Chapter Text
It is a beautiful day. Scaramouche thinks.
—to die.
Life is currently boring, that's what Scaramouche believes as he fulfils his normal routine, which is : going on missions, killing, meeting the Doctor for his epic plan to overtake the gods, and well, stuff. He's lived for long, longer than that stupid plant Childe has been tending to.
And he's serious about taking care of it. He even wakes up at six in the early morning to fucking hydrate the plant, and buys a batch of chicken poop to fertilise the plant. For the archons sake, he even speaks to it like the plant is his own soul baby.
Scaramouche wonders just how long he'll hold up until he realizes the stupid plant hasn't grown an inch.
Because it's a fake plant.
Whatever. That's the only thing interesting and amusing in his life for now, so he doesn't bother about it and instead, joyfully watches his comrade baby-talk at a fake plant.
Well, that is until… The Tsaritsa assigns a new partner that will follow him to his missions. And that's it. That's all the Tsaritsa says to him before allowing him to leave. Meanwhile, he's still bewildered. Why does a person like him need help on his tasks? He doesn't even like to cooperate, what is even going on inside the Tsaritsa’s brain?
Ugh. That's all he can say, before he gets bombarded by a shower of unfunny jokes from Childe. He ends up electrocuting him.
When he meets his new partner— No. When he meets you. He doesn't even bat an eyelash, heck, he doesn't even meet your eyes. He just simply brushes you off and sends you away, with the excuse of needing private time for his personal matters. In reality, he really doesn't know what to do with this human. He's not fond of conversations, and he can't handle stupid people who open their mouths stupidly due to their utter stupidity.
You're probably one of those Fatui agents who excels at everything, and climbed up the ranks in a few months. Thus, being blessed with good luck, captivating the attention of the Tsaritsa… which ends up being his misfortune.
But oh, oh. He was so wrong. Because the next morning, you barge into his office, effortlessly carrying a large stack of papers that nearly towers over your height. Yet, you show no signs of struggle. If it weren't for his bachelor's degree in maintaining a RBC (Resting Bitch Face), he would have been gawking at you in astonishment.
However, it seems that there's more to this new partner that Scaramouche does not know. Because the conversation that occurs later, stays on his mind for a good time.
“Morning, sir. I finished up all your paperwork yesterday!” Your head pokes out from the side of the tower of papers, and he thinks the grin on your face is absolutely stupid. But nothing is more stupid than the fact that you completed all his paperwork! That! Would! Take! Him! Weeks!
He has to take a moment to swallow, because even he himself does not believe the situation at hand. And when he does, he gazes up to look at you again, and asks, “Are you dumb?”
Blink. You blink at him.
He blinks back.
Scaramouche thinks the two of you are about to exchange a conversation through blinks, and is about to send you away again because he does not have the patience to sit through this. Unexpectedly, you blink again and respond at the right timing, “Maybe.”
“...” He remains silent and is pondering whether he should facepalm or curse your ten generations of ancestors.
He does the former. Is this a joke? Is this a prank? Why is the humour of youngsters so bad nowadays? You notice his reaction, before being sent into panic as you begin to fret.
“Wait… Was I supposed to sign the paperwork in your stead too?!” You gasp and say it out loud. Your eyes are enlarged to the size of saucers. Scaramouche doesn't know whether to cry or laugh, so he continues to bury his face deeper into the facepalm, praying to the Tsaritsa that this is a nightmare.
If it really is a nightmare, he wants to wake up now. He will even jump down the building right now.
Seeing this, you only panic more. “Oh gods… Forgive me, sir! I'll make sure to copy your signature on every paper!” And you were off to flee away.
“STOP! NO!” In a fit of various emotions swirling through his empty puppet body, he instantly slams the table, standing up. However, he miscalculates, and it ends up being too loud. Because you jerk up from shock and almost stumbled. You catch yourself. But every good thing comes with its consequences.
Slowly… Everything happens in slow-motion, or perhaps it occurs like that only in Scaramouche's eyes. The tower of paperwork is tilting… What an amazing sight, a true moment before disaster.
Gradually… It tilts more, and it reached a 25-degree angle, before coming to a 45-degree angle, and he knows it is too late to do anything. The stack of papers fly everywhere, as if a huge powerful gust of wind had been waiting to play a joke on him.
“...” You gawked at the emptiness of your hands. You swore, your heart has never beaten so fast before in your life, because your knees are fucking quaking. If it isn’t for your leftover dignity, you would have pissed in front of the Balladeer but no! Your image is still strong! Stronger than the vibranium that red-blue flying guy uses! Yes, Y/N, you go girl. You go!
So, you hesitantly, and also slowly lift up your head to stare at the Fatui Harbinger. You picture a short gremlin with a giant hat, with an ugly scowl on his face, about to unleash the worst death upon your feeble life. You begin mumbling your prayers, gaining willpower from your ancestors to handle your upcoming demise. But it turns out to be nothing like that, because Scaramouche, the Balladeer, is just staring into your soul.
Is there a need for confirmation?
Does anyone need brains to acknowledge it?
As much as Scaramouche probably theorised that you are brainless (due to your incredible performance), it doesn't take long for you to identify yourself as the next one on his hit list.
“You…” He starts, his tone wavering from the sheer anger.
Maybe it is the adrenaline pumping in your veins, or maybe, as a sentimental human being that has barely achieved anything in life, you just solemnly wish to die without regrets.
You let out a hearty laugh, and gods, your cheeks are hurting from how forced it is.
“It is a beautiful day to die, isn’t it?”
⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹
From all the Fatui agents he has met, they come in different versions, but most are fearful under his gaze, looking like they will piss their pants if he raised a hand against them. They will always keep quiet whenever he is present. He doesn't mind, actually, he doesn't even care. He has no time for idle chat, and moreover, has no heart to care for a few mere human lives. Of course, some do piss him off, and he does let out a lot of colourful words. Sometimes, if it gets too much, it will be a blood shower.
But this…
This is unbelievable.
He does not think this one will be the one to surpass his expectations. You are an enigma to Scaramouche. In a good way and a bad way, kinda. He is leaning more towards suspicions of you being the middle child of the heavens, both hated and loved.
As much as he hates to admit it, you are nothing like how you presented yourself during the first encounter. In a few months, he has seen you in action, and witnessed you decapitating those foolish enemies without dropping a sweat. So, physical capabilities? You are in top shape. Not a single foe can escape the moment you appear on the battlefield.
But humans aren’t perfect, so he, at least, expected you to have shit battle tactics and intelligence. But no. In a nice way to put it, you are rather decent as a warrior and a tactician when the situation calls for it.
To be honest, he’s… Impressed—
That you are decent. Yes. He believes everyone should follow your work ethic and your polished skills. If anyone has anything negative to say, he won't hesitate to bring them down or shut them up immediately.
“Sir, I apologize for my rudeness, but I think this plan is flawed,” You speak.
Your comrade, clearly, has gotten agitated by your opinion, spits back at you, “Flawed? Mind you, I spent four days, three nights on this plan just to infiltrate the base!”
“I give no fucks about the three days, two nights you spent, punk. And, speak your plan, Y/N.”
“Balladeer, sir, it’s four days, three ni-”
“And who are you to correct me, worm?”
“T-This ungrateful servant was wrong…!”
However, he can never forget that first encounter. Never. It has already etched itself permanently into the corners of his mind. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to forget it either. On that day, he is fuming, and seething from frustration, as you have made a mess in his office. In the end, the two of you had to work together to tidy up the papers again, which you offered out of fear that he will slit your throat.
Now, he reminisces that day, and finds it amusing instead. It’s the first time he’s seen your clumsiness in action, and apparently, it won’t be the last.
To Scaramouche surprise, after working together with you, he realises just how… Imbalanced, or clumsy you are. For the first few times, he brushes it off as a personality trait, that you are a replica of the ginger-haired Childe. But, after witnessing too many of your acts, he throws away the original idea entirely.
It’s not a trait, it’s a fucking lifestyle for you.
Because how is it possible? No. Just, how are you even still alive?!
No matter where you go, it's like you're an absorber of misfortune, a magnet of disaster that will bring calamities upon calamities. It's not a rare case, it's a common thing, and that's why Scaramouche is fucking concerned.
Yes. That's right. The Sixth Harbinger. Balladeer. Concerned for your wellbeing. Wowzers. Mamamia. Woah.
For example, event one:
Childe has taken an interest in you. He orders you to take care of his ‘plant’, and you happily do so. When Scaramouche mentioned you were the exact same as the ginger, he did not expect you to really wake up at five and water the stupid plant; nor was it included in his calculations that you were going to vomit sweet words onto the plant that reciprocates none of it. Just like that dumb ginger.
Scaramouche doesn’t know how it’s possible. He really doesn’t know what’s wrong with you. Maybe you just aren’t born with a green thumb but… This is really too much.
The fake plant died.
Snapped in half.
Rotten.
Scaramouche had to take the blame, and finally put an end to Childe’s delusion that he was, in fact, not raising a living plant. Childe locked himself in his room for the whole week. No one heard of him.
You, feeling bad for Scaramouche, who has taken the blame for you, question him on why he would interfere in this matter.
He only scoffs and throws another round of paperwork at you, causing you to slip and faceplant in front of him. Nice kill, Scara!
Event two:
TCG is popular nowadays, and not even the Fatui could escape from the latest trends. You are not an exception. It is a fun card game, plus, you can customize your own card deck! Although you aren't considered an avid player, you often watch your comrades playing against each other. It is certainly interesting… Wait. Why is Diluc Ragvindr on one of the cards? Isn't he one of your enemies?!
Your comrades are screaming out the battle lines, slamming the cards down onto the table as their lives depended on it. The TCG match is getting so heated that even you are beginning to sweat from the cloud of tension that has formed above. Yet, it is so entertaining to watch, you have to join the next match!
And so, you do. But it comes with a catch. Your opponent is interested in a bet with you. One where the loser will have to give up one of their strongest TCG cards to the winner. You are blinded by the thrill, so you instantly agree without batting an eyelash. Who knows, this time maybe your misfortune will take a 360, transforming into infinite wealth and prosperity?!
Your deck is average. It isn't that bad. Considering the fact that your rival has below-average cards, it is easy to say that you are going to have the upper hand.
SO WHY IS YOUR SCARAMOUCHE CARD DYING? Oh no, Scaramouche is going to kill you. How can you allow your boss to die like this? A useless death?!
Scaramouche, the one who's supposedly dying, stands on the sidelines, and watches as you fret over his ‘death’. His lips twist into a grimace when another one of your cards dies, leaving only one card surviving. The result is already foreseeable, yet the Fatui members still cheer you on despite your worthless end. Even your opponent is beginning to pity your poor luck, and he mutters an apology as he wipes out your final card.
In the end, you have to give away your Scaramouche card… Reluctantly. Your heart is broken, thrown onto the ground, stomped without mercy, and exploded into multiple shards. Not even sticky glue can mend the hole that your heart now holds.
Maybe Scaramouche notices the way your fingers grip his card tightly, before finally, letting go, as a result of your loss. Or maybe, his sharp eyes catch the way your lips slightly frown when you leave the table. And maybe, it tugs at the strings inside his lifeless puppet body.
The next day, you find a limited edition Scaramouche card next to your bed.
Event 3:
Once, during a mission in Mondstadt, you follow him around and help him to knock out a few extras. It is perfect, the mission is about to be swiftly completed without a single casualty, and Scaramouche has to give credit to you for noticing the warning signs. That is until… You fuck up.
“Scaramouche…” You call out with a strangely excited tone in your voice, but he barely pays any attention to it. His name falls off your lips nicely. He has ordered you to call him by that since last week, because apparently, you’ve reached the three-month mark from the time you’ve spent under him. He assures you it applies to everyone.
But, the instant you use his name in public, everyone immediately whips their heads towards you, as if they are in disbelief you just did that. You, who's still clueless like a newborn baby, have no idea why.
It took you three days, just to finally gain the courage to approach the Fatui Mages, who also worked under Scaramouche.
“Uh… Will we get killed if we say this?”
“Shh, we shouldn’t ruin our boss’s courting!”
“There’s no such thing as ‘three-months mark’, Y/N. That’s why we never call him by that name… Unless we’re asking for death.”
“...WE AGREED TO NOT SPILL-”
Back to reality. He realises you are pointing at something, a blob of fur a few feet away. Then, he turns his head, gazing back at you, and he notices the thrill behind your eyes. A glint that he cannot avert his eyes from.
“There’s a cat,” That’s all you say.
The said male, who’s hiding behind the same bush as you, stares straight at you, not knowing what to respond, so he nods and says, “Yes. There’s a cat, Y/N.”
“It’s not just a cat. It’s a cat, Scaramouche,” You seem to emphasize, and he’s puzzled, confused about why. Therefore, he nods firmly again, before putting his focus back onto the enemy, awaiting for the perfect moment to strike as he doesn’t wish to garner more attention.
Yet, he seems to have forgotten about something, that you are the child of misfortune. When the next second comes, he realises it’s too quiet for your own good. Before he can even open his mouth to question on your condition, a loud shrieking ‘meow’ pierces through the tensed air, and he only hears one word from your lips.
“Fuck.”
The white furry demon runs towards you and literally, pounces onto you. It ends up catching everyone’s attention, including the enemies. The results are… Bloody. But hey, everything worked out! With an extra inch of hard work due to the addition of new enemies!
It seems that Scaramouche wasn’t happy though, but he isn't mad either. When the mission is over, he tugs on your wrist and pulls you to the secluded space, where no one is present except the two of you. And boy, you will never forget that look on his face when his gaze casts over the scratch on your cheek. When you see that expression, you begin to doubt everyone who said he is a puppet.
Will a puppet be able to gaze at a human so softly like this?
You swear, your whole body shivers when he reaches out with his hand. His skin, although inauthentic and sculpted from the hands of an archon, despite the coldness that comes with it, feels too real. He brushes his thumb over your fresh scratch gently, and grimaces when blood smears over your face, leaving a trail of crimson.
If anyone were to barge in right now, would they scream? Or would they run away in fear? To witness their superior worrying over a mere human, who would believe the sight?
Not you. Totally, not you. And not him, because he too, doesn’t trust himself as he treats you like a fragile puppet. When in reality, the roles are supposed to be flipped.
“I’m going to skin that cat alive.”
He mumbles, irritated. Then, when he realised he said it outloud, he stared at you with wide eyes that reminded you of a deer caught in headlights. You blinked, and he blinked right back. Strangely, it brings you a sense of deja vu. Not only were you cursed with misfortune, but also awful awkwardness with your superior.
What happened next?
Right. You laughed. Now, you were laughing.
“Why are you blaming the cat, Scaramouche? I probably stared at it for too long and it got annoyed,” You explain, trying to force some sense into him. But dear gods, everything felt so right. Not the conversation you’re having with him. But the timing, the location, the person. It was akin to fitting the final puzzle piece to form this beautiful picture.
Because, will a puppet be able to make you feel like you’re on cloud nine?
He rolls his eyes, and instinctively wipes away the blood on your cut with the water flask you are holding, with his own fingers. An action he will not do, not in this lifetime, never. But he does it, and expects himself to pull away in disgust. But, surprisingly, he is completely unfazed when his fingers are stained red and dirty.
As he pulls out the medical supplies from the little pouch hanging on your leggings, you gulp, trying to ease away the pounding of your poor heart. You randomly make small talk, hoping it’ll help. “The cat was very cute though, don’t you think so?”
As he pours alcohol onto the cotton bud, he sneers, “Yeah yeah, you know what they say?” He intentionally pushes the alcohol-covered cotton onto your cut, eliciting a wince of pain from your lips, and he purses his lips into a thin line, “Curiosity kills the cat.”
“But who knew that the cat ended up killing the curious one instead?” He has to fight back the urge to roll his eyes again. The habit of rolling his eyes at you has gone too far. Although he doesn't believe in such rumours. He really doesn't want his eyes to be stuck at the back of his head forever, even though he can easily force them out and replace them.
You roll your eyes at him. People will have called you maniac, crazy, mental if they see you doing such an action, pointing their fingers at you and crying out at the bare disrespect you hold for your superior. But strangely, Scaramouche doesn’t mind. He never minds anything.
But when he’s speaking with other people who are not you, he wears that mask of grim like he’s playing the part of the Grim Reaper and about to steal away their souls.
“You’re speaking as if I’m dead or something, kind sir.”
Suddenly, he slaps a limited edition Barbara bandage on your cut, showing no hint of mercy. You yelp and send a playful glare at him as you rub onto the bandage.
Scaramouche flicks your arm lightly, and hopes you don't notice he steals a glance at you to find amusement in your reaction. He sighs, “Dumbass, just don’t haunt my office if you die. I won’t burn any offerings for you.”
“Not even one?” You tilt your head sideways.
“Do I look like someone who will care if you die?”
You pinch your arm, a certain habit you've grown when you find yourself starting to get sleepy. He notices, just like always, and lightly smacks your arm away, preventing you from hurting yourself any further. Letting out a tiny ‘ow’, you still end up smiling at him, “I mean… Truthfully? I think you’ll care, Scara.”
All of a sudden, he freezes on the spot. You inhale a sharp breath. Slightly raising his eyebrow at you, his serious tone of voice throws you off course, “I won’t.”
You pinch yourself again. But this time, Scaramouche doesn't do anything. He just stares. Straight into your soul. It births into this murky slime that engulfs your heart, growing into a gigantic, uncanny monster that slowly claws away at the concaves.
Yet, you persist.
“Scara, I don’t want to be that kind of person but… There’s no such thing as a ‘five-month mark’, right?” His shoulders tense, shaking as if he hates the fact that you are prying him open like a book. You gulp, “Remember when you took the blame for me for Tartaglia’s plant? Or… Or when I ended up losing that TCG match and you gifted me a new card?”
“Stop, I know what you’re assuming.”
“Maybe I am assuming, but I know what’s up when I see it, Scara. I’m not blind.” You breathe, “You don’t treat other people like how you treat me. I think that’s enough for me to understand.”
The breath you've held in for so long, finally leaves, and you meet his gaze with a long-awaited question, “Scara, do you like me?”
But to him, the question turns into a weight, that lands on his shoulders, forcing him multiple feet deep into the dirt, and he can't think straight. Before he knows it, he's drowning, and he's inside this never ending pool of water that makes him look like an animal in captivity. For so long he's been alive, the feeling of having his emotions laid bare, exposed to the world, to someone… It itches, badly.
Whatever this is, and whatever it has caused him, Scaramouche hates this feeling. He despises it. He wishes nothing more than to grasp it in his hands and crumble it to dust particles.
And so, he cowers away, hides himself from the public eye by swimming deeper and deeper, where the water pressure increases, surging tides that inevitably twist his puppet limbs into something unrecognizable, to the point where he doesn't even know what he himself has become.
But it's okay.
It's okay.
Because he doesn't feel anything at all.
Instead, he chooses to wear one of his favorite masks, concealing this fabricated scene by looking through the lens of a limp puppet — his one, and only true reality, free from any tapestry of lies.
He propels forward, and you're about to check on him, but goes stunned when a broken giggle escapes his lips. Then, he's throwing his head back and cackling uncontrollably like you've said something funny, “Haha! Oh, you’re so funny, Y/N. I am a puppet, need I remind you? How can an artificial being like me feel those stupid emotions?”
You're caught off guard, and defensively wave your arms as a way of disagreement, “You are a puppet, so what? You are human to me, Scara.”
His laughter calms, but there's a sickened look on his eyes, and it's nothing like the Scaramouche that teasingly applied a bandage on your face. Swallowing the lump of anxiety down your throat, you take another look, and it's as if you're seeing a stranger, a maniac that has lost his mind over everything that he's been handed.
The man before you doesn't stop speaking, but he doesn't waver at all, like he's reading out a script he's been programmed to do so, “I feel nothing. Throw me to Dragonspine for a whole week, and I’ll still remain alive because I can’t feel the fucking sheer cold. Burn me in Natlan’s lava, and I’ll be just as fine as today. What makes you think I’m human? I don’t even have a heart, Y/N. A heart, that acts as proof of being human.”
“You-”
The man cuts you off, “My existence, which once held a reason…” He balls his hands into fists, and you swear you see a few sparks of electricity beside them. Out of pure terror, you take a step back, but he doesn't realize, he doesn't care, “It now holds no worth, don’t you see? How can a mere puppet like me, understand you weak humans? Just like how you humans, you will never understand my life. My reason for continuing this life… Is to ascend to godhood, surpass every pathetic being, and triumph over everything.”
“So, what were you saying again? I like you?”
The man mockingly tilts his head, and he grins widely.
“Don’t joke around, fool.”
“I am undeserving of any of your pity.”
He walks away, not even sparing a glance back, and you have an epiphany that all this time, your heart has been pounding against your ribs. It was not the usual kind that occurred whenever you were with him, but the kind that happens when your misfortune finally catches up to you, and there's a giant unidentified creature reeking of blood, staring down at you silently as a predator will do to its prey.
Yet, as you watch his shadow disappearing into the hallways, you can't help but think that it’s the last, that this is it. And that whatever luck the Tsaritsa has blessed you with has finally run out.
Fuck. He is really gone, isn't he? He has left, just like that, leaving you in solitude in this empty hallway where you can only perceive the palpitating heart of yours. Now that he is gone, the fear that resides within you morphed into this ugly fury, annoyance and terrible frustration that he dared say those words to your face.
Even though a piece of you likes him, and you will swim through stormy seas, trek through snowy mountains, you will even give up a fragment of your heart if it means he will be able to understand what you are feeling… What he has said to you, despite the heat of the moment, is wrong.
Whatever. If he wishes to witness the world from the eyes of a God, so be it.
You won’t stop him, and even if you have the chance, you won’t.
Snezhnaya has always been cold from the beginning, but after years of building tolerance against it, it turns into child's play. Oddly, as you walk out of the Fatui base, shoes crunching into the snow, you realize, it's colder and not even the thick jacket wrapped around your figure helps.
“Maybe I am really so unfortunate after all…?”
You consider yourself a bit lucky that, at least, there are still faint traces of warmth from the bandage on your cheek.