#timidghostbird

After another sigh, you opened the door and let a few snowflakes wander into the warmth of your workshop. The doorway seemed to split the world into two, one black and white, the other golden and colourful. The one that stood before you was someone you knew well already.

His blue locks were combed back, though the trek here certainly made a stray strand fall upon his forehead. His square glasses slid down his nose, sometimes making it harder to see how his red eyes danced from side to side ever so slightly. While the segments of Dottore were different in age, style and often attitude, nystagmus was something all of them shared. Some of them just hid it more than others.

“The outside blinds me,” the 25 year old segment said after a moment. Beta, he had been named. “Am I allowed in?”

Immediately, you stepped aside. His cold demeanour was familiar to you. Out of all of them, this one seemed to resemble a robot the most, competing even with Omega.

“It’s a long time since we’ve seen each other,” you greeted as you shut the door and watched him unbuckle his cloak. “Busy with work?”

“Naturally. I wouldn’t entertain myself with foolish affairs, unlike Omega,” he remarked with a hint of bitterness. Beta blinked, turning to her and adjusting his gloves. He was wearing a blue button up and a lighter, cyan tie. His outer lab coat was nowhere to be seen, which immediately made you suspect the reason for his visit.

“Omega? What has he been doing?”

Beta flicked his hand dismissively before pushing his glasses up with his index. “Whatever do you expect from him, apart from needless curiosity about outsiders and a superiority complex. I haven’t come here to gossip, madam.”

“Of course not.” You walked deeper into the workshop and let him follow. “I’ve noticed you aren’t wearing your usual lab coat. Is that the issue?”

“Yes. It tore. Kappa’s doing.”

A hint of a smile appeared on your face. You missed the eight year old version of the Doctor a lot. “Do you need me to mend it?”

“No. I’d prefer it if you made a new one, madam. I dislike imperfections.”

“Ah, complaining about the quality of my work, are you?” You said as your hands grazed over a roll of white cotton—it was usually Dottore’s preferred material. “That’s not very polite, sweetheart.”

Beta’s fingers curled around the folder he had procured from his coat, because of course he brought his work with him. “Not quite what I meant, madam. I will just know the tear was there, and that is enough to bother me.”

A laugh escaped you. You teasing was always in good will, yet you couldn’t help but enjoy the segments reactions. Some of them would get even more irritated, others would get stiff, and others would laugh. Omega, for example, always found it amusing when you said something witty in response to his arrogance.

“Mhm, sure. Come here, then. Would you like it loose?”

“No. The laboratory requires controlled amounts of material. Anything loose could accidentally catch a flame or get in the way.”

Your fingers wrapped around the measuring tape as you grabbed a spare notebook to note down everything you needed. As much as Beta liked to preach about nothing but efficiency and objectivity, all of Dottore’s versions enjoyed style. After all, it was you who designed the crow upon Omega’s shoulder and the intricate tailcoat Theta often wore (those two were as similar as twins, even though the logistics didn’t match up). You usually saw Beta with a surgical mask, but that was meant for the lab, and not your workshop. His hands were covered by long black gloves that almost reached his elbows, and nearly every inch of his white skin was covered. Perhaps that, along with the mask the others wore, was the reason some didn’t notice his albino features.

“Are you going to do that while I take measurements?” You asked as he flipped the report open. He nodded once, but raised his arms so you could work properly. “Even the others can put down their work when they’re here.”

“I’m not the others.”

“Naturally.”

She stayed long enough, lingering by the doorway enough to watch him roll his sleeves up, neatly enough that you'd think they paid him for it. He started going through her shelves, muttering something in Farsi, before she finally retreated to the comfort of her pillows. The sound of someone filling her kitchen with a voice and a presence was comforting. An empty house was meant to be lived in. The silence served no one.

And like that, she drifted off. Between the sizzle of a pan and the rustle of her own sheets, the woman fell into another haze, right until someone shook her away by the shoulder.

She opened her eyes a bit, a sound escaping her lips. It seemed pained, he noted as a crease gathered between his brows. "I made you something to eat."

He murmured her name again and she pushed herself up on one elbow. The ache was unbearable. It wasn't the sort of pain that came from injury, but one that followed no matter what position you took. He had taken off his glasses—they were now hanging from the collar of his shirt—and she faintly noticed the taped bridge.

"You're in pain, are you not?"

"Yeah," she admitted, sitting up slightly and attempting to run a hand through her hair. Her fingers were stiff, curling slightly, before she exhaled tiredly. "Usually I convince one of my coworkers to come by and crack my spine."

"The one that gifts you the poor romance books?"

"Yes."

"You are aware that it's considered a pseudoscience," he noted, tilting his head slightly. He had sat down on the bed, so close she could almost lean against him. "It's placebo. It does not actually relieve—" He cut himself off, before exhaling and closing his eyes for a second. "…Lay back down."

She sunk back into the sheets within an instant. The woman rolled over on her stomach, feeling him lean over so close his hip was against hers. With another sigh that he made sure she heard, Zandik placed his palms on either side of her spine. They were warm and careful, against all odds, like he could name every bone beneath her skin but faltered at the brush of tepid skin.

"Breathe in," he said lowly, feeling her body move as she did. "Good. Now out."

As soon as he felt her body relax beneath his fingers (a feeling that made his stomach turn in a way he wouldn't acknowledge), Zandik pressed downwards at an angle, his shoulders tensing, until he heard a crack. She let out a sigh of relief while he restrained a shudder.

"You know, you could have mentioned it," he pointed out idly. His hands seemed to have a mind of their own, almost, kneading the muscle before he could stop himself. It got a soft inhale out of her, her stiff fingers curling into the pillow, but she didn't complain. "I have completed medical studies. Neuroscience is just a specialization."

"Mm," she answered, more drowsy the more his hands worked along her back. "Dancing, neuroscience, masseuse… truly an array of skill set you could put to use someday, Doctor."

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