cruciger | @unus_verus

@unus_verus_deus

𝑳𝒊𝒗𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒅𝒚𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐𝒈𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒉𝒂𝒔 𝒂 𝒘𝒂𝒚 𝒐𝒇 𝒃𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒘𝒐 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒊𝒆𝒔 𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒕𝒆 𝒄𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒚.

Stop projecting, Dottore. Perhaps I'll wait for you in your bedroom.

( He assumes he might still be at the lab, tinkering with some cocktail that might put Pantalone in some incapacitated situation as a way to have his revenge. Not life threatening but not pleasant, at least... That's what Pantalone would consider, if his nerves are grinded enough.

He smokes a good cigarette outside while walking his way to their wing of the palace, bringing in with him a soothing clad of nicotine before he stops to knock on his door. A simple courtesy to announce himself before he takes the liberty to walk inside, doing as he pleases. )

Dottore?

(Dottore looked at the message but didn't bother replying. He knows that Pantalone would find him if that's what he wanted to do. It wasn't like there were many places he would be at on his own outside of his lab or personal quarters.

He does not see the purpose of meeting face to face just so that they can have the same argument again in person. To him; it was a waste of his time and a trial of his already worn-thin patience.

In his coat pocket rested a scalpel and two filled syringes with their caps still on. A common thing for him. He was always armed with something; even within his own space.

He had poured himself a drink the moment he returned to his room. And he was still sitting at the table with a few sips remaining in his glass. The burn from the liquor was welcomed; but as usual, it did nothing to take the edge off of the day like it was known to do for "normal" people.

The knock at the door was enough to pull him from his thoughts; at least temporarily. He already knew who it was and knew that if he didn't answer; the other man would come in regardless as he'd always done.

He remained at the table. Taking in the last moment of the silence. Getting up or calling out from across the room would be pointless. )

( His eyes narrow slightly upon finding Dottore looking very incorrigible at the table, set in stone just like his convictions. Pantalone knows there's some part of him he can break into but he never truly knows how much of what he says makes it in. It's not like Dottore admits to wrongdoings.

He leaves the envelope with his reports on the table before going over to his bar so he can also help himself to some firewater. His condition seems stable, hardy despite the assault. The corner of his brow is bruised, as though the impact deliberately avoided catching his glasses.

Pantalone's tolerance of pain is high, though it's more of an adaptation rather than his nature. If he can't defeat the reality of his misfortune, then he must embrace it. The less people know, the better. He pulls a chair out so he can sit across from Dottore, leg crossed neatly despite the hidden, tenderized spots.

And he drinks with a perfect posture, like a wild animal engineered to conceal everything wrong with him. Silent minutes pass.

He slides over the envelope. )

Your signature, please.

(Two minutes and three words in and the tension in the room is already palpable, near-suffocating. They'd been here before in this vary scenario. Sometimes Dottore goes to Pantalone. Other times Pantalone comes to him. The same song and dance between them that seems to never end. The only variable is who takes the lead in that fated waltz of their own demise on that given day.

He drains the remainder of his glass and goes back to the bar to refill it. Not necessarily because he wants more. But doing anything other than acknowledging Pantalone was his current goal.
Or at least that's the sort of performance he decided to play out in the moment. In reality though; he had been analyzing him from the moment he opened the door. Though fully dressed in layers with no skin showing sans for his face; Dottore knew him well enough to at least surmise the severity of the damage based on his posture and movements.

He sat back down and took a sip of his drink. Outwardly paying no mind to the paperwork nor the man who brought it. When he spoke; his tone was clinical, rehearsed, and void of any sign of warmth or emotion.)

Did the "accident" affect your literary prowess? Or are you once again just choosing to feign ignorance in regards to everything that doesn't fit into your personal narrative? I already told you I am not signing off on anything.

( He takes extreme lengths to avoid missions abroad and has been successful for hundreds of years. A large part of this success is also partly credited to Dottore's cooperation. Pantalone might be the greatest pain in the ass for any doctor, and despite going against his word when he sees fit, he does follow the strict schedule for his elixir. He keeps reserves in the Northland Bank, the palace, and his personal residences to cover him depending on where he spends his nights.

Eyes closed, he follows Dottore's movements with a smile now. He's familiar with the waltz and when they trade off their turns to lead. They really consume each other's poisonous mannerisms, so much so that their resistance to them evolves into something just as dangerous. He can tell when Dottore is overperforming and lacing his so called logic with fallacies, traps that entangle any other individual.

He follows the sound of his footsteps back across the table, poised with both hands over his lap while the cold words seep into his bones. Nothing that is deterring, this is just Dottore any given Tuesday... The same clinical caliber as the day they met. )

Haha, oh, no. You misunderstand. You see, I'm not feigning anything. I am choosing to ignore your attempt to shift the blame onto me since I haven't done anything objectively wrong. Perhaps your judgment is the one being clouded, but don't worry. I can sit here all night.

(Dottore felt like he would yield better results if he was attempting to explain non-genetic-dependent molecular mutation to a toddler. They were both talking in circles and there are only so many ways to restate the same handful of comments before one's personal tolerance for the subject matter snaps completely. His patience left the building altogether around four snide remarks ago. He was done.)

The simple fact that you believe that you are of zero fault in this matter is precisely why I will not be further participating in this conversation. I have better options if wasting time is my goal.

(His half full glass remains abandoned on the table as he stands and pushes in his chair.)

That is the one thing you are right about at least. You can sit here all night. I could not care less. I am going to bed.

(He doesn't wait for further comment before turning on his heel and walking away from the table.)

( A soft laugh rumbles in his throat while he lifts his cup of firewater to drink a seemingly victorious sip. It's as though Pantalone had caught Dottore red handed, as if he could see the faults shatter just like that proverbial mirror. Perhaps that's why he doesn't seem worried, let alone phased.

In fact, he helps himself to his fireplace this time, adjusting the gas and throwing a few fresh logs. Frankly, he believes Dottore will probably benefit more in his room to stay alone with his thoughts. Better not corner the animal, or allow him to bait him to follow.

He grabs his drink and sits on the couch by the fireplace, sipping again, enjoying the warmth on his closed eyes. He speaks regardless of the separation. )

I needn't remind you that your initial complaint stemmed from me having lowered my "standards" and you framing this incident as me choosing some hooligan over you. So you see, this was never about me being at fault. I would truly appreciate you not patronizing me, either, it's quite disrespectful.

(Despite the incontrovertible tension that has been crescendoing between them; the atmosphere in the room was otherwise calm. Eerily so. There has been no yelling, screaming, or slamming doors. Dottore hasn't broken anything since leaving his lab either; miraculously. Most anyone on the outside would take those signs as being a good thing. But with the two of them; the cold, calculated answers and near-mechanical movements were indications that something more dangerous was seething just below the surface.

He stops right outside of his bedroom door. Because he wouldn't be Dottore if he didn't have to get the last word end during a fight.)

My initial statement stands. As do my other grievances in regards to this debacle. You've lowered your standards more than once during this situation. As if hiring an outsider wasn't egregious enough; you followed that up with stating that any of the segments would do. It doesn't matter who is doing what as long as you get what you want. It has never been a secret that you are self-centered. But now you're behaving no better than some common whore and frankly it's pathetic and depressing.

(He doesn't wait and give him a chance at a rebuttal before he disappears into his room; the door closing swiftly behind him.)

Of course you would lack basic understanding about the definition of a common whore.

( He says even after Dottore leaves to the other room. The development of this situation is quite unreal, and yet he can't help but feel his pulse of rage against his face, hotter than the flames dancing in front of him. Yet he remains there, collected while he drinks his firewater running the conversation in his head.

Minutes pass. Hours pass, and the he stays there even after the logs crumble into ashes. The sun is inching on the horizon, but the entire room is tinted blue with early dawn.

So, yes, he stayed the entire night, fueled by the spite Dottore has invoked and burning in the place of wood. Like that, he waits sitting on the couch still. It's not like Dottore can stay in his room forever. And even if he could, Pantalone can wait forever for him.

He could really use a cigarette, though. )

Did you sleep well, Dottore?

(He tended to the fireplace within his room. Though it did nothing to thaw the ice that had settled within his veins or cast out the glacial chill that had inhabited his suite.

He was tempted to go back to his lab. Perhaps find something or someone to unleash his indignation on. There aren't any experiments he needs to run currently. But it wouldn't be the first time that he has eviscerated or vivisected a test subject simply because he was capable. Anything sounded like a better idea than sitting alone with his thoughts all night.

The messages would not leave him be. He reread them all a dozen times or more. There were flaws in his statements. And though he never laid out the full truth; the entire conversation was discombobulated and tinged with emotions that he would never admit to having. It was mediocre work at best and knowing that was taunting him mercilessly.

There was of course more going on within his mind than what he had typed or spoken out-loud. But why should any of that matter? He laid out the facts even if it was far from being his most thorough and well-worded argument.

Sleep did not happen. He spent the night pacing and meticulously picking apart the conversation word by word. And yet he was still no closer with knowing how to handle any of it. Despite the holes in his logic and reasoning; he still believed that he is right.

He was unaware of how much time had passed until the curtains became framed in a subtle glow. The morning light trickled into his space no matter how much he abhorred it and tried to keep it out.

He never heard any doors open or close; so he assumed that Pantalone really did spend the night. How bothersome. If he was to be so lucky, maybe the other man was asleep. If that was the case; then he could slip out and head to the sanctuary that was his lab for some actual peace.

Of course he would never be favored by such odds. He barely had the door open before he heard him speak. He gritted his teeth; but moved forward regardless.)

I slept fine. I have work to do.

(He didn't. He doesn't. Yet he still began walking towards the door.)

( A few avenues are open for them to take and see the end of this argument, ones without winners or losers, some where both of them come out losers. None of which satisfies Pantalone's meticulousness or soothes the ire Dottore had awakened.

When Dottore emerges from the room, Pantalone also stands. This time, he has no choice but to follow him to the main door and slam his palm over it to prevent it from opening. Strength is not the trait he's trying to flaunt in front of someone like Dottore because they both know what the outcome would be.

His fingers are tight underneath those gloves, veins pumping over each articulation while he still maintains a sense of relative calm that prevents the room from imploding. )

I should have left an hour ago, so perhaps we should discuss things so we can both go on with our day. You might argue that there is nothing to discuss, but we both know you'd be wrong.

( That in itself should be a sign of worry. Dottore being wrong twice in a row, refuting things with weak ploys to manipulate and deflect. Pantalone at least grants him a sense of trust by pulling away the hand in hopes that he doesn't actually flee. )

My patience is riding on your honesty.

(Pantalone eclipses him in their impromptu race to the door. He stares at the hand in bewilderment and knows that nothing physical is actually stopping him from opening that door. He could leave; but at what cost? On no timeline will Dottore walk away from this fight as being the "winner". There are a few potential versions of the same scenario here and they all end with him having to further sacrifice either his credibility, his dignity, his pride, or some combination of at least those three.
The realization hurtles into him at full-force and he freezes dead in his tracks. He feels suffocated as the weight of reality engulfs him and drags him under. It plummets him to a depth where he will have no choice other than to crawl his way out.

In all of his years of existence; there have not been many people whom Dottore has viewed as being a worthy adversary or an equal to himself in any manner. The majority of humanity are of no interest or use to him for that reason.
With Pantalone however; they are intellectually matched. Their specific expertise lie in differing fields. But they are equally cunning, persuasive, and are both rooted in logic. When collaborating; they compliment one another's strengths and bridge the gaps created by their weaknesses. Whether they acknowledge if said weaknesses actually exist or not is another discussion entirely.

Defeating Pantalone in a physical fight does not appeal to him and he would view it as being more akin to just another chore to be done rather than an achievement to actually take pride in.)

Alright. We can talk.

(He strides the few remaining steps forward slowly; as to not appear like he is trying to leave. The two are facing one another and Dottore has his back leaning against the door. He raises his head as he speaks. Preferring to still keep eye contact even when his face is obstructed from view by his mask.)

What do you want me to say? What do you want to know?

(He is acutely aware that if he still had a pulse; he would feel it in his throat right now. It's such a human reaction and he despises the thought.)

( Even Pantalone remembers brief situations like these from the past. This might not be Zandik, but he is Zandik and the one he has chosen and will always choose. Unlike the original, challenging this one is only vaguely more difficult and frustrating. A hurdle that even the best silver tongue might struggle against.

Yet Pantalone meets him eye to eye, arms loosely closing as the cold begins to overtake the room again. )

I have a proposal that can make this go away.

( The way he still keeps his gaze on that mask could shatter it, even through the glaze of exhaustion and half-lidded eyes. The bruise on his eyebrow is still vibrant, skin prickled with busted vessels that had been on the verge of bleeding through. His hair covers it. )

I will apologize sincerely for where I believe I went wrong. In exchange, you admit to your faulty jealousy obscuring your capacity as my doctor and make it right by signing what I need.

( He steps closer, crowding the space against that door and peering at the beak of that mask with a smile. )

The other option is I go on that mission, with the condition that I take you with me.

(He was astutely aware that this conversation was going to be humbling in one manner or another. Being cognizant of that; he decided to do this on his terms.

Having the other crowding his personal space did not phase him. He reached up and slipped off his mask with little preamble. His face was gaunt; eyes appearing even more hollow than usual. Technically speaking; he does not require sleep in the same sense humans would. But prolonged periods of stress did tend to leave him looking tired.

It was visually apparent that neither of them had a pleasant or restful night.)

I will sign your forms. I don't need nor want an apology. I simply want you to understand my perspective because I believe that even now, you still do not.

You are correct in stating that my "jealousy" was faulty. I was not jealous in the sense that I had stated. I was furious that you seemed to not be prioritizing your own health, safety, and well-being, yet again. And I was also.. concerned. I would prefer you be unharmed completely. But if it was truly something that had to be done with no other way of going about the situation; then yes, I would rather it be by my own hands. At least then I could ensure that the minimal amount of damage was being inflicted in order to gain a plausible, believable outcome.

(His posture was relaxed. His face remained neutral. But his eyes were focused directly on him as he spoke.)

As your doctor; it would have been preposterous of me to blindly sign off on paperwork without seeing you myself.
And I was not willing to see you myself until I was assured that you actually understood what you did wrong.
But you revoked that option for me despite my disagreement.

(A foreshadowing smile of his own formed across his face as he side-stepped and circled around so that he was standing directly behind him. With hands settled firmly on his shoulders, he proceeded to turn the other and back him the few remaining steps that were separating him from the door.)

You will not be going on the mission. In fact, as your doctor, I am going to strongly suggest that you take the next few days off to recover under my direct care.

Though next time you are called upon for a mission; I will be accompanying you, yes.

(He takes the last step forward to close the gap between them while leaning in; his words are sharp, tone low, barely above a whisper.)

Am I clear?

Very well.

(An entire world could be spoken for the moment Dottore takes off that mask. Pantalone's ability to keep his emotions under lock is impressive. Sometimes it is his decision making which puts a whole wrench into this performance. Yet to witness Dottore in such a state could easily earn anyone a double take. He doesn't care to hide the way his brows crease while he studies his features. Even his ire is momentarily forgotten, left behind on that previous night.

Dottore's words bring him closure, and reasonable as Dottore is, he can't help but feel validated to earn what he asked for. His eyes close as he relents to that side of defeat. As he previously theorized, it wouldn't be something that either of them truly win here. Besides: )

I do concede that my plan's execution wasn't brilliant by design. The world of accidents is chaotic, so I chose the most chaotic, albeit dangerous route to get out of that summoning.

( It's not an apology, but the closest thing he can say to show him he understands. Pantalone doesn't move whenever Dottore shifts away from his gaze, but he turns his head to follow his voice. Just like the previous day, Pantalone's mannerisms use the least effort possible: he's still in pain. Yet, he doesn't even flinch when Dottore's hands mold over his shoulders. )

I still have work at the bank.

( His posture is elegant against the door, invincible, even. He never knows when to quit, and yet Dottore will see that he meets a familiar smile that contradicts his words. A whisper of his own greets him and the silence of morning. )

Of course I'm clear.

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