Dottore x (kind of) angel reader
This is a reupload from a fic I posted here back in December. I can't remember why I deleted it but I wanted it out there again 😵💫
˚₊‧꒰ა ✦ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
You grunt, trying to stretch to reach back at your unruly mounds of feather. Having found some scrap in a box discarded in the hallway by your cell, you'd managed to fashion a comb with teeth hopefully adapted well enough to preen your wings. Though they were serving a monumental challenge. You hadn't the flexibility to tame them. It was nigh on impossible to lurch back to reach the base at your scapulas. Being cursed with wings by some anonymous force whilst being rocketed across a space rift was bad enough, not knowing how to keep them healthy was even worse. You're basing this preening thing off of assumptions. You've seen birds dig around in their feathers with their beaks. Perhaps it's a necessary step you must take, too?
"Struggling with that?" Comes a voice which was becoming regrettably familiar. You straighten up relinquishing the stray feathers you'd been gripping to try to pull your wing towards you.
"...no." what were you supposed to say? 'Oh yes, please help me! I implore you to touch my wings and put me in your debt!' Absolutely no chance.
"That's odd. It seems from where I stand that you require some assistance in maintaining your wings." Dottore folds his arms, sailing through the threshold of the doorway.
"Really?" You gape at him, laying the sarcasm on thick.
"Yes. It's apparent you do." He halts between your sagging, messy wings. They instinctively fold, much as you do, hunching uncomfortably.
"I know personal space isn't your thing but..." You sigh. Was there really any point? It was just rather poignant to have some guy who's in charge of the institute which has imprisoned you to assume you'd spread your wings and thus make yourself vulnerable to him. Whilst you're wearing pajamas if that wasn't already bad enough. You donned a pair of pale pink bottoms and a lace trimmed camisole. It's what you wore when you descended, they let you hold onto it, graciously.
"Hm?" He tilts his head, presumably not in earnest. You lament that he either wasn't listening, or he's trying to dismiss you on purpose.
"Give me that pick, or whatever you fumbled together." Dottore hoped you'd have little avenue to protest if he was pointed. He notes how you skirt around topics rather than being direct. Though he isn't entirely aghast when you continue to clutch the makeshift comb to yourself.
It didn't seem logical for him to be so eager to help. As far as you could gather, the doctor was solely interested in ventures which expanded his horizon of knowledge or exhilarated him. He was a feared figure all over this world and felt above most human fancies.
"Why are you interested in this? Just get your crony to do it." You had a hypothesis that he could be insisting himself into you in a bid to learn more about you. You assume it'd be fascinating to be around the only figure from another world, who wouldn't want to form a connection to you in order to learn more? It seemed the only logical explanation.
"Why would I delegate to a subordinate when an opportunity of this nature presents itself to me?" Dottore seems chagrined at your proposal. "It's a unique chance to view the complexities of a celestial intervention up close. Who am I to dismiss such an uncommon chance to do so? Would you expect much less from me?"
It'd be opportune for him to voice his intentions and thoughts out loud, he supposes. Predictability wasn't an attribute he'd willingly brand himself with but it would, even if just a fleeting guise, earn him faith, which he could exercise as leeway into probing you further. As far as young mortal women went you could be the most extraordinary he's seen, despite your reluctance to share the spectacular abnormalities which made you so interesting.
Running a thumb along the ramshackle comb you still enveloped with your nimble fingers, you brew quietly on his questions. "You tell me. It's not like I know you." Unless it was his intention to establish familiarity and coax you into recognising patterns, thus perieving him as less of a threat.
The doctor catches your gaze as you look back, knees still to your chest. "I'm sure we'll get to know eachother. It is my intention to know you and your machinations learned from being raised and exposed to a world foreign to this one." Even if he's donning a mask, you note his peculiarly piercing stare, your own eyes are reluctant to tear away their contact.
"So I'm just an interesting slab of knowledge for you to cut into?" You raise the pick to your eyes, closer, jabbing a fingertip into one of the teeth.
"You make it sound crude." Dottore titillates. "The pursuit of knowledge is anything but. It's an art, in its own way." You stiffen when a cold glove plants itself firmly onto your traps, goosebumps swell beneath the surface of your skin. It scoots you a little more towards the edge of the mattress you're perched on.
The doctor still stood tall beside you, looming in a less than hospitable way. You gauge that he is quite noticeably loftier than you, the difference was more apparent in this position.
You swivel to confront him, fidgeting endlessly with your dismal construction of a comb which could ameliorate your pitiful wings. Dottore lurches down to pluck it from your hands with a firm finger and thumb. His lip twitches as he turns it every which way in his hands. "What a poor attempt at assembling something." As someone well suited to masterful mechanical projects forged from veteran minds in the field, it was a steep contrast to hold this in his palm. To actually behold something of this nature was almost satisfyingly different to the mundane craftsmanship he recognised to a tedious point. The Harbingers shakes his head, now was not the time for stray thoughts to dance.
"I digress, it may be adequate, just this once. I suppose."
"I didn't even...-" you cut yourself off with a groan. There wasn't much of a point, you discern. His resolutions seem steelier than ships.
Instead, you comply. Maneuvering to kneel with your back to him. Your head dips as your eyes zero in on the pallid wall.
The first, clinical contact feels like an electric shock, a soft jolt to the system. Your wings, originally scrunched, begin to relent their defensive gesture. They instead ease their white mass, standing high enough for Dottore to reach without bending down at all.
"Birds and feathered creatures perform preening in order to pick out build ups of oil. If one didn't, the consequences could be dire. It may affect waterproofing, thermal regulation and cause general itching."
His hands glide over the feathers, nimbly tending to them. The feeling is oddly satisfying, scratching an itch you haven't been able to quite get to.
Your wings jitter faintly at the gossamer touch and your eyes threaten to flutter shut. Though you cannot let yourself become too malleable in his palms. There was no way you could trust him enough to do so. Despite the serenity his droning seems to bring like a gentle haze on a spring morning, the white lights in the cell are a troubling reminder of your circumstances.
"I'm not a bird. I just have wings." You fold over your knees, bringing them to your chest having shuffled to find a more agreeable position than kneeling.
"Of course." Dottore continues to sift through your feathers almost fervently. The teeth of the makeshift comb card through, taking some of the less savoury patches of feather.
"The craftsmanship of this is... An undesirable. It's a security risk that you even got into a container of metal scrap."
"Thanks..." You retort dryly. Someone was probably getting an earful, judging by his tone.
"This will happen every few weeks or so. I'll update my schedule. Perhaps I'll find time to do it myself." Regular intervals of connection were imperative to formulating the bond needed. He would have to enable various channels of communication.
You spread sluggishly your wings. They felt remarkably lighter. Dottore notes the cautiousness at which you exercise them. It was no surprise to him, there's little avenue for you to practise operating them in this area.
He slips out of the room with little fanfare. The quiet click of the door heralds your solitude.
You hadn't your poorly fashioned comb anymore, either.
