Work Text:
Pantalone often said that the smell of Dottore’s lab gave him a headache. Sometimes he complained about the sharp smell of metal; sometimes about the smell of dampness; and sometimes about the pungent medical odors. However, the truth was that the inner corridors of the bank building had an equally heavy smell. It was the smell of old, yellowed papers; of heavy, dusty curtains that no one ever washed; and also of the hopes and dreams that everyone who dared to borrow a large sum of money from the bank left behind here.
Which is worse for your nose, dear banker? The smell of rust, or the smell of shattered hopes?
Dottore walked unceremoniously through the private corridors toward Pantalone’s office. The bank employees had long since stopped asking Dottore questions about what time he was scheduled for or whether their boss was expecting his visit at all. They merely timidly stepped out of his way, not daring to even glance at him, and began whispering quietly behind his back that the lab must have run out of funding again. Despite their reverential fear of Pantalone and the other Harbingers, the bank employees were surprisingly loose-lipped.
Fortunately, I stopped paying attention to such nonsense a long time ago.
Upon reaching his destination in silence, Dottore pushed open the heavy door at the end of the hallway.
“Working hours are over!” Pantalone snapped before Dottore even had a chance to enter, and then finally looked up at the door. “Oh, it’s you. Come in.”
Dottore firmly closed the door behind him and took a deep breath. The office smelled strongly of wine and tobacco, and the tightly drawn curtains blocked almost all of the light from the street.
“May I ask,” he said, walking over to the window and opening it slightly to let in the cool air from the street. “Has someone managed to upset you again?”
Pantalone sat motionless at his desk, which in the semi-darkness made him seem like part of the interior. In front of him were a glass, a bottle of wine, and an ashtray in which a cigarette with an elegant mouthpiece was smoldering.
“What gives you that idea?”
Dottore pulled the curtains aside slightly, and glanced at the bottle.
“Because when you drink in a good mood, you don’t pick such a cheap swill.”
Pantalone took one last drag and stubbed out the cigarette. His face did indeed have a very tired, gloomy expression, which meant nothing good.
“Just so you know, difficulties in my work are to be expected. It’s far more problematic when there aren’t any; that means I’m standing still. And it’s a bit strange to hear comments about my choice of drinks from someone who can’t tell the difference between a Mondstadt wine and a Fontaine wine.”
Dottore smirked.
“I may not be able to tell the difference between different varieties of wine, but I can tell the difference between your facial expressions.” He took the glass from Pantalone and began twirling it in his hand. “And judging by your face, this isn't from Mondstadt or Fontaine. It must be local—one of those sold at the liquor store around the corner.”
Pantalone looked at him intently.
“Have you really studied my expressions that thoroughly? Then tell me what you think I'm thinking about when I look at you.”
They looked at each other intently. Once again, something familiar appeared in Pantalone’s gaze, and even that tiredness seemed to fade into the background. A faint smile appeared on his lips, and a spark lit up in his eyes. Even his skin, as always fair and flawless, seemed to begin to glow at that moment. Pantalone’s face usually glowed with such happiness when he made profitable deals, but now he looked at Dottore as if he saw countless riches and treasures before him.
“You’re thinking about…”
Pantalone continued to look at him. And the longer they stared at each other like that, the wider the smile on his lips grew.
Convinced that he was right, Dottore nodded confidently.
“You’re thinking about how much money my latest idea will bring you if you approve my request for—”
Dottore didn’t even have time to finish his sentence before an ashtray flew at him and crashed onto the bookshelf.
“Get the hell out of here!” Pantalone snapped, frantically searching for something else to throw at him. “All of you, wanting just my—”
“What a pity. Looks like I was mistaken,” said Dottore, placing a small box with a golden bow in front of Pantalone. “Take this.”
Pantalone stared at the box.
“What is this?”
“I remember it’s your birthday today,” Dottore said with a smile. “I came to give you my best wishes. I just didn’t expect to find you sitting here, drinking alone. That’s how people get addicted to alcohol, in case you didn’t know.”
Pantalone picked up the box so carefully, as if he were afraid it might explode at any moment.
“Is it my birthday today?” he asked, looking at the calendar in surprise. “Oh, it really is! How could I have forgotten…?”
Pantalone looked at the box again, then laughed. There was no more tiredness or sadness on his face. Still smiling, he stood up from his desk and put on his coat.
“Let’s go, Doctor.”
“Where to?” Dottore asked, and Pantalone fixed his hair.
“I don’t want to celebrate my birthday here at work with a bottle of this crap. You’ll give me that box again, but only when we get to a nice restaurant.”
Dottore looked at Pantalone’s half-empty glass of wine and downed the rest of it in one go.
“Why?” Pantalone looked at him with disapproval. “That’s undrinkable.”
“You’re right,” said Dottore, setting the empty glass aside. “It really is disgusting.”
The wine left an unpleasant taste of cheap alcohol in his mouth but strangely warmed him from the inside.
“Well, shall we go?” Pantalone asked. “What kind of cuisine would you prefer?”
Dottore opened the door for him.
“Whatever the birthday celebrant chooses,” he replied, and Pantalone smiled.
The cheap wine still made Dottore feel warm inside, and he felt like laughing.
But then again, maybe it wasn’t the alcohol at all.