Work Text:
“Fascinating… Truly fascinating.” Soft, precise words bled into the open air, and Dottore clenched his fist gently, the quill in his opposing, left hand scribbling quick notes onto a stained piece of parchment. His body shifted closer to look at the bubbling wound, bright red dripping down the pale skin of his current experiment. Swabbing a sample of blood before it reacted further to the air, he secured it in a tight, corked bottle, a rightful place found near his notes.
Straightening up when his somewhat hunched position became too uncomfortable for his liking, Dottore opted for bringing the bleeding arm closer to his person, the elbow cracking loudly with the movement, likely from stiff joints, he marked pointedly.
Next on his list… more information on the tendon itself. His research on the extensor carpi ulnaris was extensive enough to not need any more prodding for a considerable while, enough time for the wound to heal, though it was likely that the pain wouldn’t fade for months after.
He hummed to himself softly, a thoughtful expression downturning his lips into a signature grimace - one that tugged against past scars usually covered by a clean mask - something his underlings seemed to be intimidated by, funnily enough. Tsking, he bent each finger forward, pain snaking up the open wound. Rolling his left hand’s wrist until it gave a satisfactory crack in response, he reached for another scalpel, one of his duller blades, and pressed the flat edge against the somewhat wiped-down area of his current fascination, and while movement wasn’t any more limited from the pressure, the tendon bounced against the instrument with each clench of his fist. More blood pooled up, naturally, and a soaked rag wiped it away in a tedious fashion.
Considering the burning enough of an annoyance for now, red eyes flickered around his chambers for any stray alcohol that might be hidden in the area. Spotting a half-empty bottle of… something, Dottore took it upon himself to grab his empty shot glass - a treat to himself, really, as the constant prodding seemed to irritate his medical wound to an interesting degree. Standing much slower than intended, he sighed at the side effects of constant experimentation with little recovery time, a deeper frown tugging at his lips when darkness prodded at the corners of his sight. Truly interesting. A hassle, but interesting nevertheless. He would have to make a note of this later. Maybe conduct another experiment when his lost blood was replenished. Maybe he would take time during his prosthetic implementation to further study the effects of blood loss. Delve deeper into the deadlier wounds.
The empty, staticky darkness would fade after a few seconds of impatient waiting, and his previous task of a drink was quickly returned to the table. Hardly sparing a glance at the gash that accompanied him on his journey of a few feet, his eyes instead focused on the cork that stood as a barrier between him and his liquid gold.
A scoff.
This, as eloquently as he could put it in his current state, was idiotic. A cork, of all things, was the only obstacle in his current session. His research was going swimmingly, and naturally, all good things had to come to an end. Not naturally, no, as this horrendous outcome could have been prevented with some planning ahead.
Then again, maybe his past self would have assumed some restraint, because after seven bottles, his research was all-but useless.
Dottore sighed, setting the glass on the closest surface before staring at the contents of the bottle in disdain. I should get myself a third arm. A nice prosthetic. This is humiliating. Tilting the alcohol bottle so it would rest at a comfortable angle in his grip, he brought the cork to his lips, sharp teeth digging into the dilapidated bark from some poor, Snezhnayan tree. Considering the cork secure enough when his slight tug met resistance, he sighed through his nose before yanking it out, the cork soon spat onto the dark floor below.
He thanked the Archons that he was alone. Humiliating. Absolutely humiliating.
Taking a swig of the bitter liquid, he abandoned the shot glass from where he left it, the burning in his adjacent arm too pressing now that he was more aware of it. The lack of alcohol was to blame, naturally. Nothing more, nothing less. Huffing gently when he returned to his chair, the glass flask made a gentle impact against his desk, near his notes, where the forgotten shot glass once rested. A needed upgrade.
The slight buzz returned to numbing his arm from the fiery pain that almost seemed too strong for the alcohol, though after another small swig, Dottore found himself further digging into his work. And his wound. They were one in the same.
His prodding would carry on well into the sunrise, and once the dangerous wane of his vision alerted him to the noted effects of… passing out, did he finally take it upon himself to clean and stitch the wound.
A ‘gnarly scar’, as Tartaglia would put it. A ‘dumb as fuck thing to do’ would be Scaramouche’s ever-so-eloquent response.
If any of the other Harbingers knew, of course.
Blinking away the urge to sleep in the middle of his repair job, he stifled a yawn into his palm, though he knew sleep would likely evade any attempts he would end up making. A soft huff and amused smile played at his features, Funny. I can only ever sleep when I’m dying or dead. Now that his wound was no longer bleeding into the cool air of his room, both options seemed to evade his current state.
Dottore knew he was much too tired to properly mull over his notes or any documents that needed signing, though that didn’t mean he could suddenly slack off. He had a wonderful streak to keep, after all. Closing his journal with a flick of his wrist - and a spike of pain, he noted - he stacked it amongst various others, his experiment-cluttered desk soon free of the mess that preceded it. Piling today’s paperwork under the near-empty bottle of alcohol, he finished off the drink slowly, ignoring the flavor entirely to instead focus on the soothing warmth in the back of his throat.
It would hold off the pressing headache rapidly forming in his everything-deprived head, though the work of a Harbinger would always trump any needless necessities. Food, water, and sleep would have to wait until his paperwork was finished. Hours, then. Lovely.
Brandishing new ink and a pen, red eyes skimmed over the text in a familiar, repetitive fashion, last night’s experiment fading to the back of his mind.