Chapter Text
Pantalone scoffs as the new expense report flits it’s way upon her desk. Donning her reading glasses, she has to make sure she’s reading the numbers right. Surely, there must’ve been a mistake along the way. There’s no way the Eleventh would use such funds, the bank’s funds, for paltry things. Every expense is filed neatly on the sheet, cemented in big, bold letters. Stating what was bought, where, and the quantity of such. Many expensive dinners paired with luxurious goods and ornate gifts. It was clearly not filed by the Eleventh himself, but a worker at the bank, surveying over expense reports.
It brings a scowl to Pantalone’s face. She has warned the Harbinger of using the funds that didn’t belong to him on numerous occasions. It’s such a hassle to deal with, as well. All that money, wasted on such useless trivialities. The process of transferring someone’s account funds directly to the banks, especially with such a large number, is annoying to do. She plucks the glasses from her face and pinches the bridge of her nose.
Looks like she would have to have a little chat with their Youngest.
But…
As it turns out, The Eleventh can be a slippery bastard when he wants to be. Pantalone can tell he is carrying a guilty conscience, or is at least aware of his outrageous spending by the way he avoids anything to do with the Ninth. Asking the other Harbingers where their youngest is hiding proves not to be fruitful, as even they don’t know. When Pantalone had asked Pulcinella in particular, a grave look passed across his face and he spoke of Tartaglia’s fragile heart being shattered. It would’ve made sense, all those gifts and dinners did imply he had been spending his time with someone, but Pantalone merely shrugged it off.
Pantalone strides through the halls of Zapolyarny Palace, her heels clicking and echoing off the towering walls. Tartaglia would yet to evade her again, that much she could promise to him. He has to be reminded of the promise he had made to Pantalone and the very promise he coincidentally broke.
Just as she is coming up on Tartaglia’s room, the oak door swings open. A head of fiery red hair steps out onto the tile floor, takes one glance at the Ninth standing there, and immediately rushes back into his room. Pantalone quickly blocks the door with her hand, causing a grunt from the Eleventh as he still tries to close the door. With ease, Pantalone overpowers Tartaglia’s hold for the door and steps inside the room. The look Tartaglia has on his face--the sheer guilt and was that a hint of terror she spotted?-- was priceless and the sadistic side of the Ninth boiled and brewed dangerously.
“You and I, my dear, are bound for a chat, don’t you agree?”
Tartaglia’s brow furrows and a scowl etches across his features as he pops a hip. He crosses his arms defiantly. “About what?” He says, tone carrying a certain snarkiness that Pantalone was having no part with.
“Don’t pull the innocent, clueless act with me, Tartaglia, subtlety doesn’t suit you well. Do you want to hear of my surprise when a little sheaf of paper crossed it’s path with my desk, telling of thousands upon thousands of mora spent on your little mission? Or, should I call it a vacation, from the way you were blowing through the bank’s funds like it was nothing.”
Tartaglia’s adams apple bobs as he swallows down his anxiety. “Well, it’s not like you don’t have enough as is. I saw it was necessary for the mission, so I used it. I don’t see the fault there.”
“Oh, don’t pull that card with me, little one,” Pantalone sneers, her lip drawing back into a vicious snarl. “We had an agreement, one that you seemed to disregard entirely. I do remember me mentioning there being certain stipulations should you break the contract.”
Tartaglia rolls his eyes with a sigh. Pantalone drinks in how his abyssal, dead eyes lock onto her with such vibrant hatred. His lips purse at the word ‘contract’ as if he hadn't heard enough of that word already (and the betrayals that followed it, now forever burned into his mind.)
“Well, what? Are you gonna tattle on me like in grade school?” Tartaglia taunts.
Pantalone’s eyes darken as a sinister smile plays across her face. “Oh, no, my dear. I will give you two choices, and that’s me being generous. You see, you’ve really drawn my patience thin, but I’ll give you some leniency, seeing as how I’m nice.”
Tartaglia taps his foot against the tile, his lips pressed into a fine line. “If I choose neither?”
“Don’t think just because you’re The Tsaritsa’s so called ‘favourite’ that you can just prance by without letting any consequences affect you,” Pantalone hisses.
“And?”
“Remember that favour I did for you when you were a fresh, bright-eyed Harbinger? Tracking down that ‘Skirk’ woman? I’m cashing in on that favour. You did promise to repay me, did you not?”
A gnawing sensation grits at his chest, at his lungs and heart as he realises just how powerless he is against the Ninth. He did promise to repay her, years ago, before he was more hardened and learned to never trust another Harbinger. Especially not the Ninth, after all, she’s a snake.
“Oh, fuck you, that was ages ago!” Tartaglia spits, jaw clenching in annoyance. As much as it pains Tartaglia to admit, he’s a stickler for following through with his promises and favours. He doesn’t and wouldn't promise something if he knew he wouldn’t be able to fulfil it. Pantalone seemingly didn’t forget when he came to her, desperate, looking for any information or files about his master in the Abyss. It turned up empty, of course it did, but Tartaglia’s promise of a favour in return seemingly stuck with her.
“Aw, let’s not be like that, hmm?” Pantalone scoffs, tipping her head, looking down her nose at the Eleventh. “Let’s be civil.”
Tartaglia looks up to Pantalone, hands dropped at his hips. The urge to form his signature water blades itches at his palms unpleasantly. It would be wonderful to bury a blade into the sly bastard's throat and bleed her like a pig, but Tartaglia knows where he stands and who he is up against. It wouldn’t end well.
Tartaglia breaths through his nose, looking up through thick lashes. The face of disdain paints his usually soft features sharp and drawn. “What do you want from me?”
“There we go,” Pantalone goads, “my two choices are rather simple. I think you’d rather the latter, but that is a dangerous game, one I wouldn’t even wish to play.”
“Spit it out, Pantalone.”
“Either you pay me back the full sum you spent in Liyue over the span of, hmm, six months, twelve days or--”
“--What?!” Tartaglia sputters, jaw dropping. “What? Y-you said I could use that money without paying it back. We made a contract.”
Pantalone’s lips draw back to show crooked, white teeth. “Someone clearly doesn’t read the fine print. I stated the sum of money you were permitted to spend and you exceeded it tenfold. It was written below in the small font, love, if you were to surpass the designated amount, then you’d have to pay up with interest added onto it, too.”
“Okay, then just draw the money from my account,” Tartaglia suddenly looks much, much more weary. “Look, I’m sorry for spending the bank's money on my own personal stuff, but you know how taxing the process of documenting everything spent on business is. It was just easier to spend from the bank and not write it off immediately. Just take the money from my account, okay?”
“I don’t think you’ll have enough, you know. Despite the dazzling paycheck being a Harbinger brings, all those gifts and meals, added with transportation, lodging and the interest from since you haven’t paid me back--you’ll be short. Plain and simple.” Pantalone hums. The air in the room is stuffy and the aura is beyond tense. Pantalone can almost smell the sweat that begins to perspire on Tartaglia’s forehead. “Unless, that is, you’d like to draw the money from your dear little siblings fund you set up for all of them?”
Tartaglia seems to consider this for a long, hard moment. His brow creases with thought and he looks up to Pantalone with a frankly delicious expression. Resigned would be the perfect word and Pantalone drinks in the desperate, kicked puppy look like it’s a finely aged wine from Mondstadt. “What’s the other option?”
“You volunteer to be Dottore’s little plaything for a day or three.”
Tartaglia’s jaw drops and he takes a step back as if he were slapped in the face. “What the fuck? No way!”
“I see,” Pantalone nods slowly. “Alright, then, thank you for choosing. I’ll start to drain the fund as soon as possible,” she says, slowly turning herself around and stepping towards the door, still open and hinges broken from the force Pantalone had used to wrench it open with. She only gets two steps away before a desperate erupts cry from the Eleventh.
“Wait!”
Pantalone turns around. “Hmm?”
“...why would you want to throw me to Dottore? Surely, there’s something more pressing you could make me do. You know I don’t mind getting my hands dirty. I can do any job or request, anything. Just not…that.”
“I’m afraid not. The doctor has been a thorn in my side lately. He has been pestering me non stop, looking for more ‘strong volunteers’ for an experiment as well as funding for his research. He’s even begged me, of all people, to be a guinea pig, practically on his knees, but what’s interesting is that he asked specifically for you, too. He has something planned, I’m sure,” Pantalone says with a not too happy look upon her face.
“It’s bothering me quite a lot, and you, my sweet, are a way to placate him. I’ve seen the way he looks at you, with such rapt curiosity. After all, what scientist would want to miss out on getting their hands on an Abyssal creature such as yourself? You are a marvel to modern science, an irregularity that shouldn’t even exist.”
“You’re really just throwing me out to the wolf? I could die.”
Pantalone rolls her eyes dramatically. “Surely, he won’t kill you. I’ve warned him of the repercussions if such an event were to occur. His ways are sadistic, at best, but he will not kill such a willing test subject such as yourself, nor will he hurt you, though his definition of hurt and mine are most certainly different.. Plus, I would draft out a contract listing the conditions of your, ah, servitude.”
Tartaglia worries his lip between his sharpened teeth, breath erratic. If one thing is sure, it’s the fact he loathes the Doctor. The man is a crazed lunatic, somehow managing to call himself a scientist despite the atrocities he commits deep in that lab of his. Nothing good ever comes if he takes an interest in you. Tartaglia has seen recruits go missing once Dottore had laid his peering eyes on them.
The man is creepy at best, dubious in his practices. Sure, he may create something well and useful here and there, but the loss of life was extreme. Tartaglia is a hired killer, but what Dottore did was sickening to him. He avoided Dottore any chance he got, unwilling to submit himself in the doctor’s presence. The only time he did was for his top surgery and the weird bastard kept the breast tissue! Freaky…
“What experiment does he want me for?”
Pantalone laughs. “Your guess is as good as mine. I don’t pay attention when he rambles on about all that nonsense. It’ll be a surprise, but, oh, I shiver to think of what he will do to you.”
Tartaglia feels his skin prickle, the hair standing up, unease settling in his stomach. There is only one choice here and Pantalone has specifically crafted it to be such. She knew Tartaglia would have to choose the latter.
Full seizure of both of his bank account was a debilitating loss, one he wouldn’t be able to live on. How would he be able to send funds to his family? And how would he add to the soon-to-be empty fund for his siblings? How would he himself be able to live without any money? Sure, he may have a roof over his head now and fully cooked meals at his discretion, but who's to say The Tsaritsa wouldn’t station him away soon? What then? There would be no to bribe, no way to pay for housing, food, anything else he may need. He didn’t doubt for a single second Pantalone couldn’t do it. The woman was scary and her threats were almost always followed through without a hitch.
Tartaglia would be far too embarrassed to mooch off another Harbinger like Pulcinella. He couldn’t do that nor put someone so dear like Pulcinella through that because of his own faults and failures. And it wasn’t like he could earn a living doing odd jobs here and there. He was a damned Harbinger and his pride wouldn’t be able to handle it.
Tartaglia stands his ground, posture tight and face remorseful. His heart hammers in his chest as he admits defeat. Whatever Dottore could dish out, Tartaglia would deal with it face on. He was no stranger to pain.
“Fine,” he sighs out, “okay.”
“There we go,” Pantalone smiles. “That wasn’t so hard, was it? I’m sure Dottore will be absolutely thrilled when I tell him the good news. I’ll forget all about the debt you’ve wracked up once you’ve finished your, hm, meeting? Regardless, thank you for your cooperation and willingness, Eleventh.”
And with that, Pantalone walks out from the room, heels clicking ominously. Tartaglia stands there, powerless to change his fate.
-------
Tartaglia stands at the double doors leading into the lab. There’s a disturbing energy hanging around and it sends unease trickling down his spine. He’s only been here a total of four times overall. Once during an inspection upon becoming a Harbinger to track down all medical history and to take data. The other was to perform his top surgery, for free, as long as Dottore got to keep the breast tissue for Archon only knows the reasons for. (Also, apparently it was the same for Scaramouche, creepily enough. At least the man had experience in performing the surgery.) He was surprised at how good of a job was done, the scars almost entirely healed in such a short time frame, but that still didn’t have Tartaglia overlooking his other faults. The other few times he had shown up to this lab is when he was in critical shape, in desperate need of healing. Thinking back on it, he doesn’t feel all that great imagining being passed out, completely unaware around the Doctor.
His heart beats erratically at a rhythm that would be downright unhealthy for anyone else. He can feel it pump against his ribs, his lungs constricting and making breathing a little hard. It was stupid, he knew it was, but usually when someone ventured into the Doctor’s lab, there was a slim chance they’d make it out alive, and even slimmer chance they would make it out in one piece, but see detrimental changes to their very psych. He’s seen recruits stumble out of the lab, some missing limbs, others with strange scars or injuries. Many went missing and Tartaglia had known some were driven up the walls with whatever had been done with them. Suicide was more often than not the sweet escape they would look for after the torture Dottore had put them through.
Tartaglia had never been afraid of doctors until he met Il Dottore. Insane would be a very light and mild way to describe him. Tartaglia shakes himself off with a sigh. He could handle this, he knew it. Maybe it’d make him stronger? Who knows.
This was the only right decision. At least this way, there was a guarantee that Tartaglia wouldn’t be messed up too bad to deem him unfit for battle. That was a promise Pantalone had made to him.
Tartaglia felt stupid for being so worked up over this. He was a Harbinger for Archon’s sake, and a damned good one at that. He had fought foes of all types and of all strengths. He had bared through the horrors of the Abyss at only 14 years old and he had worked his way through the ranks tirelessly to be where he was today. And this is what was getting to him? Maybe it was all in his head. Dottore couldn’t do anything too rash to him, Pantalone had said she and Dottore had gone over a strict criteria of what Dottore could and couldn’t do to their Youngest. Pantalone had said Dottore had asked about some pretty ‘interesting’ and ‘fun’ things he’d like to try on Tartaglia with a devious smirk that made Tartaglia want to punch her seven days from Saturday. He held back only because he knows Pantalone would make him pay for it. Tartaglia wouldn’t wish to be in a worse position than he’s already forced into.
All of this over Liyue. That mission had been a clusterfuck. He should’ve never even met Zhongli, should've never even fallen for someone as righteous and shitty as him. Tartaglia still couldn’t say there wasn’t any lingering feelings there, either. It was all Zhongli’s fault he was in this scenario! Damned idiot forgetting his wallet wherever they went. It was so much easier to write a check to the bank's funds than to go through the arduous process of documenting every single purchase, the time, what was bought and the reason. He knew what he was doing wasn’t right, but it had been easy and quick and now Tartaglia was paying severely for such a mistake.
Tartaglia hands shake as he lifts a hand to knock at the door. He wasn’t sure if he was given explicit permission to enter, but it was better to be safe than sorry. His knuckles rapt against the hard door, the cold metal echoing lightly. He waits a moment. And another…
Nothing.
Tartaglia swallows down his saliva, it catching in his abnormally dry throat. Maybe Dottore is busy with something else? Archon only knows what this man tinkers with in his lab, perhaps he was engrossed in an experiment? And maybe he hadn’t heard Tartaglia. Yeah, Tartaglia nods slowly, that had to be the case.
He knocks once more. And waits a bit. And knocks again. And waits a little longer.
He groans at the lack of response. It had to be nearing two minutes and Tartaglia would never hear the end of it if he were to walk back to his floor. Pantalone threatened something worse than full and complete seizure of his bank accounts were he to back out. Tartaglia wasn’t exactly keen on finding out exactly what the woman was on about.
It wasn’t like he could just leave. A grimace passed on his face and he tried the doorknob, surprised at the lack of resistance. So, it wasn’t locked..? Tartaglia didn’t care much of trespassing, but trespassing in Il Dottore’s lab? He’d rather the man face him and be walked to the horror trap he would be strapped in during whatever the Doctor would do to him.
It wasn’t like he had much choice.
He twists the knob and pushes the door open slowly, it creaking on his hinges. Anxiety spills inside him as he pushes through and walks into the lab. It’s unsettling cold, creepy as hell and everything is glowing with a cool blue. There's multiple vats of god knows what, test tubes stacked in an organised fashion and a chemical smell hanging in the air. It’s almost a little overpowering, smelling of hydrogen peroxide mixed with something far stronger and more potent.
It’s surprisingly quiet, not a peep other than the bubbling of the mysterious liquids. It’s a vast room that hasn’t changed all that much since he was here years ago. Tartaglia can tell this isn’t all that's here, there’s multiple doors leading to other subsections of the lab. Test areas, rooms holding horrors unimaginable that Tartaglia really doesn’t want to think of with how he’ll be a guinea pig sometime soon.
Where was Dottore? Pantalone had said the doctor was ready for him, horrifyingly enough, so why was the man not here?
Tartaglia feels the hairs standing up on the back of his neck far too late. There’s a sharp prick in his neck and when he turns around, Dottore stands there, tall, menacing and lips in a cheshire smile. Tartaglia jerks back, reaching for his throat to survey the damage to find…a single drop of blood. His eyes trail down to the syringe in Dottore’s fist, the glass inside empty. Suddenly, Tartaglia is feeling awfully breathless.
“What the fuck?!” He exclaims loudly, taking a step back and knocking over a tray holding various medical utensils. They clatter to the ground and Tartaglia blinks at the Doctor, feeling strangely weak. What had that man done to him?
Dottore doesn’t seem the least bit phased. He moves his hand back and forth with a scoff. “Calm yourself. Just a mild sedative to get you nice and comfortable for what’s to come. Nothing that would harm you, at least, nothing yet.”
Tartaglia watches the Doctor’s mouth move with slow, unsteady blinks. Whatever he was injected with is starting to rear it’s ugly head and the symptoms are creeping in full force. His body feels weak and a sense of tiredness blankets over him. Limbs feel like lead and he stumbles to right himself against a table's steady edge.
“W-what?” He questions, confused at what is happening to him. His brain slows, thoughts becoming muddled and soupy as he tries to keep himself aware, but it is clear he’s slipping. He can barely keep his eyes on Dottore’s figure as his lids kept fluttering shut.
His brain registers Dottore as a new threat and no matter how he tries to get away, to run and fight, his body won’t move a single inch. His consciousness dribbles away second by second and he should feel much, much more afraid, but even his brain isn’t properly working. He knows he should run, but his objective is becoming more and more fuzzy as the sweet serenade of sleepiness ebbs at him.
He barely even registers collapsing to the ground, vision impossibly blurry. “Oh,” he groans unhelpfully, trying to recall what’s going on, but he can’t remember. He’s just so tired and worn, wishing to sleep, but his brain is hinting something is off and wrong. There’s a sense of fear gnawing at him though he can’t recall what for, exactly. Then, there's warm hands touching him. Brushing through his hair, cupping his cheek, caressing his face and it’s so warm and sweet he leans into the touch. He wants more of the touch, starved for affection.
Dottore dons a devious grin as he watches the Eleventh slump to the floor, unable to hold up his weight any longer. He drops like a sack of potatoes, whimpering pathetically as he attempts to raise his head to answer the questions no doubt thrumming through his head. What Dottore had injected him with was a rather powerful sedative, something to knock a normal person on their ass quickly, and Tartaglia’s glassy, unfocused eyes were just so adorable. Dottore breathes out a happy sigh and kneels down to get a good look in at the drugged, oblivious Harbinger before him.
Dottore’s hand gently cups the freckled cheek and rubs the soft, pink skin there. The warmth bleeds through the Doctor’s glove. So cute, so pretty, he thinks. He wants to destroy this man and build him back up again all in one.
“Huhm?” Tartaglia hums, long eyelashes batting. His blue eyes are glazed over, not seeming to really register anything around him. But--oh, then Tartaglia leans into the touch. He rubs his cheek against the gloved hand petting him akin to a cat and Dottore feels his heart melt.
“Oh, you’re going to be just the perfect plaything for me, won’t you? Look at you, so responsive, so sweet. Oh, Tartalgia, I will ruin you.”
Tartaglia only whimpers, too deep, too dazed to even register the words spoken. The comfort from the touch is enough to have him completely falling under. His sitting body slumps like dead weight. Dottore catches the boy in his arms. A head of ginger hair drops on his broad shoulder and Dottore can only scoff.
The boy’s face is so peaceful, so serene as he snoozes on a drugged out sleep. It’s such a stark difference from how the boy usually appears. Cold, indifferent, no emotions playing on his features. Especially different than how he looks when he locks eyes with the Doctor. Oh, those glances the Eleventh gives him are filled with distaste, disgust and pure, unadulterated abhorrence. It stirs something inside of Dottore that’s purely animalistic and craves something dark, disturbing.
Dottore runs a gloved hand through the wavy locks of Tartaglia’s hair playfully, an expression on his face insisting he was not up to any good. His gloved hands scratch against Tartaglia’s scalp, hair surprisingly soft under his touch. He laughs and hauls up the unconscious body in his arms with ease. So lanky, so skinny. The boy really ought to eat more.
Dottore is more excited than he had ever been to get his hands on such a valuable, feisty plaything.