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Truth be told, Scaramouche couldn’t remember much about his past. Not even his real name was able to be recalled. All he knew was that he wasn't happy wherever he had lived before, and he had a sister, and that his mom was never home. Maybe it was a good thing that he forgot everything in the end.
He wouldn't say he was happy fighting for just something to eat every night. He wasn't happy shivering himself to sleep in whatever ditch he could find, and he definitely wasn't happy getting nasty looks from whoever he passed in the daytime. Scaramouche wasn’t really that surprised — he supposed that if he were as bigoted as some of these fucks, he might turn a side eye on some poor, smelly Inazuman boy in nothing more than the torn up clothes he could scramble together from various sources.
It didn't go unnoticed to himself that he wasn't pleasant to be around. Scaramouche knew he smelled, and he knew the nasty scowl on his face did not help him win anyone's sympathy, but he couldn't find it in him to care. Even if he managed to get someone’s pity and survive because of that, it wouldn’t last long.
The second they knew anything about him, he’d get kicked out all over again.
————
Fortunately for him, Fontaine had a ridiculous amount of abandoned buildings. Scaramouche preferred taking shelter in them rather than some park bench, because he could almost always find some crook in the wall to crawl into and hide. He also knew that it was far easier to avoid the moon’s shine if he was indoors and while he didn’t particularly care about preserving the lives around him, getting in trouble with the law was the last thing he wanted.
People tended to avoid entering the large abandoned hospitals and factories from years and years ago, so Scaramouche always remembered where those were. He would need a large area to lock himself in, plenty of room for his inner beast to run around and get its energy out before it was locked into his soul again. And the fewer people the better, because there were less casualties and less crimes he had to worry about being placed on his record.
Maybe that was why he had yet to leave Fontaine. Because it was so convenient for him, and Scaramouche really did not want to end up somewhere like Snezhnaya or Mondstadt. Mondstadt had a smaller population so there would be more people to figure out who he was, and Snezhnaya was brutal. Which meant there was more reason for his inner beast to force itself out even if he followed all the rules.
The rules… Don’t look at the moon when it's full and if you do, have a place to restrain yourself at, so no one gets hurt. Don’t ignore the call of the beast. Let it run wild and free when it comes out or you’ll succumb to its more violent desires. Don’t let anyone know about it.
Scaramouche remembered them all perfectly. He also remembered the person who taught them to him. A bloodied and bruised body, ginger hair and dull blue eyes shone clear as day in his mind and he hit himself in the head to force it back. Unpleasant memories did not need to be resurfaced.
He also did not need to think about him again. Not when he was trying to focus on mapping out his new home. Scaramouche estimated he could stay here for approximately a month before he had to move on again, enough time for the full moon to pass through and the season to change from summer to fall. He was not looking forward to the colder weather. Cold weather meant nearly freezing to death and eating scraps of trash rather than the other foods people carelessly threw out.
The sun was setting outside at the moment, which wasn’t convenient but Scaramouche supposed he wouldn’t let that stop him. He needed to make sure there was nothing dangerous here, even a raccoon could be deadly for him. Even if his beast healed him like some sort of parasite, it was far too easy for Scaramouche to contract some kind of illness and die before it could save his life.
Scaramouche could guess this was some kind of psychiatric hospital, based on the fact that the individual rooms seemed more like permanent stay than temporary. He didn’t like the thought of sleeping in the same room where people were mistreated because of their mental illness, knowing Fontaine’s history with mental health. So he kept pressing on, eventually locating a small room tucked away in the end of a hallway.
Indulging in a bit of childish paranoia, Scaramouche checked for bloodstains and let himself relax just a little when he found nothing. He slung his bag down on the ground and sat beside it, sighing heavily. Exhaustion crept up on him, and he was suddenly tempted to explore the rest of the hospital tomorrow. After all, he had a secluded place to sleep, and as far as he was aware there were no raccoons around.
Before he knew it, Scaramouche’s eyes slipped closed and he slumped against his bag, drifting off into a silent rest.
————
He wasn't sure what time it was when he was woken up. Or what really woke him up.
But when Scaramouche’s eyes snapped open and he sat up suddenly, for just a moment he was grateful for his inner beast. In a light level that should have been total darkness for anyone else, Scaramouche could see a little better, though it was still extremely dark. He could at least see his hand when he passed it in front of his eyes.
A clatter of metal snapped him out of his thoughts. Scaramouche’s head shot to the side and he stared out in the hallway warily, his ears craning to try and catch another sound. It could have been an animal of some kind, but Scaramouche would rather be safe than sorry, so after a moment he grabbed his bag and rose to his feet.
Quietly, he snuck out of the room and into the hallway. Scaramouche readied himself for a fight, even if it was with a particularly hostile rat. He checked both ends of the hallway before freezing in surprise.
To his right was a man. This man was ridiculously taller than Scaramouche — though, to be fair, the latter stood at 4'10 so just about everyone was taller — and large as well. The type of man that could break you in half without batting an eye.
But something was off about him. Scaramouche squinted, trying to place it before he moved and risked betraying his location. The man wasn’t looking his way thankfully, but it was almost more eerie that he was standing in the hallway like that, simply staring at the wall. Scaramouche couldn’t tell much about him, not even the colour of his hair because like this, his beast was using his eyes and his beast could not see many colours.
Just as Scaramouche was thinking about moving to ask the man what the Hell he was doing, he turned around to stare at Scaramouche. And then he realized what was wrong. The man wasn’t alive anymore. He was vaguely transparent, some of his form blending into the background. Scaramouche could see the door across from him opened through the man.
And there was a large, ugly burn scar on the right side of his face. Scaramouche shuddered a little, taking a hesitant step away. He hadn’t wanted to be seen, but it seemed to have already happened, and now the man was studying him with some kind of… intrigued expression? Scaramouche stared back uncertainly, prepared to turn around and run if anything happened.
But then the man vanished and Scaramouche was alone in the dark hallway, confused and scared.
————
Even if he couldn’t check anything out due to the lack of a card, Scaramouche still loved to visit the library.
One of the reasons was the computers. He didn’t have to pay to use them and nothing was restricted, so Scaramouche could sit down and watch an hour and a half of a movie before he was kicked out and told to do something else. But this time, he had another idea, something to spend his hour and a half on that wasn’t some bad quality movie he managed to pirate online.
Scaramouche pulled up the web browser and began searching about the hospital he’d been staying in.
He was not happy with the results.
The hospital had been a home for both psychiatric patients and war victims on different occasions, meaning there was more than one source for unhappy ghosts to remain around. It was old, at least a few centuries old, and had not been used in the past couple centuries. And it was apparently one of the most haunted hospitals in Fontaine.
Because of course it was.
Scaramouche sighed heavily and rested his elbows by the keyboard, rubbing his temple in exasperation. Of course he had stayed overnight in one of the most haunted hospitals in Fontaine. He was honestly surprised that a single sighting was all he witnessed, because apparently other people had at least five sightings every time someone stayed. And he was especially surprised it wasn’t a hostile one.
So… maybe it was a stupid idea, but Scaramouche would keep staying there. He saw no reason to change locations when there was a perfectly good one right there, and he didn’t know if he could find a better one before the full moon struck. Scaramouche would just have to hope that last night’s poor luck was the only luck he would receive, and that the rest of this month would be okay.
————
Everything was calm for a bit.
Scaramouche slept peacefully, undisturbed by whatever other ghosts there were, and he always woke up feeling a little more refreshed. As if he didn’t sleep on a hard tiled and nasty floor with only his bag as a pillow, and an eerie silence broken only by nighttime bugs that were trying to find a place to survive over the cold weather.
But it seemed his luck wouldn’t last for long because a week after he figured out where exactly he was staying, another sighting happened.
It was the same man that Scaramouche woke up to last time. He saw the man as he was coming back from getting food, a successful catch — of old McDonald's — tucked under his arm and his bag slung over his shoulder. Just like last time, the man just quietly watched him, curiously. As if he was a specimen under a microscope and not a human being.
Well, as human as he could get with that inner beast in him.
Scaramouche tensed up almost immediately as he prepared himself for confrontation, glaring particularly harshly at the ghost before him. He could feel his beast stirring at the promise of bloodshed, raising its head as it rose out of slumber, and its posture aligned with Scaramouche. The defiance glimmering in his indigo coloured eyes seemingly went unnoticed by the ghost, who’s own eerily crimson gaze simply flitted calmly to them.
“Why do you keep following me?” Scaramouche demanded, his voice sounding more like a bratty child than the intimidating hiss he wished it did. “And— and looking at me like that. I’m not your fucking science experiment!”
The ghost blinked dumbly, confusion etched in his features, before he shrugged and crossed his arms. Scaramouche just stared at him, waiting for him to say something in response. Their staring contest lasted a good five minutes and, just as he began to speak up again and demand an answer, the ghost beat him to it. Curse this insufferable piece of—
“I don’t get to see many people around anymore, no one ever stops by.” The ghost said simply, uncaring about Scaramouche’s bratty attitude. His voice was surprisingly handsome, considering it came out scratched as if he hadn’t talked in years. He probably hadn’t. “You’re the first person I’ve seen in, quite literally, decades and the first one of your kind I’ve ever seen.”
Scaramouche glared at him, displeased by his words. “My kind. What the fuck is that supposed to mean, you—”
“Werewolf.” The ghost interrupted him, not letting him finish whatever insult he had on the tip of his tongue. “I’ve heard about you but I never got to meet one. Aren’t you supposed to be pack animals? And are you all this bratty?”
The question didn’t seem mocking or scornful, which caught Scaramouche off guard. Instead, the ghost acted like he was asking Scaramouche’s favourite ice cream flavour. Nothing in his tone suggested malice other than the way he worded it, and that confused Scaramouche enough to make him shut up for a minute. His food was probably getting cold but it's not like it was very warm to begin with, so he thought nothing of it.
“I was kicked out,” Scaramouche gritted back, ignoring the way his beast whined from deep inside at the reminder. He didn’t need that lonely feel creeping up on him again. “And I’m not being bratty, you’re the one who’s being unbearable. If you want to ask me questions, at least go about it in a respectful way, asshole.”
His words simply seemed to amuse the ghost, who’s mouth twitched into a little smile on the unburnt side. It was quiet for a few minutes, in which Scaramouche decided he was wasting his time here. Conversing with this dead guy wasn’t doing him any good and he was hungry enough to eat cold and rotten flesh at this point. Not a good feeling. But then the ghost spoke up again.
“What’s your name?”
Scaramouche stared. “Huh?”
“Your name,” the ghost repeated exasperatedly. “The thing people call you. Do people still use names, or is that outdated?”
“I know what a name is, I’m trying to figure out why you want it.” Scaramouche snapped. Curse this guy and his attitude. “My name is Scaramouche.”
The ghost smiled, and it was triumphant enough that Scaramouche found he didn’t like it. He shifted in his spot and looked away uncomfortably, wishing to just leave. But it seemed the ghost wasn’t done talking, trying to keep him there now that he’d been spoken to. Scaramouche almost regretted talking first.
“My name is Dottore,” he offered, and Scaramouche really did not care.
With a heavy sigh, Scaramouche turned heel and walked away finally. Nothing was keeping him there and he didn’t want to stay any longer. He almost checked to make sure the ghost — Dottore — wasn’t following him before figuring he could just hide from the naked eye and follow that way. So Scaramouche didn’t bother turning to make sure, simply ducking back into his room to eat his food.
————
It was sometime after dark a few weeks later when Scaramouche heard a door click open and he lifted his gaze to peer out of his own.
He hadn’t been able to fall asleep so he’d given up and spent the time staring at his ceiling, letting the hours tick by. Dottore hadn’t come back to harass Scaramouche in a couple of days, which he didn't know how to feel about. The more people left him to live his life with as little disturbance as possible, the better. But it seemed things between them had grown more comfortable, despite Dottore being rather annoying.
Though, peace never lasted for long
Because there Dottore was, in the hallway, holding back a little kid’s ghost from running towards Scaramouche. The kid was ridiculously thin for her age, estimated around eight based on the way she spoke fluently enough to demand Dottore to let her go. She was blonde and her hair was long and an absolute disaster. Ash stained her face and clothes, and there were tear streaks interrupting the stains on her face.
“What the fuck is going on?” Scaramouche groaned, sitting up and ignoring the way the kid put her hands on her hips, probably to scold him for his language. “And why is there a damn kid’s ghost, Dottore? How many of you are there?”
Dottore seemed surprised at the usage of his name, before he laughed, lifting the kid’s ghost to rest on his hip. “Quite a few. Albedo made me babysit his siste—...” He trailed off, seeming to realize Scaramouche would not know who Albedo was. “Albedo was a doctor that died here, he died in a fire like the rest of us.”
Right. Scaramouche remembered the fire mentioned in the article he read about this hospital. If he remembered correctly, there was at least another ghost that died in the fire and haunted these halls because of it. Another doctor, no older than Scaramouche himself, and one that had a habit of getting drunk on the job. Not a very good doctor.
“Good to know,” Scaramouche muttered, lying back on his bag again. “Why are you even here right now, and why is that kid staring at me?” He returned the small ghost’s glare, unhappy about this whole situation.
Dottore thought for a moment, his lips pursed, before he relaxed them. “Well, I told her we had a visitor and she wanted to see you. Apparently, to Klee, a werewolf is the same as a puppy and she got a little overexcited.”
Scaramouche wanted to crawl in a hole and hide forever. The frustration he felt when he found out Dottore told the child about him was reasonable in his eyes. Because if he was willing to tell a kid, who else was he willing to tell? And would Klee be able to tell someone? It's not like they had much interaction with the outside world but if someone told another ghost that wasn’t particularly happy with his species’ existence—
Scaramouche cut those thoughts off and rolled over, opting to stare at the wall instead of looking at Dottore again. He was reminded of the fact that the full moon would be hitting tomorrow night, and that he needed to find a secluded part of the hospital to close off and transform. Usually, he would just lock himself in his room but the beast had been antsy lately and he knew he had to transform this time.
Unfortunately, considering the ghost that kept following him seemed far too interested in his supernatural state, he doubted transforming alone would be an option. Scaramouche wasn’t really listening, but he could hear Dottore asking him some questions and then he was comparing a wolf’s senses to a human’s. Wanting none of that, Scaramouche went back to ignoring, letting his eyes slip closed.
And then he woke up the next day to silence. Scaramouche sat up, rubbing his eyes clear of some dirt that had caught between his eyelids before he opened them and they slipped through into his eyeballs. He took his hand away from his eye, and then it clicked.
Scaramouche had fallen asleep to Dottore’s voice, even if he wasn’t really listening. How would Dottore take it? He really didn't want to deal with an offended ghost, or if that ghost thought he was relaxed around him. While he could just blame it on the fact he was tired and sleep deprived and that it was late, something told him Dottore would not believe that. Even if it was true.
Groaning to himself, Scaramouche got up and took the bag over his shoulder again. He had to find a place in the hospital that was easy to lock up, even better if it was large enough for his beast to be entertained. Even a simple long and wide hallway would suffice, something that he could close off any escape route and let the beast run around for a few hours.
He didn’t encounter anyone as he explored, which would have surprised him if he didn’t remember Dottore saying he was the most social one. Or the one that caused the most ‘sightings’. There was a lady down in the south wing — it had been used mostly for war victims — that Dottore told Scaramouche to avoid, for ‘her flames will cast a spell over you.’ He did not want to think about what that meant, especially not while he was trying to find shelter again.
And eventually, Scaramouche did find a place. A wide room that had been cleared completely of furniture, surrounded by hallways with doors that could be closed. There was one thing he was worried about, a broken window that had been cleaned of glass at some point. But one look at the straight drop told Scaramouche his beast would not be exiting that way.
“That’s where I fell.”
Scaramouche leapt out of his skin at the sudden voice, whipping around to stare at whoever had spoken. It didn’t work very well. The person that spoke sounded no older than Scaramouche and did not reveal himself.
“Are you another one of Dottore’s friends?” Scaramouche demanded, even more unnerved by the fact that he couldn’t see the ghost than the fact there was one in the first place. “Tell him I’m not in the mood if he sent you.”
It was quiet for a long moment. Then Scaramouche heard a little sigh of exasperation. “I will see you later, strange person.”
Scaramouche assumed he was gone then, and let out a breath of relief. He did not want to have another ghost to keep track of, but he also was a little unnerved by the fact that there would be someone who could witness his beast coming out. No one got to witness the beast, because the transformation was literal torture unless it was done in a rush of desperation. Full moon transformations were the worst.
But there wasn’t much he could do about it. By now, Scaramouche learned ghosts will do their own thing and if that was watching him have a Moment, then so be it.
Scaramouche focused on getting everything prepared for the rest of the day. This meant closing all exits and boarding them up the best he could manage, setting out some blankets and water from his bag in case his beast needed a break. And then the worst part: waiting.
Before he knew it, midnight struck and Scaramouche could see the moonlight shining in through a window. He didn’t need to look at it tonight, however, because the second the numbers on his shitty old clock hit 12:00, he was thrown into a transformation. Immediately, Scaramouche threw himself to the ground as agony crept over every joint and locked in the very fiber of his being.
He learned not to scream long ago.
Blood filled his mouth as he bit his lips and tore them up to avoid screaming and crying like he so desperately wanted to. Every bone in Scaramouche’s body broke then broke again as the transformation progressed. And he was left in a mangled pile of fur for a few minutes, gasping for air, before his consciousness plunged into darkness and the beast took over.
He didn't even notice three ghosts this time watching him. One with a familiar set of crimson eyes, the other with a blue-green colour, and the last had amber eyes. The last had turned away halfway through the transformation, accepting the hug offered to him by the blue-eyed one. But the other two kept their eyes on Scaramouche the entire time.
Scaramouche wasn’t ever himself like this. He was completely taken over by feral instincts, the beast’s urge to hunt and run free drowning out his natural voice of reason. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling, being ignored by something else’s instincts. But he had gotten used to it. Scaramouche would manage.
————
“Is this going to go on all night?” Xiao was complaining again, for what felt like the hundredth time all night. “This is my domain, not his. And if he’s an idiot and tries to escape through the window, there will be another ghost here.”
Dottore sighed heavily, not even bothering to hide his displeasure at Xiao’s complaining. He didn’t turn to acknowledge the younger man, simply standing in a room staring through an open gap at Scaramouche. The ‘beast’, as the other had called it before, spent the last hour and a half running around, stirring old dirt and other gross stuff lying around the hospital floor. Completely unsanitary.
Albedo had left the pair alone at some point, probably to prepare clean-up. He was bothered by the new mess as much as Dottore was, and would probably either make Scaramouche clean his own mess up rather than attempting it himself. Good on him, Dottore could remember a time when they were alive and he did everything for everyone. Xiao still had to shake that habit, and he died much earlier than they all did.
And then there was Signora, down in the south wing, who never did anything for anyone unless it benefited her own selfish needs.
Dottore turned his attention back to the mangy wolf running around the room. It wasn’t very big, but sharp teeth and claws made up for it. Just like Scaramouche, its hair was black and decently long, and it had dark indigo eyes. He would have found it beautiful if it wasn’t making a mess currently, and with a sudden sigh of exasperation he realized he would have to be the one to stop it.
He revealed himself to the naked eye and walked through the wall into the room. Never a pleasant experience, but Dottore had grown used to the chill that passed through every fiber of his being when he walked through solid objects.
The second he walked through the wall, the beast froze and turned to stare at him. It was seemingly terrified by his presence, something it could see and hear but not something it could smell. Dottore didn’t blame it, he would be terrified of something he could sense every way but the main way — that was, if he had a normal sense of fear.
He could tell Xiao was staring at him like he was fucking stupid as Dottore crouched to sit on his heels and held a gloved hand out to the beast.
Hopefully this did not go poorly.
————
When Scaramouche came to again, the first thing he noticed was how horribly cold the side of his head was. He opened his eyes slowly, hesitantly, as if he was expecting something to come out and bite him when he did. Before he knew it, he was staring at the leg of someone he knew all too well by now.
He shot up, glaring at Dottore who seemed completely unfazed considering he just had a sleeping man in his lap. Dottore lifted his gaze and stared back at Scaramouche, the grin on his face revealing razor-sharp teeth. Scaramouche didn’t know how to feel, trying to decide whether he should be angry or grateful that Dottore calmed his beast before damage could be done.
“How long was I out?” Scaramouche asked, turning his head to check the clock. It was 8 in the morning.
“Roughly four hours, once you calmed down enough to lay on me.” Dottore shrugged, speaking as casually as ever. Scaramouche’s cheeks heated up, but it seemed Dottore wasn’t done. “Had I known you would look so cute while you were asleep, I might have considered watching you every time.”
Scaramouche turned a glare on Dottore again, about to chastise him for being fucking creepy, before he realized the ghost was joking. He eased up some, but his face was bright red, and upon noticing Dottore began laughing a little. He reached a hand out to touch Scaramouche’s cheek a little hesitantly, but when he was allowed, his fingers brushed over the skin gently.
Scaramouche shivered at the cold of his touch but didn’t protest when Dottore fully cupped his cheek. He was watching Scaramouche’s every reaction, catching every little sharp inhale and especially the way he leaned into the touch. It was like he was a starving man with how he leaned in, gaze averted to stare at the wall out of embarrassment.
“You’re touch starved,” Dottore realized quietly, gently rubbing Scaramouche’s cheekbone with his thumb. “No wonder you let me pet you the whole time you were like that, archons above..”
Scaramouche gritted his teeth, shame suddenly creeping up on him. The beast had let Dottore pet him? It practically tried to maul everyone else when it was touched, so why was Dottore so special? Maybe it was the fact that Dottore had surely been patient, taking a few hours despite the risk just so that he could pet it. He didn’t know how to feel about that thought.
“Come here.” Dottore suddenly retracted his hand to pat his lap and Scaramouche tried to ignore how he missed the touch already. “No one should suffer like that, especially not someone like you. Sit down.”
Scaramouche eyed him cautiously, trying to figure out why he was suddenly being so nice. “You’re cold,” was the only protest he could manage and he did not like the fact he was quite literally left speechless.
Dottore only smiled. “Not anymore. Stop being a bastard and sit down, I know no one else will give this to you so take it while I’m willing.”
Eventually though, Scaramouche did oblige, though it was a little hesitant. He still didn’t quite know what to make of this as Dottore looped his arms around Scaramouche’s waist and pulled him into his lap, close enough that he could feel Scaramouche’s breath. Surprisingly enough, the ghost was warm like he promised to be, and he decided he would rather not know how that was possible.
Scaramouche settled down, resting his head on Dottore’s shoulder. While the touch was anything but solid — it felt more like he was lying in a bed of smoke, which was a disorienting sort of feeling — he did find comfort in it, so he stayed.
Maybe Dottore’s presence was kind of nice. And maybe he had grown to like Dottore and his little ghost friends over the time he'd been there.
And, just maybe, Scaramouche would stay for longer than a month.