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It was a perfect day in the land of endless snow. The sky almost perfectly clear, wind soft, like a whisper along your cheeks, and the sun shining brightly.
One might say it’s the perfect day, for, say, sailing with a ship to a nation where one has business. One might even say everything was so perfectly planned that there would be no wasting of this perfect opportunity.
And truth be said, everything until this point was going great, perfect even.
But one thing was overlooked in planning. A major thing, something so major it now pushes everything further by thirty minutes.
Thirty minutes!
Of course, to the average civilian that means nothing. But, to, say, a Harbinger, a meticulous perfectionist Harbinger, this is a problem.
The man looks at his pocket watch once more.
He knows that this will happen again. He knows The Doctor too well to expect him to change. Not when he’s more than a couple centuries old.
Pantalone sighs, hides his watch away once more. He wasted enough time as it is, waiting, hoping.
So he turns his back to the city, heads down the dock, to the ship awaiting.
“My, my, I hope our dearest Regrator won’t be leaving without his beloved partner!”
Oh, how he recognizes that voice, that voice that will be a nuisance to his ears until his (most probably) untimely death.
Oh, how he loathes it. Oh, how he loves it. “I planned a meticulous schedule, you know, but the thing is, for that schedule to work, you must follow it. Something you historically have had trouble with.” He does not turn or stop, he doesn’t need to, his partner will forever remain by his side.
“Tsk, tsk. I think this only shows how actually terrible you are at planning. Especially when I apparently have a history with not following the schedule.“ The Doctor catches up, walking so close to the other, their shoulders are brushing.
Perhaps the madman is right in saying that it is foolish of the banker to expect more from someone that does not care for the rules, less much etiquette.
Nonetheless, they make their way to the ship, the full crew waiting for them, saluting. The men go over the formalities; swear their allegiance to the Harbingers, to The Majesty Tsaritsa and everything else that is required. It’s all formality, a thing forced onto them, but then again, they will probably follow every single order Il Dottore will put out. After all, they would like to see land again, wouldn’t they?
After all that, the captain shows the two Harbingers their cabin that waits in the ship's rear. It’s small for Pantalone’s tastes, but ordinary folk may say otherwise; it has a king sized bed with multiple quilts of finest quality, plenty of cupboards, a fairly small desk and even a balcony through which you may see the path that the ship has made through its sailing.
(The duo do not ask why they have been placed in one room, they know that news of their relationship have spread amongst the Fatui far and wide.)
As soon as the captain heads out of the cabin, Il Dottore takes a seat on the closest armchair he can find, informally slumping in it. He takes off his mask, and tries to message his temples. The man groans before speaking: “Archons... I will have to spend over a week on this boat, with nothing to do. I won’t even be able to study anything...”
Pantalone can't help but smile as he looks through the many drawers, satisfied by the way his servants have sorted out his clothing. “Oh, but darling, you forgot about the best part: you won't have to return to that disgusting lab of yours!” He turns to face his beloved doctor. “And if you do get bored, you are always free to help me sort out your paperwork. You and your segments make a lot of requests for funds that I am contractually obligated to read through.” He claps his hands together, smiling even more when he hears another groan.
“Ugh, forget it. Perhaps I’ll just take one of the crew-“
“Doctor!”
A few days pass on the ship, nothing interesting happens. The ninth tries to rest between the hours he spends at his desk, while the Doctor- well, he mostly mopes around, every few minutes coming to his partner's makeshift office to complain about his boredom. Pantalone asks if the other would like to help him, Dottore groans, leaves his office, and maybe, in the evening, gulps down a full bottle of Fire Water.
The banker is often concerned about his husband’s drinking, but the latter often responds with: “You must’ve forgotten I am no longer human, you see...” A tome worth of information is thrust into Pantalone’s ears once more. All an attempt to distract him while the doctor secretly slips out another bottle.
This only happened once.
For now.
But then an anomaly appeared in both of their agendas; an important meeting with the captain.
They both have no clue on whatever must be so important that such a meeting happens on only the third day of their journey.
“Lords Harbingers, it is my utmost pleasure to host you in my office on my ship! Please, have a seat.” The captain smiles, a façade put on his sweating forehead. Truly, he must be afraid.
“As is our.” Pantalone answers quickly for the both of them, knowing well enough that his partner is too arrogant of a bastard to ever say such basic formalities.
“You see, gentlemen, there has been an... unexpected disturbance on our planned route.” The man starts calmly.
The couple exchange looks.
“Fifty nautical miles from our current position, there is a dangerous snow storm, which could blind us and stop our sailing. In best case, that is.”
“The best case?” This time, Il Dottore speaks.
“The worst case being a crash and ultimately, our death in the lifeless tundra.” The captain ended on a serious note.
“Truly, a departure from our plan. What do you propose, captain?” Pantalone challenges. All while his partner is playing with a loose thread, obviously not participating in the conversation.
“I, as captain of this ship, propose; we sail north for a while and then continue to sail along our original path, avoiding the snow storm.” He heaves a sigh. “This, of course, comes with its own price; the Arctic weather.”
“The weather there goes deep into the minus, especially during this time of the year. If we dare venture out there, certain safety precautions must be made.” Il Dottore joins the conversation, showing a rare moment of concern for those around him. “Can we make those precautions, captain?”
The man’s eyes widen, but it seems like he wishes to stay put. “Of course, my ship is an icebreaker after all. And if any problems do arise, we have pyro delusion bearers on our ship.” He reinstates his calm look.
The banker hums. “Then, it is decided, you have our permission to execute your plan, captain. But I must ask, how much will this departure cost us in matters of time?”
“Ah, Lord Harbinger, it may only push our arrival by a couple of days. But rest assured, me and my crew will do our best to avoid that.” He stands up. “Thank you for intrusting me with this mission.”
Not long after does The Ninth find his partner looking at their surroundings: the sea surface blanketed with thin ice, an interesting spectacle, really. Seeing an endless white plain that rested calmly for years now be suddenly cracked by a man-made machine, it is disruption of nature. It is disruption of time.
The Regrator gets closer, his lover's mumblings getting louder but not clearer. “Have you found a subject you wish to study, doctor?” He looks at his partner's masked face.
“Maybe. Depends.” He answers curtly, not wishing to swim out from his thoughts.
“Oh, whatever makes you happy, dear, just get inside before long. You may be less than human but you aren’t invisible to hypothermia.” He presses a gentle kiss on his partner's cheek, wishing him a grand time alone.
He goes back to his cabin, to his desk where he must continue to work. Only the crisp sounds of the ship breaking ice accompany him. No fireplace crackles, no mad scientist monologues. There is no familiar ever eternal background noise.
For a long moment, he is alone.
Pantalone wakes at midnight. Yet another sleepless night making fun of him. And here he was, hoping to rest during this trip; to get at least an ounce of sleep.
He rolls to his side, only now feeling that his bed lacks weight; another body, but not another soul.
The Ninth opens his eyes, and sure enough, he stares through the space where there should be husband.
The man sits up, turning on his bedside lamp and searching for his glasses. He looks around the small room, but finds no one else.
“Where has the Doctor wondered off to this time...” He sighs to himself, putting on layers of fur and leather, ready to head out, an oil lamp in hand.
The wooden boards creek as Pantalone tries to leave his cabin silently, the shadows on the walls dance as he walks slowly, hunched over from sleep deprivation and from the heavy weight that are his clothes. He prepares himself before opening the door to the deck. For a good reason too, for the Arctic winds are most foul.
The wind hits his face with force, forcing him to squint, but he has gotten used to it by now. He reopens his eyes once more and sees an outline of a man, his sky blue hair now as dark as the sea they are travelling through. He stands unmoved by the wind, seemingly in a trance.
As the banker walks over to the man, he finally realizes just what has caught The Doctor’s attention.
“The northern lights... quite the spectacle even for you, huh?” The banker starts with a teasing tone and a sly smile, trying to hold onto his lamp.
Those lights are more like shining cracks in the starry sky, they pulse with vibrant blue and green light, drawing every organism to simply stare. Those lights seem celestial in a way, so divine that even those that dwell in the deep abyss would climb up to the surface, just so they may witness such a divine sight. But why does such a thing draw in everyone? Pantalone does not know the answer, but neither does he care for it. But perhaps, merely perhaps, it is because those cracks in the “sky” show what is actually there...
“It is not often I get to witness aurora borealis. A natural phenomenon like this is rare on its own, but when you never seek it out... Sufficed to say, during my years I’ve only seen them a couple of times. Truly, we are in luck.” Il Dottore doesn’t look away, still observing the flowing and shining lights.
Pantalone huffs out a laugh as he leans against the other’s side, placing his head on the doctor's shoulder. “Has anyone ever told you that you look cute when you are wistfully staring into the horizon?” He teases playfully.
But his partner grumbles silently, long gotten used to such words. That doesn’t mean that he doesn’t appreciate them, of course, he really does, it’s just that even now, he hasn’t fully accepted the fact that a banker would ever wish to be with a mad scientist. For a long time too.
But he has tried to learn how to accept it, how to change himself even, if it meant they could be together for longer, and be blissful during it. There hasn’t been any major changes, sure, Il Dottore still throws insults at the banker whenever he is displeased by one thing or the other. But more and more they’ve been spat without any venom, more so a useless reflex than anything else.
“I hate you Regrator. You shouldn’t be here out in the cold. We must go inside.” The Doctor seems particularly stiff, almost, as if he were embarrassed.
“Oh my, is a human being more important to you than your research?” He chuckled softly. “I might just think you’ve gotten soft, doctor!” He cannot help but smile as he sees a small blush tint the scientist's cheeks, the blush even more obvious as the oil lamp iluminates the other's face. One of the many instances that prove that his partner is perhaps more human than he is willing to acknowledge.
But they do go back to their living quarters, slowly, all while Dottore holds his partner close. Pantalone adores the other’s actions, letting himself be held and lead.
Once they’re inside their cabin, Pantalone shrugs off his clothes and lets them rest on his claimed desk chair, too tired to put them away cleanly. His lover does the same, already climbing into bed.
The banker settles next to him, arms wrapping around his beloved husband’s waist and chest; a practised motion.
Pantalone devotes his last words of the day to his love: "Goodnight, I love you."