Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The most terrible thing about Snezhnaya, Pantalone thinks, is that it is always cold. 

If it is not snowing, then the wind is howling. If there is no wind, then there is merciless hail. If there is no hail, then it is simply so frigid outside that one risks dying of hypothermia by stepping nothing short of a mere foot outside their home. 

And he hates it. It’s terrible. It’s too cold and too windy and there is absolutely no escaping from it. None at all, for even the silly fur coats they are forced to wear do little to protect them from the chill and he refuses to buy anything thicker because by the gods, he will not be caught dead looking anything less than fashionable. 

So he suffers. 

And he shivers. 

“Something wrong, Regrator?” Dottore leans over to whisper in his ear, his breaths red-hot where they fan against his frozen skin. “You’re looking awfully miserable this morning.”

He scoffs, poking his partner in the jaw lightly with the tip of his pen. He doesn’t dare to turn, to give Dottore the satisfaction of annoying him- not when Pierro is mere meters away, the Captain no further. Even if the Doctor cannot be bothered to keep up appearances, he will because the last thing he needs is one of them breathing down his neck. 

Ironic really, this concern, considering who exactly is breathing down his neck at the moment. 

“It’s freezing,” he murmurs, gaze drifting from face to face to stoic face. None of them seem bothered by the night’s bitter chill. It’s hardly fair, though he supposes nothing ever is. 

Dottore chuckles as Pantalone shivers again and it’s almost a mockery of his own airy, light-hearted, fake laugh- the Doctor’s laugh is dark and deep, a low roll of amusement that sends a shiver down his spine. His own are crafted with the intent to ease, to calm- these laughs are downright terrifying in comparison. “Don’t tell me you're cold, Ninth. Surely you must have grown used to it by now after all these years.”

The tone is teasing, sinisterly playful, almost threatening- 

But it’s Dottore through and through and underneath that cold steel of apathetic questioning is glittering curiosity. He can practically hear the incessant whispering of a thousand different voices, both young and old, wondering are you, are you, are you? 

He knows Il Dottore. He knows his partner. He knows him perhaps better than he knows himself, so instead of outright ignoring him, he sighs and at last spares the Doctor a flat, measured look. 

It’s answer enough, if the glint of razor sharp teeth behind upturned lips is any indication. 

“Don’t you give me that look,” Pantalone warns, rolling the pen between his numb fingers. 

“What look?” the Second asks innocently, his hands snaking over to wrap around Pantalone’s forearm. “I’m only looking out for you. It wouldn’t do for my dear supplier to kneel over because of a little frost.”

Pantalone smiles, peering at him from behind thick, dark lashes. “Are you offering to warm me up, Doctor?” he purrs, seizing one of Dottore’s thin wrists with his free hand. “How very generous of you.”

He thinks the Eleventh might be silently gagging on the other side of the table- please, as if he had any room to judge after that fiasco in Liyue. 

The too wide smile he receives from the Second in turn is crooked and maniacal, more a baring of pointed teeth than an exchange of promise. Even the shine of his ruby red eyes is disturbing- they glitter with slippery anticipation, with crazed delight. 

If he wasn’t in charge of Dottore’s funding, he might have been a little nervous. 

With a flourish, Dottore tears himself free of Pantalone’s grasp to rummage around in the pockets of his white coat. It’s horribly noisy, but a second later, Dottore is pulling something small and cylindrical out, something that glows with a breath of red hot flame and thoroughly squashes any ounce of annoyance creeping through Pantalone’s veins. 

He blinks as the tiny bottle is dropped in his hands, reigning in a gasp when sudden warmth pools over his palms. 

A warming bottle. Of course. 

He rolls it between his palms and pointedly ignores the satisfied smirk on his partner’s face as, at last, feeling returns to Pantalone's poor, stiff limbs. 

The meeting continues on without further incident as he peers down at the bottle, breath caught someplace between his heart and his throat. 

The bottle in his hands was made to warm, to soothe, to fend off a bitter chill and the Doctor-

The Doctor did not get cold. He is mechanical, more machine than man- his flesh is synthetic, his heart made of clock. 

He does not get cold. 

So, then, why did he have a warming bottle right there in his pocket?

Oh, Pantalone knows. 

He knows and-

His heart twists a little too painfully as he wraps his fingers around the bottle, sparing another glance at his partner as the meeting at last comes to a halt. He barely registers the sound of voices over the pounding in his ears, in his chest. 

The air between them has always felt so heavy, so thick, almost crackling with tension. He’d always thought- he’d never thought, and it’s just, well-

It's a dangerous game, the one they play. 

Where does the line in the sand lie? When did lies become truths, when did teasing become wanting? 

When did his smile turn from hollow to true?

When did his laugh begin to sound so loud, so free, so true, true, true? 

This bottle was for him. Pantalone knows it was. 

And oh, he’d be lying if he said that didn’t do things to his greedy, needy heart. 

He shakes himself out of his stupor and stands, blinking once, twice, again until he’s certain his face is once more schooled into blissful neutrality. It won’t do for his mask to slip, not when he has at least three more meetings to attend and loans to collect. 

“What?” the Doctor complains as Pantalone turns to go. He scrambles over the arm of his chair, reaching with spindly long limbs for a corner of Pantalone’s coat to yank. “No goodbye? No thank you?”

Goodness, he sounds almost insulted. 

Pantalone sighs, half turning. He raises a brow when the Second pouts at him. 

“You’re something like a dog, you know?” he murmurs, taking his business partner’s face in his hands. He gently tucks wayward locks of sky-blue hair behind the other’s ears, letting his fingers linger against Dottore’s pale cheeks. His skin is always so smooth, so flawless beneath Pantalone’s hands- he often finds himself wondering if it’s even real. “Always begging for my attention, whining for my touch… Well in any case, if you truly want a thank you, then who am I to deny you one?”

He leans forward and presses a quick kiss to the Doctor’s cold cheek, the fleeting touch of his lips nothing more than the barest brush of thanks. 

It leaves his partner red-faced and smirking anyway. 

Pantalone shakes his head, swallowing back other words, other thoughts. 

It isn’t as though he can explain how much it truly meant to him, how meaningful such a small, small action was, after all. 

Not to Dottore. Never to Dottore. 

He can only toe the line between living and acting, between dreams and reality. To step over that line would be to sign himself to death, to living nightmares, to-

“You couldn’t have waited until I was out of the room?” Tartaglia asks, sniffling. There are tears of horror gathering at the corners of his eyes and from somewhere he has procured a statue of the Tsaritsa. He holds it out in front of him like a ward, as though there’s some manner of evil creature lurking around that needs banishing. “That was disgusting. I wish I could unsee it. Comrades, there are bathrooms, bedrooms, and closets around and of all places, you chose the meeting room to make out? ”

Childe turns and gags for good measure. 

“Oh, listen here you,” Dottore snarls, toppling his chair in his haste to lunge for Tartaglia. Pantalone hastily scrambles out of his way and thinks to himself hysterically, a dog. A fucking dog. 

“Captain, help, the five hundred year old virgin is attacking me!” Childe yelps, darting behind the table. “I’d kick his ass, but I’m an avid supporter of the anti-elder abuse committee!” 

“VIRGIN?!” Dottore shouts, leaping onto the table and knocking over Pulcinella’s #1 Dad coffee mug. He yanks a knife from his lab coat and points it at Childe, who looks nothing more than positively thrilled. “ELDERLY?!”

Pantalone shoves his glasses up and rubs his eyes. 

Oh gods, he can’t do this. Why him? Why him? 

Why does he have to be the one that falls in love with a literal rabid animal?

Chapter Text

“Darling,” Pantalone says kindly. “What the fuck?”

Dottore grins at him with a full mouth of razor sharp teeth, before he leans forward and braces himself against the frame of the door. 

One of Pantalone’s eyes twitch as his fingers tighten around the doorknob. 

“Good evening,” the Second all but purrs, slicking back his matted blue hair with one bloody hand.

Pantalone slams the door shut. 

“Lone!” Dottore cries, pounding on the door. “What the fuck, Regrator? You bastard, let me in! It’s cold out here!”

“You are covered in blood, Dottore!” Pantalone snarls, throwing his weight against the rattling door. “And I just bought new carpets to replace the last ones you got blood all over, you know this!”

“Let me in,” his partner begs. “C’mon, I’ve got a present for you!”

Pantalone scowls. He crosses his arms and tips his head back before closing his eyes, though he knows Dottore can’t see him to appreciate the display. 

(He can’t help it, though. He’s a natural drama queen, okay? This kind of stuff is second nature to him!)

“What kind of present?” Pantalone demands after a moment. “If it’s a rat, I don’t want it.”

From behind the thick wood of his very expensive, very nice door, Pantalone can hear the faintest of grumbles and the foulest of swears- and what he hopes is not the tiny squeak of a rat. 

“It’s- get back in there, you little fucking bastard - not a rat~!” Dottore sings. 

“I don’t believe you~!” Pantalone coos right back. 

“Fucking- Lone let me in! You’re supposed to be the nice one.”

“Darling, I’m a capitalist.”

“Are you really going to make me sit out here all night?” Dottore demands, scratching at his door. 

“If I recall correctly, you have a perfectly functional bed of your own down in your lab,” Pantalone says, studying his nails. Goodness, he is in desperate need of a manicure… “There’s no need for you to defile mine.”

“It’s not the same,” Dottore complains. 

“And that is not my problem.”

His partner sighs loudly before falling silent. Pantalone waits for another round of complaints, of whining, of scratching, but it never comes. 

On the other side of the wood, Dottore is quiet. 

Pantalone mentally counts to ten before throwing open the door. 

As soon as the wood groans, Dottore immediately looks up at him with a deranged smile, his face smeared with gore. It’s a terribly familiar sight. 

“You’ll be the death of me,” Pantalone says flatly, offering his partner a hand. “Come on, dear, let’s wash all that off of you. 

“And please, mind the damn carpet.”

-

By the time the blood is finally washed from the Second’s skin, the moon is settled high in the sky and the fire has burned low. Its flames flicker feebly behind the dark iron gate that surrounds it, the fire casting off only the faintest of deep orange glows. 

Pantalone sighs with relief as he settles back into bed, pulling the heavy covers up to his chin as he closes his eyes. 

He loves sleeping. It’s probably his next favorite hobby after getting rich. 

His brow furrows as the bed dips and Dottore settles practically on top of him. Subtly, he nudges his business partner to the side. 

Dottore seems to take this as a challenge because not even a second later, he’s not only returned to his original position, but he’s somehow managed to get even closer. 

“Darling,” Pantalone says, his eyes snapping open. 

“Hmm?” Dottore grunts, cuddling closer. 

“Move.”

“Nuh-uh,” he mutters sleepily. 

Pantalone groans, praying to gods he doesn’t even believe in to end his suffering. He squirms around for a few more seconds before giving up with a weary sigh. 

“Why must you be this way?” he murmurs, turning his head to the side. In the dark, he can scarcely make out the shape of Dottore’s pointed mask, the dark pits of his eyes. He traces the edge of the mask’s beak with a finger, his lips twisting into a rueful smile as the clock chimes midnight. “Do you enjoy torturing me?”

“More than anything,” Dottore chuckles, his own face splitting into a wild grin. 

Pantalone shakes his head, but rolls over to wrap his arms around his partner anyway. 

“Is this what you wanted?” he whispers, tucking his head beneath Dottore’s chin. “To hold me? To be held?”

The only answer he receives is that of quiet breathing and the faintest ticking of a clock trapped behind flesh and blood and a cage of iron ribs. 

Outside, the moon rises ever higher. 

“Goodnight, Dottore,” Pantalone says softly before closing his eyes. 

He’s only just dozing off when the words are whispered in his ear, breathless and ever-so-quiet. 

“It’s your heartbeat,” Dottore says, tightening his hold around Pantalone. He pulls him closer, closer, closer until Pantalone is flush against his body. His next words fan against the shell of his ear and send shivers down his spine. “I like the sound of it. The feel of it. It sings to me.”

“It sings to you?” he repeats, heart pounding. 

He feels the low rumble of laughter roll out of Dottore slowly, the way his heart-clock picks up in answer. 

“Like no other,” Dottore murmurs. 

Pantalone almost smiles. 

Almost, almost, almost. His lips are twisting, his heart is pounding and something like joy is alight beneath his skin because no one’s ever wanted him, not truly, not truly, and-

And there is something crawling up his fucking pant leg that is most certainly not Dottore’s hand. 

“DOTTORE, GET YOUR FUCKING RAT,” Pantalone shrieks, tearing out of his lover’s arms. He all but falls out of bed as he shakes his leg, dislodging what might just be the fattest fucking rat Pantalone has ever had the misfortune of laying eyes on. 

“Martha, you damn cock-blocker,” Dottore sneers, sitting up. “I’m the one that’s supposed to be getting in his pantalones, not you!”

“Get it!” Pantalone cries as Martha scurries across the floor. “Oh, get it, get it, get it!”

“I AM!” his partner hisses, tumbling off the bed in a tangle of spindly limbs. “Dammit! MARTHA, COME!”

Martha, of course, does not listen because Martha is a fucking lab rat. 

“Martha, don’t be like that!” Dottore calls as he chases Martha out of the bedroom. “You know he’ll be mad if you chew on the carpets…”

As soon as Dottore is out of the room, Pantalone slams the door shut behind him. 

“You’re on the couch tonight!” he shouts, propping up a chair beneath the doorknob for good measure. “And if my carpets are even slightly ruined, you’ll never receive another coin from me ever again!”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah…” Dottore grumbles. “FUCK! MARTHA, NOT THE CURTAINS! NO, MARTHA, NO!”

Pantalone buries his head in his hands and sighs.

Chapter Text

“Oh, darling,” Pantalone says, absolutely horrified. He raises his hands placatingly as he inches forward. “I mean this in the kindest way possible…”

Dottore gives him a look. How someone can simultaneously widen and narrow their eyes in warning is beyond Pantalone, but he chalks it up to Dottore being… well, Dottore. Whatever the case, as his hands are fumbling with a bowtie that is the most offensive shade of pink that Pantalone has ever had the misfortune of laying eyes on, his lips pull back in a sneer. 

“Whatever you’re thinking,” the Second hisses, “you’d better keep it to yourself.”

Pantalone should be frightened. He should be disturbed. Most people would be, if Il Dottore was looking at them with a promise of violence in his eyes, and yet all Pantalone can do is mournfully whisper, “You look like a clown. ”

“Oh, fuck you, Lone-” Dottore snarls, tossing the tie to the ground in defeat. “I’ll have you know I am the epitome of fashion! People look at my outfits and think to themselves, ‘damn, I wish I was wearing that’! ”

Pantalone gives him a pitying look before pulling out his credit card. He gently takes his business partner’s hands and places the card in the center of Dottore’s palm, then carefully folds his fingers over it. 

For good measure, he gives the Doctor’s hands a pat. “Go buy yourself something that doesn’t look like… that. In fact, buy yourself a whole new wardrobe- it’s on me.”

“You’d rather spend thousands of mora on new clothing for me than just put up with the old ones? You hate my bow ties that badly?” Dottore demands, scowling. 

“Yes,” Pantalone says, looking down at the discarded tie. Goodness, he’s going to need to find some holy water and a boiling cauldron in order to return that damned thing back to where it belonged- AKA, the burning pits of hell. 

“It’s not that bad,” Dottore grumbles, following his line of sight. 

Oh, it was. It absolutely was that bad. 

“Be back before seven!” Pantalone calls as Dottore stalks over to the door. “Remember we have a dinner to attend!”

“Yeah, yeah,” his partner says, waving a hand dismissively. “Don’t worry. I’ll be back.”

-

Gods, how Pantalone wishes he had NOT come back!!!

-

Dinners at the palace were a grand ordeal, a full spectacle, a three ring fucking circus full of mishaps and mayhem. 

Before he’d even set foot through the door, Pantalone could hear the screaming. 

“WHERE DID YOU FIND THOSE?!” Childe was shouting. Something that sounded suspiciously like expensive wine glasses fell to the floor and shattered, all the while maniacal laughter bounced off the walls. “HOW DID YOU GET A HOLD OF MY MAIL?! AND WHY DID YOU OPEN IT?! DON’T YOU KNOW THAT’S A FEDERAL OFFENSE?”

“Dearest Childe,” Sandrone recites loudly, “How dull Liyue seems without you. My morning walks, my afternoon tea, my evening meals… Without your company, I find my mind straying farther and farther away during these times, though always my thoughts seem to circle back to you. What are you doing? I find myself wondering. How have you been? 

“Do you… miss me?”

“Comrade, if you keep reading, I’m going to commit unnameable atrocities!” 

“Keep reading!” Columbina sings. “I want to hear all about what our little Eleventh has been up to…”

Ah, the mail- or, rather, the love letters. Really, if Childe hadn’t wanted anyone to go snooping, maybe he should have given Morax his personal address instead of the one to the damned palace that they all stayed at…

Whatever. It was what he deserved after last week. 

He slips inside the room just in time to see another- another! - poor wine glass go flying. Sandrone’s head is only saved by her mechanical servant that swipes it away at the very last second. 

“Comrade, help me!” Childe begs as Pantalone takes his seat. He points at Sandrone and Columbina accusingly, who are huddled close together on the other side of the long table. “They’re bullying me!”

Pantalone takes the bottle that’s passed to him and points at one of the many letters piled on Sandrone’s lap. “Read that one. It looks like it’s got lipstick on it.”

Columbina seizes it with manic glee as Childe groans in agony. 

“How my heart aches for you!” Columbina cries, leaping out of her chair as Childe lunges for her throat. “Each night, I find my hands itching to touch your skin, to feel you writhe beneath me, to taste your-!”

“Must we do this at the dinner table?” Pierro demands, slamming his glass down. “This is no way to behave in front of Her Majesty-”

“No, no,” the Tsaritsa says, leaning back, “keep going.”

“How I looonggg for you~!!” Columbina whispers dramatically as she clambers onto the table. “Your touch, your tongue, your fat ass-”

“Comrade, please,” Childe says, chasing after her. “That’s just not right!”

“Let us not discuss Tartaglia’s sex life while we’re trying to eat,” Pierro says flatly, leaning back as Columbina dances past. “There are plenty of other things worth discussing that will not send the Rooster to an early grave. The weather, for instance. It’s such a beautiful night out, isn’t it? The skies are clear, the stars are out-”

“WHEN I SLEEP AT NIGHT, MY DREAMS ARE HAUNTED BY THE GHOST OF YOU!” Columbina shrieks, stumbling to a halt. “I DREAM OF THE WAY YOUR BODY FIT PERFECTLY AGAINST MINE, AS THOUGH WE WERE TWO PIECES OF THE SAME PUZZLE. NEVER BEFORE HAVE I FELT SUCH DEEP ADORATION FOR SOMETHING SO UGLY, WITH HAIR THE COLOR OF ROTTEN CARROTS-”

“He did not say that!” Childe snaps. “Zhongli loves my hair! Now, give me that fucking letter!”

“Oh, he sprayed perfume on this one,” Arlecchino notes, leaning over to pick up a different letter. “Feels like there’s something inside, as well…”

Childe’s head whips around. His vision flares. Pierro picks up a bottle and sighs. 

At Pantalone’s side, the Rooster turns. 

“So,” the old man says, nervously dabbing his wrinkled forehead with a handkerchief, “where is the Doctor? Is he not joining us tonight?”

Pantalone frowns, sparing a glance towards the clock. “Well, he should have been here already-”

As if on cue, the doors slam open.

Pantalone straightens and, really, he’d be lying if he said his heart didn’t give a tiny jolt of excitement. He’d been begging Dottore to buy new clothes forever! The ones he owned were outright offensive, as though someone had given cotton candy a firmer form. 

Really, anything would be better than those!

This, at least, is what he had thought. 

Oh, how wrong he’d been, Pantalone realizes with a sinking heart as he turns and sees… 

And sees… 

Oh, what the fuck, Dottore?!

“Is that a harness?” Columbina asks, breaking the stunned silence as she stumbles to a halt. 

“Oh my god,” Arlecchino cackles, pointing at Pantalone. “Did you- I- help-”

Pantalone sighs, running a hand through his hair as he surveys the Doctor. 

A full body harness… A collar… 

Well, at least he didn’t look like he belonged in a circus any longer, though Pantalone wasn’t sure appearing as though one belonged in a dungeon was any better.

“What do you think, Lone?! Is this better?” Dottore asks, grinning from ear to ear. “Much less embarrassing than the other outfit, right?”

Pantalone smiles. He smiles so hard that he can’t see because if he looks at Dottore any longer, he’s going to have a fucking stroke. Already, he can feel his face heating because god-fucking-dammit this man belongs to him. 

They’re a damn pair and everyone knows it. 

“Yeah, Lone, how do you like his new outfit?” Arlecchino asks shrilly, slapping the table. “It’s great, isn’t it?”

“It’s,” he grits out, forcing his eyes to open, “wonderful.”

“Arle, why don’t you ever wear any leather for me?” Columbina asks, pouting. “You’d look good in a collar. Maybe I should go buy you one.”

“Okay,” Pierro says, standing. “That’s enough-”

“Oh look,” Sandrone says, tearing open a particularly thick letter. She fishes out something from the packaging and lifts it with a raised brow. “All three of you can match- it looks like Mr. Zhongli’s had the same thought.”

“Comrade, I fucking hate you,” Childe says, snatching the collar from her hands. His face is almost as red as his hair, which Pantalone supposes is some small solace- at least he’s not the only one dying of mortification here. 

“You didn’t answer my question,” Dottore suddenly purrs in his ear, his cold hands snaking around Pantalone’s neck. “What do you think, Regrator? Is this better?”

“You planned this, didn’t you?” he asks with a bitter chuckle, leaning back to peer into the hollows of his partner’s mask. “Oh, how I hate you, Dottore.”

“You don’t hate me,” the Doctor laughs, tightening his hold. “You fucking love me. ”

Poor bastard… He wouldn’t be looking nearly as smug when he found himself on the couch tonight.

Chapter Text

Thirty thousand mora spent on… doll clothes? 

Five hundred thousand on a Barbie dream house? 

And sixty thousand on a Barbie Cruinsin’ Car? 

Pantalone frowns, flipping through the sheets upon sheets of strange items that have been purchased using Fatui funds. None of the expenses were adding up! Who the hell was buying this kind of shit? Did someone have a secret child they were hiding away? But no, that didn’t make sense… What kind of idiot would charge the bills to him? 

Ah, actually… He had one idiot in mind. 

Well, more like one cocky bastard in mind…. 

Which was fucking concerning, because that cocky bastard belonged to him and if he had a child hidden away that Pantalone hadn’t been made aware of… 

Turning to his assistant, he smiles. 

“I need to buy a gun!”

-

The door to the Doctor’s lab is bolted shut, as usual- not that that’s ever stopped Pantalone before. 

With a pull of a trigger, he shoots the lock and pop! Off it goes!

With a hum, he kicks the fucking door down. 

“Doctor~” he calls, stepping into the dimly lit space. “A word, if you will!”

From somewhere in the back, he can hear cursing and snarls, a panicked shout as something crashes to the ground. He smiles to himself and follows the sound, gun in hand and folder of receipts tucked safely beneath his arm. 

He pauses outside the door to the Second’s private office just as the room beyond goes eerily silent. He waits, patiently, as the knob rattles and then turns, his dear, darling business partner finally appearing. 

“Pantalone!” Dottore says, splaying his arms wide in welcome. “How can I help you!”

“What the fuck is the Barbie dream house for, Dottore?” Pantalone asks, pressing the gun beneath his partner’s chin. “And the car? The clothes? Are you hiding something from me, Dottie?”

“I would never!”

Pantalone smiles. He pulls the gun away and fires a round into the wall. 

“Hey, that wallpaper is brand fucking new!” Dottore snarls. 

“I pay your bills, dear,” Pantalone reminds him sweetly. “Now answer me. What. Are. They. For.”

“They’re for science!” Dottore says, shifting in the door frame. 

“Is that so?” Pantalone asks, admiring the fresh bullet holes in the wall. Perhaps he’ll leave them there as a reminder. Perhaps he’ll have them repaired. Perhaps he’ll even add new ones… 

Really, it depends on how badly Dottore’s about to piss him off. 

“They’re for…they’re for me!” Dottore says quickly. “I really love Barbies! My favorite Barbie is the banker one!”

“There is no banker one!”

“How would you know?!” Dottore demands, trying to slam the door shut behind him. Pantalone shoves his foot in before he can, grimacing as Dottore fights to close it. “Did you look?!”

“Maybe!”

“Well, fuck you, I’ll make a banker Barbie if you just let me close this damn door!”

“What are you hiding, Dottore?! What are the Barbies for?!”

“None of your fucking business!”

“You charged them to my account, of course it’s my damn business!”

“All of my accounts are your accounts!” Dottore hisses. “Just- trust me, you’re better off not knowing!”

“Did you cheat on me?!” Pantalone demands. “Are these Barbies for your secret love child?!”

“What the fuck?! How’d you come to that conclusion?!” Dottore asks, faltering. Pantalone takes the opportunity to shove him, throwing the door wide open as his partner stumbles backwards. 

“Well, what other conclusion am I supposed to come to? That you’d suddenly taken an interest in children’s toys- oh my fucking god, what is that.”

There, squeezed into a Barbie camper and clothed in the finest of extra-large Barbie clothes, was Martha. 

Martha the fucking lab rat, ankle biter extraordinaire. 

Dottore follows his wide-eyed gaze and scowls. “I told you you were better off not knowing.”

“What?? Why??” Pantalone shivers as Martha side-eyes him. Fucking rats… “What the hell, Dottore?”

“Martha’s retiring!” Dottore says. “I wanted to do something special for her.”

“So you played dress up with her,” Pantalone says flatly. “In your office. While you’re supposed to be working.”

Dottore scowls at him and then sits down at a comically small table. He picks up a teacup. “We were just about to have Starbucks when you so rudely interrupted us.”

“Oh, well I suppose I’m sorry I was a little concerned when I saw the most random of expenses being taken out of our account.”

“You don’t sound sorry,” Dottore says, helping Martha out of her car. “Feeling bitter that I didn’t invite you?”

“Yes,” he says flatly, rolling his eyes. “I’m feeling incredibly upset that I almost missed out on your Barbie rat tea party.”

“Well,” Dottore says, setting Martha down carefully. He crosses his arms and sticks his nose in the air, lips still pulled back into a small sneer. “You’re welcome to join us.”

“I think I’ll pass,” Pantalone says dryly. 

“Suit yourself! Now, come on, Martha, what would you like? Oh, let me guess- the pink drink?”

“Goodbye,” Pantalone says, turning. “Enjoy your… Starbucks.”

“Hmph!”

Pantalone shakes his head and sighs. 

…Really, what had he been expecting?

Chapter Text

"So?" Pantalone demands, leaning across the table. It's absolutely cluttered with all sorts of vials and papers, with all kinds of gears and bolts and syringes. It's a mess, but when isn't his dear partner's lab? He'll drop dead from shock if he ever comes to visit and finds the damn place immaculate. 

"So what?" the Second asks, fidgeting with a long, thin silver device. Pantalone has no idea what that is for and he's long learned not to ask- not because he’s afraid it might be used for something terribly frightening, but simply because he cannot be bothered to listen to another long winded explanation on the functions of strange looking pens. 

"So when are you going to ask me to marry you?!" he asks, exasperated. "Come on, you cannot honestly expect me to wait forever, darling. It's been years and you are certainly not getting any younger over there!"

"Are you calling me fucking old?"

"You are old," he deadpans. "Utterly ancient."

"Well, first of all, fuck you. I'll have you know, I am young and spry. I don't even have any gray hair- or wrinkles! Second, what do you mean when am I going to ask you? I already did! And you said yes! ...We're married, aren't we, Lone?"

Pantalone blinks. He steeples his hands. He considers mass murder. "We are? Did you somehow manage to erase this from my memory? Because I don't remember any diamond rings or extravagant ceremonies and I certainly don't remember celebrating what should have been the most important moment of my life."

Dottore finally looks up from his work to give him a look. It's all raised eyebrows and twisted lips, as though Pantalone's the crazy one here. 

"I gave you a ring," Dottore says, glancing back down at the papers strewn before him in a messy pile. "You're even wearing it now- that silver band right there, marked with my symbol!"

Pantalone scowls, looking down. He immediately spots the ring in question and how could he not? It was his first- or at least the first on his hands to have meant anything truly important. 

It's also the symbol of their arrangement, the mark of their partnership. As soon as he'd had the contract drawn up and signed, the Second had pressed it into his hand and disappeared with nothing more than a maddening, shuddering laugh. 

It was a nice ring, as far as rings go. He’s grown quite fond of it, despite its distinct lack of… well, charm. It was shiny and silver and hardly cheap- it had seen Pantalone through many meetings and many years.

But it certainly wasn't a- a wedding ring!

"Dottie," Pantalone says, closing his eyes. He counts slowly down from ten before opening them. "Are you telling me that that was your proposal?"

Dottore has the audacity to look utterly unbothered as he stirs the shimmery contents of a stray vial. "Yes?"

"You just handed me the ring without a word and thought that was enough? That we were married, just like that?"

Dottore stops stirring and frowns. "...Yes?"

"Darling, I have half a mind to wack you over the head with a newspaper. What kind of proposal was that?! And you didn't even bother to actually ask me?! You just handed me the ring and walked away?! Oh, gods, no wonder you were all over me at dinner afterwards! You really thought that I'd- that we were-?! Gods!"

Dottore scowls and tosses the vial aside, at last turning to face him. "I did ask! I asked if you'd be my partner and you said yes! We signed a contract and I gave you the fucking ring! What more did you want from me?!"

Pantalone buries his head in his hands. Oh, what the fuck? Was it because Dottore was old? Maybe this was just what they did back in the olden days... 

"No, no, no, don't you fucking look at me like that!" Dottore snarls as Pantalone lifts his head and gives him a mournful look. "I'm not old!"

Poor thing… He was truly in denial, wasn’t he?

"I expect a proper proposal by next Thursday," Pantalone says, sighing. It can’t be helped… "I want a big, expensive ring and a heartfelt confession and I'll not settle for anything less." 

"Oh, and let me guess, you want me to get down on one knee, too?" Dottore sneers. 

"Hmm, that'd be nice but I wouldn’t want you to break any of your brittle old bones kneeling on the cold hard ground..."

“I’m not- you dare-!” Dottore sputters, shooting to his feet. He points a finger in Pantalone’s direction accusingly. “How dare you!”

“I’m only being considerate, darling,” Pantalone says, placing a hand against his own beating heart in a picture of the utmost sincerity. 

“You’re bullying me,” his partner sniffs, his lips curling back in something that could have been a sneer, a smile, or even a grimace. Pantalone honestly can’t tell- it might have even been all three. “I’ll stick Pierro on your ass.”

Pantalone waves his words away as he leans back in the chair he’s swiped. It’s uncomfortable and he makes a mental note to buy new chairs- perhaps these detestable pieces of cold metal are why his poor Doctor’s back is in such bad shape. “So you truly fell in love with me at first sight, hm?” he hums, beckoning the Second over. “Asking for my hand in marriage mere hours after meeting me… That’s quite adorable, I must say.”

Dottore slinks over slowly and drapes himself across the back of the chair. His head comes to rest against Pantalone’s, the Doctor’s silky blue hair soft where it brushes against his cheek. 

“I thought you were pretty,” Dottore murmurs against his shoulder. 

“Oh?” he chuckles, letting his eyes flutter shut as lips brush against the exposed skin of his neck. 

“Mhm,” his partner hums. “Pretty…

“Pretty fucking stupid-”

Now, there is a reason Pantalone keeps a newspaper stashed in his coats at all times…

And it is for moments just like these. 

Pantalone’s eyes snap open as he reaches for the rolled up piece of paper. It’s practically second nature at this point. 

“Start running,” he purrs, standing. 

Dottore has enough sense to listen, for once. 

Ah, it hardly matters. No matter how far or how fast his dear, darling Doctor runs, Pantalone will always find him. 

And Pantalone never misses.

Chapter Text

It’s easy, the falling. 

When strong arms tug him away from his desk and pull him up and to his feet, he falls. 

He tumbles head first into the murky depths of wanting that blind him of all else, that pull from him the darkest of his wishes, the deepest of his desires, the ugly extent of his unfathomable, insatiable greed. 

He falls. He falls fast and hard and onto the sheets, tearing at the leather bindings that wrap around his partner’s torso.

He’s adept at undoing the buckles, at pulling off layers upon layers of thick fabric that hide a pale, scarred body beneath- a body that Pantalone has become so intimately familiar with, a body that he knows as well as his own. 

Thin lips are already on his, begging, taking, stealing every ragged breath that escapes his lungs when he strips his partner of everything he is. 

“Regrator,” Dottore whispers against his lips, his neck, his ear. “Regrator- Pantalone, Pantalone, Pantalone-”

It’s a chant, a mantra, a prayer breathed against his skin and oh, what he would give to hear a truer title fall from his dear Doctor’s lips. To hear his own name, his true name, whispered against his flesh, oh what he would give…

But that name is gone and that man is dead. 

Still, still, still, what he would give…

Pantalone’s eyes flutter shut as he slides his hands across the Second’s back and up to his neck, where he buries his fingers into wild locks of feathery, sky blue hair. It’s soft as silk beneath his touch, fit for pulling and yanking and playing-

Fingers tighten around his waist as Pantalone tugs, pulling sharp teeth back, back, back and away from his jugular. 

The Doctor laughs, harsh and cruel and rueful above him as Pantalone scoffs, peering at his sharp and broken form from behind thick, dark lashes. 

Ah, it’s a dangerous game, the one they play. 

A single slip, a momentary breath of weakness and his castle of glass will come falling down, shattering to pieces upon the blood-splattered ground. The Doctor is a dangerous man, a vicious monster that’s not quite human. He is a wild thing, untameable and untouchable. 

One wrong move and Dottore could snuff Pantalone out like a candle-

Oh, but it’s so, so fun, this game, and Pantalone can’t get enough of it. 

He can’t get enough of Dottore. 

And with that thought in mind, he falls again, again, again, through the cracks of a pit that has no bottom. 

His greed is bottomless, his wanting insatiable. 

It will surely be the death of him. 

“Tear me to pieces,” he hisses against the Doctor’s lips as he tears at his partner’s back, clawing at his cold, inhuman flesh. He wants to mark him, to make him bleed, to remind him who exactly he fucking belongs to. “Take me, touch me- I’m yours, darling, however you’ll have me.”

When Dottore’s ruby red eyes widen and he leans forward, breaths stuttering, Pantalone takes the small baring of his neck for what it is-

An offering. 

He’s used to being bitten. He’s used to being torn to pieces beneath the Doctor’s rough hands, to being bent to the breaking point, to being wanted, wanted, wanted by something monstrous and inhuman, something far more terrible than he could ever hope to be. 

But sometimes, sometimes, sometimes, he needs to remind Dottore that the bridge between them goes two ways and that he isn’t the only one with a set of sharp, serrated teeth. 

His partner’s breath hitches when Pantalone’s teeth sink into the crook of his neck, marking him, claiming him, taking, taking, taking. 

When he at last pulls back, Dottore is laughing and there is blood, warm and wet and crimson red, dripping down his chest. It is smeared across Pantalone’s lips, painting them red, red, red- the color of the Second’s wide, wild eyes. 

“Don’t forget it, though,” Pantalone whispers, tracing the wound. It’ll surely be gone within a week, perhaps even a couple of days- not that it matters, though. Once it’s gone, he’ll simply add another. “You’re mine, too. You are stuck with me, darling, here unto death.”

“Was that in the contract?” Dottore asks, hands sliding lower, lower, lower. “I don’t recall.”

“It was in the fine print,” he chuckles, closing his eyes. “Well, Dottie, what are you waiting for? You heard me the first time, didn’t you?

“Take me, Doctor. I’m yours. ”

-

In the aftermath, the room is silent and the moon is high overhead. Its light fills the room with rays of soft silver, painting gentle stripes of a muted glow across the tousled sheets. Somewhere faraway, an owl hoots, the sound of its call a distant, phantom cry that is blown away by the wind. 

There’s an arm heavy around his waist and he feels just about broken, worn and torn and thoroughly used, but it’s nice.

It feels good. 

It’s evidence that he’s been wanted, loved, desired and that’s just about all he’s ever needed- to be wanted, loved, desired. 

Before he’d been the Regrator, the Ninth, Pantalone, he’d always been leftovers. He’d always been forgotten, nothing more than one of many shadows cast by those who were allowed to step into the sun and bathe in its warm golden light. 

No one had ever looked at him and cared. No one had ever seen him and wanted him, let alone loved him enough to bother to check in to see if he was alright, if he was alive, if he could please spare them some mora for this project because it was very, very important and very, very promising and certainly not a grand waste of precious time. 

No, he’d simply been a nobody. He’d been a young man with nothing but a burning hatred for a god who would listen to his cries and a set of bones that ached with years-old hunger and no one had cared. 

No one, not a single soul, none at all until he’d made something of himself with his own two hands. Then, oh then, he’d mattered. Then they’d wanted him, then they’d needed him, then they’d desired him- for nothing more than the gold in his pockets, of course. 

And they had all been like that. Each and every one. 

Until Dottore. Until Dottore. 

How ironic is it that the man who first came to him with a business proposal would be the one who truly wanted nothing to do with business? Pantalone knows better than anyone that the last thing on the Doctor’s mind was mora when he’d first approached him. If the Second was really so concerned with funding, he’d have gone straight to someone higher up the chain- 

Or worse, he’d have simply forced Pantalone to hand it over through less than civil means. The gap between them was so vast, so wide, that it truly wouldn’t have taken much to sway him, would it have? 

No. No, no, no, it would not have and so Dottore must have come for something else that day. He had to have seen something else in Pantalone, had to have wanted something else from him. 

He’d yet to figure that one out, even after all these years, but it was a problem he’d long since tucked away. He didn’t have the time to push and pull and pick at it, not when time was so very precious and he had so very little of it. 

Of course, he knows better than to believe that if he was still that man from so long ago, things would be different. In fact, he knows without a doubt that he would probably have had a worse fate if they’d met back then, so long ago. 

He would have ended up strapped to a table with a scalpel hovering over his heart because there would have been no one to care if he’d gone missing or not. 

He knows. He does. 

But the thing is, he’s not that man and things aren’t like that now. That man is dead and that was then, this is now. There will never be what-ifs or maybes… There is only this-

The hand around his waist. 

The head tucked beneath his chin. 

The soft breaths that tickle his collar bone. 

The press of another body against his own, searching for nothing more than company. 

He sighs, shivering slightly as the thoughts roll over him one after the other. Like drops of rain, they fall heavy against his skin, his heart, his mind-

And just like drops of rain, they roll down, down, down and away because they’re nothing more than idle musings, distant regrets and worn wishes. 

They’re nothing more than relics of the past, best left buried and forgotten. 

He shifts a little, gently running his hands up and down the bare sides of his partner when the Second stirs. 

“Why are you up?” Dottore mumbles and it almost melts his heart, the way his Doctor’s voice is touched with sleep and softness. It’s something that he’ll hold fast to and commit to memory, for these moments, the ones where it’s quiet and calm and warm are few and far between and made for his eyes and ears alone. 

And oh, if that doesn’t do things to him, to know that he’s the only one that will ever have these moments- that these are his, their’s, just their’s. 

“I couldn’t sleep,” he murmurs, tracing the sharp lines of his partner’s face. “I was thinking.”

Dottore yawns, leaning into the touch and this moment, too, will he forever hold. “About what?”

“Nothing important,” he says, pressing a quick kiss to the tip of his partner’s nose. “Go back to sleep. You’re tired.”

“No, tell me,” Dottore insists, eyes sharpening as he pulls farther and farther away from the night’s tight clutches. “If it’s keeping you up, it must be important. Tell me- you know already how much I loathe secrets.”

Pantalone rolls his eyes. “You and your insatiable curiosity…”

“‘Insatiable’?” Dottore scoffs, lips drawing back into something like a sneer. “Between the two of us, I think we know who the insatiable one is… I thought my dick was gonna fall off-”

“You truly know how to ruin a moment, don’t you?” Pantalone says, smiling thinly in the dark. “You damned drama queen. It’s still attached, isn’t it?”

“Ugh. Barely,” Dottore mutters, “and you are changing the subject.”

Pantalone hums. “I can’t help it. You brought up one of my favorite areas of discussion- you know how easily distracted I am...”

“Lone,” Dottore presses, “What?”

“I was just thinking,” he repeats, smiling. “About me and you.”

“...Me and you? What about me and you?” Dottore demands, propping himself up. 

“Oh, nothing like that,” Pantalone says quickly, tugging him back down. “I promise you nothing like that, darling. I’m not going anywhere- didn’t I tell you you were stuck with me?”

He rubs gently at the tense muscles of his partner’s back until they at last loosen, though there’s still something sharp and ugly shivering beneath his skin. He lays there, stiff and coiled, like a spring that’s about to be set off. 

“What did you want from me that day?” Pantalone asks. “I know what you want from me now, but- at first, what did you want? It wasn’t mora. I know it wasn’t. There were easier ways to get it, faster ways to get it- but instead you sought me out. You made a deal with me. You didn’t have to, but you did. Why?”

Dottore's red eyes snap up to his, wide and crimson red. They’re lovely eyes, one’s he dreams of and chases after in both the waking and slumbering world. He’ll never get enough of those ruby red eyes- never, never, never. 

But in this moment, he finds that he cannot look at them. 

There’s something like shame coiling in the pit of his gut, weighing down his head as he shifts slightly away. He shouldn’t be bothering with this. It’s so silly, so meaningless- in the beginning, things were different. So, so different. In the beginning, the line in the sand was clearly drawn, the rules set and the game freshly started.

But now things are different. 

There is no line in the sand, no rule that hasn’t been broken. They’re hopelessly entwined, due to be married, for fuck’s sake. There’s no point in asking questions he won’t like the answers to because, really, what can he expect from this? 

Knowing his dear Doctor, he probably approached Pantalone with the intent to dissect him or something. 

“It was your eyes,” Dottore says at last. 

“My eyes?” he repeats with a quiet laugh. “What about them? Did you wish to tear them out and examine them?”

“No,” Dottore says, “though I did think about it once or twice.”

“You’re terrible.”

“You love that about me.”

“If not to take them,” Pantalone says, scoffing, “then what?”

“You can tell a lot about a person from their eyes,” Dottore says. “Their gaze. Are they afraid? Are they angry? You can answer these questions by studying the shape of someone’s eyes. Do they widen? Narrow? Dilate? It’s a science, the nature of eyes. I’ve dabbled once or twice- it’s quite helpful to be able to guess if a subject is preparing to run or not, after all. 

“The first thing I noticed about your gaze was that it was heavy, weighed down by the very thing that was driving you forward- your ambition. How terrible a thing you must have wanted, I thought, for not even the gods to dare acknowledge it. 

“And I’ll admit, that, if nothing else, intrigued me. I wanted to know more, so I approached you.”

“And that was that?” he asks, finally dragging his gaze back towards Dottore’s. 

“Was that story not romantic enough for you?” Dottore scowls, brows drawing together. 

“No, I’m just-” Pantalone begins, only to shake his head with a small laugh. “I don’t know what I was expecting. It wasn’t that, though. Never that. I thought whatever reasoning you had for seeking me out would be… far more deranged.”

Dottore shrugs. 

Pantalone sighs, pulling him close. “You know, you can be so charming when you’re not acting like a feral animal, darling. You should try it more often.”

“Whatever,” Dottore grumbles, sinking back into his original position tucked beside Pantalone’s head. “We both know the truth, Lone- you said you like it when I’m acting like a-”

“Goodnight, Dottore,” Pantalone says, pressing a quick kiss to the top of his head. “Long day we have tomorrow, isn’t it? We should be getting to sleep. That means you should stop talking. Immediately.”

“There’s no one even around, we are literally in your damn bedroom so I can say whatever the fuck I want-”

Pantalone shushes him, pressing another quick kiss to his temple. “Go to bed, Doctor. It’s late.”

“You started this…”

“And I’m intent on finishing it,” he says with a light chuckle. “I love you, dear, even if you can be the occasional pain in my ass.”

“...I love you, too.”

He stifles the small laugh that threatens to tear itself free from his chest, instead opting to press a final fleeting kiss to the top of his partner’s head.

It only takes a few seconds for the world to once again fall into silence and stillness, for things to once again grow so soft and silvery. 

In and out, in and out. 

He counts each and every breath, marking them, timing them, matching them until at last his own eyes begin to grow heavy with exhaustion. 

In and out. 

In and out. 

Again and again and again as the moon rises ever higher into the dark, star speckled sky. 

In and out. 

In and out. 

He matches him breath for breath.