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There's a soft step behind him, too consciously quiet. He can feel his hackles raising, an awareness shuddering across his shoulders; the lift of a breeze against his skin. He stiffens. Feels the charge gather at his fingertips, electrons ripping into his palm.
And spins, releasing a concentrated blast of energy directly towards a petrified recruit.
The man grimaces but takes the hit, dropping to his knees as Scaramouche abruptly cuts off the flow. It went right through his shoulder, directed awkwardly towards the carpet behind him instead of sprinting through muscle to find ground. A careless little consideration. Oh well.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing, trying to sneak up behind me?"
The man pales even further than he had when those fingers of electricity were prying themselves between his jerking nerves. Turns white as cotton; blood wrung from a sheet.
"I-I didn't mean—"
Ugh. Just babbling half-excuses that Scaramouche tunes out, frown deep, eroded in his face. The words are meaningless anyway; he's already seen the length of red ribbon circling the bicep. One of Signora's, then.
It makes no difference. Tartaglia would never let someone else take away his fight.
Fuck.
He never should have agreed.
He remembers it, vividly. The adrenaline flooding through his veins, the taste of copper in his mouth. Chest heaving with triumph as he'd stared down at that prone body, blood splashing impressionistic against a bare and shredded chest.
Tartaglia had looked up at him. Coughed wetly, laughing, and said with red smudged against his teeth, "I want to take you out."
And still flush with the rush of his victory he had leant in, so close he could have bitten at the flesh, and dared him. "You're welcome to try."
An amateur's mistake.
Now here he is, reduced to little better than a rabbit, anticipation pulsing under skin. He had expected those first few days to be ambushed at every corner; the sharp rush of a blade falling with the finality of a guillotine, a ceaseless assault with a monster's stamina. Manic energy, the curve of that smile sharp as a knife as he'd slash and strike with absurd aggression until Scaramouche would finally be worn down. Blood arcing, walls impacted, debris clouding the hallways thick with dust. But instead it's just life as normal, and.
The silence is . . . unsettling.
Scaramouche flexes his fingers, considers the subtle tickle of that lingering static against his hand. This was the third random passerby who's been on the receiving end of his agitation and . . . Oh, Archons, this idiot is still here. Scaramouche dismisses him with a wave, barely looking as the recruit rockets to his feet and beats a hasty retreat back down the hall. Whatever.
He has work still to do. Besides, Tartaglia knows where his study is. He won't be hard to find.
"Not getting enough beauty sleep?"
"Shut up you senile old hag."
Signora purses her lips, taps the back of his hand lightly with one gloved finger. He only belatedly realizes what she's done after he lifts his fork to his mouth, shovels the tasteless meat past his teeth. A needle thin sliver of ice is sticking out from the skin.
He was clenching so tightly he actually didn't feel it.
Moisture drips down his wrist, beneath the sleeves of his arm-warmers. Evidence washing away without even the faintest hint of blood.
It was probably meant to hurt.
"You've been so on edge, lately," she continues idly. She leans back in her seat, curling one hand around an elegant teacup. Something smoky and fragrant drifts out in steam, a lingering bitterness. It could barely be considered tea.
"Is that concern, Signora?" He spears something else on his plate without looking. "Disgusting."
"Should I be touched you think me capable?" But she doesn't say anything else. Just sips silently, posture perfect, hair curled artfully against her face. Unaffected by his glower as he continues mutilating the food in front of him.
"You know," she starts, crossing an arm around her waist, "Dottore could give you something for those bags under your eyes."
"Fuck off." But his words lack venom.
Signora hums. Awkward accompaniment to the tines of his fork scratching against ceramic. The meal is no longer recognizable.
He doesn't remember what he ordered.
"Tartaglia—"
"Fuck Tartaglia," he growls. Slams his fist down so hard it cracks his plate in two.
She doesn't so much as lift a brow. "Hmm. Not recently, I wouldn't think."
"And what is that supposed to mean?"
Signora fully turns to him, something blinking in her eye, mouth parted, pretty (if he cared about that sort of thing). Then. She lifts a glove to her face and laughs.
"Archons, I knew there was something wrong with you lately. You really are off your game. Take care not to fight any recruits, will you? In this state you're either going to kill them — already not ideal — or you're going to get your ass handed to you. And that's a shame I won't abide."
He almost doesn't notice. But suddenly purple light flashes at his side, her impeccable curls separating, strands flying around her face. The wall just to the left of her has bloomed a starburst, sooty and black. "I would never let any recruit take me."
She smooths a hand casually over her hair, cryo setting her coif back in place as she sits back upright. "Isn't that reassuring?"
It's been a full month of nothing.
His nerves shake. Every breath, every noise, every quiet moment threatening with the implicit promise of soon. A tremble in his fingers, the crackle of electricity skirting across his skin. Even his dreams are starting to look too familiar. Blood glinting off teeth, a grin turned rich; studded with rubies. Cutting wind, steel striking through flesh. And the awful, lifeless blue of those eyes.
Like a void in the ocean.
Psycological warefare, then. From Tartaglia?
He's almost impressed.
As it is scorch marks mar the walls of all his rooms. His living quarters, his study, the hallways just outside. He's itching for a mission, anything to take him away from here, get him out from beneath the constant harassment of his impending peril. Hopefully someplace far enough away that the awful, aggravating bastard won't be tempted to follow, just because. Not that he'd interfere with an official mission. He doesn't think.
Scaramouche is almost tempted to believe that he's forgotten, but. If the man has memory for only one thing it would be this.
He never lets a challenge go untried.
So for now he simply waits, expecting the sharp edge of an axe. Oh, he'd gone looking for the other Harbinger of course. Once. Twice. More. Barged into his rooms, doors swinging outwards, slamming into the wall. It's like he's disappeared.
Distressing news.
That means he must be taking this seriously.
Scaramouche only vaguely remembers the last time Tartaglia had disappeared without a trace. Training, he said, though he couldn't be pried for any specific information. Just vanished for a fortnight and returned, new scars pressed into his body, maps redrawn on the pale lines of his arms, his legs, his torso. Places that Scaramouche has marked with his hands, his mouth, the sharp bite of teeth. Skin gone soft and puckered with age, as though they'd been laid in months prior.
(Impossible, he thinks. And the mere implication of knowing that—).
The first mission directly afterwards Tartaglia had levelled an entire city. Stood, tall and dark and fearsome, head thrown back, chest heaving.
And all Scaramouche had thought about was how much he had wanted to see the man lying underneath him.
There's a sharp knock on his door and his head snaps upright. Archons, how long has he been sleeping?
If Tartaglia doesn't try to kill him soon he's going to lose. His. Mind.
At first he thinks he's dreaming.
Teeth and eyes and hair, the steady warmth of a body, the strange sour scent of sweat and dirt and something unmistakably him. Low and close, menacing. But this isn't the usual way his dreams have trailed, just lately. A warm breath, at his ankle. A steady pressure. And a hand, curling up his bare calf, almost . . . gentle, fingers trailing beneath his shorts.
What the fuck.
Consciousness slams into him and he jerks upright, kicks out with aggression and catches Tartaglia in the chest. Childe, he thinks wildly, here in the anonymous dark. A name murmured only under extreme duress. Rolls over onto his side and slips off the edge of his bed, getting his feet back beneath him. Electro snaps outwards, lights his eyes in glaring purple, changes the planes of the other Harbinger's face. Contorts it, almost manic.
Finally.
The sheer relief is almost enough to buckle him. Instead Scaramouche jumps back to the bed, angles downwards. Right where he always hears the steady thrumming of that pulse.
Tartaglia hops out of the way. Darts backwards, violence shining in his eyes before they're swallowed by the night. Delighted.
And then hydro spears towards him, sharp and glancing.
The constant adrenaline has made his hands unsteady. But he is practiced enough to meet him, to thread electricity through that conductive medium. The blades fizzle in Tartaglia's fists and he crows, thrilled with the fight. Lets them dissipate to nothing before they reform, fresh, already assuaging those awful burns.
Scaramouche hurls lightning at him. Sees the flash of it arc across the room, paint him monochromatic. He's terrifying in this light. Beautiful. Wild and unrestrained and dangerous.
And then Tartaglia lunges.
His bed shakes against his wall as he lands. Has books falling from his shelves, stationary clattering across his desk. Scaramouche spins out of the way, grabs a gold-tipped fountain pen and hurls it at his assailant. It falls to the ground beneath him in two perfect halves. Of course.
He dips forwards, pulls up the thread embedded in the floor. A twined wire, metal fibres plied together in an even strand. He'd felt almost crazy laying them in those first few days but. It never does hurt to be prepared, after all.
Tartaglia trips, bangs back against the nearest surface. The sweep of his arm throws every item to the floor, a cacophony of noise that shakes across the dark. Scaramouche rushes in, fist raised, power crackling from his fingertips.
Childe blinks up at him, all blue eyes and terrible, handsome mouth. Dodges the blow so it barely brushes his head, only singes the bright ends of his hair. A fight in snapshots, the brief flares of brightness lighting everything in too sharp relief.
He always did look his happiest. Like this.
Scaramouche pushes up with one knee, feels the point of it connect with the man's solar plexus and Childe doubles over, coughing, gives Scaramouche his first opportunity as he lifts his arm. Drives his fist down like a hammer.
Childe rolls. Takes the edge of that planted leg and pulls it, barreling him into a crushing hold. Gets the Balladeer down beneath him, arms propped over his sides, hair hanging down, tickling the sweat-slicked skin of his forehead.
And laughs. Blood dripping from his temple, catching in his lashes. Hugging the curve of his still-open eye.
The man is a night terror.
A waking dream.
"So," he starts, voice sing-songy and low. "You did miss me!"
And then. Childe falls on him, inevitable, a force of nature. Grasps his cheeks roughly between his fingers, digging, taking and.
Kisses him.
. . . What the fuck.
Fontaine is so boring.
Childe throws his head back, tilts to look up at all that endless blue. Fuck, this is exactly why he didn't want to go on this mission. And with the Dottore, of all people. The man focuses almost exclusively on his research, all other distractions be damned.
Unfortunately he's somehow on the best terms with the government of this city, so he's always dispatched for . . . 'diplomatic purposes'. Although why Childe has to be there too remains to be explained. And right after he'd finally asked him out.
Well, whatever. He simply has to while away the time, wait for this whole stupid affair to be completed. If he's lucky, maybe he'll even find someone worthwhile to fight.
Oh. A flash of something purple catches his eye and he turns. There. A display in a store window, weapons arranged on silken pillows, angled to catch the light.
A knife carved out of electro crystal.
Huh. Pretty. And conductive.
He shoulders the door open and steps inside. Imagines the sheer indignation in Scaramouche's face when he hands him the gift, sees the thoughtfulness of such a present.
He's going to love it.
Childe knows what the others think of him. Violence and aggression and a wanton recklessness that comes out in every fight. So if he has to do a little extra convincing, he doesn't mind.
Just wait, Scara.
He's going to be a great boyfriend.