Chapter Text
Grief was as foreign of an emotion to Pantalone as was fish in outer space. He had never given it the time to settle upon him, nor had he been attached to anything of enough importance as to mourn its loss. Life, in all its beauty and despair, was far too fleeting to waste time on something like that. What else was grief good for, if not to let the living cope with their suffering? And suffer, he would not allow himself to do, he already had his fair share, and he certainly wasn’t going to let someone else be the reason for it.
Attachment did not come easy to the Harbinger. It was hard to allow himself to gravitate towards another individual, when he himself did not see them as anything more than variables and assets. Some, higher valued ones, he favoured over others, but if the occasion called to cut them off, he gave no hesitation to the thought. Transactions were the basis of any relationship, a loss on either side would do little more than to serve as an inconvenience. No matter if the person were a common merchant or an esteemed Harbinger, King, even a god, to Pantalone everyone was an arm’s length away. At the end of the day, he was giving something and getting something in return, that was that.
It was perplexing, then, when grief had befallen him, and immensely so.
—--------------------
The scene before him was laughably absurd. Six figures of varying sizes, attire, and manner, yet all sharing the same, intense crimson eyes – however hidden some of them were – paused their affair for a moment upon his arrival. One figure, who had been stripped of everything, lay motionless on the cold, uncomfortable operating table. His eyes, the first to see the world, remained unseen, unfortunately so.
Pantalone’s own violet eyes could only stare at the obviously dead body, on the same table he himself was so familiar with– yet now the one who lay there was the very one that had always kept him alive.
“Regrator.” One of the segments addressed him.
He hadn’t paid attention to which one, intently fixated on the body.
For reasons unknown to him, he found moving to be an increasingly difficult task, as if there were an invisible barrier just across the laboratory’s door. One slow step, then another, a third and forth at a quicker pace. He hesitated on the fifth, still not letting his eyes linger on anything other than the table that he was now in front of. Trying his best to remain composed, he showed almost no clear emotion. Almost.
“Is this…” His voice was even, somehow, and he did not know why he was asking, as if he didn’t know. As if it not yet being confirmed was in any way going to make it not true.
“It would be advised not to get close to the body,” another voice responded, almost casually. But the owner did nothing to stop him, it seemed.
“We’re still in the process of autopsying it,” a third voice, younger in tone, added.
It. The word made his chest sting. Why?
There was movement and sounds around him, the shuffling of fabric, the clink of metal tapping metal, the consistent low hum of machinery that he had grown to tune out, now suddenly all very apparent to him. He could not figure out why.
Nor could he know why, with a hesitant twitch, his hands hovered over the still white fabric. It was no doubt freshly disinfected, as everything else was, cleaned and prepped like it was meant for something appealing. Only the banker himself remained unsterile. Yet, the way fabric draped over the whole table, showing the clear shape of a rigid nose, cheeks that had long since hollowed, two dents where what little life would still have been left, covered something far, far worse.
Dead bodies did not phase him. He had seen countless in his life, caused some of them himself, even. Disgusting, inconvenient things they were, rarely sparing any thought to the faces that would never move again, never smile nor cry nor speak. But this one, this specific one, made him shudder.
Something akin to confusion overtook him, by the way his heart seemed to beat faster, body subtly stiffening to keep himself grounded, mind conjuring up several conflicting thoughts at once. He knew who it was under the sheet, he knew that eventually this would happen. They had long ago discussed this very thing, and he distinctly remembered at the time he hadn’t given the outcome much thought. There was no need to, for it was already understood and accepted.
And yet.
Ignoring any advice, slender gloved fingers grazed the fabric almost tenderly, before slowly lifting it, revealing what he had already known was there.
And still, his body froze, jaw set, the world seemingly silencing itself, or perhaps he was just going deaf. A wave of nausea threatened to wash over him, a sickening, twisting feeling swirling from his head to his stomach. An intensity he could not hide shook in his eyes, staring down at the table, the body. Whatever thoughts he was having were clouded, muffled by the sudden suffocation he could feel, despite nothing around his neck. He felt it though, the tight squeeze, he thought he did. There was no mistaking it, not even if he tried his hardest to.
It was Zandik. Dead. Zandik was dead. Now his own test subject.
He wanted to scream. He never thought he ever would.
The messy, unkept light blue hair he had made a habit of combing on an odd day was sprawled over the table and face. Oh, his face. The one he had watched grow old, where his own remained nearly untouched by age. The one that would wickedly smile at him, frown at him, show frustration and annoyance at his occasional teasing, only to tilt his head with a smirk a moment later as if he realised he enjoyed it. Those ever intense eyes surrounded by blue lashes, he always found himself staring at them unknowingly, silently admiring the way they looked back at him. There was a fire in those crimson pools, one he never thought he’d see extinguished. Zandik did not open his eyes, not anymore. None of it remained. What was the last expression on his face? He wondered. Pain? Agony? Some twisted sense of acceptance? Why did he want to know?
His reaction exceeded his expectations, though he dared not show it.
After what felt like an eternity of staring, his lips pursed, not bothering to feign his usual smile. “So, it seems it is him,” he almost couldn’t say, the tightening feeling on his throat lingering on. Ever so carefully putting down the fabric, he finally forced his eyes to drag away from Zandik, only to fall onto his many faces. If he was not trying to appear unaffected, the success of which he suspected was little judging by the expressions directed at him, he felt he may have maybe, just maybe, snapped. Zandik was dead, right in front of him, but he was also looking at him with indifference, with curiosity, with the look he gave to everything he found unexpectedly interesting. Yet it was not him looking, but fragments. But they were still him, and not him at the same time. Was there a difference? He knew there was, so why did it feel like there wasn’t?
“I suppose,” he paused, not looking at any one segment in particular, “I will leave you all to it.” The speed at which he turned on his heel betrayed his calm façade, finding no reason to linger as he made his way back to the door, almost hoping to sprint away. Never in his life had he felt this way, and he was getting increasingly frustrated about it. About his feelings? Or about the whole ordeal, or the death itself? He could not tell. He hated this.
Pantalone dared not to turn back and look at the voices that followed his departure. His voice in many tones, questioning him no doubt – or perhaps not, too engrossed with the task at hand to care.
Gods, he felt utterly, disgustingly sick.
—------------
The trek back to his office, his sweet, safe, comfortable office, was quite possibly one of the worst experiences he ever had. With every step he felt his feet get heavier, almost like gravity itself was forcing him down, almost like his attempt to get as far away as possible from the scene was being forcibly stopped. Dizzy, he felt dizzy, he told himself. He had never liked seeing Dottore’s operations when a real body was involved, he must have been feeling repulsed by that, that was the cause. Surely.
Upon seeing two large dark wooden doors coming into view, Pantalone felt his chest tighten, doing his best to retain his posture, like there was nothing wrong. Like at most he was mildly inconvenienced with a trivial affair.
With an unnecessarily rough twist of the knobs, the doors pulled open, revealing the familiar, unchanged space. Absurdly spacious, the room was filled from floor to ceiling with intricate Snezhnayan designs and patterns, in metals of silver and gold, stained glass windows that looked as if they could reach the roof, curving at the top. Idle décor mixed with practical furniture, a set of plush black couches, framed by wood, placed opposite each other with a coffee table of the same wood positioned between them, a little ways in front of the ebony desk in the back centre of the room. On it were stacks of documents still yet to be seen by the banker, their importance varying, next to ink bottles and quills and the half empty tea cup he had left there.
Right. He left for Dottore's laboratory for a meeting. He had completely forgotten. What was it about? He could hardly remember, and it didn’t matter anymore.
Shutting the doors behind him, there was a brief, suffocating pause, and Pantalone did not– could not move from his spot, the deathly silence and invitingly comfortable environment a stark contrast to where he just was. He could only stare at the ground with the same intensity he did the body, mind racing and yet no coherent thoughts were surfacing. It was only when he finally let out a shaky breath to calm his rapid heart did he push himself off the doors, staggering towards the nearest couch. The touch of soft, plush fabric providing little comfort, his back sunk into the cushions, yet no amount of telling himself to relax seemed to work. He felt so… rigid. So unnerved.
Gloved hands found each other, fiddling with the overly expensive rings as he so often did when lost in his own mind, and for a few moments the only thing he could do was process everything. Try to, at least.
Dottore was dead.
No, Zandik was dead. There was a difference.
Dead, regardless.
Zandik Died.
A surge of something vile rushed through him, forcing him to sit up straight, jaw clenching and lips thinning. The thought replayed over and over, turning it, twisting it, rearranging it like it could have any other possible meaning. He could feel the tremble of his body, inconsistent breaths despite his earlier attempts of calming down, the way his lips wanted to move to say something but his throat closed up before he could. Over and over, the same thing swirled in his mind, not yet ready to be digested.
Dead.
Gone.
Pantalone hunched over, most unfitting of his usual pristine posture, while his arms propped up on his knees, hands covering his mouth, and squeezed his eyes shut, brows furrowing. It took everything in him not to make a sound, save for the heavy breathing he was intent on focusing on, the rise and fall of his chest – the small stutters he unwillingly made whenever an image of Zandik popped up, the smallest glimpses of blue or red or white being far too damning.
Focus, Pantalone. You need to focus, he told himself, forcing himself to say.
Your colleague has — died.
Another shaky exhale, throat swallowing dry.
Everyone does. It happens. You knew it would happen. There are still things that need to be done, get up. Get yourself together.
His head dropped low, hands running through curly black hair only to grip onto silky strands, tugging lightly. Yes, there was still work to do. The death of a Harbinger was a taxing ordeal, and he still had to finish his prior work. That would surely ease him, no?
Willing his body to get up from the couch, the banker made his way to his desk, rounding the large table to sit as comfortably as he could on that oh so familiar chair. The stack of papers and files and sealed letters looked at him with longing, waiting for him to give them their attention. For a second he almost hesitated to pick up a document, sliding it across the desk to his front. Whatever was on the pages interested him little, and his writing was more mechanical, pre-rehearsed if anything.
Bank details, ledger updates, funding requests – funding rejections. He did a lot of that. Invoices for purchases he made, invitations to meetings and parties, records of the latest market intel, there was so much to do, so little time.
Indeed, he’d have to reschedule things, as off-schedule as he already was. Now he could slot in a meeting tomorrow afternoon, which had previously been taken up by a tea session with Zandik. He no longer needed to set aside the second of every month to spend the day accompanying Zandik in his day-to-day life like he had been doing for years, after the Doctor’s age started getting the better of him. No longer did he need to think about the extra medical expenses that went into keeping Zandik as healthy as possible, for he worried over him more often than the fragile old man knew. No longer did he need to plan for unpredictable scenarios in which he alone would comfort Zandik after a particularly difficult day, even if the man never admitted to needing it. He didn’t need to think of what sweets to have Zandik try in their next get together, or test if he could notice the subtle difference in the cologne he wore between days, or have to sit and listen to the eccentric ramblings of a man far beyond his years, ever fierce in his determination and goals, admiring every action and word with the vigour he spewed, however weak. He didn’t need to wonder what music Zandik would play him on those cold, quiet nights in his office, every note pressed with years of practice and, though he would never dare say it aloud, emotion, a rare side he was most fond of. Never would he need to consider any of it anymore.
Pantalone hadn’t noticed the fog building up on his glasses, nor did he realise the stream of tears streaking down porcelain cheeks, jaw clenched unbearably tight, his grip on the quill enough to break it if not for the silver casing supporting it. Shocked, a gloved hand, shaking, touched his cheek, padded finger faintly dampening from the tears.
Crying. He was crying and he didn’t even realise. How long had he been crying??
Lips quivering, he tried breathing but could only choke, his vision increasingly blurry as his eyes scanned the room for tissues, accidentally glancing to the piano on the other side, causing him to hold back a sob. It wasn’t the only thing, there were far too many things in this room that he felt could trigger him. The vase of roses sourced from Sumeru, said that his eyes resembled them. The extra table and writing supplies he knew were used when his office felt like the most efficient place to work, or so he was told. The books on subjects he had little knowledge in but were left to be ‘picked up’ later, like an excuse to return without fully admitting it—
Stop. Stop looking. Focus.
It was no use.
He quickly looked down to rummage through the side drawers of his desk, frantic to find something to wipe his tears with, the taste of salt threatening to touch his lips, while his hand delicately swept away what it could. Any more of this and his makeup would surely smear, though he suspected he already looked a mess.
Drawers opening and shutting quick, frustratingly so, he suddenly stopped upon opening one of the last ones. His breath hitched. There, in the small space, was a dark blue box, a lighter ribbon fashioned on top, tying itself around the box in a simple bow. The box itself was no bigger than the size of his hand, entirely unassuming save for the small shimmer of glitter that covered it.
Pantalone inhaled sharply. He should have just closed the drawer, but instead a trembling hand reached in, placing the box on his lap, watching it stain with falling wet drops that never seemed to end.
He had completely forgotten it was Zandik’s birthday. His eighty-fifth. How could he forget? He knew he remembered before heading to the laboratory, happily hiding away Zandik’s present to be opened later in the day between their usual banter and drinks. Everything after that shattered into pieces.
His throat tightened, choking out the long held down sob.
The Harbinger, ever pristine in every way, upright and perfect, shook with every cry he could not hold back. An utter wreck to the emotions flooding his mind, his heart– painful in all the ways he swore could not have affected him. He clutched the box with an intensity that’d surely have suffocated anyone unfortunate to feel the tight squeeze, yet he was the one who couldn’t stop his cries to breathe. It was only when Pantalone moved to remove his glasses, wiping his face constantly with his palm, was the present let go of, now simply lying on his lap and sticking out from everything else. He slouched into the chair, chest puffing out in stuttered breaths. He felt so heavy, so wrecked.
How incredibly pathetic he thought himself to be, crying like a child just at the sight of the present. Of the little reminders of him.
It suddenly dawned on him that he had entirely lost himself in his sorrow, as for the first time in a long time he was so unaware of his actions and sounds that when a concerned knock at the door was struck, he was completely stilled in shock, a cry catching in his throat.
“My lord?” A muffled voice followed. An assistant, he recognised. “Is everything well? The guards said you returned early from the laboratory. Did the meet–”
“The— Meeting—” Pantalone nearly choked, quickly clearing his throat the best he could. “ —Was cut short. I,” he paused, taking a moment to compose himself, however futile his attempts were, “need my schedule cleared, the whole day. There are some… Matters that—” Another pause, “... That needs my attention. Cancel— Reschedule the work for… For the day after.” Barely two days, he thought, would be enough to get everything out of his system. Today, a mess of jumbled emotions, and tomorrow, to logically think through it. Surely he could do that, no? He did so with everything, efficient regardless of how emotional he got. This would just have to be another one of those things, right?
He’d later learn it was never so simple.
“Now, that is all. I wish to be left alone.”
He did not hear the next words coming from the person beyond the door, mind spiralling back a storm within his heart. Blurry eyes dragged away from the present on his lap back to the sheets of documents that failed to distract him, then back down to his lap. It seemed like the sudden visit stopped his crying, but the heaviness he felt still lingered, like he was always on the verge of tears. His face felt hot and wet, and his eyes stung, and his throat was sore, and his ailments sounded like something he’d have idly told Zandik— Only because the look of concern masked by annoyance he’d always wear was a delight to the banker, who would then be carefully examined here and there and in places he didn’t mention, too. Zandik always had a funny way of showing his care, subtle and attentive and tender with his touches.
The last touch he remembers were cold fingers grabbing his own, colder lips pressed against the back of his hand.
Without process, his left hand brushed over the back of his right, almost gently, then gripped with an intense force.
And the silence broke into sobs once more.
—------------
The view outside the window was one of whirling winds, whites and grays and the occasional shimmer of fleeting blue created inconsistent, yet beautiful patterns. At times the storm seemed to slow, only to pick up viciously a moment later. The usual, unchanging view had long lost its appeal to Pantalone, and yet at times like these he could not help but fixate on it, leaning against the finely decorated windowsill, cigarette in hand. Bringing said item to dry lips, he took a long, slow drag, puffs of smoke wafting about the room, much of it spreading onto the glass. The smell of tobacco mixed unevenly with the general floral scent of the room— and his cologne, though he cared little.
Puffy red eyes, so unused to the strain they were under, gazed lazily at everything, and yet nothing at the same time. It was the only thing he could handle looking at. He didn’t know how long he cried for, only that once he stopped, what little sunlight there was had faded away and he felt utterly miserable. A smoke was the only thing he had on his mind, perhaps to lighten his mood. Then a second, and a third. The fourth was nearly done, too.
Not even the cigarettes were doing much for him.
His tears had finally stopped if only because he physically couldn’t cry anymore, whether out of self-control or running completely dry. He wanted to believe it was the former, because that would mean he still had control. In the back of his mind, however, he knew, from the ache persisting for hours, that all it would take is a little push for the waterworks to start again. Pathetic, so incredibly pathetic.
No one came to disturb him, as requested. He heard no movement outside his office, no voices, nothing. Locked away, he had spent the hours rotating between sobbing, stabilizing himself to work, then breaking again. He wasn’t sure what he could do, he didn’t feel like doing anything. But he hated the idea of just sitting and crying and mourning. Of allowing himself to shed anymore tears, but it just wouldn’t stop. Had he gone to his chambers, then maybe he’d feel more open to vulnerability. But there was no way he could leave the room without someone seeing him in the messy state he was in. Even if he fixed his makeup and combed his hair, no amount of concealing would cover the redness of his eyes and cheeks and the rasp of his voice straining with every other word. He hated the thought of someone seeing him like this, vulnerable and weak. There was only ever one whose gaze he did not despise in such circumstances.
Pantalone let out a particularly long exhale, purple eyes closing shut.
That was until, once again, there was a knock at the door.
Tch. His schedule was supposed to have been cleared!
This time, he did not answer. Whoever it was, he had no interest in putting up with. It wasn’t unusual for him to have pending business at this hour, just barely before the work day ended, but even he thought this was cutting it close. If he said nothing then the person will assume he wasn’t here and leave, and he’ll have his peace—
“Regrator?”
That voice. His— His voice.
Pantalone’s body stilled, as if the mere sound of that voice had the power to paralyze him.
Zandik’s voice— No. No, it was not him. It couldn’t be him. This was Dottore.
Something in him stirred, a sickness from earlier he thought was behind him. Maybe the smoke was getting to him, maybe he wasn’t actually there. Such a delusion did not hold when a pair of knocks echoed aloud.
“... I know you’re in there, Pantalone.”
There was his voice again, however muffled through the walls. The banker’s arms wrapped around himself in a light squeeze as if to calm himself down. He could already feel it, his heart beating faster with the steady realisation that beyond the doors was the man he was most unfortunately grieving— But it wasn’t really him. It was different, he convinced himself.
With a long sigh, his eyes opened once more. Perhaps he should have thought over it more, because no part of him was ready to see the other man, and yet,
“Come in, the doors are unlocked.”
Pantalone did not turn to face the other, who walked in with almost no sound save for the tap of heels against the floor, and the hushed groan he knew was a reaction to the insufferable scent of smoke. “It’s late,” he said, eyes looking for something or someone out the window to stare at. He opted to just watch the snow fall instead.
“Indeed it is. And, you’re still here,” Dottore replied, almost casually. Ever the same, indifferent man he was.
“This is my office, Doctor,” Pantalone sighed, shifting his weight and body against the windowsill, inhaling another long puff. “Naturally I would be here for long hours. There is always much work to be done.”
Dottore raised a brow, though hidden by his mask, and glanced towards the large office desk. Scattered papers and folders and books covered its surface, with a still noticeable pile of documents shoved to the side he knew Pantalone kept for unattended affairs. He noted, with interest, that the desk was rather unorganised for the banker, who would always scold him— any of “him”— for keeping things out of place. And, a new addition he had never seen: A box of blue wrapping paper and ribbon, separated from everything else like it was not to be touched by anything. His lips pursed, considering something, then stepped further into the room, a gloved hand dragging against the black couch frame he was approaching.
“I can certainly see that,” he stopped at the other end of the couch, closer now to the desk, and to the window behind it that the other seemed intent on staring at. “No doubt, enough work to make you of all people sacrifice an entire day, and a half, of plans to get through.”
Pantalone’s body just barely twitched, a little detail that Dottore could never miss. “Although, further smoking in an enclosed space is hardly optimal for you.”
The banker scoffed, followed by a half-hearted chuckle. Maybe it was emotions getting the better of him, but for once Dottore’ comments on his smoking got the better of him. He took in a deep breath, shoulders rising as he did so, and finally turned around to see just who was behind him.
And it took everything in him not to react.
The Heavens above must really despise him, to torture him so. Of course he would come here, of course it had to be the one he knew most. Segmented at the age of thirty-five, the Doctor’s prime. The first version of the man he ever saw, and so often thought of, standing in front of him like he had never changed. Like he never died. If he had any more will to cry, he fears he may have done so. Never mind the fact the evidence of his earlier embarrassing emotional outpour was clear on his face, his demeanour. He did try to clean himself best he could, but anyone could see what he had done, what he was feeling.
“Perhaps not, but I cannot help myself.” He said, in a tone he himself found surprisingly calm. “Is there something you need?”
And Dottore, who has known and seen the banker in every imperfect, unflattering way, stayed silent. For a moment, but a moment that was far too long for someone like him. Just to stare at the man across from him, to notice how hues of red stood out from his pale complexion, how the smear in the foundation on his cheeks, how those usually cunning, beautiful purple eyes looked at him with a hidden pain. He especially noticed how, despite the obvious pain, Pantalone tried to act like none of it was noticeable. But there was something different about him this time, something he had noticed earlier, too, but could not say. He thought perhaps because there was no smile on Pantalone’s face, but that wasn’t an entirely unusual sight for the second Harbinger in particular to see.
Dottore stared at him like he stared at everything that fascinated him. It looked like the gears in his head were actively turning in ways they never knew they could.
“Yes,” he finally said, “there is.” He paused, almost as if he was thinking of just how to put his words the right way. “Earlier, in the laboratory. You looked, reasonably, disturbed. I came to see how you were.”
The other said nothing for a second, then pushed himself off the windowsill, making his way back to his desk. “‘Disturbed’ is a bit, much. I was simply a little shocked at seeing a live-” he glanced away, first down at the desk but the flash of boxed blue quickly deterred him, so he looked to the side, in particular the one with the piano positioned there. “-an autopsy. You know how I get with bodies.”
“Yes, I am well aware. But—”
“But,” Pantalone interrupted, “I will admit that seeing… Him was not- ..It was.. and you all–” He took a deeper breath than he would have liked, “it was rather unexpected, is all. I do hope all went well for you lot.” Gods, he hated this. He hated having to go through this.
Dottore also drew closer to the desk, close enough to Pantalone to where he could inhale the cigar smoke if he really tried. Luckily, Pantalone moved to stamp what little was left of it out in the overused ashtray tucked away in a corner of the desk. There were already multiple more finished cigars, how horrible.
“It… Did. We’re in the process of analysing the data.” He found it was best not to go into detail of the matter, despite the fact he would have otherwise done so without hesitation. Any significant experimental process was worth discussing in depth in his mind. “I must say, you seem to be rather, calm,” he’d reply, a shift in his tone, Pantalone noted, almost like he seemed... Worried. Again that feeling of something being off struck him. “-for having witnessed Zandik dead.” And autopsied on by versions of himself, he thought not to add. Nor did he verbally acknowledge the tear stains and messy hair.
Pantalone shrugged, but the doctor saw the way the sound of his name made him tense up and lips twitch, like he was holding something back. He wondered if he looked the same earlier.
“He and I, we both knew this day would come. It was discussed, even. So, why would I not be calm over the inevitable?” He gave him a weak smile. “I am well, however. Thank you for checking in on me. Now then–”
“Pantalone,” Dottore sighed, leaning forward over the desk, “‘well’ is not exactly the word I would use. The loss of an individual inevitably brings about heavy emotions, so—”
“Please, Doctor.” Pantalone’s hand came down on the table a little too hard. “I am very well aware of all that, and I am deeply saddened by- his loss. But, I assure you, whatever heavy burdens have or may come, I—” He cleared his throat, “- have handled it.”
He had to handle it, still unable to wrap his head around the concept of just letting himself go through it. He had no time for that, he had no pleasure in feeling so low.
From the way Dottore seemed to have stilled, surprisingly so, one would almost think he was at a loss for words. In truth, even a blind man could see that his dear colleague was not going to budge, and he suspected his presence didn’t make it any easier. He could not have Pantalone crumble in his sorrow, however, so he simply nodded,
“Very well. When you are willing, I will come to you. There are a few points of interest we need to discuss regarding things moving forward.”
“Mm, in a day’s time, I will correspond with you.”
“I would advise, however, that you retire for the night. You,” he stopped himself, almost unsure- “are far less irritable with ample rest.” At that, Pantalone only faintly laughed, and agreed.
“And, my friend, should you find yourself unable to… ‘Handle it’... You can schedule a check-up. You are due one.”
Something in the banker ticked, jaw shifting uncomfortably. Maybe, if either of them could properly convey what they wanted to say, he would have felt the extension of assistance more reassuring. But he just couldn’t, not with the way Dottore looked at him– he didn’t need to see his eyes to feel them– the same way Zandik used to. It wasn’t the same, but they were all like that. So similar, near perfect copies, but never complete like the original. And he wasn’t so complete either, but Pantalone had always admired his being nonetheless.
Perhaps it was out of a sudden surge of desperation that, when Dottore turned to leave, Pantalone’s arm reached out to grab him, stop him. “Wait,” he said, almost a mumble. “I have something for you. Well–” he let go of the other, sighing. “-It was for him.”
“Oh?” Curious and cautious, Dottore couldn’t help but flick his attention to the out of place item Pantalone’s hands were drifting towards. The box, a present. No doubt for Zandik. “A present.”
“Yes. A gift. It is his birthday after all, and I…” his voice wavered, shaking his head. “I am aware the segments don’t regard this day as anything personal, but you all are still… Him, in a sense.”
Crimson eyes shot straight to purple ones, intense in their gaze for but a moment.
“He can no longer receive it, I would rather not keep it. But… It would be a waste to get rid of it, so,” Gloved fingers pushed the gift across the desk to the other side, in front of the other Harbinger.
Dottore was eyeing his hands a tad bit too keenly.
There was something different. What was it?
Their gazes met through mask and foggy lenses. Maybe Pantalone thought if he could still give it to Zandik, a version of him, it would be fine. It would make it less of a struggle to grasp. How could he possibly struggle when the man was looking right at him? How could he not.
“Happy birthday, Dottore.”
—---------------
To truly surprise Il Dottore was quite the feat.
It was curious then, that when he had departed from the banker’s office, Dottore found himself thinking over the whole interaction with intrigue, but also with that same surprise. He stared down at the gift in his hands, given so painfully to him. It was not intended for him, but for a version of himself he could never be. A version of himself he felt himself slipping even further away from. And still, he took the present without hesitation. How could he not? With the way Pantalone looked at him, offered it to him.
Replaying the scenes, the way the banker tried to seem indifferent, normal, and the way his eyes had betrayed that indifference. He cried. Pantalone cried for Zandik. Alone in his office with no one but himself and everything in the room that was tainted with Zandik’s touch. It was not lost on him that he himself was one such thing, but still the thought stirred his biomechanical heart. Vulnerable, and yet so adamant to appear unshakable. It was… Unsettling.
It was only when he found his way to his private quarters, the one he had little use for aside from when he wanted to rid his mind of distractions, that he carefully set the present down on a table. For a minute, as he took off his beak shaped mask, he did nothing, examining it from his position, almost hesitant to move. Upon that realisation, he clicked his tongue, unwrapping the delicately laced ribbon. Pantalone always had to make everything as pleasantly presentable as possible, didn’t he. The glittery blue box was a nice touch, he supposed.
He slid the lid off slowly, revealing a soft red velvet lining and a white cushion. What immediately caught his attention was the ring placed in the middle, that Dottore instantly recognised to be exactly like the one Pantalone wore on his right hand. The only ring he wore on it. This one matched his, except with the Doctor’s own signature blue and gold instead of purple and silver. It dawned on him that that was what was different about him. It was never there before, and now he had made two, just for himself and Zandik.
Dottore chuckled softly, but his expression was anything but joyful. His eyes, always so sharp and cold, softened at the sight. He oh so carefully grabbed the ring, impossibly gentle with it like it were some sort of incredibly dangerous material, bringing it to his face.
“Oh, Feofan…”
How utterly sentimental Dottore thought, and how contradictory his partner was.