Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Oh, fuck you ,” Dottore snarled, sitting up and pressing a hand against his own forehead. Warm, too warm. The whole fucking room felt too warm. “I knew this would happen. I knew and I still fucking- uhg. I’m done, I never want to see you ever again.”

“Lies,” Pantalone yawned, not bothering to move from his spot. As much as he enjoyed the feeling of the Ninth sprawled on top of him, Dottore’s chest was beginning to ache from the other’s weight. “You’ll be back. You always come back. I’m irresistible.”

“I demand monetary compensation for this,” the Doctor said, shoving him off finally. So fucking clingy. He’d blame it on whatever godforsaken illness Pantalone had picked up, but he knew better. It seemed like the Regrator could never keep his hands off him. 

“Where are you going?” Pantalone asked, watching Dottore with narrowed eyes as the other adjusted his jacket and mask. “Please tell me you’re not actually going back down to that damned lab.”

“I have work to do,” Dottore said, scowling. Damn, why the fuck did everyone always talk shit about his lab? It was a nice lab! Anyways, he’d wasted enough time here. Why had he even stayed in the first place? It wasn’t as though he hadn’t rejected the other’s wishes in the past. “Work that I fell behind on because of you.”

“ Me ?” Pantalone demanded. “You’re acting like I’ve put you months behind because of one night.”

“I can get a lot of work done in one night.” True, up until recently. He only had one set of hands now, after all, which was just another reason he needed to get back to work. Segments didn’t make themselves, after all- or perhaps they did? That… nevermind that, he was too annoyed to seriously think about it at the moment. 

“Sure,” Pantalone said, scoffing, as though he sensed the lie. Perhaps he did- in his line of work, he probably dealt with liars all day long. “Well, then, go hurry back to your lab. Have fun doing whatever it is you do down there.”

“That’s it?” he demanded. “You’re not going to start whining or nagging?”

Pantalone sneered. “Why the hell would I? You don’t want to stay and I’m not about to beg you like some dog.”

Dottore chuckled and reached over to check the other’s temperature. “Looks like your fever broke, so I suppose your common sense has returned. You didn’t mind begging me last night, might I remind you.”

“That was to keep you out of my vaults,” he said quickly as he smacked Dottore’s hand away. “I wasn’t up to guarding them, so I had to find a way to keep you away somehow . I know you; given the chance, you’d certainly rob me blind.”

“Whatever you say, darling. ”

He narrowly avoided the pillow that was chucked at his head as he fled the room. 

“ Fuck ,” Dottore snarled, tossing the parts onto the table. Sparks flew from where the wires had snapped, a product of another careless mistake. He yanked off his mask, wiping at the sweat beading at his temples, and glared at the gadget. 

Why couldn’t he just fucking do it? He’d never had such problems making segments before. He’d chalk it up to some mind fuckery on the Dendro Archon’s part, but that was impossible- every mistake he’d made so far had been a product of his own foolishness, easily avoided if he could just pay attention . It wasn’t as though he didn’t know what he was doing, it just… It wasn’t-

He sighed shakily and resisted the urge to scrap what little progress he had made. Starting fresh would do jackshit- he’d already tried that three times and all three times had ended just as badly as the previous attempts. 

It was infuriating. He hated it, the failures. 

He hated that he only had himself to blame for them, too. 

He leaned back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling and listened to the eerie quiet of his lab. Before, it would have been filled with hushed conversations and wild laughter, though now all that could be heard was his own muffled swears and sighs and haggard breaths. It felt wrong for it to be so quiet. He’d never noticed how vital the commotion that went on in the background was until it was gone. 

Rough hands shook him awake and he knew without turning who it’d be. There was only one person in the entire country who reeked of glaze lilies, after all. 

“What do you want?” he snarled, swatting Tartaglia away clumsily. He’d finally had a few minutes of dreamless sleep, only to be disturbed by this fucker. “What did you do now?”

Tartaglia pouted, wounded, and took a step back. He raised his hands placatingly to fend off the smack he was about to receive. “You’re so mean,” he complained. “I didn’t do anything this time!”

“Then why are you here?” he asked flatly. “Can’t you see I’m doing something?”

Tartaglia peered at the table and made a face. Dottore inched over to block the evidence of his failure, though he was sure the Eleventh had already spotted what remained of a ruin guard’s core. He may or may not have smashed it out of frustration. “It looked like you were taking a nap,” Tartaglia said. “Say, where’s your goofy looking clone?”

“My what?” he asked, frowning. Goofy looking? They all looked the fucking same, was this bastard insulting him? Where the hell was his scalpel, this guy was asking to get stabbed. 

“The weird one,” Tartaglia said, as though that were indication enough of what he meant. “That laughs and shit. Wears a bowtie,” he added, tapping his throat. “Half mask…Damn, it’s really cold in here!”

Well, it really didn’t matter which one he was looking for anymore, though Dottore did have a vague idea of which one he meant. “It’s gone,” he said, turning back to his table. “They’re all gone.”

“What, really?” Tartaglia said. “I wanted to spar. Capitano’s ignoring me again.”

Dottore grunted. Maybe he should try that sometime. “Scram.”

“What happened to him, anyways? Expedition gone wrong?” Tartaglia continued, helping himself to a stool. Well, wasn’t he feeling brave today? Maybe he was itching for some kind of fight since his usual victim had finally had enough of his badgering. “I didn’t even know your clones could die. Aren’t they robots? Couldn’t you just repair them?”

Dottore picked up the core and frowned, wondering how hard he’d have to throw it to shut the Eleventh up for good. His head already ached, he didn’t need to deal with Tartaglia on top of it. “I destroyed them,” he said after a moment. “That’s all you need to know.”

Tartaglia hummed. “What’re you doing now?”

“Don’t you have something better to do?” he snapped, glaring at the other. 

“Are you trying to make more?”

He grit his teeth, setting down the core and standing. The room tipped dangerously, probably because he’d been sitting for so long. He hadn’t moved from his spot before the lab table since entering the room that morning. “That,” he said coldly, “is none of your business.”

“It was just a question,” Tartaglia said. “Brighten up a little, comrade!”

Dottore sneered. Tartaglia had the audacity to laugh a little as he got to his feet “Well, since I’m not wanted, I guess I’ll be going,” the Eleventh said sadly. “Your next clone should have swords for hands, by the way! I think it would be a great improvement.”

“Get out,” he hissed, pointing towards the door. “Do not come back.”

Tartaglia didn’t need telling twice, for once. Which was suspicious. 

Dottore rubbed his face, scowled, and then froze. His mask- he hadn’t been wearing his fucking mask. 

He turned back towards the table and swept some papers off of it as he searched for it hastily. 

Gone. Of course, just his fucking luck. 

Well, it couldn’t have just walked off on its own, which meant that the culprit was probably Tartaglia. 

Fucking Childe. 

Tartaglia whistled as he tossed the Doctor’s mask up into the air. He caught it easily, humming to himself as he walked down the hall towards the Regrator’s quarters. He very well could get killed for stealing the thing, but he loved living life on the edge. Besides, perhaps it was time to get over his irrational fear of being dissected and have a little match against the original Second. That’d be a great fight, wouldn’t it? Imagine all that he could learn!

Well, he’d have a fight against him another day. The guy had looked out of it- red in the face and hollow eyed. He’d never seen the original Doctor’s eyes before, but he was pretty sure they were not supposed to look so glassy. Tartaglia might have thought he was drunk had he not known that there was a cold going around. 

Which… was his fault, admittedly. No more whales , Pulcinella had told him sternly through a coughing fit a few days ago. 

He didn’t bother asking for permission before opening the door to Pantalone’s office. Before the other harbinger could snap at him, he lifted the mask, grinning. 

Pantalone froze, pen half raised. “Why do you have that?” he demanded, letting his hand fall back down to the desk. 

“Oh, this?” he asked, looking at it with mock surprise. “I just found it in the hallway and picked it up-”

He caught the knife that was thrown at him just before it could embed itself in his eye, chuckling. “Wow, none of you guys can take a joke! This is why people don’t like us, you know. Aside from the murdering and gnosis stealing-”

“Why do you have that?” Pantalone repeated. “Where’s the Doctor?”

“Um, not dead, if that’s what you’re insinuating. I won’t let him know that, by the way, he’d probably get pissed if he knew you thought I could defeat him. Anyways,” Tartaglia continued, throwing the mask onto the table, “you should go pay your fuck buddy a visit. He wasn’t looking so hot when I last saw him.”

Pantalone stood, picking up the mask carefully. “Where is he?” 

“I don’t know, probably still hiding in his lab,” Tartaglia said, sighing. “I don’t think he’d leave without that- it’s why I stole it in the first place. See, I’m a good person. I love everyone, even if they don’t like me.”

Pantalone scoffed. “I’ve been meaning to ask, why did you spend three hundred thousand mora at a restaurant in Liyue? On one meal?”

“I did it for love! And this is where I take my leave,” Tartaglia said. “Good luck, comrade!”

“ Good luck ?” he repeated. “Oh, no, you’re coming with me.”

“The fuck I am!” Tartaglia said, shaking his head. “He’s going to be so mad-”

“That is why you’re coming with me,” he said, grabbing Tartaglia by the arm and yanking him out the door. “I don’t even have a vision, do you think I’m going to go deal with that alone? I’m not about to lay in the grave you’ve dug!”

“Oh, come on now, he wouldn’t do anything to you ,” Tartaglia complained as he was dragged back the way he’d come. “Me, though? He’ll kill me! Do you really want my blood on your hands-”

“ You. ” 

Both harbingers startled violently, coming to a halt before the Second. 

He was half hunched over and clutching the wall for support, a bloodied scalpel held in a white knuckled grip in one hand. His bedraggled hair was wild and partially covered his red eyes, which seemed to be burning with fury. To add a finishing touch to the picture, his white jacket was splattered with red.

In the dim lighting of the hall, he looked like something Tartaglia’s mother would have come up with to keep him in bed at night.

“Hear me out,” Tartaglia said, snatching the mask off of Pantalone and tossing it towards Dottore. It landed on the ground with a clatter and Tartaglia quickly backed away, dragging Pantalone along with him. Of course, the hall was a dead end, so it wasn’t as though they were going to get far. “Whatever you’re thinking right now, it’s probably unwise! I was only looking out for you, my dearest comrade!”

“I’m going to fucking stab you,” Dottore snarled, waving the scalpel threateningly as he practically dragged himself forward. 

“Why are you cowering?” Pantalone demanded, stepping out from behind the protective arm Tartaglia had thrown around him and shoving Tartaglia forward roughly. “He’s sick, just grab the damn knife.”

“Oh,” Tartaglia said, blinking. “Right.”

Dottore snarled at him wordlessly when Tartaglia ran over and plucked the weapon from his shaking hands. He held the Doctor back with one arm as he tossed the scalpel with the other. It landed with a clatter in some dark corner of the hall, out of sight. 

“What do we do with him?” Tartaglia asked, frowning as Dottore smacked his arm. “This is a health hazard. He tried to stab me!”

“Let me go,” Dottore huffed, grabbing his arm and shoving at it. 

“I’m not even holding you, you’re leaning against me!” Tartaglia pointed out, pulling away. Dottore stumbled without the support and, with a scoff, he replaced his arm. “No, really, where?”

“Back to my office, I suppose,” Pantalone said carefully. “He wasn’t this bad this morning.”

“Well, the lab is ice cold, which couldn’t have helped, and I, uh, might have pissed him off a little,” Tartaglia said, offering the Ninth an apologetic smile. “Right! The office! Let’s go!”

“It’s fine,” Pantalone said, waving him off. “I can take him. Would you let someone know what’s happened? I’m not about to get blamed for ruining some project or another.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Tartaglia said, eagerly shoving Dottore into Pantalone’s arms. “I’ll let someone know. Try not to get stabbed!”

“I really am sorry,” Pantalone said, wincing as he pried Dottore’s fingers off his waist. “I didn’t know you’d actually get sick. I’ll be honest, I had assumed you were about as human as the rest of your segments were.”

Dottore grunted, seemingly calmed now that Tartaglia was nowhere to be found. “Where’s my mask?” he croaked, looking around Pantalone’s office as though he might have it hung up on a wall. 

“Here,” Pantalone said, lifting it up. “Perhaps you should leave it off, though, it is just me and you after all.”

“Give it to me,” he snapped, reaching for it. 

Pantalone let him have it; the Doctor basically tore it from his hands, so it wasn’t as though he’d have been able to keep it from him anyways. 

He didn’t put it back on, however, as Pantalone had assumed he would. He simply cradled it in his lap, looking down at it blankly. 

“I don’t know what I should do for you,” Pantalone said, leaning back against his desk as he stared down at the Doctor. He looked miserable and exhausted, though Pantalone was certain he’d slept through the entire night yesterday. Unfortunately, he felt a little guilty. This was because of him, wasn’t it? “Is there something I should give you? Do you want to lay down?”

“I’m fine,” Dottore said brusquely, shaking himself. He straightened and glared at Pantalone.  “I just need to be left the fuck alone.”

“Hm. Well, lucky for you, I need to get back to work, so I won’t be needing my bedroom. You can go rest and I’ll make sure no one bothers you in the meantime.”

“Fuck you, I am not laying in your bed again,” Dottore spat. 

“Mm? Why not? Oh, please don’t tell me you’re actually planning to go back to your lab. Tartaglia said it was freezing-”

“He’s a liar-”

“He’s many things,” Pantalone cut him off, “but a liar is not one of them. Now, what was it you love to say to people? Ah, yes. ‘ Scram .’” 

“I’m not going,” Dottore said stubbornly. “I have things that need doing .”

“Is this your way of asking me to carry you to my bed like you’re my bride? Truly, you could’ve just asked. No need to beat around the bush, Dottie dear, I’ll gladly oblige-”

“ Never call me that again,” Dottore snarled, leaning back in the chair as Pantalone crept closer, “and do not touch me.”

“Then be a good boy and go to bed before I take off my damn slipper and start whacking you with it.”

“ You wouldn’t dare- ”

“I would and I will. Now, go. My patience is running thin,” Pantalone said, picking up a stack of papers and scowling at them. “And take that damn harness off. How are you even breathing in that thing?”

“You’re such a nag,” he complained. “Didn’t you tell me once that you only wanted me in my-”

Pantalone set the papers back onto his desk and began to reach for his shoe. Dottore stood, finally, and with a sneer stumbled away. 

“I’m only doing this so you shut the fuck up!” he hissed before disappearing at last. 

“You love the sound of my voice!” he called, chuckling. 

A door was violently slammed closed, so he supposed that was the only confirmation he’d be getting that Dottore did, in fact, love the sound of his voice. 

He hadn’t denied it, after all. 

Despite the amount of money the Regrator had poured into his bedroom, there were no windows or secret doors that Dottore could find, which meant he was effectively trapped inside since the man himself was lurking just outside his prison. 

He had no doubts that Pantalone would actually beat him with his shoe if he tried to leave; he’d done so in the past, minus the leaving part. Honestly, if the Regrator got upset, the fight always seemed to circle back to his damned shoe. 

He sank down onto the bed, pressing his hands against his eyes. Now that Tartaglia was gone and his rage had dwindled into mild annoyance, the exhaustion that had been haunting him since… the incident seemed to be pressing in on him in full force. 

Dottore closed his eyes, letting his hands fall back down to the sheets. There wasn’t much he could do; in this state, he highly doubted he’d be able to deal with whoever the hell Tartaglia had decided to tell if he even managed to get past Pantalone and his stupid slipper in the first place. 

He’d just have to give the Regrator hell in the morning as revenge. Hopefully by then the damn world wouldn’t be out to get him and he’d be able to return to his lab and his work and his stupid segments that he couldn’t seem to get fucking right…

His segments… 

There were hands around his throat, a knee pressed against his chest as someone who was him but was not him leaned down to hiss in his ear, angry and furious and- 

“ Such an absurd decision you must be insane-”

“Foolish choice how could I have been so shortsighted in the end-”

He clawed at his throat, trying to free himself, but it was as though the figure above him was made of stone and not flesh and blood. The voice that was snarling in his ear was his own, but not, not anymore, it wasn’t his, it was theirs and they were angry. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t even see which one it was because gods, there were so many, all of them dead by his hand-

“Let’s hope you are worthy of such a choice-”

“Wait, no, not like this-”

He couldn’t breathe. They’d kill him, just like he’d killed them. They’d get their revenge, they’d promised him they would and they were him so he knew they’d keep their promise-

“This will not be the end, I will seek revenge-”

“You will regret this-”

He was going to die, he couldn’t fucking breathe- 

“Breathe, breathe , you rat bastard!”

Someone was shouting at him. There were hands hauling him up and slapping his back, voices bickering back and forth, but they weren’t his voices. They weren’t his hands and they weren’t on his throat, choking the life out of him. They were on his back and his chest, keeping him up, not pressing him down. 

He coughed violently, shuddering, and the voices finally quieted, which was good because it felt like his ears would start bleeding if they’d continued for another second. Someone wiped his face with what might’ve been a rag or a sleeve and it fucking stung- had someone dragged him across a plane of ice? What the fuck ?

“...alright?” someone asked. Uhg, he definitely knew that voice. 

He forced his eyes open, trying to blink away the bleariness as he took in the faces swimming before him. 

He must’ve sneered on instinct because Tartaglia rolled his eyes as his attention focused on him. “Glad to see you awake, comrade!” he said cheerfully, clapping his hands once. “I was worried we’d have another vacancy for a moment there!”

He definitely bared his teeth in reply to that , which only made Tartaglia snicker softly. “Looks like he’ll be fine,” he said. “I’ll let Pierro know.”

“I’ll go get some water,” Pulcinella said. “No fighting, you two,” he added, glancing between the remaining harbingers in the room. 

Pantalone scoffed. “I don’t know what he takes me for; some kind of animal?” he asked shakily. He nudged Dottore back down, shaking his head slightly as he watched the Rooster exit. 

For once, he didn’t bother putting up a fight and just let himself be guided. His chest and throat and eyes ached. Pantalone’s fault, he remembered belatedly, and forced himself to look up and glare properly at the other man.

The Regrator narrowed his eyes when he noticed his look. “You’ve just had what was probably the worst coughing fit I’ve ever seen and you’re already looking to cause trouble? Whatever you’re thinking, you’d better keep it to yourself. You’ve given me enough stress this week already.”

“Week?” he repeated dumbly. 

“Yes, a week ,” Pantalone hissed, reaching over to brush a few strands of hair away from his face gingerly. Dottore considered biting him, but decided it wasn’t worth the effort. Too tired and the hair had been annoying him. “I thought I’d actually killed you. Those two… idiots made it worse. Never ever accept any home remedies from them, ever . Useless bullshit.”

“What did you do to me?” he demanded. 

“ I ,” he corrected, “did nothing. Those two fed you all sorts of concoctions. Not so fun fact, you are allergic to ginger. Did you know that? We didn’t. We learned, though.” He chuckled almost hysterically, fiddling with his glasses. 

“You are all fucking morons,” Dottore rasped, closing his eyes. “Why the fuck didn’t you just call someone who actually knows what they’re fucking doing? Were you trying to kill me?”

“Pierro did call for someone. Eventually.”

Oh, great. “I love what ‘eventually’ implies.”

Pantalone snorted and the mattress dipped as he presumably sat down. An arm made its way around Dottore’s shoulders and he was tugged close to the Ninth’s side. “Are you alright?” he asked after a few moments, almost gently. 

“Do I fucking look like I’m alright?” he grumbled. “I feel like shit because of you.”

“I’ve been drowning in guilt for the past few days, believe me , I don’t need reminding that this is my fault.” He sighed and a hand crept up to brush his cheek. “You were crying.”

That startled him out of the doze he’d been sinking into. Damn the Regrator and his warm body. “No, I wasn’t,” he said immediately, banishing any idea of sleep from his mind. 

Pantalone hummed softly, still cupping his cheek. A thumb traced one of the scars on his face and he nearly cringed away from the gentle touch. “You were. Your face is raw from it.”

“Maybe it’s because someone gave me fucking ginger.”

“Maybe,” Pantalone conceded after a moment. 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he said when the silence seemed to drag on too long. “So drop it. Stop being nosy for once in your life.”

“I worry.”

“Well, don’t. I don’t need you to worry about me,” he snapped. “Just drop it, alright?”

Pantalone fell silent for an entire thirty seconds before he said, “You haven’t been sleeping.”

Dottore sat up abruptly. He ignored the dizziness and the way his vision seemed to darken in favor of leveling a sneer at Pantalone- or at least where he thought the other might be. “You’re not going to leave me the fuck alone, are you?”

The Ninth raised a brow, shrugging. His arm was still around Dottore, as heavy as an anchor. “I told you, I worry. What would I do without you? I’d be so lonely, darling~”

“You’re annoying. I don’t like you.”

Pantalone tugged him back against the pillows, humming softly. He’s nervous , Dottore noted. He only hummed when something was wrong. Fuck, what the hell had the past week been like that Pantalone had gotten all riled up like this? How many times had he had the same nightmare, only to not wake up for it? It’d probably looked horrific from an outsider’s perspective; he knew for a fact that he sometimes clawed himself in his sleep, trying to fend off imaginary attackers. 

“It’s the segments,” he said at last, refusing to look Pantalone in the eye as the words spilled from him. “They’re… I killed them. In exchange for the gnosis, I had them destroyed.”

“I figured,” Pantalone said carefully. “I hadn’t seen any of them running around.”

“It’s…. I don’t know. I can’t get rid of them, it’s like they’re haunting me. I keep expecting them to just be there and they’re not . It’s like I’m missing a limb. It’s wrong. It feels wrong. And then there’s… the dreams. Nightmares. Whatever the fuck you want to call them. I don’t know.”

Pantalone’s fingers tightened around his shoulder. “You can’t sleep because of this?”

“I can ,” he said stiffly. “Didn’t I just sleep for a fucking week?”

“Eh,” Pantalone hedged. “Fitfully.”

Dottore rubbed his neck, frowning. “Are you satisfied? Can I sleep now?”

Pantalone’s hand snaked around his wrist, gently pulling his hand away from his neck. “I want to help you.”

“You can’t help me. There’s nothing to help with. I brought this on myself. I made the deal and I’ll pay the price. …I’ll get over it eventually.” Pantalone didn’t reply, which he found made him vaguely uncomfortable. Seriously, the guy harps on him to spill and then doesn’t say a fucking word after. Who does that? He cleared his throat. He should really stop talking, it was only making the soreness worse. “Hey, where the fuck is my water?”

“I think that was an excuse to leave us alone,” Pantalone said, finally. “I do think they’re convinced we’ve eloped.”

“What the fuck-”

“I didn’t bother to correct them,” Pantalone said, sighing tiredly. “Too much of a hassle.”

Dottore stiffened. “You know, this is the reason why we try to kill each other every month. You and your stupid mouth.”

“Oh, aren’t you tired?” Pantalone asked. “Why don’t we just deal with that another time~”

“You’re the one who keeps talking.”

“And you keep replying,” he returned, his arm falling from his shoulder to curl around his waist. “I’ll stay here, don’t worry. I won’t leave.”

“I don’t need you to fucking hold me while I sleep,” he said. 

“Well, you might like it, who knows,” Pantalone said. “Now, stop arguing with me.”

“That only makes me want to argue with you more , you fucking-”

“Shh, you’re going to lose your voice entirely at this rate. Just go to sleep already.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Now you’re just being difficult-”

“No,” he said flatly. He found it was true- despite the exhaustion that was still settled over him like a dark cloud, he found that the idea of sleeping and coming face-to-face with his departed segments so soon was… frightening. He didn’t want to feel cold fingers wrapping around his throat again, especially not when there would be an audience on the other side. 

It was humiliating to know that the Regrator would be watching. There was no room for vulnerability between them, his silence had proved that even if their history hadn’t; their fragile relationship was not one of love. It was built on boredom and hatred and tolerability, not soft feelings and words of reassurance. 

Sure, they’d kissed and slept together once or twice, but lovers don't try to poison or stab each other. They don’t throw insults at each other constantly and they don’t think of ways to break the other while they lay in the same bed, under the same roof. They just don’t. 

They were not together, they never would be. 

“You’re going to pass out sooner or later,” Pantalone said, resting his head on top of Dottore’s. “I’ve kept you up long enough as it is.”

“I want to go,” he said, rolling onto his side and attempting to sit up again. “I should go.”

Pantalone’s arms restrained him, tight as they were around him. “Go where?” he asked. “You’re not in any shape to go anywhere.”

“I’m not tired.”

Pantalone’s breath tickled his ear as he said, “You’re lying and I know why.”

“Congratulations, genius, do you want a fucking cookie?” he demanded. 

“Depends on what kind,” Pantalone mused, pressing his face into Dottore’s shoulder. “You need to relax. I’ve already seen the worst of it, I’m not about to do anything to you now.”

Right, because whether he liked it or not, he’d been stuck in that place for a week. Still, that didn’t mean Pantalone needed to see it again. “I don’t care.”

“I do. Maybe I don’t like the idea of you crawling back down to your lab to suffer in silence. Did you ever consider that? That maybe I’d be a little concerned? Besides, you’ve already seen me at my worst and you’ve yet to use it against me.”

“I haven’t had the chance to yet,” he hissed, blinking. 

“Well, then maybe we can call it a truce. I won’t breathe a word of this and you won’t say anything about me. It sounds like a fair deal in my opinion.”

“It’s embarrassing ,” he said, his hand moving to cover Pantalone’s, which was splayed flat against his stomach. “I don’t want you to see that. It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid,” he replied patiently. “You essentially killed yourself, eight times over. I’d be more concerned if that didn’t have repercussions on your mental health.”

“Since when are you so fucking loving?” he asked bitterly. 

“Since I was startled out of reading my reports by the sound of a certain someone choking on their own fear,” he replied. “I spilled ink all over my desk because of you. It was awfully difficult to clean up. I’d say I’m invested now in ensuring that doesn’t happen again.”

“So that’s your motivation? Ensuring I don’t ruin another desk?”

Pantalone hummed. His thumb brushed away a few stray tears that he hadn’t even realized had escaped, the rough pad of his thumb skimming the sensitive skin. “Go to sleep,” he whispered. “I’m not leaving.”

He really couldn't deny him, could he? 

Dottore closed his eyes.