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Messy scrolls and obnoxiously expensive artifacts rested on Pantalone’s mahogany desk. Bills, reports and inventories were piling up, stacked over nameless files and old grimoires. For the Regrator’s office to be left in such a disorganized state… it was a rarity. One that could only be witnessed once or twice a year, during great reviews. A flourishing business was, first and foremost, one which was closely followed and firmly handled.
Hence, Pantalone was now sitting behind a cluttered work-surface, in an untidy room. He had been for the past couple of days. And it definitely hadn’t helped his already sour mood.
He had experienced the displeasure of noticing all the money that had gone straight to Dottore’s laboratory. Columns of digits laid on the costly parchment of his files, forming ridiculously high amounts.
The Doctor surely was an ambitious man. Pantalone genuinely appreciated this trait of his - it objectively was one the few that was not prone to repelling everyone around away from him. Only the majority of them. But definitely not the Regrator.
Pantalone was almost certain he could recall a time during which this ambition had appeared very appealing. Charming, even.
Nevertheless, Pantalone would appreciate this ambition to be paired with a slight touch of punctuality. Dottore was not able to meet deadlines for the life of him. And if the banker was not a demanding sponsor, he still wanted to be shown the result of what he had invested in. Eventually. In less than ten years, that is.
Even with this blind trust he could easily hand off to the Doctor, Pantalone couldn’t help but feel scammed whenever he couldn’t note progress for a long time. Prototype. Blueprints, even. Something.
The Regrator leaned back against the seat of his armchair. His gloved hand ran through his hair, pulling wandering strands back. And a heavy sigh escaped his lips. This was ridiculous.
Dottore certainly did a lot of disgraceful things, but scamming did not figure on the list. As surprising as it may sound. He had no reason to be wary, he knew this - and it somehow made it twice as irritating.
Dottore was secretive. Pantalone had long since stopped viewing him as a mysterious person as he already knew way more about the man than anyone else treading this world. Deceased people crowding Zandik’s gloomy past did not count. Pantalone was not just anyone, a faceless individual in Dottore’s life and grand schemes. And yet, he sometimes remembered he maybe was. It was impossible to know what happened beyond this mask, in the Doctor’s mad brain. Maybe Feofan was just another gear in Zandik’s great plans, although bigger than the rest, still one. A big, golden gear.
‘...’ How vain those conjectures were. Pantalone shook those thoughts away.
Even so, it was true that the Doctor kept most of his experiment to himself. Just as the Regrator did with his investments.
Pantalone truly had no reason to be upset. But the fact is, he had been, and still was. And there was nothing to do about it.
Thus, he had cancelled his plans with Dottore the day before. And had not responded to the uncourteous message he had received that morning, demanding answers on Pantalone’s behavior towards him. Instead, Pantalone just sent him a copy of the total of funds Dottore had dilapidated over the year, using one of the messengers he liked the least to deliver it. This poor soul probably wouldn’t survive Dottore’s wrath. The other could skin him alive or dissect him for all that Pantalone cared.
Ignoring the Doctor was not the most clever thing to do. It was not a display of maturity either. Pantalone was acutely aware of this. But he did not care the slightest.
He had an excuse. He had been busy lately. Dottore of all people surely could understand this. The man was the first one to pass on visiting for days whenever he was starting a new, demanding project. If Dottore was allowed to do so, why wouldn’t he be too ?
Inking his quill, Pantalone bent over his paperwork once more. The situation was less than auspicious to work on tasks demanding his full attention, but he forced his mind back on business. This inventory was not about to fill itself up. His wounded ego cast aside, Pantalone made sure to keep his thoughts leashed to the matter at hand. This annoying Doctor was even preventing him from working efficiently - he could not allow this.
Pantalone had no rights to be mad at Dottore for keeping him away from his projects. So he used funding as an excuse to have a legitimate reason. Money truly was the answer to everything.
Almost everything.
Unhurried steps echoed in the hallways, and fragments of voices rose behind Pantalone’s door.
“Sir, at least let me ask Lord Pantalone first-”
“Move.”
“But-”
The Regrator’s office was forced open. Pantalone did not look up from his records, nor react to the deceptively soft strides heading towards his desk. They eventually stopped to the armchairs standing before the bureau, and the wooden floor creaked when the intruder moved one to sit across from him.
“Pantalone.” His name rolled on Dottore’s honeyed tone. Obnoxiously sweet, mocking and deceiving. Pantalone easily recognized this way. Omega. Of course it was him. The most prideful and selfish of them all, too contemptuous to express any form of frustration over Pantalone’s previous silence. Yet.
The Regrator did not reply to the soft call out of his name. He flipped the page of his record, circling a percentage on the old paper. And this taut calm stretched. For longer and longer. Growing more fragile by each second passing. Until it finally reached its breaking point. The seat loudly fell backwards as Dottore violently stood up.
There it was.
Pantalone expected a strong outburst. Maybe Eighteen or Twenty-five would have yelled, throwing spiteful comments and a flow of ad personam attacks. But they would probably have expressed their displeasure the moment they would have stepped in the office. The Regrator had seen Forty-five and Sixty-five argue once or twice, and their words had been more measured. More tamed, yet as hurtful and precise. Zandik and Feofan hardly had any opportunity to strongly disagree on anything to the point of fighting, but Pantalone guessed it would have consisted in bitter words uttered in a deadly calm tone.
As for Thirty-five…
The slow steps stopped behind the backrest of Pantalone’s seat, and a strong, gloved hand tilted his face up. The silver chain of his glasses rang. The banker scowled, almost glaring sideways to find the Doctor’s gaze. He too was too arrogant to admit he had been taken off guard by this sudden move. His purple eyes landed on the familiar, pointy mask. But he managed to take in Dottore’s cocky lips, curled up in a smug grin.
Pantalone had not expected this. He could still feel Omega’s annoyance in this firm grip he had on his cheeks, but the way his leather-covered fingers laid on his skin was not harmful, and it was clear Dottore paid attention not to damage his glasses. The pressure did not hurt, and felt almost cautious - too cautious for someone like the Doctor.
How amusing.
Pantalone did not let this mirth pierce through his sharp eyes. Not yet. However, he had to admit Dottore’s low breathing brushing against his face was distracting enough. And the genuine control his actions displayed was touching. It was dangerously effective, and tended to the banker’s hurt ego.
The Regrator’s hold on his quill faltered slightly, and he eventually put it down. His eyes narrowed.
“You-”
“So now you’re finally acknowledging my presence ? The things I need to do to finally have your attention...” Dottore mockingly lamented, cutting Pantalone off. His thumb stroked the edge of the banker’s jaw, raking over his skin.
“I thought the message I sent this morning had clarified my mood. You truly need to learn how to read context clues, Doctor.”
“I’m afraid Twenty-Five is the one who opened and destroyed your letter. A pity he killed off your messenger. After he burnt the note, I had no way of reading its content.” The scoff that escaped Pantalone’s lips did not earn any reaction from Dottore - save for the slight twitch of the Doctor's fingers. “Whatever happened between you, Twenty-five, and Forty-five yesterday is none of my concern. But I expect answers when I’m having a conversation with you.”
“And I reserve the right not to indulge your every whims. If you have an issue with it, feel free to leave.” Omega huffed. The tenderness of his touch did not fade away, but turned more bitter as he processed Pantalone’s answer. Apparently one that did not satify him. Good. The Regrator had not meant for it to be pleasant for the man. He would not back off first.
Zandik had always called him out for his stubbornness. But in Pantalone’s books, stubbornness did not differ much from determination. Something Il Dottore was more than able to understand, and a feeling even he could relate to. “If not because of the letter, why are you here in the first place ?”
Dottore did not reply right away. And Pantalone thoughtfully searched for the glint of his red eyes behind the tiny breaches of his mask. It was a little game of his, and one he would play anytime he needed to keep his mind busy, distracted enough not to focus too much on something - presently the brush of Dottore’s blue strands against his neck. A vain game he had always lost. Even after centuries spent together, Pantalone could still count on his finger how many times he had got a glimpse of those crimson pupils hiding behind the Doctor’s mask. He had only found out their color after meeting Twenty-five for the first time. And had then noticed how Eighteen’s and Eight’s were of a different, lighter hue.
A subtle sound of fabric rose behind him. And Pantalone felt the other shifting a little behind him.
Dottore pulled something out his pocket, and presented it to him. Tearing his purple pupils away from him, Pantalone lowered his gaze. Between the Doctor’s lean fingers laid a vial, containing a recognizable blue liquid. Dottore was idly making the Elixir swirl inside.
“You can stand Forty-five up to your heart's content for all I’m concerned. However, I would appreciate it if you had more sense of self-preservation.” In spite of the slight irritation contained in Dottore’s words, Pantalone’s frown smoothened when he saw the phial. The one Forty-five was supposed to give him the previous day, before the Regrator decided he did not feel like coming because of his own, sour mood.
His lips curled up, and he did not fight back his urge to chuckle this time. The sound rang in the air - it lightened the tautness between them. Pantalone’s ringed fingers gently retrieved the vial from Dottore’s, satisfaction imbuing his now-relaxed features.
The Doctor let out a hum of contentment, and finally let go of Pantalone’s jaw. His thumb lingered in the curve of Pantalone’s left cheek as he patted the other one.
As the man started to saunter away, the Regrator’s smile widened a little.
“I’m afraid your presence here will not help my bad habits.” Since his mood was lighter now, Pantalone graced the other with a reply. Irritation had faded, and left his tone entirely. Amusement replaced it. “I should purposely forget to collect my Elixir doses from now on if it means you will travel all the way to my mansion to personally deliver them.”
“Do not push it.” Dottore still didn’t deny Pantalone’s previous assumption. “That eagerness to destroy your lungs is already foolish enough. Passing on the only beverage maintaining your pathetically fragile mortal life is sheer stupidity.”
The Regrator laughed, and Dottore paid this warm sound no mind as he headed back to the door.
“What if my poor human soul had enough of immortality ?” He thoughtfully asked. Both he and Dottore knew how hollow those words were - Pantalone’s goal had not been achieved yet. But this selfish, senseless part of him still wanted to hear what the Doctor would respond.
He felt like he already knew the answer, but wondered if Zandik would utter it out loud.
Omega had stopped before the door, his hand still on the handle. The silence stretched, much lighter than before now. And Feofan patiently waited for the answer.
“How foolish of you to think we would let you die, Feofan.”
Without sparing him a glance, the fragment exited the room. And Pantalone was left alone in his untidy office. He observed the now closed wooden panel, before letting out another hearty laugh. The gleeful sound echoed in the empty room.
His eyes fell back on the blue vial still in his hands. And his smile widened.
He needed a cigarette.