Work Text:
Dottore was a mad scientist.
He couldn’t help but experiment with the impossible. He wanted nothing more than to bend nature’s laws to his hand and to rip reality itself to shreds so that he could piece it back together at his leisure.
He was intelligent, he was proud, he was a psychopath, and he was currently a fucking rat.
It was Tartaglia’s fault, of course.
It was always Tartaglia’s fault.
“DOTTOREEE,” Tartaglia whined, climbing out from under Dottore’s workbench.
Dottore resisted the urge to kick the ginger in the head as the eleventh straightened and dusted off his thick fur coat.
He set down his syringe, scowling at the other harbinger as Childe sat down right beside him. The ginger squirmed, making himself comfortable and then turned to fully face Dottore.
Tartaglia batted his eyes. “We’re friends, right?”
So, he needed something. Of course. Tartaglia only ever dared to show his face around Dottore’s lab when he needed something very badly- otherwise, the younger man avoided him like the plague.
It probably had something to do with his human experiments. Oh, well.
Dottore propped his head up on his hand and waved for Tartaglia to get on with. This bastard was cutting into his precious research time. Why couldn’t he just spit it out and get away?
“Well,” Tartaglia began and Dottore groaned. The ginger’s cheeks were beginning to flush, a tell-tale sign that whatever he was about to say was either about the Geo Archon or a battle.
“I am NOT prescribing you drugs so that you can fight Scaramouche to the death again,” he said flatly.
“NO,” Tartaglia said, waving his hands and shaking his head vigorously. “I NEED DRUGS SO THAT I CAN KEEP UP WITH MR. ZHONGLI IN BED!”
“Get out,” Dottore said, standing. He wondered how hard he would have to hit the eleventh to get him the fuck out. Though a researcher by heart, and therefore curious by nature, he had no desire to know what his coworker did with his… boyfriend? Husband? Mate? At that point, what did you even call their relationship? Fuck buddy. There you go.
The moans that had kept him and everyone else up during the weekend that Morax had visited last year had been enough.
“PLEASE,” Tartaglia cried, grabbing onto Dottore’s sleeve and tugging him back down. “PLEEEAASSSEEE!!! YOU’RE THE ONLY ONE WHO CAN HELP ME.”
Tears welled up in Tartaglia’s dead blue eyes and Dottore wondered how far his reputation had fallen that he, of all people, was now being hounded for stamina drugs. What happened to the terrifying mad scientist?? Since when had he become the fucking love doctor?
Dottore palmed Tartaglia’s face and shoved him away. “I said no. Now, scram.”
Tartaglia sobbed loudly. “I’M GOING TO TELL PULCINELLA ABOUT THIS!”
Because your fucking grandpa wants to hear about how you can’t properly fuck a dragon, Dottore silently thought to himself. Sure, that will go well.
And as Tartaglia stood to leave, he bumped into Dottore’s desk.
And because he was pure muscle, it was the table that flipped and not Tartaglia. Dottore swore he saw the dragon fucker wink as his hip swung towards the wood.
Dottore scrambled to grab his vials before they could fall to the floor as Tartaglia turned away, whistling some kind of tune as he skipped out of the lab.
His hands slammed awkwardly around about five of the thirty vials he’d had resting on the table and he cursed Tartaglia’s whole bloodline as the others fell to the floor and broke. His precious research, gone forever….
He made a wordless, angry noise as he set the saved glasses down carefully and walked around the fallen table to survey the mess.
It looked like someone had thrown a strawberry poptart into a sewer drain and allowed it to decompose for a little bit before trying to eat it and then had vomited it up. He glared down at the sludge before grabbing and righting his desk.
His papers, which he’d been scribbling weeks worth of notes on, were unfortunately also destroyed. Covered in poptart vomit. Utterly unsalvageable.
Dottore paused for a moment and wondered how much mora it would take to have Morax kidnap the eleventh harbinger and permanently keep him in Liyue. Probably not much, considering the Archon was dirt poor and utterly infatuated with that ginger asshole.
Dottore turned back to stare down at his ruined vials, not quite sad since he’d long rid himself of such a petty emotion, but not thrilled either. What a waste of time.
Through the pink mess on the floor, he caught sight of his syringe. It looked intact- he could even make out the clear liquid within through the glass that wasn’t coated in the other vials’ contents.
Dottore bent down without thinking and, because the universe hated him and he was wearing a stupid long ass jacket covered in buckles, which, admittedly, was a lab hazard, he got caught on the edge of his desk and slipped.
Just as his fingers closed around the syringe and he began to lift it, he fell forward, right onto the needle.
“FUCK YOU TARTAGLIA,” he snarled right before the needle’s contents entered his bloodstream.
Pantalone was having a magnificent day.
He was just feeling splendid. He didn’t know why. He just had a feeling that today was going to be a very good, very great, money making day.
Until he spotted a pink rat running down the halls while Pulcinella followed closely behind, a broom in hand that he wielded with vicious precision.
Pantalone hated fucking rats. They reminded him too much of that one time he was homeless and had woken up with one cuddled next to his cheek.
Yeah, okay, maybe today was not going to be so great.
“GET IT,” Pulcinella shouted, just barely keeping up with the rat that looked like it was running for its life.
Pantalone ignored him and instead opted to scramble on top of a nearby suit of armor. Yeah, fuck that. He was not touching that poptart looking nasty ass rabid animal. In your dreams, old man!
Pulcinella brought down the broom with a furious WACK that narrowly missed the rodent. His next swipe caught it, though, and the rat was tossed six feet into the air.
It landed right in Pantalone’s hair.
Pantalone screamed.
The pink rat screamed.
Pulcinella charged forward with the broom.
“GET IT OUT,” Pantalone shrieked. “OH, EW. EW, EW, EW!”
He was going to have nightmares about this pink rat for the rest of his life.
Pulcinella swung the broom and wacked Pantalone on the head. The rat hissed and Pantalone felt it get tangled in his hair even further. It smelled like chemicals, which probably meant it belonged to Dottore. That motherfucker, he’d pay for this.
Pulcinella dropped the broom before scrambling up Panatlone’s body like he was a latter. The old man plunged his hands into Pantalone’s hair once he’d settled on his shoulders and, with a yank, he pried the rat out before hopping back down to the ground.
Pantalone practically sobbed with relief as he slid off the suit of armor that had somehow managed to stay upright through the whole fiasco. Pulcinella held the rat up by its tail, harrumphing.
He picked up his broom and leaned on it. “Now, what do we do with you?”
The rat snarled. It probably had rabies.
“Get rid of it,” Pantalone panted, shivering. “Kill it. It’s probably Dottore’s, he’s bound to have a thousand more. If he can’t keep track of them, then he doesn’t deserve to keep them.”
The rat hissed and flailed. It nearly tore itself free of Pulcinella’s grip, but the harbinger clucked his tongue and tightened his fist.
“It’s awfully…big,” Pulcinella remarked. “You don’t think this is one of his experiments, do you? Why, I wonder what made it so pink! And smelly.”
“Are you just going to stand there or are you going to get rid of it?” Pantalone demanded, pressing himself against the wall.
Pulcinella hummed. “Alright, alright. Well, little friend, I’m afraid your time is- YARGH!”
In a feat of astounding flexibility, the rat twisted and bit Pulcinella’s hand. Out of reflex, the old man dropped it with a shout and the rat charged towards Pantalone with beady red eyes.
Pantalone screamed and leapt about five feet into the air as the rat began to attack him with what seemed to be a burning hatred. Seriously?? WHY WAS THIS STRAWBERRY RAT SO MAD? IT WASN’T LIKE IT KNEW WHAT HE WAS SAYING.
“HELP!” he wailed as the rat tried to worm its way up his pant leg. “DEAR TSARITSA, IT’S TRYING TO BITE MY ASS.”
“RARGGGGG,” Pulcinella cried, rolling on the floor and clutching his arm.
Pantalone kicked at the rat, but it dodged his boots and began to scramble up his front hastily, its buck teeth pulled back in a vicious sneer.
“AHHH!! OH MY FUCKING GOD WHAT KIND OF FUCKING RAT-”
He swatted at it with his hands, but the rat was not deterred. It plowed through, eager to exact its revenge.
With a shuddering inhale, Pantalone quickly steeled his nerves and then grabbed the rat. He tore it off his coat and considered yeeting it across the hallway.
He could feel its small heart rapidly pounding in its chest and hesitated. What was he doing? It was just a rat and, yes, rats were fucking disgusting and he hated rats, but was this not just another one of Dottore’s poor victims? The fucking thing was pink and it smelled of bleach. What had happened to it? Nothing good, certainly.
Perhaps death would be a mercy, but did the poor creature not deserve at least a shot at life? It had probably only ever known the lab and the experiments that Dottore forced upon it and now it had escaped, by some miracle, and they were just going to kill it?
Pantalone quickly shoved it in his pocket and zipped it up. “I’M GOING BACK HOME,” he announced, sniffling. Don’t think about the rat in your pocket, don’t think about the rat in your pocket, don’t think about the rat in your pocket, he pleaded with himself. “GOODBYE!”
Pulcinella rolled on the floor and continued doing so as Pantalone fled down the hall. He’d probably be fine, if not, oh well.
Pantalone made it about five steps before he felt kinda guilty. To appease his conscience, he threw a couple hundred mora at Pulcinella’s body. There. That usually did the trick.
Then, he turned and scuttled away.
“What am I going to do with you?” Pantalone hissed, flinging his coat to the floor and shuddering in disgust. The rat was still trapped within it and Pantalone prayed it wouldn’t worm its way out before he’d figured out what the hell he was doing.
Keeping it in his home was out of the question. Giving it back to Dottore was also out of the question.
That left throwing it out in the snow and letting it fend for itself.
Pantalone bit his lip. A lab rat would not survive out in the wild for long, so that, too, was out of the question.
A few angry, muffled squeaks erupted from within the folds of his heavy jacket and he stiffened.
“Ew, do I really have to touch you?” he asked himself, cringing. “I suppose you’re probably cleaner than the gutter rats, but still… Uhg…”
He picked up a ruler and hesitantly walked over to the mound of clothing he’d discarded on his floor. With a held breath, he poked the wriggling mound experimentally. “Don’t…bite me…” he said weakly before fumbling with the zipper and freeing the rat.
The rat immediately squirmed out of the confines of his coat, bristling. Pantalone backed away, hands raised as it snarled at him. How did one calm a rat? Who knew. He certainly didn’t.
“Here, rat,” Pantalone said in what he hoped was a soothing tone. He hated animals. He did not interact with animals. Why the fuck was he talking to a pink rat? “Come here…”
The rat seemed to be glaring at him. He wondered if it was intelligent- it had gotten awfully mad at him earlier, hadn’t it? How strange. What kind of experiments did Dottore do to the poor thing?
Right, well, firstly, speaking of which…
“You need a bath,” Pantalone decided. “You reek of that scumbag’s lab.”
The rat looked personally offended.
“STOP BITING ME, YOU LITTLE BASTARD,” Pantalone cried, swearing as the rat tried to tear his fingers off with its sharp yellow teeth.
It snarled, squirming in his grasp as he scrubbed it. The water was already dyed pink with Tsaritsa knew what. Underneath whatever the pink substance was, the rat was a pale blue, almost white. A clone gone wrong? Pantalone chucked at the thought. Dottore as a rat… Well, now that was something, wasn’t it?
“Rattore,” he decided and the rat froze in his grasp. “That’s what I’ll call you.”
The rat hissed and chomped down on his index finger harshly.
“OW,” he hissed back, glaring at the creature as he released it. He let it scramble around in the basin pathetically as he turned and searched for a towel.
“See, I’m trying to be nice and you just keep being a little shit. I suppose creation is like creator, hm, Rattore? Oh, don’t hiss at me again, asshole. I’m doing a very nice thing here. I could have very well just thrown you out into the snow or let Pulcinella beat you to death with that broom, but I didn’t. Now, the least you could do is sit there nicely while I dry you off.”
Ah, if looks could kill, Pantalone would be a dead man thrice over.
Pantalone cautiously approached the rat with the warm towel raised. The rat glared up at him almost sullenly and he felt particularly bad for it at that moment. It had no idea what was happening. It was just a stupid little rat. If he were a dumb little rat, he’d probably be freaking out as well.
“There, there,” he said, wrapping it up in the towel and bringing it to his chest. He ignored its long pink tail, which was the part he hated the most about rats. It was just so gross to look at and touch.
He shuddered and reminded himself that the thing in his arms was NOT a gutter rat. It did NOT have rabies and it did NOT have fleas. He would know, he’d checked, just to be sure. Which had led to quite a few vicious bites, but eh.
“Where do I put you?” he asked himself, looking around his room. He had a bunch of very expensive paintings, about three bags full of mora, and a lush bed that he was not putting Rattore on. Over his dead body. A lab rat was still a rat and if he woke up with a rat beside him… Well, Pantalone would rather not die of stroke before the age of seventy, thank you very much.
“I’ll need to get a cage,” he decided at last. “For now, you can live in the sock drawer.”
The rat snarled. Pantalone dumped him in his sock drawer and then slammed it shut.
“Sleep well, little Rattore!” he said cheerfully as he rubbed his sore hands. Damn minty bastard.
It was during the witching hours that Pantalone jolted awake to the sound of loud squeaking and hisses. His sock drawer was rattling with the force of Rattore’s rage and Pantalone considered tossing it out into the snow because damn that rat. So loud! He’d been perfectly fine up until that moment… almost as though it’d been waiting for Pantalone’s rest to come to its deepest so that it could tear him from his dreams.
“Damn rat,” Pantalone grumbled, fumbling with his glasses and the lamp. “What is your problem? I thought we had an agreement. You behave and I don’t kill you.”
Rattore made a very loud, almost painfully angry sound.
“Alright, I’m coming,” Pantalone sighed, drawing his robe rightly around him. “Let’s see what kind of mess you’ve made of my poor socks.”
He yanked the drawer open and Rattore looked up at him smugly, face stuffed full of wool. What remained of his socks was tattered strips of cloth. Pantalone wasn’t even surprised, just tired and annoyed.
“Perhaps I should remove all the socks and just let you freeze to death,” he said flatly.
The rat proceeded to spit out about an entire sock full of cloth. Pantalone shook his head in disgust. Rat saliva… Rattore saliva…nasty. He would be burning the contents of the entire drawer as soon as he found a permanent residence for Rattore.
“Well, you’ve made a proper mess of your own space,” Pantalone said. “That’s no loss for me. I have plenty of mora- surely you saw when I brought you in? Everything in this room is replaceable. There is nothing you can do or eat that will bring me any sort of inconvenience because I hold the world in my hands. I could have this entire bureau replaced before dawn if I wished. Surely you’ve heard the saying that money makes the world go round? Come, now, Rattore, your creator would be disappointed. You must be smarter than this.”
Rattore tensed, as though prepared to leap out of the drawer, and Pantalone grinned. He slammed it shut and heard a muffled thud as the rat surely crashed into the wood. “Now, be a good little rat and go to sleep, yes? Some of us have things to do.”
He thought he might have heard a nasty growl from within the drawer, but he ignored it and returned to the comfort of his own bed.
He was just dozing off when he heard loud, obnoxious scratching.
Pantalone sighed. So it would be like that, wouldn’t it?
He stood and wandered back over to the drawer. “Rattore, you’re being very rude right now,” Pantalone said, sighing. “Don’t make me open this drawer.”
The scratching persisted.
“I’ve warned you,” he said slowly before sliding open the drawer.
Rattore must have been prepared.
As soon as the drawer was open, the minty rat leapt straight into the air and onto Pantalone’s chest. Pantalone shrieked, as one does when attacked by a minty rat, and flailed wildly as Rattore clawed at his hair.
He wailed as he heard the sound of munching and watched as Rattore dropped to the ground, a lock of black hair in his mouth.
“RATTORE, WHY!” Pantalone cried.
The rat scurried under his bed, the long lock of hair trailing behind him like a second tail.
“WHAT- ARE YOU BUILDING A NEST UNDER MY BED?” Pantalone shrieked, dropping to his knees and peering into the shadows beneath his mattress. “RATTORE, SURELY THE SOCK DRAWER WOULD BE MORE COMFORTABLE?? ARE YOU DOING THIS TO SPITE ME? YOU FIEND!”
Two red eyes peered back at him and the rat began squeaking. It sounded almost like a cackle.
Pantalone scooted backwards and ran his fingers through his hair, frowning when he found the bitten piece. He gagged as he felt how wet it was. “Rattore, that is disgusting,” he hissed. “Utterly disgusting.”
He heard the click of claws as the rat ran around the underside of his bed and he sighed. A bath at this hour would be impractical, though now that Rattore had put his ratty lips on his hair, there was no way Pantalone would be sleeping anytime soon.
“You win,” he said, sighing. “Congratulations, Rattore, you’ve found the one thing I can’t replace.”
As soon as dawn rolled around, Pantalone washed his hair and then bought a cage, which he promptly threw Rattore into. He locked the iron door and smirked down at the pissed off rat, waggling the key in the creature’s face.
“No more hair for you, dear Rattore,” Pantalone said, pocketing the key. “I hope it was worth it.”
Rattore sneered. Pantalone turned away.
“Now, I must go to work. You have food and water. Enjoy your cage, Rattore. I’ll be back later.”
Dottore was fucking pissed.
He’d been turned into a rat, had gotten smacked by a broom, been stuffed into a pocket, been given a bath by PANTALONE, been put in a sock drawer, and then got stuck in a cage. At the very least, he’d managed to thoroughly scar Pantalone for life, but still. What a fucking week.
He scrambled to unlock the cage he’d been placed in, pitifully clawing at the latch that seemed just out of reach. Dottore held his breath as he finally managed to catch the lock with one trembling claw and thanked the Tsaritsa when it finally gave.
Freedom. At long last.
Not that he knew exactly what he’d do with said freedom. He’d need to get back to his lab to reverse the effects of the syringe, since there was no way he was going to reverse the effects using the OTHER method. He didn’t even know who would be willing to help him with the other method. Or how he would communicate to them what they’d need to do.
How…embarrassing.
Dottore bristled as he leapt off Pantalone’s desk and scuttled out of his room. The halls of the Zapolyarny Palace seemed so much larger in this form and all the more dangerous. He kept an eye out for anyone walking the halls- specifically Pulcinella and his damn broom. Dottore’s head still ached from their last sparring session, though he could proudly say that he had bested the old man- and as a rat, at that.
Dottore made it almost all of the way back to his lab before he heard voices.
He hissed as he recognized Tartaglia and Pulcinella- the two people who he wanted nothing more than to claw.
Tartaglia was whining about something. He always was- usually, it was his love life, which seemed more exciting than half of the light novels Pierro secretly kept in his nightstand. Pulcinella was listening dutifully and Dottore held his breath as they walked past.
Suddenly, Pulcinella stopped. He inhaled rather loudly through his big nose. “I smell a rat.”
Dottore knew he meant this quite literally.
Suddenly, the small table he’d hidden himself under was smashed and he bolted as Tartaglia began to break into a fit of mad laughter.
“Would you like me to take care of it for you, Pulcinella?” Tartaglia asked. “I’ll gladly do so. I’ve always wanted to test my combat skills against a rat. What a riveting battle! I once saw a rat survive a fall off of a mountain. They surely have great survival skills-”
“It’s getting away, Childe. Go! GET ME THAT RAT.”
“YES, SIR,” Tartaglia said.
Dottore vowed he would kill all of them.
Pantalone was sipping tea and reading a long list of reports when he heard the sounds of the hallway getting absolutely trashed. He continued to sip his tea as he heard Tartaglia cackling and Pulcinella edging him on.
“I’VE ALMOST CAUGHT THE RAT, PULCINELLA! OH, TSARTISA, I WAS RIGHT! THIS RAT… IT’S PROVEN A TOUGH OPPONENT.”
Pantalone spat out his tea and began choking.
He lurched to his feet and sprinted into the hallway, almost crashing into Tartaglia as he chased after Rattore.
“TARTAGLIA,” he shouted, “LEAVE THAT RAT ALONE.”
Tartaglia glanced over his shoulder, one rippling blade of hydro glinting in the gray light. “What? WHY? This is my opponent, Regrator! I cannot be defeated! This will be a fight to the death, a test of wills, a-”
“That belongs to me,” Pantalone said flatly. “It’s… it’s my pet.”
Pulcinella’s nose twitched. “Oh.”
Tartaglia sheathed his blades. “Oh.”
The ginger sheepishly scratched the back of his head as he pointed into a shadowy corner. “Uh. Sorry, Pantalone.”
Pantalone sighed and stalked over to the corner where he could see Rattore bunched up. He wondered how much stress one rat could take before it kneeled over and died.
He scooped the minty rat up in his arms, running his hand over its bristling fur and pointedly not looking at its tail. “Right. Well, I’ll be going, then. Let’s avoid killing my Rattore, yes?”
“Rattore?” Tartaglia muttered as Pantalone left. “What a shitty name! Actually, now that I think about it, that thing does look like Dottore. That’s why I wanted to kill it so badly!”
“I guess the cage was a waste,” Pantalone sighed, shutting the door behind him firmly. “How did you even get past the door? I could understand the cage, but… Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter now.”
Rattore looked up at him, whiskers twitching. For once, it wasn’t trying to maul him. He found that the rat was much cuter this way- when it was not behaving like a feral beast that had some kind of agenda against him.
Pantalone sat down on his bed and ran a hand down the rat’s back, frowning. It was shaking a little, though with Rattore’s track record, that could have been out of rage and not out of fear. “I do hope you don’t have a heart attack on me. I can feel your little heart pounding.”
The rat squeaked and he huffed softly. “Of course you won’t die on me. You probably want to get a taste of my hair again. Can’t do that if you’re dead, now can you?”
He brought the rat up to his chest as he leaned back on his bed, staring at the ceiling. Forty-eight hours ago, he would never have ever considered allowing a rat- any rat- onto his bed. He probably wouldn’t have even considered touching one.
He felt Rattore squirm out of his grasp and watched as the rat settled itself in the crook of his neck. It’s heart was still pounding- he supposed Tartaglia could be quite scary, sometimes, when he wasn’t thinking about his lover. Actually, perhaps that was a lie. Tartaglia was especially scary when he was talking about his lover and not in a good way.
Pantalone cringed as Rattore started poking his cheek with its nose. “What’s gotten into you? I save your life a second time and suddenly you decide to be nice? Where was this last night- aH, you little shit, did you just bite me? I suppose I spoke too soon, you bastard.”
He sighed and reached up to rub its chin. “Well, the next time you escape, hopefully those two will steer clear. Being in charge of the economy comes with its benefits, I suppose- you wouldn’t want to piss off the person in charge of your paycheck, now would you?”
Rattore purred, which was surprising considering Pantalone hadn’t thought rats COULD purr. He mostly associated rats with filth, fleas, rabies, and plague. How strange to know they could do something that was slightly adorable. Perhaps rats weren’t all that bad.
Of course, Pantalone still considered them quite awful. He was missing a chunk of hair, afterall, thanks to a certain mint-colored, red eyed, bitchy rat.
“Are you sleeping?” he asked after a moment, poking the rat gently. When he wasn’t immediately bitten, Pantalone shut his mouth and scooped Rattore up. He inched slowly back into bed so that he wasn’t only half-way on it before repositioning the rat on his stomach.
“If you develop PTSD, I will sue those two,” Pantalone said, gently stroking the rat. Rattore twitched in its sleep and Pantalone scoffed. “You’re much easier to deal with while asleep, I must say.”
The minutes ticked by slowly and Pantalone set his glasses aside as he yawned. “You did keep me up all night, so I suppose a nap is in order. I better not wake up to you tearing my hair out, though, or out the window you WILL go.”
He picked Rattore back up and, after a moment of hesitation, pressed a kiss to its forehead before setting it aside. The rat burrowed into his side in its sleep and Pantalone shook his head in wonder. How could such a foul-tempered creature be so cute?
“Goodnight, Rattore. Sweet dreams, you bastard.”
Pantalone was decidedly uncomfortable.
For one, there was something rather heavy slung across his legs and torso. There was also something big and warm stuffed under his arm and he did not remember inviting anyone into his chambers before he went to sleep.
Pantalone sighed and sat up, fumbling around for his glasses.
He swallowed back his yelp as he caught sight of wavy mint hair and long limbs. Long limbs that were currently entangled with his own.
Pantalone laid back down, hardly daring to breathe. How the hell had the Doctor wound up in his bed? And why?
Pantalone nervously bit his nails as his mind raced and he reeled in his groan as the pieces fell together.
He was a dead man. He was a very, very dead man. If Dottore didn’t kill him, Pantalone would do the deed himself.
HE HAD PUT THE DOCTOR IN A SOCK DRAWER. HIS SOCK DRAWER.
HE HAD BATHED HIM.
HE HAD KISSED HIS FOREHEAD AND-
Dottore stirred. Pantalone considered shitting his pants.
The long arms looped around his waist tightened and he swallowed as Dottore lifted his face a little. It wasn’t often he saw the man without his mask, but it was a little alarming how normal he looked, especially softened by sleep.
“Goodmorning,” Pantalone managed.
Dottore’s brows drew together as he looked down at their entwined limbs, then back at Pantalone, then anywhere but. “I don’t have clothes.”
Pantalone looked up at the ceiling. Tsaritsa, help. “Would you like some?”
“I-...yes.”
“GREAT, I’LL GO GET THOSE,” Pantalone said, desperate to run and hide and never speak of this situation again.
He rolled off the bed and, thanks to the sheets and their position and the Tsaritsa’s hatred of them, he took Dottore with him.
They landed on his floor in a heap and Dottore swore, angrily, which made Pantalone only all the more nervous and eager to flee. In his haste, as he got to his knees, he once again tripped and landed on Dottore’s bare back.
“Stop moving,” Dottore hissed. “You fucking- stay still.”
“Aha,” Pantalone croaked.
Dottore shoved him aside and then yanked on the sheet. He wrapped it around himself, glaring at Pantalone. “This is mine now. Goodbye.”
“You can’t leave like that!” Pantalone cried, waving his hands wildly. “There’s going to be rumors-”
“Well, you seem incapable of function,” Dottore said, casting a glare over his shoulder. Oh, how had he ever been oblivious to Rattore’s true identity? No living creature glared as much as the man in front of him.
Pantalone adjusted his glasses and ran a hand through his tangled hair. “I was startled. Anyone would be given… given everything.
“…I can’t believe you ate my hair.”
“I did NOT eat it,” Dottore snapped, rubbing his head and scowling at Pantalone’s desk. “I bit it off because you were being an ass.”
“Oh, and you weren’t?” Pantalone demanded before he could help himself.
Dottore turned and Pantalone sighed noisily. “Wait,” he said, standing and grabbing the Doctor by the shoulder. “Come…come back to bed. I’ll find you something to wear.”
“I am not laying in your bed for another moment,” Dottore said stiffly.
“Suit yourself, there’s chairs. There’s also the floor. Or my sock drawer.”
“Are you asking for your demise, Regrator?” Dottore snapped as he sunk into one of the chairs scattered around the room. “I’ll gladly bring it about.”
“Oh, be quiet,” Pantalone grumbled as he disappeared into his walk-in closet. “Don’t forget who’s saved your life twice now.”
“Consider the fact that you still breathe my way of repaying you.”
Pantalone retrieved some clothes that he wouldn’t miss and returned to the main room. Dottore was looking properly miserable and Pantalone dropped the clothes onto his lap without another word.
Dottore looked down at the clothes and then back up at Pantalone. “We will never talk about this again,” he said firmly.
“I wasn’t planning to. The past two days have been a bit embarrassing in retrospect. What would the others say if they found out I called you my pet? Actually, what will they say when they find you sneaking out of my room in my clothes?”
Dottore’s fingers curled into fists. “Well, there’s hardly anything we can do about that.”
There was at least one reasonable solution that came to mind, but Pantalone was rather enjoying how red the Doctor’s pretty face was turning now that he could think straight. “Why don’t you stay here a little while longer?”
“And why,” Dottore said slowly and coldly, “would I want to do that?”
Pantalone dared to pat his head. “Why, to delay the inevitable, of course.”
Dottore stood abruptly. Probably at the end of his patience, Pantalone acknowledged. “I’m getting changed,” he said, “and then I am leaving.”
“Enjoy your walk of shame,” Pantalone called after him, chuckling. “You were delightfully terrible company, my dear Rattore~”
Dottore walked straight into the wall, then turned and glared.
The last thing he saw before he slammed the bathroom door closed was Pantalone’s smirking face.