Archive of Our Own

The quiet rumbling of Pierro’s voice as he read a long string of commands off of a document was, unfortunately, lulling Dottore to sleep. 

He really should have been trying to pay attention to whatever the other harbinger was saying. Usually, if all of them had been forced to gather in one place, it was because something incredibly important had happened. The last time they’d all been recalled from their positions had been for Signora’s funeral- someone had died. 

Yet, he found he could not stay alert. Too many sleepless nights were finally taking their toll, he mused helplessly as his eyes began to fall shut. At least he was wearing his mask- if he truly did fall asleep, no one would know. Hopefully. 

At his side, the Ninth glanced at him, adjusting his glasses as he did so. Technically, they were not supposed to sit so close at the table, given their differences in rank, but Dottore had purposely positioned them that way so that he could pass the other notes for the sole purpose of being a bother. Most were complaints about how boring the meetings were or something stupid he’d come up with to pass the time as the others gave reports he could frankly care less about, though he occasionally did beg for funding- partially because it was what annoyed the Regrator to no end and partially because he really did need more funding, quite badly. 

Either way, they were now seated beside each other, so close their thighs were nearly touching. Normally at this point he’d have buried Pantalone’s lap in white slips of paper, but today his pencil lay discarded on the table beside a copy of Pierro’s report. The lack of obnoxious teasing and begging was probably why the other was giving him the side-eye. Honestly, if their positions were reversed, Dottore would do the same. Still, the staring was getting on his nerves. 

He propped his head up on his arm and leaned to the side, taking up as much of Pantalone’s space as he possibly could. It would annoy him more than a kick to the shin would and it would be less noticeable by the others. The last time they’d gotten into a fight, Pulcinella had cuffed them together for the day. That had been…interesting, to say the least. Though not entirely unpleasurable, he was reluctant to experience it again given they’d both been bruised and incredibly pissed by the end of it. 

“Do you mind?” Pantalone hissed softly, poking- well, moreso stabbing- him in the thigh with his pen. “Move.”

He swatted the other away under the table, then murmured, “You’re being rather rude, Regrator. Pierro is speaking.”

He didn’t have to turn to know the other was attempting to turn him into ash with a mere glare. He could practically feel Pantalone’s annoyance through the layers between them. 

Dottore yawned and Pantalone sighed, shifting away. He heard the Ninth shuffle some papers as he closed his eyes. Pierro was still talking- at this point the words were blending into each other, as though they were one long stream of words in an alien language rather than cold and concise sentences. How much longer was this meeting going to go on for? What was it even for again? He’d have to bully it out of someone later or have one of the minions do it for him. 

He yawned- again. The headache that had been plaguing him since this morning begged him to just give in. If no one was shouting his name, which he was certain he’d be able to decipher even through the haze of exhaustion that had settled over him, then it wasn’t too important, right? 

He could take a quick nap. 

Pantalone glared at the Second, who had bumped into him for the twelfth time in less than twenty minutes. 

Pulcinella was watching them like hawks, his large nose flaring whenever Pantalone’s hand inched towards the dagger he kept strapped to his side; the harbinger probably waiting for them to start tearing at each other. It was usually the way things went between them, so Pantalone found he couldn’t even fault the old man. The last thing anyone needed was a fight in the middle of their meeting. 

He scribbled down a price Pierro tossed his way, glancing Dottore’s way again. His fingers were tapping against the table absently, his head twisted away from Pantalone even as he leaned on the other’s chair. Was he sulking? Pantalone couldn’t imagine why. It wasn’t like he’d denied Dottore funding that week or tried stabbing him. Maybe someone else had managed to get under the Doctor’s skin for once. 

“An automaton of this size is going to be very pricey,” he said, dragging his attention away from Dottore. Which was difficult because he’d once again decided to start leaning against Pantalone. He nudged him to the side again as discreetly as possible. “We’ll have to import most of the materials from-”

He was cut off as Dottore decided that that was the best moment to suddenly slump against him completely, with everyone’s attention on them. He winced as the other’s head knocked against his bony shoulder and shifted so that he could glare down at him.

His anger was quickly replaced with mild concern when there was no smirking face to greet him. Dottore was dead weight against him, limp and unmoving. Corpse-like. The only thing that seemed to be keeping him upright was Pantalone’s aching shoulder. 

The others immediately jumped to their feet, backing away from the table, save for Capitano who leaned over to check for a pulse. 

Poison was his immediate thought- the same thought that was probably echoing through his colleague’s heads if their narrowed eyes and drawn weapons were any indication. They’d already lost two comrades in quick succession- if there was any time to strike, it would be now, when their ranks were already depleted. 

“Pulse is fine,” Capitano said flatly, drawing back. “His temperature feels fine, too.”

Some tension seemed to drain out of the room, albeit now much. Pantalone squirmed under Dottore’s weight, though it wasn’t as though he could just shove him away in good conscience. 

Sandrone snickered. “Did he fucking fall asleep?”

Capitano’s answering flat look had her bursting into true laughter. She swiped at her eyes as she said, “Perhaps we need to liven things up around here. I was half-tempted to take a nap myself.”

“Can someone move him?” Pantalone hissed. “He’s heavier than he looks.”

“Nah, he’d probably bite me,” Sandrone said, almost apologetically. Some of the others nodded in agreement. “Why don’t you try waking him up if he’s bothering you so much?”

“Because then he’d bite me, ” Pantalone said flatly. 

“And what a shame that would be,” Arlecchino said. 

Pantalone considered how much convincing it would take to have the Tsaritsa implement a harassment policy. He deserved monetary compensation for the shit he was being put through day in and day out by these people. 

Capitano sighed and then roughly shook the Second. Pantalone scowled as the other’s head smacked against his, but at last the weight that had been weighing him down lifted as Dottore jerked awake. 

“Hm!” Dottore managed, sitting up and looking around. He shoved Pantalone away roughly when he seemed to realize how close they were, brushing his hands off on his shirt almost guiltily. 

“Good morning,” Pierro said dryly. 

“...’Morning,” Dottore muttered, rubbing his face- or, more accurately, his mask. 

“Do I even want to know how much of that you heard?” Pierro asked. 

“Mm…”

“Do you even know that you’re going to be at the head of this project?” Pierro demanded, tossing his papers onto the table and massaging his temples. 

“...What?”

Pierro sighed. “We’re…we’re done here. Read the damn report.”

He stood abruptly and walked away as half the room erupted into giggles and the other half into tired sighs. 

“What, exactly, is wrong with you?” Pantalone demanded as he practically dragged Dottore from the meeting room. He had the stumbling man by the sleeve, yanking him along roughly. Dottore had been fully prepared to go right back to sleep after Pierro had left, which, in other words, meant he had been fully prepared to pass out on Pantalone’s shoulder again. Unacceptable. “Has someone actually managed to slip you something?”

“Tired,” Dottore grumbled, trying in vain to tear himself free from Pantalone’s iron-tight grip. Normally not a problem considering the Second was considerably stronger than him, but at the moment, he seemed to be having some trouble. 

“You’re tired,” Pantalone repeated, unamused. “Of course.”

Dottore opened his mouth to argue, but then clamped his mouth shut. Pantalone paused, frowning. Honestly, that he wasn’t willing to argue or bite back was more concerning than Dottore falling asleep at the meeting itself. Tsaritsa, was he actually dying or something? 

“Right,” he said, shaking himself. He shoved Dottore forwards. “Well, there’s your lab. Go nap or something. If you fall asleep on me again, I truly will stab you, regardless of who is watching. …If you need something, come find me.”

Dottore waved his words away and fumbled with the doors. It took a pathetically long time to get them open, of which Pantalone spent watching and debating whether or not he should help. Eventually, Dottore managed on his own and even seemed to muster up enough energy to give him the finger before disappearing inside. 

Pantalone shook his head as he silently moved the harassment policy to the top of his list of things that needed to get done. Enough was enough! 

A soft knock on his door pulled Pantalone from his thoughts as he signed a contract. He sighed, flipping the paper over and checking the clock. He didn’t have any meetings yet, so something else must have required his attention. Unfortunate. Today had been going so smoothly, as well. Well, so long as it wasn’t news that his new tea set had gotten long at sea, he would be fine. 

“Enter,” he called, leaning back in his chair.

He sat up straighter as Dottore shuffled inside. “Archons, what happened to you? Did that Traveler everyone’s talking about finally get a hold of you?”

Dottore scowled at him before collapsing into one of the chairs he kept in front of his desk. He rubbed at the bruise that colored the side of his jaw. “I fell down some stairs.”

Pantalone adjusted his glasses. “Right. Lovely. Well, you look terrible. Utterly horrid and I can only see half your face. I thought I’d mention it, just in case you didn’t know.”

“There are a lot of objects in this room that I could chuck at that empty head of yours, Regrator,” Dottore said flatly, picking at the stitching that dotted the arm of the chair he’d claimed. 

Pantalone rolled his eyes and glanced down at his paperwork, then back up at the Second. “Well, what do you want? I do have things that need to be done, so spit it out quickly. Is it money? I’ll have you know, you’ve already been paid for the automaton-”

“Tea.”

Pantalone paused, tipping his head to the side. “Pardon?”

Dottore bared his teeth at him. “You heard me.”

“I did,” Pantalone said slowly, “I’m just wondering why you’re bothering me with something so silly. If you want tea, go find one of the servants or, better yet, go down to the kitchens and help yourself. ‘Waiter’ is not a part of my job description, I’m afraid.”

Dottore mumbled something and Pantalone sighed, taking up his quill once more and flipping over some of his papers so that he could get back to work. He didn’t have time for whatever nonsense the other was coming up with. 

He signed a few more papers, glancing at the other harbinger once and a while, but Dottore didn’t move from where he sat, sulking. Between the pallor and the bruising, he really did look awful, as though he truly had taken a tumble down the stairs. Perhaps he really hadn’t been joking. 

“Are you sick?” he demanded at last. “Somehow you seem even worse off than when I last saw you. If you are, please, keep six feet back. I’m rather frail, you know?”

“‘M not sick,” Dottore grumbled, tearing at a thread out of the fabric of the chair. Pantalone watched, but refrained from tearing the Second a new one. “Just tired.”

“Then sleep,” Pantalone said, annoyed. “It truly isn’t that hard.”

“I can’t,” he snapped. “If I fall asleep, then someone or something wakes me up because they need me to do something for them. I need something to knock me out, if you know what I mean.”

Pantalone rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Don’t you think you’d find something more appropriate for that in your own lab rather than my office? Tea has calming properties, yes, but it’s not a drug- ”

“I don’t know!” Dottore snapped, tossing his hands up in exasperation. “I’ve fucking tried the drugs, they do jackshit. I think I’ve used them too much. I’m just- uhg!” He scratched at the felt on the chair, scowling down at it as though it had wronged him in some way. “I feel like my skin is crawling. I’m seeing shit. I just want to chill for a moment.”

“Eloquently put,” Pantalone said, sighing. He opened one of his desk’s bottom drawers and removed a few packets of his very expensive tea. He stared at it sadly for a moment before tossing the packets to the other. “I doubt this is going to do anything for you, but if it will get you out of my hair, have at it.”

“Thanks,” he grumbled. “How do I…?”

“Oh for fuck’s sake.”

“I hope you remember this the next time you think about doing something horrible to me,” Pantalone said as he poured the tea. At least he was ensuring that it was being properly brewed this way. “I expect compensation for my efforts.”

Dottore grunted, his head in his hands as he leaned against the back of Pantalone’s sofa. He startled a little as Pantalone nudged him before shoving the cup into his hands. 

“This tastes like shit,” he said, sipping it. 

“Then don’t drink it,” Pantalone said flatly, sitting down beside him. “I’ll just fine you for wasting my precious tea and we’ll be done with this. You can go scurry back to your lab and I can get back to my files-”

“Can you stop talking?” Dottore demanded irritably. 

“I’ll have you know we are in my home, on my couch, so I’ll say whatever I like,” Pantalone said stiffly. 

He did keep quiet afterwards, however, since Dottore said nothing in reply. The man was simply staring down into his cup, almost zombie-like. It was a little unnerving, considering how the Second usually couldn’t stop moving or talking or chuckling to himself. The silence was somehow more disturbing than the craziness he’d grown accustomed to. 

Pantalone took a sip from his own cup and glanced around at the four walls of his deathly silent home. He’d paid good money to get it like that- the sound proofing, the insulating, the new paint job… Any upgrade he could make, he had. 

He was idly wondering if he should replace the carpet when he felt Dottore shift beside him. He turned and watched as the Doctor began to tip over. He gasped and made a grab for the cup, but it fell before he could reach it, spilling all over his couch. His beautiful, expensive couch. Oh, and Dottore. 

Dottore jolted awake and swore, cringing as he saw Pantalone’s flat expression. “Oops.”

“You spill tea all over my white couch and all you have to say to me is ‘oops’? Not ‘sorry’? Not ‘don’t worry, I’ll definitely replace this’?” Pantalone asked, resigned to his fate of having all his furniture destroyed by the man before him. First the damn chair, now his couch, what next? His bed?

He might as well!

“Get up,” he ordered, sighing. “You are dripping all over my floor and you will not be ruining my carpet next. I paid good mora for those and have had them for years. I will kill a man before they are replaced.”

He ushered the other into the bathroom and shoved a robe into his hands. “Leave those in there,” he called before turning his attention back to his couch. His poor, stained couch. It would never be the same. He’d need to have it replaced. Oh, but what color should he get? Certainly not white again. In hindsight, that had been asking for trouble. Perhaps he’d get a dark gray or-

“I’m not walking through the halls in this,” Dottore called. “What the fuck did you give me? Is this a dress?”

“It’s a robe, you mole rat,” Pantalone said, glancing around the room. Well, if he was getting a new couch, he might as well get some new paintings as well. “And you’re not going anywhere. You’re going to stay here until you get your shit together so that I can relieve myself of any future headaches.”

“What am I, your prisoner now?” Dottore demanded, slinking out of the bathroom. Oh, he looked pissed. Well, better that than zoned out. At least anger had direction. 

“You should be after what you did,” Pantalone said, pointing to the couch. “Look at that. Ruined.”

“You can wash it. You’re acting like it’s fucking paint or something.”

Pantalone waved him away. “Go to the bedroom. Get out of my sight. I cannot look at you any longer after what you’ve done.”

“It was tea -”

“Door on the right!” he called without turning around. “I don’t hear walking!”

Dottore snarled something softly, but did disappear in the direction Pantalone had ordered him to. Good. If he was out of the living room, that meant Pantalone could do some remodeling finally. Now, where was that catalog he’d been flipping through a few weeks ago… 

When morning came, he would probably get bitten for crawling into bed beside the Second, but it was his bed, so he had the right to sleep in it, surely? He certainly wasn’t going to sleep on the floor, anyways. 

He drew the covers up to his chin, studying Dottore’s face. He’d ditched his mask somewhere- it wasn’t on the nightstand, which meant it could be anywhere- and, in sleep, he for once didn’t look like he was plotting the quickest way to make Pantalone indescribably angry. He just looked tired, with dark circles under his eyes and a small frown. 

On impulse, he reached over to brush a few strands of blue hair away from his forehead. Dottore stirred as his fingers traced his face, but mercifully stayed asleep, even as a hand crept up to swat at his own. 

Pantalone retracted his hand, figuring his luck was probably spent for the day, and rolled over. Hopefully, the other would be back to his regular difficult self by tomorrow. Honestly, the last few days had been quite boring, albeit peaceful. There was just something exhilarating about trying to murder your favorite coworker, even if it ended with both of you covered in bruises, scratches and blood. 

He chuckled to himself, wondering what he’d do if he woke to a hand around his neck or a blade poking at his spine. 

He supposed that was a problem he’d deal with tomorrow.