein bar. He can't see any tampering with it, but it doesn't mean it's not there. His stomach clenches, a cold sweat breaking out under his fur. Today's a sedate-the-hog kind of day then. Awesome. He laughs, because what else is he supposed to do? He's tired of staring at the same damn Chao waving back at him. ‘Protein Chao Max’ might as well be emblazoned on the back of his eyelids at this point. He wants to throw the bar back in Infinite’s face. He wants to smash it into the ground and grind it up into every groove in his cell. He doesn't want to eat another one of these things as long as he lives.

“Another protein bar. Wow,” he says tonelessly as he tears it open. It's a task easier said than done. There's an involuntary tremor in his fingers that hasn't stopped since he started finding quills and fur on the floor that he's one hundred percent sure he's not supposed to be shedding this fast. “What a surprise...”

“Would you rather I bring you nothing at all?” Infinite asks.

He grimaces, more to himself than Infinite. He should just keep his mouth shut. Nothing good ever comes in here when he runs his mouth apparently.

“Then stick with a flavor change. Just…” He knows the only thing that appeals to Infinite's reason is a hassle and a mess to handle. “If I eat one more cinnamon maple anything I'm gonna upchuck.”

There's a long pause. “Noted.”

It's better than a flat out no.

Sonic turns on his heel without another word, kicking the water bottle under the cell’s bench for later when he feels like stomaching it. Eventually he'll get thirsty enough he won't care what happens after anyway. That's how it always goes.

His shoulders hit the wall as he slumps down into a bent-knee sit in the farthest corner from where Infinite is still standing outside his cell. It's like the guy has nothing better to do than watch him sometimes. His fur pricks uncomfortably. He pulls on a feral grin and waggles the bitten protein bar at Infinite like a taunt. All dredged muscle memory, sludge-sticky. It falls flat after a moment and he takes another dent out of his breakfast, lunch and probably dinner with the way things are going. Infinite merely watches it all.

Nothing he tries ever really does anything to rile Infinite in here. And if it does, it never really pans out how he expects anyway. There's the little things he's learned that he has to do in here regardless. Like counting the ceiling. Like remembering his friends' names. Like remembering his own.

He takes another too dry bite, chews and swallows. “Not comin’ inside today?” he deadpans. It's partially a joke. Partially.

“Is that what you would prefer?” Infinite asks.

Helpfully. Cordially. Like he doesn't have him locked in a cage. It's even posed like a genuine question too.

Sonic stares at his sneakers. He chews off another piece and tries not to spit it out.

“Well?”

He's tired. He's so tired and it's funny almost, that out of everything he didn't expect to ever feel so damn— “Sure…whatever.”

He finishes off the last of the protein bar and crumples up the wrapper before tossing it as far away from himself as he can. It falls limply onto the floor and stays there. He knows it bothers Infinite when he trashes his cell. It's why he stopped getting fed anything that didn't come wrapped up in plastic or otherwise. He just likes that the wrappers briefly make it one less scrap of floor he has to look at.

“I don't really care either way,” he adds for good measure.

In a scatter of red light, Infinite is there, crouching in front of him, grabbing his jaw in firm fingers and wrenching his face up towards him. “That's not entirely true though, is it?”

They both know it's not.

He's got nothing to say anymore anyway. He knows how this one's supposed to go. He smiles around the bad aftertaste and grit stuck in his mouth. It's sharp, entirely feral at every angle. He reaches for the wrists of Infinite’s gloves and starts to tug them off.

While G.U.N. is still out of commission, apparently the Commander’s ability to call them out on a mission is not.

Rouge had gotten the call first, him shortly after. A cursory investigation into an illegal fighting ring. Something underground, something they don't usually handle or cover if it weren't for the use of neural implant technology. Something similar to Gerald Robotnik's own memory rewrite network. The design would've had to have been scraped from ARK files, something that would've ordinarily been kept behind enough firewalls it'd be impossible to scrape. But with G.U.N. headquarters having sat as little more than rubble for well over a year now, it's not surprising that some individuals have been scraping through its innards for anything to sell off or use for themselves.

It had taken longer than he would've liked for them to wrap up the initial scouting. To even find an opening for Rouge to slip inside the casino and down into the basement levels of it. Once the sun started to set and she'd gotten settled in to where she was going to stay until she got all the intel she needed to bring back to the Commander, she told him to go home. Check on the apartment. To stop pacing around so much, that she could practically hear him from inside.

The unspoken words were far too easy to gather: ‘go see how Sonic's doing already.’

He blinks into place outside the apartment’s door, wedging the key out of its hiding place before unlocking it and pushing it wide. A thought crosses his mind, about knocking, about the last time he walked in unannounced and found Sonic becoming a lot more acquainted with himself than he needed to be. On the living room couch no less. And again, in his room, with his own pillow. He supposes it's better than the alternative. He only wishes the hedgehog was slightly more hygienic about it all.

He smells the burnt oil and plate of fried eggs before he sees them. The kitchen is empty. He can tell the lightbulbs have been cool for a long while. No one's been out here for some time. The stove is no longer warm either. Sonic must've made his own food and then abandoned it just as quickly the moment something else caught his attention. Typical. There's another smell, water, soap—a shower then. At the least, Sonic is keeping himself clean.

Another sharp breath through his nose reveals the familiar iron-penny stench hidden underneath it all. He's at the bathroom door in an instant, reaching for the knob and pushing it wide before he can think better of it.

Sonic looks up at him, wide-eyed, settled on the edge of the bathtub with one hand holding his side, pulling at the fur and skin to get a better view while the other pushes a needle and suture thread through it.

He clenches his teeth. Why can't Sonic just stay still for once?

“Uh,” Sonic laughs tightly. “Hey. How was it out there?”

“What happened?” he asks.

Sonic shrugs. “Not much really.”

Shadow takes a deep breath, his eyes closed for a moment. “What. Happened.”

“Fine, okay. I took a shower—two, actually, and I guess it messed up some of these,” Sonic says, glancing down at his side. “But hey, look! I got one of them back in! See? It's way easier than it looks honestly, so no big deal,” Sonic says, beaming, holding up the suturing needle with the thread still attached, not even flinching as it tugs at his side.

The conclusion comes to him in the kind of way he's always known it but never acknowledged it. There's something wrong with Sonic. There's something deeply seriously wrong with him.

“Did you properly sterilize the needle before you started?” Shadow asks, moving to kneel beside him before carefully plucking the needle from between Sonic's fingers as he reaches for the disinfectant bottle in the first aid kit.

“I mean…I got it out of there, so it's probably fine, right?”

Shadow frowns. “Then no.”

Shadow swipes a solution-soaked cotton swab over the needle. When he looks over Sonic to assess the situation a little more closely, there's blood on Sonic's fingers, on the sink counter, bare hand prints left behind on half the surfaces.

He disinfects and sterilizes his own paws before palpating at the stitches Sonic already wove into himself, mildly grateful the whole while that the doctor from Resistance Headquarters shaved down the fur in the area and that it's only begun to grow back sparsely. It's easy to see that the new handiwork is beyond sloppy. Shaky and uneven, and he can see where Sonic didn't pull the thread enough and pulled it too hard on the next pass. It's not even the right kind of stitches for a wound, more what someone would do if they'd seen one too many scenes in the movies and thought it was anything like the actual reality.

Sonic gropes at his wrist, tugging at him. “I can do it myself, man, I got it—”

Shadow pushes Sonic's attempts aside, the blood rushing in his ears. If he had gotten home any later, if he stayed away, if he hadn't come back in time, it could've been worse. It could've been so much worse. He can smell blood everywhere. The light strip above the mirror hums in the quiet between each of their breaths and when he closes his eyes there's blonde hair, stringy and red-wet-heavy across the floor and when he opens them there's tan and blue fur clumped and darkening in front of him.

“Shadow?”

He should clean the wound site. He should, but he doesn't have time to. His hands are shaking as he pulls the needle through the unraveled incision. ‘Promise me, Shadow. Promise me you'll—’ He grits his teeth and pulls it through and ties off the stitch before cutting it. He rethreads. He loops the point of the needle through skin again. Skin that gives way too easy, that bleeds too much. There's too much blood. There's so much of it and he can't—he can't—Maria’s going to—she’s—

“Hey, hey,” Sonic starts, grabbing his hands in his, the needle held so tight in Shadow's palm it bites in where it curves. “It's okay! I'm okay. I'm fine.”

There's a strangling sensation in his throat, a sound stuck in his chest. The march of heavy boots echo against metal flooring, someone shouts, the crack so loud his hearing cuts out into a sharp whine. Smoke, burnt oil, the glass in front of his snout scattered in red mist. There's someone breathing too fast, too frantically, and when he hisses the next pant in through his teeth he knows it's himself.

“Nope, no. Look at me, Shadow. You're not there.”

He tucks his chin, he stares at the blood and a sound leaves his throat that he's never heard before.

Sonic pats the side of his face gently. “C'mon, where's the Ultimate Lifeform gone off to? Cause I sure don't see him here.”

He wrinkles his muzzle at that, glaring up at Sonic.

“Oo, there he is!” Sonic crows, grabbing his bloodied hands between his and rubbing the backs of them soothingly. “Welcome back! Thought we lost you there for a sec.”

He pulls his hands free of Sonic's. The drying blood smeared over his aching palms lingers and lingers.

“I—” Shadow swallows around the thickened spit stuck in his throat. “I need to finish the stitching…”

Sonic snaps the last of the suture thread off and sets the needle aside with a sharp click on the counter. “I'm sure it's fine.”

“No, I'm supposed to bandage it. I have to make sure it's secured or they could pull again. You have to keep them dry or you'll—you could get—”

“Hey, no, no, it's good. I'm all good.” Sonic pats his own side, over the finished row of stitching. “Everything's totally peachy, see?”

Shadow reaches for it, his fingers lightly tracing the edges. The blood is not fresh anymore. There's less than he thought there was. Far less. He splays his hand over the wound and feels Sonic's ribs push back against his palm as he rests it there. Alive. Breathing. He's okay. He's…

The heel of Sonic's hand falls against his brow and playfully pushes at it. “Where'd you wander off to up there anyway?”

He brushes Sonic's hand aside. He stands. He methodically cleans his hands in the sink and scrubs at the fur up to his elbows until his skin stings. The basin swirls with steam and pinkish water. His eyes stay down, trained on the slowly disappearing film of blood as he shuts the tap off.

“Nowhere important.”

Before Sonic can get another word in, he's out of the door, the crackle-wheeze-rattle of a bullet punctured lung stuck in his ears.

Sonic watches the door shut behind Shadow. It's a familiar picture by this point, the other hedgehog always seeming to leave the second it feels like he's managed to see any part of Shadow the other doesn't want him to see. He washes his hands off in the sink and uses a washcloth to tidy up everything else. It'll probably have to get hit with a cleaner or two later, but that's for another day.

At the least, Shadow came back home way after he got out of the shower. Shadow didn't see the moment he saw the thinned blood streaked down his side and leg in the mirror, the way he split the wound open wider, digging his fingers into it like he could reach in and rip out whatever won't stop festering in there. It hadn't even hurt. The opposite really. He swipes his hands dry with the hand towel and frowns at the opened first-aid kit, the abandoned needle and thread.

At least Shadow’s home now. At least someone else is in the apartment. He can hear footsteps making their way back down the hall, the presence of someone somehow making everything else from before seem so small, practically insignificant. Like it doesn't even really matter now.

There's a sleeping pill shoved into Sonic's hand the moment he makes his way out of the bathroom.

“Take the bed again tonight,” Shadow says before going to turn on his heel.

He catches Shadow by the shoulder. “Wait, dude.”

It's not like he can just forget the way Shadow looked in there. Shaking, ears pressed back, eyes wide and beyond haunted, flicking back and forth over everything and nothing all at once. The sound, too. Tight, fast breaths, a low distressed whine like it came straight from Shadow's throat. His fur prickles even just remembering how it sounded.

“What?” Shadow grits out.

“Didja wanna share again? With me?” Sonic almost winces. Stupid. Duh. There's no need to clarify. Who else is even here? He hasn't heard Rouge yet, so he can only assume she's still out and about.

Shadow's muzzle wrinkles into a gnarled grimace. “Fine.” Shadow says it like he's spitting the word. For a moment he regrets asking, but he recognizes that look on Shadow's face now. Embassassment. Regret.

“Cool, all right.”

‘Nowhere important.’ Yeah, he'd bet a million rings it begins with AR and ends with K. It's the first time he's ever seen all the careful walls Shadow keeps around himself come down. Maybe the guy really is a softy somewhere deep, deep down there.

Sonic grins toothily before he can stop himself.

“Stop making that face,” Shadow says flatly.

“What face?” he asks, smile widening.

“That one.”

“Well?” Sonic asks, not dropping it in the slightest. “Aren't you gonna lead the way to your chambers, your majesty?”

Shadow sneers with a crinkle to his mouth that can't be anything other than slightly fond. “Idiot...”

“Yeah, you sure like callin’ me that. I'm startin’ to think it's like a thing for ya.”

“You would think that,” Shadow says, shouldering past him and heading for the door to his room before wrenching it open. Shadow waits for him to go first.

“One sec.” Dry swallowing the pill is easier said than done and it nearly sticks to the back of his tongue before he manages to down it. The bitter taste lingers behind after and he grimaces. “Eugh, geez—” He scrubs the back of his hand over his snout with a shudder. “Remind me to never do that again.”

Shadow sighs heavily. “Just get in the bed.”

“Can do.”

The sleeping pill works slowly. Not as effectively with only one in his system. He feels it settle in like a stagger, the sluggishness pressing in, the sort of fuzziness growing in his skull. He sticks his snout into the mattress, turning over in bed and pulling the sheets tighter around himself. It's cold. Always just a little too cold. He gropes around for something else to drape over himself, an extra pillow, another blanket, anything. His fingers catch something warm and he drags it closer. He only realizes he's grabbed Shadow's arm when the other goes rigid, when he feels fur and sinew shift under his palm.

“Shoot, my bad,” he huffs out, letting go.

Without a word, Shadow shifts his arm towards him again. He blinks, peeking out from under the blanket at the other hedgehog who's watching him carefully. Tentatively, he takes it as an invitation, latching on with gentle fingers. It's something, but not enough. He shivers, teeth clicking. He wouldn't ordinarily say anything, wouldn't even dare to ask, but a lot of things don't matter as much as they did before he took the sleeping pill Shadow handed him.

“Is it okay if I—” He's not even sure how to word it. How to put it. Shadow will probably just say no anyway. Call him stupid or childish or something else. pathetic clingy needy

“If you what?” Shadow asks.

He pushes himself up by his hands and looks down at Shadow. He raises one hand and places it on the other side of Shadow until he's straddling over him by the arms. Slowly. Carefully. Watching Shadow’s face for a moment of rejection, for any kind of unease. He shuffles one knee over and then the other until his legs are between Shadow's slightly spread ones. Shadow's eyes don't leave his. He lowers himself slowly, until his chin rests on Shadow’s chest fur, the whole of him draped along Shadow like a living breathing blanket.

It's warm. Warmer than he ever expected. He can feel Shadow breathing, his heartbeat, the way his belly rises on each inhale and falls on each exhale. He tucks his arms in close around Shadow's sides, half a hug, half a way to make sure this is actually really something that is happening and not a strange dream.

Shadow huffs. When he looks up, there's an expression he can't really read on the other hedgehog’s face.

“Is this okay?” Sonic asks, ready to leave. Ready for him to say no. To push him off. Shove him away.

“Yes.”

Okay. Okay okay okay. So this is a thing. It's a thing that's happening. That's cool. He's so cool about this. He turns his head to the side and looks at the wall, anywhere but at Shadow, his face on fire for a reason he can't even explain to himself. He's literally done pretty much everything under the sun and more at this point, with complete and total strangers to boot, and this is somehow more embarrassing and terrifying than all of that combined.

“You're really warm, you know that?” It's rushed out, something to cover up the way he's pretty sure Shadow can hear how his heart has gone runaway.

“So I've been told.”

Shadow's hands move to tentatively settle on his shoulders and he stiffens at first, the fur on his nape standing on end. For a moment, Shadow starts to draw them away and he pushes up into the touch before he can retreat entirely. Once they settle on him again, he closes his eyes, relaxing into every inch of it. Maybe it's greedy to want this. Selfish. It's not like he's done anything for Shadow, hasn't even touched the guy's dick or slept with him or paid him back for the food and the bed and the everything else the hedgehog’s up and handed over more than freely. He curls his fingers in the sheets, wraps his arms tighter around Shadow like he's going to somehow disappear the moment he lets go.

He can't help but compare the two of them. Like a reflex. Like an on switch he can't seem to flick off. Everything always circles back and back. It's nothing like Infinite was, though. For one, the patch of white fur under his muzzle is much more comfortable than the Ruby ever was. He burrows his face into Shadow's fur and huffs in a deep breath. Lavender, clean linens, the slight acridness of the outside, city smog, somewhere from a different part of the world.

His ears flick back tightly when he realizes what he just did. Attempting to play it cool and pretend like he didn't just sniff him crosses his mind as he turns his head and looks pointedly at the wall instead of anywhere up towards Shadow who he can practically feel looking down at him.

“Did you just smell me?” Shadow asks, flat, and yet somehow beyond amused.

“No, dude—no, what?” Sonic laughs weakly. “You're totally hearin’ things.”

“Of course...”

“Hey, you're the one with the fancy body wash and fur moisturizer here. Sue me for takin’ a whiff.”

“At least I don't smell like two-in-one.”

Sonic scoffs, sleepily rolling his face against Shadow's chest. “’s three-in one usually. Or whatever the next shower I land in has got in it. I just used the bar soap by the sink this time. Didn't wanna use your fancy stuff in case you bit me for it.”

“Disgusting,” Shadow says, both somehow like an insult and strangely soft.

“Mmhm, thas’ me.”

“I’m buying you proper body wash tomorrow.” Shadow's fingers smooth over his shoulder. “And quill oil.”

“Whatever floats your boat….” Sonic wriggles his legs in an attempt to get more comfortable, his calves sliding along Shadow's in a slide of fur on fur that tickles up his spine. “Just not stuff that smells like a buncha flowers threw up on me, please.”

“There's other scents besides floral ones, you'd think you've never stepped foot in a store with the way you talk.”

“Sure I have, loads of times...” Sonic says.

“Tagging along behind your friends doesn't count.”

“Amy knows way more than me when it comes to getting a good deal ‘n Tails is always the one with the list. I'd basically be lost without ‘em.”

Shadow hums his acknowledgement. The light rumble of it under his snout is soothing somehow, in a way he can't really place. Slowly, his eyes drift shut, further and further.

Shadow's fingers continue to brush lightly over his shoulders and slowly smooth lower, into his back quills, weaving small patterns on the way down. Gentle hands card through the spines, grooming at the old ones he's neglected to pluck out himself, picking the keratin off the others. It's been a long time since someone else groomed him. Forever maybe. Since he was little enough he hardly remembers much of it besides the sensation.

It's nearly too much. Not enough. He's not really sure what it is. What he's supposed to do in return.

“Go to bed, hedgehog…” Shadow says, more a murmur, hardly a breath.

He closes his eyes and sleeps without dreaming for once.

When his Comm buzzes, Shadow can only assume that Rouge is on the other end of the line, her half of the mission wrapped up finally. Another case they can hopefully put behind them with minimal casualty and no journalists sniffing around for a story to peddle out. He sighs, looking down at the hedgehog spilled over his chest and lap. Extracting himself from underneath Sonic is difficult, but not impossible. Once he's up, he finds the discarded heated blanket and drapes it over the hedgehog’s already shivering shoulders and turns it on.

Hedgehog's get cold faster than other mammals. Normal hedgehogs at least. He read that much in his research on Rouge's tablet while querying the ‘search bar' the way she showed him to. Buying an actual space heater might be an endeavor he has to look into for when Sonic's here alone and needs to traverse around without a blanket constantly at arm’s length. The heating in the building is centrally controlled by the owner, or more aptly whoever is in the office at the time, kept at a temperature comfortable for most, but certainly not all. If Sonic plans to stay here longer, he'll have to make sure the environment is at least comfortable when he's not here.

He opens the door and steps into the hall, shutting it carefully behind him as he reaches up for the communications unit in his ear. When Sonic had wrapped his arms around him and smothered his face in his chest, he hadn't expected to find anything but discomfort in the action. He's tried before, to understand what kind of comfort it brings others and only ever found distaste in it. Unease. With Sonic, he hadn't felt it at all. Not a moment of feeling trapped or smothered, none of the usual sensations he can't quite shake off. It had been warm. As warm as any of them can be to him. The weight of someone else draped over him was somehow oddly comforting. Grounding.

He finally clicks the comm call through on the final ring and his ear twitches at the familiar crackle. His thoughts wander in the brief pause between the connection going through and someone talking. How many times did Sonic have to cling onto Infinite for warmth in his cell?

“Shadow?”

Shadow blinks. Amy doesn't generally contact him unless she needs something with the Resistance these days. “Is there an error with the papers I filed?”

“No, no, nothing like that! Everything was totally perfect last time I checked.” Amy laughs, but there's a tightness to it that belays her nervousness. “But, uhm, is there a way you could swing by HQ tomorrow maybe? I know you're probably super busy, and it's totally okay if you can't make it, I just—”

“I'll be there at 0800.”

“Oh,” Amy says. “Right, awesome. Okay! See ya then.”

He nods with an affirmed sound and remembers she can't see him a moment later. “Goodnight, Amy.”

There's a pause and he can almost see the way she usually blinks when she's surprised by something, ears perked forward and eyes bright. “Goodnight to you too, Shadow! Get some rest, okay? You deserve it.”

He's hardly done enough to warrant her well wishes. “You as well.”

The call falls through and he drops his hand back down to his side.

When he carefully settles back into bed, it's like Sonic is magnetized to him. The hedgehog instantly reaching for him and suctioning to his side, arms wrapped tightly around his middle. Sonic's muzzle comes to rest on him, puffing warm breaths into his chest fur. He tentatively wraps his arm around Sonic in response and leaves it there. The same sentiment as before circles endlessly. It no longer feels like he's constantly drifting like this, like he's barely there, more ghost than person. For once, he feels like maybe he's done as much as he could today and that maybe there's a tomorrow to look forward to.