Work Text:
Scaramouche's day was not going particularly well. It was a slow build of little things piling up into a mountain; waking up with a headache, spilling his coffee, his overall mood dampened by the incessant rain. He didn't see anything improving any time soon, especially since he still had a few hours left at work. No time to unwind and let his simmering irritation fade.
In the end, the thing that pushed him over the edge wasn't even directed at him. Pierro was upset about something—or someone—and he was yelling, his voice an angry snarl. The office’s normal quiet was shattered, and it didn't help that Scaramouche's cubicle was stationed so close to where his boss was ranting. When Pierro turned to him, his rage still palpable and suffocating, something in the smaller man broke.
It didn't happen right away. Scaramouche got up to escape to the break room, his nerves pulled taut and his mood completely trampled. He got about halfway before he braced against the wall, blinking hard a few times. Tears welled up without permission, blinding him, submerging him, drowning him. He managed to make it to the break room after a long moment spent standing still, leaning against the counter. Part of him thought he should drink some water—anything to focus on instead of his tears—but he couldn't bring himself to move, the soles of his shoes rooted to the ground as if he was grown there. Through his anxious haze, he found a hint of frustration.
Why was he crying? Pierro wasn't angry with him, hadn't been yelling at him. He'd been yelling at some poor soul that fucked up, or pissed him off, or maybe even just looked at him the wrong way. So why was Scaramouche crying? He clutched at his chest, at his fickle, hollow heart, and cursed at himself for his stupid emotions. No one was mad at him, and yet he was still sobbing like someone had struck him. He hated it. He hated himself. He turned so that he was facing the counter, clutching the edge of it like it was his life force. Maybe it was.
"Doll?" Dottore's voice broke through Scaramouche's thundering thoughts. "What's the matter?"
Scaramouche's head whipped around to look at him, his tear streaked face puffy and red. Dottore looked a little surprised; it wasn't often Scaramouche fell apart like this, especially not in a public setting. He opened his mouth, stayed silent, closed it as he averted his eyes. Dottore waited for him to speak.
". . . I just . . . I don't know," Scaramouche finally said, a fresh wave of tears rolling down his cheeks. "I don't know why I'm crying."
Dottore went to stand beside him, gentle hands holding his lover's face. His thumb wiped at the stray tears, and Scaramouche's hand reached up to weakly clutch at the man's wrist.
"Did something happen?" Dottore tried again, kissing one of the tears away. Scaramouche breathed a shaky breath.
"Pierro was yelling, and I . . . I don't know, Dottore," he sobbed out, leaning into the man's touch. "He wasn't even mad at me—it wasn't even directed at me, so why am I crying?"
The doctor held him close, pressing his lips to the smaller man's head as Scaramouche buried his face in his chest. His doll was trembling, shaking with every quiet sob that racked his body.
"But he was yelling, no?” Dottore said softly. “It doesn’t matter at who. He should not have shouted like that.”
It was Pierro’s office; he had every right to scold and berate his employees when they screwed up. Scaramouche wanted to say that, wanted to explain that it didn’t matter—he was fine, after all. No one was upset with him. So why did he agree? He’d never felt like this when Pierro was cross, before. Then again, he’d never yelled like this in front of Scaramouche, never directed that cold irritation at him for even a second. Unfortunately, this time, he’d strayed too close to the fire.
Scaramouche settled for not answering, but Dottore didn’t seem to mind. They stood there in the break room for what felt like an eternity, with Dottore rubbing comforting circles against his back, and Scaramouche desperately trying to calm himself down with deep breaths and racing thoughts. When he finally raised his eyes, they were tired and red, but they were dry.
Dottore offered him a small smile, kissing his head again, the slender bridge of his nose, and finally his lips. Scaramouche couldn’t help but giggle as his lover hopelessly mouthed at him, dropping down to assault his neck. He was doing this on purpose, a cute attempt to help Scaramouche feel better. It would be a lie to say it wasn’t working.
They were interrupted by a pair entering the room, Scaramouche’s mood souring instantly when he realized one of them was Pierro. Dottore pulled himself away from his lover’s neck, standing straight beside him. Scaramouche fought with himself to keep eye contact, vaguely aware of Dottore’s hand on his shoulder. He was watching Pierro, too.
“Scaramouche, there you are,” Pierro began, taking a few steps closer. Pantalone was with him, not far behind. “I believe I owe you an apology.”
Scaramouche blinked. This was not what he’d been expecting, a pang of uncertainty firing in his mind.
“One of the others made a grave mistake, you see, and I suppose I let my fury get the best of me,” he explained, a neutral smile growing on his face; an attempt to appease Scaramouche. “I didn’t mean to yell at you.”
So Pierro really had yelled at him? It wasn’t just a byproduct of his proximity—he’d truly been caught in the crossfire. It had happened not even thirty minutes ago, but the memory felt so hazy, so muddled. He searched for words, but ultimately didn’t know what to say, clenching his jaw in frustration.
“Won’t you say something?” Pierro urged, ignoring the glare Dottore was giving him. “Surely, you forgive me.”
Scaramouche would have nodded if not for his boyfriend’s interjection—he just wanted this to be over with, so Pierro would leave him alone.
“‘Forgive you?’” Dottore scoffed, scarlet eyes narrowed to slits. “That was hardly an apology, Jester.”
Their boss clicked his tongue, “This doesn’t concern you, Doctor.”
“By now you should know that anything concerning Scaramouche concerns me as well,” he retorted. “Surely, you’re not that dense.”
The tension was so thick in the air, Scaramouche was sure he’d choke on it. Pierro was bristling like an irate lion, his brows furrowed in a scowl. He glanced at the analog clock just behind the couple, then back to Dottore, a resolve in his eye.
“Unfortunately, I have a meeting I must attend soon,” Pierro disclosed, but he didn’t sound particularly disheartened to break the news. “We will talk later.”
The Jester left just as swiftly as he came, with Pantalone trailing after him. The ninth stopped in the doorway, giving Scaramouche an apologetic smile. Scaramouche didn’t return it, but he gave him a single nod; Pantalone hadn’t done anything, so why reply bitterly?
After they left, Dottore wasted no time in pressing a soft kiss to Scaramouche’s lips. It quickly turned rough as the smaller man practically begged for more, his hand clutching tightly to Dottore’s shirt. He hardly cared that they were at work; his nerves were on overdrive, and Dottore was a good distraction.
He wasn’t surprised when Dottore pulled away, but it still stung, still left the poisonous taste of his memories on his lips when his advances were rejected. Like he had thought just a moment ago, they were at work, and unlike him, Dottore cared about doing his job.
“I know you don’t want to go back to work, but what if I joined you?” Dottore suggested. “I’ll bring my laptop, and we can do our work together.”
“Are you sure we won’t just distract each other?” Scaramouche huffed, a hint of amusement in his voice. He raised an eyebrow, challenging Dottore to deny him.
The Doctor grinned. “That wouldn’t be so awful, would it?”
Scaramouche’s lips curved into a small smile of their own, the memories shoved to the back of his mind for the time being. “No, it wouldn’t.”