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It’s a popular stereotype that Snezhnayans are heavy drinkers, but the fact lies within the fatui. They’re shameless; whether it’s showing up to work inebriated or drinking on the job, they’ll hold onto the ‘snezhnayans have a high alcohol tolerance ’ stereotype with clenched fists and a bottle at their lips.
However, that fact only applies to the lackeys—agents that are stationed for hours on end without a break, agents that, at times, need liquid courage to face the horrors that come with the job. The Harbingers are an entirely different case.
They balance each other, in a way. Where Tartaglia can down three shots of fire water and come out virtually unscathed, Damselette would rather not be caught within a hundred meters of a drop of alcohol. Where The Knave occasionally enjoys a glass of wine in her office, The Balladeer sneers at the choice of drink.
None came together to go out for drinks, if not because of their job taking up a lot of time out of their days. No, none of the Harbingers were really close enough to let themselves be seen so vulnerable, if one dared drink themselves to the point of being unable to walk in a straight line.
Thus, there had only been rumors circulating the halls of Zapolyarny palace. Hushed speculations spoken between coworkers, told with an air of excitement. No one has ever seen their Lords in a state other than wholly glorious, so it’s only human nature to wonder just what they would be like if their dignity were knocked down a peg—how they would be if they indulged in simple human vices.
There are two kinds of Harbingers; ones that lack any rumors about their drinking habits, and ones that are so intriguing that if you were to strike up a conversation with a fatui agent, you would start theorizing about what kind of drunk they’re like before saying hello. Tartaglia and The Knave are part of the former, along with The Rooster and The Fair Lady. The latter consists of (unsurprisingly) The Balladeer, our sweet Damselette, and the two big shots at the top.
Rumors of The Captain’s drinking habits are usually quite short-lived. People either have too much respect for him to speculate about something as childish as how he acts when he’s had too much to drink, or fear him too much to risk spreading rumors.
But regarding The Doctor...
It’s no secret that, even if he is eccentric and has a penchant for unconventional research methods, he has quite the loyal following. Agents will rally to defend him if they hear anyone slandering him, insisting that he’s reasonable and logical. ‘ If you simply do your job, you have nothing to worry about ’ is what they’d say.
Although he’s amassed his fair share of fans within the fatui, they’re unlike The Captain’s loyal following; The Doctor’s subordinates are the first to whisper theories about their boss’ drinking habits. He’s only part human now, so maybe alcohol doesn’t affect him the way it does normal people like Tartaglia. Oh, but he seems the type to need to unwind occasionally, so maybe he has a secret stash of wine somewhere in his office? What if, in his free time, he creates various concoctions and cocktails to drink?
Seeing as he understands science deeper than anyone else, mixology should be a walk in the park for a scientist as lucrative as him.
Wrong .
“Shouldn’t you be working ?”
The glare sent your way is nothing short of vicious. There stood in front of you one of his segments, the one with the infamous short fuse. “Why are you here?”
You internalize the sigh you want to let out, deciding against making him mad when it seems he can’t even stand straight for longer than a few seconds.
“Lord Pantalone dismissed me early.” You strategically omit why he let you go in the first place. “Where’s Prime?”
As per anything retaining to Il Dottore, your relationship was unconventional at best. The term closest to what you were, if you wanted to describe said relationship, would be lovers—but... not quite? Still. Neither you nor Dottore cared enough to put a clear label on it, so you’ve resorted to letting people speculate— it can be quite entertaining to listen to people guess while being loud and wrong, anyways.
You used to work under him as one of his many researchers. When you both started taking your relationship seriously, he threw in the idea of promoting you to being his personal assistant; that way he could (give you special treatment) have someone more competent than his last assistant take care of “menial tasks” like his tedious paperwork.
You refused the generous offer, insisting that it would be unprofessional to work under him as his partner. After many late-night discussions (and stubborn headbutting of differing opinions) you both have come to an agreement in which you would work for Lord Pantalone as a financial planner.
(You finally managed to convince him by bringing up how you could, hypothetically , pull some strings on your end in his favor—that you could persuade Pantalone to allot more funding for his research. If he had any shame left, it would have been embarrassing how quickly he shook your hand to accept your conditions.)
Now, while you spent most of your time in an office in The Regrator’s office building near the Palace, you occasionally came by to drop off documents. Of course, you would use your short trips as an excuse to go see Dottore (even if you could do so at any time anyways, given how much authority he had.)
However, sometimes you just want to work.
You’ll leave the comfort of your cubicle to go see him and the extensions of himself, sure, but you still had a job to do. Papers piled up, clients grew impatient, and even your boss wasn’t immune to their nasty attitude whenever he held a meeting with a particularly irritating client. Thus, sometimes you wished you could truly focus , lose track of time and work until your wrist forced you to take a break.
This wouldn't happen today, clearly. Seeing as one of Dottore’s lackeys rushed to your office to bring you to the Haeresys, you most likely won’t be seeing your desk until further notice.
Now you were stuck with a cryptic Beta, trying your best to use what little knowledge about the clones’ machinery you managed to wring out of your stubborn lover.
“Where’s Prime ?” You run a hand over your wrinkled coat sleeve, keeping your voice calm and steady. Patient , else you’d be subjected to the segment’s indignation.
“Dunno.”
You sigh. Is he a scientist or a child? “You do know. Where is he?”
“I told you I don’t know !” He throws his hands up, accidentally striking his mask in the way—effectively leaving it to rest at an angle on his face. Most of his mouth showed now, instead of the half you’re used to seeing. And the holes for the eyes don’t quite go where they should...
Blinking, you take in the sight in front of you while he calms down. His crimson eyes were glassy, and his lips formed a permanent pout, vastly out of character for a segment that supposedly represented The Doctor at the most volatile stage of his life. Azure locks curled around his cheeks, though they were usually tucked out of the way. His clothes were all wrinkled, in a way that left you wondering if you shouldn’t tend to him instead. Dealing with his attitude is annoying, but it’ll be amusing to think about later, I guess .
“Do you really not know...?”
“No.”
“Then, do you know why I was called to the lab?”
“No. Yes... probably not. Uh,” he crosses his arms over his chest and loses his balance for just a second, “I think I do.”
You raise an inquisitive brow, silently encouraging him to continue.
“Give me a second.” Beta shuts his eyes, shoulders slumping. His mask was still crooked—you had half a mind to fix it, but held back the twitch in your fingers. After a few seconds he pipes up, uncrossing his arms to reach out to you.
“Come.”
The segment grabs your wrist and drags you into the hallways of the Palace, ignoring your yelp of surprise and the stares of various agents lingering in the halls. You pass by ornate statues and paintings, the sight more unfamiliar than not.
“Beta, where are we-”
“ Hush , I can’t walk when you’re talking my ear off.”
...Right. Something is definitely wrong.
After about five minutes of running around like headless chickens you tug your arm back, making Beta turn around indignantly. You lift your hands up in front of you before he can speak.
“Did you mean to bring me to Lady Signora’s office?” you ask, lips curled up into a small smile seeing his mask still laid crooked on his face. With a gentle hand you fix it, cold fingers grazing his burning cheek.
“...”
Beta’s brows furrow as he avoids your gaze, huffing dramatically. Poor guy , you mused.
“Alright, let’s go to the lab, then. He must be there, right? Where was Prime last time you saw him?”
“...his office, probably,” he murmurs.
With a nod and a smile akin to someone doing some gentle parenting, you place a hand on his back and help guide him to Haeresys. The stairs were hard to walk down, but with just a bit of patience and a bit of Beta clutching your arm while shouting that you were trying to assassinate him , you make it down in one piece.
You remove your gloves and place your palm into the scan, then input the lengthy password to open the laboratory’s large doors. They slide open, revealing the absence of normal researchers and noise. You spot Omega standing over the remains of a ruin machine with a clipboard in his hands and look back towards Beta.
“Go sit, I’ll go ask Omega about Prime’s whereabouts.”
The clone nods, trudging his legs along to lay down on the leather couch tucked away in the lab.
As you put away your large coat and hang it up in the small rack near the doors and make your way towards Omega, you notice the slow rhythm of his handwriting—when he’s usually seemingly speedrunning writing down notes, he’s now leisurely writing away, unaware of your presence.
“Omega.”
The latter turns to you, masking his surprise with a small smile instead. “My dear,” he practically purrs, putting away the clipboard in a swift movement, placing the pen in his coat pocket.
“I was alerted that something was... off, with Prime. Do you know where he is?”
And where you thought Omega would pick up on Beta’s lack of decorum, you were sorely mistaken. The clone walks up to you with that same smile brightening his features, placing both hands on your shoulders oh so gently.
“He’s in his office. But enough about him, I haven’t seen you in a while, beloved. Why must you keep me away from you?” he muses, leaning down to press a chaste kiss to your cheek. You tilt your head to avoid being stabbed by his mask’s beak, raising your hands to press against his chest to make some distance. The action proved to be futile, of course.
We saw each other yesterday , you murmur. “I’m sorry, I’ll get back to you in a moment, alright?” You offer him a warm smile in hopes that he’ll listen, seeing as he seemed to be quite... mushy.
It works, and he lets you go with a curt nod, retreating to go... somewhere. You didn’t linger around long enough to figure it out, since you knew where to go now.
Walking across the lab, you note how things seemed to be more out of place than usual. It couldn’t have been a researcher, they always had to clean up after themselves, courtesy of their boss. So, the mess had to be caused by them...
You finally stand in front of his door, raising a fist to knock. A yelp leaves you as you’re whisked away, the door slamming shut just as quickly as it swung open.
“Dottor-”
“Can you fucking believe how inept these agents are? They dare speak to me with such disrespect after delivering the lousiest job I’ve ever seen.” Dottore rambles, pulling you deeper into his office. You observe the state of his workspace, namely the papers scattered onto the ground and the... bottlecap on the floor, right next to his trashcan filled with crumpled up paper...?
“Showing up in the lab with their damn hands empty save for the half empty bottle of scotch they tried to hide. Idiots were too shitfaced to notice how I noticed .”
“Okay, Dottore, what are you-”
He gestures wildly as he speaks, his hands the only way for you to read him as his mask hid most of his features. The blue lines taunt you; though you’re tempted to take it off, you feel like he might just lunge at you if you did.
“And then they had the gall to insist that the bottle was theirs when I confiscated it.” Dottore pushes you down to sit on the couch, a small oof leaving you in consequence. “Anything that enters this fucking lab belongs to me , I’m the boss , I decide what flies and what does not .”
Absolutely unaware of your muffled giggles as you piece things together, he keeps ranting, turning his back to you as he stomps away towards his desk. “Not to mention these damn lackeys have had multiple warnings up until now,” he spits out. “ Lord Harbinger, we’re sorry! We’ll clean up the lab to make up for this offense! Lord Harbinger, it won’t happen again! Who do they take me for, a moron ?!”
The higher pitch he uses to imitate (and make fun of) the agents almost makes you lose it. But you keep your composure, sitting demurely, listening.
Dottore comes back with a bottle in hand, orange liquid swirling around the thick glass as he stumbles closer to where you sat. He joins you without warning, creating a dip in the sofa next to you—almost forcing you to lean onto him for support. His free arm drapes over the back as he sighs loudly, making you stifle a laugh behind your hand.
A pregnant pause stretches between the two of you as his anger simmers down to embers. You lean forward, attempting to take a look at the label on the bottle in his hand.
“What’re you holding there, love?” you ask sweetly. Glancing up you’re able to steal a peek at his eyes from underneath his dark mask— Archons was he absolutely gone .
It takes him a second to respond, almost as if he forgot you were even there in the first place.
“Whisky.”
“I thought it was scotch.”
“Same thing.”
“No it isn’t.”
“ Yes it is.”
“No it’s n-”
“It is .”
Maybe it wasn't the brightest thing to do, messing with him while he’s this inebriated. But it sure was entertaining.
“Alright. Well, how much did you drink?”
“A sip or two.”
As if on cue, he brings the bottle up to his lips and takes a swig. Your grin widens, thoroughly entertained by the show; who else had the privilege of seeing The Doctor so drunk he could barely formulate something that made sense?
You bring his attention back on you as you place a hand on his knee, leaning close. Dottore immediately snaps into place, gaze flickering down to your lips from the proximity.
With a swift hand you grab the scotch from his hands, inspecting the amount still left in the bottle. If he said it was half empty when he confiscated it, then...
“Dearest, did you drink a quarter of this bottle?” You're not even supposed to drink it straight from the bottle, either is what you wished to add, but seeing how defensive he was already, you figured it would just make things more complicated than they needed to be.
As if stung by the Tsaritsa’s delusion, he immediately stiffens and defends himself. “I did not , I told you I only had a sip.”
The way his bottom lip jutted out was almost cute, if you dared to describe him in such a way. Compliments could wait though; you had answers to seek.
“Mhm, a sip. Well,” you put the bottle down on a coaster on the coffee table and turn to face him properly, “what happened to the segments? They’re all a little... woozy.” Your fingers trail his arm, tracing circles in their wake.
Dottore swallows, Adam's apple bobbing as he opens his mouth to speak. “We’re connected, albeit loosely. They could be affected by the few sips of scotch I drank, though I would have some work cut out for me if that were the case. I can’t let them be so weak after all.”
The way he spoke sounded, for lack of better words, pouty.
Was he... sulking?
“And since we’re connected, I know you spoke to Beta ‘n Omega earlier.”
He most definitely is. He's even slurring his words, now...
“Yeah? I was asking them where you were so I could check up on you, baby.” You chuckle softly, taking the liberty of putting his mask away. Bright, glassy red eyes stare down into you, and you hold back the urge to smother his face in kisses.
“You didn’t have to talk to them, you could have just asked me.”
“I was looking for you, so I couldn’t have.”
“Why not?”
You scoff, smiling as you adjust yourself on the couch. Dottore notices and takes the liberty of pushing you down, laying his head down so his ear is on your chest, cheek pressed up into you. “I’m sorry, I’ll ask you next time,” you respond.
That satisfies him, enough to render him silent for a handful of seconds before he speaks up again.
“...I need to get back to work,” he huffs.
You bring a hand up and run it through his disheveled locks, careful not to tug at the small knots in the hair at the back of his neck. Twirling the hair of his mullet you hum, noting how his weight seemed to grow heavier as the seconds passed. No way is he going to get any work done if he falls asleep here .
“Take a break, you deserve it. In the meantime, you can think of a suitable way to punish those stupid agents from earlier, right?”
A quiet hum is all you get in response. You look down expecting to see his unnerving red eyes to be staring up at you, but you’re met with the sight of his features completely lax instead. Azure hair pools around his face, settling on your chest where his face rose in time with your breaths.
You would have dimmed the lights and turned off his computer if you knew he was going to keep you hostage on the couch. Though you can’t really complain at the turn of events; it’s rare for Dottore to be the one to initiate skinship in the relationship.
It was quiet, but you managed to hear the low dear? that left his lips. You hum, not wanting to speak as to not break the quiet atmosphere lulling you to a sense of peace.
After a minute of silence, you decide to repeat yourself—this time a little louder than before. “What is it?”
Another minute passes, just as quiet as the last. The sound of his slow, deep breaths fills the room, accompanied by the low scratches of your nails on his scalp. His hair parts where your fingers tread through it, and you quietly note that you should trim his hair soon.
Il Dottore’s poor alcohol tolerance will always be a mystery to the public, because there’s no way you would ever let anyone in on the way he cuddles up to you when he’s had too much to drink.