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By the hot lick of flames almost too warm to stand, a chequered board proclaimed loss and victory. That was the third and final round of the night, and rather than complain as he would’ve years ago, Dottore settled into relief. He scoured the chess board for mindless pleasure, recalling the point where the knife drove home. The precise moment Pantalone had him snared.
How nice it was to be challenged, bested. To test wits and brain beyond the lab. How good it was to be confronted, insulted, even humiliated in meetings.
How wonderful indeed, thought Dottore, that avarice should take the form of someone so dear. Rival, companion and muse, the Regrator embodied all which he once despised, and subsequently came to adore. Pantalone likewise stared across the expanse of black and white. A feline content with its hunt.
“I concede,” Dottore announced, bowing as best he could whilst seated. “Let’s discuss the matter of your prize. Please, ask what you will, and within reason I shall provide.”
Pantalone hummed, focus turned to the fireplace, as if decisions could be found in the heat. Monetary prizes were useless, dull, a measly drop in the murky seas. Dottore treated him to a meal the night before, a good restaurant in the heart of the city, and as for rewards between the sheets... he could claim those easily, prize or not.
“Something physical. A token.” Dottore prompted. “I suppose I can part with slithers of organs. Or how about another timepiece for your room?”
No and no, said the prolonged silence.
“I want something else,” Pantalone replied, courteous enough to make eye contact. “Something in there.” He tapped his own head.
“You'd like a part of my brain?”
“I want a secret.”
Dottore’s tongue wet the top row of teeth. In the presence of fire they turned a deep gold. “You want things I’ve buried deep for my sake, and for others.”
“It is a prize of your choosing, and mine.” Pantalone bargained. “Tell me something trivial, or not, it’s up to you.”
“For what purpose?”
Pantalone remained poised, elegant. “I want to know you,” he said simply. “I have no interest in blackmail, and quite frankly you’re so devoid of shame that any attempts to trap you would fail.”
Alright, he got him there. Dottore riled up into a laugh. Palm slapped to knee with an almighty crack. “I fear you know me well enough, but I’ll agree on one condition."
“Go on.”
Dottore bided his time. Dangled suspense before pretty eyes. “You do the same for me.”
Lashes fluttered. A lovely sight. “You want my secrets too?” A pause to process. Rational mind overcame surprise. Pantalone brought a hand to his chin in contemplation, weighing the outcomes inside his head. “Very well. It’s only fair.”
“Regrator, must you wear clothes to bed?”
Such a pity it was, to see him disappear. Chipped porcelain, perfection to Dottore, hidden away as if in shame. Pantalone always said I get cold, and did so again that night. He slipped under the covers, his side of the bed. The other half reserved for Dottore. Over time it shaped to The Doctor’s form; the dip of hips and proud, broad shoulders. The product of wielding a hefty claymore.
Though the covers were cleaned (and often at that) Pantalone liked the lull just before a wash. The time when he could faintly smell the other man, close his eyes and pretend he was there.
“Is that your secret? Disappointment in my night clothes? I sincerely hope not, for your sake,” Pantalone warned, curling up to Dottore’s side. With glasses gone the threat appeared weaker, the Regrator—in the sweetest sense—became smaller. An arm looped to pull him near. He laid his head on Dottore’s bare chest, ear pricked to the low, steady pulse under skin—The Doctor’s clock of flesh and blood.
Calloused fingers worked through his scalp, easing tension brought on by the day. Round and round, a little dip to the nape. Dottore pried a stray curl of hair from beneath Pantalone’s eye, and tucked it behind his ear.
“No,” he replied eventually. “My secret... let’s see. Ah yes-” his chest dipped and bobbed with a laugh “-I once piloted a ruin golem in the desert.”
“And how did that go?”
Dottore let the memory flare into life. A colourful montage of his lesser-skilled self. “Badly,” he confessed. “Whichever way I steered the machine, the interiors tilted as well. About half a minute into the trial it became so intense that I had to stop. I promptly staggered out of the control unit, hit the floor and committed to the most violent act of emesis. Quite disgusting, and- Regrator, please.” Dottore felt a distinct quivering against his chest. Heard the paltry attempts of stifled laughter. He thought a few seconds silence would do the trick, give Pantalone a chance to recover his senses, but one look into bleary eyes snapped a thread in Pantalone’s mind. The splutters launched into a subconscious bark which even surprised the culprit behind it.
“Apologies. How rude of me!”
Pantalone wasn't sorry in the slightest. Though he was happy, open, unafraid to let go in the moment, and that had to count for something.
“I’ll let you off,” said Dottore, ruffling dark hair in petty revenge. “But only because I like your laugh.”
Secrets were their coin exchanged in shadowed hallways, or the privacy of the large, shared bed. Dottore once drank so much coffee he passed out in the streets, or perhaps it was laced, he couldn’t quite tell. For the sake of pride, he insisted the latter.
Dottore, in those same student years, sought revenge on his ‘superiors’ by adorning a book with illustrations. Hopefully, if fortune felt kind and the Akasha terminal drove mindless halfwits elsewhere, his artwork remained to that day.
He’d also pissed up a wall. Outside. Late at night. Another disgraceful venture from his much younger days. Dottore witnessed two people at it inside a giant tree hollow, and the rest of that tale...
“I’ll say no more.” Dottore grimaced, propped against the wall of the training grounds. “Though may I ask, dearest banker, how it is you’ve yet to lose a single one of our games? It’s me who keeps surrendering secrets, whilst you’ve become richer than ever before.”
Pantalone inspected the pistol in his hands. An ornate, lovely thing which his assistants had arranged as a gift. He caught the hint of an objection, readied the weapon.
“Win then, darling. It’s that simple.”
Dottore approached, barely making a sound. He became Pantalone’s shadow, their torsos flush. The cool kiss of metal tucked under his chin. Dottore swallowed around the pistol; wholly delighted, taken by the thrill. The winds gave the muzzle a bite. A cold turning colder, and then warm from his need. His pulse ran wild beneath skin, and his breaths emerged staggered, delirious.
“All this panting over a threat,” came the tease. A spectral finger down Dottore’s spine. Pantalone wouldn’t shoot, never could, but he’d paint the scene just to watch crimson glaze and bleed with desire. For the Second Harbinger to soften and yield. Gingerly, fingertips grazed his sides, finding home upon his waist. Parted lips were question, proposal and plea of which Pantalone welcomed against his own.
“I concede.” The pistol retired. Pantalone needed both hands to grab that face. To hold Dottore near and chase tongue and teeth; to steal what he could until lungs called stop.
“You mean to say that I won?” Dottore uttered, making sense of little besides greedy hands. Greedy mouth and the tug on his hair. “Regrator-”
Pantalone tipped his head, his chains followed suit. “I’ll tell you something,” he promised, gentle in his approach. Another kiss, chaste by all accounts, formed the prelude to his own revelation.
“You're my first and last.”
“Oh that’s...” Grin surfaced. Wavered. Fell flat. Realisation caught Dottore in a vice. “Hold on.” He exclaimed, near breathless. “I'm your what?”
“Il Dottore,” Upsilon announced, addressing their creator pacing up front. Three other segments were witness to his words, likewise gathered around the workbench. “There’s no two ways about this: you truly are a monster.”
Phi, agreeable Phi, pulled a face between gurning and wanting to be sick. “I can’t find flaw in that logic.”
“I find myself conflicted,” countered Rho, a segment born from those desperate, desert days. “We’ve murdered, plotted, tortured. Manipulated lives for our scientific gain. We know what we did to that Dastur-” he eyed each segment, lingering on Phi built around the same age “-and yet we draw the line at taking another Harbinger over the workbench?”
“This workbench?” Phi asked, intrigued.
“Does it matter?”
“It doesn’t matter.” Upsilon intervened, wrinkled nose speaking for itself. “The position lacked a certain level of decorum. A better option for the third or fourth encounter, I’d say.”
Lambda—older, wiser with it—set a leathery palm upon Rho’s shoulder. “Ignore them. Your point is acknowledged.”
That suited Rho fine. He dipped his head. “So, what next?” he asked.
“We’ve completely deviated from the point,” said Dottore. Just being near his segments aged him fiercely, each one a test of his thinning patience. He carded bare fingers through his hair once. Twice. Then again to a weary growl. Blue strands stuck to the sweat of his brow. He lacked the care to brush them away. “One of you,” he began, slow and steady, “must know the precise meaning behind ‘you're my first and last’.”
“There’s a lot of firsts in the world,” said Lambda. “I would presume, however, that the Regrator referred to intercourse.”
Phi wasn't so sure. “But there’s also kissing. You do kiss him, don’t you Dottore?”
“What do you take me for!?”
Upsilon looked to Rho, the latter armed with paper and pen. “He’s not a complete monster. Note that down. ‘Intercourse’ and ‘kissing’ underneath. I vote that Pantalone meant business partners, myself, but certain segments are hooked on carnal affairs.”
Dottore had half a mind to scrap the lot. What a perfect waste of parts and research hours, to be saddled with these infuriating, outspoken-!
No, no. His blame was misplaced.
They were him. All him. His fault. If they were rude, it was because he was rude. If they showed any remorse, well then, he’d be shocked. Something close to a soul existed in him after all.
“A question, if I may,” said Lambda.
Dottore waved a hand. Wordless confirmation.
Lambda regarded the permission by ways of a nod. “We can presume all we like about ‘first’, but ‘last’ evades us still. Have you asked the Regrator what he meant?”
“I can’t do that.”
“Whyever not?”
“Because.” Dottore perched on the workbench. His audience transfixed. If every segment listened (more or less) as good as these four, his temper might yet be improved. They could start taking on real staff, mortal staff, for there’d be no fear of him and a wayward scalpel.
“You are me,” he replied eventually. “You know our logic fails around that man, and he...” He left it there, pat the workbench and stood once more. “Forget it. Anyone for a drink?”
Pantalone, fresh out of the bath and wrapped in a wool robe, pattered barefoot to his bed. Upon the bedside table sat a glass once full, now host to the pitiful dregs of his wine.
Refill? Why not. But why yes? Pantalone engaged in a mental debate. He existed in a fond limbo; comfortable, disconnected. The extra push, the extra drink, unnecessary.
Wine glass retired. Plush covers turned down. Pantalone exposed the side no longer his own—willingly given to Dottore, whenever he should like to visit—and without thinking, he found himself sitting. The beginnings of a gasp rose up, pushed down. Pantalone shed alarm like old, dead skin.
It was his bed. Sort of. Probably. No, no, it definitely was! Pantalone knew it first, from the day he arrived, and yet- why then, he hesitated, did being there feel so...?
“Come now,” he scolded himself, patting at the mattress, feeling the dips. Another slip on the ice, a step away from sense. Dottore truly left his mark; an unseen brand on Pantalone, and physical traces upon his belongings.
Regrator, must you wear clothes to bed?
Pantalone would show him. Handsome bastard. Robe came off, bunched into a ball, and landed not far from the bed. Arms came round on instinct, spine curved—a pretty c—modesty took its hold when no bath was involved. Nudity struck different, not entirely pleasant. The quicker he acted, the better, really.
Glasses folded, click click, chains hissed. Silver looped and lay by the bedside lamp. Fabric ruffled, crinkled, he was gone. Cocooned in the warmth, the luxury, and the maddening pull of Dottore’s scent. Pantalone cursed yet thanked its presence, hiding his face against the covers.
‘Hopeless’ fit him well. Hopeless in the sense that he couldn’t walk away, dismissed years of warnings and even chased after that man.
Pantalone was hopeless in his quiet devotion, picturing what might have been if he’d just sent a letter, a brief come join me, Doctor, when sleep’s tender grasp entered the fold.
“My Lord.”
Pantalone grumbled. He huddled in the covers content, wishing to ignore the voice beyond his door.
“My Lord?”
He ought to tell his intruder where to go. A nice deep pit, or-
“My Lord!”
“I’m awake!” The shout tore from his too-dry throat. Pantalone found himself upright, not entirely sure of how or when it happened, with hair plastered to his face and- oh. He was naked. He’d forgotten all about that bold decision. “What is it?”
Silence. A delay.
At last, a gentle cough.
“I-It’s getting on a bit, sir. I tried to wake you sooner but-”
“What?”
“Forgive me!”
Glasses on. A fight with the chains. Pantalone would untangle his hair from them later. For now he needed a clock, easily found in his room, but what awaited him there was far from good news.
“Oh dear.” He paled. Throat bobbed.
Quarter to twelve. Still morning technically, but incredibly late nonetheless. If he squeezed his eyes tight, went back to bed, this incident might undo itself. The clock hands would reverse by at least five hours, and he would be up, fully dressed, good to go.
As it was, he found himself stumped. There was a phrase about such situations, talk about biting bullets which made his teeth ache. He grasped the meaning, decompressing with a sigh.
“Thank you.” He called out. “Dismissed.”
No matter how many times Dottore looked to his left, the chair remained empty. Ten minutes to go before Pierro’s lectures, the onslaught of monotone, boring updates.
Ten minutes and still no Regrator. Not a peep from his staff, or a note. Either something had happened to the bank—not impossible, given its reputation—or else Pantalone fancied playing truant, stopped for tea. Perhaps paperwork kept him chained to his desk.
What if treasure hoarders had invaded at night? No, the whole palace would know. Pantalone would’ve mounted their heads on the gates.
“What then...?” Leather tapped his chin. Black and blue. Formal gloves. No blood. “Whatever could it be?”
“Doctor?”
Dottore thanked the nature of his birdlike mask, for alarm only showed in the o of his mouth. “Capitano,” he replied, finding the man two spaces along. “Can I assist you?”
“I’m not so sure.” Capitano’s helmet tipped slightly, regarding the empty seat in between them. “I thought you might know the whereabouts of the Regrator.”
“I thought I would too.”
“Then you do not.”
“I... No.” Lips formed a line. Dottore glanced to his ‘peers’ about the room, some bearing hot drinks as they got settled for the meeting. Even Capitano had one, a cup of tea. Would he hurl it in his helmet and hope for the best?
“There’s something on your mind.”
Capitano wasn’t like the others. Never taken by the cheap pull of gossip.
Dottore wondered. Pondered. Contemplated.
It wouldn’t hurt to ask, would it...?
“Capitano.” Dottore announced, gazing into that formidable void. He imagined all manner of things in the darkness: the sharpest teeth, a great long tongue. Nothing human, for that would be boring. “Might you interpret something for me?”
A nod. “Proceed.”
Dottore tilted to lessen the gap. Capitano mirrored his stance. A whisper would suffice.
“You're my first and last.”
Wood creaked.
Capitano shifted. Up, up, a little more. Now Dottore longed to tear off that mask. To find whatever emotions stirred underneath.
“Doctor.” A pause to cough. “I believe I’ve been mistaken all these years.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dottore hissed. “I’m desirable to some. A few. Whoever can stomach my ‘monstrous’ ways.”
“Hence my pleasant surprise,” said Capitano. “However the part about ‘last’-”
“Doctor, Captain. Good morning.”
A cup came into sight. Dottore jumped. Terror and delight somehow harmonised, prompted by Pantalone’s appearance. Coffee waved by his nose, made just how he liked it, and came to rest beside his research papers.
"A 'thank you' will do, Doctor. I don't make drinks for others often."
“Good morning you- no.” It wasn’t morning. Dottore frowned. “Your sense of time escapes you, Regrator.”
“A rare sight, indeed.” said Capitano.
The observation landed, Pantalone stood still. A strangled laugh seeped from his half smile, and he set his own drink upon the table. “I don’t know what you mean.” Fingers fussed with his hair when he sat down. A single white feather came loose in the process. The faint crease on his cheek caught Dottore’s eye, reminding him of decent nights, sheets crumpled and warm.
Such lines marked his skin after a good sleep, and yes... Pantalone looked well rested. Somewhat ruffled, but that would make sense.
“You overslept.” Dottore husked on a lobe, turning skin a fetching pink.
No response came besides a weak glare, and the slightest, loveliest tremble. Pantalone failed to hold his guise for long.
“Drink your coffee, imbecile.”
“Will do.”
The thing about Dottore, the issue, really, was his ability to annoy whenever he pleased. In light of his discovery The Doctor pried off his mask, let crimson do the talking and taunting and tease. He followed that pretty profile, the hint of a snarl, the way fingers came to twist and pull at the ends of dark hair.
Pantalone did his best under his gaze. The meeting was lost on him, regardless. Pierro kept pacing and talking and moaning, never lost for something to discuss. There was the case of the courtyard stones, which started to shift once the snow became thin, or the bird shit upon the carriages. Next was the delivery of external notes (someone forgot the phrase ‘don’t shoot the messenger’) and the funeral of said misfortune. Pantalone hummed in response yes, we have the money. Compensation will be paid in full. Pierro asked of the service. Keep it plain, said Pulcinella.
Bored, Pantalone checked his rings, twisting and trying them on other fingers.
A slip of paper appeared under his nose. He took it quietly, checked for onlookers.
A brief message: Did I win this game?
Pantalone spared no disdain. Dottore’s smirk deflected the sting.
Another paper: You owe me a secret.
Pantalone scrunched the first note into a ball. The latter, however, he kept. Pen nib met paper, forever mindful of Pierro. Stop, start. Stop again. Always cautious.
The wait was agonising. Dottore couldn’t even peek when a hand cupped the note. Greedy hands snatched it up when ready, mindful not to smudge ink. Dottore prolonged victory until he looked down, read it once, three times. Then some more.
I slept naked in your half of the bed.
“Congratulations Doctor,” Pantalone declared, huddled in his cloak to fight the winds. The courtyard wasn’t too busy (unsurprising really, given the harsh dip in temperature) and it made the best spot for private conversation. “You nearly exposed us back there.”
“Pantalone, please.” Dottore stood his ground. “If anyone was exposed, it was you.”
Yes, Dottore might’ve shouted after that revelation, interrupted the meeting and annoyed Pierro, but it wasn’t his fault. Not at all! That crown went to the Regrator—cunning, lovely creature—for resorting to such pleasures in the quiet of his room.
Boot kicked up snow, some hit Pantalone. Pettiness pulled his hand like a string. Pantalone looked to the window just above his head, scooped snow from the ledge and hurled it forward, watching it scatter upon Dottore's mask.
“Oops. My hand slipped.”
“Just like your clothes.” Dottore quipped. "Fancy that."
Pantalone rolled his eyes. “Does it vex you so, what I do in my own bed?”
The scowl-turned-sulk appeared to say yes. Dottore refrained from kicking more snow. “I’ve spent so long trying to coax those robes from your fine body at night, but never have you obliged. Unless it's for sex or the bathtub, you refuse to bare your skin."
“So you’re vexed.”
“I demand visual compensation. A repeat show and-” a laugh interrupted that thought. Dottore waved a hand to dismiss his response. “Forget it. I can’t be too mad. Though I would like to see an encore.”
Pantalone neither accepted, nor refused, that request. A first, all things considered. “Did you bring me out here for anything else? Some more secrets to share, or a question, perhaps?”
The lack of immediate denial spoke volumes. Dottore cleared his throat, hands behind his back. “There is one matter, actually,” he said, “pertaining to the very first secret you gave me. I want to know what you meant, exactly, because I tried asking some segments and well-” he rambled on, unaware of Pantalone’s widened stare “-they are what they are, sometimes. Capitano also had no idea, which is why at last, I...”
Bad move. Stupid move. Dottore staggered forward, hauled in by his collar.
“You did what?”
“Mild oversight on my part. Apologies.”
“You told them my secret!” Pantalone exclaimed. Wonderful, even in rage. “Not just your segments, but another Harbinger? How ignorant can you be!?”
“I needed to know.”
“What for!?”
“Because you said I’m the last!” Dottore snapped. “You have a cursed obsession with time, which quite frankly I’ll never comprehend, and it... it worries me, honestly. How can ‘last’ be anything besides your name upon a headstone?”
The grip on his collar subsided, becoming a gentle hold.
“That... No.” Pantalone spoke soft. “Oh Dottore, for goodness sake, no! I’m not going anywhere! What I meant-” Tongue tripped, eyes wavered. He recovered with a shuddered breath. “What I tried—and failed—to express is that I... I only want you.”
“Pardon?”
Teeth chewed a lip. Pantalone tried again. “I only want you. Nobody else.”
That made a great deal of sense. Perfect sense, actually. Dottore winced in the wake of his own stupidity, dragging feet from the snow as if wading through tar. He took the hands from his collar to hold in his own, running a thumb across jewellery.
“I’ve made a terrible mistake. A poor assumption on my part.”
“It’s quite alright.”
“No it’s not,” Dottore insisted, “but I digress. I’ll dwell on that later. For now, you must know that I... I feel the same. Perish the thought I wind up saddled with somebody else, someone lacking in your wit, your penchant for threatening me in an erotic fashion and-”
“Dottore?”
“Mm?”
Lips brushed his cheek and stayed a while. Fingers came to squeeze his own. Pantalone tucked his head in the fur of Dottore’s cloak, breath tickling against his neck. “You’re rambling again, my love.”
“Ah. Indeed, I am.”
Dottore paid the interruption no mind, in fact he liked it. Liked them. Liked this.
He’d like it forever, he vowed silently, for he would find a way to laugh at death. He’d take Pantalone to a state beyond time; where the clock’s incessant ticking couldn’t mark the years, and shake him into a cold sweat at night.
Dottore would find that place, that bliss, and there they would live as partners eternally.