Work Text:
Are you free today? I could use your assistance with a personal matter.
You tried to ignore the little leap your heart gave when you checked your notifications that late spring morning and saw Dottore’s text. It was likely nothing too serious. A personal matter could be any number of things, you told yourself.
He sent you an address upon a short exchange and within a few hours, you found yourself on the curb, looking up at a limestone house with a driveway off to the side, all of it framed by far too much foliage. You got the sense, however, that he preferred it that way. Initially, you considered approaching the front door; it wasn’t until you heard some noise coming from the driveway that you decided instead to walk up the asphalt.
The foliage continued here, too, sheltering the property. Even here, in the middle of what was essentially suburbia, he still kept some qualities of his home in Sumeru (loath though he might be to admit it). The garage, while not limestone, was clearly a carriage house at some point, judging from the doors. Outside of it sat what you knew to be Dottore’s pride and joy, more than any other Ruin machine or other invention he’d set eyes on. He wasn’t what you would classify to be a ‘car person’ in the traditional sense but there were few people he let be around the car, let alone in it. The grill’s vertical teeth were aggressive but sleek, and at a quick glance, reminded you of the Blåhaj plushie you got him as an inside joke. A BMW M8 competition coupe in tanzanite blue, a metallic blue that dazzled in sunlight.
You’d sat in the car twice; once when he picked you up for a date and once when he dropped you off. The light interior was plush leather, some of the softest you’d ever encountered.
A hose trailed from the spigot nearby, water quietly filling a bucket that, upon inspection, was already sudsing with soap. You could just catch a sponge floating inside, soaking up liquid in preparation.
“Oh, there you are. Impeccable timing, everything is almost ready.”
Dottore stood in the threshold of the garage, drying his hands on a towel. Even today, on a warm spring morning, he was dressed in slacks and a button-down, his sleeves rolled up neatly to his elbows. Did he even own anything else?
His crimson eyes were hidden behind a pair of sunglasses.
You’d come prepared in clothes you could at least risk getting dirty. A white shirt and modest shorts. Simple. Easy. Especially considering he hadn’t explained what, precisely, you would be helping with.
But now, the task was obvious.
“You mean to tell me you actually wanted to spend time outside?” you teased.
“The weather is advantageous and I’m waiting on samples to proliferate as a pure culture.”
In other words, you told yourself, he had time. A rarity as of late.
“As much as I enjoy doing this myself, it goes faster with two people and there are few I trust more with this masterpiece. Besides, I thought perhaps you might stay for lunch.”
You felt heat rise to your cheeks at the notion that, of all the things he could be doing, he was spending that time with you. That he wanted to spend his free time with you.
The slim cut of his shirt was distracting on its own, when he wasn’t in motion, and your eyes continued to wander as Dottore took the hose from the bucket and, with a quick adjustment, began to rinse the car. His shirt matched the car almost one-for-one, minus the metallic sparkle, and as you trailed the sponge across the side panel and then the headlight, you couldn’t help but watch his muscles flex beneath the fabric.
A shock of cold jolted you and you stumbled back, your shirt now damp. Across the hood of the car, the Harbinger was aiming the hose back at the vehicle, as though nothing had happened, a knowing smirk on his lips.
“You were going to scratch the paint. Do be more careful.”
His smirk only seemed to widen as you felt a pout dance across your lips. You could be distracted later, you supposed. After all, he’d invited you here for your help and because he believed you would treat the vehicle with great care as he did, not to…ogle.
You leaned over the hood of the car, squeezing the sponge to free some of the soap before running the sponge in circles over the surface, suds bubbling. The car would absolutely glisten when you were done, you were sure of it.
But it seemed a crime not to appreciate his physique, especially when…
Did he even know what the sun did to his hair?
Another cold jolt, longer this time, and you did almost fall from the shock of the temperature.
Once again, the hose was back where it should have been. Dottore was, instead, focused on a detail of the car you couldn’t see, his head cast towards the foot board.
As you made your way around the car, it kept happening. A spritz here. A spray there. By the time you were done sudsing the car, your clothes were soaked . Part of it was your own doing, having had to lean over the car to reach some parts of the hood and the back window, but most of it was the fault of the man still holding the hose.
Despite the sunglasses, you could tell by the angle of his head when he was looking at you. As you finished running the sponge over and through the spokes of the rims, you caught his head turned in your direction a few seconds longer than usual. He’d already rinsed the rest of the car; there wasn’t much left to do except the wheels you cleaned and to let the car dry. He returned his attention to the car to finish up rinsing the wheels before sighing silently in satisfaction.
The hood glimmered and sparkled to the point at which it looked like it had been painted with wet diamonds. Beneath the metallic shimmer, the blue seemed to glow from within.
And once again, you found Dottore watching you, his gaze burning across your torso.
Two could play that game.
You rose and closed the distance between you. Dottore loomed over you in height but his lingering gazes and the cold fabric against your skin was making you bold.
“I thought you invited me over to wash your car, not for a wet tee-shirt contest,” you teased.
His smug smile was all you needed, your hands pulling the hose from his just enough to maneuver the nozzle and find the trigger. You were caught in the crossfire but ultimately successful in your goal by the time Dottore wrenched the hose from you and held it out of your reach.
His blue hair stuck to his forehead, dripping down over his shoulders, and his shirt clung to him perfectly. Now you certainly could see every flex of muscle, his pecs and biceps far more pronounced than before. You hadn’t managed to get his entire shirt but the lower half was damp enough to just reveal the rest of his torso.
He pulled his sunglasses down to give your torso a pointed look, his crimson eyes meeting yours once. His smile grew until he flashed his teeth, a low laugh shaking his shoulders. Dottore then lowered his face to your ear, hair dripping onto your shoulder as he did so.
“But I didn’t wear white,” he whispered, his breath hot on your neck. “I suppose you win, then.”
“What do I win?”
You swore you imagined the briefest brush of his lips against your pulse point before he stepped back and pushed his sunglasses back up.
“You’ll find out once we get inside.”
His smug smile betrayed his words, the promise of more dancing across his lips. You returned it, shaking your head slightly.
Help with a personal matter, indeed.