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“That habit of yours is infuriating as it is irrational,” is Pantalone’s welcome back into the waking world.
He expects to be on the cold operating table, and instead finds himself draped over Dottore like a yard of velvet, chin resting over one shoulder pad, knees bracketed around slim hips, chest to padded chest.
“Well, this is quite a reward for my infuriating habit,” Pantalone replies. He feels quite well; spry, one could say, for an older guy. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that was a pipe in your trousers. Or are you simply happy to see me?”
“Quiet.” Judging by the steady strides, Pantalone thinks this is 45 speaking to him. But his eyes remain closed; only the measured seconds of warmth on his eyelids tell him that they’re passing a row of windows. His glasses are not presently attached to his face. Hm.
“My, Doctor, out and about with me in public? Surely you would mind if someone saw us like this?” Pantalone cheerfully ignores most commands coming from 45, who hisses poison at every opportunity but dotes on him like a beloved upperclassman in private. Dottore doesn’t dignify him with a response. Between the two of them, like this, there is not enough dignity to go around. The last time Dottore carried him, he had been barely twenty years old and going glassy eyed over the mystery drug injected into his system — passed right out onto the pristine lab coat, creasing it in an unbecoming manner and smearing blood down the front.
Dottore waits until Pantalone starts feeling impatient to reply; it’s a nasty habit of 45, according to Pantalone, and an intriguing game of logical deduction according to the Segment himself. Apparently the cigarette smoke rattles Pantalone’s breath so hard that any slight variation becomes immediately apparent. Whatever that means. “I am simply providing much needed aid and medical treatment to a valued colleague. No shame in that.”
“How amusing,” Pantalone marvels, purposefully bearing down to see if he can influence the slow, patient plod down the hallway. He finds he can’t, and pouts to himself. That gets a reaction: a purr of a laugh rumbles from the Doctor’s chest into his own. “I trust the procedure went smoothly, as usual?”
“It’s not like you to care about the logistics of operations once you fork over the payment.”
“Call it idle curiosity, then. I do have some investment in this body of mine.”
“I will provide a copy of the post-operative report, then,” Dottore says.
“Wonderful,” Pantalone says.
“You will read it this time,” Dottore presses. “Or I start charging you paper fees.”
“Naturally.”
There is the thing about Zapolyarny Palace, the gleaming sunlight, and the silence of the snow: it’s easy to forget oneself, on a sunny afternoon, in the arms of a lover, moving slowly down the long, lonely hallways, past the orderly windowpanes. Pantalone adjusts the position of his arms, though he doesn’t need to, securely held as he is. Time rushes past them, stagnates around their ankles, stretches bright like a golden path before them.
“I expect you to be down to fifteen a day by month’s end,” Dottore says, pragmatically shattering the moment.
“I haven’t had one today,” Pantalone replies, even and pleasant.
“You will do no such thing today.”
“Thirty tomorrow, then,” he bargains, smiling at the grind of teeth against his ear.
“Die for all I care,” Dottore finally snaps, rounding a corner. He shifts Pantalone heavily to one side while he opens a door. They make it through the doorway. The door closes behind them.
Fresh floral scent hits Pantalone, a sweet and light rose scent, accompanied by a breeze that almost feels real. He cracks his eyes open and can barely make out the glossy lid of the piano, slanted elegantly to catch the light of day.
“What a pleasant surprise to find myself in my favorite room.”
Dottore eases him onto the chaise lounge. Pantalone, naturally, indulges his own baser desires to cling like a monkey to Dottore’s front. Dottore prises himself free and pulls out a glasses case from the front pocket of his trousers.
“Do not bother me unless you’re dying at a faster rate than normal,” he instructs. “I need time in my lab.”
“How cold,” Pantalone presses a hand to his heart. He can barely tell that he was cut open hours ago. Dottore is caring like that. “Your bedside manner is simply terrible, Zandik.”
“Save your complaints for Zandik, then,” Dottore snipes. “I bid you a pleasant evening.”
“Give him a kiss from me, at least.”
Dottore utters a sigh so long suffering that for a moment Pantalone feels like the doctor in the relationship. But then Dottore leans down, hair falling soft against Pantalone’s cheek, followed by the brush of silk covered fingertips, and allows Pantalone to deliver his compliments.