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These meetings are so boring.
Tartaglia stands to attention, of course. Every muscle held with rigid ease, a show of devotion even in this. It"s not like it"s difficult. But there"s an itch at the back of his neck, a strand of hair slightly too long that he"s going to have Scaramouche cut, when he gets a chance. (It would be safer to coerce a recruit into doing it, but there"s something in the disgusted way Scaramouche looks at him, brings those sharp blades too close to the skin but never quite drawing blood, that makes something in Childe"s veins sing. Now if only he would accept his invitations for a fight).
Pedrolino has been talking for a good twenty minutes. Tartaglia tried, for the first three, to pay attention. Now he"s letting his mind wander. His eyes. All the Harbingers are standing in various degrees of formality, (and here Dottore continues in his grand tradition of being the absolute worst, leaning slumped against a wall and picking something that looks like bits of bone from underneath his nails and only standing upright the second the Tsaritsa opens her mouth).
Tartaglia doesn"t understand his attitude. Just being in the same room as her is making the burn of cryo dance across his skin, sear itself just below the dermis like the first fingers of frostbite, invisible. Danger screaming through his body and setting a tremble in his fists. Archon, she"s perfect. The most incredible warrior and he"s only ever seen her loose a blade the once.
(Something Childe had never been meant to see, that he had stumbled onto, an accident, when he was a freshly knighted Harbinger and Scaramouche had been flirting with the idea of killing him. But bad luck for him, it"s an image that Childe carries, brings out to polish to a crystal shine. That spear of cryo flying at Pedrolino, in the privacy of more intimate audience chambers, the result of a terse argument that had ended there and turned into . . . something else. This, Childe understands. There is no foreplay like the sweet release of blood).
It"s going to be another hour of this. Each of the Harbingers giving their reports, all at once so they can"t feign ignorance later down the line, make excuses for hilariously interfering in each other"s plans. Information that"s dispersed in written missives, too, that they every one could read on their own time. Used to, and then pretended that they hadn"t when it was convenient.
Tartaglia misses his bow. Misses his hydro blades too, but those don"t have the added entertainment of infuriating any archers within a circle of three kilometres. And it doubles as a blunt weapon, if he feels like getting up close and creative. He flexes his fingers behind his back, where they"re clasped around his wrist. It"s been a while, maybe he"ll spar with some of the recruits today. The healers look like they"ve had too much time on their hands anyway.
Or, even better. Tartaglia lets his eyes slide to the side, finds the tiny little bastard with his hat strapped across his back. He"s got his arms in front of him, hands over top of one another, palms up. He looks like he very, very badly wants to sit down. Oh wait. There, that little twitch at the corner of his eye. He wants to yell at Capitano, who"s gone to his knees before the Tsaritsa to speak. Tartaglia wonders what he"s taking issue with: an amusing, momentary diversion. Is it his unnecessarily flowered speech? The way he keeps mispronouncing the name of some of the other Harbingers, Balladeer included? The fact that the back of his tunic is somehow twisted so that the hem of one corner is trapped in the high edge of a boot and knotted into his belt? No, not that last one. That"s just stupid enough to be funny.
It"ll be a while before it"s Tartaglia"s turn, yet. Last Harbinger, youngest, lowest in the ranks. He"s the blunt instrument that the Tsaritsa directs where diplomacy isn"t producing the best results. Not that he isn"t capable of it, but. They"re all pretty well aware of where his main talents lie.
The meeting passes by in agony. The most noteworthy things that happen are Signora saying something passably funny, bringing the tick of an almost smile to the Tsaritsa"s face that makes Tartaglia (and nearly every other body in the room) catch jealousy like a flame. And then Balladeer, saying something about some plans in Inazuma. He"s from there, he"s going home for a little while, and Tartaglia wonders what it must feel like to go back to the place that cradled you and try to steal its heart.
And then it"s Tartaglia"s turn, finally, and his long legs eat up the distance on that runner of blue carpet, eager, so so eager to be at his Tsaritsa"s feet. Restless energy lifting off him so palpable it"s a shock it doesn"t make the air hum.
He"s practiced his report. Of course he has, of course. The Tsaritsa is not so rigid she"d demand perfection for this little theatre of accountability but he"s going to give it to her anyway. Everything, everything, every vein and beat and breath in his lungs he will make into a perfect, deadly thing.
When he finishes, still drinking in the harsh beauty of her face, beaming at her because he just can"t help himself she bids him stand. And then come closer. The ripples of interest prick behind him, the unsubtle, threatening envy, and he doesn"t turn around. Walks towards her on winged feet, steps conspicuously silent.
She gestures for him, arm raised and then. Takes his jaw in the frozen valley of her hand. Her fingers, pressing lightly against the bone and if he were not so utterly transfixed, so devoted to the memory of this impossible benediction, he would be craning to see the expressions of all the other Harbingers behind him in the reflection of all this ice. Pedrolino"s face would probably be hilarious. Maybe Scaramouche"s too, and the thought of it makes his tongue dart, quick, to wet the eager curl of his lips.
"How interesting," she murmurs, turning him this way, that. Her grip is iron and gentle all at once. "It"s been a long time since I"ve seen such an expression of love."
Tartaglia thinks all the air in his lungs is going to condense. To freeze into crystal droplets and leave him suffocating. "I didn"t think I was making a secret of my admiration for you, my Archon."
"You don"t," she agrees, something like amusement flickering at the corner of her lips. So close to a smile Childe Tartaglia can almost taste it. If this is the start of some invitation he will fall into it, headfirst, eyes closed and both wrists bared. "But I"m talking about the other Harbinger. So rare, to see affection between them. It pleases me."
The words are like a slap to the face. Worse, a knife sliding between the ribs, no satisfying velocity, no force, only the slick intrusion of betrayal. Tartaglia can feel the confusion on his face and tries to keep it there, before it morphs into full-blown panic. Fuck. "Other . . . Harbinger?"
This is the thing that brings every other body in the room snapping to attention. Even Dottore is looking actively engaged, frowning, leaning forwards, arms crossed over his waist. This is terrible. A disaster. His life, effectively, ended, and not even correctly on the battlefield. Tartaglia can hear the blood roaring in his ears; a sound that doesn"t even have the courtesy of blocking the Tsaritsa"s next words.
"You have my blessing."
He"s changed his mind. He does not want to see a single one of the Harbingers behind him. Maybe ever again, if he can arrange it. Tartaglia stares at the tall row of windows behind his Archon and tries to decide how capital a crime it would be to shatter one for his escape.
"Thank you, my Tsaritsa," he says instead, bowing, not sure what else to do. He cannot bring himself to contradict her.
This is the wrong decision, because the room instantly explodes behind him.
It"s all a cacophony of so much noise it should be unintelligible, but Tartaglia can make out the gist. All "How" and "Why" and "Who?" spiraling in layered rounds, bouncing around the room in echoes the way he"s sure the sentiment will be bouncing around his skull. He stiffens, not willing to walk back but having no other way out. They swarm around him, far too close, Capitano throwing a jovial arm around his shoulders, the light manic in his eyes. "So tell us, Tartaglia, who the lucky Harbinger is. I"m sure we"re all very eager to know."
And he can"t outright deny it, not with the Tsaritsa right. There. But he needs to say something, he"s floundering, drowning in the mire of all these eager opportunists masking their hunger as excitement.
It"s not like he can tell the truth.
Before he can laugh it off, tell them all to leave him the fuck alone (maybe not in those exact words, not within the Tsaritsa"s easy hearing), spin out a little hydro dagger and press it into the Capitano"s thigh, salvation comes from an unlikely place.
"I"m very flattered, Tartaglia, but I"m afraid I"m married to my work."
Every eye turns, simultaneously, to Dottore. The man is making a passable moue, has probably seen enough grovelling from his subordinates to know the barest sketch of how to appear contrite. It lacks something in the eyes, the careful blankness of his mouth, but the mask helps to obscure the otherwise uncanny expression.
Well, any harbour in a storm.
"I"m not asking you to leave it, or anything."
Dottore frowns, looking actively annoyed, now. Piss-drinker. (Childe doesn"t know if that"s true, of course, but he wouldn"t put it past him). "I"m too monogamous to devote my heart to any other."
"C"mon, just one date. You can"t tell me you aren"t curious." There"s a gasp, the choked-off edge of what might be a laugh. That isn"t what he"d meant to say. But that rejection feels like a challenge, and Tartaglia has never met one he doesn"t want to take.
"And what do you think you could teach me?"
Tartaglia cocks a brow, bold. More than a little pissed-off as he wriggles his way out of the Capitano"s grip. "What, you"re saying you have no interest in my body? I"ve seen the files."
"As have we all," Signora laments, staring down at Dottore like she"s just seen a particularly slimy worm that she doesn"t even want to crush beneath her shoe.
Dottore perks up, greed clear on his face. "Are you submitting to my study? I do admit I think you"d make an absolutely excellent subject."
"Hard no. But there are other ways to gather information." He"s making a convincing argument. And why is he making this argument? Tartaglia would do almost anything, would eat his own fist, chew it off at the wrist and crunch the bone, before he"d want to date Dottore. But he"s too stubborn to take it back.
"Wait."
Oh shit. Fuck. He"s still here. Childe thought he"d left, had swept from the room at the first chance but he should have known better. Scaramouche would never, never, pass up an opportunity to make Childe look like an ass.
"Dottore?!? You want to make your bed with him?"
"Now, now, Scaramouche, there"s no need to be jealous. I can"t date you either, of course, but I already said I"m unavailable."
"Fuck an electro crystal and die you beaker-fucking old man."
And Tartaglia should reprimand him for that, but Signora (bless her heart) gets to him first, stabbing at his foot with her (blunt, today, no scuffing up the Tsaritsa"s pretty marble floors) heel. Which is good, because he"s pretty sure if he had so much as touched Scaramouche, he would have gone into cardiac arrest.
Pedrolino leans over, glaring, and says, "Mind your manners in front of the Tsaritsa."
It"s a mark of how much Scaramouche has forgotten himself. He turns to the woman on the throne and kneels, bowing. Formal apology.
This is the best chance he"s going to get. Childe slips through the cluster of Harbingers and darts through the door, just barely managing to keep his scarf from getting caught in Pulcinella"s reaching fingers.
He can feel the weight of the Tsaritsa"s gaze on his back. He does not turn around.
His entire life is a mistake.
Childe opens the door to his room and sees another flood of love letters on the floor. Scowls and wishes desperately his delusion was pyro instead, so he could set the whole pile of them on fire. Oh, and would you look at that. There"s even a rose, just on the top.
Assholes.
Signora and Capitano have recently taken it upon themselves to help (read: harass) him with his suit of Il Dottore. As far as his own subordinates have been able to ascertain, they"ve been roping their followers into writing missives on his behalf. Something to show the Dottore the depth of his affection, or some other such awful nonsense. Childe hasn"t read any of them, can"t even guess at how seriously their poor recruits are taking it. Some of these might even be good, who can say.
He swallows the pile of it up in hydro and sends it sliding down the hallway. Too much force put into the action, it"s anyone"s guess where all of these are going to end up. Not that it really matters. Another week of this and he thinks he"s going to start a fight. It"s not actively discouraged, among the Harbingers, but it"s definitely considered uncouth. And killing one of them would have him court marshalled for sure.
Oh but wouldn"t it be worth it?
Childe serenely contemplates a series of murders, leaning up against the door. (Remaining here, for now, because if he runs into them in the dining hall he might actually follow through). It"s the most relaxed he might have been in a few days, actually, ever since that little revelation from the Tsaritsa. Thank the Archon she didn"t out the actual source of his affection — information that Childe is sure, unequivocally, that she plucked straight from his mind. Fuck, if he ever knew—
"Why the fuck are you standing out here with that creepy look on your face?"
"It"s called a smile," Childe says, already feeling the light of it fading. He doesn"t open his eyes.
"Disgusting."
He hasn"t seen Scaramouche at all, since that scene in the Tsaritsa"s throne room. A reprieve that was probably a blessing, really, for his mental health if the way his stomach is twisting is any indication. He waits, but he doesn"t hear the tap of sandals walking away.
"Are you still here?"
"What are you going to do about it?"
That. That"s a challenge. An invitation. Childe cracks one eye open and stares down into that lovely, hateful face. "Aw, Scara, are you trying to make me feel better?"
"Fuck you."
It comes out before he thinks to stop it. "I"ve been trying to get the Dottore to do that lately. Or haven"t you heard?"
He wants to take it back. Even before the words are out, vibrating in the air, he wants to take them back. Something quiet and bitter ticks in the corner of Scaramouche"s mouth and it feels like Childe has tripped, slipped one of his own arrows into his back. "So that was fucking real?"
"What, are you saying you think I could do better?" Childe always did have a way with words. "If you"re here just to screw with me, know that Signora and Capitano have far outclassed you. Might as well save the effort."
Childe notes, with a detached interest, that Scaramouche"s hands have formed fists. "Dottore is too good for you, you clown-assed bastard."
"So you really are jealous, aren"t you Scara? Well I"m not making any headway, so hey. Maybe if you try real hard, you"ll be able to seduce him first."
Scaramouche is staring at him, glaring, and Childe thinks with some perverted hope that maybe he"s going to punch him in the face. (Knee him in the dick, more likely, can Scara even reach his face)? But the tangible taste of that strangely acrid emotion only plateaus before dropping, muting into something softer. Still bitter but with less force.
And then he just. Stalks past him, haughty, arms and legs straight and stiff.
Weirdo.
Childe watches him go, considering. It"s long past the time the other Harbingers usually take for breakfast. He could go now, probably, and have a nice, peaceful meal while the recruits whisper behind his back. At least they have the considerate fear to do it quietly.
He turns on his heel and heads in the opposite direction, his hands itching for his bow.
He"s no longer hungry.
He"s out on the grounds, his shirt tossed somewhere behind him, gasping soup down from a thermos. The heat of his body has melted most of the snow in a solid circle around where he"s seated, and the crunch of frozen grass peeks up towards the sun for the first time in what must be weeks, subdued.
"Tartaglia."
He just can"t catch a break.
"Dottore."
Fuck, what does this asshole want?
Truth be told, he hasn"t actually done anything. Has maintained that beautiful pattern of ignoring everything but his research, and aside from that disastrous lifeline in the beginning, hasn"t actively made Childe want to burn down the Harbinger dorms. In fact, the only difference from now and what things were like before is that Childe actually thought about him in passing, once or twice, to note his absence.
"I wanted to thank you for the flowers you sent to me. I"ve never seen a specimen like that before. The pattern of capillaries gave me an excellent idea for . . . something. Fun."
"The flowers . . . ?"
Oh. Fucking of course.
He"s an idiot. All that time clearing notes away from the door, all addressed to the Dottore in varying degrees of legibility. He"d never considered that they might be sending gifts straight to the man himself. Childe sighs, drops his back down to the ground. Stretching out enough that there"s still snow to press against his overheated skin.
"Well, glad you"re getting something out of this, at least." Childe closes his eyes. He"s so. Fucking. Tired .
"In that vein, I wanted to say I reconsidered your offer."
His . . . offer. Fuck, maybe he should have had something real to eat, his mind is having a hard time playing catch-up. When did he make the Dottore any offers?
"I see," he says, struggling upwards on his elbows. "And that means . . . "
"I have agreed to take you on as my assistant."
Childe"s thoughts stutter to a halt. He doesn"t think . . . In fact, he"s almost one hundred percent certain that he never offered anything of the sort. And then he thinks of all the letters, the notes, that little box of chocolates that Childe had foolishly taken into his room instead of discarding, only to chuck it out the window anyway when he popped a whole truffle in his mouth and electro slime condensate had oozed over his tongue.
Those meddling bastards.
He groans, lets his head fall back until he"s staring, upside-down, at the far wall of the grounds. "So. What. Are we dating now or something?"
"Call it whatever you fucking want," Dottore says, shrugging. "It"s so hard to get good assistants these days. Maybe being madly in love with me will keep you motivated."
"Ha." Childe can"t help it, all that laughter bubbling out of his throat. This is such a fucking farce. He doesn"t even want to date Dottore but. Archon, the fucking look on Signora and Capitano"s faces when he tells them . . .
It more than makes it worth it.
"This cannot be fucking happening."
"I know." Disgust twists Signora"s face — quite possibly her default expression. She always wears it so naturally , after all. "Dottore. He could do better than Tartaglia."
"You"re just jealous because we"re so madly in love, " Childe sing-songs, eavesdropping on their conversation. Signora scowls when he drops his food on the table beside her. "Sorry that you"re going to die alone. Condolences to you too, Capitano."
"Oh, your master lets you come to the surface for your meals? How generous. And here I thought he"d be feeding you directly under the table while he works."
Childe smiles and the edge of it cuts into his face. Teeth and teeth and a smug animosity that"s making him want to preen. "Better than pathetically trying to figure out how to suck my own dick. But don"t worry, Capitano, I"m sure you"ll learn the trick of it soon. You"ve been working on it for ages, after all."
"Listen here, you little brat—"
"He"s going to get bored of you, you know." The Signora interrupts, defusing the tension before someone can knock over her cup of tea. (Although even from here, Childe can already smell the vodka). "Once you"re no longer a diverting subject he"s going to replace you."
Childe scoffs. Picks up his steak with his fork, uncut, and tears off a savage bite. Meat juice and blood splatters on the table. "I"m not worried. My darling Doctor said he has plenty of plans for me."
"Oh that"s just what we need. For Dottore to turn you into even more of a monster than you already are."
Childe lowers the next bite from his lips. It"s alarming, how easily he"s been catching him off-guard, lately. Usually Childe is attuned to Scara"s presence, always at that perfect frequency. But with the way things have been going these days . . . It looks like there have just been other things on his mind.
Scaramouche settles directly between Childe and Signora, forcing their plates to either side just to be annoying. And interesting thing . . . Signora lets him. Normally she"d have catapulted his bowl to the other end of the room but she just. Scoots over and makes room.
Childe doesn"t like this. Are they making alliances? Bolstering their forces now that they think Childe and Dottore are shacking up? Logistically he knows that"s bad, but. The potential for conflict is sending tingles down his spine. And Signora has never indulged him in a match.
"Rude. And how are you doing these days, Scaramouche?"
"First of all, why the fuck are you asking? Don"t pretend to care, it"s gross." He spears a dumpling with a single chopstick and then looks immediately like he regrets it. "Second I am doing just fucking fine, thank you, I"m so very happy for Childe and his necrophiliac new lover."
"I didn"t say a word about Childe and Dottore," Signora says, lifting her teacup to her lips. Sipping as Scaramouche reaches over and stabs his other chopstick at her plate. The blunt force of it cracks the ceramic in spider webbing lines, and it falls to shards right on the table. "Although now that you bring it up, I always did wonder. Is that true, Tartaglia?"
"Is. What? I mean I don"t know, he just said he"s happy." The words choke out his throat, around large half-chewed mouthfuls of steak. It hurts to swallow.
"I don"t even know if it"s cute that you think that"s something I would care about. Is he a corpse-fucker or not?"
Oh. Childe actually has to think about it. He hasn"t seen Dottore do anything that suggests even a modicum of sexual attraction to. Well to anything, so far, but. He casts back, trying to remember if he"s seen any fresh looking corpses in the Dottore"s personal office. (Unless he just fucks them where they fall, in which case he"d have to catch him in the act). "Not so far as I know?"
"That"s a third date activity," Capitano interjects, clearly cheered at the thought of Dottore springing something like this on the youngest Harbinger. "He can"t bring out all the crazy right away."
"Why not? Tartaglia already likes him, he"s clearly more than fine with crazy."
"Why the fuck are we talking about this?" Scaramouche mumbles, dumpling shoved half into his mouth. "I don"t recall expressing interest in any of your sex lives."
"That"s because they don"t have any," Childe crows. He laughs when Capitano hurls his mug at the nearest recruit and it cracks across their jacket, covering them in a fizzing mead. Huh. They"ve slumped face-first into their food.
Someone better correct that or they"re going to suffocate to death.
Capitano stomps away from his seat, half his meal left behind for some other poor Fatui to clean up. Signora flicks the edges of the dish with a finger, a little burst of cryo smoothing the way as it shoots to the wide end of the table.
"Someone touched a nerve."
"He looks mad," Childe observes redundantly. Half his steak is still hanging off his fork. “Really mad."
"Stop. We only just had the training room repaired and if I have to observe in the goddamned snow for another. Month. Because you can"t keep your violence boner in your pants I am going to piss in all your boots."
Signora lifts a cool brow. "Marking your territory, as it were?"
"I hope your liver fails you disgusting alcoholic."
"And I hope you go bald underneath that stupid hat."
"You know what you fucking hag—"
Childe falls back to his lunch, watching the two of them fight with a fond sort of amusement. It"s been so long since he"s been able to come here, to revel in the animosity of all their company without being bombarded by annoying-ass implications about his nonexistent love life. Maybe he should have just come out and declared he was dating Dottore ages ago. It"s not like the man was going to venture from his basement cave to refute the claim.
It"s not like Childe is trying to keep himself available for anyone else that he would have a chance with.
Childe"s hand snaps out and grabs Signora"s cup, downs the rest of her drink in one shot. It"s so clearly only alcohol that at this point he"s not sure if she"d ever made the effort of pretending it was tea.
"I wasn"t done with that."
He wipes his mouth, drags the sleeve of his forearm across. "I"ll buy you another drink. Some other time. If I remember."
"Oh? And your new little lover isn"t going to mind?"
"Frankly if he knew he"d probably just ask me to slip something in it."
Signora makes a face. The usual one that comes with any general mention of the Dottore; less outrage and more just a sort of exasperated annoyance. "I will not be accepting anything potable from you."
"Great." Debt settled, and so neatly. Signora is opening her mouth like she wants to say something about that, so Childe brushes his hands on his pants and stands up. "I need to get going anyway, got a hot date with the boyfriend tonight. Unless one of you is going to accept my invitation for a little fight?"
"Absolutely not."
Scaramouche doesn"t even deign to grace him with an answer. Startlingly quiet today, actually. In fact he hasn"t insulted Childe once; not for his intelligence, his freckles, the consciously disgusting way he eats. Is he . . . actually upset? About Childe dating Dottore?
The possibility lands like a swallowed stone. Shit, no. No, no, no, no, no. Scaramouche can’t be interested in Dottore, that would be too cruel. And then Childe (if he were a better man, if he were any kind of man at all) would have to "break up" with the Dottore, and then watch as Scara broke his heart on someone that could only be said to have one if it was stolen from flesh and bone.
He"s thinking about this too much. Scaramouche has never expressed any sliver of interest in the Dottore before. It"s just a part of the new group effort to harass him that"s pulled him with some semblance of investment. It doesn"t actually mean anything.
So why is Scaramouche looking at him like that? Dark and angry and slightly too intense in a way that makes electricity shiver through Childe"s veins. Something drops, wet, from his hand, and he only just realizes what he"s doing before the blades actually form. Instead a flood of water drops onto the table and the two other Harbingers scowl at him, Signora sweeping the mess away in jagged shards of ice.
"Should I be taking that as a yes?"
The man glowers, spearing another dumpling on his utensil. "Given the current level of brain damage that sentence just revealed, I don"t think you should be fighting anybody."
"Sweet of you to worry about me."
Scaramouche actually recoils when Childe leans in, grinning. "Shit, it’s a good thing you"re meeting the Dottore, maybe now we’ll finally have an actionable diagnosis."
"If you two are going to flirt I"ll take my leave." Signora pushes up from the table, sweeping her long, long legs out of her seat. "I"m not interested in being caught in another one of your dick swinging contests. Last time you almost broke my teapot."
"If this is how you think people flirt, I can see why you haven"t been getting any." Scaramouche just barely ducks as a small meteor of ice crashes above his head. It hits one of the anemo bracers in the back, shattering into pieces and dusting to the floor while the man continues to eat, unbothered.
Signora doesn"t seem particularly upset that her projectile hasn"t landed. She brushes invisible frost off her fingers, grabbing the bottle that was hidden beneath her seat. "Given that this is how you flirt, I"m frankly surprised Tartaglia didn"t strap you down onto his bed ages ago. You missed your chance, how utterly tragic. You"ll be hard pressed to find anyone else who"d respond to your particular brand of dickery."
"If you think I"m so desperate I"d let him, you"re even stupider than he is."
Ha. That"s not a surprise, of course. Childe knows exactly how the Balladeer feels about him, he"s made it more than clear and on multiple occasions. Still. The muscles in his legs tense, his arms feel jittery.
He has to go.
"Well, this has been fun. Always nice to see how the lonely single people live, but I need to see a Doctor about a date so." Childe is already backing away, boots slipping just that degree enough on Signora"s mess of ice that he might be considered unbalanced. "Feel free to come find me if you change your mind about the fight."
He"s not running away. He does have things to do, and the Dottore did specifically ask him to come to his laboratory tonight to help him. Catalog? Specimens? Or maybe he"s meant to test the newest batch of . . . super . . . human . . . . somethings. Archons, he should have paid more attention. Whatever.
Normally he would have said no (unless when he said "test" what he was actually saying was "fight") but. Childe is too full of static energy these days. He shakes his arms out as he walks away, thinks of the vengeful look on a pale, almost tired face.
He really, really hopes he"ll get to punch something tonight.
You know, Childe thinks, dancing around a vast underground ring, Dottore"s actually not that bad after all.
It turned out he had meant "fight." Childe could have thrown his arms around the masked man and kissed him on that porcelain cheek when he"d been brought down into that stark concrete room, viewing platforms circling the edge and a number of large, iron bars pressed into the walls. Cages, then, for any manner of beast or subject or something else, Childe didn"t even care to hazard a guess. It doesn"t matter.
He"d hopped over the railing on the second floor and landed, rolling, on the hard ground below. Here he could feel the rumble of something underfoot; low-Richter activity that made anticipation spike. Fuck. Yes. He was going to crater this space with the bodies or the chassis or the whatever-it-is that first walked out, and then he was going to do it again. Again. Again.
“Oh!” Childe ducks beneath the swinging arm of a machine. It looks like a Ruin Guard, the way a Ruin Guard might have looked, shiny and new and designed by someone with only a tangential relationship with Euclidean geometry. Solid at a glance but the surface is too fluid, reacts in unexpected ways when Childe applies his force. A delightfully worthy opponent.
An appendage bears down on him and he only just manages to dodge out of the way. He doesn"t even fully evade it, the thing changing its velocity at the tail end of its arc. Incredible. Blood weeps down his cheek, two other moving parts coming towards him, spinning, sharp, and it cuts along his calf. If he"s not careful, this thing might have a pretty decent chance of killing him.
A deranged sort of satisfaction warms in his chest, a pleasure that builds, builds, has his every muscle trembling. This is good. This is so good.
“Tartaglia!” The Dottore calls down from his seat and Childe almost chances a glance, reconsiders, and then lifts his arm to signal that he’s listening. “There are a number of bands along the mid appendages. Do your best to bleed on them.”
And that’s a fucking weird thing to say. What the hell does this metal nightmare need his blood for? But the Dottore is very, very graciously helping Childe work out some of his baser frustrations. As long as he’s not taking that blood to build little Childe clones, (and okay, shit, what if he’s taking that blood to build little Childe clones?), then. Well, it’s not like he doesn’t have the blood to spare.
He jumps onto the thing’s . . . would this be the back? It’s impossible to tell, honestly, which side would be the front. If it even has one. A whirling blade comes slicing smoothly out through the surface and Childe lets it drag along his forearm, maybe a little deeper than it needed to be. Oops. The blood arcs out, flying, as he evades another appendage, before a strange looking metal tentacle, segmented, erupts towards him.
“That one! Bleed on that one!”
Eager. Childe frowns, fights down his rising misgivings. Dottore’s going to scent this monster on him, isn’t he? Like a strategically minded missile, directed at him for any whim.
He doesn’t hate that idea.
The tentacle takes his arm and he allows it to happen, blood smearing between the plates. He can see a little exposed wire beneath the shifting, liquid metal. A flash of red and rust, of heavy iron chains. That can’t be safe.
As soon as everything is more blood than silver the arm retracts. Drops him instantly and Childe catches himself on the balls of his feet, the shock travelling through bone. Alright, now that that’s out of the way. His hydro blade manifests instant in his hand, the subtle boil of water, of steam when he starts to get excited drifting lightly outwards. When he cuts through the exterior he wonders what it’s going to feel like, if the give will be as delicious as that first slice into flesh.
And then the thing powers down. Sort of . . . melts onto the floor, a little deformed puddle of wires and metal. A disappointing denouement when Childe hasn’t even gotten started. He walks over, a jaunty wariness in his step and. Kicks it. Not too lightly.
“Oh we’re done here, you can come back up.”
He spins way too fast, nearly catches his toe on a molten edge. His blade is still thrumming in his grip. "What? But I"m nowhere close to finished!"
“Yes, well I have everything I need from you.” He’s staring down at a notepad, scribbling something with strokes that look too quick to produce any actual language. “If you’re so desperate for some place to stick your knife, there are a handful of test subjects in one of those cells. I can’t recall if they’re conscious or not but I can open one of those grates and you can have your fun with the assembly.”
Childe feels his mood souring. His expression, his posture, the sinuous river of elemental energy feeding through his palm. Brought here and teased to a peak with no outlet for release. He’s hardly going to debase himself, kicking around some limp bodies. He releases his hydro blades and his excitement, feels everything bleeding out of him, so unsatisfying he thinks he’s going to scream.
The lights flicker as Childe gives the mass on the ground a savage kick. On second thought, his first assessment might have been more accurate.
Il Dottore fucking sucks .
Dust motes spiral down in sharp beams of light, the clack of sharp shoes tapping out a strangely syncopated rhythm. The man can’t even walk like an actual, normal human. Can’t even pretend properly, despite all that time and time and time studying his subjects. Childe watches with a morbid curiosity; the snap of his calf, the slightly unnatural, too-precise bend of his knee. He would be an easy target to take down, in a fight with just his fists.
If it were possible, ever, to police that.
A Fatui recruit scrambles out of the nearest hallway, skirting in a wide berth to prevent from coming too close to Il Dottore. Like the atmosphere around him leeches poison vibes. Maybe it does, and Childe simply hasn’t noticed. All that time in the Abyss — he’s come back with more than one surprise.
There isn’t any real reason for Childe to be walking down the hallways with him. Except, of course, that it’s probably good for him to be seen sometimes in the company of his lover. Still, the true extent of his status as pariah would be sobering if it wasn’t so damn hilarious. He really is so universally abhorred.
Childe is starting to wonder if Il Dottore was joking, when he’d suggested that afternoon that he might be the target of Tartaglia’s affections.
“Dottore!”
Someone in a lab coat rushes forwards. Towards him, which is novel enough on its own. But the man is also sweating profusely, Childe notes, looking him over with interest. The white fabric is slipping down his shoulder and one of his eyebrows is missing. The other is an alarming shade of pink.
“There was . . .” He notes the Harbinger standing at the Dottore’s right and falters. He either hadn’t seen him earlier or, and more likely, he’d thought Tartaglia would simply continue walking, leaving the Dottore thoughtlessly far behind. Childe grins at him, draping an elbow over Dottore"s shoulder. Miracle of miracles; he doesn’t make to shake him off.
“What’s the problem?”
“I.” The man looks hilariously at a loss. Not willing to offend a Harbinger with Tartaglia’s reputation, but more than cognizant of the . . . ‘delicate’ nature of his boss’s work. He turns to the masked man, fingers fluttering impotently in the air. “I.”
“Ah, yes. Tartaglia is my assistant.” The Dottore is frowning in a way that Childe thinks would make someone else’s knees fall out through the skin. “Hurry up and spit it out.”
“It. It’s to do with the research for batch . . . two AC.”
“Ah. Ah. Right. Tartaglia, give me a moment.” Dottore takes the wrist of Childe’s hanging hand, grips it between two fingers like he’s holding a dead fish. Childe stares down at that point of connection with undisguised amusement.
“Of course.”
It’s not like Childe actually cares about whatever crisis is currently ongoing. Frankly it seems like his laboratory is on fire every other week anyway, he can’t understand how the Fatui maintain this funding. He takes a step back, another, wheeling towards the nearest hallway.
Caught off-guard again.
"He calls you his assistant?"
Scaramouche is standing there, leaning against the wall. His arms crossed at his chest, lids and eyes tipped down and decidedly not looking at him.
"It"s his pet name," Childe says, smiling too bright. He had considered, briefly, asking the Dottore to call him something else, but the idea of the word "lover" coming from those thin lips had inspired a visceral reaction, and he had soundly stomped down any other intrusive urge.
"Tartaglia?" Scaramouche asks, sounding bored. He lifts his hand to his face, inspecting his nails. A nonchalance so clearly feigned it borders on aggressive. What is he looking for?
Childe only leans down, a little too far into his space. Intimacy designed to unseat that arrogant little asshole, keep him from poking too many holes in the mesh of his poorly fabricated fiction. Scaramouche looks utterly unaffected, if just that tiny bit more annoyed. That’s fine, too.
Because this formality is a little more difficult to explain away. The truth of it being that . . . Childe just can’t bring himself to give this piece to a man who barely remembers his title, who he can’t believe would remember his chosen name. His grin is wolfish.
“I like the way he says it.” And that is better explanation than he’d been expecting. Safe, for now, his mouth working faster than his brain.
Scaramouche tilts upwards, the brim of his hat threatening at Childe’s face and for a moment Childe hovers on the edge of anticipation, ready to take the next hit. Physical, verbal, anything, ( why does it feel like it’s been ages since he’s seen the bastard at all) and.
“I need my assistant. Tartaglia. Tartaglia!”
“Your master’s calling.” The words land, more violent, more skillful than they ever have in any fight. “Be a good dog.”
Something cracks in Childe’s chest. It feels like his ribs, bruised, caving inwards. Funny. He’s familiar with the pain but today it feels worse, like it’s piercing through his lungs.
“Coming, darling.”
Disgust drips from Scaramouche’s expression as Childe skips back to his place. Dottore is gesturing, saying something about catching the last batch, vague words about ‘escape’ and ‘containment’ and the promise of ‘some very gratifying exercise’ but Childe is barely listening. Watching, eyes dark with smug and spite, as Scaramouche scowls after him and disappears back down the hall.
The surface of the table is sticky, stained with the remnants of a spilled drink that was never properly wiped clean. (Coffee, probably, but Childe can’t actually remember). The wood is cool against his cheek though, so he lets himself lean there, feel the disgusting texture lay itself into his skin.
"What? Trouble in paradise?"
True to form that asshole doesn’t knock, and when Childe looks up, a note stuck against his face, Scaramouche is already over the threshold of the open door.
“I thought a lack of sleep was an indication that things are going well.”
They aren’t, obviously, but Childe would rather swallow Scaramouche’s hat whole than admit as much. The Dottore’s got him coming in at all hours, now, asking for favours that require an increasingly gratifying level of violence. Even then he’d started trying to refuse (no one even cared about Childe’s stupid hypothetical crush anymore, especially since his little play with the Dottore was looking more and more believable. And people break up. Fall out of love. It’s not inconceivable that he’d eventually come to his senses and realize that the Dottore, of all Harbingers, was not the best choice of romantic partner). But that infuriating, formless not-quite-Ruin Guard had come slithering into his room, manifesting too large and too lethal in the middle of the night in order to drag him down to the Dottore’s chambers.
Childe isn’t sure if he would be more or less pisssed off if he’d actually been getting kidnapped for some booty calls.
“I can’t believe Il Dottore is outperforming you for stamina. Your muscles were the one good quality you had and it turns out they’re as hollow as your head.”
Childe is about to come back with a scathing retort, simultaneously plucking the sheet of paper from his cheek, when he sees that pale, lethargic face. Scaramouche is listless, his expression vague but with hostility, bags large enough beneath his eyes to hold the full volume of the Fatui treasury. "Fuck did you die in your sleep yesterday, what the hell is wrong with you?"
“I know the concept is foreign to you, but this is something that happens when you’re capable of having a ‘thought’.” Scaramouche sighs and it swells outwards, fills the space like a coagulate. “Sometimes you can’t get rid of them.”
This isn’t the level of acidity that Childe has come to expect from the other Harbinger’s grudging interaction. The vitriol, the fun of the fight. He just seems . . . tired.
“What’s eating you, then?” Childe pauses, tacks on that expletive at the end, just because. “Asshole.”
“I haven’t fallen so far I’d come to you for advice.” Ah. There it is.
Childe grips his hands on his desk, ignoring the slight wetness on his arm where he thinks he might have been drooling. “Then why are you here, Scara?”
For a moment Scaramouche is blindsided. He can see it, in the slightly lost cast of his expression. He’s . . . holy shit he’s even gaping a little, mouth opening and closing without sound. He looks like Childe feels, sometimes, still learning to navigate the politics of being one of the Tsaritsa’s finest. Thrown in blind, knowing how to swim without realizing he’s standing knee-deep in quicksand.
Scaramouche is lost for words.
“I don’t fucking remember,” he finally mumbles, and the words are rushed, the pitch and the syllables slurring.
“Okay.” Childe, by contrast, is slow. Normally, at this point in their conversations, he transitions abruptly into kicking Scaramouche out. He doesn’t even mean it usually, not really, but he likes the way it makes Scara scoff at him, quirk his lips like he’s learning how to laugh. He likes the push and pull, the blow and parry, the way everything offers the same shade of adrenaline as a physical altercation, even this. Instead Childe gestures to the left, where he’d had a plush velvet couch put in the second he’d been assigned this office. It’s deep blue and expensive, and Scara had called it gaudy the very first time he’d laid his eyes on it.
He’s already shuffling towards it before Childe even begins to invite him to sit.
Not a promising sign.
There’s a cart beside his desk where one of the younger recruits wheeled him some water and a brand new bottle of Snezhnayan fire-water. Fuck, he didn’t pour it into the pitcher, did he? He takes a small sniff but. Safe.
“Drink.”
The command is accompanied by the quiet clink of the glass against the low coffee table. Scara is glaring at him, and for a moment Childe expects the usual response for such audacity, but. He takes the water. Gulps it down like he’s been dying, like he hasn’t seen a drop in a week.
Wait. Wait just a fucking second.
Is Scaramouche hungover?
Archon, Childe was genuinely worried. But if that’s the case all he has to do is sleep it off, menacing hungover thoughts notwithstanding. He frowns down at the smaller man, half-hunched, elbows balanced on his knees.
“Take a nap Scara. I’ll wake you up if anything needs doing.”
And oh. Scaramouche actually nods. Drops lengthways on the couch and Childe only just manages to grab his hat before it’s toppled. And then he just. Turns over, curling his face towards the back. Childe can’t quite tell if that’s a safe position for someone who might end up vomiting, but as long as he doesn’t choke it’s probably okay. Supine is the issue, isn’t it? Well, whatever, he’s going to be in here too. He can keep an eye out, make sure he doesn’t die in his sleep.
Scara nods off almost immediately. Childe can see the diminishing breaths, the way the twitching in his lids goes quiet. And a long strand of hair, draping across his cheek, causing a reflex in the muscle as he tries to shake it off.
He doesn’t resist as well as he should.
When he goes back to his desk, picks up his pen and curls his fingers, he pretends not to remember the feeling of the smooth curve of that cheek.
He doesn’t see Scaramouche for days afterwards. He doesn’t have a mission, he knows Scara doesn’t have a mission because they’ve had another fucking briefing since then, and if he was going to be unavailable, at the very least it would have received a mention. Instead all that had happened was the eleven of them lined before the Tsaritsa giving dry variations of the exact same report.
The Tsaritsa’s eyes on him had been uncomfortable, that day.
It’s not like he wants something. He knows better than that. It’s just. The way Scaramouche had mumbled out a scratchy, sleep-roughened ‘Thanks’ not even followed by profanity and then simply. Left. Like it wasn’t so axis-tilting that he’d trusted Childe enough to sleep in front of him, that he’d come to him at all in that state. Scaramouche has been different, lately.
Childe doesn’t know how to feel about it.
It"s another week before they meet again. Childe bumps into him (literally, Pulcinella was trying something very new and very exciting with a Dendro delusion that ended with spores shooting right into his eyes) in the hallway. It takes him a moment to even realize what just happened because Scaramouche doesn"t curse him out. He doesn"t so much as look at him. Only brushes by his shoulder, and not even rough, just with a careless, detached sort of coldness that makes it feel like frost is crystallizing in Childe"s veins, little pricks stabbing through into the tissue. He sticks his foot out, testing, and Scaramouche just steps over it instead of trying to snap right through the bone.
What the hell is that?
"It"s a crime to impersonate a Harbinger."
"Going blind at your age? You"re going to outlive your utility before you set foot on another battlefield."
The words are right, but the cadence of them falls, flat, scattering at his feet like so much dust. Childe frowns but Scaramouche is still walking away. Soft steps, deceptively quick for the short length of his smooth, pale legs. He wants him to stop.
But he"s not fool enough to say it, especially not now, and Scaramouche is nearly at the end of the hall already, disappearing in the blur of Childe"s tears, moisture still trying to wick all those irritants away.
It"s raining outside. That"s rare, for this climate, but Snezhnaya has been enjoying some of its handful of warmer days. That stretch of time when training outside is actually pleasant, and the recruits all make some excuse to troop out of doors, find those spare patches on the grounds where the snow has actually melted away. Once the temperature drops again all those remaining misshapen, melted piles will be frozen over into ice, but for now the landscape is actually showing patches where bits of greenery peek through.
Childe rests his chin on the palm of his hand, staring out the window. Normally he"d be out there even now, but the rain is falling so hard it"s difficult to see. The training dummies tend to get too soggy, too, and then they start drooping, listing to the side, being pushed over before he even punctures with a blade. Highly unsatisfying altogether.
So it"s something of a surprise to see that smudge swimming through those sheets of water.
Childe sits up a little straighter in his seat. He"s one of two people he can think of who"d even dream of stepping through that level of Celestia-damning rain, and he knows with certainty that the Dottore is still holed up in his workshop. He just got a new shipment of testing materials, whatever the hell that means, and that is always followed by a period of not seeing the light of day (possibly not seeing food, either), a frantic two days coma, and then having Childe called down (or dragged) to help him with the testing.
It"s unlikely to be a spy, but it is a mystery and damn, it"s not like he has anything better to be doing. Signora banned him from the training room after he"d taken out a significant portion of the lower northern wall, and while she technically doesn’t have the authority, Childe knows better than to push. She doesn"t even get mad enough to fight, just sneaks weird shit into his rooms that make him too suspicious for sleep.
Besides, the lash of wind had sprayed cold water against the floors and the nearest huddle of recruits and they had looked at him like they"d wanted to cry.
Childe pushes away from his desk, his chair scraping into familiar grooves. The itch of aggression is still thrumming in his hands, his legs, and at least this way he"ll be channeling it into something productive. (Well there"s paperwork, on his desk, but he"s not even going to pretend he"s going to do that).
The figure is moving towards the western end. A little farther and he"ll turn the corner out of sight.
Good thing for all these windows.
Rain splashes instantly inside the second he swings the glass away. It"s cold, frigid, goosebumps lifting on his skin. Invigorating in the way it shakes across him. He posts one foot, slipping on the sill, and launches himself out.
Keeping his scarf on was a mistake. It"s instantly soaked, dragging around his shoulders and slapping against his back. A minor inconvenience but annoying as he speeds up, slips on patches of mud and only maintains his balance with the slick manipulation of hydro over ground.
It"s obvious who this suspicious stranger is long before he reaches out.
Electro arcs, bright, and it"s impossible to dodge. Conducted through the droplets, leaping between the open air and sizzling at the moisture. Childe condenses the rain before him into a ribbon that he flings away, redirecting before the element can extend its reaching fingers and touch. Even then sparks of it still stab, needle-sharp and barbed, into his skin.
"Oh, of course it would be you."
This is different. These words have an edge to them Childe doesn"t find familiar. He gasps and water slicks down his face, pools in his open mouth.
"What are you doing out here?"
"I"m not looking for a fight, if that"s what you chased me down for." Scaramouche has to tip his head up, nearly yelling to be heard over the percussion of all that water. Forced to meet his gaze for the first time in what feels like forever, and even protected by the umbrella of his hat his face is pale, clammy, eyes wavering like he"s trying to see through the rain.
"That"s not what that Electro burst was saying." Childe grins, testing. Hands on his hips immediately slipping off the slickened fabric.
"Unlucky for me. That would have been lethal on anybody else."
Scaramouche isn"t leaving, which is frankly a surprise. He"s just letting Childe hold them here, slightly closer than normal; a small pocket of the world where just the two of them exist. Childe could extend his arm and touch Scara at the waist. Not that he would.
Not that he wants to.
He"s silent for too long. Staring down at him, drinking in the sight of revulsion on Scara"s face, the way his eyes have narrowed until they show nothing but dark. Near enough, here, to see the twitch in his cheek, his jaw. The fleeting flash of an expression.
"Okay, weirdo, I"ve got better things to do than catch pneumonia in the freezing goddamned rain. Tell your boyfriend I said if he wants to stick a severed dick up his ass I"m not going to provide the battery."
Oh. Stranger, still. No one has said anything to Childe about Dottore for ages. They"d moved on the second they"d believed he might actually be happy, and gone to find some more fertile grounds in which to dig their punji pits. (It helped, of course, that Dottore had traded in one very grudging display of public affection as payment for the blood. So worth it, in the end. The look on Capitano and Pulcinella"s faces when the Dottore had kissed his cheek had featured in his dreams for weeks).
Scaramouche is turning to go already. The wide brim of his hat sluicing clockwise in the movement, spinning out, and if he were a hydro user that would be the lethal edge of a saw. Instead it just cuts across the fabric of Childe"s jacket, splashes below the open edges.
He reaches his hand out before he can think about what he"s doing, and fastens around Scaramouche"s departing wrist.
He stiffens in the touch. More so than usual, and even more alarming is the fact that Childe can feel the heat of him, lifting through his bands, his glove. He"d thought the man would be chilled but instead he feels like he"s just come in from the sun. Is he sick? And still traipsing outside in this kind of absurd weather?
“What do you fucking want ?”
Childe"s concern dies on his tongue. This is different, too. Scaramouche is looking up at him like he wants to get his hands inside his chest, pry his ribs apart and take the strong muscle of his heart and bite down, feel the blood gushing past his teeth. This is an animosity that feels like hatred. Burning, deeper, wilder, than even that earliest revulsion, when he had thought Tartaglia too young and too reckless to be embraced into the Tsaritsa"s inner circle.
Here is danger. Childe is holding a flame in his hand, and he doesn"t have sense enough to let go while he"s being burned.
"Are you deaf now, too?" Scaramouche is twisting in his grip, arm jerking and Childe could let go, he should but.
He doesn"t want to.
"I asked you a fucking question you reprobate! If you can"t rub together the necessary brain cells to compose a response then at least have the decency to let me. Fucking. Go."
This is spoiling for a fight. Something heating, boiling over, acid splashing into flames. The hiss of it is audible, awful, and for a moment Childe doesn"t realize the sound of it is coming from behind his teeth.
"No."
He can see the shock of it land. The way it twists up Scara"s face and makes an animal of it; the harsh lines, the lips pulled back, that row of sharp and perfect teeth. Childe is the furthest thing from a saint but he still knows the barest sketch of manners. He has never, before, failed to know when to release.
Scaramouche swings his other fist forwards and Childe catches it, doesn"t manage to step away in time as Scara knees up with the opposite leg. They"re too close, too connected and it lands, knocking right up between his thighs and he growls. A noise that tapers off into a groan and he still doesn"t unlatch.
Fury rips out Scaramouche"s throat. He"s screaming at him, shattering, and even with the heavy fall of rain Childe is sure people inside must be hearing it. Must be craning their heads to look out the window, trying to see through the gloom. But even he isn"t foolish enough to turn away to see.
"Know. Your. Place."
Everything is tensing under Childe"s fingers. Scaramouche is coiling, the spring before release. Drawing himself in tighter and tigher and fuck if the awful of threat of what he"s about to do doesn"t make Childe just a little bit hard, even after that. He meets the damning stare of violet eyes and feels his grin splitting.
It"s so obvious it could never be surprise. Telegraphed clearly so he"d have every opportunity to cut his losses, to step away. He doesn"t, and he thinks Scaramouche must have expected it. Still, the shock of the electro sizzling outwards, spearing through his muscle, through blood and bone. It makes Childe seize with the magic of that violence. A searing, white-hot agony that would make any lesser man pass out.
It"s hurting him, too. Childe can see it clearly in the way his jaw is clenching, the tight lines around his eyes. But there"s also a light there, manic and furious and fucking beautiful and Childe wants him to hurt. He wants it like he"s wanted nothing else, not for his entire life, not so long as he can remember.
But he wants to be the one to break him.
Hydro explodes between them, sends them skidding several metres apart. His muscles are not yet working so he"s thrown, rag-doll, tumbling through mud and grass and bits of sludgy snow until he lands, gasping, half-drowning with his face battered by the sky. When he turns he can only just make out the crumpled form of the other Harbinger, lying prone on the ground, his hat at an unseen distance.
Childe is, as always, the first one to get back on his feet.
"Take one step closer and I"ll kill you."
The words are wet. Gurgling as Scara struggles into sitting, as he turns and lets all the liquid waterfall from his open mouth. He wipes his face reflexively on the back of his hand and then shudders at the cold touch of the fabric on his skin.
"What the hell is wrong with you?"
"With me?” Scara turns to gape at him incredulously. His thoughts stuttering, obvious, as he tries to come to terms with that sheer absurdity. "You"re the one who just let yourself be electrocuted! And for what? Is fucking with me really worth it just so you can get yourself off? I mean sure, I never figured Dottore for a generous lover but—"
"Stop talking about him."
Scaramouche blinks up at him, droplets freely splashing on his face, and then. Laughs; a hopeless, helpless thing. Just at the edge of crazed, that peak where Childe usually feels arousal humming through his veins, where he knows that every battle he cuts his teeth on will stay with him for days.
"Holy shit, you actually are in love with him, aren"t you?"
That actually stops him in his tracks. "What?"
"You know, the jealousy I think I did expect. Guess you know your worth after all, huh? Well aware that there"s probably someone better."
Childe stands, stock-still, his boots sinking in the mud. There"s so much water in his clothes he might as well be swimming. Fuck this. Fuck this weather, fuck the Harbingers, and fuck him in particular.
"Like it"s my fault you"re too much of a coward to go for what you want?" And that"s hypocrisy right there, the sting of it sharp and cutting in his mouth. "If you want him then do something about it instead of being so goddamned weird! I"m not going to try to stop you!"
"Oh, that’s confidence. What was that fantasy you keep spouting? "We"re madly in love?’" Scaramouche pushes his fingers up through his bangs to flick them off his face. "That"s rich."
"And you think you would, what? Convince him to fall in love with you instead?" Childe is shaking, and he thinks it"s anger, it"s frustration, it"s a terrible kind of relief. All these words spitting out of him on the waves of frenzied laughter, everything out in the open finally, finally, and he"s never felt less free. "Well guess what? I know the Dottore doesn"t have any feelings for me, frankly I don"t think he’s capable of having any at all! And do you want to know something funny? We"re not even really dating! But you are more than welcome to pull that dead rope if you want you ridiculous, jealous bitch. Good fucking luck to you!"
"Holy fucking shit.” Scaramouche pauses, mouth just slightly too open, staring. He sounds almost impressed. "I didn"t think you were actually this stupid."
Archon, what? Childe scrubs his hands over his face, slumping, suddenly exhausted. It"s more tiring trying to follow the shift of Scara"s conversation than it is to do a thousand push-ups, to scale Dragonspine, to try to convince Signora to part with a single bottle of her three-hundred year aged wine. "What the Seven are you talking about?"
"You"re a fucking idiot. If I got on your shoulders and jumped down to your IQ I would be in freefall for a year. You shitty goddamn grade-schooler. You soggy piece of overboiled cabbage." Scaramouche is whipping himself back up into a manic rage. Pushing himself to his feet just so he can stalk forwards, his finger pointing, nail sharp. The rain is falling into his hair, his face, his eyes, drawing strokes down that porcelain skin and Childe feels it like a knife in his chest. He wants to laugh again.
How fucking pathetic is it to be jealous of some water?
"I don"t want to hear that from some petty little gremlin. It"s not my fault if you"re just shit at explanations! Maybe if you were a little clearer instead of all this vague-ass, superior, vain fucking—"
For a moment Childe does not fully understand what happens next. Scaramouche has his hands on the lapels of Childe"s jacket, and Childe is getting ready for the throw, is bracing himself, his own hands shooting out to grip Scaramouche in kind so at least maybe he"ll be able to take him down too and. Scara yanks him down with a fury, bashes his face in against him so that his teeth cut against his lip and they"ve never fought like this before, animal, wild and tearing but Childe is fucking game, he"ll do it, he"ll do anything just so long as he gets to touch him somehow—
Scara"s tongue is in his mouth. And fuck, maybe he is an idiot because the first thing he thinks is this is a stupid ineffective way to choke someone and then. Scara is licking against his palate, the edge of his teeth, and he realizes that this is something else entirely.
He"s too still for too long. Scara is starting to pull away, stiff but so so warm — his breath, his skin — and Childe makes use of all his rigorous training. Reflexes quick enough to bite Scara"s tongue before it can leave his mouth. Holding it there, just for a moment, grinning, as Scara narrows his eyes upwards. Violet and gorgeous and looking so aggravated that Childe almost wants to drop him on the ground after all. Maybe lock his wrists together, pulls his shorts down and put his mouth around something else—
Except Scaramouche leans back in towards him. Forces his tongue, scraping, through his teeth and Childe opens, welcomes him in again with better hospitality.
As far as kisses go, it had been pretty shit. It was freezing outside and while the rain wasn"t as heavy it hadn"t stopped. Everything was too wet, he couldn"t taste Scara at all and neither of them were careful; rather than being clumsy it was like an outright violence, the bite and suck and relief.
The things that had come after, though . . .
Childe stretches upwards, long, long arms reaching impotently towards the ceiling. Frankly it"s something of a miracle that no one had seen them. Or if they had, an even bigger miracle that it wasn"t already common knowledge, especially among the Harbingers. But no one"s said anything to him about it, and he knows they don"t have the patience to wait to tear into this kind of juicy meat. Two or three days of silence and he’s sure enough that they’re in the clear.
"You look pleased.” Signora’s eyes aren’t even open, and in fact she’s half-turned the other way. “It"s souring my tea."
“Tea . . . “ Childe tilts his head towards her and she shifts her cup protectively away. “Interesting name for a liquor. Or is that the distillery?”
“This is oolong you preachy prevaricator.”
“So that isn’t your bottle then, under the table? Honestly, what are the recruits coming to these days, littering all over our lovely dining hall. Should I dispose of it for them?”
“If you so much as look at it again you forfeit both your balls.”
“Oh, so testy,” Childe murmurs, grinning. “But I’m afraid I need those. A hot date tonight, you understand. Well, the theory of it at least.”
“You and Dottore are a blight on the Tsaritsa’s rule of Teyvat and I will be immensely gratified when she realizes it.”
He laughs, harder when she scowls at him. After so long spent trying to force them together he’d have thought she would be pleased. “Speaking of, I should get going. Don’t want to be late.”
Signora looks at him over the rim of her glass as he stands. Her cup is perfectly unmarked, not the barest smudge of lipstick. "You and Dottore are doing surprisingly well, for. Who you are. As people."
"That"s because I am excellent company."
Scaramouche snorts. "Dottore probably just tunes out whatever comes out of his mouth and has him do hard labour, instead."
"So what you"re saying is . . . he likes me for my body?"
Scaramouche valiantly ignores the wiggle of his brows. "Does he like you?"
"We are madly in love and you can suck Capitano"s crusty asshole about it."
“Somehow I doubt Capitano’s asshole is going to be any more able to explain love to you even if whatever shrivelled up speck of a prostate is left actually manages to produce an orgasm.”
Signora sighs, too long and too loud and too overtly obnoxious to be anything other than an attempt to cover all their noise. “I need to stop sitting with you when I’m trying to drink. Listening to the two of you is enough to make me want to vomit.”
“Aw, Signora, no need to feel lonely. If you really want I’m sure I can convince Dottore to invite you to our bed. I’m not entirely against charity.”
Childe is still laughing when she stalks off, the neck of her bottle held in one gloved fist. He’ s lucky that her importers haven’t managed to get a hold of anything above one hundred twenty proof in the last few months. Just enough water by volume there for him to keep from getting drenched.
It’s dark. The night closing in around them and it’s nothing but hot breaths and the slide of sweat-slicked skin and teeth, nails, sharpness digging into every available centimetre of Childe’s flesh that can be reached. He feels the bead of blood welling up, hot and wet, and shivers.
“Stop being a little bitch and fuck me.”
“Impatient,” Childe murmurs into the hollow of his throat. His teeth skate up, up, sinking in around the mastoid. Enough pressure to make him gasp out, soundless, before he drifts down to that bared shoulder and makes the savage beginning of a bite.
“You really are nothing but a dog. But I don’t remember giving you permission to mark me.” He sounds wonderfully, deliciously pissed. Childe can feel the simmer at his pulse and he wants to puncture, just there, draw out the flavour of anger and drink it down still hot.
“Funny that I’m the dog when you were so desperate you sliced right through my pants. In fact, why don’t we make this interesting? I’d put money on you being the one to come first.”
Scaramouche growls and it reverberates against his chest, lips damp and pointed and seeking. Words mumbled out around mouthfuls of flesh. “Shut up you disgusting — what the fuck is that?”
Childe turns just in time to see a shimmering, massive metal creature condensing at the far end of the bed. A nightmare rising out of the dark like a creature from the sea, multi-limbed and tentacled and gilded in the shining light of the moon.
Oh shit. Right.
He still has to actually resign from being Il Dottore"s assistant.