Work Text:
HOME WAS DIFFICULT to describe for someone like Scaramouche.
At first, he believed it was merely his residence; a sanctuary wherein he would find respite in. But his work often required him to move from location to location thus crossing out his simplistic beliefs of what a ‘home’ was to Scaramouche.
Since his conception upon this earth, Scaramouche had rarely experienced the truest, purest forms of happiness. To feel such euphoric emotions - or even to simply relax somewhere knowing he was safe, welcomed. After his creation and the subsequent abandonment, he grew incredibly disheartened every time he was turned away, to be continuously reminded that he was a creation unloved by his own maker. Thus the concept of a ‘home’ was wholly foreign to him.
For the longest time, he had somewhat believed his home to be with the Fatui. He allotted much of his duty and time to being one of the Harbingers but never felt as though he belonged. The eleven of them never got along - all too different by ways of methodologies and morals. Hell, he never truly trusted the Tsaritsa either. For him, Scaramouche believed himself to be the only individual who could be trusted - that there needn’t be another individual in his life that he needed to confide in. No… he was already far too used to being alone, to feel isolated and unwanted. It came to him naturally.
So when he met you, he didn’t know what to expect.
Truthfully, it was a matter of pride to him at first. A game of sorts, not one to lose to Childe of all people. Yet in subsequent fashion, he realized there was more to simple jealousy.
No, the puppet wanted to belong. He tried so desperately to find someone - anyone who would belong to him to ground himself in this reality. To know that he was worth something even if you hadn’t loved him in return.
At first, Scaramouche had thought himself to be foolish in thinking such a thing. That he did not need to belong for that would illuminate his own weakness. But those cracks of insecurity were often visible to the eye. When anger and authority did not mask his own fears - the puppet began to fall apart for he did not know what else to do other than allow his own feelings to swallow him.
It’s utterly foolish . He thought time and time again. He was a divine creation, not a mere human. He possessed the potential for destruction unspeakable by mankind. He was strong, more powerful than the rest of them - there was no need to rely upon his mortal emotions because such a thing would convey his own weakness. And Scaramouche would not allow his weakness to show.
He drew upon arrogance and pride to mask his fears. When he had looked upon you the first time, he felt anger in seeing someone who seemingly possessed it all to allow themselves to fall to their own fragility. He despised you, hated you for being so human. He detested your fragile heart, your childish mind. He hated you so… for being able to express something he was incapable of doing.
Divine as he may be, he was not a deity. He was a broken child molded by the gods and tossed aside; unloved and unwanted. And you? You were a child unloved and unwanted from the start, and when given a glimmer of hope - that fragile dream shattered with punishment and scorn.
He had hated you for being who he had once been.
He had hated you for reminding him of his past.
And most of all, he hated you for being who you are.
Because if there was anything mortals are foolish enough to do, it was to try again. To rise up, to take arms and fight back. Scaramouche had learned that lesson once in the past…
Anytime when he saw you in tears, he answered with anger as he would never allow you - no… himself - to break down. Not until there was an end achieved. Scaramouche would not allow you to fall to your own fears and demons.
It wasn’t until you were gone when he feared losing what was left in his life. And he hated it. Not that he despised you in this case… but rather he hated himself for driving you away as well. At first, he feigned indifference to the anger that boiled in his chest - believing that it was because you had left him in a storm of emotions. No… that anger was reflected on himself. Self-loathing for having driven the one person whom he thought he could confide himself in away.
When he had finally found you, to have you in his arms once more - gods, he had never felt such relief. His anger subsided to gratification and consolation at your safety (because only the gods would know what he would’ve done to punish himself had he lost you too). He pulled you close, to feel you in his arms made his breathing cease. He yearned for nothing more in that moment to know your safety, to have you safe in his arms because had he been too late… he would never forgive himself.
So he asks himself the question again - what ‘home’ means to him… He learned right then what it meant.
“Scara…?” He heard your voice in the darkness, eyes flickering over to the entrance of the garden wherein you entered the garden with light, fleeting steps. The moonlight cascaded over your figure as you wandered over to him, still drowsy from sleep.
“You should be in bed.” Scaramouche told you, it sounded like a scorn but you didn’t mind it as your arms found its way around his waist. He leaned into your touch, allowing you to relax into his body as you breathed shallowly - the familiar scent of orange blossoms entered your nose.
“So should you.” You answered, hearing him scoff at your answer.
“Unlike you, I don’t need sleep.” His words were true. Even so, he indulged himself from time to time. Most nights he spent with you, he would familiarize himself in your sleeping features - eyes tracing over your face and falling for it all over again. (That, he would never dare admit out loud to you).
“It’s cold without you.” You whined quietly, tightening your grip around his waist. Scaramouche breathed a sigh as his eyes fell to the garden floor, noting your lack of footwear when he suddenly turned around - causing you to stumble back. “H-Huh…? Scara, what are you—?”
“Honestly,” he says, scooping your legs up into his arms - lifting you with ease as he held you close by bridal style. “You’re hopeless. You can’t even put your shoes on without your maid’s help?”
He was teasing you, that much you knew even through your sleepy daze.
“Wenling’s a friend. I wouldn’t ask her to do such a demeaning thing.” You pouted, playfully hitting his chest as a means to reprimand for making fun of you. “And I came without shoes because I thought something had happened… You never leave the room unless it is important.”
Scaramouche didn’t say much, instead - he halted in his steps to gaze upon you. The sudden silence made your heart rate increase, especially with his excessive staring in such concentration. “S-Scaramouche…? Is there something wrong? Did I say something wrong…?”
He snapped out of his daze, shrugging it off as he answered you with a simple ‘no.’ before following with, “I just wanted fresh air. You didn’t need to follow me to the gardens.”
You were used to his antics by now, knowing that it wasn’t as simple as he had made it to be. But knowing Scaramouche, he wouldn’t tell you anything. So instead, you decided to do something that would provide him with some solace to whatever predicament he was in.
“I wanted to.” You said, watching as he turned his gaze back to you with a fixed expression of confusion. “I… don’t want you to be alone.”
There was something distinctive unspoken between the two of you. That neither of you wanted to be alone, only ever finding true relief in one another’s arms. But it needn’t be said out loud because he knew full well and as did you.
“Mm…” He hummed softly. “Then shall we head back to bed?”
You nodded in agreement before letting out a noise of complaint when he lifted you without warning - prompting you to grab onto him to assure you wouldn’t fall. “At least let me down! I can walk by myself!”
He rolled his eyes at you. “You will not sully my bedroom with your dirty feet.”
You groaned, snapping at him. “It’s my bedroom! I can ask the servants to clean the mess— and besides, I came without shoes because I was worried about you!”
Scaramouche leaned close, ignoring your words as he pressed a swift kiss to your forehead. “Ours.” He corrected, that of which you grumbled something sounding vaguely like an agreement.
And finally, after all this time, Scaramouche finally found his answer to what ‘home’ means to him.