𝗃𝖺𝗒𝖽𝖾𝗇

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The door creaked open and Dottore stepped in with a delicate silver tray in hand. He set the tray on a table and scanned the room for your figure. In bed you laid, sleeping soundly,, a thick blanket covering you and keeping you warm. You slept a lot these past few days, especially when he wasn’t in the room. It was to be expected, the massive toll almost freezing to death had taken on your body (and some sedatives) keeping you exhausted.

He walked towards your bed, intending to rouse you from sleep by shaking you, but the sound of his heavy boots woke you before he was even halfway there. Your half-lidded eyes crinkle at the edges and your lips turn up in a smile at the sight of him. “Good morning,” you say.

He steps the rest of the way to you and sits on the bed by your side. “Pleasant dreams, my dear?”

You hum sadly, “I didn’t dream about anything.” Dreamless sleeps had been your standard these past couple weeks. If dreams were a window into the subconscious, then your subconscious had just as little memories as the rest of you. You stare past him, lost in thought about your empty mind. “I don’t have anything to dream about… I guess.”

Dottore nods thoughtfully. You hadn’t recovered a single memory since he found you, cold and on the brink of succumbing to hypothermia. He liked it that way, of course, a mysterious blank slate for him to etch as he pleased, but your inability to remember caused you lots of turmoil. He did his best to teach you that he was all you needed, but you couldn’t shake that feeling of emptiness. “For the best, I’m sure. Whatever chased you out into the snow like that isn’t worth remembering.”

You snap out of your thoughts and tune back into him. “You’re right.” You smile. Dottore had generously brought you in and sheltered you from the Snezhnayan wilderness and given you a place to stay until your ailments recovered. You owed him your very life. Upon the lack of success in resurfacing your memories, and your body healing so slowly, Dottore had- in his infinite graciousness- agreed to let you live with him indefinitely. You were so lucky to have been found by him and not some creep.

“Of course I’m right,” Dottore boasts, “you’d be lost without me.” He snickers to himself. “Are you ready for your vitamins?” he asks, retrieving the tray he had brought with him. On the tray was a glass of water and a small cup of various pills. Every day Dottore brought you medicine in attempts to treat the sicknesses that had infiltrated your body during the unknown amount of time you spent in the mountains alone. Sometimes, the pills looked completely different than the ones from the day before, or would leave devastating side effects that he would brush off as an allergy you had forgotten about- but you were in no position to be suspicious of your savior and always accepted them gratefully.

You slip the vitamins one by one into your mouth, and Dottore tilts the cup against your lips, guiding your head back and the cool water down your throat with the small pills mixed in. You looked at his face while he did this, but he did not meet your gaze. His eyes were trained on your lips as you swallowed the water. His expression was unreadable. He pulled the cup back when you were finished and discarded the tray.

You thank him, as grateful as ever, and ask about his day.

You knew precious little about his profession- You knew he may have been a scientist, or a doctor, or both. And you had an idea about the kind of stuff he did. He usually redirected any of your questions about the finer details of his experiments, refusing to elaborate on the odd stains on his gloves, or the scratches under his sleeves like he had been fighting, or even the reason for that odd mask. Though, sometimes, he would burst in and excitedly begin detailing a recent breakthrough he had made with a serum or something, but would refuse to indulge you on the finer details. You were too pretty to be worrying about chemical compounds, he would say, so there was no reason to explain exactly how he discovered a poison that can make blood solidify in the veins. Well, maybe he was just a chemist.

He started telling you about his detestable coworkers. That was always the first thing he had to complain about, his coworkers. Telling you how stupid they were, how they interfered with his private studying, other petty office drama. At first, you listened intently, nodding at certain intervals, but then he drifted his train of thought into the robots he had been interested in lately. How they worked down in their very circuits. You wished you could give him your full intention on such a topic, but you didn’t understand nearly enough, and your mind began to drift. Your eyes wandered to the window at the end of your bed, a window which looked out at a snowy field. It was a view you had grown quite accustomed to, it being your only view inside the small room- though you were glad all that snow was outside and you were far away from it.

It wasn’t as though you were trapped in the bedroom you’d woken up in, though. Dottore always locked the door behind him, yes, but only to keep out his nosy subordinates that would surely enter every room they could get into. He wanted your recovery to be undisturbed, how thoughtful!

Once you were up-and-at-em, Dottore promised he would take you on a small tour of his facility. Most of the rooms contained ‘confidential’ experiments and he would only be able to show you a few rooms, he claimed. You wanted to tour so very badly, but the prerequisite was your health getting better, and it was still very much compromised. Sometimes, you felt as though Dottore had brought you back from the brink of death, but not much farther.

His voice finds itself at the forefront of your mind again, “My love, are you listening?”

You turn your head over to him. “Sorry- what? I guess I’m not all there today.”

“I would say so,” he says with narrowed eyes, “Anyways, I have something for you. It should help you relax a little.” he says, uncovering a vial from his pocket.

“What is it?” you ask.

“It’s… a relaxant. Just trust me, alright?” He snakes a hand into your hair and gently pulls your head back, raising the vial of pink liquid against your lips in a familiar movement. The liquid pours into your mouth, it's sweet, almost grossly sweet, and it slides down your throat thickly. You swallow and pull your head away from the tube. You cough slightly and Dottore removes his nimble fingers from your hair, ogling you, waiting for a reaction. You stare back at him, trying to ignore the aftertaste of the liquid.

“Thank you, Dottore.” You aren’t exactly sure what you’re thanking him for, as nothing has happened yet, but you were sure whatever it was, it was in your best interest.

He lifts the thick blanket covering you up, revealing your bare legs and the hem of your nightgown. “Of course, my darling,” he says, “Only the best for you.” He puts a hand on your knee and leans forward, casting a shadow over your form. He eyed your face for any telltale signs that the drug had taken effect.

Yes, all the pieces had fallen into place, and he was certain that you had acclimated well enough to your new environment that he could take this step forward without you resisting. He had saved your life, and you were so grateful, weren’t you? All your needs were met, and it wasn’t like you had anywhere else to go, so you wouldn’t mind staying with him forever, would you?

He sees your cheeks darken with blush and knows it’s kicking in just right.

Your usually-cold skin feels hot, and you feel a light sweat slicking the back of your neck. The air feels suddenly thicker and your breath labors slightly to compensate. Dottore’s hand on your knee slowly taps upwards, he does a walking motion with his fingers up the sides of your thigh. Each time his fingertips make contact with your burning skin sends electric tingles up your spine that delight you. You lean back against the pillows of the bed, wanting- no, needing- more skin to skin contact with Dottore. He follows along, leaning forward until he’s practically straddling you. You reach up and attempt to cup his face, your warm hands starkly contrasting the cool porcelain of his mask. He undoes his bowtie, pulling it into a thin strip of fabric. In a bold move, you try to dip your fingers under the mask to peel it off. He removes your hand from his face by the wrist and uses the bow string to tie both of your wrists together over your head.

“Hands to yourself, my dear.” He lifts the hem of your gown to your waist and runs his hands up and down your hips, your torso, and your sides. Your foggy mind is overwhelmed by the gentle touches and your breath quickens even further.