Chapter Text
The door to Angel’s Share slams open.
Diluc drops the glass he was polishing.
What stands in his doorway isn't a team of elite adventurers. It's a war crime with legs.
---
Leading the charge is Tartaglia, or what’s left of him. Blank-eyed, soaked through, he drags behind him what seems to be the collapsed husk of Faruzan, her limbs dangling like wet cloth. Someone (probably Yaoyao, before the sedation) had hastily strapped a note to her with a “Do Not Replace. She Will Wake Up Eventually. No Substitutes. - Team” scribbled in a shaky hand.
Ayaka follows—her hair matted, kimono in disarray, steaming visibly as if freshly removed from a rice cooker. She walks like a dignified ghost who’s just accepted the futility of dignity. Behind her, Yaoyao is cradled in Nilou’s arms, face slack, silent—silent, which is how Diluc knows something is very, very wrong. Yaoyao never shuts up.
And Nilou herself—dragging one leg, makeup run, every inch of her shouting “I have healed twenty-seven second-degree burns today and I am about to lose it.”
Everyone is scorched, steaming, semi-conscious.
The air smells of smoke, salt, and stubborn regret.
---
“Wha—?”
“Ice water,” Tartaglia rasps. “And towels. Cold ones.”
Diluc doesn’t ask. He just moves, barking orders to the bartenders like they’re under attack. Which, in a way, they are.
He rushes back with a jug and towels, heart pounding. He crouches beside Faruzan and presses two fingers to her pulse—fast, faint, but present.
"You're all burning up," he growls, checking Ayaka’s wrist next. “Who thought it was a good idea to send you lot—a Hydro-Cryo-heavy team—on a Pyro-Geo expedition?!"
There’s a long, painful pause.
“…Jean,” Tartaglia says faintly. “Jean thought it.”
“I’m calling Jean,” Diluc says, pulling out his Vision. “This is—no. No, we are not doing this.”
“We are finishing the mission,” comes Faruzan’s hoarse voice, snapping back into the world like a cursed marionette. Her eyes are red-rimmed, barely open, but defiant.
“She left a note,” Nilou adds quietly, curling a towel around Yaoyao’s forehead. “Said so while passing out. We all agreed.”
“We didn’t cross a boiling lake just to get benched,” Ayaka murmurs. A puff of steam escapes from her sleeve.
Tartaglia nods slowly. “Honor.”
“You need IV fluids, not honor!” Diluc explodes, standing. His hair is damp now—he’s been sweating from stress, not heat.
"You are this close—" he holds up his fingers, trembling, "—to cardiac arrest. You were in a lake that BOILS THINGS. Nilou, did you literally bring someone back from the edge of death?”
“I brought five people back,” she says wearily. “I’m good. Ish.”
Diluc takes a sharp breath, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose.
"I’m calling Jean," he says again, with finality this time. "She is sending a replacement team. End of discussion."
“Don’t trust them,” Tartaglia mutters, clutching Faruzan’s hand.
“I don’t trust you,” Diluc fires back, “to remain alive for the next twelve hours.”
No one protests. No one moves.
A moment passes.
“…We’ll rest. Then go,” Ayaka whispers.
Diluc gives her a look like he’s five seconds from locking the door and tossing them all in a cold cellar.
"Rest here. Now. You are not leaving until your core temperature is below fever level and your blood isn’t soup.”
He stalks off, muttering, already dialing Jean. “Next time I’m picking the teams myself. They’re all insane. Honor-bound lunatics. I'm putting 'fireproofing' on the next requisition list. This is why I drink."
In the background, Nilou’s whisper is just barely audible as she curls up on the floor beside Yaoyao:
“Did we win?”
“I think we survived,” Faruzan replies faintly. “It’s basically the same thing.”
---
The party remains in Angel’s Share until dawn, wrapped in cold towels, sipping ice water like it’s divine nectar.
Diluc never leaves the room. He doesn’t trust them not to try and sneak out.
He was right. Tartaglia tried twice.