Chapter Text
Pantalone now operated with an elusiveness that could rival The Jester himself. If he wasn’t in his own office, he was in the laboratory of a man long dead— no, missing . Should he be absent from the former, he was not to be interrupted in the latter. Not that anyone could get in anyway. He kept the door locked shut behind him every time, without fail. As for his own home, Pantalone saw no use for it. He found that a house that large can make one person feel very small. For all he knew it was beneath a layer of dust by now.
All of his assets were still managed, of course. As in-person meetings with his subordinates grew sparse— more than half of his time was being spent behind a cold metal door, not that he cared —his orders were primarily communicated through letters. And with every massive assortment of letters on his desk every morning, Pantalone skimmed them all for a familiar name on the envelope. It never appeared. Of course it didn’t. Truthfully, Pantalone didn’t want a letter from him. Anyone could write one, anyone could fake handwriting— he’d done it himself for work a few times. If he couldn’t get the real thing, the real person he missed so terribly, he didn’t want anything at all. But at this point, even an obvious lie would’ve been worth believing. Strange, admitting that feeling to himself.
One piece of mail was from The Eleventh. Only a page long, Childe had done his best to explain how the ceremony had gone while very obviously trying not to say anything… unprofessional. Though Pantalone didn’t exactly enjoy the letter, he did make a point of keeping an eye on anything and everything that occured within the Fatui. Partially a hobby, partially a strategic move.
The funeral had been short. It was very quiet. The First had given a very poetic speech, and with the fact that Dottore’s clones were still milling around doing their jobs, no time was granted off from work. Unsurprising. While reading the letter, Pantalone did nearly manage to find a laugh somewhere within himself. Childe clearly had tried to dance— no, stumble around the fact that the other Harbingers had opinions on Pantalone’s absence. It was to be expected.
They could consider him weak all they wanted. At the end of the day, the number on their checks is in his handwriting.
The spark of amusement he found in this faded near instantly. Reality did not settle in, it crashed in. Dottore was gone . Gone long enough to warrant a funerary service, and the proof was recorded in a little envelope, and now sat in Pantalone’s hand. He wasn’t coming back. The hole that had been forming in his chest over all these months was suddenly a bottomless pit , and the feeling was enough to take the air from his lungs. With what little composure he had left, he put the letter down. Keeping himself together in the hallways was excruciating, but he made it to the lab. He locked the door. And the world fell apart.
The meltdown had been festering somewhere deep in Pantalone’s mind since the first mention of disappearance. It had been pushed back time and time again, and here it was now, an amalgam of heartbreak and denial. Just when he’d begun to think the endless loss of his younger years were past him, it catches right up. Tears had already fallen over Dottore going missing , sure. But missing and dead are two very different words, and Pantalone couldn’t lie to himself anymore. His head felt like it’d been split open, his throat was stuck in knots. He toyed with his glasses in his hands.
Pantalone did not check his pocket watch at any point during his distress. All he knew was that at some point, he’d moved from the ground by the door to the chair at the desk, and had assumed his usual position— wrapped up in Dottore’s coat like it was a safety blanket. Not a single tear landed on it. As close as he held it to himself, he made sure not to damage it. He treated it like it was made of pure gold, as if the owner would still come back needing it in good condition.
Day turned to evening, evening turned to night. A single candle weakly tossed light around the room. The lab was silent, the only sound being shaky breaths from the mess of a man left in it. He’s not sure if the quiet is comforting or making things worse, but at the very least it’s something consistent. That is, until there’s the faint sound of metal outside the door. The unmistakable jingle of keys.
The door creaks open. Tired and disheveled as he is, Pantalone’s eyes lock onto the opening instantaneously. There’s a figure in the doorway, only distinguishable by the small amount of light the candle had to offer.
It’s just a clone . This is bordering on delusion.
Pantalone wants to kick himself for even considering the possibility.
The clone shuts the door behind him, and moves toward the desk. He doesn’t have the usual hurried pace that all of Dottore’s clones tend to keep. Pantalone fiddles with his rings. He can’t be bothered with whatever this one wants right now , of all times. The clone giggles softly at the complete disregard, and ends abruptly in a fit of small coughs. He takes the candle, and lights another one beside it.
Pantalone can’t ignore the eyes on him. With the extra light, he can see the clone more clearly. His own hand flying up to his face assured him that his glasses were indeed on.
“If I didn’t know you better, I’d say it almost looks like you missed me. ”
He thought he’d run out of tears by now, but he manages to find more.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’d hoped you’d be gone longer.”
Before he realizes he’s moved, Pantalone is on the other side of the desk with his arms around Dottore. He’s not letting go first this time. He’ll never do it again. It’s not long before he fully collapses onto the man, choking out sobs into his shoulder. The Doctor does not mind at all.
“I would’ve preferred arriving looking a bit more… presentable than this, but something told me keeping you waiting longer would’ve been more trouble than it’s worth.”
He nearly tells him to shut up for interrupting their little moment, but Dottore’s voice is the only thing he’s wanted to hear for longer than he can put into words.
“You’re beautiful. Keep talking.”