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The Regrator was not one for slacking off.
Anyone in the Northland Bank and beyond would be able to speak of his work ethic, his high standards, and his surprisingly short fuse. A man of his status did not get there just by sitting on his ass and messing around all day. The man was always on the move, moving from the Fatui Headquarters on the Zapolyarny complex to the Northland Bank in Snezhnaya, making sure every cog in the machine was spinning perfectly.
His days weren’t always so hectic, though. Other days, it’s meetings in the Palace with other Harbingers, or catching up on paperwork. It wasn’t uncommon for Pantalone to be seen skipping meals on days with particularly heavy stacks of paperwork he refused to delegate. But Pantalone was always punctual, and always professional.
Which made today odd.
“Where is the Regrator?” Dottore asked as he sauntered into the meeting room, scanning the room. Pantalone was never less than 8 minutes early to meetings, and Dottore was slinking in a minute late. He pretended to not notice the scowl and smirk from the Marionette and Fair Lady respectively at his inquiry. Whatever those witches gossip about was none of his business.
“I am afraid he will not be joining us,” Pulcinella mused, adjusting the papers in his hands- Really, is there a need to reorganize those blasted papers a third time? “He is not feeling well, but his notes were dutifully delivered.”
“Maybe one of the rest of us will get to talk, for a chance,” The Knave growled, crossing her arms.
Dottore frowned, eyes flashed with worry behind his mask. Pantalone didn’t just ditch his obligates for not “feeling well.” He’d seen the man nearly give himself bladder infections, refusing to get out of his desk chair to take a piss until his work was done. Hell, he’d noticed almost imperceptible tics of distress during meetings, a clear sign that the Regrator was forcing through pain. If he was unwell enough to skip a meeting…
He was almost completely silent through their meeting. It wasn’t like he had anything of importance to offer to the conversation of a diplomatic mission to Mondstadt. After his younger segment made a mess of everything, he was grounded from diplomatic envoy. Of course, the notes that Pantalone had sent to participate in the discussion from “the other side” were meticulous, but without argument. Sandrone left the meeting in a clear mood, pissed off to no end by talks of budgets and logistics. He couldn’t say he didn’t understand; having your genius stopped by budget is quite irritating.
His mind was surprisingly blank as he sauntered through the hallways up to Pantalone’s office, med bag from his lab over his shoulder. Sure, he worried, but he had entered professional doctor mode. He was prepared for just about anything past that door.
“Ah, Lord Dottore!” Dmitri’s small frame blocked the door to Pantalone’s office, a polite smile on his face. He had clearly been given orders to not let guests in. “I apologize for the inconvenience, but Master Pantalone isn’t seeing any-”
“Enough of that,” Dottore’s commanding voice echoed down the hall, “I’m not coming as a business partner, I’m coming as a doctor.” He easily towered over Dmitri, his regalia adding to his intimidating frame. Seeing Dmitri go pale, he softened just a bit. “I heard our dear Regrator was feeling unwell. I wish to relieve him of whatever ails him.”
“Ah- uh-” Dmitri stammered, eyes flitting about as if an answer lay in the carpet. Dottore wasn’t sure how long their standoff lasted, simply standing and staring, but eventually, Dmitri relented. As he stepped out of the way, his voice lowered.
“Master Pantalone would ask you not judge the state he’s in,” He nearly muttered.
“I would never, Dmitri,” Dottore replied, sickeningly sweet, “Who do you take me for?”
+++++
Light. Too light. Turn the light off. Can’t see. Crushing. Crushing, my skull is crushing. My eyes- my eyes will burst. Something is crushing my eyes. Eating my eyes, stabbing my ears. My head is being hammered. My skull.
Trembling hands cradled the shaking head laying down on his desk.
Neck. My neck. Stabbing my neck. Impaled. I’m impaled. It’s in my eye. I’m being crushed. Stabbed. Stabbing. Drowning. Ringing in my ears. Spots in my vision.
The office chair creaked under his frantic rocking. His breath shuddered as his hand pounded his desk, a sad attempt to not bash his own skull. As if that would help. Silent tears rolled down his face. The room swimmed. He reeks of vomit, already having purged from such intense pain.
Stop. Stop. Make it stop. I’m scared it hurts make it stop make it stop make it STOP-
+++++
Pantalone was so far gone, He didn’t even notice Dottore slowly entering the dim room. The tall, ornate curtains were drawn tightly, almost no light entering through the windows. All the light stemmed from a single desk lap, light flickering on his desk.
Dottore balked. Oh, he looked terrible. And the putrid smell of sick filled the air. He wrinkled his nose; His suspicion was right.
“Regrator?”
No response. He stepped a little closer, putting a hand on the desk.
“Regrator,” Dottore repeated, voice low, “Come on, I know you’re in there.” He got a whimper in response, followed by the body curling up even tighter.
“Can you explain what’s happening?”
Incoherent babbling followed, what could barely be categorized as speech. It sounded more like a toddler crying over ice cream than a well-respected Harbinger.
Light sensitive, incoherent speech, incredible pain, body language centered around the head…
“Do you have a migraine?”
A choked sob, and a pathetic nod. If it were anyone else being so outwardly pitiful, Dottore would be disgusted. Maybe even kick them in the stomach to make them cry harder. Push on their abdomen with his boot until they piss themselves and cry. But… this is Pantalone. And, unfortunately, hearing him like this caused a tug in his chest, a tightness in his throat.
“Hey, hey, it’s alright,” He rushed to Pantalone’s side, kneeling next to his office chair. “I brought some medicine for you.”
Pantalone’s head tilted a little in his direction, a single violet, glassy eye peeking at him. His glasses were abandoned, Dottore noted. He pulled out a syringe; a strong anti-inflammatory, and a steroid. He’d consider pills if Pantalone hadn’t already struggled with nausea. Pantalone gasped as soon as he saw them, scrambling back awkwardly and slamming into a cabinet behind his desk. Dottore grumbled, stepping on the brake on his chair.
“Quit it, you oaf,” He spat, “You’re going to knock over your precious porcelain.” Seriously, why was he being so difficult?
“Please-” Pantalone pleaded, his head thrashing and surely worsening the pain, “No needles- I can’t-”
Dottore huffed and grabbed a fistful of Pantalone’s hair, holding him still. Pantalone’s thighs quivered, pressing together, but Dottore didn’t pay it any mind.
“Unfortunately, my dear Regrator, you must.” His voice was low, commanding. He felt a sting of guilt when he spotted a tear run down the man’s face. He loosens his hand. “This will make you feel better. What can I do to make this easier?”
No response but more babbling. He grabs Pantalone’s hair again.
“Regrator, I’ll need access to your vein in your elbow. Roll down your glove.” Pantalone balked, trying to flee. His hand tightened. “I’ve already seen them, Regrator. Did you forget? It’s alright. I will not look longer than I need to.” Pantalone groaned, reaching with one hand and scooting the glove down on the other. Dottore was glad to see the scarring didn’t interfere with his veins. His hand loosened.
“You’re doing well,” He nearly whispered in the quiet room, poking around for a good vein. Once he found one, he readied the syringe, but not before more babbling from Pantalone broke the silence.
“Ah- waitwaitwait- I’m not ready,” He whispered frantically, chest heaving with quick breaths. Dottore rolled his eyes behind his mask.
“A man of your caliber, afraid of a simple needle,” He remarked, grinning up at Pantalone. The other frowned, his eyes narrowing. “Alright, alright, I'm simply joking.”
“Can you at least count me down?” Pantalone asked. “...Please?” Dottore grinned, a flash of heat burning in his stomach. Suddenly, a stupid, shameless idea flashed in his mind.
“Good. Yes, of course I can.” As he situated Pantalone’s arm, he reminded himself he should not go through with his plan. It would surely end in a hard slap to the face… but that too, was enticing.
“One, two…”
Before he could think, he pressed the syringe into his arm and lifted up to brush their lips together. It was horribly clunky, and awkward, and his beaklike mask got in the way, and even still, fireworks lit up in his mind. His mechanical heart whirred in his chest as he pulled back, pulling the syringe out and bandaging him up.
“Three.”
The expression on Pantalone’s face was indescribable. Eyes wider than Dottore had ever seen them, mouth slightly open. His chest was heaving.
“Regrator,” Dottore warned, “I would hope that you’d tell me if I hurt you.” His tone was wholly serious. Pantalone blinked, shaking out of it a little.
“No, I… I am alright.”
“Are you sure? You’re quite flushed.”
“I said I’m alright,” Pantalone insisted, standing quickly. Instantly, he doubled over, and Dottore shot up to catch him.
“You fucking idiot,” Dottore spat, “What did you expect?” Pantalone groaned in response, pushing against him, but Dottore held firm. “Ah ah, dear Regrator. Those medicines will make you drowsy. I think we should get our dear banker to bed.” Pantalone fought a bit, but eventually relented, allowing Dottore to guide him into his bedroom.
His bedroom, much like the rest of his office, was ornate and gorgeous, with a massive fireplace carved out of stone and a large bed with the finest of silk sheets. It was a far cry from the full-size mattress and one blanket shoved against the wall Dottore calls a “bed.” He set Pantalone down on the side of the bed.
“Can I get you anything else?”
“No.” Pantalone’s response was quick as he kicked off his shoes and turned over away from Dottore. “I would like some alone time.”
A pit instantly crawled its way into Dottore’s stomach. Well, great. Now Pantalone is mad at him, and he crossed a line, and his one genuinely close friendship in this life might be ruined forever. He nods, backing up out of the door.
“Feel better, Regrator.”
He closed the door gently, gathering up the med bag and slinking his way down to his lab. He felt lucky he had new subjects to take his frustration out on.
Back in Pantalone’s bedroom, as the medication swam through his system, a hand found its way shoved in his pants, quiet panting and soft moans the only sounds in the room. As his body tensed, and his underwear got ruined, he realized he was well and truly screwed.
He was in love with that damn Doctor.