Work Text:
As the second of the Fatui harbingers, Il Dottore was above many things. Pain. Ethics. The basic concept of human morality.
But one thing he was particularly proud of elevating himself above, was sleep.
He always found it peculiar how … surprised people were when they learnt his experimentations extended to himself. Personally, he filed it away alongside the other contradictions of the common scholar. So seemingly confident in their abilities, yet unwilling to practise on themselves.
Dottore couldn’t relate. If one wished to surpass the gods, after all, that began with robbing oneself of the weaknesses of the mortal form. He had begun the internal fixes early in his career - flesh was easy to manipulate, hunger and thirst soon followed. But sleep - sleep was a tricky bastard. It was child's play to suppress, of course, but it had an unfortunate habit of sneaking up on you. In his early days of experimentation, Dottore found himself paying the price of his extended waking hours at the most inopportune of times. In hallways, during dissections and once particularly awkward time, directly in front of Pierro at a meeting.
That is all to say that Dottore always claimed his eventual eradication of sleep to be one of his greatest triumphs. One agonisingly carved out of his own humanity - an irreversible ascension he’d never undo.
But sometimes, lying restless between the sheets of their bed, he found himself wishing to indulge in that small human relief once more.
After all, Pantalone always looked so peaceful when he slept.
That night, a sliver of moonlight had peeked through the heavy curtains, dusting him in a bone- pale wash. Dottore always thought there was something slightly humorous about the way he had to pile his hair up into such a ludicrous looking bun while he slept - a mess of silky smooth black hair, slipping slightly over one eye.
There was something so unkempt about it, a far cry from the banker that stalked the halls during the day.
Dottore paused, realising that he’d spent a good minute just staring at the other man. With a sigh he turned away to instead gaze at the rest of the room - not that there was anything new to examine. A few weeks worth of restless nights had left the place burnt into his retinas. Everything, from the luscious four poster bed to the trinket-crowded units practically dripped with Pantalones distinctive, annoying indulgence. Even the tapestries that lined the walls were reminiscent of him - a soft exterior of presentability over hard stone-
Dottore sat up and practically groaned, placing his head in his hands. By the archons, he really was going insane. How many hours had he wasted now just . . . just warming the Regrators bed? Ever since that night two weeks ago they’d settled into this bizarre routine, a pantomime of domesticity. And yet Dottore couldn’t bring himself to leave those warm confines, the feather down pillows, the body besides him.
And framed in the pale moonlight, Pantalones sleeping form really did look akin to a cadaver. If it weren't for the telltale rise and fall of his chest, Dottore could almost mistake him for one, still and perfect as he was.
With the tip of his fingernail, Dottore started to trace a scalpel's slice down his supple throat, goosebumps prickling in its wake.
Oesophagus, Collarbone, Heart. Further still the blade went . Ribcage. Lungs. Stomach. It would be easy, so easy, he thought, to take a well placed sharp to that torso. Split him wide open, entwine his hand in the warm visceral embrace of his guts while the bed sheets shone with red. How perfectly romantic, to hold the very pieces that made him.
For the time being, he instead placated himself with the ghost of a kiss, chapped lips against a soft throat. Pantalone stirred, but he didn’t awaken. The kiss itself wasn’t to Dottores' preference- blasé, with no teeth. But despite the want coiling in his stomach, he didn’t attempt to take it any further.
The last time he had attempted that, a half asleep Pantalone had swiped at him with the concealed dagger kept under his pillow. The ensuing struggle has resulted in the destruction of their bedsheets and “severe tissue damage” on Dottores' right side.
The scar had healed into a mess of raised red lines, scrawled across his torso.
(“Why haven't you healed it yet?” One of his segments had once asked, a knowing glint in his eyes.)
He knew why. It was the same reason he never cared to remove the other blades stashed beneath the mattress - the same reason Pantalone never drank anything Dottore offered without a taste test first. The scar was a reminder, a contradictory comfort.
Dottore knew he could never truly relax around someone who opened their heart with that much ease; in the world of the harbingers, they would be either a fool or an even greater manipulator than Pantalone. No, he liked the little nagging twinge of a reminder that, despite everything, they were alike.
Pantalone shifted and grunted, breaking him from his reminiscence. Dottore flinched as he felt an arm thump across his chest, only to realise Pantalone had curled around him in his sleep. Another hand subconsciously groped upwards, reaching to nestle itself in his blue locks.
Dottore froze for a second, tense, then allowed himself to relax into the warm embrace. His head drooped lightly, coming to rest on the other man's shoulder - it wasn’t like he’d remember that moment of weakness anyway. And after spending years in the frigid halls of Zapolyarny palace, consorting with other harbingers, Dottore admitted he almost forgot how soft and warm a mere mortal could be.
Then, with a sudden jerk, Pantalones grip sharply tightened.
Dottore yelped, feeling the sharp tug on his hair, and instinctively shoved him. He didn’t wake, however.
Instead, to Dottores' shock, Pantalone started to thrash beneath the blankets, fingers digging into the mattress like iron claws. He writhed although fighting an invisible enemy, face contorted into a look of pain.
Dottore had heard rumours about the Regrators' nightmares before but looking at him now they seemed like an understatement. Black hair was plastered to skin with sweat as he slowly groaned some incomprehensible phrase. It almost sounded like he was … pleading - scattered no’s, please, stop.
Pantalone commanded every room he stepped into with the calm, fixed placidity of a man who knew he had all the time in the world. He rarely asked for anything directly - merely suggested, with a calm smile and knowing eyes.
Dottore didn’t think he’d ever seen him beg like he did in the throes of that sleep. His wide red eyes traced over the scene for a second with a mixture of anxiety and scholarly curiosity. Then, tentatively, he reached out a scarred hand.
Only to be batted away by the swipe of an arm. Right - the scar on his stomach twinged with a reminder of the last time he’d woken him like that.
Instead Dottore surveyed the room warially, half an eye kept on his thrashing form. He glanced towards the bedside table - his mask, some papers, a cold cup of green tea. With a nimble hand he grabbed the cup-
- and quickly splashed its contents over the sleeping man.
Pantalone jerked awake with a gasp.
For a second he just lay there panting in the sodden bed, one hand over his chest. He blinked rapidly, once, twice. Then, with a shaky hand Pantalone pushed himself into a sitting position, piecing together the scene. His gaze rose slowly from his wet skin, to the bedsheets, to the empty teacup.
Finally, he glared at Dottore with a look that could’ve burnt through steel.
"Zan-" Pantalone inhaled, composing himself. "Dottore." He hissed "Dottore - what in the fucking archons was that for?"
Dottore raised his hands in a gesture of mock innocence, but the smile on his face betrayed him. "You were having a nightmare, Panty. Would you rather I left you to squirm? I'll have to admit, it was quite entertaining to watch."
"The self professed greatest mind of the harbingers cannot think of a more effective way to wake a man than tea?” Pantalones face twisted into an expression of disdain. "No wonder you failed the Akademia." The insult probably would have stung a lot more had it not been delivered by a man half drenched in liquid.
"Last time I disturbed your beauty sleep directly, the bedsheets ended up stained with something a lot worse than tea. I merely took the most rational path." Dottore said Of course, the most rational path would have been not resting there in the first place - but Dottore decided to ignore that detail.
"There is nothing rational about ruining perfectly fine blankets - or do you see yourself as above those, as well?" Pantalone replied with a disparaging look on his face. Dottore had just opened his mouth to respond when Pantalone continued.
"Or perhaps you simply . . .have no need for such things, Doctor?"
Dottores mouth snapped close with an audible clack. He stared at Pantalone, who brazenly met his gaze. An unspoken implication hung in the air between them. Pantalone was not a stupid man - he was more than perceptive enough to know he'd never actually seen the doctor asleep. But to draw the implication of what that meant out into the open would be to destroy the unspoken rules that held their . . . companionship together.
Whatever way Dottore replied, he realised, he was at an impasse.
Instead The doctor sighed and glanced away, an obvious signal of defeat. Staring at the dressing table across the room, he heard Pantalone chuckle.
"The cost of ruined furniture will be deducted from your research allowance.” Then, with relish. “And the cost of my bedclothes.”
“Why do I have a feeling that amount will be disturbingly more than I expect?” Dottore replied "I'm honestly surprised you don't get through more, Regrator, the way you were scratching at the mattress.” It was a feeble attempt at an insult, and they both knew it.
“I suppose the corpses you so often play with don’t put up fights.” Pantalone deftly ignored the other comment. ”I will call for a new set of bedsheets.”
As he got up to walk to the door, Dottore noticed he had put his glasses back on. They looked slightly comical, sliding down his still-wet nose, but Dottore didn't mention it. Although he baulked at the audacity of someone so beneath him threatening to cut his funding, he had to admit that Pantalone had a point. It was his domain, after all.
That small leniency had absolutely nothing to do with the obvious tremble Pantalone was trying to hide as he walked.
With the other man off in the dressing room, Dottore instead busied himself with the somewhat demeaning task of having to change bedsheets. The servant who delivered them had offered, of course, but the his pride wouldn't let them. Il Dottores' unmasked glare had been more than enough to send the poor man running, of course.
By the time Pantalone emerged from the dressing room, Dottore was sitting crossed legged on the newly made bed, a cigarette in his hands. Pantalone frowned at the sight of the unlit smoke, but made no comment as he climbed into the bed beside him. Instead he wordlessly passed the other man a silver lighter from the bedside table.
For a couple of minutes the air hung with a stubborn, awkward silence, filling with bitter smoke. Every drag of Dottores cigarette cast a dull orange light on their surroundings, shadows highlighting the heavy bags under Pantalones eyes. Pantalone merely picked at a thread on the edge of his dressing gown, unusually rigid as he sat up on the soft bed.
He could tell from the set of his shoulders and the way Pantalone avoided his gaze that the other man was too proud to acknowledge the previous incident. Not that Dottore felt the need to bring up the nightmare either. Instead, as a silent compromise, he found himself passing the half-finished cigarette.
“Smoking has proven effects on decreasing the heart rate and inducing relaxation.” He said, watching the way the light of the ember reflected in Pantalones glasses. “Unless you intend to spend the rest of the night sitting there tense as a statue, I’d recommend you try it.”
“How undoctorlike of you.” Pantalone chided, but took the offer anyway. Dottore noticed his hand was still trembling slightly as he picked the cig up. He took a long, practised drag, then stopped and started sputtering.
“Doctor-” He coughed. “ Dottore these are foul”
Dottore just shrugged and held out an expectant hand, but when Pantalone didn’t return it, he sighed explained.
“Consider them a failed experiment. Peirro requested I make some poisonous cigarettes to assassinate a northern nobleman. The poison worked, but not without leaving an . . . undesirable aftertaste.”
Pantalone paused, cigarette half lifted to his lips. Then he shrugged, taking another drag, much to Dottores amusement. “Call me a fool,” He said. “But I don’t think you would be so obvious as to do me in that easily.”
With a chuckle, Dottore continued. “Fraid not.” He shrugged “Not even I am immune to my own poisons. This was merely a test batch to see if I could remove the flavour issues- evidently unsuccessful.”
“Fascinating, to see where your budget truly goes.” Murmured Pantalone, sinking back further into the pillows. Taking it as an invitation, Dottore crawled into the bed beside him, eyes tracing the way his arm dipped and fell as he brought the cigarette to his lips, a miniature sun glimmering in the smoky darkness. A scarred hand found its way to Pantalones face, rough skin tracing along his cheekbone then deftly plucking off the glasses still balanced on his nose. Pantalone offered no help, but merely smiled as Dottore reached leant across him, placing them on the bedside table.
“As entertaining as it would be to see you sleep deprived tomorrow, it is probably better for the both of us if we attempt to get some sleep.” Dottore said as he settled back, trying to ignore the obvious contradiction in that statement.
Appearing to indulge him, Pantalone merely chuckled “Surely you are aware of the fact that I am more than used to sleepless nights.” He said, turning to face where Dottore lay on his side. Even in the low light, his lavender eyes shone.
“Rumours travel quickly when your boss spends half his nights waking up screaming.” When Dottore didn’t respond, he continued. “I’m honestly surprised we’ve slept together this long without you seeing one.” He smiled at that, a subtle acknowledgement of something unnamed that made Dottore squirm uncomfortably.
“Certain factors are known to reduce sleep issues.” He hedged eventually, feeling slightly pinned by the closeness and Pantalones gaze, and all the more awkward for it.
Unwilling to admit anything further, he instead turned to look at the half-lit butt still held in Pantalones hand, tilting dangerously close to their pillow. He moved to take it, only for Pantalone to jerk it back slightly. “Mine.” He chided, smirking at the confused look on Dottores face. Then, to his abject horror, Pantalone turned around, put out the remnants on the bedside table, twisted back to face him, and ran a single, poker hot finger along the scar on his face.
Dottore jerked at the unexpected contact, the sudden intimacy an electric shock to the circuits of his brain. Pantalone didn’t stop, however, another hand coming up to hold his head in place as he delicately traced the lines of the scar. He was hot, so desperately, intently hot and the look on the Regrators face as he did so - a mixture of mirth and something deeper - verged so painfully close to genuine it made Dottores heart flutter.
“What are you doing.” He hissed oonlight catching on the tips of his teeth as he scowled. It was a mask of discontent - one at the audacity of Pantalone to bask in a part of him that was so fragile, so hidden. And one that was easy to see through, if Pantalones lack of hesitation was anything to go by.
“Didn’t you say you wanted to sleep?” Pantalone murmured - although they were some archetypal couple and not … whatever they were. Although Pantalone had not awakened him with flailing limbs and begs for mercy.
But there was something unspoken, in the way Pantalone pulled him closer, the way warm arms and damp breaths collapsed against his skin. The way Dottore complied, finding one of his hands reaching to twist around obsidian hair, letting, just for that moment, his eyes drift shut. A parody of trust, he told himself, merely an act to entertain the Regrator - let him perform that intimacy, lest he fall into nightmares again.
Tomorrow, he told himself, he would make clear in whatever way he could that Pantalone was indebted to him through this act - Dottore found himself smirking at the idea, only to be taken aback by a fingertip tracing his smiling lips. Right- Pantalone undoubtedly would take advantage of this too, through snide comments and half hidden smiles. That he had really stooped so low as to appease him. After all, wasn't that the true nature of their relationship? Not whatever this farce was.
But, just for that night, he let his breathing slow, the gentle stroke of Pantalones thumb against the scar-numbed skin of his chin.
Just for that night, he let himself rest his eyes.