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    Summary

    “Do I?” Sethos hums. The urge to slap him across the head is stemmed by the fact that he is still very much bleeding all over the floor. “Oh, right. I mean, it’s not like I had time? And nobody does my hair like you, dear.”

    “That’s not what I—” Scaramouche begins. Then his brain latches onto the last word like a leech, a broken record: dear. Dear. Dear, he said.

    Has he ever called Scaramouche that before?

    Or, the wanderer's relationship to terms of endearment.

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