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Chapter Text

Childe was on top of the Balladeer, his two hands planted firmly onto his shoulders, pinning him to the floor.

The fight had only been ongoing for the past 10 minutes, but both were already beginning to show signs of exhaustion, if their heavy breathing was any indication.

" Hand it over. " Tartaglia snarled. " And I'll let you go. "

An obvious lie. The Tsaritsa's orders had been clear. Bring the gnosis, and Sixth. Dead or alive.

Scaramouche obviously could tell, his mouth twisting into a sinister grin.

He opened his mouth, and spat directly into Childe's face.

Tartaglia reacted almost immediately, pressing his knee into Scaramouche's stomach, hard.

The Balladeer responded with a retch, his body tensing in time for Childe to slam his head onto the floor. The cracking sound it made was sickening, but Scaramouche managed to glare with the same usual amount of venom.

Childe was only using his fists now that they had close contact, one of his hydro blades just in reach for him. Although, with Scaramouche's smaller measurements, it was near impossible for him to grab one.

" I'm going to repeat myself. In the name of The Tsaritsa, hand over the gnosis. "

" It's mine. " His voice was reduced to a hoarse rasp, his smile growing more wild, his eyes more unhinged. " It's my birth-right. My creation, my reason for living... it all leads up to this."

Childe faltered, only for a moment. A frown appearing on his features.

An opening.

Scaramouche took it, sending a burst of electro pulsing through his body. The Eleventh cried out in pain, quickly releasing the smaller harbinger, falling back onto the grass himself.

The Balladeer got to his feet, his hairs on the back of his neck still standing on end from the static.

" Pathetic. "

A swift kick made direct contact with Childe's right cheek bone, sending him sprawling flat on his back.

The sixth lowered himself, one knee on either side of Tartaglia's waist. He tilted his head with another smirk.

" You know, it's almost a shame it's over so soon. I expected more of a fight. I guess I overestimated you, Eleventh. "

" Fuck you. "

Childe's face contorted into a snarl, which only seemed to elate Scaramouche even further.

" Goodbye, Ajax. " Scaramouche's hand crackled with electro, as he raised it...

Before he stopped, a soft gasp blowing past his lips.

He barely comprehended the sound of liquid dripping... no, it was pouring. He opened his mouth to try say something, only to close it when he felt a burning sensation at the back of his throat.

Childe's hands shook on the handle of the sword.

The sword that was inside of Scaramouche's stomach.

The Balladeer's eyes were wide, nearly bulging out of his head, as he glanced down at the weapon plunged into his core.

Tartaglia seemed as shocked as he was, as he pulled the sword out of his gut. The motion made Scaramouche fall back, supported only by his elbows. His mouth opened again, as his bulging eyes slowly looked towards his stomach.

Only then did the pain seem to hit Scaramouche.

And how it hurt.

A scream ripped from his lungs, his hands clutching his stomach. They were quickly coated in thick blood, as it continued to ooze through his fingers.

The screams jolted Childe out of his state of awe, as he quickly threw his sword to the side, his hands on top of Scaramouche's own.

" Oh god, I didn't... I didn't mean to. You're okay, I promise you're... you're fine. "

A sudden choked sob tore from the Balladeer's mouth, as his body shuddered. Childe cursed, his hands now thoroughly coated in blood.

" Ajax. Ajax help me. " His voice was shaking.

" You're okay, it's... it's not that bad. "

Childe knew he was lying through his teeth, he looked up desperately, praying someone would walk by. Anyone. Another pained groan brought his attention back down to the smaller harbinger.

" I think I'm dying. " His voice was hoarse, his wide eyes twitching in shock.

" You're not. You're not dying. It's just a scratch. " Tartaglia's lips trembled, but he still forced them into a smile. " You've survived way worse, don't get cold feet on me here now. "

The blood continued to ooze out, its pace slowly slightly now that he was on his back. His eyelids flickered a few times, his breathing quickening.

" ... Hey, Hey calm down. Like I said, you're fine...! You're perfectly fine... Do me a favour, eh? Hang tight for just one moment. Can you do that, Kuni? " Childe ran a hand through his hair.

The first time he had called the Sixth 'Kuni', he was met with a knife straight to his throat. But now, the Balladeer only hummed, his eyes still wide and shaking.

" Ka... Ka... " His mouth was trying to form a word, his throat protesting. " Ka...tsu...rag- "

Scaramouche spluttered, before turning his head to the side, heaving. A small mixture of blood and bile dripped from his mouth and onto the ground.

" ...Fuck. " Childe's eyes widened even further, his breathing hitching. " Fuck! "

He looked around, his hands trembling. " HELP, PLEASE. " It seemed so useless to call out, but he couldn't help himself. "ANYONE. "

Scaramouche tilted his head back in Childe's direction, slowly lifting a hand up to touch his cheek, leaving several bloody fingerprints.

He almost pouted. A facial expression Tartaglia didn't recognise on the face of his superior. His eyelids flickered again, and his hand went limp, as the harbinger fell unconscious, despite Childe's panicked yelling, and however much he shook him.

Scaramouche woke up warm.

His breathing hitched a few times as he slowly woke up.

He was lying on his side, on top of a surprisingly comfortable couch. He realised he was in some sort of cabin, as his blurry vision focused enough for him to make out a crackling fire in front of him.

Scaramouche had a heavy blanket over him, it took him a moment to realise he was shirtless. A thick layer of bandages covered his stomach and chest. They were tight, not to the standard of someone like The Doctor, but not sloppy or careless.

The Sixth curiously pressed a hand on his burning stomach, only to wince when it shot another few pulses of hot pain through his entire torso. Small red spotting appeared, contrasting the white of the bandages.

" Hey, don't mess it up! " An exasperated voice snapped from behind him, making him flinch. " I spent time on those, you know. "

Childe had changed clothing, now wearing a simple white tunic and brown pants. He had hoped that the blood of the Balladeer would wash out of his usual outfit, but for now, this simple attire would suffice.

" Bastard. "

Scaramouche snarled, quickly sitting up, only to freeze and sink back down on his elbows with a groan. The movement made it feel as if there was a hot dagger being traced across his stomach.

" Easy, easy. "

Tartaglia quickly placed a hand on his shoulder, holding a cup of water to his lips.

" Drink, it will help. I promise. "

" I don't need your charity. " Scaramouche's cheeks burned. It was pathetic, to have been taken down by nothing but a flesh wound.

" You look pale, Scara. " Childe's eyebrow furrowed, as he gently pushed Scaramouche up into a sitting position. " Just a small sip. You've lost a lot of blood. "

Scaramouche wanted to protest some more, but even his paranoid mind could accept that if Childe wanted to poison him, he'd be dead by now. He clenched his jaw, grabbing the glass. Quickly gulping down its contents.

" Small sips, easy now- " Tartaglia warned, trying to take the glass from him, before being cut off by the Balladeer slapping his hand away.

He finished the glass with a final gulp, before he let Childe pull the glass away from him. He panted, before shooting another glare at the harbinger.

" More. "

Tartaglia didn't usually take too kindly to being ordered around, but this time he only frowned.

" ...Alright, but you have to drink this one slower. You're not vomiting on these floors, it took almost all the mora I had to convince the couple in here to rent it to me for the night. " Childe smirked. ' ...Well, my mora and a few threats from my arrows, of course. "

With him gone, Scaramouche decided to test his mobility more. He slowly pivoted himself, trying to keep his torso as straight as possible as he placed his feet onto the floor. He suppressed a groan, tightly pressing his lips together.

He started to regret drinking that water so fast, as the pulsing pain started to make him nauseous. He pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a cold sweat beginning to cover his forehead and cheeks.

How pathetic...

Since he had woken up, he couldn't stop the thought from swirling around his brain.

Taken down by the weakest harbinger? He's losing his touch.

It was just a scratch.

Barely even grazed him...

Scaramouche felt his hands curl into fists, his eyes closing. With a shaking inhale, he forced himself to his feet.

The regret was immediate.

He was hit with wave of vertigo, stumbling. It felt like a challenge to even stay standing, a low involuntary moan of pain forcing its way through his lips.

He regretted making the sound as soon as he heard Childe quickly reenter the room.

" Just what do you think you're doing? " He sounded exasperated. Scaramouche was only conscious for a few minutes, and already seemed hellbent on undoing all of Childe's first aid.

" Fuck off. " The Balladeer's eyes were screwed shut, as it felt harder to breathe through the pain. His lungs were on fire, and the room kept tilting.

" Just sit back down for a minu- Woah-"

Tartaglia moved quickly, as Scaramouche's knees buckled and he pitched forwards. Childe managed to grab him by the shoulders before he could hit the floor.

" ... God, are you always this determined to hurt yourself? "

" Fuck you. "

" Such a foul mouth too, can't you tell I'm trying to help you? "

" You're the one who did this to me! " He scowled, before wincing in pain. The stupid wound didn't want him to have a second of comfort, apparently. Childe saw his facial expression change, and quickly helped him sit back on the couch.

Scaramouche accepted the help, begrudgingly, glaring daggers at the harbinger the entire time.

" You'll reopen the stitches at this rate... still. You heal amazingly fast. " Tartaglia mused to himself, tracing a finger over the other's bandages. " I know you don't heal like the rest of us but... I thought you were going to die. "

When he said that, he wasn't just admitting it to Scaramouche. He was also admitting it to himself. He was nearly shocked at just how much blood was actually inside a body...

The puppet only blew his bangs out of his face, settling back down on the admittedly comfortable couch.

" ...Anyway, you have a fever, and you're still recovering from blood loss. Just rela- "

" Why are you doing this? "

" ...Excuse me? I don't quite understand, Comrade.

" Why didn't you just let me die? "

Childe opened his mouth to speak, barely any sound came out. Scaramouche pressed on.

" You already stabbed me, why didn't you just finish the job. " His scowl had twisted into a pained smirk, the sheen of sweat still visible on his forehead.

" ...I changed my mind. That's all you need to worry about. " Tartaglia had to leave. Despite knowing that he would ask that question, a small part of him was praying to every Archon that he wouldn't.

Because not even Childe himself knew why he spared the Balladeer.

" You know, the Tsaritsa will do worse to me when we get back. If The Jester doesn't rip my body to shreds first. "

Childe paused, his back to the puppet.

"...Why are you doing this? "

" As I explained. It is my birth-right. I'm simply taking it back for myself. "

"...Yes, you have said that. I just don't understand what you mean by it. "

" Do you ever understand anything that anyone says? I believe thats your problem. "

" Stop it. "

Scaramouche tilted his heavy head back onto the couch with a huff. Childe hadn't realised his fists were clenched until he felt a stinging sensation in his palms.

" Just rest up. I'll decide what I'm going to do with you later. "

For once, The Balladeer didn't protest. Childe figured he was too tired to even try, as only a few moments later did his breathing even out, his head still tilted back.

He was still deathly pale, his sleeping body trembling slightly. It almost made Childe's chest hurt, as he fixed the blanket back around him.

When he was sleeping, nearly all his scowl marks faded.

For once in his life, he almost looked at peace.

Chapter Text

It happened in an instant.

Scaramouche and Tartaglia were both stationed at Dragonspine for routine drills with their new recruits. They were to both circle the entire mountain twice, taking a 5 minute break each time their paths intercepted.

No where near enough time for the recruits to actually rest, of course. but this was just to root out the weak.

Instead, Childe spent the little time he had to annoy the Balladeer.

The first interception saw Scaramouche's recruits clearly more fatigued than Childe's, many of them wearing colourful bruises and electricity burns up their arms and legs. The Sixth Harbinger hadn't broken a sweat, his face practically hidden under his coat.

The sight of the harbinger had cracked Childe up when he first lay eyes on him, the bottom of the coat down past his knees, with his face and neck swallowed by the fur. But now, Childe felt almost jealous, seeing how warm he appeared.

Scaramouche made eye-contact with the Eleventh, before his face twisted into a sneer and he turned away.

His usual grin spread across his face. Scaramouche was never receptive to any form of small talk or conversation, but his hatred of Childe seemed to outweigh his hatred of every other harbinger.

Tartaglia knew why, of course. Between the constant pestering to duel, or the countless comments on his height and attitude. It was enough to drive even a patient man to animosity.

And Lord Scaramouche was anything but a patient man.

As the five minute ended, and the Balladeer's men walked by Tartaglia's, Childe gathered a handful of snow, moulding it into a ball.

A smirk tugged at his lips, as he quickly spun and sent it hurtling into Scaramouche's direction, where it hit the back of his neck and exploded.

Scaramouche froze, as the cold slush slid down his back.

" Come on, boys! " Childe grinned, turning back to his shocked subordinates. " Break is over. Quick time, march! "

A dangerous anger omitted from the sixth. It made Childe's grin grow.

Maybe he would get that duel today after all.

It was the second interception, by the frozen lake, when it happened.

Scaramouche arrived at the interception point before Childe, but instead of allowing his recruits longer to rest, his men were preforming pushups in a line on the snow.

The Balladeer marched in front of the line, barking at poor recruits who's pace slowed.

Childe quirked an eyebrow upon arrival.

" Someone's in a bad mood- "

He was cut off by a lightning jolt at his feet, causing him to stumble back and fall ass-first into the snow.

Tartaglia barely had time to react to the second bolt, managing to roll before a bolt could hit his chest.

He pounced to his feet, a wild smile taking up his cheeks.

" If it's a duel you wanted, you could have asked. "

" Shut up. "

Childe rolled to dodge another bolt of lightning, quickly knocking an arrow into his bow.

The arrow landed a few millimetres from Scaramouche's foot with a loud crack.

Odd, Childe thought. He didn't remember snow making such a sharp sound...

But The Balladeer didn't seemed phased, seemingly charging a bolt in his hands, when the cracking sound got louder.

The lake. Childe's eyes widened. It was here the whole time.

They were standing on top of it.

The water had frozen solid, the snowfall covering the ice. Making it look just like the ground.

" Scaramo-! "

His voice was cut off, when the cracking sound drowned out the sound of his voice. A loud bang, and a splash.

And the Sixth had disappeared from sight.

Childe knew the risks of ice water. Of course he did, you don't grow up in Snezhnaya without them being pummelled into your head.

The body goes into shock, making them freeze up. It's disorientating, and the persons first instinct is usually to gasp.

It's even harder to get out, with underwater currents pulling them away from the original hole.

Tartaglia swallowed back the dread, practically sprinting across the already delicate ice to the crater.

" Fuck... " He panted, the water looked practically black. It was like the Balladeer just vanished.

When something started to bob to the surface of the water..

A hat.

He ripped it from the hole, before tearing off his coat, Childe plunged an arm into the water, wincing when the water felt like it was burning him.

Tartaglia clenched his fists, ripping off his scarf, as a handful of terrified, open-eyed subordinates began to also gather around.

" I'm going to need a pyro delusion user. " Childe practically ripped his boots off. " Be on standby. "

" L-Lord Childe, wait a momen- "

Tartaglia submerged himself into the water.

He was an idiot, he thought to himself. After just going through the risks...

The lake was deeper than expected, the only light being the sun beaming through the ice.

It was hard to keep his eyes open, but he managed to catch something out of the corner of his squinted eye.

A hand, outstretched...and quickly descending.

Childe dived, seeing a stream of bubbles bobbing up after the sinking figure.

Tartaglia had always been a fast swimmer. He fondly remembers the races he used to have with his siblings. He tore through the water, managing to get close enough to the harbinger to grab his wrist.

The cold was setting in, his thoughts felt almost heavy as he pulled Scaramouche to his chest. As he forced his head up, it was by some miracle that he saw the shadows of his subordinates surrounding the initial entrance hole.

Black spots swam in his vision, as he forced himself up, clutching the weight of his comrade close to him.

Hands grabbed his shoulders as soon as he got close to the surface, hoisting the pair up. Childe gasped, and coughed, as The Sixth was pulled from his arms, and he was lifted from the water and onto the ice.

He spluttered a few times, as someone threw his dry, warm coat over him. He heard hushed whispers coming from the crowd around Scaramouche.

" Check again! "

" I already told you, there isn't one. See for yourself. "

" He's not.. Lord Scaramouche he's.. "

" He's not breathing! "

Tartaglia forced his shaking legs to work, as he stumbled to Scaramouche's side. His face was stark white, bordering on grey. His lips were blue, his face looked almost relaxed.

Childe pressed his head to his chest, desperate for any sign of life.

He received none.

" ... On the count of 30, someone pinch his nose. " Tartaglia took a deep breath.

" Lord Childe... I don't think he's- "

But Childe didn't listen, his hands planted firmly on the Balladeer's chest. He swallowed back the overwhelming fear he felt.

His larger hands pumping on the other harbinger's noticeably smaller ribcage made him look even more like one of Childe's younger siblings. He knew he was most likely hallucinating from the cold ( How long does hypothermia take to kick in again..?) but he could have sworn Scaramouche had Teucer's face.

A cracking sound erupted from under Childe's hand, making him bite back a wince.

" Lord Childe.. "

" Do it. Now. "

The pyro slinger who had just spoken frowned, his eyebrow twitching with concern, but he still placed his hand over the harbingers nose, blocking the airway.

Tartaglia trembled, as he pressed his lips to Scaramouche's.

He emerged to get another gasp of air, before once again pressing his mouth to the other harbinger's.

The Balladeer's soft lips felt like blocks of ice to Childe, the taste of the lake water brushing his lips again

He started pumping his chest again, ignoring the second cracking sound coming from the harbinger's ribs.

Whispers began to circle throughout the recruits, while others were completely frozen to the spot, watching what they were sure to be the death of the Sixth Fatui Harbinger.

Thats when his eyelids flew open.

A loud gasp, before a retch. Childe just about managed to turn Scaramouche's head to the side before he vomited what had to be half of the lake's water onto the ice.

He gasped again, before coughing harder. His hand grabbing Childe's shoulder, clutching onto him for warmth.

The Balladeer felt like ice in Tartaglia's arms, but he put his arm under his knees regardless, stumbling to his feet with Scaramouche in his arms.

" Effective immediately, today's drills are cancelled. " He panted, as the Sixth shuddered violently in his arms. " Fire. We need a fire, now. "

Scaramouche still clung to Childe, his eyes wide and pupils dilated. He opened his mouth a few times, before letting out a short, high pitched whine.

Off the ice, on actual ground, an actual fire was built and burning away. Tartaglia got to it as fast as his trembling, numb legs let him.

It wasn't enough, Scaramouche was still in his soaked clothing. He'd be better of naked.... but he knew The Balladeer would eliminate his entire bloodline were he to ever discover what Childe did.

" ...Shit. I'm sorry, Scara. " He muttered, as he pulled off his large coat, then his soaked top layer, and then his tank top.

He pulled his own warm, dry coat off his shoulders, covering Scaramouche with it. However, as he buttoned it up, he couldn't help but pause. With it's epicentre at his navel, a large branding took up most of The Balladeer's stomach, in the shape of the electro signal. He had never seen the harbinger bare chested, he couldn't held but wonder when he even got a tattoo like that...

Just above the electro branding, dark purple bruises had already started to form over his pale chest. The aftermath of the rough CPR.

" We're leaving. " He breathed. " He's going into shock, the air is too cold here. "

Scaramouche's grip didn't loosen, seeing him act so vulnerable nearly made Childe uncomfortable. It just felt...wrong. He wanted him to be barking orders at him, to see him yell his pale face scarlet.

Now he was shaking, his eyes shot wide open. His weak, numb hands holding as tight as he could.

He straightened up, only to stumble when the corners of his vision pulsed. He groaned, gripping the Balladeer tighter as he nearly dropped him. His limbs just felt so heavy, his eyelids flickering.

He cursed yet again under his breath, struggling to stay on his legs.

Childe fell to his knees, the other harbingers body still in his arms. He heard murmuring around him, but it all sounded like it was underwater. His eyes flickered, and closed.

---

Scaramouche loudly coughed up a mouthful of phlegm, spitting it into a handkerchief, making direct eye contact with Tartaglia as he did.

" Was that supposed to freak me out? Try having siblings. "

The Balladeer sniffled and scowled, his nose and cheeks blushed, his body under a mountain of blankets.

Tartaglia was in a similar state, smirking across from him as he sipped from a cup of hot tea.

" Ugh, this stuff is so bitter. How do you stomach it? "

" With pleasure. " Scaramouche was clearly taking his quarantine with less grace than Childe, as he coughed wetly again, not even bothering to cover his mouth.

" ... That's disgusting. "

After his coughing spell, however, he paused with a groan, a hand going to his side.

" Don't fuck up your bandages. " Childe sighed, putting his cup down. " Let me see. "

" Fuck off. " He sniffled again, somehow sounding twice as congested as Tartaglia.

His CPR, while good intentioned, had resulted in two broken ribs. The constant coughing and wheezing didn't seem to help his condition either.

In fact, he was in worse condition than Childe in practically every way. While both inevitably were sick after the unexpected dip, Scaramouche also had a disturbing amount of water remaining in his stomach and lungs, having to stay under the Doctor's care for even longer.

Both were suffering from hypothermia, with Tartaglia receiving a lecture on how he was /this close/ to losing his fingers from Dottore, something he zoned out during.

"... I probably shouldn't have pressed down so hard. Sorry about the ribs."

Scaramouche sniffed again. " I heard it's better to break the ribs than let them drown. "

Childe huffed a breath of air out, shivering slightly. " Maybe...but... "

He stared down at his hands, taking a seat again. " I thought you died. I genuinely thought I just killed you. You were... completely limp. Cold- fuck, Scara. You were so fucking cold. And your pulse. "

" My...pulse? " The Balladeer repeated, clenching his jaw.

" You had none. I've heard stories...miracles.. about people without pulses coming back. But even when your eyes were open, and you were breathing...shit, you just didn't have one. "

" You're right. " Scaramouche had gone stiff, holding tightly onto his cup.

" I'm right...? "

" To have a pulse, one must have a heart. I don't have either. " He didn't quite look Childe in the eyes, before sighing.

A scarf was wrapped tightly around his neck, but he began to unwind it, before tilting his head to the side.

Tartaglia swallowed, before walking to the couch The Balladeer was bundled up on. He leaned in, placing two fingers onto his neck.

His skin was warm, a mild fever had started a few hours ago. His fingers slowly raised to where his artery would be.

Childe waited. And waited.

" ... Archons. " He whispered to himself. Scaramouche said nothing, just letting out a small sigh.

" What /are/ you...? " His eyes were wide, as The Balladeer rolled his head to look at Childe.

" I'm The Balladeer. That's all you must know for now. "

Only then did Tartaglia realise how close their faces were, foreheads almost touching. He pulled back, walking back to the parallel couch, flopping down on it.

" I'm sorry for breaking your ribs. "

" I don't forgive you. "

" I'm also sorry for nearly killing you. "

" ...You're giving yourself too much credit. You have no hope of ever killing me. "

" Fine. I'm sorry the water messed up your makeup, then. "

There was a pause, before a well aimed pillow suddenly hit him directly in the face.

" Just shut up. "

Childe snorted, flipping over on his stomach. " Fine. But for the record, I could totally kick your ass in the snow. It's my element. "

Silence. When he lifted his head to look at the other harbinger, he smirked to see him fast asleep.

" Sweet dreams...whatever you are. "