Chapter Text
The office is immaculate and well furnished, and you positively hate every inch of it.
Hands balling into tight fists down at your sides, you keep your head respectfully bowed and try to focus on what the Lord Harbinger is saying. It’s hard, though. Everything felt like it was spinning dizzily around you in all of its ostentatious polished glory, so much mora poured into but a single room that could have been used instead to feed the villages and outposts across Snezhnaya.
You felt sick. Completely out of your element here where the lavish was a bygone conclusion and your dirty, work-worn boots don’t fit the aesthetic of the drapes.
“Are you listening, dear?” Regrator drawls, snapping you out of your spiraling thoughts.
But even though the tone of voice still remained as pleasant as ever, you couldn’t quite shake the sense that he wasn’t exactly thrilled to have you standing before him like this. Not that you could really blame him. The wealthy so rarely had any reason to cohort directly with the poor, after all. You were as good as a stray mongrel that had wandered in off the streets without first having been invited to do so. An unwanted and unnecessary guest that he would sooner be rid of than anything else.
You didn’t have much left in the way of options, however, and you bravely gather your resolve as you lift your head just a fraction of an inch to steal a quick, split second peek at him. Handsome, but decidedly dangerous. Very much so. Anyone with a working pair of eyes could have realized that much at just a glance.
“Yes, my lord. I’m sorry if it didn’t seem like I was.”
Drawing a slow, calculated breath that makes his narrow shoulders subtly rise and then fall, Regrator pins you in place with a pityingly sardonic smile. “Well, I suppose I do have to give you credit for one thing. Your manners are quite agreeable, aren’t they? That is not always the case with someone who is so very … lowborn. And you even had the courage to come here just to entreat me directly. That makes two things, then.”
You stamp down the urge to squirm in place, trying very hard not to think about how inconsequential you felt standing there in front of the Lord Harbinger like that. It wasn’t just the expensive room with its expensive furniture, excess and frivolity unlike anything you’ve ever seen before, shoved into every corner and on every shelf. It’s the way he watches you like a bug through a microscope.
Something to observe, not something to touch or make nice with, and certainly not something to invite to have a seat in one of the finely upholstered chairs that stand guard in front of his stately mahogany desk. There was no telling what you might have dragged in with you, what unsightly stains you might leave behind. So you continue to stand, and you don’t even dare to ask for anything more than that.
“With that being said,” he goes on; slow, thoughtful. Considering. “I have to admit I’m not exactly sure what you expect me to do with you. If it is a paycheck you need, then you should seek out one of the recruitment centers or intake officers, not me. Her Majesty is always happy to welcome young, plucky soldiers to her army’s ranks though. I’m sure you’d find much warmer reception there.”
As opposed to his frozen cold, bitter reception?
“My lord, I’ve already tried that. Many times, in fact. But they always tell me I’m not fit for service before they send me on my way again. The last man I spoke to said I wouldn’t even make good cannon fodder. Just a … another mouth for them to feed.”
“The medical division, then. Nurses are needed just as much as soldiers are.”
The sting of unshed tears creeps into your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. You’d already humiliated yourself enough just by marching into the Northland Bank and demanding an audience with its owner, you really didn’t want to add dramatics on top of that. It’s hard though, so hard.
“I - I’m terrified of blood, sir. I can’t stand the sight of it. Honest. I’m lucky if I don’t pass out on the spot but then I run the risk of spitting up my lunch. I’m no good as a medic either.”
Softly clicking his tongue, Regrator tips his head ever so slightly to one side and vaguely purses his lips at you. “In that case, allow me to ask you again: what am I supposed to do with you when you have no talent, no strengths to offer? I’d like to remind you that nothing is free in this world and I cannot simply give you a salary for no services rendered. So, tell me. What are you going to give me in exchange?”
“… I’m not sure, my lord. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t you think that’s something you should have considered before you came calling on me in my office?”
You flush hot at that, embarrassed by your tragic lack of foresight. But it was already much too late to remedy any of it, neither your uselessness nor the impulsive decision to come here, and you grope for an appropriate answer to the question. There had to be something.
“Forgive me, but … could you be in need of a maid, my lord? Someone to clean and tidy up for you, or - or perhaps to take care of other mundane tasks that are far beneath someone of your — impressive and noble bearing?”
That manages to earn you a scoff of a laugh as Regrator slowly shakes his head, looking almost rueful now.
“So you’re also well versed in the art of brown nosing too, I see.”
You’re almost startled to hear such crass language come out of his mouth, sounding all the more wrong in that dulcet, well cultured drawl of his.
But before either of you can make another move — you, to decide how you should respond to that unexpected drop of the mask and him, to dismiss you from his sight — the door to the office abruptly swings open with a sudden wrench.
“Pantalone!” The new man, this one utterly unknown to you, barks as he sweeps into the room, a whirlwind of dark, lifeless feathers that shudder at the slightest movement. “Did you approve my request for the research funding as I asked you to? I need to get started on the next phase soon. This is a highly time sensitive matter, you know.”
The door bangs shut behind him and, letting out a slow exhale through his nose, Regrator sedately leans back in his comfortable chair to glance up at the newcomer. Completely disengaging himself from the fact that you were still standing there, waiting for an answer, you can’t help but notice. Talk about awkward.
“Yes, I saw it. And I’m well aware just how impatient you are, Doctor. That really is a bad habit of yours, if you ask me. I always approve your projects before anyone else’s, don’t I?”
Grumbling a low sound, the man in the vaguely bird-like mask steps up next to you and then bypasses you completely, not even sparing you so much as a glance when he goes by. Much more interested in his bespectacled colleague sitting on the other side of the desk than he was in you, evidently.
And you got the sense that this was likely for the best.
“Then where is my mora, Pantalone? When might I expect it to reach my hand, hm? Today? In the next hour?”
“Relax. I’ve already got someone downstairs divvying up what you asked me for. Such large amounts can take time to procure and verify, as I’m sure you’re well aware. But really now, what’s got you in such a deplorable mood today? I very much doubt it has only to do with the funding.”
“No.” He bites out, through gnashing teeth by the sounds of it. Even you, someone who was not at all familiar with this person, could tell just from looking at his stiff back that he was indeed upset about something.
But somehow Regrator’s placcid guise remains steadily in place even when his acquaintance begins to slowly pace, back and forth, in front of the desk. Not at all unlike a caged animal.
“It’s that damn Columbina. Again! She’s been avoiding me lately, I’m sure of it. And we’d been having such a splendid time in each other's company too. I was even on my best behavior, if you can believe it.”
“I can’t.” Regrator helpfully supplies, even though he sounded to you just as unaffected by this information as he was by everything else. Amused, even.
Snorting a derisive laugh, the man starts to broaden the circumference of his pacing, refusing to stay confined to the area in front of the desk any longer. As if he simply couldn’t stand to remain in one spot while he relayed the full scope of his frustrations to the other man.
Rather surreptitiously, you start to back up and inch your way towards the door with every intention of making a silent, sneaky escape from the room.
“I really don’t get it, you know. One moment I’m giving her the tour of my lab and the next, poof. She’s disappeared. Spirited away, never to be seen again, except in fleeting glances while she haunts the corridors of the palace like a singing wraith. That seems to be all she ever does, don’t you think?”
At Regrator’s vague lilt of a hum, the man in the bird mask makes a sharp about-face and starts to retrace the wide half moon arc he’d already stomped.
“It really is ridiculous. I do nothing short of welcoming her in with open arms and this is the thanks I get.” He shakes his head, snorting a humorless laugh under his breath. “And don’t even get me started on that old, dying coot.”
“Now, Dottore,” the banker lightly admonishes. “That’s hardly a nice thing to say, is it?”
“Pah! Who cares for niceties when the topic is but a plain and simple truth? Death comes for every mortal, eventually, and that ancient relic is no exception. It is the one great equalizer in this world, after all. Ah, but I suppose not all of us have to worry about that, do we?”
You’re almost to the door now, your fingers itching with the overpowering urge to reach out and snatch the handle. It is only your curiosity at what was being discussed that makes you hesitate to take the chance while you have it, but you quickly come to regret that decision when this so-called Doctor aggressively turns on his heel again.
And this time he comes up short when he finds himself standing face to face with you. The noticeable jump of tension in his posture tells you he really hadn’t noticed you earlier, and your presence there in the office comes as something of a shock to him. Oh, you really should have gotten out of there instead of being nosy.
“And who is this?” He sharply emphasizes each individual word, punching the syllables out one by one as if they’ve personally wronged him.
“Mm? You’re still here? My dear, I thought you’d already left some time ago.”
You don’t think you believe that but you still find yourself growing uncomfortably warm under the Regrator’s archly inflected drawl. How embarrassing.
“I’m so sorry, my … my lords.” You stammer in a rush. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. I was just trying to excuse myself without interrupting your conversation.”
As if to prove that, you snatch your arm out to grab blindly at the door handle. It swings open with your jerky tug and you move to step out into the lobby, but Dottore is quicker than you expect. His gloved hand flies up to smack against the finely crafted wood, slamming it shut again, and you give a startled yelp of surprise when you snag your fingers back as if you’d been scalded.
“Oh, but let’s not be so hasty,” he croons at you, all solicitation now. In the blink of an eye every bit of that simmering, bubbling temper from a moment ago is completely gone, as if a switch in him had been flipped, and your bone dry throat works a nervous swallow as you watch him politely fold his arms behind the small of his back. “Stay and chat for a moment, won’t you? And what is your name, little mouse?”
You tell him with no shortage of apprehension or difficulty when your vocal chords almost refuse to cooperate.
“I see. How interesting. I didn’t even notice you standing there. Has anyone ever told you that you are very good at going unnoticed and hiding in plain sight?”
“Uh - uhm …”
“Our dear guest was just on her way.” Pantalone cuts in then. And although his tone of voice still remains as pleasantly accommodating as ever, there is now the prick of a pointed barb somewhere just underneath the surface to put you on even higher alert. Was he displeased with you?
“Is that so?” His mouth tugging into a rather bemused smirk, the Doctor tips his head to one side, studying you from a slightly different angle. He does not look at all unlike a curious carrion bird in the execution of that gesture.
“Oh, but what a pity that is. We could have had coffee brought in. I must admit, I’m quite curious to know what brought you before my esteemed colleague today. Judging by your attire, I’d say … you must be a commoner, is that right? And not a very well off one, if I had to guess. Then what business could you possibly have with the owner of the Northland Bank, hm?”
“Dottore.”
Wide eyes flickering in Regrator’s direction, you expect to see a disapproving frown upon his face or a bothered crease between his brows. Instead, you find him still smiling from his spot behind the desk, looking only mildly uncertain of his friend’s game. How curious.
How frightening.
You snap your gaze back up at the Doctor. “It — it was nothing, really. Just … wishful thinking, is all. I only wanted to try my luck here but I guess that was silly of me.”
“With what?”
“Oh. Um, a job. Work that I might be able to do for the Lord Harbinger in exchange for a few mora. I thought maybe he’d need extra hands here at the bank, or … or something.”
“Or something.” The Doctor echoes you, sounding hardly impressed and yet not exactly disinterested in your pathetic little sob story either, prompting Regrator to quietly clear his throat.
“Seeing as the bank is currently fully staffed and I have no need at the present time for any sort of housekeeping personnel, I’m afraid I’ve had to decline her well intentioned offer. While it does pain me to say it, I have a feeling that our little guest doesn’t have much to offer from an employer's perspective.”
Your cheeks positively blaze, hot enough to fry an egg on. Of course you’d known coming here was likely the most foolish thing you could possibly do, well aware of your own shortcomings as you were, but to hear him say it out loud and in so many words? It feels like you could just whither away and die on the spot.
“I - I’m so — s - so sorry, my lord. Please forgive me for my impudence today. It won’t happen again, I promise. I’ll just - -“
You’re already halfway through the motion of reaching for the door again when the masked man standing next to you abruptly grabs at your elbow, pinching and squeezing to once again halt your escape. Jumping at the contact, you jerk your head down to disbelievingly take in his gloved hand on your person. You’re so perplexed by this confounding turn of events that you don’t even think to pull away when he starts to nudge you in the direction of the two chairs situated in front of the desk.
“Come, come. There’s no need for that now, is there? We are all adults, after all.” The Doctor cooes saccharinely. It was obvious he found something funny here but you couldn’t even begin to guess at what that might be or what it had to do with you as you stiffly let him pull you where he wants. It’s not as if you had much of a choice in the matter. “Surely something can be arranged if we just put our heads together and think. Three minds are always more effective than one when it comes to problem solving, wouldn’t you agree?”
“I suppose so - -“
“Sit.” He commands, giving you a pointed shove in the direction of the nearest chair. The gravelly resonance in that one single word does more to convince you that it would be in your best interests to obey him than the insistence of his hands on you does, and you quickly drop into the indicated seat.
You’re admittedly glad for it, too, because you feel dangerously close to fainting dead away from fright as you nervously peer up at the Doctor. What did he want with you to make you stay like this? And were you even allowed to be sitting on any of the furniture in the first place? Something in the way Regrator not so idly taps his fingers against the mahogany grain of his desk leads you to believe that you were not.
How humiliating! You felt like a dog that was only being permitted to continue breaking the rules because there was company over, but that leniency would quickly disappear once you were alone with your master again.
“There. That’s much better, isn’t it? Try not to look so nervous though. I merely want to talk.” Looking really quite pleased with himself, the Doctor eases his body into the chair next to yours where he proceeds to get comfortable, crossing his legs and then resting his neatly folded hands atop the bend of his knee. “Well then, little mouse. Tell me. How old are you?”
You answer him truthfully, unsure why he would want to know, but it earns you a brief nod of approval all the same.
“Well, that’s not too bad, is it? In fact, I might dare to say that you’re in the prime of your life and you don’t even realize it. Have you any family?”
Something about that particular question strikes you as truly odd, and you shoot a helpless look at Regrator behind his desk. He is of absolutely no help to you though.
Evidently perfectly content to simply watch the scene unfold before him, he just sits there, smiling, alternating between rapping at the wood and fiddling with one of the rings on his right hand. He neither rushes to your rescue nor does he join in on his friend’s impromptu interrogation of you. An utterly neutral party, if you didn’t have your creeping suspicion to the contrary.
Turning back to the Doctor again, you sheepishly nod your head. “A mother and a father, but he’s … he hasn’t been home in nearly ten years. He was deployed with a regiment of Her Majesty’s forces to a foreign land when I was younger.”
Your answer seems to rouse Pantalone from his role of simple spectator, peering over at you now through the delicate lenses of his eyeglasses. “Deceased, then? Or …”
“Not to our knowledge. Not officially, anyway.”
“There’s no one else?” Dottore tacks on this time.
“No, my lord. It’s just us.”
“Then is a soldier's salary not enough to see two people sufficiently fed and clothed? If that is the case then we shall have to direct any further queries on this matter to Pantalone instead.” He says, grinning over at the man in question, who gives no indication of having even heard him, other than the faintest tightening of the muscles around his mouth.
It’s not hard to see that something about this situation is irritating him quite a bit. Whether that was you or his friend’s overly chatty persistence, you couldn’t be sure; but you self consciously rush to absolve him of any mistaken culpability before his mood can sour any further.
“No, t - that isn’t quite it. Truth be told, the payments we receive from the palace used to be more than enough to cover our living expenses but … recently my mother has taken ill and she can no longer do odd jobs here or there to supplement our income. Our savings lasted for a little while, and then all of the medicine and doctors visits quickly depleted whatever we had. That’s why I thought …”
“You thought?” The masked man presses when you hesitate to go on.
“Well, I — I guess my assumption was that working under one of Her Majesty’s Harbinger’s would earn me enough money to take care of her in her old age. Even if she doesn’t get better, I’d at least like her to be comfortable in her remaining time here. I need a reliable income for that, and plenty of it.”
The Doctor huffs an amused laugh under his breath, not even bothering to try and conceal it. “That’s very noble of you, isn’t it? The perfect, martyred daughter playing her role right to the last. They have a word for that, you know.”
You lift your head, curiosity once again getting the better of you. “They do?”
“Oh, yes. It’s called being a fool.”
Regrator heaves a quiet exhale at your startled jolt of surprise, giving his head a solemn shake now. “Dottore, that is no way to incline someone to your side when you plan on asking them for a fair exchange of services. I can guess at what you’re thinking, but … are you quite certain that it’s a good idea?”
“I don’t see why not. It sounds to me like she already has experience in caring for the sick and the elderly. It will just be replacing one with another. That seems like a reasonable trade off for a plenty sizable check, if you ask me.”
Slowly blinking away the sting of tears that have risen in the backs of your eyes, unbidden, you glance between the two of them with ever growing uncertainty. “What do you mean? Are you asking me to …”
Eagerly, the Doctor unfolds his legs and sits forward in his chair, leaning across to invade your space. You shirk back, frightened by his close proximity as much as the leering smirk you can see under the hooked beak of his featureless mask. But even then, even in the face of your skittish, nervous reaction, he remains ever undaunted in pursuit of his goal.
“That’s right. It might not be Pantalone pulling your purse strings, but if any old Harbinger would do then why not come work for me instead? I’ll certainly make it worth your while, little mouse. You see, I have an invalid of my own that needs tending to and I’m afraid I just don’t have the time or the patience to deal with it myself. In exchange, I will be happy to supply you with room and board, three meals a day and, of course, a hefty sum of mora to send back home to your mother. Doesn’t that sound perfectly agreeable to you? Hm?”
Sitting there in the exquisitely made wing backed chair that was singularly nicer than anything you’d ever owned in your life, you can hardly believe what it is you’re being offered. Surely your ears must have been playing tricks on you. It was too good to be true, and more than you had even dared to hope for when you’d set off on this ill begotten expedition to the Northland Bank. There had to be a catch though. Something he wasn’t telling you. Fortuitous luck like this didn’t come without its pitfalls, you knew that only all too well.
Your tongue darts out to nervously wet your lips as you search his blank mask for any signs that might point you in the right direction, to help you decide whether or not this was an insidious trap of some sort. It definitely felt like it was.
“That … is a very generous offer, my lord. Thank you. I’m not sure I deserve your kindness, but — may I ask a question first?”
He inclines his head rather graciously. “Go on.”
You steal another brief glance at Regrator, but it’s clear he still has no intention of bailing you out, leaving you to sink or to swim, so you press on. “I’d like to know a bit more about the job I would be doing, if I accepted your proposal. What would you expect of me? Is it … a parent of yours that needs taking care of?”
“Something like that.” Grumbling under his breath, the Doctor stands from his chair to resume his earlier pacing, but slower this time. An almost thoughtful gait to his step now. “Where to start? The, let’s say, patient in question is an eighty-four year old man with all of the usual problems one would expect at that age. Arthritic to the point of being half lame, he occasionally uses a wheelchair to get around although he isn’t quite to the point of being bed bound yet. Frankly, I hope it doesn’t ever come to that. He’s already cantankerous enough at the best of times.”
His boots thunking softly on the floorboards, he moves behind you and out of sight.
“And yet he expects us to see to his care just by virtue of our proximity to him. But as I’ve already said, I have other, far more important things to be doing with my time. Research to conduct, experiments to oversee. His soon to be palliative care is the least of my concern, yet he refuses to stop harping on and on about needing this or that at all hours of the day. If you should choose to accept this position then I would expect you to keep him preoccupied and out of our hair indefinitely. That means, little mouse, that you would have to be present and alert at a moment's notice. Any slacking off in these duties would result in very unfortunate consequences for you, indeed.”
You shudder faintly in your chair, effectively chilled to the bone by the total lack of regard or affection in which he speaks about this individual. He’d said it was something like a parent though, so you could only assume that they did not have a very good relationship. In truth, you almost felt bad for the old man without having even met him yet.
But then it hits you. The catch.
That sudden realization makes your stomach twist itself into a tight ball of knots as you spin around to peer back at the masked man, just as he comes up along the other side of you. It was hard to believe he’d ask something like this after you’d already told him about your own situation, your own circumstances.
“I’m sorry, my lord, but … I can’t leave my mother alone like that. I’m all she has. If I’m not there to take care of her no one else will and I’ll have done all this for nothing.”
“Oh?” He cocks his head to the side, looking for all the world like a raven inspecting a fresh corpse on the side of the road for signs of life. “And whatever is stopping you from hiring someone to see to her in your stead, silly girl?”
“I - I can’t afford that …”
“Ah, I see. You doubt the depths of my coffers, then, I take it?”
“Ahem.” Regrator cuts in at that moment, delicately clearing his throat of some imagined obstruction. “I believe that would be my coffers, Dottore, and you know full well that I at least like to be asked before you start making promises with my mora.”
The Doctor chuckles a faint sound of amusement in response. “Oh, don’t be like that, Pantalone. Can’t you see the poor thing is down on her luck and in need of our charitable assistance?”
“Yes, well,” the bespectacled man murmurs, shifting his attention to you now. “What my colleague is trying to say is that the question of whether or not something is affordable won’t be of any concern to you if you ultimately decide to work for him. You will be making more than enough to pay for a live-in nurse to move in at your home or to even relocate your mother into a permanent residence at one of the clinics if you would so wish it. To that end I have no problem giving you an advance payment so that you are able to make all the necessary arrangements prior to starting your work, if that is something you need to consider.”
“… really?”
“Yes, dear. Really.” Regrator says, holding back a laugh.
You just stare at him in utter disbelief for a painfully drawn out stretch of seconds before slowly glancing up at the Doctor again. It is not lost on you that something seems to have shifted between them inside this room. But he, too, appears to be completely serious and sincere. And try as you might to wrap your head around it you just don’t understand. Did this even really make any sense when you got right down to it?
“But — but why me? Why couldn’t you just as easily hire someone more qualified than I am to take care of your fath - -“
“That is not what he is.” Dottore cuts across you forcefully enough to make you snap your mouth shut. Then, more quietly, he says, “Not exactly, anyway.”
Breathing out a rather curt exhale, the Doctor moves to step around the back of your chair again, slowly dragging his gloved hand across the top of it this time as he goes by. “I do not expect you to truly get anything out of this explanation, but the fact of the matter is that the situation calls for the utmost discretion and secrecy. Although I cannot tell you the exact details of it right now, what I can say is that this matter concerns a Fatui Harbinger and is, therefore, a delicate topic indeed. We cannot have word of the comings and goings of Her Majesty’s forces leaking to the public.”
“It’s a point of security, my dear.” Regrator helpfully adds on. “You understand.”
You’re not so sure you do, but then the Doctor plops down in his abandoned seat and leans forward to brace his elbows upon his knees, clasped hands meeting between them. He looks … weary, you think. Like he’d already puzzled out every other possible avenue to resolve this issue as cleanly and neatly as possible only to come up regretfully short, time and time again. It makes you wonder, not for the first, what his relation could possibly be with this mysterious old man then, if he wouldn’t simply wipe his hands of it like he seemed to want.
“The problem, you see, is that hired nurses generally expect to go home at the end of the day,” he goes on. “Or eventually, at the very least. And they take information with them, intentionally or not. They talk and they gossip, letting things slip. But we can’t just sequester someone like that away from the rest of the world, because they would invariably have people looking for them. Either family or employers, coworkers. Someone who might start asking questions. If the tracks then lead any subsequent investigations directly to the doorstep of a Harbinger …”
The Doctor solemnly shakes his head, and you finally start to understand.
“So you figured I was your best bet because the only one who might question my whereabouts is my mother, and she’s …” You’re reluctant to say it, but he nods his agreement all the same. “I see. But it sounds like I won’t have much freedom of movement, if you’re that worried about possible leaks getting out. I am sorry, my lord, but I still don’t think I can take on this responsibility.”
“Not even if it could potentially save your mother’s life?”
You snap your head around to look over at Regrator who pins you in place with a not unkind smile.
“What?”
“Forgive me for butting in, it’s just … with the amount of mora you would be making from this position you could easily afford to hire the best physicians Snezhnaya has to offer. Sure, you might lose out on a couple of months with your mother, or even a year or two, depending on how the hands of fate choose to fall. But if she could be cured in that time then you would be free to enjoy each other's company in relative comfort once the job is completed.”
Your mind positively reels at this information. Was that truly possible? An equivalent trade of some of your time for more of hers? Did you even dare to believe it?
“I guess I didn’t really think of it like that, but … is the situation really that imperative, my lord? I - I mean, not to be rude, but is your fa - - your patient that much on borrowed time?”
The Doctor tilts his face towards you, sending you a look that is no less scathing despite the barrier of his mask standing in the way. “He will be eighty-five years old soon. What do you think? I can’t imagine he has all that many more years in him, although I suppose we would only be so lucky if he doesn’t stubbornly cling to life with everything he’s got.”
You’re more than a little aghast at how he speaks of this man, but even that is not enough to douse the flickering, hopeful flame that ignites in your heart. It wasn’t what you had set out to do, far from it, and yet you couldn’t conceive of a better outcome, especially when Regrator had been so quick to dismiss your entreaty of him.
It was, of course, hard to believe that this prickly individual in the bird mask would be your savior over the arguably polite, handsome banker, and yet that seems to be exactly how things have turned out for you. Even if it was only a slim chance at extending your mothers life, perhaps just long enough for you to find some closure for her regarding the disappearance of your father, you knew that this was an opportunity you couldn’t afford to pass up. And besides that, if the Doctor was half as unsympathetic towards the old man as he was when talking about him in front of a complete stranger, then you could only surmise that your presence might be the single source of kindness allotted to him in his final days. You weren’t making this decision because of that, but it is something you take into consideration.
“Alright, then,” you say at last, shocked at yourself for even considering going through with it. “I’m listening. How much are you going to pay me, so that I know what sort of arrangements to make for my mother? And when would you like me to start?”