Mrs. Dottore

ocean tipped needles the size of blades halted in midair just before they could quite puncture or break skin, hovering dangerously close. if you breathed incorrectly, you were sure that crimson was sure to bloom beneath your clothing.

but the doctor was scrupulous. precise, even amidst the battlefield — where it called for combat prowess and not the clinical kind.

his expression was unreadable behind that crow-like mask, the one you’d only heard rumors about, and you couldn’t help but wish to see what those rubies were conveying underneath. was he angered? disappointed? satisfied? surprised that you were alive after all these years spent apart after his expulsion?

it was difficult for you to pinpoint. back at the akademiya, his face was on display for your eyes to observe at all times — watching the way his features pulled together so easily depending on the circumstances. he was.. incredibly expressive, from what you’d burned into your memory since his departure.

maybe that was why he hid it now, for no one to ever know what he was thinking — what he was expressing beneath the guise.

“..what is the meaning of this?” dottore cut through the silence — slowly, carefully, yet each word had come out more frigid than the last. an obvious distance between you both, and yet a yearning melancholy.

the traveler helped columbina back to her feet after a particularly harsh blow, the rest of their comrades following suit to their side just a few steps behind you. if the doctor had to guess, this farce looked more or less like a pathetic attempt at shielding themselves using his former partner as a wall of some kind.

it filled him with ire, and yet as he set his divine gaze upon your face — all that seemed to dull and dissipate into something quiet and almost in disbelief. you were still alive after all these years — even after he’d gone back to sumeru and found through his intelligence that you were no longer there.. you’d managed to live as long as he had.

doing what, he wasn’t sure — and part of him had desperately wanted to know how, given the lengths he had gone to exceed the expiration of most humans.. but that seemed to die on his tongue as he approached you with meticulous steps.

you always held firm when it came to him, never once intimidated by his presence. his village scorned him for his existence, either choosing to run away or at him with pitchforks and torches for his way of thinking, meanwhile his fellow alumni kept a safe distance, whispering among themselves when they thought he could not hear.

but you? archons, either you were a fool, naive, too kind for your own good, or all the above.

he admired your persistence, attempting to drill your way into his heart with the second lunch you always brought him ( because his was somehow always sullied one way or another- typically by students who simply wanted to make his day unbearable ) or through the bandages you’d conveniently kept on you to tend to some cuts and bruises that came not from experiments but from some daring hands or blades. whatever the reason, if anything ever went bad ( not that he really cared, it was mostly just an inconvenience ), you were always there to pick up the pieces even when he didn’t ask.

eventually he’d realized that nothing could push you away. even his unethical practices and hereditary mind were not enough to deter you, which only made him wonder how much longer you’d be able to stand him before fleeing or casting him out, too.

and when the day of his expulsion came, it was him that was forced to take his leave. because he knew you’d fight it, he left without a say. the akademiya was already holding him back enough from reaching his full potential, and although you made being there more bearable.. he did not belong there.

you deserved better, as well.

but did you?

“zandik..” you spoke his name quietly, like an ancient spell that very little could chant, as though lost in the winds of time. he’d long since forgone that name, associating it with someone weaker — more pathetic than his current self. a scholar with academic constraints.

zandik would never have created a god or become one himself. he paled in comparison to the person he now was, and yet, when you uttered that name so gently.. in the way that you called it so warmly back at the akademiya, or whispered it so tenderly during lectures — he found himself berating it less.

despite the audience, it mattered little to him that they knew his given name. as of this moment, you were here — in the flesh. and although you were intervening with his experiment, carefully crafted to take from the world what had never been granted to him.. he found trouble being put off by this occurrence.

if anything, he was more intrigued by this variable. he’d never considered the possibility of you intervening with his plans, and for that he had to pay respects to whoever managed to find or create this potential projection of you. no one had known about your importance to him, or even your existence — he made sure to never bring you up to his colleagues, and willed his mind to forget.

you had your own life, something that should not be thrown away or contaminated by your previous association to his existence. and if that meant never seeing you again, pushing down those memories of his- the only fond ones he would have of his youth.. then he was willing to make that sacrifice.

even now, when he might have had you back.

“you shouldn’t be here, if you even are here.” dottore said in lieu of greeting, waving away the needles just slightly away from potentially damaging your body — fresh out of the sweet memories he’d long since buried. just in different clothing — with the green akademiya robes long gone, and features that were slightly more matured. “for all the time you’d spent around me, you should know better than to interrupt my experiments.”

“and you should know that i always remained even as you sighed and rolled your eyes. the vacant seat was never there without reason.” you returned, challenging his integrity in the way that you would centuries ago. he was glad to find that you still had that spark in you — the one that dared to question his intelligence even though it was clear that he was the top student.

you never shied away, and he admired that you tried — that you even bothered to test yourself against him.

a soft chuckle left his lips. “the vacant seat was a default, my dear. have you forgotten that desks were coupled?”

“how could i?” you returned with an airiness, braving the trek towards him. “it meant i always had a seat guaranteed beside you.”

as your footsteps slowed just a few inches away from his much larger stature — far different than the feeble man you came to know at the akademiya — you allowed your hands to find the long locks that had spilled over his shoulder, humming thoughtfully to yourself. “you grew your hair out.”

“that’s what you notice?” he scoffed, though there was little bite behind his words, and he made no effort to stop your curious hands.

it made you smile a little, looking up at him with a longer hum this time as your brows knitted together. deeply concentrated, or at least- that was what you aimed to convey. “i think you got taller as well — late growth spurt?”

that earned you a click of the tongue, and despite the mask, you knew he was rolling those rubies underneath that crow-like mask.

some things never changed.

“very funny, dear. your observations never cease to leave me questioning how your scholarly career had persisted for as long as it had.” he parroted back, yet his hand reached to cup your cheek — cradling it as though it were an ancient artifact dug up from an era once lost to time.

which, in a way, it was.

and instead of pushing it away or recoiling, you leaned into it, placing your two hands over the back of his as your eyes fluttered shut. “my degree would say otherwise, i could show it to you sometime.” you offered sweetly, unbothered by the mild insult — but you knew to read between the lines, having dealt with his speech patterns time and time again. “though, that might be difficult with the way things seem to be playing out here.”

as though struck by reality, dottore found that behind you — there was still the traveler and their ragtag team along with his treacherous colleagues.

colleagues that eyed him skeptically, yet equally as fiercely. likely planning to turn him over to her majesty for his experiment.

pursing his lips together after looking between the group and yourself, dottore snapped his fingers with his free hand, space warping. the moon marrows might have been stolen back, but he still had the ability to wield the artificial one- albeit less stable now.

the familiar lab of the false moon institute greeted the two of you as he let his shoulders fall, exhaustion creeping up on him. leave it to the descender to sully his plans, but no matter. experiments could go either way, he knew that well. and while results are the end goal, he quite valued the process — certainly whenever outliers presented themselves like this.

“i meant what i said before.” the harbinger finally spoke again, running his thumb over the curve of your cheek. “you should not be here. it’s.. not possible.” he followed up quietly, still not quite believing that you had been there- in the flesh.

but you were.

moving closer, you reached up to peel off the mask that hid one of your favorite features of his, smiling at the softened, glistened hue of scarlet that greeted you. “you’d be correct on that,” you answered breezily, placing down the accessory on a desk scattered with his notes. “except for long living species. fae tend to live longer — or age slower, i suppose.”

that made his eyes widen. a fae? you’d never once mentioned that — or had you said it and he tuned it out with how engrossed he usually got with his studies?

either way, it made his breath hitch just enough for you to notice. “i never really got to tell you, did i?” you continued with a small laugh, though it lacked the mirth he remembered. “i was hoping to, but the day that i finally felt okay enough to tell you- you were suddenly gone. expelled.” you finished a little lower, though your words never wavered in clarity and confidence. “i just never said it because i didn’t want you to think less or more of me — i liked what we had, you made me feel.. normal.”

now that made him huff out a laugh of his own, seafoam locks bouncing with the shake of his head. “i could say the same, given my own reputation and how you still spoke or hung around me as though i were anyone else.” if you were worried about being abnormal, then what would that make him? alien?

saying that only seemed to make your smile stretch, however. “maybe that’s why i felt drawn to you. we shared something in common, although differing, but it brought us together.. and that still seems to hold now,” you continued, reaching up to hold his own cheek. “right, zandik?”

pink collected on his pale cheeks as his eyes fell to your hand and then back to your face before flitting elsewhere. without the mask, he felt.. naked, for lack of better wording — vulnerable.

and yet he couldn’t find a better person to share that with. consider yourself lucky, or unlucky. “a rather bold hypothesis with little grounds and a clear bias.” he remarked, returning his gaze to you. “but perhaps.. a welcome one.”

without constraint, he pulled your body into his- smaller against him because of the power he had partially inherited, but that didn’t stop you from squeezing back. centuries had gone by building up to the moment you would one day find him again.

and you weren’t going to be picky about a height difference of all things.

“you don’t know how many nights i’ve spent dreaming of this day, zandik.”

pressing his lips to the crown of your head, he basked in your familiar fragrance, reminiscent of the nation he could never called home. “as i have missed you deeply, my dear.”

notes. this is how the archon quest ended? right? like uh, y’know he didn’t kick the bucket and just tp-ed back to the lab with us, right? right..?

tysm for reading! consider leaving a tip if you enjoyed<3

His hands clench into fists in his lap, knuckles whitening with suppressed excitement. Was it foolish hope, or had you truly begun to believe his work on longevity might stand in defiance of Eleazar itself? Even so, you cautioned him gently, reminding him that the Akademiya’s six cardinal sins were not transgressions his supervisors would overlook: 

“You should've been my supervisor,” – he quickly interjected, arms crossed. “At least, a senior co-author. Are you truly certain you intend to leave after graduation?” 

Alas, your wistful smile confirmed you had already made that decision. 

Though Zandik inclined his head with due respect, the cast of his lowered gaze betrayed how bitterly he cursed fate once more. Had he only belonged to the same academic year as you, he might have shared so much more with you: his scholarly frustrations, sleepless research, the burdens of looming deadlines, and endless debate during field trips amongst the dunes of Deshret’s old kingdom. Lamentably, a young heretic like him could only covet an equal like you. 

You are far more intimidating than he expected. You sat there so calmly, pen moving across parchment like this is just another Tuesday. Yet when you stand back up, offering a gentle tap on his shoulder, Zandik’s face broke into an unfiltered smile he rarely wore in his scholarly career. It transforms his usually intense ruby eyes, rendering him to look exactly what he is – a mere young boy. 

“I'll take your words of encouragement at face value. Otherwise, I hope not all long-lived individuals such as yourself dispense polite encouragement to humor naive mortals?” “Maybe when I reach several centuries of age, Zandik. I am not that ancient yet.” 

When Zandik was 25, you watched him work tirelessly in Dar Al-Shifa’.

With a notebook in hand and chalk in the other, he scribbled tirelessly on the board in front of him. A crease formed on the bridge of his nose, right underneath his glasses. A white medical lab coat has replaced his once-pristine Akademiya uniform. 

"If I adjust the plasma conductivity here... no, this won’t do," – He mutters to himself as he scribbles furiously. Realizing he was far from alone in this room, he felt self-conscious of you watching him after hours again. A habit of yours lately, one he proudly memorized, even when your footsteps were soundless and your breathing undetected. "Oh! You're still here. Great, I will wrap it up to show you my progress."

You watch him fuss and mutter over cellular samples of the recent Eleazar patient. Simply resting your head on your palms, you remained seated by a medical table behind him. Any attempts to convince him that he was way overqualified for this run-down hospital remained futile.  

"If it keeps me afloat, then so be it. And it’s not like I can scavenge better opportunities elsewhere after my expulsion," – Zandik's shoulders tensed slightly, chalk dusting the fingertips of his gloves. "They're building a new wing for experimental treatments. More patients with Eleazar are coming in… This would be the perfect opportunity to experiment on the condition. What do you think?” 

You paid little heed to his pleas. Instead, you busied yourself checking the formulas written on the board here and there. Then, without warning, you turned to stare at him with such profound astonishment: 

“... You wear glasses now.” 

Zandik blinked at you. An embarrassing exhale escaped him, a sound halfway between frustration and affection. He abandoned the chalkboard entirely now, walking over to where you sit – "You're avoiding the topic again, aren’t you? I do not ask you out of whimsy, dear. I want to hear your opinion first and foremost. Always have." 

But both you and Zandik could already guess what you would utter. You knew these parts of rural desert villages. People here do not look kindly upon those who meddle with Eleazar, nor upon anyone who tampers with the ancient Khaenri’ahn machinery buried beneath the sands. To do so was akin to cursed omens. You shook your head: “Do something reckless, and they will exile you like Sumeru city did.”

The young man crossed his arms – “And is concealing your true age and origins from the villagers not equally reckless of you?”

Your eyes widened before your gaze drifted away in solemn silence. Indeed, neither of you was innocent, and the doctor sighed before leaning closer towards you.  

For seven years, since that golden afternoon at the Akademiya, through his exile, to your frequent visits to this remote hospital, the young doctor would gaze at you with an encumbered yearning. His desolation from Sumeru city was his burden alone, yet somehow, you’d return after him to ensure his well-being. Perhaps the shared disdain for the Akademiya’s taboos was what brought you to him as a senior, but to the young man, you were an image of everything he’d hoped to achieve. Was it immortality or change? His brilliant mind couldn’t grasp for an answer. 

"You think I care about exile?" he asked, voice low but intense. "They cast me out once already for pursuing forbidden knowledge. I was hoping that maybe after seven years, you'd see me as more than a puny junior. We can go together, it doesn’t matter where, even in the worst possible outcome. 

Silence followed. 

“... Eh? It's been seven years already?! Since when?!” 

You were helpless despite your seniority, Zandik concluded. 

When Zandik was 35, he proudly bore the title of the 2nd Fatui Harbinger before you. 

The luxurious Fatui facilities dwarfed the desert hospital; his excitement is ever maddening despite the decades. You, however, remained ageless and unchanged beside him. 

"You're looking at phase one of an artificial electrolyte solution," he said eagerly, gesturing to glowing vials on a lab table while you two toured his new laboratory. "Based on Khaenri'ahn bio-tech but adapted for human physiology. This allows for a better preservation of the segments I told you about."

He presented his first progress with confidence. Imitating ancient Khaenriahn alchemy as a framework for creating clones resembling him was a new idea, finally entering experimental phases rather than remaining theoretical. You, in the meantime, wandered the polished floors of his lab, a heavy Fatui coat draped over your shoulders as you read his notes on transferring embodied experiences and memories. 

“Mortality is nothing but a shackle, and for a segment it would be no burden,” – you remember he said. “Why would it be a shackle, Zandik? Immortality is more cursed when a person acquires it. After all, a human mind cannot comprehend so many centuries without any side effects.” “And would you consider your longevity a curse, then?” – He dared you, but you fell silent. 

He leans back against the lab counter, arms crossed as he studies your unchanged face. An eternity of familiarity in this world that keeps moving without you, while everyone you’d know and love would pass and fade away. 

"The segments would gather information from different times and different perspectives. Yet here I am at my height as a Harbinger, feeling more contempt than ever. None of it bears meaning if you're just going to outlive me by centuries."

Once more, you offered him that easy, distant smile: “You have much more to achieve than pursue me throughout centuries. You are a scholar after all, so I can only advise you so much as a senior. Besides, you now look more mature than I am. Had we remained at the Akademiya, most would mistake you for my senior instead.” 

Naturally, a scoff escaped him. Lately, you’ve been using quips about him looking older than you. He hovers close, hand cradles your jaw with careful, gloved hands as if cautious you’d vanish like a mirage in the desert he once fled from.

“If I'm to tear down and spite this decaying world,” – He whispered. “...I can't imagine wanting eternity with anyone but you. Be it through my own flesh or through my segments."

“What if multiple clones of you existed, which one of them would be the closest to the real Zandik?” 

He takes another step closer, close enough now that if either of you breathed deeply, your chests might brush: "Does it matter?”

Burdened with decades of unspoken admiration, the Harbinger leaned in to seal his lips with yours. And tragically for you two, you leaned in. 

Every time that young junior presented his work, he hoped for your approval. Every coffee break, he sat by your side but never touched. That night at the desert hospital, when it hit him that you'd never age like ordinary people, and never see him as an equal in mortal life, it became a condemnation to yearn for you more. It was his unspoken ‘I've loved you since forever’ – except for a mortal, his forever was merely decades, a minuscule blink of an eye for an immortal like you. Still here you were, hands clutching at his coat as you kissed him back. The Harbinger only pushed on with hunger to pour all his unspoken words against your lips, grasping your body flush against him even when pulled away in search of air.

“We shouldn’t, you know why,”

He knew. But his gaze hardened with pain of the expected rejection: “Do you regard me as a small blink in your life? Do not pity now, you of all people…”

“No, no,” – you shook your head, forehead pressing against his chest as your shoulder shook. “Don’t act as if I am an untouchable being incapable of understanding love. You know we shouldn’t because I-”

“Because you will outlive me, and it will break us both?”

Your eyes glistened at the thought. The Doctor only drew you closer, his head pressing to the crown of your hair.

“Or… you wish not to meddle with a heretic and let him grow old on his own?”

Thinking about it now, you should've smacked Zandik on the head more often for such words. Instead, you yielded, if only this once, to the desire between you, letting him lift you onto the table as he devoured your breath with a hunger shaped by years of discretion. Just this once, even if it meant your refusal would fracture yet another part of him. 

When Zandik was 80, you watched him create segments from various stages of his life. 

The lab grows ever more fervent with work and experiments. The various fragments of his own becoming have now meticulously embodied his personality and ticks from different thresholds of his life. Through it all, Zandik himself grew older. He may not have achieved immortality to stand beside you as an equal, but you chose to remain as an enduring friend. The day when he was 35, a Harbinger in his prime, you refused him. Not out of antipathy, it was a mutual decision you both agreed to. Would a heretic allow himself to wallow in his own longing till his elderly years? Each Dottore segment will give you a different answer.

Today, a familiar chorus of boisterous chatter spills into his lab. You had arrived for a visit. The youngest of the segments, the 8-year-old little Zandik, runs quickest to cling to your legs. The 18-year-old follows suit, already eager to show you his recent essay and research notes. Perhaps some things never change. “Easy, easy there! One at a time!” – you laugh, holding packed baklava confectionery away from 8’s grabby hands as you greet everyone with little treats from your travels. Even the 65-year-old segment cannot help but play the old charmer when greeting you with a bow of his masked head. 

Old man Zandik will have to reprimand his segments to respect your personal space. What a bunch of flocking children.

“You spoil the youngest too much,” – His voice rasped as he set a cup of coffee for you. Taking his seat opposite, he kept his cane in his grasp. “But I see you are eager to correct 18’s research notes. He says if he can’t get others to advise him, he’ll have you as his supervisor instead.”

You chuckled, a cup in hand.

“Ah, doesn’t it remind you of someone when they were a Trainee Dastur?”

Old man Zandik scoffed. Of course, they inherited his bodily experiences, perhaps even their adoration is part of him. Notably, you no longer looked as intimidating as you had when he remembered you from his youth. Poised as always, you sat ever the same, physically unchanged in posture and youth. Meanwhile, Zandik aged; his hair grew longer, and his skin wasn’t spotless. It’s basic biology; his reflection did not offend him.

“You know, I think you have changed,” – The Harbinger noted.

“...Me? Do we have matching wrinkles at last?!”

“Do not mock me now,” – he shook his begrudgingly, until his weary gaze settled deep into your eyes. “You look different. Your eyes look ever more distant. I assumed it was fatigue in your eyes at first, but you are not one to skip leisurely repose.”

You said nothing. Your gaze was indeed distant, despite the ever-gentle smile.

“Maybe you should get back to wearing glasses, then, because nothing in me has changed. Which, by the way, they looked good on you when you wore them at 25.”

“Hmph, my eyesight is perfect. At least you remember the years now. It’s unlike you.” 

The bickering between the senior and their junior resumed back and forth. Except that by this coffee table, it looked like an old man scolding an ignorant juvenile for being absentminded, while you chuckled and humored him over coffee. 

“Then in that regard, you haven't changed at all despite your years.” – your youthful hand came cradling his wrinkled one. “It's like I'm looking at the same 18-year-old I first met who sat across from me in the Akademiya library.”

The contrast was clear in your shared touch; his skin was now papery with prominent veins against your ageless one. Alas, you refuse to concede that your accumulation of decades had numbed you with inferential grief. He turned his palm upward to intertwine fingers with yours. For a moment, neither of you spoke.

“We didn’t meet at the Akademiya first.”

You blinked in confusion, “Eh? Yes, we did. You shared your outline papers and whatnot. That’s the first time I met you.”

The old man regarded you with a wistful smile, “Hm, are you certain? I recall it differently.” 

“Hey now, don’t pull my leg. We were both Akademiya students, though I was about to graduate when you were still a junior. I know that much for certain!”

“Ah, you are right, you are right. Never mind, perhaps my mind was just wandering.” – Zandik didn’t insist on the topic, softly deriving a different question quickly, "Will I see you tomorrow? The younger clones always ask when their senior advisor is coming by."

“Same time, as usual,” – You stood up. “I need to check on Feofan again since his corneal repair surgery. He seems to be faring well so far. But I will see you tomorrow.”

“Suit yourself.” 

With a quick peck to his temple, you scurried off without further words. His cup of coffee remained untouched till it cooled, while Zandik watched you silently depart. Once again, the heretic would rather let decades go by instead of confessing the unstated. He did not lie - he actually knew you before the Akademiya.

When Zandik was 8, you stumbled upon him as he ran away from a swarm of kids hurling rocks at him. You, of course, don’t remember it, for you never asked for his name then.

Tears blurred his vision when he ran. Scratches stung skin until little Zandik collided with your legs by accident. Fallen backward, he remembers lying there sniffling. With a stern bark, you reprimanded the street children and shooed them off. And why would you remember a fleeting encounter where you kneeled by a small kid, checking his scratches and mending him? The little child only stared at you with big ruby eyes that day, shakily explaining what happened.

When Zandik died on his 85th birthday, you didn’t come to visit. 

Her lips curved before she even looked up.

Pantalone stood just inside the doorway to his inner office, gloves already half-removed, dark eyes resting on her with that familiar, measured warmth. He always looked composed—effortlessly so—but there was something softer in his gaze when it landed on her.

“Good morning,” she said, trying—and failing—to keep the smile out of her voice.

He stepped closer, placing a hand lightly on the desk as he leaned in just enough to glance at the documents she’d organized. “You’ve already handled the Snezhnayan trade reports?”

“Filed, corrected, and flagged for review,” she replied, a little proud despite herself.

“Mm.” His approval was quiet, but it lingered. “I do wonder what I did to deserve such competence.”

Her cheeks warmed. “Probably underpaying me.”

A soft chuckle—low, amused.

“Careful,” he murmured, reaching for her hand. “You’ll make me think you’re dissatisfied.”

Before she could respond, he lifted her hand gently, brushing a brief, deliberate kiss across her knuckles.

It wasn’t rushed. It never was.

Her breath hitched anyway.

“Go do your paperwork,” she mumbled, trying to pull her hand back without looking as flustered as she felt.

His smile sharpened just slightly—pleased.

“As you wish.”

He disappeared into his office, leaving behind that faint, expensive scent and the lingering warmth of his touch. She exhaled, pressing her lips together, forcing herself to refocus on the work in front of her.

This was normal.

This was fine.

-----

The door didn’t so much open as it did slam.

She startled, looking up just as a tall figure strode in without hesitation, coat swaying behind him with sharp, impatient movements.

Il Dottore.

Even if she hadn’t recognized the mask, the presence alone would’ve given him away. There was something… off about the air around him. Too sharp. Too aware.

He didn’t stop walking until he reached her desk.

Then he did.

And just… looked at her.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

“…Can I help you?” she asked, trying not to shrink under the weight of that attention.

He tilted his head slightly, as if reassessing something.

“…You’re new,” he said.

“I’m not.”

“Mm. Then I simply haven’t been paying attention.” His tone suggested that was unusual—and now corrected.

Before she could respond, he leaned forward, bracing one hand against the desk, closing the distance between them in a way that felt intentional.

Too intentional.

“Tell me,” he continued, voice lowering just enough to feel private, “does he always hide such interesting things in plain sight, or are you a recent addition to his… collection?”

Her face heated instantly. “I’m his secretary.”

“How disappointing,” he said lightly—though nothing about his gaze suggested he meant it.

His eyes traced her expression, catching every flicker of reaction like data being recorded.

“Though,” he added, “I suppose that explains the efficiency. And the patience.”

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“To tolerate him this closely?” A faint, almost amused tilt to his voice. “You must be very skilled.”

She huffed despite herself. “He’s not that bad.”

“No?” Dottore leaned in just a fraction more. “You defend him.”

“I work for him.”

“And yet,” he murmured, “you blush.”

Her breath caught.

Oh.

Oh, he was—

“Th-that’s not—”

“Fascinating,” he interrupted softly, like he’d already drawn a conclusion. “You’re responsive. Honest, too, I think. Not particularly guarded.” A pause. “I like that.”

This was not normal.

This was very much not normal.

“You don’t even know me,” she said, trying to steady herself.

“I know enough.”

His hand lifted—not quite touching her, but close enough that she felt the ghost of it anyway, hovering near her cheek like he was considering it.

“And I could know more.”

The door behind him clicked open.

The shift in the room was immediate.

“…Doctor.”

Pantalone’s voice was smooth.

Controlled.

Too controlled.

Dottore didn’t move right away.

Then, slowly, he straightened, turning just enough to acknowledge the other man’s presence.

“If you’re here to linger,” Pantalone continued, stepping forward with measured ease, “I’ll have to start charging you for the use of my office.”

Dottore let out a quiet, humorless breath. “Charming as always.”

“And you,” Pantalone replied, gaze flicking briefly—briefly—to her flushed face before returning to Dottore, “are unusually early to be causing problems.”

“I’m here because you were requested.”

“How unfortunate for whoever made that request.”

Their tones were polite.

Their expressions—composed.

The air between them?

Not even remotely civil.

She sat there, caught between them, heart still racing from the abrupt shift—from warmth, to confusion, to something dangerously close to tension she didn’t fully understand.

Dottore’s attention shifted back to her for just a second too long.

Pantalone noticed.

Of course he did.

“…Was there something you needed,” Pantalone asked, voice tightening by a hair, “or have you taken to harassing my staff as a hobby?”

“Harassing?” Dottore echoed, almost amused. “Is that what you call conversation?”

“When it’s unwanted.”

“Was it?”

That question lingered.

Sharp. Intentional.

Pantalone’s gaze slid to her again—this time not soft, not indulgent.

Assessing.

Waiting.

“Doctor,” Pantalone said, a warning threading beneath the calm, “if you’re quite finished—”

“I’m not,” Dottore cut in smoothly. Then, almost lazily, he added, “But I suppose I can be. For now.”

For now.

That didn’t sound like an ending.

That sounded like a promise.

He pushed off the desk, straightening fully, though his attention lingered on her one last time—measured, interested, intent.

“We’ll speak again,” he said, like it was inevitable.

Then he turned, brushing past Pantalone without another word, the door closing behind him with a soft, final click.

Silence.

Heavy. Pressed.

She let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding.

“…Well,” she said weakly, trying to shake off the strange, lingering energy he’d left behind.

Pantalone didn’t respond immediately.

When she looked up, his expression had settled back into something composed—but his eyes were sharper now. Focused.

Calculating.

“…Did he make you uncomfortable?” he asked quietly.

She hesitated. “He was… intense.”

“I see.”

Another pause.

Then, softer—but not quite as gentle as before—

“I would prefer,” Pantalone said, “if you didn’t entertain him.”

Her brows knit. “I wasn’t—”

“I know,” he interrupted, though his gaze didn’t waver. “But he is not someone who engages without purpose.”

Neither are you, she almost said.

Instead, she nodded slowly. “Okay.”

His expression eased—just slightly.

“Good.”

But even as he turned back toward his office, something in the room had changed.

The routine was broken.

And somewhere in the back of her mind, she couldn’t shake the feeling that this—

whatever this was—

had only just started.

--------

The carriage ride had been smooth in that expensive, almost unnatural way only Snezhnayan transport could manage—no bumps, no noise, just the soft rhythm of wheels over frozen terrain and the quiet rustle of documents she had insisted on bringing.

She liked these trips more than she should have.

Away from the office, away from the endless stacks of reports, away from ink stains and inkier moods. Out here, she could actually breathe. And more importantly, she was useful in a way that felt tangible—checking ledgers, correcting figures on the move, keeping everything aligned while the carriage rocked gently forward.

Across from her sat Pantalone, as composed as ever. One leg crossed over the other, gloved hand resting lightly against his chin as he reviewed a document she had already marked twice.

“You’re frowning,” she said without looking up.

“I’m thinking,” he corrected.

“That sounds worse.”

That earned her a quiet exhale of amusement from him. His gaze lifted just slightly.

“You enjoy these excursions far too much,” he said.

“I enjoy not drowning in paperwork far too much,” she replied, flipping a page.

A pause.

Then, softer—almost indulgent:

“…I suppose I can allow it, if it keeps you smiling like that.”

She felt her ears warm instantly. “Just file your reports, sir.”

His lips curved faintly. “As you wish.”

----------

The camp should have been visible long before they arrived—but the moment the carriage slowed and the landscape opened up, it became clear something was already underway.

Crates. Equipment. Fatui soldiers moving with sharp efficiency.

And in the center of it all—

A figure directing it like he owned the entire operation.

Il Dottore.

She didn’t even get a chance to step fully down from the carriage before the air changed.

Pantalone did.

His posture didn’t shift much—but something in him tightened. Controlled, precise, immediate recognition.

“…Of course,” he murmured under his breath.

Dottore turned at the sound.

For a brief second, his expression was pure irritation.

“Panta—”

Then his eyes moved. And landed on her.

Everything in him stopped changing for a moment.

The irritation didn’t vanish so much as get overwritten.

“…Oh,” he said instead, voice lightening with interest. “Hello there.”

That was all it took for him to walk forward. No hesitation. No regard for Pantalone’s presence at all.

She had barely stepped down when Dottore was already in front of her.

Too close.

Her breath caught slightly as he tilted his head, studying her through that unsettling mask—like she was something newly discovered rather than someone already standing there.

“You’re here,” he said, as if that explained everything.

“I could say the same,” she managed carefully.

A faint hum. Amused.

“Mm. You could.”

He leaned in slightly, just enough to invade her space without technically crossing a line that anyone could easily call out. One gloved hand lifted—casual, deliberate—and caught a strand of her hair between his fingers.

She froze.

Dottore twirled it once.

Then again.

Slow, absent, like he was testing texture more than anything else.

“Do you want to know where you’ll be staying?” he asked.

Her brain short-circuited for half a second.

“…What?”

His tone didn’t change. “Your tent. Unless you prefer to wander the camp until something collapses on you.”

Behind him, the temperature dropped.

Pantalone’s voice cut in immediately—smooth, dangerous.

“Remove your hand.”

Dottore didn’t look back.

“I’m speaking.”

“She is not an object for you to examine.”

That finally earned Pantalone his attention.

Dottore tilted his head slightly, still holding her hair between his fingers as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

“And yet,” he said lightly, “she seems perfectly capable of objecting if she dislikes it.”

Her mouth opened—but nothing came out fast enough to matter.

Because Dottore, apparently deciding conversation was optional, shifted even closer to her again.

His hand slid from her hair—

down to her back.

Firm.

Guiding.

Possessive in a way that didn’t announce itself as such, but absolutely was.

She stiffened immediately.

“Doctor,” Pantalone said sharply.

Still calm.

But not patient anymore.

Dottore finally turned his head slightly toward him. “If you’re here to supervise, do it somewhere less obstructive.”

“I will not repeat myself.”

“Good,” Dottore replied. “I wasn’t planning on listening twice.”

And just like that—

he started walking.

Her.

With him.

As if the conversation had been resolved in his favor by default.

Her pulse spiked.

“W-wait—” she started, glancing back.

Pantalone was already moving.

Not after them.

But toward a cluster of Fatui soldiers lounging near supply crates like they had forgotten what discipline meant entirely.

His voice carried—still controlled, still composed—but edged now with something unmistakably sharp.

“You. And you. Do you find the concept of labor unfamiliar?”

One of them straightened immediately.

“Lord Pantalone, we were just—”

“I didn’t ask what you were doing,” he interrupted smoothly. “I asked whether you consider standing idle a hobby.”

They scrambled instantly.

Across the camp, Dottore paused only briefly, glancing over his shoulder at the scene.

A faint sound that might’ve been laughter—or something close to it—left him.

“Interesting,” he murmured.

She felt it more than heard it.

Because his hand was still at her back.

Still guiding her forward through the growing camp.

Tents rising. Voices calling. Order being imposed on chaos in two completely different ways at once.

And somehow—

she was the center of it.

“…You know,” Dottore said casually as they walked, “he gets louder when he’s irritated.”

“I’ve noticed,” she said faintly.

“Does it bother you?”

She hesitated.

That pause was answer enough.

Dottore’s grip shifted slightly—not tighter, not looser. Just… aware.

“I’ll take you to your tent,” he said. “Then I’ll decide whether he’s worth continuing this conversation over.”

“That’s not how this works,” she muttered.

“Everything works however I decide it does,” he replied simply.

Behind them, Pantalone’s voice rose again—another order snapped across the camp, sharper now, more controlled fury hidden under perfect diction.

And for the first time since she arrived, she realized something very clearly:

This wasn’t going to be a normal trip.

Not even close.

--------

Night had settled over the encampment like a heavy, deliberate curtain.

The kind of quiet that didn’t feel peaceful so much as temporary.

Her tent was small—modest compared to the others, clearly meant for practicality rather than comfort. Just enough space for a cot, a lantern, and her scattered thoughts. She lay on her back now, arms folded loosely over her stomach, eyes fixed on the faint opening at the top where the sky bled through.

Stars, scattered and cold.

Somewhere beyond the canvas walls, the camp was still alive. Firelight flickered. Voices moved in low murmurs. Guards rotated shifts. Supplies were still being moved, still being accounted for.

And somewhere on either side of her—

Two very different kinds of silence existed.

She exhaled slowly.

The day replayed itself in fragments she didn’t know how to organize.

It had started with movement—too much movement.

One hand guiding her here.

Another intercepting her there.

A conversation cut off mid-sentence because someone had decided she was needed elsewhere.

Not forceful.

Not openly aggressive.

Just… constant redirection.

Like she was the only fixed point in a battlefield nobody else acknowledged was happening.

Il Dottore had been the first to fully derail her sense of normalcy.

He didn’t ask for permission. He never really did.

One moment she was reviewing supply numbers, the next she was in a makeshift lab-tent, watching strange liquid swirl in glassware she didn’t have names for. It glowed softly—impossibly pretty shades of violet and blue.

“What does it do?” she had asked, leaning closer despite herself.

Dottore had been standing behind her.

Close.

Always close.

“It depends,” he said casually. “On what you want it to do.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only honest one.”

Then he’d tilted a vial slightly, and the smoke that rose from it hadn’t behaved like smoke at all. It had curled upward in slow, graceful spirals—like blooming flowers made of light.

Her breath had caught before she could stop it.

“Oh…”

A pause.

Then Dottore’s voice, quieter—observing.

“I thought you’d like that.”

She hadn’t looked at him right away.

She didn’t need to.

She could feel it—the way his attention had sharpened. Not just watching her reaction.

Recording it.

Studying it.

Like she was the most interesting variable in the entire experiment.

Pantalone’s version of chaos had been far more controlled.

Far more intentional.

Pantalone never needed to raise his voice to command a room.

He simply existed in it correctly.

She had stood beside him over a wide map laid across a folding table, markers indicating troop placements and supply routes. His gloved finger had traced a path along the parchment while he explained distribution schedules with calm precision.

“You’ll notice the eastern route is underutilized,” he had said. “That will change tomorrow.”

She leaned in slightly. “Because of rerouting?”

“Because of efficiency,” he corrected gently.

Of course.

Always efficiency.

Then, just as she had reached for a marked point on the map, his hand had come up—not to stop her—but to lightly adjust a strand of hair that had fallen forward.

Careful.

Almost absentminded.

Except it wasn’t.

Not with the way his eyes flicked up afterward.

Not with the way he looked past her.

Straight at Dottore across the camp.

Who had, predictably, been watching.

Pantalone’s palm had briefly rested at the crown of her head.

A soft, controlled gesture.

Patronizing if it came from anyone else.

From him, it felt like ownership dressed up as affection.

“I trust you understand the logistics now,” he had said to her.

“Yes,” she had managed, cheeks warm for reasons she didn’t want to unpack.

“Good,” he replied.

Then, quieter—almost indulgent:

“You’re learning quickly.”

And still looking at Dottore while he said it.

The worst part wasn’t even the touching.

It was the timing.

Every moment felt choreographed.

One would speak.

The other would interrupt—not loudly, not overtly—but precisely enough to redirect her attention.

A hand on her back guiding her a step away.

A comment that made her turn her head.

A gift placed into her hands before she could even finish processing the previous sentence.

At one point she had realized she had been moved between them three times in under ten minutes without ever actually walking anywhere on her own.

By the end of it, her face had stayed warm for so long she had stopped noticing.

Now, alone in her tent, it all replayed in uneven flashes.

Dottore’s gloved fingers briefly twisting a strand of her hair like it was nothing more than an idle thought.

Pantalone’s hand at her head—steady, calm, quietly possessive.

The contrast between them so sharp it almost felt unreal.

She turned slightly onto her side, exhaling.

“…What is happening,” she murmured to no one.

Outside, footsteps passed.

She couldn’t tell whose.

That was the problem.

Both of them were everywhere.

Not always visible.

But always there.

A presence at the edge of everything she did.

She stared up again at the slit of night sky.

Somewhere, beyond canvas and campfire light, two of the most dangerous men in Snezhnaya were actively pretending this was normal.

And worse—

they both looked at her like she was the only thing in the world worth noticing.

Her fingers tightened slightly against her sleeve.

“…This is going to get worse,” she whispered.

And outside her tent—

somewhere between order and obsession—

it already was.

---------------------