049×035 oneshots

Doc's Days Off

In which 035 decides that the birdman could use a break.

Recommended by Lord_Of_Wands on ao3.

Stuff that's here: 035 using masc. pronouns, 049 being pampered, implied/referenced flogging, an absolutely inordinate amount of smut.

_-_-_

It had been an awfully long couple of months. Not for the Mask, of course. He had a rather good sense of how to take care of himself. As much as he had to burn, his energy wasn't as boundless as he wished it was. There were still times, after a long day out in the public eye, after a good while working on a new script, after sex, that he would need a break, and it was often that he would stop for a while of seclusion to bask in the restfulness brought by a lack of clamoring minds. Occasionally, he would even dare to drift near dormancy, though that was more due to boredom than weariness, and, on top of that, was quite the dangerous game what with how likely he was to simply stay "sleeping" for a millennia or two if he ever got too close.

Yes, Dýo was, unfortunately, responsible when need be, or at least aware enough of his current body's cues to know when to stop for a while.

What frustrated him is that for some unknown, godsdamn reason, his partner, a doctor of all things seemed to refuse doing the same.

Normally, he'd just take care of the bastard. Lovingly bullying him into staying on the couch for a few minutes, or poking him into sitting and watching the television. Lately, though, he'd been awfully stubborn, and growing bolder with simply moving the Mask off if he wanted to get going somewhere.

Frankly, Dýo was shocked the Doctor hadn't keeled over yet. He wasn't built for a life where trivial things like sleep were an optional past-time, and yet burned the candle at both ends until the thespian was half convinced he was in some weird, one-man religion that worshiped waking hours like gifts from a bizarre, twisted heaven.

The Mask was frustrated, deeply so. It must have been a new record for that bird of his. Two full months - even with his attempted interventions - without any form of rest, and it certainly did show. That prim, proper posture drooped and wearied so that the Doctor's tiredly hunched shoulders made him look far smaller than he really was, a slight, sluggish unresponsiveness that truly lent wonder to the fact that he hadn't been botching his surgeries of late, a walk that had become more of a shambling means for the professional to simply get to his next self-assigned job rather than the brisk stride that exuded quite the air of importance for a former country-boy.

Now, there he was just across from the Thespian, having, at long last, finished the documentation of his most recent surgery. Dýo had tried to get him to stop the night before and, admittedly, had been a bit too zealous with it. Then again, he was getting desperate. His bird wouldn't stop repeatedly trying to fly himself through the damn ground. The result, though, had been little more than the exhausted, sex-addled surgeon reassuring him over and over while wandering back towards the basement door, and, of course, the burning guilt drilling into the back of his head watching the Doctor lean forward in his chair even if he had truly and genuinely begged to be hurt before the Mask even dared consider fetching the crop.

A slight sway in place that nearly sent the professional out of his seat which the Doctor instead played off by fully standing and starting toward the kitchen with his plate of untouched food as though Dýo hadn't seen the brief panic in his eyes as he'd started to fall.

This had gone on long enough. The Mask knew full well he couldn't exactly force the Doctor to stop doing whatever it was he was doing unless it was he who was endangered by it, but damn it, the moment his partner stepped out of that kitchen he would be going straight to bed. Perhaps... perhaps Dýo ought to make him rest for a day or so, too. Just in case. Just to make sure he didn't accidentally kill himself with his determination to cure.