Chapter Text
Whenever the woman wandered down to the laboratory, she tried to guess what she would find there moments before. It was quite the fun activity, really. Dottore could be working in one of his sterile rooms, or maybe tinkering with Ruin Guard machines with his hands stained with oil. The segments could be present, too. She was always up to spending some time with Theta, Mu, Gamma or even Delta to take a break from her research, which had been consuming a lot of her time recently.
Today, she settled on seeing Theta and Dottore together, making an experiment—one of those that really fascinated her, with vials and substances of different colours. She reached the lab of her guessing and pushed it open with her shoulder, ready to see whatever was on the other side. However, this time, none of her guesses came even close to what was really behind those tiled walls.
The first thing she saw was the mess. Dottore was very careful about these labs, always keeping his tools sterile and his tables clean because he didn’t want to contaminate his samples. Seeing glass on the floor, a table with a dark stain from heat and ash and tools scattered everywhere alarmed her instantly. Not even Alpha dared to make such a mess.
“Dottore?”
She walked forwards, stopping before a puddle of a liquid she couldn’t recognise. Then she heard a faint sound, something like a groan, and quickly made her way around it. She had learned that it was better not to touch anything she didn’t know around here. Stepping over shattered glass, she saw blood. A few splatters on the tile; a handprint along the edge of a desk. Her pace quickened until she saw him. His hair was a mess, his mask gone, his sleeves singed with his forearms a bit burnt.
“What happened?”
He hardly raised his head as she rushed forwards, kneeling by his side and grabbing his shoulders. Dottore huffed something she didn’t understand, his crimson eyes opening to drill into her.
“An accident.”
Immediately, his stubbornness in being vague irritated her. Her eyes scanned the entirety of his form, seeing that he had hurried to take off his lab coat, which was coated in that blueish substance. Some of it had stained his gloves and navy shirt, slowly eating away at it. She recalled Dottore explaining basic pH levels to her, remembering that basic substances usually harmed slower than acidic ones.
So why wasn’t he washing it off? He was holding his side, and it was only then that she saw the origin of the handprint and the blood. His sides was cut, maybe from the shattered glass. The wound wasn’t life threatening at first glance, but it was bleeding quite profusely.
“You’re bleeding!” She gasped, pulling his hand away. Dottore immediately pulled himself back.
“Don’t touch. You might harm yourself in doing so.”
“Well, you’ll also get burned,” she hissed. “Besides, I can hardly feel anything in my arms.”
He didn’t seem convinced. She stood up, grabbing some thicker latex gloves and returning to him, switching her own with those. Then she pulled his hand off, examining the cut. It needed to be disinfected and bandaged as soon as possible. She wasn’t an expert, but even she knew that.
“Why didn’t you call for anyone—why didn’t you say anything? Dottore, if I hadn’t found you—”
“I would have managed eventually. It’s nothing I haven’t dealt with before.”
“You’re bleeding!”
“I won’t bleed out.”
“That substance is burning your skin.”
“Just the arms.”
She hissed in straight frustration, muttering a vivid curse in Fontainian, something that sounded like “Mais quelle tête de mule! Tu me rends folle!”. The bastard almost seemed amused by her crude speech, his ruby eyes glistening. He knew better than to say something, though. She wouldn’t take it.
“That needs to be cleaned. Come on.”
She stood up, taking a hold of the harness he always wore, pulling him upwards. He made a sound of mild surprise, but obediently sat down on the chair. She was frustrated enough that it warranted that behaviour, especially because she was frowning and muttering stuff, reaching for the first aid kit.
“And put that shirt away before you burn yourself further,” she said, noticing him hesitate. “Please.”
After a moment of great contemplation from him, he loosened the leather straps around his torso. She helped with those around his bicep, unfastening them and wondering why he even wore them. Once that was done, his neck tie joined the pile, and then the navy blue shirt. It was the first time she saw him so exposed. His form was lean, even though she knew from experience he was strong. It didn’t show that much, but she could see the faint outline of hidden muscle. His skin was pale, and marred with scars. Burns, cuts, past injuries he probably didn’t want to speak about. She saw a thin line running down the inside of his forearm, probably surgically stitched, and a matching one in a few other places like his sternum, which resembled a vivisection scar. His forearms, which had been burned beforehand, now bore new red, angry marks.
He cleared his throat and raised both eyebrows, and she felt her neck heat up when she realised she had been staring. The wound on his side was bleeding, the crimson seeping into his waistband. She immediately knelt down, grabbing a cotton pad and pouring an antiseptic solution labelled ‘chlorhexidine’. He stopped her with a gloved hand.
“I don’t need cotton pads,” Dottore murmured. “Just get it over with, if you must.”
His movements spoke of exhaustion, but he was still being stubborn and proud. She sighed, but obeyed his command, pouring a bit of it upon the wound while making sure it wouldn’t spill and soak his trousers further. He hissed softly, his hand landing on her shoulder, but he didn’t pull her away. The woman cleaned away the blood, before finding adhesive gauze and using it to staunch it. Whatever substance had eaten through his shirt also burnt his skin, so she wet a rag and brushed it over his forearms. He smelled of soot, fire, and chemicals.
“Will you tell me what happened now?” She asked. He looked up at her in a languid manner.
“An accident. You are fretting over nothing, I’ve had worse.”
“It doesn’t mean you should let that get infected and bleed out. I thought that you’d be wiser! You’re acting stubborn.”
“Mhm. What now, then, doctor? Further instructions?”
She considered the eyebags under his eyes, scoffing. “A shower and sleep. Put your coat on, and come on. I’ll tell someone to clean up.”
“I have notified Delta,” he noted as he stood up heavily, slinging the harbinger cloak over his shoulders, considering his shirt was ruined. She disposed of the latex gloves she had been using earlier, stashing away the kit and walking out with him in tow.
His quarters weren’t far from here. He didn’t have them underground, but the winding hallways of Zapolyarny made it hard to find them. She pushed him inside, letting him sit down on the bed while she took care of the fire. By the state of the room and the lack of ashes in the chimney, she could tell he hadn’t used his room lately. Another reason for her to scold him. What had he even planned to do, sit there until the substance burned through his skin? She couldn’t understand his reasoning. Turning around, she was about to ask, or maybe say a few stern words, but found him nearly asleep.
Dottore looked exhausted. His eyes were lidded, his gloved hands sinking into the edge of the bed as he sat there, trying not to drift off. He could feel the burn in his forearms and the ache in his side, and a shower seemed like a task for greater men than him. He expected her to leave then, to let him sleep, but she had come to know him better than he would like.
“Oh, Dottore.”
Her tired words earned her an annoyed sigh. She walked into the adjacent bathroom, which was luxurious enough for a harbinger of his rank and probably hand-picked by Pantalone.. Her black hands found the tap, letting the hot water run while she walked back to the man in the room.
She stopped before him, nudging his shoulder and making him look up.
“You weren’t planning to shower, were you?”
Dottore scoffed, his hand reaching up to pull her own away. “I do not need you to coddle me like a child, historian. You cleaned my wound and staunched the bleeding, are you not satisfied?”
“Knowing that you’ll pass out looking like a sorry mess?” She retorted. “Of course not.”
“Of course not,” he muttered in a half-resigned fashion. “Will you tuck me into bed, too? You’d do well to remember who I am.”
She blinked at him. “You’re Dottore. You also reek of chemicals, and you’d do well to wash that off you.”
He didn’t look like he had the will to cross the large distance between him and the bath. He looked so exhausted it aged him at least a century, his hands behind him, looking at her with a tired but stern expression. Dottore was not about to allow himself to be taken care of like he was similar to a human. No, he was the Second Harbinger, and the second seat didn’t have the luxury to know comfort or the warm hands of another. Especially not someone like him. His crimson eyes spoke of firmness, but her own answered with insistence. She was never bossy, no, she preferred to unravel the walls of another through quiet pertinacity. It wore him down like waves eroded tall and spiky cliffs. The sea never minded or cared where its waves clashed and how much damage they did, not even when the rocks fell and crumpled under the eternal resolve.
“Just this once,” she whispered softly, like a louder voice would make him hiss and show his teeth. “Then we can forget all about it.”
“Why would I comply?” He asked brusquely. “I am capable of such a simple act, I am not a mindless, dirty brute.”
“I didn’t say that. You know how to do many a great things, Dottore, but that doesn’t mean I can’t do anything for you. I can’t write your notes for you, or make an experiment, but at least I can make you look less like a ruffled crow.”
He scowled, his sharp fangs flashing like he was tempted to bite at the hand that was currently outstretched towards him. Stray animals never knew if the gesture meant good or harm—a fist could hide violence and food alike. It was her eyes that convinced him, as usual. Those cut jewels that now reflected the firelight, coaxing him into obedience.
“And then we forget about this.”
“Of course.”
That was how Dottore ended up getting up, leaving his clothes in a heap and sinking into hot water. How nice it was, that the warmth had been prepared by her hands. She had turned when he undressed, but now looked to see his shoulders relax, wincing a bit when the water hit the tender skin of his injuries. The steam dampened his hair, clinging to his temples and the scars on his face.
“Better?”
He didn’t answer, which was enough for her. She considered the door, then looked back at him, suddenly unsure what to do. He surprised her by speaking first.
“If you took the trouble of coming here in the first place, at least stay,” he said reluctantly. She nodded, dodging his boots before taking a seat by the side of the tub, leaning against the tile. The silence between them was always comfortable, and it wasn’t awkward even now. She traced the bathroom with her eyes, with the golden coloured taps and sinks of marble. It was clean; there were hardly any personal items piled on the flat surfaces; sparkling in the low lights, mirror covered in steam.
“You have been getting along with the segments,” he said after a moment, glancing in her direction. She looked at him like she didn’t understand where he was coming from.
“Why wouldn’t I? I get along with you just fine, your counterparts are just the same.”
It was her pointed simplicity that disarmed him. By her logic, there was indeed no point in being surprised, but all logical conclusions were false if they started off from an incorrect statement. Her incorrect statement was trusting him and thinking it was a good idea to be friends with him in the first place.
“Kappa has been insufferable,” he mumbled instead, watching the water slosh against the edges of the tub with his movements. “You embroidered the letter ‘K’ for him, and for Mu, also. Why?”
“I thought it would be nice.”
Dottore scoffed softly. “Your kindness is misplaced. It should be devoted somewhere else.”
“Why so?”
“To people who can appreciate it better.”
“Kappa appreciates it well enough. Mu has been warming up to me, and Theta loves to visit me whenever he can. Why do you think yourself undeserved?”
He didn’t answer. She sighed softly, leaning her head back against the edge of the tub and staring at the ceiling, her black hands laying idly in her lap. After another moment of silence, she spoke up again.
“If you think yourself undeserved of my kindness, at least have faith in the fact that I know who to bestow it upon. If you don’t trust yourself, trust me.”
He looked off to the side. His fingertips traced his opposite elbow, finding another one of the faded cuts. She placated the ugly beast within him so easily, like it was just another day for her, like he wasn’t the second harbinger, feared amongst all. Dottore was used to showing the least attractive parts of himself—the coldness, the distrust, the objectivity that they all seemed to hate—and yet she still stayed. And she didn’t stay painfully, she didn’t struggle or suffer, which was perhaps the fact that surprised him most. How could someone like her meet someone like him and don’t consider leaving at first glance?
She looked over her shoulder at his damp hair and the water droplets that ran down his firm shoulders, shifting enough to perch on the edge of the tub and observe. This flustered him and, maybe it was also the light that made him similar to Mu in that split second.
“Dottore,” she said softly, tilting her head in an almost sly manner. “Don’t act so timid. It’s unlike you.”
“Timid?” He scoffed. “You should be ashamed of using that word in my presence. Especially applying to myself.”
“Or what, you’ll bite?”
Something like amusement tugged at his lip. “Perhaps.”
“I would like to see you try.”
“You couldn’t handle it,” he shot back.
“Oh?” She laughed in amusement. “Oh, I think I could.”
He thought that, if anything, he was the one who could not handle her.
After a moment of silence, she reached out to lightly touch the strand of his hair that framed his face. His earring was not on, this time, and she almost found it weird to see him so bare. He stiffened under her hand, but didn’t exactly pull away. He wasn’t disgusted by the fact her hands weren’t gloved, and the Abyssal corrosion was so close to his shoulder and jaw. In fact, after a moment, he seemed to lean into it regardless, like it couldn’t matter to him whether or not her skin was infected.
“Would you let me wash your hair?” She asked quietly, and his brows furrowed. After a moment, he finally relented and nodded. The woman smiled with a hint of excitement and rolled her sleeves up, shifting closer and pouring some of the shampoo into her palm.
The moment her fingertips touched his scalp, Dottore stiffened like a statue. She was gentle, like a single wrong tug would make him crumble as easily as a card castle. And maybe it would, maybe she would someday unravel him entirely in a way that wasn’t entirely cohesive to his mind yet. Of course, she hardly realised. Was the sun aware of how many planets orbited around it, did it know how many beings depended on it to survive? No, of course not, the sun merely existed, and everything else adapted.
“Relax,” she murmured after a moment, watching the suds drip down his back. His blue hair was soft between her fingers, his crimson eyes had settled into something unseen in front of them. “I won’t hurt you, you know.”
“You couldn’t, even if you tried.”
You could, if you wanted to.
“I could do some harm. A scratch or two, maybe. A finger.”
He made a sound of vague amusement, glancing upwards at her, crimson now resembling cadmium red. She washed his hair, and then her hands settled on his tense shoulders, kneading the exhaustion out of him. Her fingers briefly stopped at another thin scar across his spine, tracing how precise it was.
“You have many of those,” she noted. “Did you… do them yourself?”
“Surgical scars,” he answered simply. “From various body modifications. My spine is reinforced, my heart is biomechanical… and many other things.”
“Ah. That makes sense.”
“Does it?”
“Yeah. Besides, it looks quite…” she trailed off, unsure what word to pick. “Captivating.”
He didn’t answer that in fear of blurting out something stupid.
She continued making her way down his back, eventually grabbing a washing cloth to run it over his skin. He shuddered, made hissed sounds under his breath, but she never commented. She was afraid that he would stiffen up after he had finally relaxed. Touching him like this felt like slowly disassembling an explosive or petting a dog that often bit even gentle hands, but she was slowly coaxing his spine to loosen and his fingers to relax. Dottore kept on stubbornly staring at the water, hardly looking at her and biting back his sounds. Touch starved.
Her hands ran down his scarred arms, fingertips stopping curiously at the vertical scars up the inside of his forearm. He watched her with lidded eyes, letting her do whatever she wanted.
“Does it burn less?” She asked as she rinsed the remnants of the shampoo from his hair, running her hands through his hair. He made a vague sound of agreement. “That was careless of you. Were you planning to sit there until the substance burned through your shirt, Dottore?”
Silence.
“But why?”
“I’m not sure,” he said blankly, before looking off to the side. She sat back down, her arms settling on the edge of the tub again and giving him a concerned look that he couldn’t quite stand. “It’s not the first time. You shouldn’t worry over such trivial things.”
“But I do. I will worry for you, even when you say it’s foolish.”
A scoff left his lips. He indeed thought it was foolish. His crimson eyes flickered down to his forearms again, and suddenly he felt like a student again, hissing through the accidental burns and biting back the tears in his eyes. It had been his own mistake back then, really. He hadn’t been careful enough, his sleeves had been rolled up due to that young valour of someone who thought he could still take on the world—and that the world would let him. Would have things turned out different had her hands found his skin earlier on in his life? Would he still end up here, letting the substance eat away at his dermis to remember what it was like to feel vulnerable and easily hurt?
She saw him contemplate his arms like he wasn’t quite sure what to think of them, or like he didn’t know they were his. She wondered if he saw them as a flaw, or if he didn’t think of them at all. Her own arms had been blackened by the corrosion, and since then, she always seemed to see them. From the corner of her eye, under her sleeve, in the reflection of a window, mirrored in the eyes of those she spoke to. Always present and never something she could forget. Without hesitating this time, she reached out to grasp his wrist with her onyx fingers, giving him a look of understanding that would look stupid if it came from anyone else, because he didn’t think anyone else could understand him the way she did. Ironic, considering how different they both were. Then again, maybe there was no one else who understood the moon better than a girl perched on a windowsill and maybe only a crow understands the rotting corpse in the ground. They are different, they cannot even comprehend one another through words, but what is said between the girl and the moon belongs only to her diary, and only the soil knows how the crow treats the food it scavenges.
“The water is getting cold,” she said gently. “Come on. I’ll have the servants bring something warm to drink.”
As he got out of the bath and got dressed once again, she did what she said, setting the tray on the desk. The place was warm, and the orange light made it look more lived in than before. He got out, his hair damp and his shirt clinging to his skin where he hadn’t dried off too well, the flush on his cheeks remaining as he stepped out from the hot steam. He glanced at her, then sat down on the bed by her side. His shoulders had slumped from exhaustion and his form was somewhat looser, less like a proud bird and a bit more like a languid cat. When he leaned closer to steal one of the cups of tea from the tray, she could feel the heat still radiating off him.
“You look better,” she commented. “Less like a ruffled crow.”
He grunted into his cup. “Crows are elegant birds, they aren’t exactly ruffled.”
“Maybe they’re not, but you are.”
“Faulty argument. Perhaps I resemble a crow, but I’m not one, therefore I’m not included in the statistics.”
She huffed out a laugh. Her amusement made his lip twitch, but he quickly hid it with the teacup, downing it in a few seconds (unlike her, who nursed her drinks religiously) and setting it down with a clink. He leaned back against the pillows for once, not remembering the last time he even slept in this bed, and his relaxation was her cue to leave.
“Rest. You could probably use it.”
She slowly sat up, ready to grab the tray with her and leave, but his crimson eyes found her again with a tilt of his head.
“Why don’t you stay?”
It made her freeze slightly. She looked back at him, her hand hovering over her own cup. “Because you’re falling asleep.”
“At least finish your tea,” he noted. “It’s unbecoming of me to have you drink it in a rush.”
She hesitated, but eventually ended up taking the bait. Of course she did. It wasn’t everyday that Dottore let her stay when he was without his mask. Even when they spent time together on a daily basis, it was usually in his laboratory or whatever room they ended up talking in. Never his quarters. She grabbed her cup and sat back against the headboard by his side, letting them both fall into silence. None of them spoke or did anything but watch the fire. She didn’t move when he started falling asleep, leaning ever so slightly in her direction, either.