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As the saying goes, there’s no rest for the wicked, and one of the most wicked happened to be the 2nd of the fatui harbingers, the doctor, or il dottore as known to the other harbingers. Though the man seemed to forget that he was human at points, that he too was restrained by bodily needs that he couldn’t just neglect until his never-ending work was done.
He’d try to anyways though, hunched over his desk scribbling down paragraphs of notes with nothing but a small candle keeping the room lit, as well as the illuminated biochemical test tubes that glowed a blue hue. They were all empty for the time being, from yet another dud in his experiments, promptly destroying all specimens beyond repair.
There was no use in keeping such useless trash if he couldn’t do anything with them. So he was stuck writing down what he did learn, to avoid the same errors that built up to this. He didn’t need such a thing, but it seemed that his manic clones and underlings did. It was time-wasting, in his opinion, using up the time he could’ve put into something better, something grander.
He rested his cheek on his closed fist, a sigh tumbling from his previously sewn-shut lips, he had been subconsciously clenching his jaw the entire time and now the side effects of straining were kicking in. his annoyed groan echoed throughout the abandoned lab, no one around but him since he had dismissed everyone in a fit of rage, better than killing all those useless fucks.
Fatigue was wearing on him, slowly but surely, he could tell. His pen was getting harder to hold, his trembling grip had caused him to make a small puddle of ink on the paper he was writing on. “Fuck…” he cursed, scrunching up the paper out of frustration before throwing it across the room. He hunched back in his chair, a permanent scrawl on his face as he slummed.
After a moment of sulking in silence, he grabbed another piece of paper and dipped his fountain pen in ink starting to rewrite what he had jotted down before, this time faster due to the muscle memory of each word. His wrist was starting to cramp with the amount of movement, which was extremely rare for him since he was used to writing this much, if not more.
“What in Celestia…?” He complained, his wrist twitching as he forced himself to keep writing, screw the cramping, screw all of it, he was beyond the trivial matters of body fatigue. All he needed to do was get past this and then get back to his work so he could indulge himself in his machines.
He had no care for sleep, he wasn’t planning on relaxing after this exhaustingly dull matter, he didn’t have the time to relax, he needed to get things done, and relaxing wasn’t productive. He hadn’t even known what time it was, no clue if it were morning, night, dusk or dawn… the only indicator that time was even passing was the soft ticking from the clock on the wall, it was the only thing dottore could hear at that moment, besides his enraged thoughts.
A wave of relief washed over him as he finished writing on the first page, stretching back to give movement to his limbs which were aching at this point. He winced when he heard something tip, he looked over and saw ink spilling onto and off of the table, “fucking dammit!” He practically kicked his desk out of frustration, breaking his pen in his hands as he forced himself out of his seat with enough force to make the chair topple over.
With a slouched, hunched posture he walked over to the counters littered with medical supplies, pulling out semi-stained wipes with traces of blood and probably some other kinds of substances on them. He just scoffed at how disgusting the place looked when not properly kept before walking back to his desk, setting the ink well back up and cleaning the rich black ink that covered the wooden top.
“I’m surprised to see you still down here, Doctor,” he flinched, his head snapping in the direction of the noise, relaxing upon realising who it was. He must’ve been really tired to not’ve noticed someone coming in, he always knew everything that entered and exited this facility. He stood up, looking at the man with relative disdain, “Don’t just welcome yourself unannounced, Regrator, I’m busy.”
He shook his head lightly, “I don’t particularly care if you’re busy, Doctor.” He answered honestly, his hypnotic eyes looking over Dottore’s dishevelled form as he supported his weight with his desk, “you look horrid, well, more horrid than you normally look.”
“Shut up,” He snapped, turning his head away as he continued to clean up the ink so it wouldn’t stain his property, “If you’re just going to attempt to mock me then I suggest leaving while you still have legs to walk on.” his voice was low and rough, to Pantalone, it sounded like he was struggling to even speak.
He tsked, walking closer without a care in the world, “I’m not here to ridicule you, Doctor.” That’s when dottore noticed a cup in his hand, which seemed to be a hot tea of some kind, maybe coffee, he couldn’t tell, “I decided to bring you something, wouldn’t want you dying on us after all.”
Dottore grimaced, taking the cup, uncaring that some spilled onto his gloved hand, “You just wanted to talk finances.” The other man chuckled, covering his mouth, “Maybe I did, but I assumed that that could wait.” He opened his eyes again, those violet eyes that always seemed to make Dottore feel some kind of way, it made him want to rip them out and reserve them in liquid-filled jars, “I wasn’t lying when I said you looked horrid.”
He rolled his eyes, taking his mask off to drink the hot beverage. Dottore doesn’t think that anyone besides Pantalone and a few others have seen him with his mask off. He wasn’t self-conscious or anything, even with his face being scarred but he still didn’t like people seeing his face. Though with the number of times the latter had seen him without his mask he grew used to the 9th’s eyes on him.
Though, just because he was used to his staring doesn’t mean he liked it. He frowned, his brows furrowing as he stared at the contents of the cup, he quickly walked off, a small growl escaping his lips as he mumbled curses. He heard the other male following suit, his footsteps not too far behind. His eye ticked as he ran his free hand through his hair.
There was a small balcony connected to the upper floors of his facilities, he normally went there to get away from his insufferable underlings constantly getting on his damn nerves. He pushed open the large solid doors which were made out of a kind of metal, cold rushing indoors mixing with the humid air that surrounded the halls of his workplace.
He looked back to Pantalone, “Are you just gonna stand there?” The black-haired male looked towards him for a moment before walking through the door, not answering with words, Dottore followed after, closing the door behind him. The banker looked to the blue-haired man, who was hunched over the railing, cupping the cup of tea as he looked onward at the endless snow that seemed to cover everything in the radius.
“How do you not get cold out here,” He mumbled to himself, going beside the Doctor, letting a shaky exhale tumble from his lips, his breath crystalising in the air. He shook his head, taking a sip of the surprisingly good-tasting tea, he wondered who he had gotten to make this, “You grow used to it…” He looked at him, a small smirk gracing his lips, “why? Are you cold?”
“What- no, no I’m not,” He quickly replied, though the shiver that followed afterwards didn’t go unnoticed by the Doctor, causing him to let out a chuckle of amusement, “If you’re so cold just leave me be, I don’t need your company.” It’s not that he didn’t like his presence– not that he’d ever admit that Pantalone was one of the few he could tolerate since he knew how to use his damned brain cells. He just didn’t see the point in him lingering for no reason, they were both wasting time by standing out here, doing nothing at all.
And he knew the both of them were busy men.
“And leave you to just go back to working until you pass out?” Pantalone asked, side-eyeing him with an expression Dottore couldn’t quite read, or maybe he just wasn’t paying close enough attention. He wouldn’t be surprised since he was too busy looking at his soft eyes and his pale skin, oh how he’d love strapping him down to a table to inspect him closer, too bad that would just be a fleeting fantasy. Pantalone chuckled, shaking his head, “as much as I hate you, I don’t particularly wish for you to work yourself into illness, it would affect my work too if that happened.”
He just hummed, taking another sip of the tea before handing it to him, “Well if you’re going to stay, may as well not let you freeze to death, I’m sure that damned archon would have my head if she found out.” He looked down, raising a brow, not getting the gesture. Dottore groaned, forcing himself not to get mad over something so little, “Drink it you buffoon, you won’t feel as cold, even if it’s only for a moment.”
He took the cup, holding it a lot more carefully than Dottore was, “How sweet of you, So it seems the Doctor does have a heart.” The older man scrawled, mumbling something, probably profanatory under his breath as the black haired drank a bit of the tea, before sitting it down on the flat railing of the balcony, brushing some of the hair from his face.
“Oh shut it,” He grumbled, his face in a permanent scowl on his face. They both bathed in silence for a while, just staying in each other's quiet company. Pantalone often found himself looking over to Dottore, watching him as he just boredly looked onto the white night skies and the snow-covered terrains. He’d be lying to himself if he said he didn’t find the man even vaguely attractive, he had looks and from what he’s heard, he knew how to use them to his benefit.
Dottore was a sick man, both of them were sick men, but Dottore was so much worse. Yet he found himself calmed in his presence, if only slightly, or even if it were a false sense of security that his mind made him feel to not stress himself into a grave. He looked down at the cup, noticing that it was more empty than before.
Dottore glanced down too, he had noticed Pantalone’s staring from the beginning, but didn’t care to mention it, though he noticed that he looked away and wanted to see what caught his attention, “Who’d you get to make that? The taste isn’t half bad.” Pantalone rose his brows, averting his gaze, “I made it myself.” He cringed at how awkward he sounded.
He hummed, picking up the cup, and looking down at it, “Hm, well it tastes nice.” Pantalone doesn’t think he’s ever heard Dottore compliment him– or anyone. He didn’t know how to feel about it, he felt his heart rate quicken slightly as he leaned further on the railing. A few locks of hair hung in front of his face.
Dottore let out a small sigh, leaning off of the railing as he straightened his extremely bad posture, before slouching again. Pantalone looked back, straightening himself up too, fixing a few stray hairs. “Well, I’m going back to my desk, thank you for your company, Regrator,” Dottore hummed, his finger circling the rim of the cup as he began to make his swift exit. Pantalone sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose before grabbing Dottores forearm with little hesitance, “No, you’re not, at least get some rest before going back to writing your damn hand off.”
He looked back at him, grimacing as he shook his hand away, but surprisingly didn't object further, probably too tired to argue at this point. “Fine, fine… if you insist,” He grumbled, walking off in the direction opposite of his work site. Pantalone followed after him to make sure he wouldn’t just double back once he was out of sight.
He can see why he doesn’t sleep often though, since where he assumed his sleeping quarters were extremely far away from where he normally resided with his machines and experiments. Still, he didn’t see the point of working oneself into fatigue especially since it just gets in the way.
Dottore stopped in front of a door, large and extravagant, he turned back to Pantalone, his hand on the handle of the door, “See, I’m here now, are you happy yet?” He crossed his arms, tilting his head slightly, “Sleep and I’ll be happy.”
The man groaned annoyed, forcing his door open, given how hard it was to open, it proved to Pantalone that he hadn’t been in there for a while. “I will, as long as it gets you to leave me alone.” The banker nodded, feeling slightly relieved, “Of course, I won’t be bugging you for a while, I promise.”
“Good,” He said contently, “The closet exit is just down the hall unless you want to join me?” Pantalone almost choked, coughing into his hand as Dottore cackled, “Oh be quiet Dottore.” There was no actual animosity behind those words, and once Dottore’s laughing died down, he looked to the banker, “Goodbye, Regrator.”
The male nodded, “Sleep well, Doctor.” The blue-haired man closed his door, and Pantalone walked off, sighing as he adjusted a few folds on his clothes. He wasn’t expecting to linger that long, since he was only going to hand over the drink, tell him that once he wasn’t busy that he needed to discuss the funding of his obscure experiments then leave.
Seems he’ll have to leave the business for another day.