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Scaramouche lets his eyes fall closed. There's a pounding behind them, on the inside of his head, and he's so… tired. He just needs a second to gather himself. Tartaglia will get here soon, and there's business they need to discuss, work that must be done. But it has been a long day. A long war. He could be forgiven for this much.
He isn't sure how long he sits there, hands folded under the table in an empty room, waiting. He drifts in and out.
Somehow, he doesn't hear the door open, but he knows that the man now standing not two feet behind him is Tartaglia, from the sound of his soft chuckle.
It's profoundly foolish of Tartaglia to step close enough to touch—if he's close enough for Scaramouche to touch him, he's close enough for Scaramouche to kill him—but somehow even half-asleep Scaramouche can recognize that noise. And recognize that he's in no real danger, not while he's too tired to give Tartaglia the sort of fight he craves.
"Hey there, Scara. Take your hat off, stay a while," Tartaglia quips.
Scaramouche doesn't open his eyes. He's not sure he can, not until the moment he needs to.
"Only if you take off your mask," he says.
Tartaglia just laughs, low and pleasant in that way of his, meant to disarm as a prelude to the kill. "You drive a hard bargain," he replies.
Scaramouche knows that's not a yes. Tartaglia is just playing a game with him, sparring with words for the moment instead of weapons. He won't remove his mask, and he knows Scaramouche won't remove his hat either. Not while there's still work to be done, dangers to be faced—including each other. Neither of them ever let their guard down that far, around anyone. So neither of them will, even now, when Scaramouche has left his back turned to Tartaglia, his eyes closed, shot through with an exhaustion so deep he can barely imagine standing, let alone fighting. No, the both of them will keep their armor on, and they will proceed with their work here, and then they will depart this place, going their own ways as usual.
And that would happen just as soon as Scaramouche could bring himself to open his eyes and give up on the slight relief that the darkness behind his eyelids could provide. Most likely that would be the moment Tartaglia starts to express some impatience to move their meeting along, as Scaramouche is sure he will momentarily. Scaramouche wouldn't even hold it against him, this time. He wants to get this over with, to get somewhere he can be alone.
Only then would Scaramouche be able to let himself rest.
He feels the air shift around him and hears a soft clack in front of him. But Tartaglia doesn't say anything about whatever it is he's done.
It takes more than a few seconds, but Scaramouche manages to force his eyes open. Only to find a familiar blood-red mask sitting on the tabletop before him, staring back.
"Well?" Tartaglia's voice is teasing, and perfectly relaxed. As though he hasn't rent people limb from limb for touching the thing. As though Scaramouche has ever once seen him without it.
Scaramouche, disbelieving, turns in his seat and tilts up his head until he can see Tartaglia's face and his mop of hair, slightly more disheveled than usual, and bare of adornment.
Tartaglia just gestures expectantly with his hand, an infuriatingly smug grin plastered to his face—the one he always wears when he's one-upped someone—and Scaramouche almost refuses to budge, his pride smarting along with the throbbing behind his eyes. He opens his mouth, about to snap a waspish refusal at the other Harbinger, before he notices the look in Tartaglia's eyes.
It's not the confidence and self-assurance that he expects to find there, matching his arrogant smile. Instead, it's something… hopeful, and ever so slightly brittle. As though Tartaglia is perfectly aware that Scaramouche is likely about to refuse, but he's decided to try his luck anyway. Because he wants it, and is willing to give some ground to try to get it. Even if he can't quite give up this one last smiling mask—not without prompting.
Well.
Scaramouche breathes out, letting the tension out of his shoulders. He'd been the one to set the terms, hadn't he?
He raises a hand to his hat's brim and slides it off, carefully folding the hanging cloth under it and setting it down on the table, next to Tartaglia's mask. When he looks back up, Tartaglia is still smiling, but it's softened at the edges, no longer smug, but… warm.
"Happy?" Scaramouche says, aiming for annoyed and missing by a mile. He feels like a weight has been lifted from his shoulders, in more ways than one.
"Yes," Tartaglia says, and reaches out a hand.