Work Text:
”Director, you must understand— I do not go on missions.”
When Pierro had requested to speak to him, a nagging, prodding whisper in the back of his mind warned him that it had nothing to do with anything pecuniary.
Unfortunately, his intuition proved to be correct. In fact, the subject of conversation is much worse than he imagined.
Negotiations in Nod Krai, out of all places?
The only time he has ever set foot in that dump was to oversee the construction of it’s branch of Northland Bank. And that was more than enough for him — he hadn’t even lingered around for its opening.
“This is not an optional endeavor, Regrator. If you have not noticed, we are severely lacking in manpower at the moment.”
“But—“
“You are a harbinger. I suggest you act per your title.”
“….Yes. My apologies.”
Lacking in manpower… Then whose damned salaries is he paying, exactly?
Useless soldiers, the lot of them.
“Tomorrow morning. Safe travels to you both.” The Director wishes, his shoulder tilting as he begins to turn away.
“Pardon. Both?”
“Yes… Did I not mention? You are to go with the Doctor.”
He is just about ready to commit treason at this point.
His smile is painfully strained in the most blantant way — whether he had noticed or not, Pierro has no incentive to actually care. Pantalone is confined to the Tsaritsa’s will, as they all are. None harbor any room to object to her demands.
“Yes. Of course.” He forces the polite lilt in his voice. “Thank you, Director.”
Pierro is the first to walk away before Pantalone can even bother turning to leave. Instead, he stands there in the silent halls of Zapolyarny, dragging a hand over his face as his glasses fall to his chest — their silver chains echo a mocking chatter.
“Admittedly, I did not think you would show up.” Is the first sentence he hears amidst Snezhnaya’s daunting and unforgiving winds.
The Doctor stands before him, bedecked in the harbinger’s white and furred regimentals same as him. Though, Pantalone is quite sure he only wears it because he is forced to don the uniform, rather than for any sort of warmth.
“What choice do I have?”
“If there is anyone who can bullshit their way out of a mission, it is you.”
He’s unsure whether that’s a compliment or not. Though when it comes to the Doctor, he has long given up on any attempts to decipher the intent behind his words.
“…Let us depart.” He speaks to the lone soldier who drives the carriage, hardly sparing a glance towards the Doctor.
Pantalone is usually one to chatter — he knows his colleagues endlessly complain about his penchant for rambling.
But socializing with the Doctor… proves to be an endeavor he has no strength for today. His replies tend to be curt, or subdued mocking, none of which Pantalone feels like rebutting at the moment.
So instead, he tilts his head crookedly and gazes out the carriage’s window; at the frozen wasteland that is Snezhnaya at its finest.
Unfortunately, who is feeling talkative today is the Doctor.
“What warrants the esteemed Regrator’s presence in Nod Krai?”
Here cometh the subdued mocking.
He sighs, making it abundantly obvious that he does not want to converse — but Dottore has the social awareness of a Regisvine. Hardly existent, or the bare minimum at best.
Then again, even a Regisvine is more expressive.
“Trade negotiations. Our faction in Nod Krai is being unreasonable.” His gaze remains on the landscape, eyes briefly darting to the sky when snowflakes begin to adorn the windows with ornate rime. “They are Fatui, and yet they act as if they are their own, separate organization. They are hoarding materials that are meant to be sent to us in Sneznahaya.”
The Doctor hums in feigned interest, curiosity satisfied; therefore he no longer cares. As is with everything he does. But since they were already speaking…
“…What business do you have in Nod Krai?”
“The same as all of my business, Regrator. Research, experiments. What else would I bother with in that junkyard?” He speaks as if it’s the most obvious conclusion in the world — which admittedly, it absolutely is.
His head finally turns to look at him, shooting a gaze that spells suspicion across the short distance between them.
“Am I funding these experiments?”
“Partially. You could say, this is a passion project of mine.”
“A profitable passion project, I hope.”
“Very much so. Though, not necessarily monetarily.”
Great.
What even constitutes as a passion project for the Doctor? He doubts he’d like to know, lest he be subjected to his clinical drivel and scientific jargon, so he settles on not replying to that unfortunate claim.
The path from southern Snezhnaya to Nod Krai is an ungodly inconvenience.
With Nod Krai not being a legally recognized nation, state boundaries were vague concepts. No legal system, let alone a governing power to negotiate delimitation of said state boundaries with. Merely eleven messy factions scattered in a tangled playground.
Thus, there are no real roads or proper pathways through the mountains that span between Snezhnaya and Nod Krai. There is a narrow valley that serves as an impromptu entryway to the territory, and it is an unforgiving landscape. One, that a carriage cannot traverse, therefore requiring two hours of hiking.
Of course, Pantalone takes all of this very personally because it inconveniences him. Therefore, he needs someone to blame, and today it will be the entire population of Nod Krai. And the Doctor, while he’s at it.
This was the main reason he did everything he possibly could to get out of this — had it been a simple carriage ride that spanned multiple hours, he wouldn’t have complained nearly as much.
But to trek outside in the snow is beyond him.
Usually, he would travel with multiple agents; but to quote Pierro — they were severely lacking in manpower.
Though, if he were to be completely honest, he feels that the Doctor is abundantly more capable of defending him and traversing this landscape over a couple of skirmishers, much to his dismay. Such is the title of Second Harbinger.
“Are you done pouting, your highness?” Comes the Doctor’s taunting, already standing in the snow. His blue mop of hair whips ungracefully in the wind, and he is saved from looking like a complete fool by the daunting nature of his mask.
Pantalone replies with a vague sound of discontent, before stepping out of the carriage.
As if the mountains had taken a personal offense to his vendetta, they smite him with an unforgiving gale he fails to shield with his hood in time.
“To hell with this blasted nation…” He mutters through teeth that threaten to chatter, but are held steady through sheer pride alone.
“Such blasphemy.” The Doctor quips his comment with unnecessary sarcasm. If he were any less civilized, Pantalone would have slapped that ugly mask right off of him.
As they trudge through something that vaguely looks like a path, ten minutes in, Pantalone is just about over it. Every time he glances down he sees the damp ends of his coat as it drags against piles of snow — he feels crevices and wrinkles forming on his face with every grimace.
To occupy himself and ignore the wasteland that surrounds them, he begins estimating how much the construction of a proper path would cost him.
An estimated expanse of twelve kilometers through the valley, in addition to compensation for labor in harsh weather conditions… Surely, the returns from higher traffic and thus more trade between Snezhnaya and Nod Krai would cover much of the costs within the year. Perhaps if he raises import tariffs by a few hundred mora, within a half year.
His distraction is partly too successful, as he finds himself colliding with the Doctor’s back.
“For Gods’ sake what are you— Why have you stopped?”
Returning no verbal response, the Doctor’s hand languidly motions upwards, and Pantalone has no choice but to follow his gaze.
Impossible to miss — a fog, flurry of snow that approaches, dragging along a leadened overcast behind it.
The Doctor side steps into a cave — though concave may be a more accurate description as it just barely spans ten meters — and he immediately follows behind.
“Unfortunate.”
“Unfortunate?” He scoffs in disbelief. “What does that mean?”
“Judging by the direction of sustained winds and visibility hardly past a quarter mile, I would estimate a moderate blizzard spanning a minimum of four hours.”
“Four h…. Minimum?” Pantalone’s voice wavers — trembles in alarm.
“Do not be so dramatic. It will pass by dawn, at most. Surely, you can survive outdoors until then?”
Surely.
He returns no verbal answer, instead pulling the hood of his coat closer to his face and sinking into the fur, praying for nothing but to drown in it.
Dottore situates himself on the ground, back against the frostbitten walls — all too leisurely considering the situation.
It was a situation, right? The Doctor is indifferent to it as he is to everything — but that was merely his nature, not a reliable standard for how concerned Pantalone should realistically be.
And the biting cold, the lack of shelter, lack of protection from the elements or the Tsaritsa’s harsh and unforgiving winds, the threat of hunger, the threat of unseen dangers lurking. No. It all reminds him of —
A faint whimper unwittingly leaves the confines of his throat, torn out of him by residual dread. These were never sensations he wanted to revisit, never a concern he wanted to control him again.
How long has it been since he’s felt fear?
Childish. A dead child’s delusional nightmare — one he’s buried behind dreams of opulent comfort.
But standing does him no favor to combat the cold, so he concedes to slowly lowering himself to sit atop filthy stone; ridden with a revolting mixture of dirt and snow.
“Lovely. We’ll starve to death at the border of the country.”
“Hunger will pass. If you are thirsty, eat the snow.”
No, no you don’t understand— the hunger may never pass. If a meal isn’t guaranteed tomorrow, what then?
Once more a child of Liyue, he falls to his knees at a stream just for a drop of water he cups in filthy hands. The harsh winds of Tianheng Mountain are unforgiving against drenched cloth and sodden skin.
“If not starvation, then hypothermia.”
The nights are the coldest— I’ll freeze to death. My body will go numb and I won’t know whether I am dying or not.
“Mild at worst. You are shivering, therefore you are not in an advanced state of hypothermia. If shivering stops it is because your central nervous system is beginning to fail due to your core body temperature dropping substantially.”
There is truly no worse person to be stuck with in this situation.
“Do not start with me, Il Dottore. Perhaps you’ve forgotten that majority of people have not genetically engineered themselves to not need basic human functions.”
“Touché.”
Something heavy lands near Pantalone, startling him more than was necessary. He curses himself internally for the way he flinches at the sound and gust of air the momentum forces towards him.
Craning his head to the source, a similar coat to his rests at his fingertips.
Even through pity, people had been harsh. They throw the occasional quilt towards the child — surely they do not want to touch the hands of a filthy, dying boy.
He mumbles a quiet gratitude, even if he knows it’s not an act of kindness, but rather a peace offering — a query that requests his silence.
So the least he can do is comply.
Though his glasses were specially modified to withstand Snezhnaya’s weather (conveniently, by the very person who sits in front of him), there still gathers frost at the corners, and the snow has left a flurry of crystals that are irritating to the eye.
He removes them, using the edge of the Doctor’s coat to wipe the lenses clean.
How unfortunate it was for a child to wander the streets, having won the genetic lottery that is poor eyesight. Is it mold on his bread, or rot in his fruit? He cannot afford to care, it’s forced down his throat through tears that further obscure his vision.
Immediately he returns his glasses to their place atop his nose at the intrusive memories.
Smudged. He’s about ready to cry.
His finger traces loose threads of the coat’s blue shoulder cord as he rests his cheek against the fur trim.
Ugh, it smells like formaldehyde…
The acidic smell is suffocating, and yet there is a strangely comforting familiarity in it. He glances towards the Doctor — the smell tends to cling to him, and considering he sits beside the banker during meetings, Pantalone recalls the scent rather well.
And so he finds himself staring at the other, whose gaze is fixated at the rising moon that comes with twilight’s onslaught. Nod Krai, where the moon is revered as though it’s a God that harbors a semblance of sentiment for them. Alas ironically, said being is a colleague. Whether she cares or not is none of his concern.
The Doctor’s head tilts ever so slightly, enough that it goes unseen. If he notices Pantalone mindlessly staring at him, he chooses to say nothing.
・・・
At night is when he reaches a breaking point.
The Doctor sits opposite to him, gazing towards the exit and listening for anything of interest amidst the winds. He had left Pantalone to sleep as he kept watch — oh, the joys of optional slumber. An option of which, Dottore never bothers to take.
It’s lying down that finally triggers it — it’s the cold, hard floor that bites his skin until it numbs, the familiar prod of hunger coiling in his abdomen, the wind howling vile imprecations into his ears.
He swallows thick saliva that gathers in the back of his throat and clouts his mouth via hand before he can cough it up.
Panic is an irrational response he had ceased to feel — or so he thought. He had the upmost certainty that the old pitiful recurring nightmares he’d had centuries ago were dead and buried with the child of Liyue.
Vile visions of skin and bones as starvation mauls him piecemeal, and maggots seeping through every crack in the streets pavement to rid the harbor of him. The tips of his fingers hanging by a string of nerves or piece of bone, nauseatingly blue from winters frostbite. A cold hue that creeps up the skin of his arms, icicles that pierce his eyes and blind him, begging Millelith soldiers to impale him and savoring the warmth of the blood and adrenaline that spills—-
His eyes shut, compact and shroud in darkness. Usually, it is a comfort to him, his eyes are often shut to veil his musings.
However, he regrets it. Dare he open his eyes, he may be greeted with the sight of Liyue’s dust ridden stone pavement.
And dare he open his eyes, they may be glazed with tears.
Alas his body betrays him, because even sans open eyes he feels them drag translucent paths down his cheeks.
He’s so damned cold, he thinks he’s shivering — but it’s much worse, he’s trembling. Shoulders seemingly having developed their own autonomy, as they refuse to heed his attempts to tense and halt them.
He immediately jolts and whips his gaze towards a touch on his shoulder.
“….I thought you were having a seizure.” The Doctor responds flatly.
Gods. If there is a person he does not want to cry in front of, it is Il Dottore. Whether he is the most uncaring, or emotionally stunted man he’s ever met.
“Leave me.”
He does not. He’s crouched there beside him, looking down at him literally and surely figuratively. Pantalone can only assume his eyes are perusing him with the silence that lingers. Why he doesn’t turn around immediately, he’s unsure; but gathering a semblance of a coherent thought, he turns away leftwards to leave Dottore to stare at his backside.
“You are having a panic attack, I assume. Technically, that requires medical intervention.”
“Piss off, Dottore, I mean it.”
Pantalone disregards his presence, slowly pushing his back off of the ground and shifting his weight to his side, leaning against the wall. The Doctor’s coat rests on his lap, a foreboding perturbation has his fingers picking at the hood at impulse, tearing out small tufts of the black fur.
Looking to the moon, its light casts a humiliating emphasis on his tears, painting them in a pale luster.
Thus returns the child who weeps throughout the night, groveling in the streets of Liyue. Even when the moon casts light upon his anguish, the Gods do not see him.
Or perhaps they do, and don’t care.
His breathing is the only sound the walls care to echo, as if taunting him and his pathetic display. The Ninth of the Fatui Harbingers, he muses in the back of his mind — what a joke.
The Doctor is intelligent enough to know why he is reacting like this, and he can only pray that he is also intelligent enough to know not to bring it up.
“What materials are your rings made of?”
“What?”
“The stones. Metal.”
Yes, bastard. I heard the question. Why are you asking it at a time like this?
Is what he would like to say, but he finds himself humoring his inquiry.
His head tilts downwards to hands that tremble from panic and frost. Admittedly, freezing metal around his fingers is not doing him any favors, even with his gloves. But he needs them. He needs to look at them, because that pathetic filthy child did not own nice things he could adorn.
His index finger raises over the rest, he mumbles; “Diamond.”
“Carat?”
“Four.”
The Doctor hums with the tilt of a head that is barely a nod, but it subtly urges him to continue.
“Noctilucous Jade.” The blue gem sits brilliantly on his middle finger, a frost biting its edges.
His ring finger is bare, lest anyone make any peculiar assumptions. He curls his fingers to raise his pinky, a small Vajrada Amethyst with a silver rim shines against the ice, off which the moonlight reflects.
He repeats with his second hand, now with no need for Dottore’s goading. Condessence Crystal, another Diamond (6 carat), a sapphire and moissanite.
While his voice shakes when he speaks, it’s clear; and it steadies as he recounts something familiar to him. Gemstones that he, and only he, had meticulously chosen.
“…And the bands are all Starsilver.”
“Your delusion is made of Starsilver as well.” The Doctor comments as he takes the liberty of plucking it off Pantalone’s belt. “And the remnants of deceased Gods.”
The Doctor places said delusion in his hands; cupped in his palms, he can feel the freezing metal through his gloves. It’s cold, yet strangely comforting.
“Yours is particularly intricate. I assumed you’d complain if it were as plain as the rest.”
“You are right, I would have.” There is a semblance of a smile — a camber of the lips that tilt their corners upward.
After staring at the metal for a minute, thumbs trace handcrafted detail (who knew the Doctor was capable of aesthetic appeal? Not to mention, consideration as well) before he speaks again.
“Why geo?”
He glances upwards to meet Dottore’s mask, and he strangely feels as though they are locking eyes.
Unknowingly, they are. The Doctor’s gaze lingers on aurate irises that he can only akin to gold.
Craning his head back to the delusion, he leaves the question unanswered.
“I suppose pyro would have been more convenient right about now.”
“…Yes.”
Dottore seems to take a moment to calculate a careful response.
“It is colder because of the hour. Winds have calmed, and the blizzard in all technicality, has passed. Come dawn in an estimated four hours, the forecast will—“
“I’m fine, Dottore. Stop talking.”
“Very well.” He seems relieved to not have to mimic a tone that resembles care. “Was the distraction sufficient?”
He sighs, though there is a small tinge of amusement within it. Unfortunately, he does find the Doctor’s deadpan and clinical nature humorous to a degree, whether it’s intended or not.
“Generally, you are not supposed to acknowledge that it was a distraction.”
“Oh. I see.”
Pantalone is starting to lean towards emotionally stunted rather than uncaring.
…Well, not entirely — there are plenty of things Dottore very much does not care about. He’s more so surprised that he does not seem to be among them.
“But yes, I suppose.”
“Then, return to sleep. Conserve your energy to travel tomorrow rather than worrying about nonexistent trivialities.”
“…I’ll stay up. I won’t fall asleep on the floor.”
“Then don’t sleep on the floor.”
“What—“ His query is immediately interrupted by the hood of his coat being tugged firmly, and him strung along with it.
It is only by the angle that he realizes his head rests upon the Doctor’s lap — or more accurately, his thighs — the coat’s fur trim rests against his cheeks as his head sinks into the hood.
“…You are not the softest person.”
“Then sleep on the floor for all I care.”
“No, it’s fine. It’s better.”
It is soft.
Pantalone prides himself on his composure, yet this entire situation tests his abilities to remain insouciant. Try as he might, he will never match the sheer nonchalance and apathy that comes so naturally to the Doctor. How he acts as though letting a colleague rest on his lap is some pragmatic solution to a problem is endearing, and completely beyond Pantalone.
He cannot find it in himself to oppose to this in any way, so he accepts it more eagerly than he’ll ever admit to himself.
“You have such an unfathomable way of showing your concern.”
“Concern? Is that what it is?” The Doctor’s head tilts downwards.
“I merely would like you to be functional enough to fund my experiments and upkeep the economy.”
Pantalone hums, closing his eyes with the slightest quirk of his lips.
“Yes, of course. My apologies.”
Perhaps he should have been offended instead, but he senses no malice in his words. And from the likes of the Doctor, that is more than enough to decipher.