Work Text:
The Doctor must be getting desperate. Pantalone had seen this behaviour once, in an aging, dying Zandik. Like creator, like creation, he supposes.
He gives Dottore another chance, and reweighs the possibility of this gamble bearing fruit. Pantalone hides his irritation behind a smile, close to zero.
Funding this ‘little’ experiment would be extremely costly too, and he would have to either embezzle Mora from the Northland Bank, or pay out of his own pocket to keep it secretive. Nevertheless, when he gazes up at Dottore, he finds himself unable to refuse.
To fulfill the last wish of a man condemned to death… This act of folly shall be labelled as charity.
The space around him glitches. It's a weird way of putting it, but that's all he can manage. Red and blue sparks flash around him, then like magic, the concept of space itself tears. He's able to see Dottore. The only thing that stayed the same is his hair. His skin is now an abyss like black, signature mask flashing red and blue as he looks down at Pantalone. Annoyance flashes through him as he tilts his head up to meet Dottore's gaze. Seven metres tall, he estimates. Can this still be counted as his Dottore?
Dottore, Zandik- no not Zandik, Exalted Master of the Heretical Path… Pantalone finds that he really doesn't care anymore.
“An interesting trick.” Dottore doesn't speak, so he takes the initiative. He hears Dottore laugh. Low and warm, in a way that the monster standing in front of him seemed to have no right to produce.
“Is there anything you would like to do?” Dottore asks. It's hard not to ignore the hidden meaning. Pantalone clears his throat, slightly surprised by how forward he's being. It's a welcome change, though.
“You seem to view me as uncouth.” Pantalone says, and it's certainly not a denial. He adjusts the fall of his cloak with one gloved hand, a habitual gesture that buys him half a second time to think. “Now, I've had a long day, and you've caused me great trouble. All I want is a little appreciation for my hard work.”
Dottore raises an eyebrow, amused. He hums in low agreement. “Is that all?”
A pause. His mask pulses once.
“That is all.”
“Very well. Do as you wish.” He nods. Pantalone steps closer.
The Iriminsul had transformed his form, and Dottore bends down to make up for the height difference between them. His hands grab onto the edges of the rupture for support.
Pantalone’s face angles up in anticipation. Even from up close, there are close to no imperfections on his skin or lips, save for the eye bags under his eyes. A part of his charm, Dottore thinks. Dottore presses his lips against Pantalones' in a practiced motion. Softly, in a way that felt way too final.
He tastes of cigarette smoke, the usual expensive, premium brand. Dottore knows the scent as well as Pantalone himself did. He’d never been much of a kisser, but Pantalone enjoys the action, so Dottore just goes along with it. He would even say that he enjoys it nowadays. Alas, four hundred years together does in fact do something to a person. This relationship of living and dying together binds them quite closely. It is, perhaps, the most successful long-term arrangement either of them has managed.
Pantalone places a hand on his shoulder, pulling him closer. He obliges. Half his body is leaning into the real world. Dottore's hand slipped. It was a small thing, barely noticeable. But Pantalone noticed. His fingers had almost missed the edges of the rupture in his fervour.
Well, not exactly four hundred years. The original only knew the man for about sixty years before… no need to bring up the past. Then, there was about a decade-long separation when he and his fellow Segments refused to interact with him. They ignored the burning ache imprinted into their very consciousness, until one of them cracked. And, the rest was history.
In his old age, the original would hate to acknowledge his mistakes. But Dottore is an improved version, a Segment in his Prime. Yes, a man of his intellect is perfectly capable of recognising his own imperfections. Perhaps the avoidance was out of childish pettiness. It stemmed from a desperate need to be different from their creator, who cherished the man. From his early twenties up till his death, Zandik held him dear. Every Segment, except the youngest one, inherited this state of mind.
But why does it matter? It was widely known how much Pantalone detested traveling out of Snezhnaya, and field work in general. A trusted subordinate would have sufficed. It wasn't as though Pantalone was particularly free, he never was, and never had been. Yet, he had tagged along for Sumeru like a dog on a leash.
And here he is, kissing Dottore, not even the original, like it was his last. Despite the sinking feeling of knowing that it could very well be exactly that, there was nothing dramatic about the way he held Dottore. No grasping, no urgency. It was poetic, in a way, how Dottore tore a hole in the fabric of space just to say one proper goodbye. To cross the distance between what he has become and what he is leaving behind, and give Pantalone this much. Or was it the bare minimum?
Haha… Greed has always been one of his more prominent flaws.
Pantalone breaks away, his gloved hands running over Dottore's pitch black skin. The monster that even he barely recognises almost seems docile as it leans into his touch. His thumb absentmindedly brushes over Dottore's cheekbone, supporting his head by the jaw. His hands are steady, but his smile fades.
He's losing his composure.
He releases Dottore, and takes a step back.
He fixes his glasses. Then his cloak.
Dottore, surprisingly, seemed a little dazed. He silently waits for Pantalone to be done. The waiting itself is notable, for a man constitutionally averse to it. Perhaps even he is feeling sentimental. Dottore fully retreats back into the Iriminsul’s inner sanctum as Pantalone finally looks up. Four metres away, but a realm apart. The kind of distance a person can see across and still not close.
“Goodbye.”
“Isn't it too early to be saying goodbye?” Pantalone takes out a coin, rolling it between his knuckles to ward off the awkwardness.
The words echo back across the four metres. A mere second was all it took for Pantalone to realise how pathetic he sounded. He adds, “Not that I wish to keep you from your business, of course.”
Dottore doesn't reply.
Pantalone would be lying if he said that he wasn't slightly disappointed.
“Very well. Let's leave the conversation there for now.”
His cheeks hurt from smiling, and his head hurt from the stupidity of it all. It was ridiculous. The way two people of their combined intelligence and accumulated years still have to dance around each other like fools. Still managing to find ways to say things sideways. Still unable to just get the words off their chest. Pantalone almost wonders if he's going to collapse right then and there, with how tight his chest feels it's definitely a possibility. He doesn't.
The tear in space stitches itself back up. Neither of them are the type to glance back.
My only regret is not having the courage to witness his final moment. I was afraid. Afraid of tainting the precious memories I have of him. I closed my eyes and turned my back, like a little child who believes that what they cannot see cannot be made real. As I walked away, the wind blew his ashes towards me.
Did my eyes sting from the pain of the scorching ashes, or from the sorrow?
I have always been good at valuing things. I have never been particularly good at letting them go.
Separated by life and death, I, in this mortal realm, bid Dottore farewell.
Now, the last remnant of 'you' has been wiped. Soon, I will die and memory of you will fade as well.
You must be rolling in your grave.
...
We're equal now, Zandik.