Chapter Text
“This is a bit different than your usual check-up, Doctor.”
“It is indeed,” he responded, sitting him down and closing the door behind them.
They were in his office, rather than the usual exam room; and the Doctor lacked his lab coat, stethoscope and gloves—not usual for a man who rarely left his laboratory. Though his typical beaked mask remained covering his face, he could be considered dressed down for the moment. Though not for long.
“What’s all this?”
His patient clearly noted a neat pile of folded clothes on the pristine desk. A desk once so covered in stacks of papers: supply requests, invoices, receipts, and unfiled forms, that the Doctor himself once threw a fit about having no time or patience to deal with it. A mess that a very diligent subordinate handled with the efficiency of someone whose skills for book balancing could not be ignored.
“I’ve taken the initiative to request a dialogue with her Majesty and Pierro on your behalf,” he stepped back over to him and plucked the pack of cigarettes out of the seated man’s shirt pocket before he could even consider grabbing them—tossing them in a drawer. From that same drawer, he withdrew a case and returned to his side.
“On my behalf, in what way?” A fine brow lifted, but only enough to imply interest, never enough to break his passive expression. Oh Feofan never let his thoughts reach his face, and the Doctor delighted in that. It interested him enough to keep this one for so long.
He reached out to pluck the old glasses from his subordinate’s face. They were cracked at the edge of the left lens, due to his inability to keep track of them and scratched to an infuriating degree. So the Doctor presented a new pair. A bit sleeker than the previous set with an updated prescription. Unlike his previous ones, these were clearly made of expensive material, with sturdy metal frames, embossed designs in the arms and lenses polished to a sheen that left the top edge clear enough to show his pretty eyes.
“To start, regardless of my reason, I can’t present you before her looking like this. One might think I don’t treat you correctly, if I stand you before her majesty looking like a first year grunt.” He set them on his face, letting Feofan finish adjusting them on his own.
“I already dress considerably better than most other agents, do I not? Is this really necessary, given the expense?” The head tilt, oh that damn head tilt. The Doctor considered pulling his hair to straighten his neck. He asked too many questions, all the time; and that annoying habit was precisely why he intended to push him further. Only those who ask questions with his degree of audacity could step into higher roles.
“I did not ask you, now did I?” He refrained from the hair pulling, instead choosing to take his chin in his hand and make him look up at him—where he leaned against his desk, looking down. “I might miss your nagging when your hands are far too full to allow you time to be mouthy with me.”
Feofan smiled, face placid as ever, maintaining his gaze directly on him—in a way no one else would ever do. If he didn’t have his mask on, the eye contact would be unwavering. Audacious little bitch. Such a shame he could not reasonably tuck him away and keep his little bird in a cage forever.
He continued. “I will be recommending you for a Harbinger seat.”
“That eager to get rid of me, are you?”
“Hardly. However, I’m not ignorant to the loss of potential keeping you taped to me. I can operate with what I still have. And though the vapid morons beneath your station won’t suitably replace you, having your skills at the organizational level will benefit me much more.”
There were thoughts turning behind those deep violet eyes, and the Doctor expected any number of responses. What he did not expect was the brief flicker of disappointment that came and went faster than an outsider would ever see. That mask of his was nearly infallible. Nearly. Perhaps not to someone who’d seen every aspect of him over the years.
“So, the intent is to get rid of me,” he smiled, tone in jest, but the amusement did not reach his eyes.
“My dear,” he mused, perhaps enjoying Feofan’s momentary dismay. He held his face in his open palm. “You will never be rid of me, even when you inevitably wish you could be. You are simply in line to be promoted to my peer, rather than my subordinate. And I would like you to look the part.”
With that, he gestured to the stack of clothes on the desk. Those were not his own clothes, but a nicely tailored set of slacks and a long black coat with a number of embroidered details in a rich amethyst hue. Most definitely not suitable for the Doctor himself, and his subordinate very clearly understood.
“Is the merit of my work not enough? That I must also posture?”
“Feofan, you’ve been my associate for ten years, roughly, give or take,” the division between test subject to subordinate was a tad hazy, “and you know quite well that I know your value. Rest assured that your skills speak for themselves, but the social upper echelon operates very heavily on impressions. And I will not send you to the wolves dressed in anything less than the finest. Even I have little choice but to dress the part when my presence is required.”
Feofan remained quiet, fingers tapping against his own arm, letting his thoughts circle through his mind as he did when he planned on a calculated response.
“If this is not what you want, then I could retract it,” the Doctor started, then nearly squashed the offer in the same breath, “but I know you won’t have me do that.”
“What makes you say that, Zandik?” Those hands folded across his lap, and the Doctor could already see him filling the image of Snezhnaya’s most obnoxious banker.
“Because you yearn to prove your might against the system in place. And I am prepared to vouch for you,” he let go of his face, and picked the folded stack of cloth. “Change into them.”
“Right here?”
“You say that as if I haven’t seen every last bit of you,” he scoffs. “I want to make adjustments. You aren’t used to this dress wear. So if I need to have anything re-tailored for the future, I can arrange that.”
Feofan’s head shook faintly, but he obliged his order—possibly the last order he’d be giving him as his superior. What a shame to lose such a valued underling. But the benefit far outweighed the productivity loss.
The loss of his constant presence, however…a thing to unpack later. Much much later.
Dressing him turned into more of a hands-on endeavor than he planned. His penchant for details had him reaching out to make adjustments before the man could do so himself. Fixing his collar, adjusting the folds of his sleeves, making sure his neatly pressed shirt was tucked in properly. His slacks were pressed with no wrinkles, hanging at just the perfect length over dress shoes that clearly cost a fortune—with a decorative heel that set just a bit higher than the flatter lab or office shoes he often wore around the Doctor.
His hands truly had been everywhere on this body before him, and he didn’t have a second thought about patting him down and touching just about everywhere to ensure he presented the way he envisioned—and to also confirm that his measurements were correct. He suspected Feofan might object or deny if something wasn’t perfect, but the Doctor was nothing if not thorough.
“I feel like you’re just using this to be handsy, my dear Doctor,” Feofan chuckled casually, unbothered as he always was around a man who made everyone else’s skin crawl.
“And you are using this to run your mouth,” he countered, stepping back, pleased with his work. “You dress up splendidly, and you should get used to that.”
“How will I ever adjust from the comfort of my fieldwork fatigues, lab rags and basic bottom worker suits? Though it does fascinate me that you always refer to me running my mouth, but never do anything to stop me. Curious.”
“Enough out of you. You aren’t ruffling my feathers today,” he pressed him back down in the seat to comb his hair and dab an expensive cologne at his neck. “Don’t think I don’t realize you manipulated yourself into my favor. Save those cunning words for the ones who you still have to prove yourself to.”
“I don’t intend to exercise the level of manipulation on others that I did to you, if you must know,” he closed his eyes, submitting to the Doctor’s preening.
“Oh? And why is that?”
The corners of his lips turned into a faint smile, “my interest is not the same. And you, by far, are the toughest customer I could imagine. If I can handle you, well, who else could give me even a little pause?”
Smarmy, mouthy little bastard—as usual.
“Keep that mentality, and you will not fail,” he scoffed, but had to acquiesce to his point of view. The Doctor could be the most difficult person to deal with when he didn’t want to engage—he only responded to that which interested him, after all—but Feofan managed to be an interesting little specimen. One surprisingly very resilient, with a tongue sharp enough to cut through the thick steel of indifference the Doctor guarded himself with.
“I suspect failing is not an option, anyway.”
“Correct,” he nodded without hesitation. He wouldn’t have his recommendation run sour and make him lose face. If he brought someone before Pierro and her Majesty, then he meant every word of praise he had to offer.
Feofan adjusted his new glasses again, setting them further down the bridge of his nose. “Then isn’t this discussion a bit redundant?”
It earned an impolite snort of amusement at his little experiment’s words. “You’ve had me wasting my breath for ten years, what’s a little more? Some say you’re actually quite a chatterbox in polite conversation.” He offered a pair of satin gloves, content to let the man at least put his own gloves on—even if it meant fighting his temptation to do it himself.
“Do you disagree?” Finger by finger those gloves slipped perfectly onto those fair hands.
“I wouldn’t know, we rarely have polite conversation, as you’ve been antagonizing me since the moment they dropped you at my feet.”
“Now, I seem to remember it differently, my good doctor,” he pulled the wrist of the second glove, sliding the fabric snug over his palm. “Are you suggesting I’ve victimized you?”
“Quite.”
“Ah, well I suppose that can’t be helped.” He offered no apologies or arguments. Victimize might be a strong and somewhat incorrect word, but neither could deny Feofan’s own bold behavior and how it directly altered the course of their interactions.
The Doctor liked to consider himself an objective person, with a scientific mind and no room for emotion based thinking. Which was why he viciously squashed down the part of him hissing in the back of his mind in protest of this whole ritual with every box he snapped open on the desk. Six of them, he withdrew from a bag that had been previously out of sight to Feofan because of the folded stack of clothes.
“What is all this?”
“I can’t have others thinking you aren’t physically worth as much as the head on your shoulders. Give me your left hand,” he demanded, though his tone read softer like a request that couldn’t be refused. From his pinky finger, to his thumb, he placed different, very ornate rings—sliding them over the satin glove. Each last one fit perfectly, and Feofan had to know he did not put this together at the last minute. From the tailored clothes and customized shoes to each last ring, the Doctor’s attention to detail was too impeccable.
Feofan found his voice, leaving the real questions lost in the margins. “How much did all this cost…?”
“Irrelevant. In all my years as a Harbinger, I’ve never spent my income on anything other than my research. People in your mindset might call this…an investment,” he placed the last ring, lifting his hand to look over how each of them rested comfortably, not clashing or grinding against one another.
“Why, it almost sounds like a dowry. I won’t have to change my surname will I?”
At his light hearted jab, the Doctor responded swiftly, “make zero mistake, Feofan,” he pressed his fingers along his jaw, using his thumb to tip his head to look at him once more. “I am not giving you away. You are just being moved to a pedestal more suited to your skillset. You belong to me until we both perish.”
That silent moment between, conveyed something that would remain intensely unspoken.
“Then I hope that doesn’t happen any time soon.”
Without a response, the Doctor slid his fingers under his other hand and pulled it forward—not asking. The box he opened for this ring looked different from the rest of them, lined with red satin and distinctly more expensive than the others. Unlike the ones adorning his left hand, it had no companions—meant to be displayed by itself. On the finger between the middle and pinky, the Doctor seated the last piece of jewelry and then ran his thumb over the ring with three thin bands fused together into one articulate piece.
To both of them, sentimentality was all but withered weeds to be plucked from an otherwise barren garden; so neither of them spoke a word at his actions. The Doctor didn’t explain himself, and his Patient didn’t question it for a moment.
But Feofan knew that his attention to detail would never allow him to feign ignorance—that he would have researched everything from the correct hand, finger, and type of ring meant to convey the unspoken.
Feofan fiddled with the rings for a moment, while the Doctor returned all the boxes to the bag, and cleaned up the desk.
The Doctor valued wearing a mask more than anything, when it aided him in keeping his face passive and avoiding direct eye contact. Chalk that down to his slowly weakening social skills as he aged. Without even glancing back Feofan’s way, he moved away from the desk he leaned against, to tuck that bag somewhere for later disposal. He needed to finish dressing himself, and with Feofan fully put together, he couldn’t put it off much longer.
“Give me one moment to put myself together and we will be off. I can’t have you putting me to shame to this degree.” He collected his own coat and accessories, using the glass of his office’s window to assure the ornaments were set right and the layers of cloth under his neck didn’t make him look ruffled.
Behind him, chair legs audibly slid across the floor, followed by the click of expensive shoes against the marble. Feofan approached him, stopping his fiddling hands by abducting one of them into his own.
“Now, you must understand, Doctor. Commander. That operating on uneven grounds is not what I prefer. An equivalent exchange is most suitable for both parties in almost every situation,” he explained, lifting the Doctor’s bare hand to his lips.
The sensation of warmed metal registered before the sight of it, slipped over the ring finger of his own right hand. One of the five rings the Doctor decorated Feofan’s left hand with was missing, returned to rest as the lone adornment on the Doctor’s hand.
“Well…” he paused, momentarily at a loss for words. “You have a rather ludicrous gap in your accessories now.”
“Really? I find this to be a balanced arrangement,” that smug person smiled, standing in front of him. His gloved fingers ran along the edge of his mask, tipping it back in a bold action no other person in the world would dare consider. He didn’t remove the mask entirely, just slid it back enough to make eye contact—face close enough the Doctor could feel his breath against his lips.
The Doctor, loath to admit, had to look slightly up at him. At his beautiful little experiment that he nursed from near death and dressed in the finest linens money could buy; whose intellect could match his own in his respective strengths, with a temper that may even rival his. Oh what a pity to send him away.
The ghost of his lips against his left the room feeling quite small, with all the walls and everything beyond just them sinking into a void that disappeared from his mind entirely. Only this person elicited such sensations, and he’d cut his own brain open to examine why that happened, if he could; but since he could not, he instead let the air simmer between them. Foreign sensations for a man who never let another person so much as come within arm’s length.
Yet Feofan still electrified him the same as he did the day that mouthy specimen talked his way out of his own demise. And there he was…preparing to let him fly away.
“We better be on our way,” he spoke, with the faint reverberations of his words passing to the other’s lips. So close he could feel the smile, even after he could no longer see it. Feofan gently lowered his mask back into place and widened the distance between them again.
The room returned to his senses, and he went back to putting the last of himself back together for the public presentation. Like showing off a proud trophy, he would make the rest of them see the sparkle of his most prized possession.
With his cloak in place and all of his ornaments carefully adjusted, he at last slipped his gloves on—with the final garment covering over the ring on his right hand. He did not remove it, but he would not display it either. Feofan’s promotion would be divorced from his obvious influence outside of his recommendation. But he would know it was there.
In his lab, when ordering his useless subordinates around, where no one else could see, he would wear the proof that his little experiment still belonged to him, even when his name to the rest of the world changed.
※ File labeled with new tag:"Regrator"