Work Text:
The Regrator has never paid much heed to the mark on his arm.
While other people squinted at the tattoos inked on their skin and wondered when their flowerbuds would bloom, he had simply left it as it was. He didn’t concern himself with such insignificant things like affection and soulmates. It was too trivial a matter for him to pay attention to, especially when he had more important things to do.
Such as overthrowing Celestia, killing a god, and recklessly spending his money on overpriced items, to name a few.
But now he’s picking at the rosebud on his skin in agitation and scowling at it. Wondering when he’s going to fall for anyone. Wondering how likely it would be for a Harbinger to love.
Because it’s better thinking about his soulmate than whatever crazy scheme his idiot business partner is cooking up this time.
Five months. Five months have passed since he met his business partner, and he’s not even sure whether to like him or to be mad at him.
“Funding for an extension to your garden?” Pantalone is unimpressed. Glaring at Il Dottore, he leans against the wall of the palace, tugging at his scarf in annoyance. “I can’t believe you have the audacity to even ask for anything, given your clones wrecked my office last week.”
“It was a redecoration! And it was an improvement, wasn’t it?” huffs Dottore, folding his arms and tapping his foot impatiently. “Your design choices are so dull and overly extravagant.”
“Your segments put corpses in my newly custom-made velvet armchairs.”
“That’s an improvement.”
Pantalone is about to throw hands. Damned scientist who doesn’t know anything about how finance works. Damned scientist leeching off his money after completely ruining his workspace.
“Look, it's just ten million Mora.” snaps Dottore impatiently. “Give it here and we'll be done.”
“No thank you.”
“Looks like we'll have to go on a little tour then.” Dottore sighs, snatching up his hand. Pantalone glares at him, and he returns it with a nonchalant look.
“Don't give me that stare. You’ll understand when you see my garden. It’s full of things you’ll like. You know, poison.”
“We'll see about that.”
But begrudgingly, he follows the Doctor, and as he does, he watches the swirled ink of a closed flowerbud coil a little tighter on that bony wrist.
The smallest stab of pity runs through him.
He wonders if that heartless man could ever fall for anyone.
The Regrator most certainly does not understand Dottore's love for his garden.
“Your garden is impractical and expensive.” grumbles Pantalone. “And why are all the plants here carnivorous?” He steps aside to avoid the gnashing teeth of Dottore’s lovely genetically modified tiger lily.
“You’re one to talk about practicality,” scoffs Dottore, petting the lily and receiving a bite to the arm in return. Disgruntled, he wipes a few drops of blood off his arm and glares at the plant. “And besides, they’re not all carnivorous. Some of them are just poisoned.”
Pantalone exhales. This is going to be a long day.
“That’s not really any better.”
“Fine. I swear I have normal plants.”
The Regrator pinches the rim of his glasses downwards, narrowing his eyes in hinted suspicion.
“Somehow, I doubt it.”
“There's one over there. My pride and joy.”
Dottore points to a tree growing at the back of the atrium, so tall it towers above all the rest. If the Regrator were to be honest, he would have said it was impressive. Beautiful, even, the way the pink leaves curl at the tips and the glowing fruits that dangle from each coiled and twisted silver branch, plump and round in a spectrum of colors from periwinkle to sunset orange.
If he did not know any better, he would have thought it were a branch of the World Tree from the old stories.
He feels the urge to compliment Dottore’s surprisingly good gardening skills.
“It looks poisonous.” mutters Pantalone instead.
“I assure you it isn’t.”
“Your assurance is not to be trusted.”
Dottore pauses. The banker actually has a valid point.
“Try one of the fruits, then.” he says, grabbing his hand and dragging him over to the tree. “It’s good, I promise. I developed them myself.”
“Is this a plot to poison me?” Suspicion arches the Regrator’s eyebrows upwards.
“It’s not every day I let people eat my specially cultivated dream fruits, you know. You’re incredibly lucky.”
“Hm.”
The Regrator offers no remark on that statement, choosing to pluck the nearest fruit off the tree instead. When his hands touch the ripe skin, it glows a little dimmer, and his sharp nails cut through the narrow stem as he picks it from the branch.
“It’s pretty.” he admits, watching the fruit’s scarlet aura fade after being taken from the tree. “Are you sure it’s not radioactive?”
“Probably not.”
“Probably?”
“Trust me.”
Trusting him is likely the last thing the banker would ever do, but surely Dottore would not kill him in broad daylight. To destroy a source of income would be a foolish mistake.
“Fine,” he sighs dramatically, taking a small bite out of it.
Heaven slips between his lips, and on his tongue, he tastes something that is entirely alien to him, that he has not eaten before, far finer than any caviar or stuffed lobster he has eaten. It tastes like the bamboo-shoot soup he'd always wanted to try in his childhood. But then it also tastes bittersweet, like the Fontainian wine at his first banquet, like memories of his late family and the thrones of Celestia crumbling at his feet.
And there's the slightest hint of the bitter medicinal soup Dottore makes him drink when he's sick. It tastes horrible, but also comforting, in a way.
There's something else, too; something indecipherable. It tastes sweet, like affection.
“What sorcery is this?” he breathes upon finishing it, and a little voice in his head asks for more.
“It's made from dreams.”
“Dreams?”
“People's aspirations. Their subconscious memories too. Taken from Irminsul and the minds of Sumeru's people.”
Stolen dreams.
He's eating stolen dreams.
And there’s no regret in his eyes, because it tastes so immaculate he can’t bring himself to spit it out. He wants these dreams for himself and himself only. And he wants to taste that oddly familiar sensation he can’t quite describe yet again.
Then he freezes in place.
There’s an itching on his arm where his soul mark is.
It hasn’t moved in decades, but now it’s twitching.
But then there’s no way something will happen anytime soon. Not in ice-frozen Snezhnaya. And especially not in front of his business partner.
He grumbles and passes it off as a result of his overthinking.
“Well?” says Dottore impatiently.
“Well what?”
“Are the dream fruits edible?”
Pantalone swallows his pride.
“They're quite good,” he admits.
Dottore lifts his chin in that annoyingly self-absorbed manner.
“I told you so.”
It takes all of Pantalone's willpower to not slap that smug grin off his face.
“Let us continue our tour of my extremely practical and inexpensive garden,” says Dottore, with a pointed look at Pantalone.
The banker sighs almost fondly and relents.
“This is most…intriguing.”
Tenderly, the Regrator strokes one of the petals, watching the blue-tinged flower spit out a stream of poison onto the floor.
Beautiful, but horrible all at once.
“You cultivate such pretty things and yet you don't care about your appearance at all.”
“Says the one who dresses like he's going to a funeral every day.”
“And I look good doing it.”
Pantalone huffs in that familiar pretentious manner. A deft hand touches the blossoms, watching ink-blue venom dribble onto Dottore's hand. The older doesn't flinch.
“You're touching modified belladonna poison.” points out Pantalone, not very helpfully.
“Oh, please. Deadly nightshade is child's play. It's not my fault you mortals are too weak to even touch it.”
“Show-off.”
Dottore doesn't deny it.
They share a brief moment of silence, craning their necks to watch the sky, two heretics in Celestia's prison.
The light of the setting sun floods in through the glass panes, illuminating their faces in gold and orange.
A stolen glance is offered at the tattoo on the Doctor's arm, drawn in black lines crisscrossing over each other, like the scars on the face beneath that mask.
“Did you ever pay your soul mark any attention?” asks Pantalone, leaning over to press a finger against his wrist and feeling the steady beating of an inhuman heart in the veins below it.
“Surprisingly, yes. But then I realized there was no point in loving, especially considering how unlovable they made me out to be.”
“Unlovable for good reason.”
“That makes two of us.”
And he laughs and smacks Dottore on the arm in pretend anger.
“Rude.”
The accidental touch lights a fuse.
A breath is swallowed, then held in his throat as he glances at the man next to him.
Archons, I hate him, he thinks, but his reddened cheeks say otherwise.
The indecipherable sweetness slips through his lips once again. A warmth spreads through his chest, accelerating his heartbeat.
What’s happening? he asks his mind, and receives no answer.
A single spot of red bleeds out from the mark on his wrist, turning black and white to a deep crimson that fills the rosebud with its rich flush of color. He watches shades of emerald run along the veins beneath skin and unfurl to form leaves.
“Oh,” he says quietly, raising his head to find a pale gold orchid snake around the Doctor’s arm. “Oh, goodness.”
And Dottore looks almost disbelieving, incredulous, his face one of confusion and disgust and fascination all at once.
“You’re my soulmate?” he says. “Of all people…you.”
It makes sense, if he must be honest. He hasn’t ever felt attached to anyone in this manner. Not with Sohreh. Not with anyone he’s pretended to care for. He swore to never involve himself in human affairs again, to reject the notion of loving…to only ever use others for his personal gain…
And yet.
That pale gold flowerbud is that exact shade of the Regrator’s eyes, molten amber mixing with specks of colors that dance in the light.
But it surprises him to find that he’s fallen for anyone at all.
“Disappointing. I know.” retorts Pantalone, elbowing him sharply. “I was expecting someone more attractive.”
But they’re both smirking at the other, twining their hands together subconsciously.
In a world of mixed signals and withering petals and little white lies, they have somehow found the one person that can hold their heart in their hands and offer pieces of their soul to.
No amount of dream fruits could taste this deliciously bittersweet.
In their own forbidden garden of Babylon, the pair watch the crescent moon swathe them in a gentle glow through the glass panes. There is tranquillity, a sense of peace they’ve rarely had, as their fingers link and they acquiesce to the truth they’ve failed to find for so long.
“I still hate you, by the way,” mutters Pantalone.
“Likewise.”
With that, they exchange secret smiles and watch two flowers bloom in red and gold on their wrists.
-
“So, what about that garden upgrade?” nags Dottore, tugging at his partner’s arm.
Pantalone glances at the rose on his wrist, then the orchid on the Doctor’s, and sighs in fond exasperation.
“Fine.”