#lizardttore

Although he had never been fond of idleness in his life, he wouldn’t have found it hard to get used to this current state. After the past few days - even though he sorely missed his sterile laboratory and the blessed advantages of full agency - he finally didn’t have to scan the sky every thirty seconds, wondering when a starving Red Vulture would scoop him up. One quickly learns to appreciate the little things.

For instance, the sight of Pantalone’s shirt-clad shoulders and glossy black locks, especially when he wasn't lying sedated on his dissecting table, or listening with feigned arrogance to him campaigning for the funding of his latest project. Not that he had ever refused him over the past 400 years, but the bastard always played hard to get for a long time (he’d bet anything it was for his own twisted amusement) before signing the blank checks, leaving the amount empty.

Dottore - or rather, currently Zandik, the Sumeru "newt" - sprawled motionless atop a majestic purple silk pillow, his red irises focusing intently on the man lying beside him.

There was something infinitely satisfying about the way the sunset filtered through the slits of the tent canvas, catching the fine threads of the Banker’s tight silk shirt, tracing the firm yet elegant curve of his shoulders. His hair, now completely undone, tumbled softly against his neck, creating an almost palpable contrast with his pale skin.

‘A remarkably… flawless anatomical specimen,’ an utterly irrelevant observation crossed the Doctor’s mind. Now that he wasn't strictly acting as his physician, looking for flaws to pick at, he actually had to admit he couldn't find many negatives to list about his colleague’s physique (his internal organs were surely a different story, but fortunately, he could afford to argue about those later, back in his real body).

The symmetry of the shoulder girdle was satisfying, and the tone of the trapezius muscle was surprisingly well-developed considering that Mr. Banker’s lifestyle mostly consisted - despite his warnings - of sitting in padded armchairs all day, filing the promissory notes of exploited - ahem, partnered - nations. Surely, as a good Snezhnayan, he handled the desert heat much worse than he did, a born Sumeru citizen (who, conversely, always felt as if his very soul was freezing over in the north until he managed to modify his own heat dissipation with a complex, full-body skin treatment) - at least, the tiny beads of sweat lining the milk-white collarbone peeking out from the unbuttoned top of the black shirt bore witness to this...

They were practically inviting. Though he couldn’t figure out what exactly prompted it, and hadn't even noticed when it started, his tail, dangling over the side of the pillow, involuntarily began to make strange, undulating movements.

Hmm, a new instinctive reaction he hadn't experienced until now. Interesting...

He had tried to learn every little detail about his future anatomy before embarking on this project, but he had only glossed over the physical reactions of reptiles. After all, what kind of feelings could a lizard have that could significantly impact the experiment, other than being hungry or wanting to avoid being eaten?

Okay, excluding the mating instinct, but he saw no reason why Pantalone would trigger anything like that. That would be rather... hehehe, peculiar, given their professional history.

Yet his tiny, cool body was drawn to the man's visibly hot skin in a bizarre way, like a smooth, polished desert rock glowing under the midday sun. His wide mouth stretched even wider in irritation as he concluded that he definitely did not enjoy being an animal utterly devoid of self-control.

Just then, however, the peaceful silence was interrupted by a tense whispering from outside, followed by a nervous clearing of a throat, and then a formal yet strained male voice.

"Sir...? Lord Regrator? Agents Bortnikov and Vereshchagina request entry! If we may..."

Oh? Pantalone’s two meddling sidekicks could only mean one thing: splendid, ripe-for-eavesdropping inside information on the horizon!

Dottore watched the sudden flurry of activity with amusement:

"Lord Regrator" snapped upright from beside him in a fraction of a second. The pathetic, broken man from an hour ago, who looked like a toddler whose favorite toy had been snatched away, vanished as if he had never existed. In the blink of an eye, his face hardened into that ice-cold, infinitely arrogant, and superior expression the world always saw when he appeared at business meetings. 

With a single theatrical yet majestic motion, he snatched his heavy, fur-trimmed coat from the back of the chair, threw it over his shoulders, adjusted his silver-framed glasses, and only then granted permission to enter, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned nonchalantly against the edge of his desk.

‘What an actor,’ Dottore chuckled to himself, deftly burrowing beneath the richly embroidered satin blanket. Once he was sure no one could spot him, he crossed his front legs, ready to shamelessly harvest any secret, exploitable information - an art he had already mastered to perfection recently.

Bortnikov and Vereshchagina entered the tent with disciplined steps, accompanied by two other presumably low-ranking companions, and they all bowed deeply and respectfully before the Banker. Dottore instantly noticed how, mid-kowtow, their eyes lingered in shock on the ornate liquor bottles scattered around and the heaped-high ashtray, though none of them were brave enough to voice a comment aloud.

"Report," Pantalone snapped at them, snapping the small group out of their gawking. They all threw themselves into attention at their boss's voice, which was as smooth and majestic as if he weren't standing in a dusty tent in the middle of the desert, but at the very least in the throne room of the Zapolyarny Palace.

Bortnikov, who had spent the last few decades handling his colleague’s most dubious dealings, nervously cleared his throat. ‘Well, well, bad news?’ Dottore thought, thoroughly amused by the sight.

Usually, he was the one whose plans were constantly derailed by misfortune, while a fresh sack of Mora somehow always dropped right into Pantalone’s lap. Even if some god-tier talent managed to rob him, luck would manipulate the situation so that the thief lost a far more valuable treasure than what they stole. Well, such blissful scenarios never happened to him, which was starting to make him a bit resentful.

He was curious to see what could be so tragic that these four miscreants only dared venture in here with their tails between their legs.

"Our squads have completed the tier-three sweeping of the ruins," Bortnikov began his report, his voice noticeably dropping lower and lower. "We still haven’t found anything. No tracks, no... biological remains. It’s as if the Doctor... the earth swallowed him whole."

Dottore nearly burst out laughing. ‘Hehehe, Pantalone, you pathetic old man! What the hell do you even need my body for?’

The Banker’s face bore the news without a single muscle twitching, but his silver-ringed fingers tightened tensely around the hem of his coat.

"Keep searching," he said imperiously. "Until I give the order to pack up camp, leave no stone unturned."

"Sir, if I may..." the blonde woman named Vereshchagina stepped forward cautiously, cowering slightly under the Harbinger's gaze. "We must make a decision about our departure soon. The northern waters will close to transports within weeks, and... the Mayor has already sent a third official notice from Snezhnaya. The Rooster is explicitly furious; he writes that the Palace considers Il Dottore’s case officially closed, and you must return immediately to head the Northland Bank. The economy cannot halt for a dead-"

Pantalone shot her a look so piercing that the girl reflexively stepped back, the words catching in her throat.

"-a-a missing Harbinger, Sir."

Well, to be perfectly honest, despite their centuries of informal working relationship, he would never have believed that Mr. "Money Talks" would waste resources searching for his corpse. Considering that back in Signora’s case, his only input was that an empty-coffin funeral would suffice - after all, it makes no difference to the deceased anyway. Utterly pointless to scour Inazuma for mere ashes using Snezhnaya’s tax money.

By comparison, this dedication now was almost touching. Heh, at least someone appreciates my heroic deeds, Dottore smirked maliciously. Bravo, Feofan!

Oh, right. And Pulcinella can kiss my ass.

A suffocating, thick silence fell over the tent. Pantalone turned slowly toward the girl, and the glint in his eyes behind his glasses rooted all four agents to the spot.

"Inform the Mayor," Pantalone began, and though his voice was sweet as honey, it was simultaneously as sharp as a scalpel, "that smoothing over the diplomatic and economic aftershocks in Sumeru falls under my jurisdiction. At the same time, I am well aware of the impacts my absence has on liquidity. A small detachment will remain here to continue the search, while we ourselves shall set out for Snezhnograd tomorrow afternoon. Dismissed."

All four of them bowed in hurried relief and practically backed out of the tent.

The moment the canvas flap fell shut behind them, Regrator’s iconic presence vanished as if by magic.

Pantalone’s shoulders visibly slumped, like a support pillar being pulled out from under a tent. The majestic coat slid from his shoulders straight onto the ground, and he collapsed back into his gaudy velvet armchair - completely antithetical to Sumeru - with a single heavy thud.

Dottore watched with judgmental disdain as the man’s hand reached almost automatically, skipping the glass this time, straight for the entire ornate bottle of liquor.

‘You pathetic idiot,’ the Doctor thought resignedly, scurrying his four tiny legs down from the pillow. ‘If you drink yourself to death here, who on earth is going to take me back to my lab?!’

He carefully crept down the side of the floor-length bedspread, plopped onto his four legs, and scurried nimbly toward the desk. By now, Pantalone had already downed quite a few gulps of alcohol straight from the bottle and was staring ahead with an increasingly glazed look, sweeping his account books - usually held in such high esteem - off the table.

What is this nonsense? Flattering, but for pity's sake, it’s not like you couldn't find yourself another doctor! Okay... maybe the others are less brilliant, less open to questionable moral challenges, and obviously wouldn't be able to keep you alive, but in return, they'd surely be much cheaper and more patient!

The papers covered in fragrant ink scattered across the floor, but the Banker was visibly indifferent to the destruction. He rested his heavy head in his palm, his glasses slipping slightly sideways on his nose, the ornate silver chain hanging pathetically against his chest. He sat there like a mournful monument raised by his own hands.

Dottore stopped at the foot of the desk, tilting his tiny lizard head to size up the vertical obstacle. He never would have believed that a regular-sized desk would one day pose a challenge, but now he was forced to battle the ruthless laws of physics.

Sighing resignedly to himself, he hooked his tiny claws into the carved vines decorating the desk leg and, almost amused by his own absurdity, began to claw his way up. ‘If anyone from the Fatui saw me in this state, I'd have to perform a prefrontal lobotomy on the entire crew,’ he sighed internally, finally hoisting himself onto the polished mahogany surface by balancing with his long tail.

Dottore walked leisurely over to the man’s hand, but Pantalone didn’t even flinch, merely staring blankly into nothingness with glassy eyes.

The cool skin of the lizard body immediately felt the near-feverish heat radiating from the Banker, and instinct - that wretched, primitive, heat-source-craving reptilian instinct - kicked in once more.

Without even thinking about what he was doing, he firmly pressed his tiny, blue-scaled head against Pantalone’s wrist, right where the man’s pulse throbbed beneath the pale skin.

The Banker shuddered as the sudden cold stimulus visibly cut through the alcoholic fog. Slowly, heavily, he turned his head toward his arm, and from behind his askew glasses, his deep purple, tired eyes focused on the little creature.

"Zandik...?" he whispered hoarsely, and at the sound of the name, Dottore’s stomach did another flip. He wasn't exactly used to being addressed by his true name so intimately.

At the same time, Pantalone’s lips curved into a bitter, self-tormenting smile.

"You haven't left yet? Oh, no. Not you... Unlike that scoundrel who didn't even fully settle his debts."

‘Hah, you're seriously bringing that up right now?! Go ahead then, drink yourself into oblivion, and maybe find another doctor!’ Dottore stomped his front legs angrily and let out a soft, irritated hiss - but this didn't deter Pantalone; in fact, he seemed to quite like him for it.

The man slowly raised his other hand, took off his glasses, and dropped them onto the desk, then slipped his long fingers under the little lizard with incredible caution and lifted him up.

Against his own will, Dottore didn't resist; his minuscule nervous system completely short-circuited as the Banker enclosed him in his searingly warm palm and brought him closer to his face.

"You are so cold," Pantalone murmured, beginning to stroke the blue spike on top of the lizard’s head with his thumb in a gentle, almost hypnotic manner. "You will freeze to death in Snezhnaya if I take you with me. There are no dunes there, Zandik. Only ice, and too much silence."

Dottore completely froze as he realized this statement could yield rather poor results if Pantalone happened to sprout some sort of empathy and decided to leave him behind in his natural habitat instead.

However, he had a more pressing problem: his body began to tingle unusually under the warm fingers as the man caressed the horn on top of his head over and over again.

Dammit, the oculocardiac reflex! He hadn't expected to ever have an issue with this - after all, he hadn't planned on being petted (the very thought gave him the shivers) by a big purple idiot - but the moron was stimulating his exact reflex zone, and his body was slowly starting to slip into hibernation.

Yet, damn it all... it felt incredibly good. The lizard body stubbornly demanded the heat, so Dottore, abandoning every remaining shred of human dignity, nuzzled closer to the man’s thumb.

"You know, I don't particularly care for things that have more than two legs," Pantalone chuckled in a muffled, musing tone, though he didn't stop pampering the tiny creature snuggling against him for even a second.

Well, of course - seeing as Mora doesn’t have a single one, Dottore thought, and if he hadn’t been so neurologically anesthetized, he would have rolled his eyes demonstratively on the spot.

Pantalone looked at him thoughtfully with his purple irises, the corner of his mouth twitching barely perceptibly.

"... But you don't seem so bad."

And that is exactly the foundation of our relationship for nearly four hundred years, the Doctor acknowledged internally, letting out a satisfied puff of air. After all, who else could have tolerated the Banker's fussy nature for so long if not him? Naturally, the feeling was mutual, but he had absolutely no intention of stroking the banker's ego with that admission.

Pantalone, however, wouldn't let the matter rest. He leaned closer, his gaze suddenly narrowing suspiciously. That typical, focused expression settled on his face, the one that usually appeared whenever he hatched his darkest, most manipulative business ideas.

"By the way, I was thinking I might have named you too hastily, since I don't even know if you're female or male."

His tiny eyes snapped wide open at this highly suspicious statement. What exactly did he want, staring like that? And besides, did it even matter?!

That focused gaze boded nothing good, and he felt a sudden inner urge to escape as fast as possible.

...

Feofan... what the fuck are you up to, man?!

But it was too late. A second hand, covered in glittering rings and clad in a black silk glove, descended from above like a storm cloud ready to strike - he stood absolutely no chance against it.

The huge, warm hand lifted him gently but firmly, and with a single effortless motion, flipped him onto his back in his palm.

‘Are you seriously doing this right now...?!’ Dottore fumed internally, trying with all his might to get over this terribly humiliating, undignified situation. He was forced to lie there helplessly, legs sticking up in the air, while Pantalone inspected the area between his hind legs with such deadly seriousness, as if trying to appraise the authenticity of a sizable diamond. His eyebrows nearly met in the middle of his forehead.

"I think... you might be a girl, aren't you?" Pantalone finally concluded.

Right then and there, Dottore solemnly resolved that their next surgery - if it was even worth returning to this imbecile’s side - would be a radical brain transplant. He simply could not fathom how someone whose business acumen was otherworldly and whose knowledge of economic matters verged on pure genius could be so phenomenally stupid regarding the most basic biological aspects of living creatures! What the hell did he expect to see on a damned reptile anyway?!

"But perhaps you won't mind if we keep your name regardless," Pantalone continued, a soft, weary chuckle escaping his lips. "After all, He wasn't exactly so manly that it would bother him, right?"

Dottore's scaly body tensed. If that brain surgery ever came to pass, he'd better not forget to "accidentally" leave one of his rusty scalpels inside the frontal lobe! Not manly? Haha. Hahaha! Say that again, Regrator, when I impale you on my eight-inch-...!

His furious internal monologue, however, was suddenly cut short by a sharp shift in tone. The faint smile vanished from Pantalone’s face in a split second, replaced by a grief so deep and maskless that it caught even Dottore off guard. What is it now, you...?!

"You know, I still don't want to believe that I won't ever hear his voice again. That we can't argue anymore."

Huh?

With a bitter, self-tormenting expression, Pantalone carefully turned the little lizard back onto its belly, then lifted him with astonishing gentleness and rested him on his broad, silk-clad shoulder. Following the movement, the man reached almost mechanically toward his pocket for a new cigarette, but just as his fingers brushed the black metal case, his gaze flicked to the tiny blue creature resting on his shoulder.

The gesture froze mid-air.

Pantalone stared at the lizard for a moment, then let go of the cigarette with a soft sigh and withdrew his hand.

"After all this time, it somehow became natural for him to be by my side," he whispered, his voice sounding vulnerable now, completely stripped of any superior arrogance. He looked a bit... like his twenty-something self, before all the wealth in the world had completely consumed him, when he was just a young man asking for his help. "And now... I don't really see the point of it all."

A suffocating, heavy silence filled the tent. Dottore felt his cool skin hungrily absorbing the near-feverish warmth radiating from the man’s neck. His tail twitched again with a strange urge, but this time, his human consciousness grew quiet as well. There was no mockery in it, no cynicism. Just the pure, raw realization that this ice-cold economic genius - no matter how much he had tried to act in their final moments as if his decisions left him unbothered - was actually completely lost without him.

Pantalone slowly raised a finger and gently, almost apologetically, flicked the lizard’s tiny head.

"I only told you this, okay? Don't share it with your friends" he murmured with a faint, self-deprecating half-smile.

Then the Banker stood up from the chair and stepped toward the bed. With a single careless, weary motion, he unbuttoned a few more buttons on his silk shirt, leaving the upper curve of his chest completely bare. With incredible care, he lifted the little creature from his shoulder and - to the tiny lizard’s absolute astonishment - slipped Dottore underneath the fine, black fabric, right against his bare, scorching skin.

"The desert grows frigid at night; perhaps it’s best we keep you safe."

Dottore’s red eyes went wide in the darkness. The inside of the silk shirt pressed against his back, pinning him tightly against Pantalone’s chest, where the man’s heart beat fast and erratic. The scent of his skin, the blend of expensive perfume and alcohol, was near-suffocating to his sensitive olfactory organs, but the warmth... the warmth was perfect.

Pantalone lay down beneath the covers, placing his hand over his back through the shirt, as if drawing a living shield around him against the freezing air of the desert night.

He didn't understand. He had never seen Pantalone this... caring, never, with anyone. He had always been convinced that his colleague cared solely for money and power, for which he would ruthlessly destroy anyone and anything without a second thought. He had no idea that he was even capable of acting so gently toward a lowly creature like his current self.

Inside the dark silk prison, Dottore's muscles slowly relaxed completely, but his tiny heart beat so fiercely that he was on the verge of diagnosing himself with a heart attack. He listened to the Banker's breathing, submerged in the sultry heat beneath the shirt, and as his tail curled contentedly between Pantalone’s ribs, one last thought drifted through his mind:

‘Once we reach Snezhnaya, Feofan... it will be high time for a proper, honest talk.’

Notes:

Next Chapter Sneak Peek: “Zandik...? Haha, Zandik? ... Okay, I guess you really are a boy.” What...?! Blinking sleepily with lizard-heavy eyes, he looked up at the banker’s visibly amused face, only to be struck by the most embarrassing realization of his life.

Next chapter