Jace | 29 | He/Him | Transmasc/Demisexual/Polyamorous Artist, occasional writer. Cat parent and professional smartass. Multifandom, but very Genshin-focused tbh. Noted Dottore simp. OC x Canon scribbles will be present, deal with it.
shower. not a bath, a shower. use water as hot or cold as u like. u dont even need to wash. just get in under the water and let it run over you for a while. sit on the floor if you gotta.
moisturize everything. use whatever lotion u like. unscented? dollar store lotion? fancy ass 48 hour lotion that makes u smell like a field of wildflowers? use whatever you want, and use it all over.
put on clean, comfortable clothes.
put on ur favorite underwear. cute black lacy panties? those ridiculous boxers u bought last christmas with candy cane hearts on the butt? put em on.
drink cold water. use ice. if u want, add some mint or lemon for an extra boost.
clean something. doesn’t have to be anything big. organize one drawer of ur desk. wash five dirty dishes. do a load of laundry. scrub the bathroom sink.
blast music. listen to something upbeat and dancey and loud, something that’s got lots of energy. sing to it, dance to it, even if you suck at both.
make food. don’t just grab a granola bar to munch. take the time and make food. even if it’s ramen. add something special to it, like a hard boiled egg or some veggies. prepare food, it tastes way better, and you’ll feel like you accomplished something.
make something. write a short story or a poem, draw a picture, color a picture, fold origami, crochet or knit, sculpt something out of clay, anything artistic. even if you don’t think you’re good at it.
go outside. take a walk. sit in the grass. look at the clouds. smell flowers. put your hands in the dirt and feel the soil against your skin.
call someone. call a loved one, a friend, a family member, call a chat service if you have no one else to call. talk to a stranger on the street. have a conversation and listen to someone’s voice. if you can’t, text or email or whatever, just have some social interaction with another person. even if you don’t say much, listen to them.
cuddle your pets if you have them/can cuddle them. take pictures of them. talk to them. tell them how u feel, about your favorite movie, a new game coming out.
A clash of egos over the annual Winter Ball results in an attempt to display that, on occasion, the land of Cryo was capable of thawing every once in a while.
Dottore x GN Reader || ArchiveOfOurOwn
Dance Reference 1
Dance Reference 2
“Remind me again what this is for?”
“Charity,” Dottore spat, as if the word was the filthiest thing he’d ever said.
It certainly wasn’t, at least according to the average person with average moral decency and a sense of humanity. You would know. After all, you were the most capable of his assistants in the past several years.
All you knew was that Dottore’s latest round of funding (and therefore your paycheck) was contingent upon the next few weeks.
It all started with an invitation for the Tsaritsa’s annual winter ball and a clash of egos. Regrator, upon hearing the Knave once again take a verbal stab at her fellow Harbingers, proposed leveraging the social event as a chance for fundraising for House of the Hearth and to show that, perhaps, the nation of Cryo was capable of thawing every once in a while.
Dottore came back from that meeting, fuming. Very rarely did you ever see him lose his temper as his younger Segments tended to but he proceeded to sweep his arm across his desk, ranting all the while about wastes of time and how far behind such antics would put him. He’d ignored the first two notes sent to him regarding the event; he hadn’t even read them, simply tossed them without a second glance.
The third was hand-delivered by Pantalone himself with a very real threat on Dottore’s coffers and future funding. The Ninth simply gave you a wave and a smile on his departure, leaving you to deal with the consequences of his actions.
One of which was your presence. Here. In the ballroom. Next to your boss. In front of two dance instructors who were very clearly not expecting to be teaching a Fatui Harbinger.
Dottore hadn’t even asked for your help. He’d simply demanded you come with him, dodging questions left, right, and center all the while. You didn’t need to know; the answer was irrelevant; if you liked being paid, you would stop wasting energy on asking questions about the wrong things.
Not out of the ordinary for you.
But this…
This situation was definitely outside of your job description.
But so was about a third of the tasks you managed ever since the Anemo Gnosis arrived.
The instructors introduced themselves and then shared a look you knew too well upon realizing who was standing in front of them. Dottore made people uncomfortable by nature and although polite, he did not bother with pleasantries. He wanted to be out of here as soon as convenient and he didn’t try to hide it.
“Every Harbinger will be showcasing a specific type of dance, according to the event plans of the Tsaritsa Herself,” one instructor said. “You, Lord Harbinger, will be dancing bachata with a partner of your choosing.”
That meant you, apparently.
He really had to drag you up here for this?
They explained some of the basic technicalities of the style. Partners could dance in an open position, connected only by hands, or a closed position with body support or contact with one another. The actual dance style was a sequence performed in a full 8-count while moving in a square; three steps and then a tap with a pop of the hips or a step syncopation with the opposite foot of the last step. Most of the movement was in the lower body, between hip motions and footwork, which allowed for better hand and arm communication to be conveyed, both for leading and in the expressiveness of the dance.
You were only familiar with a basic waltz, the occasional tango, but you got the sense that this would be vastly different than the usual styles you saw. Glancing in your peripheral vision, you couldn’t make out Dottore’s expression (what else was new?) but you caught a twitch of his lips and a shift in posture that made him stand taller than he already was.
The instructors began their demonstration, speaking all the while, changing between open and closed position. Some steps involved upper body contact not uncommon with a waltz but those were often paired with one’s leg between another's. Legs and hips never stopped moving.
It was far more sensual than you were expecting.
Your heart raced and you tried to steady your breathing. Working closely with Dottore was one thing. You could deal with brushing arms or him reaching over you to grab something or point out a specific section to focus on.
When work was involved, it was easy to ignore the hint of mint and slight musk that lingered, that your skin burned where he touched you.
This was going to be a disaster.
“I am going to strangle Regrator,” Dottore muttered as the instructors continued.
“He'll hear you coming. I’ll lure him into a false sense of security and give you a window of opportunity.”
The low chuckle was music to your ears, the tension easing as amusement distracted both of you. It was just work, you reminded yourself. Another experiment. That was all.
“I wouldn’t trust anyone else for this,” he said quietly. “Regrator is using this as a chance to take everyone down a peg. I need my best assistant so I don’t look like an absolute fool.”
It was the closest to a compliment you would get out of him, especially right now. You could only nod before the instructors finished and pulled both of you aside to work independently and teach you the basics. Music came from a gramophone nearby.
You were paired with a lead, your body nudged this way and that to bend your knees and get you into position. Slowly, you got used to the subtle communication required, feeling more than seeing, but you were still too stiff. Your hips recognized the beat well enough but not as smoothly as the dance required.
And from what you could see, your boss seemed to be experiencing the same, although he was far more practiced. Years of being a diplomat and having to put on graceful airs, you imagined.
“Footwork won’t be an issue,” your instructor said. “Both of you understand the techniques and are on beat. It means we can focus on other components.”
You stole a glance towards the other instructor who stepped back from the Harbinger and said, “Bachata doesn’t work well if the dancers don’t work together. We’ll start with the basic steps.”
Oh.
Oh.
That meant…
It’s just work, you reminded yourself. No different than a Ruin Guard construction or any biological research or…
Dottore took up the starting position with ease, taking your hands in his. His leather gloves were warm, a sharp contrast given the temperatures down in the lab. Maybe too warm.
The music started up again and you followed his lead; it was easier this time, given you knew how to read him and anticipate the next motion. His expression was unreadable, mouth flat, and from the angle of his head, you could only surmise he was shifting his gaze slightly from you to the rest of the room every now and again. Like a student waiting to be dismissed.
Mentally, you counted the steps, tried to time the movement of your hips on the fourth. Without his usual coat, you couldn’t help but admire his shirt, a rich deep blue, clearly tailored to him. Were his shoulders always that broad?
Dottore squeezed one of your hands and you snapped out of your thoughts just as you misstepped a second too early several times.
“You’re off beat,” he said, as if he was simply making a passing comment about a lab methodology. “I expected more focus from my best assistant.”
He corrected your rhythm and you were back on beat, mentally counting to yourself again all the while.
“I expected you to walk out of the room by now, bemoaning how much time you wasted.”
“And risk Pantalone dropping in and daring to further withhold funding?” He scoffed. “I think not.”
“You could have sent a Segment.”
You felt his hands tighten around yours and he pulled you a little closer, into a semi-closed stance, just enough distance between you to be proper. You watched the corner of his lip twitch in displeasure at the idea.
“If you want something done correctly, you must do it yourself and handle the consequences accordingly. A Segment would do me little good when I have to be the one to perform, after all.”
He had a good point. A Segment could learn and he could memorize the associated memories but the muscle memory was a different story. It was akin to watching someone fight and then assuming just based on that alone one knew what they were doing.
Before you could reply, the instructors intervened and the rest of the session was spent on building upon the foundation. By the end, you managed a basic rendition of the dance, although more than once your thoughts trailed off and Dottore had to correct your timing. The first time was passable but judging from how straight his shoulders were, he was frustrated once again.
Not exactly your fault, considering he didn’t even ask for your help and he simply assumed you would do well at this.
He stalked off far ahead of you when the session was over and you didn’t see him for the rest of the afternoon or evening. The only indication that the whole thing wasn’t a fever dream was the scribbled note on your desk the next morning when you arrived in the lab after breakfast: you were to make room in your schedule for daily practice at the end of your day until further notice.
You were so filing for retroactive overtime when all of this was over.
And maybe submitting vacation time while you were at it.
____________________
It wasn’t that bad, provided Dottore was in a decent mood. When the two of you were alone, it worked. And after the first few days, your timing was far better and you managed to remain on-beat.
Being closer to him down here, just the two of you, wasn’t as much of an ordeal for your nervous system. Your pulse still raced and your stomach constantly felt as though it was a yo-yo but that was nothing new. Simply inconvenient.
“You are too self-aware at times,” Dottore remarked on the third day, lifting the needle on the gramophone. His back was to you. “And it prevents you from honing in on the priority. You are simultaneously too focused on making sure everything is correct and tailoring what others see from you.”
“How can I not be when I know that we have to do this in front of an entire crowd and the Tsaritsa Herself?” you shot back, frustration and exhaustion throwing the last of your patience out of the window.
It’d been a grueling day. One of the long-term subjects had taken a turn for the worse with no indication and the autopsy Dottore performed yielded nothing of note. The disease they came to Snezhnaya in an attempt to be rid of had finally consumed them and the project was back at square one. Then, you were pulled away from the lab to be measured and fitted for an outfit for the ball. You had been playing catch-up ever since.
His lecture was the last thing you needed.
“This whole thing isn’t even about me,” you continued. “You said it yourself that you trusted me with this for the sake of your ego. Why wouldn’t I—”
He glanced at you over his shoulder, his mask obscuring his eyes. “If your mind isn’t present, your body won’t follow.”
“My point still stands, Dottore.”
I’m doing this for you.
Your heart was in your throat as the thought raced through your mind. Not now. Emotion wasn’t necessary.
At this point, you had no doubt that he was at least aware that you held him in high regard for more than just professional reasons. It was easier to hide when you had the guise of work to hide behind.
Not that this wasn’t work.
But dancing didn’t involve data and trial sets and various questionable substances. It was outside of your realm of normality with him. Dancing was emotion brought to life and in your opinion, there was a reason it was an art.
He looked back down at the arm and needle he still held, the record spinning silently. You couldn’t tell what he was thinking but you knew from his posture and the twitch of his mouth that he was considering something.
“I wish to test something,” he said at last. “Humor me a little while longer. I greatly dislike the choreography but I don’t believe there’s anything to be done about that until we’ve resolved something more immediate.”
Dottore placed the needle back and the gramophone gave a hiss of static before the track started again. You found yourself back in the starting position, his hands in yours, falling into step with ease. Your muscles knew the movement by heart by now.
“What you fail to realize is that it is about you, in the end,” he said softly. “Your dedication to wanting to do your best is admirable, it’s certainly the envy of other Harbingers who have far less diligent individuals in their employ.”
One hand let go of you as you both stepped back, stepped forward again, and your joined hands raised, putting you into a spin. Dottore caught you with ease, stepped off to the side, and used your joined hands to spin himself around in turn before coming back and catching your other hand again.
He continued, “I’ve given you a task that requires far more trust than what has been provided and I believe it is…resulting in you holding yourself back.”
You swore you felt your heart stop and simply drop down to your feet for a moment. You tilted your head as you looked at him, curious, if not a little wary. The Second Harbinger putting his ego aside for a moment was both endearing and incredibly dangerous.
He paused for a moment, bringing the dancing to a sudden stop, and brought your hands up to his mask. His fingers positioned yours to show you the release for the accessory, revealing the rest of his visage to you.
His eyes were the color of poppies and fresh blood, bright, shining and a little unnerving. You couldn’t have imagined a better color, truthfully. The skin around his eyes and across the bridge of his nose bore scars, deep slashes that healed poorly. They were not clean cuts, not the kind you were used to seeing done by his hand; they must have been brutal to endure, let alone treat.
His hands pulled away for a moment, leaving you holding the mask, looking up at him. Everything about him was already striking but to finally have the complete picture…
“I can hardly say that I trust you if I haven’t shown you my face, now can I?”
Everything that came to mind when you looked at him was hardly appropriate for a lab assistant to say. You could stare into his eyes for hours, days even, lost in them. A part of you had always been curious about his nose, what the rest of his face looked like.
You placed the mask on a nearby table, out of reach, and turned back to Dottore, the music playing quietly. Although the skin looked as if it healed to the best of its abilities, you couldn’t help but wonder if it still caused him more discomfort than they seemed to.
“Do they hurt?” you asked, stepping closer to him.
“No. They haven’t in some time.”
He guided your hands carefully and placed your fingers across the marred flesh, silent permission for you to explore. Gently, you traced each of them, his face warm beneath your touch. He closed his eyes and you swore you heard a feather-soft sigh fall from his lips.
Did he like this?
“What happened?”
“Some in my village believed that my eyes were an omen. After I grew past the age most receive a Vision, and as I grew more bold with my claims against the Divine after my expulsion, a careless individual took it upon themselves to rid me of my eyes in hopes of releasing whatever curse they thought I carried with me. I ended his life before he could finish but by then, the damage was done.”
Your hand cupped his cheek and you watched as he leaned ever so slightly into your hand.
“They were fools,” you whispered. “You’re incredibly beautiful, Dottore.”
“Zandik.”
Crimson eyes flickered open and watched you for a moment. You felt as if you might combust and melt all at once from such a deep gaze.
“My name is Zandik,” he repeated.
You ran the syllables over your tongue and he corrected you on the inflection. Once again, your heart jumped, pleased with the secret you now shared.
“I take it, then, that this is one of those moments where you threaten to kill me if I tell anyone what you look like?” you teased.
A small smile tugged at his lips. “I see little need for threats. You know what I’m capable of.”
“My brain’s a little foggy. Perhaps you should remind me.”
“If I did, I wouldn’t have a dance partner, now would I?”
Before you could reply, Zandik reset the record player and captured your hands again, pulling you into a semi-closed position this time, your bodies closer.
“I trust you. Entirely. Now…are you ready to try this again?”
You nodded, your eyes never leaving his, as you began to dance again, this time your head and your heart aligned. Perfectly in-sync.
____________________
You’d never attended the Winter Ball before, at least not in this capacity. Every Fatuus was required to attend but for the most part, the event was intended for the heads of state, important merchants, and foreign dignitaries more than it was the average member of the Fatui. The Zapolyarny Palace’s ballroom had been transformed from the usual empty echo chamber into one of the most crowded rooms you could recall in recent memory.
Regrator had charged admission after initial invitations for appropriate guests had been sent out, which likely created an air of exclusivity. All under the guise of fundraising, per the argument that sparked with Arlecchino. Dottore scoffed when he saw the approved invitation and remarked that fundraising didn’t need to resort to such foolish antics.
As disgruntled as he was, however, you got the sense that he was enjoying the practice sessions. After the first week, upon seeing his true face, you found yourself looking forward to such moments with him. You lost count of the hours you spent on choreography, on tailoring the dance to suit both of you; you were a unit, two individuals working together to form one cohesive picture. An experiment in motion.
Normally on such an occasion, you’d be dressed in your uniform and milling about with semi-familiar faces. But this time, you were dressed in reflection of your Harbinger. His white suit, immaculate in its tailoring and its pristine color, was accented with shades of blue; in turn, your outfit used the same colors as the main focus. Both outfits were designed to complement one another and as you looked around, you saw this was the case for all participating Harbingers.
The fine fabric was smooth and cool to the touch and the curious looks you received from other members of the noble class made you thankful for the mask that covered the top half of your face. The anonymity was comforting among unfamiliar faces and hidden intentions. No one needed to know who you were.
When it finally came time for the main event, you found yourself thankful for Dottore’s rank as Second Harbinger; you wouldn’t have to wait as long as the others to get this over with. You tried to steady your hands as you were guided to the center of the room, hoping Dottore couldn’t sense that your nerves were truly beginning to get the better of you now that you saw the scale of the crowd. The Tsaritsa, too, watched from above, her face impassive but her eyes alight, like candles spotted in windows during a blizzard.
You exhaled as you flicked your gaze up to Dottore’s masked face and you caught the smallest glimpse of a reassuring smile.
Before you could speak, the music began and your feet took the first steps of their own accord, right on beat. Dottore’s left hand took yours as you draped an arm around his shoulder, his other hand pressed against your back, keeping you in a closed position as you spun around once. His leg was between yours, only for a few seconds, both of your hips swaying to the beat with ease. He let you go long enough to work in steps in an open position; you followed his lead as he raised your arm to spin you and bring you back into a closed position in one smooth motion.
You could never get used to that, being pressed up against him like that. As much as your mind tried to tell you it was work, your body and your heart knew otherwise.
A hand squeezed yours and you caught yourself before you moved off-beat.
“The crowd is irrelevant. Focus on me. This is no different than what we’ve been rehearsing,” he said quietly.
“This was what we were working towards, Zandik,” you remarked. “It’s very different.”
“In which case, I fully expect you to stop holding yourself back and give in to whatever you keep repressing.”
The smirk on his lips was a familiar one, the same as when he presented you with a challenging problem he already knew the solution to. It was the same smirk that infuriated you almost daily.
So that’s how it was, then. He did, after all, show you his true self; it would only be right to do the same, whatever came of it.
Your heart was in your throat the entire time and all you could focus on reading the subtle gestures and cues from Dottore as he led both of you. Your hips moved a little more than usual as you were swept away by the beat and you swore you were dancing closer than usual whenever he pulled you in, as if he didn’t want to let you go.
You were so caught up that the crowd faded away and all you were left with was one another. You weren’t sure if it was the outfit or the energy but your dips and sways were elegant, never stopping. Each movement flowed into the next, as you’d planned, all of your focus honing in on the footwork and lower body motion required.
Some were far more modern compared to what the instructors showed you; you would step away, hands still held but arms crossed, draped over one another’s shoulders, and then nudging the other’s head down and around, leveraging the motion to spin back to face one another.
Other times, the gestures were classic, almost romantic in their fluidity and proximity. He led you into a graceful dip as the song came to a close before bringing you back up, as intended, your faces far closer than before. You could feel his breath mingling with yours and you dared, just once, to look down at his mouth and then back to where you knew his gaze would be.
“There you are,” he whispered before he leaned in, his lips dangerously close to your ear. “I enjoy seeing this passionate side of you…perhaps you could show me more.”
The words barely registered before applause rang out, beginning with the Tsaritsa and working its way through the guests. By then, Dottore had already pulled away, putting a professional distance between both of you again. As you left the dance floor, you caught sight of another smirk, tantalizing in its promise, if you decided to take his offer.
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