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“Are we almost done yet?”
“No. Stop talking.”
Childe — or better known by his codename, Tartaglia — takes another anxious look at the silver watch on his wrist. He has about half an hour to wrap this damn heist up, but with the pace they’re moving at they’re going to be here for the entire fucking day.
And Childe loves his job as a Harbinger, he really does, but even Harbingers have little brothers with piano recitals. His foot starts to tap against the linoleum tiles as he glares at the crown of platinum blonde hair in front of him, its strands swirled elegantly into twin rose buns.
“I have to go soon, you know.” he says tightly, letting the slightest hint of irritation seep into his tone.
La Signora’s reply is the faint hum of the room’s fluorescent lights and the clacking of keys as her perfectly-manicured fingernails glide over the keyboard, erasing any incriminating security footage from the surveillance system. (Or something along those lines — there’s a reason Childe has never been in charge of the more technical aspects of their operations.) She doesn’t even spare him a glance, but her silent words hang clear enough in the air: that doesn’t sound like a problem that concerns me.
Childe sighs. Assholes. His co-workers are assholes and he does not love his job as a Harbinger. “... Just hurry up. I’ll go check up on Scaramouche.”
There’s no response to receive, but then again, what did Childe expect? “Fuck you too,” he grumbles, pushing past the grey door of the security room and into the bank’s hallway. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he lets the muted scent of old paper and weathered nickel greet him as he strides towards the main area of the building.
Scaramouche is a bitch to work with, that’s a known fact, but Childe has to begrudgingly admit that the man is nothing if not efficient when he sees how well he and his recruits have cleaned the place up. Guards have been knocked out, valuables have been packed, civilians have been herded into a quivering, sobbing mass in the corner — all the quality features of your standard Fatui robbery.
The recruits are still busying themselves with work, hurrying about the ivory floors while they tie up any loose ends, but as for Scaramouche himself —
“Try that again. I dare you.”
Childe whips around in the direction of the hissed threat, and there stands the Sixth Harbinger by the teller counter, glowering at a young woman across from him with a burning malice in his eyes. Childe spots a bruise blooming over Scaramouche’s left cheek, its red noticeably marring the paleness of his skin. Did… did the girl hit him?
That’s funny. Hilarious, actually, for a fucking Harbinger who specialises in stealth and close-quarters combat to lose to a measly bank teller in a battle of reflexes. No wonder the midget looks like someone had just pissed in his cereal. Childe can’t stop the snort that rises from his throat (not like he tries to, anyway) and Scaramouche’s death stare instantly lands on him instead.
“Tartaglia,” he spits out Childe’s codename as though it’s acid on his tongue.
“That’s me!” Childe feels his shit-eating grin slide effortlessly into place as he raises his arms in greeting. “I missed you too, comrade. Every single minute of the twenty we’ve spent apart.” Scaramouche is just too easy to rile up while Childe is all too happy to be an annoyance, but the girl chooses that moment to turn around, and —
Oh.
Oh.
Childe hears the sharp intake of his own breath when he’s met with a gaze of flowing gold, so bright and striking that he swears it glows . And maybe he’s been watching too many shitty romance animes with Tonia, but the girl looks positively angelic: doe eyes, long lashes, soft blonde hair; the delicateness of her features not at all what he expected for someone who’d just socked Scaramouche in the face. The only glimpse into that ferocity is in her eyes, a hard steel simmering with a quiet sort of defiance.
She may or may not be the prettiest girl he’s ever seen.
And also the bravest, apparently, because she whirls back towards Scaramouche to mouth a few choice words at the man. Childe doesn’t catch the details of her insult, but it must’ve been a zinger from the way Scaramouche snarls, his hand shooting out to snatch the girl’s wrist in a crushing grip that definitely hurts.
Whoops, looks like it’s intervention time.
Childe closes the distance between the duo before either of them can react, prying them apart and shoving Scaramouche to the ground as casually as possible. A string of Japanese expletives erupts from underneath him, but Childe simply tunes it out (he’s had a lot of practice) while he flashes the girl his best smile. “Sorry about that, girlie. You okay?”
“I…” The girl — Lumine, her nametag reads — has her face twisted in incredulity as she cradles her wrist to her chest. “I suppose.” A steady voice, but the slightest tremble of her hand tells Childe that she’s more shaken up from Scaramouche’s outburst than she’d like to admit.
Well, leave it to the Sixth to unnerve her. He’s always been bad with women.
“Aw, hey, it’s going to be fine.” Childe mellows his voice into the most soothing tone he can muster, one that comforts little siblings on nights of fitful sleep, and he notes with some satisfaction that Lumine seems to steady herself, her eyes widening in confusion. He also notes that one of the guards has woken up and is currently advancing towards him with a taser, but. Priorities. “Listen, I know things are a little, ah, hectic right now, but there’s no need to worry. Me and my colleagues, we’re not here to hurt anyone, alright?”
Behind him, Scaramouche twists the screaming security guard’s arm out of its socket with a resounding snap . Childe’s smile wavers.
“Well, maybe not everyone, but — ” he coughs into his fist. “You get the idea. No harm is going to come to you, girlie. I promise.”
Lumine grimaces as the guard’s limp body crumples onto the ground, before she fixes Childe with a wary look. “... Right. And why exactly should I trust you, Mr. Masked Man?”
Oh shit, he does have his mask on — the pointy, menacingly blood-red trademark he uses for intimidation purposes. That definitely isn’t doing him any favours in the diplomacy department. “That’s a pretty good question, girlie.”
Lumine huffs. “You’re robbing a bank. I think you’re giving me too much credit.”
Childe lays a hand over his heart with a pout. “Aw, harsh! Is there really no way for me to gain your approval?”
“... No. Not that I know of.”
That — bothers him, and he doesn’t know why. Childe thumbs the sleek edge of his mask, contemplating. “I… can take this off, if that helps.”
Lumine suddenly pauses in interest. “Can you really?”
Can he really? Is Childe seriously going to let a worker at the bank he’s burgling see his face and risk compromising his identity? It seems the answer is yes, because he’s an idiot and for some inexplicable reason he’d do anything for the girl in front of him to look at him with something other than distrust.
Making sure his back is turned to everyone except Lumine, Childe lifts the mask from his face — and she gapes at him like she hadn’t expected to see a regular human underneath it.
He tilts his head to the side, putting on a smile that she can definitely see now. “Well? Not so scary anymore, right?”
Lumine’s eyes rove over every inch of his face, too taken aback to utter even a single word. (In a good way, hopefully. His palms are sweaty. Why are his palms sweaty?)
Then, after what feels like an eternity, “I could beat you in a fight.”
Childe can’t help the bark of surprised laughter that bubbles up from his chest. “Really, girlie? That’s the first thing that comes to your mind?”
Lumine folds her arms together, unrelenting, and this girl, he thinks, is an absolute riot. “Well, it’s the truth. Sorry if you find it hard to believe.”
“Oh, no, I’m not doubting you. I’m just curious,” Childe slips his mask back on with a grin, a tingling warmth in the pit of his stomach. “Want to test your theory out?”
“Right now?” Lumine raises a brow at the pistol on his hip, at Scaramouche terrorising some poor recruit, then shakes her head. “Thanks, but I think I’ll pass. I’m looking for a fair fight.”
“Next time, then,” Childe says easily, and it only takes one strange look from Lumine for him to realise that there probably isn’t going to be a next time for them.
(Why does that feel so disheartening?)
“Tartaglia,” Scaramouche snaps, and Childe turns to see La Signora sauntering out of the security room, the rest of the Fatui scrambling to ready for departure. “It’s time to go.”
Beside him, Lumine tucks a lock of hair behind her ear with a curt frown. “Guess your heist is done, huh? At least talking to you wasn’t the most horrible way to spend it.”
It’s not exactly a compliment, but it’s something. Childe will take it.
“Sorry,” he blurts out. Lumine stiffens in surprise, and — what is he even apologising for? He doesn’t really know, but his mouth moves on its own before he can stop. “It’s just business. I do wish we could’ve met under more pleasant circumstances, but…”
But what?
Childe trails off when he sees the unreadable expression on Lumine’s face. He shouldn’t feel this way, shouldn’t feel so strongly about someone he’s just met — but he can’t help but be drawn to her, a girl whose eyes are like a boundless abyss, whispering for him to take the plunge into the great unknown.
He shouldn’t get attached, but he continues to drown in swirling pools of molten gold all the same, and he finds that he doesn’t want to swim back to the surface.
He doesn’t want to let go.
"Hey," he says, "can I see you again?"
Lumine blinks, bewildered. “What? What does that even mean?”
“What it means, ” Childe leans forward, letting those eyes that capture artificial skies in its depths crowd his vision, “is that I’m asking you out.”
Lumine stares at him like he’d just told her to kick a grade schooler in the face. She opens her mouth. Closes it. Then opens it again, a finger pointed towards him. “You’re — you’re literally robbing me right now.”
“No, I’m robbing the bank, girlie, not you.” He snaps his fingers. “It’s an important distinction.”
“But still,” Lumine sputters, “That’s not…”
“You don’t have to say yes!” Childe hurriedly assures her, taking a step back, “I have no intention of pressuring you, I just…”
Want to get to know you better.
“... think you’re pretty interesting.” He finishes. “We could grab some coffee — or spar, if that’s more to your taste?”
“You’re a really weird criminal.”
Childe laughs, raising his shoulders in a shrug. “So I’ve been told. I’m afraid I don’t quite fit in with the rest of my colleagues.”
Lumine looks like she wants to say something to that, but ultimately decides against it, shaking her head with a sigh. “Okay, I’ll — I’ll think about it, alright?” She holds a finger up. “On one condition.”
He perks up. “I’m all ears.”
“Leave this neighbourhood — and bank — alone. As exciting as today was, I don’t get paid enough for this to happen again.”
I could pay enough for it to happen again, Childe wants to say, but that would probably earn him a bruise matching Scaramouche’s. “I can do that,” He says instead. Pull a few strings, shift their area of operation about three towns over — the Tsaritsa probably won’t mind. “You have my word, girlie. Harbinger’s honour.”
Lumine cracks a smile, lopsided and humorous, and that immediately makes any trouble he’ll be getting into worthwhile. “Good. I’ll give your offer some thought… Tartaglia, was it?”
“Well —”
“Tartaglia!” Scaramouche roars, already standing by the revolving doors of the bank. “By the fucking archons, are you coming or not?”
“Yeah, hold on!” Count on Scaramouche to ruin the moment. Childe digs through his pockets and fishes out a scrap of paper, grabbing one of the ballpoint pens lying on the marbled countertops. “Just give me a second.”
He can hear the scowl in Scaramouche’s voice. “You better not be doing what I think you’re doing, brat.”
Oh, but he is. Deciding to only humour the man with a hum, Childe starts to jot his phone number down onto the parchment while Lumine watches in astonishment.
Is it stupid? Yes.
Is it risky? Without a doubt.
Is he making an astronomically bad decision? Absolutely — but where’s the fun in making a good one, anyway?
Childe smacks the pen back down onto the counter as soon as he finishes writing the last digit (with a tiny little heart looped beside it), and he leans over to tuck the paper into Lumine’s hands, a cheeky grin playing on his lips. “The name’s Childe. Call me sometime, okay, girlie?”
He doesn’t wait for her reply — flashing her a salute, he swivels on his heel and runs, passing by the unconscious guards, the cowering civilians, and a muttering Scaramouche as he exits the building with his heart thumping from more than just adrenaline.
Childe leaves the bank with a hell of a lot more money, and — if he’s lucky — maybe even a date.