Sometimes, we are all, lifesteal. @violet-ophelia-b - Tumblr Blog

il dottore's guide to surviving the alpha patriarchy

writing snippet: dottolone/dottore x pantalone, beta!zandik, omega!feofan, 3.4k+ words.

tw for attempted assault (not between dottolone) and canon-typical violence.

It has been an entire year since his trip to Inazuma, and about a few months since Eighteen's creation.

Zandik has barely noticed the passing of time, nor the transition from thirty-five years of age to thirty-six. It feels like barely anything has changed—but then again, he felt this way back then when transitioning from eighteen to nineteen.

But that brings him to his current dilemma.

Currently, Eighteen's hand is in his candy bowl—pulling out a Candied Ajilenakh Nut from the bowl. Zandik seethes. “Eighteen. Usually, you ask before you take someone's belongings.”

The eighteen year old segment only shrugs his shoulders. “We are the same person, old man. What is yours is mine.”

Was he ever that insufferable as a child? May Her Majesty, The Tsaritsa, give him patience.

“Thirty-six is not old.”

“It is too! You're practically a fossil already.”

He is getting ready to lose his temper with his segment when the door to his lab slides open.

“My Lord—” One of his subordinates pauses, looking between the thirty-six Zandik and the eighteen year old segment.

“Yes?” They both ask, in sync. Eighteen's nose scrunches in barely hidden contempt.

“You meant me, right? The better Il Dottore?”

Zandik rolls his eyes under his mask. This brat. “The better Il Dottore is the one with more experience, Eighteen. The original.”

“Uh,” the beta chooses his words very carefully in face of their squabble. A segment of the second harbinger is still the second harbinger—even if he is well aware that sometimes, his subordinates just want to give Eighteen a gentle pat on the head. “The older one, my Lord Second. The test subjects have been procured.”

Ah. Perfect timing.

“Thank you,” he looks over to Eighteen. “You can go now. Someone has to make sure our errands are complete.”

Eighteen fumes, huffing at the idea of being reduced to an errand boy. “What if I want to stay?”

Zandik shoves four more Candied Ajilenakh Nuts into Eighteen's hands. “Go.”

His segment gives him (even more) attitude, but leaves the lab without any other issue. And thus lives to see another day without the good doctor dissembling the first segment he ever made.

Without any other delay, they are free to begin.

The good thing about purchasing test subjects is that most of the time, they are mere alphas, and Zandik has tears to cry if they die in the middle of the testing.

The first two alphas did not even put up a fight against the serum. Pitiful, really. For a subgender that so often claims themselves above betas and omegas, he was expecting them to put up at least some of a fight.

Where was that arrogance from that night when a few alphas took their dagger to his face and ruined an eight year old beta's face?

Pitiful.

“Get them out of my sight,” he tells one of his subordinates. A frail woman named Snezhana Yaroslavna Molotova nods—she is about eighteen, a small little omega who came under his command after her parents sold her to the Fatui after she presented as an omega.

She gets along well enough with Eighteen, and if he had to guess, she has a bit of a crush on his eighteen year old segment. Perhaps a foolish endeavor, but as long as it does not get in the way of their work ethic…

He doesn't really care.

“Yes, Lord Dottore—” She moves to wheel the two failed experiments out of the room, and bring the third test subject inside the room.

Subject three is a young man with dark, ratted hair that has not been brushed in quite awhile. Perhaps out of poverty or homelessness—Zandik can see the man's bones. He is a lanky thing—Snezhnayan youths and their lanky but clearly malnourished builds. Back in Sumeru, this could have stunted growth but every nation is different.

The file says the man is twenty, a whole sixteen years younger than him, but the details are a bit blurry. No recorded secondary gender, just the record of a failed business that a gang of alphas made sure went under.

Alpha–alpha rivalry isn't an uncommon reason for alphas to ruin another's business, so he marks the man down as an alpha.

Mauve eyes glance up at him, his face so pale he could be mistaken as a snowland fae. Mauve. A rare colour, especially in Snezhnaya.

Deep in his memories, he is reminded of a Sumeru Rose—the purple colour reminding him of the flower of his homeland.

Zandik snaps out of it, and takes it upon himself to wash and cut off the knotted sections of his hair. The man does not protest, perhaps accepting his fate.

“The others before me… What did you do to them?”

Zandik changes his gloves, making sure they are clean as he grabs a vial. “They failed to produce the results I wanted, so they expired.”

The mauve eyed alpha swallows, but it is not fear he sees in those eyes. But rather something that burns hotter than fear, like smoldering heat.

Zandik has never seen any fire like this in any of his test subjects before.

“And what results do you want?”

A pause. This is a new development—no other test subject has tried to bargain with him before. Quite unexpected.

“Competence,” the beta says, as if it is obvious. The smell of cigarettes is particularly strong, the alpha has been smoking for at least five years. But under it— he can smell expensive parchment and ink.

“I can give you that—” The alpha blurts out. “Killing me would be a waste.”

A waste?

It would be a waste if he were to die? This alpha oddly has a lot of nerve. Zandik likes it. He likes it a lot.

“I will take a chance on you,” he looks at him– the silence stretching between the two of them. It does not take a genius to see what he is waiting for.

“Feofan Sergeyevich,” he tells him.

“I will take a chance on you, Feofan Sergeyevich. Do not disappoint me or you will find yourself on my table once more.”

Feofan swallows. Zandik's lips curl into an amused smile as he truly looks at the man.

This alpha is very strange, with the heavy bags under his eyes and the haunted expression on his face, like those mauve eyes have seen more than his years should have seen. Zandik can see how little he weighs, only coming up to his shoulder— although, Zandik himself wears heels, so perhaps he's about an inch or two shorter than this alpha.

He tells himself he does not care about the alpha's suffering.

Whatever the case, he has no intention of making things easy for Feofan. Nor will he hide his distain of alphas—greedy, loathsome creatures.

“Don't think that I am going to go easy on you just because of your secondary designation,” Zandik tells him. Its then that Feofan's pale purple eyes narrow at him, almost glowering at him.

Almost. Zandik's lips twitch upwards at the nerve this alpha has to get angry at him. How amusing.

“I wouldn't dare dream of it, Dottore.”

He takes him by his sleeve, guiding him by his wrist and out of the lab until he understands that he is supposed to walk behind him. That he is behind him in status, that alphas are not always on top of the hierarchy.

“You will call me either ‘Commander’ or ‘Lord Dottore.’ Or even Lord Second, I do not care. You are underneath me, remember that. You do not have the right to address me so informally.”

Feofan grits his teeth. And in turn, Zandik roughly grabs him by his chin, applying light pressure. His eyes are more expressive than the rest of him, blazing at his words. The doctor's lips curl into an amused smirk.

He likes seeing his subordinate angry. It's a good look on him.

“Do we have an understanding, Feofan?”

“Yes, Commander.”

Good. How pitiful it is that an alpha was trafficked and sold when they were supposed to be top of the food chain. How funny fate is.

He wants to laugh in his face and his fingers twitch with the urge to scratch at the scars that marked his face. Even almost thirty years later. He hates alphas; they are too prideful, too arrogant—disgusting creatures who think betas and omegas alike are beneath them.

They do not care who they hurt, so Zandik has no issue knocking them down a peg. Never again will he be under an alpha's control. That is the promise he has made himself.

They reach the cafeteria in due time and Feofan's look of absolute bewilderment is priceless—he doesn't seem to be able to hide his facial expressions very well. Zandik snickers under his breath, lips curling into an amused smirk. “Why are we here?”

“To eat.”

Feofan looks at him, squints at him even though what he says is not hard to understand. Zandik rolls his eyes.

“I can't have people thinking I don't feed my subordinates, now can I? You're all skin and bones.”

Feofan does not respond to the rhetoric question. Good. He is learning.

Feofan orders some sort of Snezhnayan dish. He does not care for Snezhnayan dishes really– he will eat it, but he does prefer the dishes of his homeland.

His homeland…

A bitter feeling swells in his chest at the thought of his home. How lonely—to be cast aside, and still miss the land of his birth.

“Here.” He pays for Feofan's lunch, and shoos the alpha over to a quiet table. He watches him from his place against the wall.

When he gets back to his lab, he writes a name down in the file instead of just Subject Three: Feofan Sergeyevich Veksel.

Giving reports to the Jester is almost second nature by now, when he has done so for eighteen years now.

“As such, we should be able to procure the funding from the Northland Bank within the next month.”

The director of the Fatui nods. “As expected of our second harbinger, Zandik,” Pierro pauses. There is something that gleams in the old alpha's eye—not wicked, but rather fond.

Does the man still see that eighteen year old beta he found in the desert? Or the boy that struggled to adjust to the cold of Snezhnaya and the rocking of waves against the ship as they sailed from Sumeru to Snezhnaya?

The thought makes something in his heart ache. After all this time—

“Well, my newest subordinate has a knack for finances.”

“Yes, your former test subject.” Pierro looks at him. “It is rare for you to spare someone out of the kindness of your heart.”

“I can be quite generous at times, can I not?” He grins, even though his eyes cannot be seen. Pierro does not seem to mind. “Not many alphas can talk their way out of a situation such as that. I figured I would take a chance—and what a chance it was.”

He will not praise that man in front of Pierro, but it seems he does not need to. “It may do you some good to send him to the bank, then.”

What.

“What?”

Feofan is his subordinate. Why should he let anyone else make use of his talents?

“It is easier to procure funding if you have an inside man, Zandik.” He tells him. Zandik thinks about it, but it still leaves a heavy feeling in his chest. “I'll think your suggestion over, Director.” He places a hand over his heart, bowing low in respect to the man.

Zandik takes his leave after that. He is not even five meters out of Pierro's office when he is practically ran into, by one of his subordinates.

“Lord Dottore!”

She seems quite frantic, her brown eyes blown wide. Dull, boring. Not like those expressive mauve eyes that seem to challenge his every command, even if the man himself obeys.

“What is it?”

“Some… some alpha dragged Feofan away and—”

His voice is cold, detached. “And I should care, why?”

An alpha dragging away another alpha– unheard of, but nothing dangerous. Even if he does not enjoy the thought of someone else touching Feofan.

“He's an omega! My lord, you promised— that none of us would ever feel unsafe under you just because of our designation!”

Her voice is pleading, but it makes him stop. Feofan, an omega?

“… He is not an alpha?”

He does not bother listening to the rest of his underling's spiel. Because he did vow that, did he not? That no omega would feel unsafe around their beta commander just for their secondary gender. (Even if he had no problem using a few as test subjects if they messed up beyond the point of no return.) He just asks where the alpha dragged Feofan to.

Directions in mind, it does not take very long to find them.

The alpha in question is not his subordinate, but the current Knave's—Brighella, an alpha who he cannot stand. Her subordinate is named Zakhar Alekseyevich Grubov, an alpha who believes that every omega should immediately open their legs for them.

And pinned against the wall is Feofan.

The issue lies not in the fact that Feofan is apparently an omega—his fault for assuming really—but the fact that Zakhar is touching his subordinate.

“Zakhar.”

The man jumps away from Feofan immediately, apparently not lacking self preservation to know when to back off another harbinger's subordinate.

“Lord Second!”

The first thing he does is grab Feofan by his collar, and shove the man behind him. Feofan stumbles, looking at him with those expressive mauve eyes.

“What are you—?”

“Do be quiet, Feofan.”

The second thing he does is take the scalpel and stab it into the flesh between two bones on the back of Zakhar's hand. Predictably, the alpha screams.

Alphas have no pain tolerance. Really, he should have known that Feofan was not an alpha. It's so clear to him now that he thinks about it.

“Touch my subordinate again and I'll personally mail your head to Brighella. Understand?”

The only one who gets to cause even a little fear to pulsate in Feofan's heart is him, after all.

“U… Understood.”

“Good,” he turns back to Feofan as he withdraws his scalpel. “Let's be off, yes?”

“Yes Commander.”

The way back to his lab is quiet. Neither of them speak, but Zandik is noticeably a bit softer with Feofan given what he just went through.

“Commander,” Feofan uses his words carefully. A pause as he considers the older man's sudden kindness. “Why did you save me?”

Zandik is grateful that his eyes and nose are hidden by his mask. But Feofan sniffs the air, and Zandik can only imagine that he smells the disgust rolling off of him in waves. “You would be of zero use to me if that alpha took advantage of you and then killed you afterwards.”

He sees a mix of conflicting emotions twinkle inside of his eyes. Oh, those eyes.

“But aren't you an alpha yourself, my Commander?”

Zandik pauses at that. An alpha himself? Is that what is going on? He believes Il Dottore is an alpha?

He cannot help the laugh that leaves his lips—loud, messy, hysterical. His hands going to his hips as he is unable to hold in his amusement.

“I am a beta, Feofan.”

“Oh.” Feofan blinks in what he assumes is disbelief. Then he bites his lip, squinting at him. “We both thought each other was an alpha... That is—well..”

“A minor misunderstanding on both of our parts. You being an omega explains your competence, I should have known an alpha could not talk their way into surviving the impossible.”

He is sure that he saw Feofan almost smile. Almost. “And you being a beta also explains a lot. Unnerving, but.. Reassuring.”

Neither of them apologise for the assumption. They are both men who do not enjoy being the control of others.

But there is something else that catches his attention.

“I've been meaning to ask… Why are you always squinting? Is there something wrong with my face?” Not that most of his face is visible, but it is the little things. At this, Feofan actually has the gall to roll his eyes at him.

“No, Commander.”

“Then what is it?”

“I can't see very well, Commander.”

Oh. That makes sense. The glasses he wore at twenty-five… Yes, he supposed that is much better than someone squinting to be condescending.

An easy fix, really. He tells himself that he is only doing this to fix any incompetence.

“Do you know your prescription?”

“My… Prescription?” Feofan blinks. “Twenty slash a hundred fifty, I think. Why?”

“I'll have a pair of glasses ready for you within the week's end.”

Feofan's eyes go so wide that he thinks they might pop out. “Commander, that really is not necessary—”

He cuts him off. “Nonsense.”

The glasses are ready a week later—and he actually takes Feofan by the hand, leading him into the lab. He's a lot gentler with him now that he knows that the man is an omega, and not an unruly alpha.

Zandik tells himself that he is just leading him because his dear subordinate cannot see a thing. He doesn't need him running into walls or worse, serums that have not been proven safe.

Yes. Surely this is a normal reaction, and not unlike at him at all.

“Commander…” Feofan follows along as they head into the lab. “If I may… Why does a beta hate alphas so much?”

“In the eyes of alpha society…” His fingers brush against an empty test tube. “Betas are just ‘cucks’ or a bed warmer for an omega until a real ‘alpha’ comes along. Stepping stones for the alphas.”

Feofan is silent, but then—practically blind without any kind of visual aid—he does something that Zandik does not know is foolish or brave.

He grabs his mask, tossing it onto a nearby desk. Then he grabs his face right there.

Zandik should grab his scalpel and slit his throat right there, or strap him onto the table to experiment on him. Zandik does neither of those things.

Instead, he allows the omega to run his fingers over his face, feeling the deep yet old faded scars that someone made years ago.

Feofan traces them with a gentleness that Zandik has not felt for years. Mapping out his face with his hands, though he cannot see the ugly mess that lie beneath.

“So this is why.”

Feofan's voice is quiet, curious. His head tilts to the side, his fingers brushing against a particularly deep mark. “Not too deep to mangle, but not light enough to barely be visible… An alpha did this to you?”

The audacity of this man.

“Alphas,” he corrects. The correction feels bitter on his tongue as he remembers.

Feofan does not say anything more, the way his brows pinch together is enough of a tell. “We are the same, you and I.”

That almost makes him laugh. Yet it doesn't, not with the sincere way that Feofan says it.

“In what way?”

“We have both been personally wronged by alpha society. You as a beta, and I as an omega.”

His finger swipes against a particularly jagged line of scarring. The phrase ‘get your hands off of me before I cut them off’ never leaves his lips.

“An unlikely understanding between two parties,” he says. A pause before he speaks again. “Now can you get your hands off of me so I might give you your glasses?”

Feofan's grin is unbearable. “I'm not sure, my Commander. Can I?” Zandik's eye twitches.

“Will you?”

“Will I what?”

“Feofan.”

“Commander. Say it.”

Zandik groans. “Will you get your hands off of me?”

Feofan lets him go— Zandik straightens himself up, before he puts his mask back on, his mind a mess. Since when was he manhandled by an omega? When did he, Il Dottore, get manhandled by his subordinate?

He shakes his head to clear it.

“Stay still,” he orders as he retrieves the glasses. Feofan thankfully obeys that order.

He takes the glasses, slowly putting them onto Feofan's face. Zandik tilts his head– looking at Feofan. He looks… hard to miss, especially with the silver eyeglass chain attached to the glasses.

Now he looks like a proper subordinate of the second harbinger. Oddly, he looks good in silver.

“Everything is so much more clear.” Feofan remarks, voice almost breathless. Zandik watches his reaction closely. “I can't have my subordinate struggling due to his bad eyesight, now can I?”

Feofan's answer comes relatively quick. “No, I suppose you can not.”

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Sometimes, we are all, lifesteal.