Work Text:
A gloved hand traces Tartaglia’s soft, young forearm, examining mauve splotches of bruises. The hand gently turns his forearm around, the palm of the Eleventh’s hand facing it. It moved its way down, feeling the dried, maroon blood painting his palm. It hadn't been very long since Tartaglia used his Foul Legacy, but with these aches and pains, he’s regretting it just a bit. He's trying to shrug it off, but someone won’t let him.
“You haven’t caused any damage to the Factory, have you?” The Doctor looked up from the boy’s palms, glaring through his mask.
Tartaglia carelessly shrugged and peered down, “Here and there, I think...” Before he could finish his sentence, Dottore's hand moved to his chin to tilt the boy’s head up.
“Elaborate, Childe. do you think there is damage, or do you know there is damage?”
He could feel a bead of sweat roll down his head. He heaved a sigh, letting go of his breath, simply nodding.
“Yes, there’s — considerable damage. to both the Factory and the Ruin Guards.”
Dottore did not respond. He clicked his tongue and continued examining the Eleventh’s wounds. Tartaglia could hear the second mutter under his breath, but the words were too quiet to comprehend. The boy felt a shiver crawl down his spine as Dottore continued to frisk him all around. His slender fingers were tentative, methodical, Tartaglia could swear he felt the slightest bit of tenderness and care in it but he wondered if he was imagining the comfort.
The Doctor slowly lifted his fingers off the boy. He shifted, grasping a white dressing and a towel, quickly dousing it in cold water before returning to his patient.
“Be still now. I'm going to apply some cold water to your cuts.”
Tartaglia grimaced as the freezing water droplets nipped at his scarlet red wounds. His fingers clenched onto his thigh, nails digging into his skin to bear with the stinging feeling. Dottore took a quick glance at this and did not remark, continuing to treat the wounds. He applied the damp towel onto them one by one, then quickly wrapped the scarred arms in a silk, white dressing. “Does that feel better?”
Tartaglia nodded. His fingers let go of his thighs and for the first time in a while, he felt.. comfortable. It was like a soft blanket, the bandages, wrapped into one snugly, free from ills and worries. It was a feeling he could get used to. If only he could beg for more. But that would be wasteful, he thought, so he held his tongue.
“Now that’s over with,” The Doctor stepped back and stretched his fingers, “just what were you doing in my Ruin Guard Factory?”
Tartaglia had been trying to avoid the topic. But of course, this was Dottore he was dealing with, such a man never forgets the tiniest of details, like he knew the world from the back of his hand. he stuttered, trying to devise an excuse, but he realised — was this a good time to lie?
“So... my youngest brother- Teucer, you’ve met him before, right?” He gave a quick nod and a ‘hm,’ inquiring the Eleventh to continue what he thought was a half-assed lie. But having a bit of knowledge of that child, maybe Childe wasn’t lying right to his face?
“He has an interest in Ruin Guards. thinks they’re toys, simply put. So I told him about your Factory and well he.. went inside before I could catch up to him. He just ran off to look for Ruin Guards and I had to fight off several ones that somehow managed to turn on. I was desperate, and so I— I activated my Foul Legacy just to hold them off.”
The second made a mental note of this. The curious itch in his brain was scratched and yet, he wasn’t satisfied. “Was anyone else with you?” He put a hand to his mouth to think, nipping at his glove in thought, tugging at the blue, fresh leather skin with his teeth.
“The Traveler. You’ve heard of them before, haven’t you?” Tartaglia scratched his head, sheepishly glaring his eyes away. The Doctor’s only response was an “mhm,” a quick mark of acknowledgement. It was at this time he went to his desk to find a pen and a book of notes, needing to jot down everything he was told. Teucer, the Traveler, and the culprit of this self-proclaimed crime, Tartaglia himself.
“Activated his Foul Legacy to fight off lowly Ruin Guards..” — Dottore scoffed arrogantly while noting this down.
A Fatui Harbinger needing to activate his delusion to fight off Khaenri’ahn automatons.. even Scaramouche would have done it with more competence.
The Doctor stirred in his thoughts before he came to, averting his masked face to leer at the Eleventh before him. curiously the boy had a bashful demeanour to him — Dottore assumed he finally came to his senses — the peach red splotches here and there on his face like half-done makeup and his dimples prominent in his trademark “I know I’ve messed up” face, one that Dottore knew all too well.
“You’re not mad, are you?” Tartaglia’s sheepish smile widened, his shoulders scrunched up in tension. Dottore simply shook his head, putting the tip of the pen to his lip in contemplation. He uttered a quick response, the pen lowering to rest on the notes again.
“I'm not mad,” he started, yet the tone of his voice felt as if he had more to say… but he didn’t finish his sentence. However, the downward curl of his lips into a grim frown asked — more like dared — Tartaglia to finish his sentence.
“...just disappointed.” his shoulders hung low, the once sheepish smile now a pout of contempt. The little act of him admitting defeat brought a cocky grin to The Doctor’s face, one that knows it’s won. He nodded and clicked his tongue once more, shifting his fingers to cup the boy’s chin once more. although the light-hearted atmosphere was no more, with Dottore’s brash smile having gone just as it came. He inched closer to Tartaglia’s young face — counting every inch of fresh, juvenile fear from his hairs standing on end, the wide and fawn-like eyes, raised eyebrows in shock, observing a deer trapped in headlights. the distance between the two’s bodies grew smaller every second, a wolf having now cornered its prey.
Dottore’s voice was a dagger sharpened just to dig into the flesh of the young prey’s ears. “It's rather insolent of you, Childe, to be reckless in my facilities,” the hand tilted Tartaglia’s face, one that seemed truly scared yet immature, from side to side as if examining fresh blood. “I’ve already made far too many deals with the Regrator. and with you being so frivolous with your spending, tossing Mora like it was nothing but crumbs back on your mission in Liyue?” in his stern scolding he swore he scared a weak and desperate whimper out of the young fawn.
Tartaglia was frozen still, his weak form in the hands of the second. He could not respond, his mind went blank and his heart ached with every pound. Dottore snapped his fingers bringing his patient back to Teyvat. the daggers felt sharper, even scratches made him ache, his voice losing its patience with every syllable that left his lips. the fingers on his prey’s chin tightened, leaving it nowhere else to turn, to run or hide, leaving Tartaglia trapped.
“Childe, are you really paying attention to me right now, or are you trying to daydream to avoid taking responsibility?”
Tartaglia hesitantly returned his eyes to Dottore’s face, glaring at where there should be eyes, only instead meeting with what he knew the most. a cruel, cold, sharp mask adorned in greys and whites, a speckle of blue dashed on the top with a dull blue... his mask. There was an unease, something Tartaglia could not describe as butterflies, just an ick or a churn, or something that was on the tip of his tongue, writhing in himself. The two had occasionally partnered up or conversed, but to the Eleventh there was always a crawl down his spine when it came to Dottore. He never really softened up or got close to him no matter what he did or how hard he tried, seeing past it felt nigh impossible. There was just this vague idea he had of him; calculating, callous yet clever too, the Dottore he’s accepted as the one he knows the most.
It’s not like he could just stall on this apology anyway. he knows he’s messed up, he can’t avoid the problem. If The Doctor is losing his patience — and this is Tartaglia judging from Dottore’s impatient tapping of his foot against the ground — he dreads his fate. He's knocking on wood here and he knows it.
He gives in, gulping.
“Look. I'm... sorry for being so reckless in your Factory. maybe- no- I definitely should have stopped my brother and I definitely shouldn’t have told him about.. the Factory. I’m- sometimes I just do things on impulse, and—“ his ramble was cut short by Dottore holding his finger between the boy’s lips, sealing them shut. What was at first a disappointed glare, softened into a satisfied smirk.
“Good boy.” His finger let go and fell to his side. The Doctor glanced at the notes he’d made, quickly flipping the notebook shut right after. “Well, you may still feel a bit weak for quite a bit of time after having used that delusion. You also need to allow your wounds to heal — and do not take the bandages off unless you want me to reapply them, otherwise they risk infection…” Tartaglia couldn’t help but sense what he believed was... genuine care in Dottore’s tone of voice. Perhaps it’s because of what he’s talking about, but he sounded so reassuring and calm... it helped him relax his muscles a bit. “...I suggest you have a bit of a rest. Some painkillers will also do you some good.”