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“I thought you said you’d be done by now,” Childe says absently, picking up a paperweight from Dottore’s desk and idly tossing it between his hands. He sounds more bored than reproachful, but there's no telling how long that will last.
Yes, maybe he had said that, but Childe must know by now that his grasp on time can be a little… vague. “Soon," Dottore mutters - and it will have to be because his hand is starting to cramp, writing becoming gradually more illegible as the minutes pass.
“I got you this,” Childe says suddenly like he hadn’t even noticed what it is he’d picked up, grabbing the paperweight out of the air and holding it up to the light. His tone is pleased, and a little surprised.
Dottore frowns, pen slowing only fractionally as he answers. “And? It's useful. I can throw it away if you’d like.” It’s a lie, of course; though he keeps most of it out of sight, tucked away in drawers or boxes, he finds he's loath to part with anything Childe gives him. By now he must have souvenirs and trinkets from all over Teyvat; each one proof of Childe’s irrepressible will to live no matter what situation he’s thrown into. Most of them are decidedly neither useful nor practical, but Childe tells him that’s their charm. “Not everything needs to have a purpose,” he’d said, looking irritatingly fond.
It had also been an utterly hypocritical thing to say in Dottore’s opinion, given how utilitarian Childe is in his own life. He’ll shower others in gifts while leaving his own chambers stark and bare.
Dottore wants to snatch the paperweight back, but Childe has resumed throwing it in the air; a heavy chunk of amber he’d brought back from Liyue, imbued with elemental energy that’s resulted in a permanent soft glow. His grip on his pen tightens as Childe fumbles a catch. “Don't break it.”
Childe does pause then, oddly quiet, and sets the paperweight back down gently on the pile of documents it had been holding in place. “I’m glad,” he says, almost to himself, and Dottore foolishly allows himself to be distracted long enough to glance up at his face. Childe is still standing beside him, leaning back against his desk - but now his eyes are closed, lips curved into a soft smile. A truth not many are privy to is the fact that Childe rarely smiles. Not genuinely, anyway. Dottore is all too aware of his own awkwardness when it comes expressing and receiving affection, but it makes a quiet warmth twist in his chest to know that he is the cause.
“...fifteen minutes,” Dottore says, reaching up to pull off his mask and briefly pinch the bridge of his nose as his pen scrawls across the page. He’s not even sure how long he’s been working for, in all honesty.
“Are you all right?” Ah, there’s the reproach. Except– it’s not, not quite. Dottore would just prefer it to be, because Childe’s irritation is easier to brush off than his concern. Instead of answering, he reaches out his free hand and pinches Childe’s thigh, the only part of him within easy reach. “You probably haven’t eaten all day,” Childe says as he grabs Dottore’s hand before he can withdraw it. “I know you haven’t quite figured out how to subsist only on air yet.”
Childe’s fingers are warm and a little rough against his skin; they trace over the tendons of the back of his hand, along the knuckles and then slip under to explore the lines of his palm. It would surely look utterly ridiculous were an outsider to walk in; the Second and Eleventh Harbingers essentially holding hands as he works, but Childe has now fallen silent again and thus his hand is a worthy sacrifice.
He’s halfway through writing his conclusion when there’s an odd pressure on the back of his hand, but he ignores it in favour of scribbling down the last few sentences. Childe is still being suspiciously quiet as Dottore abandons his pen with a clatter and leans back in his chair, closing his eyes. Pain spikes up through the tendons of his right hand, and he can’t help but grimace as he flexes them awkwardly.
“Give it here,” Childe says, voice laced with an amused exasperation. Dottore cracks an eye open as Childe drops his left hand and takes a step closer to swing his leg over and straddle Dottore’s lap. There’s no point protesting, and Dottore finds he has no desire to. He exhales and some of the tension begins to dissipate from his body, Childe’s weight warm and familiar across his thighs. It’s oddly chaste. Childe does little more than take Dottore’s right hand within his own, and begins to massage each finger gently in turn.
For all that he spends most of his time wielding weapons of violence and death, Childe’s hands are softly deft. Dottore allows his eyes to drift closed once more; lets his head fall back, throat bare. It should feel uncomfortably exposed. Dangerous. Regardless of whatever this is between them, a Harbinger should never allow themselves the capacity to trust. They’ve had countless opportunities to kill one another, should that really have been their desire– there’s few situations more vulnerable than sex– yet here they both remain.
He feels his breathing slow as Childe gentles his hand and shifts his weight to lean in; a questioning kiss lands on the corner of his mouth. “Are you falling asleep?” Childe murmurs against his jaw, then moves to kiss his cheekbone, his nose, the newly formed crease between his eyebrows as he frowns.
“Stop that,” he grouses, though his actions belie his words; he slips his fingers out of Childe’s grip and brings his hands up to rest on the firm muscle of Childe’s waist, drawing him closer.
“You can just go to bed, you know,” Childe says, and kisses his neck. There’s no ulterior motive; it’s somehow different to when Childe is angling for sex or attention, so Dottore opens his eyes to squint at him. “In fact, you really should.”
“...you only just got here,” he says vaguely, and Childe huffs a laugh.
“Dottore, I’ve been here for two hours.” He opens his mouth to respond, but Childe shakes his head. “It’s fine, I have a budget meeting with Pantalone soon anyway.”
An apology sticks in his throat, unfamiliar and acrid, words he finds he can’t give voice to. Instead he abruptly moves forward to kiss Childe, whose mouth opens with a soft noise of surprise. It’s everything their usual kisses are not; languid and almost tentative, and he brings a hand up to cup Childe’s jaw.
When Childe finally pulls back reluctantly, his cheeks and neck are oddly flushed, gaze flickering over Dottore’s face like he’s not sure where to look, a rare crack in his mask of confidence. “Go to bed,” he says again, voice slightly strained, and Dottore can’t help but stare. Childe is never so easily flustered. He slides off Dottore’s lap and straightens his uniform before finally making eye contact. “I mean it,” he says, and there– the smooth self-assurance is back, voice now undercut with innuendo. “I’ll come and join you later.” Flashing Dottore a quick grin, he turns and is gone in an instant.
It’s not until Dottore’s gathering his documents together, room still and silent, that he notices - blotchy doodles on the back of his left hand, now slightly smudged. Still clear to see, though, are the clumsily drawn hearts that dot the skin and small whale that sits just above his wrist. He’s not sure how long he stands there, hand held in front of him.
It’s stupid. Puerile. He should wash it off immediately, because if any of the other Harbingers caught wind of this they’d never let him forget it. Dottore hesitates. Instead, he slips on his gloves.
Later, he thinks, and finally heads back to his rooms.