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The most common misconception about Dottore’s lab was that it was a dark and dreary place, poorly lit with stains of all kinds littering its walls and floors. In reality, the opposite was true. It was well lit, the fluorescent lights above blinding at times, and the floor was a white epoxy that rarely had a stain that wasn’t immediately cleaned.
“I cannot very well see my experiments if it’s too dark, dear.” Zandik had once griped when Pantalone had pointed out the contradictions in perception, and Pantalone had graciously not pointed out that he, nor most of his segments, could not see very well to start with.
Pantalone, as it currently was, was seated on a very clean medical bed, the one Zandik had always reserved for him, his dark clothing staining the otherwise pristine room. Twenty-Five was before him, tapping his pen on the clipboard.
“You said you feel unwell recently. Can you describe the exact symptoms?” Twenty-Five asked, clicking his pen.
“Over the past few months, I’ve been unusually fatigued, despite getting adequate rest—yes, I really have.” Pantalone said, rolling his eyes at the look Twenty-Five gave him. “Even on my day off, I sleep in and don’t feel rested at all. I’ve been throwing up frequently, usually in the evenings or before bed, though it’s lessened recently. And…”
“And?” Twenty-Five prompted when Pantalone did not continue, head tilting.
“My chest hurts.” Pantalone couldn’t help the slight flush on his face. While he had never been shy before, and all of the segments had seen plenty of him, it still felt embarrassing to say. “I don’t mean inside my chest cavity, I mean the muscles and skin. My breasts. They’ve been sore and tender for nearly two months now.”
Twenty-Five was silent for a long moment, mulling over the words. His hand reached up to touch the arms of his glasses as if to adjust them, a nervous tick of his, before he spoke. “Can you confirm when your last period was?”
“Two years ago, I believe. Don’t you monitor that?” Pantalone frowned. “You’re nervous. Say what you need to say, I can handle it.”
Twenty-Five hesitated for a moment before taking a deep breath. “Based on your symptoms, you are pregnant.”
The words were like a thunderclap, almost deafening in the silence of the room. Pantalone had inhaled too sharply at the words, something that both of them ignored.
“Don’t joke,” Pantalone snapped.
“I’m serious.” A pause, then, “Have you been seeing someone else?”
Though he hid it well, Pantalone could see the rage that flashed in Twenty-Five’s eyes, the way his fingers tightened their hold on the pen. Jealous, all of them, of themselves and of imaginary men.
Pantalone scoffed. “Don’t slander me, Segment Twenty-Five. I am nothing if not faithful.”
“I have offended you, I apologise,” Twenty-Five says, flipping the pen to tap it on the clipboard. “But, this is just based on what you’re describing. We can do a urine and blood test to be sure, and have the results back within the hour.”
“Yes. Right now.” Pantalone said, feeling cold dread welling up inside him at the very thought.
He couldn’t be pregnant. Though the Elixir of Immortality had resulted in less frequent menstruation, the time between was only a year, and he had not had it in over two years. He had assumed that he was done with it, that the elixir had finally caused it to end completely. Due to that, he hadn’t exactly been safe when he was with Zandik...
Oh, he needed a cigarette badly.
…
Pregnant.
He was fucking pregnant.
Crouched outside the courtyard entrance to Dottore’s lab, with the awning above him blocking most of the snow and his black fur coat keeping out the chill, Pantalone brought his third cigarette to his lips and inhaled.
It was unprecedented, an asinine thought, highly inadvisable for multiple reasons, and yet here he was. Four months along with child.
With Zandik’s child.
The thought, the reminder of who the father of this baby was, made his frayed nerves marginally relax. It was still a horrifying thought, a life within his body, attached and tethered to his soul, relying entirely on him to sustain itself. A parasite, a creature that would leech the very marrow in his bones if it came down to it, strip his body of all its nutrients and leave him to die before it allowed itself to suffer the same fate. But still…
This was Zandik’s parasite, a part of him living on inside Feofan.
Zandik, whom Pantalone had buried two months ago. Zandik, for whom Pantalone was still in mourning. Zandik, whom Pantalone will never get to see again, who had left behind segments that just weren’t the same. Zandik, whom he was still crying about late at night, burying his face in a coat that was slowly losing scent. Zandik, whose monocle was locked deep in his desk drawer along with his Snezhnaya wedding ring and cravat.
The cigarette was finished much faster than the previous two, and he reached into the pack, bringing another stick to his mouth and cupping his hand around the lighter's flame to light it.
“Those are bad for the fetus.”
Pantalone didn’t start at the voice, turning his head to see Dottore—Thirty-Five to be exact, the one segment that wanted to claim the title now that Zandik was not around to argue about it. He was standing in the doorway, arms crossed and leaning against the frame. His attempt to look nonchalant was ruined by how tense he was holding himself, his fists clenched hard enough that Pantalone was sure the leather was squeaking.
He was upset, enraged even. Pantalone was almost amused by how possessive Thirty-Five was compared to all the others, upset at the very thought of Zandik doing something that he could never do—Zandik had not seen the point in making his clones fertile, though he had listened to Pantalone’s advice to at least allow them to ejaculate; he was not ashamed to admit it had been an entirely selfish and perverted request
“I don’t care,” Pantalone said, taking another drag as he watched the wind swirl the snow around in the yard. It was currently spring, the wind lighter than usual, but the snow heavier for so early in the season.
He had the fleeting realization that the child would likely be a summer baby.
“If you don’t want it, we can get rid of it,” Dottore said after a minute of silence, almost conversely. “You can trust us with the procedure. All that advice about not doing so after the first trimester is due to the medical inadequacies of those doctors. You will have nothing to fear when we do it.”
“When?” Pantalone huffed out a laugh, smoke and his own breath swirling in the winter air. “You seem so sure I’m going to get rid of it.”
Dottore’s head tilted. “Aren’t you?”
“No.”
The answer surprised even himself, in both its quickness and harshness. Dottore seemed taken aback, and Pantalone took a deep breath to steady himself.
“No, I want to keep it.” He said, softer than before. He thought of the monocle, the ring, the coat. “It’s the last thing Zandik left for me. I won’t get rid of it so easily.”
Dottore’s lip twitched, clearly annoyed at the refusal, but he straightened nonetheless. “If you want to keep it, and it to be healthy, then put out that cigarette. Or do you want it to come out with a cleft lip and half an arm?”
“I will love it even if it does.” Pantalone said petulantly, but still reached over to stub his cigarette out in a nearby pile of snow. It was not a concern he had considered, given how heavily he had been smoking since Zandik’s passing. Four months of over twenty sticks a day, the poor thing must be choking inside him already. He supposed he would have to quit to lessen the damage.
He stood slowly, shaking off the little bit of snow that had gotten on his coat, and carefully stepped towards Dottore, who offered his arm.
Pantalone scoffed. “I’m pregnant, not an invalid.”
“You trip over air.” Dottore said lightly, arm still held up. “Let me escort you to Lab 5. We can do an ultrasound there and more blood work to see how the fetus is progressing.”
“Do you know anything about prenatal care, Doctor?” Pantalone couldn’t help but ask, finding it hard to believe Dottore at any age would be interested in that.
“No, but we know enough, and Sixty-Five said he will look more into it. If it comes to it, will we find someone who does know.” Dottore sneered. “If you truly want to keep it, both of you will be well cared for throughout.”
It was comforting to know that, even if he was detesting the thought, Dottore was still willing to ensure nothing would happen to Zandik’s child. Or maybe it was Pantalone’s desire to keep it that made him willing to overlook the disgust to ensure Pantalone would be taken care of.
“How kind of you, Doctor.” Pantalone said, taking the offered appendage and allowing Dottore to guide him through the twisting halls that made up the underground lab.