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Summary
“It’s such a pity you spend so much time ruining my reputation,” Dottore says, smothering his amusement against Pantalone’s gloved knuckles. “No one ever gives you credit for your own misdeeds.”
“My dear Doctor.” Pantalone turns his wrist and cups the hard line of Dottore’s jaw. His thumb follows the path of an ancient scar, an indolent stroke from the corner of one eye to the centre of his mouth. “That’s precisely why I do it.”
When Dottore’s tongue flicks out over the luxe leather, Pantalone’s chuckle is a dark, delighted thing.
In which Dottore watches an opera, Pantalone watches Dottore, and none of the Harbingers have any respect for good manners.