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For a man fearful of death, Pantalone certainly did not watch over his health very well. He skipped sleep and meals, kept a strict control of his work so it somehow stayed as stressful as possible, got himself beat up in various different ways for his work and lastly, he smoked. Every free moment you saw him he had one on hand, taking long drags as if it could have removed the stress riddling his frail form.
The banker had contracted pneumonia somewhere along the way and it’d somehow slipped past you, all the way up until you’d received a message from one of Dottore's segments that your husband had ended up in his care once more. This was by no means the first and likely not the last time he would end up there, but you were rarely called to come and see him after. Pantalone might have presented himself as a more of a frail bodied man with no keen interest in exerting himself in fights, but he still somehow managed to crawl back on his feet injury after another. And for that reason, you couldn’t find it in you to worry; not even when you didn’t know the full details of the operation that'd taken place. As eerie as having anything to do with Dottore was, he was skilled at what he did and he could be ethical if he so wished.
Being notified by one of the many segments was one thing but going down into the doctor’s lab was another story. The place looked like an insane asylum in your eyes compared to the lavish places Pantalone kept you in; he would have put you in the Northland Bank itself if he could have, for safekeeping. He wasn't very keen on having you witness the darker side of his businesses, knowing very well what the true currency of the bank was. You were better kept on the outside to present a clean upfront.
But the lab, so gloomy and devoid of any surface light. It smelled like parchment, ink and disinfectant from the sterile operating rooms. Machines whirring and distant speech always coming from one place or another, a few segments making their way past you without much attention as you descended further down.
You hadn’t been given many details, only a brief description of his pneumonia and the surgery that’d been performed thereafter. The thought of the operations done down here caused chills to run down your body, not wishing to imagine it any further. Your husband could have chosen any capable doctor in any nation he pleased, and this had been his choice. You would have scolded him for this if you hadn’t seen how well Pantalone had recovered and risen back to the living each time. Dottore may have felt like a snake in a labcoat but he seemed to know what he was doing and that was all you needed to know, finding no interest in whatever else was being performed down here.
You made your way to the lowest floor, somewhat familiar with the layout even without having been down in the lab too many times. Being able to forget a place like this would have needed a surgery of its own, and you had rather not inquired about that any further. Making sure you didn’t touch anything unnecessary, you made your way to the familiar door that Pantalone laid behind. Your hand paused on the handle for a moment before making quick work of disappearing inside the room to avoid thinking of what was going on behind your back even in that very moment.
The room was gloomy, not lavish by any means. There was a fan whirring in the ceiling, no windows and sharp medical lights keeping the room lit, it all felt very cold and uninviting; quite clear that Dottore didn’t have quests over very often. Pantalone laid on a bed situated by a small steel table. On the other side of the bed resided an IV bag and another silently beeping machine. There was a closet on the other side of the room, presumably holding his clothing as you noticed Feofan wasn’t wearing his own, instead something more like a hospital gown. He didn’t appear to be awake but the rise and fall of his chest was an indicator enough that the man was alive.
You stationed yourself beside the bed on the most uncomfortable chair imaginable; how kind of Dottore. You didn’t have the heart to jostle him awake, so instead you turned to empty your bag of the items you’d brought in for him. A brief amount of food and a drink, something you didn’t have high hopes of him consuming without being forced to. You placed them on the table but as you reached back your fingers brushed against a container, an almost guilty reminder of the cigarettes you knew he’d ask for as soon as those eyes opened again. You felt almost like an accomplice in all this, providing them to him before he even managed to ask.
Dottore likely had his reasons for keeping your husband alive like this, going through so much trouble even if he appeared so busy all the time. You recalled him asking if you could try and sway Pantalone’s mind from smoking so much on the daily, but you weren’t so sure if he would have even asked you to come now had he known you snuck the cigarettes in for the man. Maybe you weren’t such a good influence on him as one would imagine.
You left the cigarettes in your bag in the false hope that Pantalone wouldn’t ask for them, even if that hope was futile. You knew him better than to truly believe that.
He appeared peaceful for now, medicated enough to rest. Which funnily enough looked like the most restful sleep he’d gotten in a while; maybe being beat truly was the only way to slow him down for a moment. You watched him with fondness that was hard to hide even in a place like this. He was a strong man by mind, you couldn’t deny that; but you would have preferred to not see him in such condition as many times as you had. And he knew that, of course he did. But even he wasn’t foolish enough to ever promise you a better future where cases like this would never have to repeat themselves.
Some of his dark hair was sticking to his forehead which you leaned in to fix; keeping your hand near his cheek with the ring he'd bought for you against his skin. From so close it was hard not to notice the fresh scars across his chest, neatly put back together and cleaned up. You placed your palm over the junction of still smooth skin near his collar, feeling the even breaths he was taking. For one reason or another, even as the reality of the operation had started to sink in, you didn’t feel fear or shock anymore. You were almost more interested in why he felt the need to tamper with his body in such a way. You’d seen the operation scars and little fix ups here and there across his body, and the way he dressed from head to toe for more important meetings to hide most of them under fancy fabrics. You weren’t sure if he ever felt guilt for running himself to ruin like that or if it worked as fuel for the man to keep going; he never told you of such things even if he felt regret for any of it.
A couple pieces of paper were stacked on top of each other on the bedside table. You gave them a quick look with interest and crossed your legs before picking them up, skimming through the medical wording to better understand what’d happened. It didn’t take long to see that it hadn’t just been the pneumonia, but a necrosis in his lungs. You gazed at him over the papers again, a sharp look of pity with a hint of hope. Maybe he’d wake up with a revelation on why he should quit smoking and take care of himself.
Your attention returned to the papers, eyeing over the notes left by the segment that had performed the procedure. ‘Upon briefly gaining consciousness, the patient requested smokes. The request was denied,’ was written as the last report on the case along with a recommendation of cessation for smoking and a recommendation of calling for you to persuade him further. You gave the latter an amused hum, knowing how futile of an attempt it was. It was like asking him to start clocking out on time, it was never going to happen and you knew better than to keep asking him.
When you lowered the papers again, a pair of deep violet eyes were on you this time, worn as ever but somehow still expectant of what was to come. “You gave me a fright, you know?” You started while folding the papers away back onto the table. “Yet you found amusement from the operation files?” He shot back, seemingly having kept his wits about him, though you could tell his voice was worn and that he couldn’t hide from you. You were going to explain to him what you’d discovered from the files but he beat you to it. “Did you bring any cigarettes?” He asked while carefully shuffling on the bed to sit up, ultimately looking to you for assistance after the stitches across his chest protested against moving. You wanted to roll your eyes at him but before you could, you found yourself helping him settle against the back of the bed and the wall behind it. “I told you this would happen if you didn’t stop,” your words were firm but laced with the worry that hadn’t quite surfaced before when he was still peacefully asleep. He gave you a slight wave of his hand to abandon the topic while you tugged the covers of the bed on him a little better. “There is no certain proof of cause. I’m sure Dottore told you about the pneumonia?” His half-lidded eyes followed you as you walked across the room to the closet. “Oh he did. I also read about the extensive necrosis in the same organs.” Your words held a subtle scowl that didn’t go unnoticed by him, causing Pantalone to fall silent for your sake; you weren’t worth angering over this. “Haha, they are now good as new, you needn’t worry.” But his words were only a subtle comfort in the grand scheme of his slow self destruction. He was a man who could spin many situations back in his favour, and those same tricks might have worked on you in the past but not so much anymore. “Do I not? As far as I recall, you requested those very cigarettes the moment you woke up.”
You made your way back beside him, offering his glasses to him so he didn’t need to squint while looking at you. He accepted the offer but not without purposely brushing his hand against yours to lower it enough for a chaste kiss over yours in silent apology. “So, did you bring any?” He was insufferable, truly running you lost with any morales you might have thought you had left. A sigh managed to escape as you untangled your hand and reached for the pack, picking one stick out and placing it on the table beside the bed along with a lighter, accompanied by a thud as a warning. “You’ll get the rest when you manage to stand up.” You could see his lips part in protest but the man in him that didn’t crave conflict with you didn’t allow him to continue any further. He watched silently as you walked back to the closet and placed the pack into the inner pocket of his coat.
“No matter how long you live, you cannot treat yourself so badly while also taking the blows from work, even if you trust that Dottore will stitch you back together.” You spoke with a little more agitation while closing up the closet. “Do you think it’s enjoyable to watch you turn into something that resembles more of a ragdoll than a human?” His lips formed a thin line before replacing it with the more familiar calm smile, understanding of his small ground for arguments. “Oh please, dear. You don’t really believe that, do you?” His hand reached out for you, which you took a hold of but not without giving a sharp look his way. “You know exactly what I mean.” But any commanding tone from your voice had been sedated, replaced by what you could only recognize as subtle despair. And that hadn’t gone unnoticed either even if Pantalone mentioned nothing of it.
You knew better than to let a moment like this go to waste though. You wouldn’t otherwise use the affections of your husband against him, but now it was only fair. “I brought you food, you should eat before I leave you to rest.” You opened the items for him mindlessly, not hearing any protests from him, either out of defeat or respect. Either way, as insufferable as he was, you still found yourself helping him eat in the silence of the room while the fan in the ceiling kept whirring and the steady beep recording his vitals played in the background. He was a sad sight to look at now, and you knew he didn’t necessarily want you to be here now either; and for that he would pay you back as soon as he was back on his feet.