Chapter Text
The first thing Pantalone noticed was the smell.
Not the usual sterile, metallic tang of Dottore’s lab, no, this was something thicker. Copper, ozone, and the faint, cloying sweetness of alchemical solvents. His nose wrinkled. His head pounded.
The second thing was the pain.
A dull, deep ache in his lower abdomen, like he’d been hollowed out and stitched back together. His fingers twitched against the cold metal of the operating table beneath him. Operating table. That was a bad sign.
The third thing was the voice.
“Ah, Feofan. You’re awake.”
Dottore’s tone was far too cheerful for the situation. Pantalone cracked his eyes open, blinking against the harsh overhead lights. The world swam into focus: the gleaming instruments, the flickering alchemical arrays, and, most alarmingly, Dottore himself, leaning over him with the grin of a man who had just pulled off the greatest trick of his career.
Pantalone tried to sit up. His body protested. “What the hell-”
“Careful, careful,” Dottore chided, pressing a hand to his shoulder. His fingers were warm, almost possessive. “You’ve just undergone a delicate procedure. I wouldn’t want you to rupture anything.”
Pantalone’s blood ran cold. “Procedure?”
Dottore’s grin widened. “Oh, don’t look so alarmed. It’s revolutionary. A breakthrough! I’ve been theorizing for centuries, and now—” He gestured grandly to Pantalone’s midsection. “—it’s done.”
Pantalone followed his gaze. His shirt was gone, replaced by a loose medical gown. Beneath it, his skin was marked—faint, glowing sigils etched into his flesh, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. His breath hitched. “Dottore. What did you do?”
Dottore clapped his hands together, eyes sparkling. “I gave you a gift.”
“A..”
“A womb.”
Silence.
Pantalone stared at him. Dottore stared back, utterly delighted.
“…I’m sorry,” Pantalone said slowly, as if speaking to a child. “A what.”
“A womb, Feofan.” Dottore enunciated each syllable like he was explaining the concept of gravity. “Fully functional. Alchemically enhanced. Ours.”
Pantalone’s brain short-circuited. “Ours.”
Dottore sighed, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. “Well, yours, technically. But the child will be ours. A fusion of our essences. Our legacy.” He leaned in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Think of it. A being born of two Harbingers. The potential is… astounding.”
Pantalone’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “You...you built me a-” He gestured wildly at his own body. “Here?!”
“Mm. It was fascinating work.” Dottore’s fingers hovered over Pantalone’s abdomen, not quite touching. “I had to adjust your internal structure, of course. Reinforce the pelvic bones, reroute some nerve clusters, stimulate the necessary hormonal pathway-”
“Stop.” Pantalone’s voice was a rasp. His mind was still foggy from the sedation, but the implications were crashing into him like a runaway alchemical construct. “You sedated me. You operated on me. Without my consent-”
“You were complaining about the cigarettes again,” Dottore said, as if that explained everything. “I knew you’d argue. And we both know you’d have said no.”
“Because it’s insane!”
“Because you’re stubborn.” Dottore’s smile didn’t waver. “But now it’s done. And all that’s left is the fun part.”
Pantalone’s stomach twisted. “Fun part.”
Dottore’s eyes gleamed. “The conception, of course.”
A beat of silence. Then...
“The-” Pantalone’s voice cracked. “The what?”
Dottore rolled his eyes, as if Pantalone were being dramatic. “Feofan, please. We’re both intelligent men. You know how reproduction works.”
“We’re both men!*”
“A minor detail.” Dottore waved a hand. “The womb is perfectly capable of sustaining a pregnancy. And with our combined genetic material...”
“You want to fuck me and knock me up ?!” Pantalone’s voice hit a pitch he hadn’t known he was capable of.
Dottore blinked. Then, slowly, his expression shifted from amused to thoughtful. “Well. I suppose that’s one way to phrase it.”
Pantalone groaned, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I do .”
Dottore chuckled, low and knowing. “You’re angry. That’s different.”
Pantalone dropped his hands, glaring. “I am furious. I am violated. I am...” He cut himself off, because gods, his head was still spinning, and beneath the rage, beneath the betrayal, there was something else. Something smaller. Something that whispered, But what if it works?
Dottore’s expression softened, just for a second. “You’ll see, Feofan. This is destiny.” He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from Pantalone’s forehead. His touch was gentle. “We were always meant to create something new together.”
Pantalone wanted to slap his hand away. Wanted to scream. But his body felt heavy, his thoughts sluggish. The sedation was still in his system, dulling his reactions. “And if I don’t want this?”
Dottore’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Then you’ll have to convince me.”
Pantalone’s blood ran cold.
Dottore straightened, clapping his hands together. “But! Before we debate the ethics of my actions,” (Pantalone made a choked noise.) “,let’s get you home. You’ll need rest. And...” He hesitated, just for a second. “We should discuss the logistics.”
Pantalone’s mind raced. Logistics. Logistics of what, the rape or the pregnancy?
Dottore offered him a hand. “Come, my dear. Let’s talk.”
Pantalone stared at the outstretched hand like it was a live grenade.
Then, with a growl, he slammed his own hand into Dottore’s and let the madman pull him up.
The walk, or, more accurately, the carry, from the lab to Dottore’s estate was a silent war.
Pantalone had tried to walk. He’d made it three steps before his legs buckled, the stitches in his abdomen pulling taut with a sharp, warning twinge. Dottore had caught him before he hit the ground, scooping him up like he weighed nothing. Pantalone had hissed, more from humiliation than pain, and Dottore had only smiled.
“Stubborn,” Dottore murmured, adjusting his grip. “You’d think after centuries of knowing me, you’d trust that I wouldn’t let you fall.”
Pantalone said nothing. Mostly because if he opened his mouth, he’d either scream or vomit, and he wasn’t sure which would be more satisfying.
The estate was exactly as ostentatious as Pantalone expected: all towering black marble, gilded trim, and the kind of opulence that screamed I have no taste, but I have power. The front doors swung open before they even reached them, as if the house itself had been waiting.
Dottore carried him over the threshold.
Pantalone hated how that made his chest tighten.
Inside, the air was warm, scented with something rich and spiced, Dottore’s scent. Pantalone’s nose wrinkled. He knew that smell. Knew the way it clung to Dottore’s coats, his gloves, the pages of his notes. Knew the way it had lingered on his own skin after...
After that night.
The one where they’d both been drunk on victory and something stronger, and Dottore had kissed him like he was drowning, and Pantalone had let him.
Pantalone hated that he remembered.
Dottore set him down on a chaise lounge in what was clearly meant to be a sitting room, though it looked more like a torture chamber with all the alchemical apparatus scattered about. Pantalone immediately pressed a hand to his stomach, as if that could undo what had been done.
Dottore crouched in front of him, elbows on his knees, watching him with the intensity of a man who had just handed over the keys to the universe. “You’re angry,” he observed.
“Brilliant deduction,” Pantalone snapped.
Dottore hummed, unfazed. “You’ll get over it.”
“I won’t.”
“You will.” Dottore reached out, brushing his thumb over the faint scar on Pantalone’s palm, an old wound, from a mission gone wrong. Pantalone had refused to let the healers touch it. Dottore had stitched it himself. “You always do.”
Pantalone jerked his hand away. “This is different.”
“Is it?” Dottore tilted his head. “You were angry when I replaced your lungs. Angry when I saved you from the twenty-third cancer. Angry when I promoted you.” His lips quirked. “You’re always angry with me, Feofan. And yet...” He gestured to the room around them. “Here we are.”
Pantalone’s jaw clenched. “That was different.”
“Was it?” Dottore’s voice dropped, softer now. Almost gentle. “Or is it just that this time, I’ve asked for something you can’t give me?”
Pantalone froze.
Dottore’s gaze was knowing. “You’ve given me your loyalty. Your trust. Your body, in pieces, over the years. But you’ve never given me this.” He pressed his palm to Pantalone’s stomach, right over the sigils. “A future.”
Pantalone’s breath hitched.
Dottore’s fingers curled, just slightly, into the fabric of Pantalone’s borrowed shirt. “I chose you because you’re the only one who understands me. The only one who stays.” His voice was quiet. Almost vulnerable. “The only one I want.”
Pantalone wanted to laugh. Wanted to scream. Wanted to kick him in the teeth.
Instead, he said, voice raw, “You didn’t ask.”
Dottore’s expression shifted. For the first time, something like doubt flickered across his face. Then it was gone, replaced by that mad certainty. “Would you have said yes?”
Pantalone opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Would he?
Dottore’s smile returned, slow and triumphant. “That’s what I thought.”
The ring came out of nowhere.
One moment, Dottore was standing, the next, he was on one knee in front of Pantalone, holding out a silver band set with three rings conspiring to one twisting vine of silver.
Pantalone stared at it. “Is this a joke?”
Dottore’s eyes were serious. “Do I look like I’m joking?”
“You literally built me a womb without my consent!”
“And now I’m asking,” Dottore said, as if that made it better. “Marry me, Feofan.”
Pantalone’s mind blanked.
Dottore sighed, as if Pantalone were being difficult. “It’s practical. You’ll need a home for the child. And I’ve already...” He gestured vaguely. “Arranged for your things to be moved in.”
Pantalone’s head snapped up. “What?”
Dottore stood, slipping the ring onto Pantalone’s left hand before he could protest. It fit perfectly. Of course it did. “Your belongings. Your books. Your cigarettes, though I do wish you’d stop with those.” He tutted. “They’re filthy habits.”
Pantalone stared at the ring. Then at Dottore. Then at the house around him, the home Dottore had prepared for him.
His voice was a rasp. “You presumptuous-”
“Romantic,” Dottore corrected. “I’m a romantic.”
Pantalone wanted to strangle him.
He also, traitously, wanted to kiss him.
Dottore held out a hand. “Come. Let me show you the nursery.”
Pantalone’s stomach twisted.
Dottore’s smile was soft. Almost shy. “I had it painted light blue.”
Pantalone hated blue, he was more of a purple person.
Dottore knew that.
And yet.
And yet.
The nursery was worse than Pantalone imagined.
The walls were indeed light blue, but the ceiling was painted with constellations, Dottore’s constellations. A crib sat in the corner, already stocked with blankets and toys. Pantalone’s eyes landed on a stuffed raven.
His voice was dangerously calm. “You’re out of your mind.”
Dottore beamed. “I know.”
Pantalone rounded on him. “The Tsaritsa will have my head, and yours if she finds out I’m pregnant! She’ll never allow this! I have work! I have missions! I can’t just...just-”
“Stay home and raise our child?” Dottore supplied, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“Yes!” Pantalone threw his hands up. “Exactly that!”
Dottore’s expression didn’t change. “You’re retiring.”
“I’m what ?”
“Retiring.” Dottore said it like it was fact. “You’ve earned it. And besides-” His voice dropped, smooth. “-who else would I trust to raise a child with my intellect and your...” He waved a hand at Pantalone. “Everything?”
Pantalone’s eye twitched. “You can’t just decide that for me!”
“I already have.”
“Dottore-”
“Feofan.” Dottore’s voice was firm. “You’re mine. You’ve always been mine. And now...” He gestured to Pantalone’s stomach. “Now you’re carrying my legacy .”
Pantalone’s fingers twitched. The ring on his left hand felt heavy.
He glared at Dottore, at that smug, knowing look on his face, and something inside him snapped.
“How do you know my name?”
Dottore blinked. Then, slowly, his lips curled into that infuriating smirk. “Feofan.”
Pantalone’s hand moved before he could stop it.
SMACK.
His palm connected with Dottore’s cheek, the sound echoing through the nursery like a gunshot. Dottore’s head snapped to the side, but he didn’t flinch. Didn’t even react—not at first. Then, slowly, he turned back, his lower lip split, a thin line of blood welling up.
For a second, there was only silence. Then Dottore laughed.
“Feofan Sergeyevich Veksel,” he said, voice dripping with triumph, as if Pantalone had just proven his point.
Pantalone’s vision whited out.
His fist clenched.
And then he punched him.
This time, it wasn’t a slap, knuckles connecting with Dottore’s jaw, the force of it sending a jolt of pain up Pantalone’s arm. Dottore staggered, but he didn’t go down. His glove, black leather, pristine, was now smeared with blood.
Dottore touched his lip, thumb coming away red. He didn’t wipe it off. Instead, he licked it, his tongue swiping over the cut with a slow, deliberate motion.
Pantalone’s stomach twisted.
Dottore shook his head, still smirking, blood glistening on his teeth. “What?” he murmured, voice thick. “Do you want to know my name, or something?”
Pantalone’s breath came in sharp gasps. His chest heaved. He wanted to hit him again. Wanted to kiss him. Wanted to scream.
Because fuck, Dottore knew. He knew exactly what he was doing. Knew exactly how to push him, how to provoke him, how to make Pantalone lose control.
Pantalone’s chest heaved, his fist still clenched, his knuckles aching from the impact. Dottore’s smirk was maddening, blood on his lips.
One second, he was standing there, bleeding and smirking. The next, his hand was fisted in Pantalone’s hair, yanking him forward, and his mouth was crushed against Pantalone’s in a kiss that was all teeth.
Pantalone froze. Dottore didn’t.
His lips were hot, his grip bruising, and for a second, Pantalone let the taste of copper flood his senses, let the familiar scent of Dottore’s alchemical concoctions wrap around him like a chain.
Then he shoved him back, hard.
Dottore didn’t even stumble. He just licked his lips, Pantalone’s taste, Pantalone’s rage, and sighed, like he was disappointed.
“Ugh.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, though the blood remained. “Cigarettes. You reek of them.”
Pantalone’s face burned. “Fuck you.”
“Oh, Feofan,” Dottore chided, shaking his head. “We both know that’s the plan, naughty boy.”
Dottore’s fingers traced the line of Pantalone’s jaw, his touch almost gentle. Almost. “By the way,” he murmured, voice dropping to a purr, “you can’t smoke when you’re pregnant with my child. Health reasons.”
Pantalone’s mind blanked. Dottore’s thumb brushed his lower lip. “Bad for the baby.”
Pantalone wanted to bite him.
Dottore’s grip tightened, just for a second, before his hand slid to cup Pantalone’s face, his fingers spreading over his cheek like he was memorizing him. His voice was softer now. Almost tender.
“My birth name,” he said, “is Zandik.” Dottore’s lips curled. “By the way, Regrator.”