Work Text:
“And why must you always be so pedantic about 8’s existence? You know, not like he’s any different from all of us,” Omega scoffs, sprawled across the chair, his hand waving in a lazy dismissal manner, as if mocking Pantalone’s habit of it.
Pantalone’s elegant brows curled up just a little bit, but still, he did not bother to look up from piles of paperwork he’s been sitting through. “Whatever could you imply, dear?”
“Well, you know,” he shifts in the chair, his mask tilted to the side just enough to see the displeased grin. “He's the only one who steals most of the spotlight. You take him out to playgrounds, he spends most of his free time in your office, I could almost say he is your favourite. Is he?”
Pantalone laughs as if he’s been told a good joke. He puts his ink pen down and clasps his fingers. “My, are you jealous? Of a child?”
There’s an annoyed huff from Dottore’s side as he folds his arms.
“Really, Doctor? I thought you’re better than that. You know, he is just a child, he requires proper care and treatment, so he could grow less… broken. There was no such chance for you, yet there is for him, and I don’t see why that should not happen. At least one of “you” could get the normal childhood “you” deserve.”
“He’ll never grow up. And you know it. It is but a meaningless investment, a waste of both time and resources.”
“But he is “you”. In a way. Didn’t the “you” come to yearn for a carefree infancy, a loving hand, a supportive figure, if just sometimes?”
The air stiffs when Dottore bares the shark-like teeth in a silent growl. There’s a tension Pantalone could not quite name, but the said words somehow linger in the space between them as a heavy burden. Did he strike a nerve?
“I am nothing but an executor of “my” own design. And, though I possess the memories of “my” life back then, I was created with no childhood or adolescence of my own. And you know it damn well, Regrator.”
The Ninth lets out a sigh as he adjusts his glasses, locking eyes with Dottore. The smile of his is somewhat soft, yet there’s a taste of guilt to it. “And you wish you had a childhood like that.”
That’s the wrong way of words. Pantalone does not realise it, but Omega straightens up in his seat.
“Oh, I sure do.”
Pantalone rubs his temples. Realisation hits him like a truck.
Too bad I’m not good enough to be him. The words are heavy enough to be heard even unsaid.
“Dottore, wai—”
But it is late. The door is slammed from the other side. He is met with bare silence.
Pantalone allows himself to sigh, the hand that tried to reach out a moment ago gets dropped down. His first thought is to chase Dottore down, for that’s not what he could possibly mean, for he would never—
But he is so tired, and there’s a meeting of his in just a half an hour, and maybe he’ll come back. Eventually. He can put that aside, for sure, he’ll take care of it later on.
***
Dottore was created heartless. His blood was black, his nerves were wired, his insides were machinery, through and through. He did not pay any mind to be created as a tool, a way to look up at the world for he had no of a soul that could. He wasn’t a living, breathing human, so he was not supposed to feel something, anything at all.
And Zandik wasn’t exactly empathic, to begin with.
So it should not hurt. It never did, after all, there were deaths, resentments and so much more along his way, and that’s where he broke? At some not so rightfully immortal man pointing out that “he” is the lesser of the Dottores there would ever be?
Utterly pathetic.
And now, he was here, by his little cabinet window, turned away from the door just enough to make a scene, hoping for that small chance of Pantalone to walk in.
He might’ve meant every word he said, yet there is that thing where the apology is nothing but essential. That’s the long-lasting game of theirs, to hurt and then to hurl, but there is that thin line that he should’ve not crossed for it pained more than any other assault could.
The lesser of Dottores really did not like acknowledging he’d never be him to the point it is demanded of him. To the point Pantalone needed it of him. For it was need for “him” he’d strive to be yet’d never achieve. He wasn’t Zandik.
He could not be the one he loved these years through. He could lie all he want, but Omega was loved as long as he pretended to be the real him well enough, there was no personal input for he is just a segment, a hollow shadow of a mind there wondered once. No one would love a shadow more than a man. And somehow, Dottore brings himself to find to care about it too much.
So he hoped Pantalone would come. That faint, small hope poisoned his whole being through the workday, and at some point Dottore caught himself unable to work properly, so he simply left, wandered off to his own office, and waited. It seems, a few hours passed, judging by the way sun was ready to set below the horizon, and the night’s been taking place, and he’s been waiting, and hoping, and it is…
Miserable.
There’s a little door creak.
Dottore finds annoyance building up his throat. He can’t help but spare a glance at Pantalone stepping in with no hesitation in mind. He looks somewhat miserable like this, sorrying look darkening his pretty face, devoid of a smile for once. At occasions like these he’d usually bring the wine to make up for his mistake, but today there was none.
Omega allows himself a bitter laugh as he looks away once again. “So you came. To me, the incomplete vision of a man there once was, to the vision that would never hope to carry on his place. In your life, at least.”
He does not need to look at Pantalone to know he froze in his place, door still unshut, words that were ready to spill caught in his throat. “Dear, you know damn well, I—”
“I can’t even come to blame you for not seeing me as a human, you know. I know I am not one, I’ve never been one, to begin, and we both know it. But how foolish I’ve been to believe you consider me something but a lesser “him”. You know, you did not have to come through all that, we all know the harsh truth. And there’s nothing to apologise for, I was just delusional enough to believe you could… see me instead of “me”. Looking back, I can see the signs, the reasons, the… I’m not worthy to be called that, after all. Just a feeble part, chewing on more it could ever hope to swallow."
The silence is deafening. There’s a quiet, tired sigh beside him as the door gets closed with a soft thud, as Pantalone takes one, two, three steps closer to him, as Pantalone’s hands snake around his waist and his lips find his bare part of the neck, as Pantalone murmurs, ever-softly and bitterly sweet: “Zandik, don’t be silly.”
Dottore snaps. The movement makes something like fear clasp at Pantalone stepping back, taking the hands away, for he is a monster on a leash too tight, able to hurt to the point he would never dare to come any closer ever again. The thought itself is terrible. Disgusting, even, but he finds himself to not really care at the moment. If Pantalone is about to be scared of him, then so be it, but—
Oh, the least he’d want of him is to assume his sweet touches and venom words would somehow patch up the bleeding wound in his missing heart. If every part of this is fake, it’s only natural for it to fall apart. And it’s better to be sooner than later.
Because it won’t, and it only twists the knife the thought of Pantalone assuming he can belittle his feelings and thoughts to the point they would matter no more, for Pantalone is offering his touches and words on a silver platter now, but not out of want.
He’s pitying Dottore for never being “him” enough to try to make up for it.
“Look, I am sorry.” His voice is unusually quiet, trembling almost. He keeps on fidgeting with his hands for he can’t find a place to fit them when he’s been pushed away. “I don’t… I’m not the one to take on the apology, you know, but I know a lost battle when I see one. I… fucked up, alright, and I’m sorry for saying something you could interpret like that, I didn’t mean to—”
He keeps on talking. It’s weird to see him like that, all slouchy and unsure, and it builds up some strange tension in Omega’s mind. His lips twitch if just a little bit, turning into a snarl at some point, and he does not dare look him in the eyes, for he’s conflicted enough, for his mind is tugging at the “something’s wrong” feeling that buzzed in the deepest corner of his mind.
It’s as if Pantalone tried to talk his way outta it. It’s as if this’d be nothing but one of his business proposals, just a different kind. He needs Dottore, after all, to keep on living, to not die at the hands of the cruel fate, so he might just convince him enough to give in.
He might just need Omega to think he’s all that special, to use it further on. And Omega desperately wants him to admit he is, so he keeps silent, he pouts and purses his lips and keeps quiet.
But if he's all good with words to convince countless people to sign away their dignity, then why is his apology so uncertain and weak where it falls on Dottore's deaf ears?
“What do you want me to do?”
Dottore staggers. That’s not the kind of question he’d ever expect to be out Pantalone’s mouth. It’s weird, to hear him apologise, albeit it’s weirder to hear him make up for something, anything he’d ever do.
He allows his head to be tilted to the side. They lock eyes.
“So you could forgive me? There must be something, right?”
There it is. The catch.
“Really, Dottore. Something. Anything, you know, I’d do anything, so you’d forgive me, I know that was stupid of me and I… can’t properly apologise, I don’t know how, so please…” There’s a hand catching Omega’s own, there’s eyes of violet boring into his own. “Tell me how I could make up for it.”
Dottore allows himself a little smile. “Anything?”
The grip on his hand tightens. He can feel the burning of the other’s skin through his own leather gloves. “Anything.”
Something like a croaking laugh escapes his throat as he looks out the window, again. “You do not need to bother now, Pantalone. I see how it is.”
The clutch of his hand is gone. Dottore can’t help but feel pity, for it’s nice to have a body pressed against your own, even if it does not see “you”, some things simply can’t be helped.
The quiet is there again, twisting, turning, devouring all the same, it does not help the way his soul aches, his mind races, but it is there. Waiting to be acknowledged.
In the quiet, he could hear the rustling of the clothes. He’d almost believe Pantalone left, but there’s a tug of his coat, and Dottore allows himself to turn. The next he knows he’s trying not to lose his composure on a whim.
Feofan is on his knees beside him.
“Please, Zandik. I’m sorry."
That man, that prideful and rotten to the core man, is on his knees for him, looking at him with the desperation he thought he’s never seen on Pantalone’s face since the day they met.
“Let me do anything to make up for it. Anything to keep you around. I’ll sponsor any of your project for a year or so, I’ll switch my schedule to have more time for you, I’ll—”
Omega feels his cheeks burn. He can’t come up with something better than a feeble attempt to cover these little bits of his own face that have a seen-through blush, he can’t do anything better than to turn away to the window for his pupils shift uncontrollably, clueless how to act, where to look, what to say, and he—
And he can still feel the way Pantalone is so close, drawing lines down his thighs with his fingers, as he whispers: “Please, dear, what can I do for you?”
And Omega’s inexistent heart pounders so loudly that he can’t bring himself to think, his fingers dig at the windowsill with full force. Even on his knees, this man still makes a fool of him.
Utterly miserable he is.
There’s another tug of his coat. “Zandik,
“Please. At least look at me.
“Look at me as I make a lesser man of myself. If you don’t forgive me that’s fine, just… don’t look away. Don’t play with my heart like that.
Don’t take your eyes off me. Or I will leave. It may be your first and last chance to see me like this, you know.”
Dottore needs all of his composure to look back at him and, therefore, to not give in the second he does. Pantalone is insanely beautiful like this. His always styled hair is all messy, his always perfect outfit is for sure ruined for he’d never let it touch the ground like this, his eyes glow in the twilight, and all that makes him ethereal, untouchable, unreal. Yet still, on his knees. Beside Omega.
All of his insides are a tight knot, and he can’t help his face becoming a brighter red. His free hand runs through the other’s curls, and Pantalone, for once, does not complain.
“I don’t want to lose you, Omega. Not Dottore, not the concept of Zandik or any other stupid depletion of clones you’d come to, it’s the “you” you who I fell for harder, none of them would have it like this.
“If you would not know it better, Doctor, this whole act is meant only for “you” to see. out of all "you", this you is the one that makes me most deranged and pathetic, and I believe you know that better than I do. Or… see, at least.”
Dottore can hardly breathe, as he stares in Pantalone’s eyes, which are usually dead and calm, but now’s a raging storm, a set of exposed wires, he stares and he searches and he sees, all the want and desperation and fear. Of losing him, perhaps? Could it really be it?
He could swear he could feel as the bottom had dropped out of his stomach. He loosens the grip, he looks back at the window: it started storming, so he could make out nothing but a raging wind, dragging the snowflakes within it.
“You can stop embarrassing both of us, Pantalone.”
Pantalone does not move. He’s still, right where Omega left him. Like a sinner, awaiting his executor to raise the blade.
“I won’t. Not until you’ll say I am forgiven.”
“...You are.”
“What’s with the tone? Come on, Doctor, we don’t have all day.”
“I forgive you. There it is. We’re fine now?”
“Mhm, I dunno…” There’s a tug of his coat, again. “Doesn't sound very genuine, if you ask me.”
“I might start assuming you just like standing on your knees beside me.”
Pantalone laughs. “Well, you’re definitely enjoying this more than I do, don’t you?”
He can hear him getting up, at last. The next thing he knows his face is trapped between the other’s hands. Pantalone looks him in the eyes, as if he’d see through the porcelain the way his eyes widen, as he whispers, sweet and soft:
“My knees hurt terribly, just so you might know. I’m not in the age of being a beggar now, and you know that.”
Dottore allows himself to let out a shuddered sigh in reply. That’s a mistake of his: Pantalone lifts his mask just the moment after, and the face that meets with his makes him laugh.
It's a soft laugh, almost genuine. The only way only he, among all, would have it.
Omega is nothing but a deer in the headlights. He can’t bring himself to imagine the way he looks now, widened pupils, red cheeks and all.
“So I do have an effect on you, do I not?” Pantalone nothing but murmurs to his ear, his fingers slowly making their way to grabbing the other’s waist.
There’s a kiss to his temple, there’s a burning hot whisper to his reddening ear. “I won’t let you go like this ever again, dear.”
Pantalone is nothing but smug as he sees no resistance from him when one of his slim, elegant hands gets lower. The other grabs his harness, pulling him, slowly yet steadily towards the table.
Omega feels too wanted, too desired, it is too much, so he simply lets him be dragged along, he simply watches, as Pantalone kisses the bruise on his neck, as he…
“You know, I’m so terribly sorry, that was indeed so cruel and evil of me…” The tone is mocking, almost, for all he knows he is forgiven, and it gets only more poisonous with the way Dottore’s neck starts reddening. It is malicious. “I’ll make up for it just good, Zandik. So you might consider forgiving me…”
There’s something about the way Pantalone’s sprawled across the table with these words, watching him with half lidded eyes and the sly smile of his, about the way he slowly spreads his legs to pull Dottore closer, his hands finding their way under the shirt not a second later, making Dottore shiver.
And Zandik can’t help but give in, for the sight like this drives him a little more insane than he’s ever been before, for his own hands find their way under the other’s clothes soon enough.
The force he slams Pantalone further into the table, the way he climbs on top of him is something he won’t quite recall later on, making the cabinet more of a mess than it’s even been before. But he could not care, did not care, for he was there, and he was wanted for what he is, as special and unique, as he could’ve been.
And Pantalone will definitely pay for making him one.