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Summary
Scaramouche’s eyes flicked between deep blue ones, trying to determine whether he was lying, and Childe’s breath hit the tip of his nose as he exhaled. It smelt like tobacco and whiskey, with another hint of something he couldn’t pinpoint.
“You’re staring,” Childe whispered, breaking the silence.
“What?”
“You were just staring,” he repeated, before adding, “at my lips.”
Scaramouche jolted backwards like Childe had just told him he’d murdered his horse. “I wasn’t,” he scoffed, looking away as he put his gun back into its holster. “You should go to a doctor. You’re seeing things.”
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Chiscara Cowboys AU