Work Text:
The familiar rustling of paperwork drew Omega out of a slight stupor. Glancing at the calendar, he found nothing of interest other than the weekly banquet, which was typical of a Friday. Friday. A sigh escaped his lips—Fridays were often dull and uninspiring to the 35-year old segment, who craved stimulation more than anything. However, a banquet meant company, and company meant Scaramouche.
A smile touched Omega’s lips.
I look forward to seeing him.
As if on cue, three curt knocks sounded at Omega’s office door. Entering unceremoniously and without permission, Scaramouche barged in, huffing. His arms were filled with papers, most of which Dottore recognized as mail he’d neglected to open and sort for the past month. Usually he left such trivial matters to be left to his subordinates, but on some occasions his dear puppet was sent to manage them.
“Ah, I am so glad to see you,” Omega chirped, steepling his fingers across his cheek. “Go ahead and set them down on my desk, doll.”
The nickname rolled off his tongue with ease, indicative of how comfortable their relationship had been for the past two centuries. Truly, The Doctor and Scaramouche had fallen into a quiet, almost domestic routine as of late.
“Cease the pleasantries, doctor,” the bluenette snapped, thrusting the stack of mail on his desk in a heap. His dark indigo eyes flashed with irritation as he planted his hands on the desk. “Stop ordering me to take care of your asinine chores—I have better things to do than play housekeeper for you.”
Omega beamed sardonically back at him. “Oh, but you’re so efficient, doll. And perhaps I tasked you with delivering my mail so you’d have a reason to visit my office.” He reached out and caught a loose strand of the puppet’s hair, then tucked it behind his ear. “I’d say it worked splendidly—what do you think?”
Scaramouche’s jaw visibly tightened. “What do you want, Omega?”
“To see you, of course,” he answered immediately, tilting his head. “Today has been frightfully dull, and with the banquet tonight, I found myself thinking of you.”
Relenting, Scaramouche groaned and leaned against the edge of the desk, arms crossed. “What about? Certainly you intend to make me sit beside you, wear the outfit you pick for me, and then retire to my suite together so we can have tea and—“ his ears turned pink and he glanced off to the side. “You get the gist.”
“You make it sound like torture,” The Doctor replied with faux-tenderness, standing to both stretch his stiff muscles and lean over Scaramouche’s shoulder. As he moved closer, he could visibly see the puppet’s defenses raise. “Why so tense today? Is it because I insist upon having your attention as usual?”
It was well-known amongst The Doctor’s segments that 35 was the most selfish and possessive over Scaramouche. For nearly two centuries, Omega had asserted himself as the puppet’s primary handler, the one who performed most maintenance and gave Scaramouche with the affection the boy deserved. Subsequently, their relationship was more developed than that of the other segments.
Omega intended for it to stay that way.
“It’s…” Scaramouche’s eyes flickered to the calendar momentarily, then returned to Dottore. “Nothing. I’m just having a bad day I guess. Don’t lie to me and say you can’t relate.”
“I never lie,” he replied simply, tracing his fingertips along Scaramouche’s shoulder. His puppet truly was beautiful, a masterpiece of technology—Omega could study him for hours, his ivory skin and soft, supple lips that pouted at him. “Is that all there is to it, though?”
Just like that, Scaramouche bristled, but something told Omega it had nothing to do with his touch. “Of course it is. Now stop probing me.” He turned, catching the segment’s wrist in his hand. “I’m going upstairs to prepare a suitable outfit for the banquet. Come up if you want. I couldn’t care less.”
Despite Scaramouche’s stinging words, Omega grinned, unaffected. “Very well. Ten minutes, doll.”
“Whatever.”
*
Of course Omega wouldn’t know the significance of the day.
Scaramouche’s combat boots thudded against the stone floor, reverberating across the barren halls of Glupov. Typically Omega’s antics did not irritate him, but today was different. Today was special—Scaramouche had caught sight of the calendar in Dottore’s office. Friday, but not any other Friday. Scaramouche balled his fists.
How could that segment forget his own birthday?
The Balladeer knew Omega was selfish, but he didn’t think the segment would have disregarded the birthday of the very person he was modeled after, the one who gave him life. Scaramouche shouldn’t have been upset, but he was. Zandik had been different—he lacked the clinical frigidity intrinsic to an artificial being. Zandik had been a human, with a beating heart and warm body. Omega was a far cry from the original.
When Zandik died, Scaramouche did not cry. With stiff posture and a blank expression, he listened as Omega relayed the harrowing news in his smooth, casual cadence. The segment’s glee was palpable—finally, there was nobody standing between them. At one point the puppet preferred the company of Zandik over that of his segments. This had become a point of contention he was inclined to ignore prior to Zandik’s passing.
Not anymore. Omega felt he had every right to Scaramouche now that the competition was gone.
With a shaky huff, Scaramouche pushed open the door to his suite. He paced for a few minutes to calm down, then set to work tearing apart his wardrobe in search of an outfit for the banquet. Omega was particular about what the puppet wore—nothing too flashy or revealing, nothing that could potentially draw the attention of someone else. Omega was jealous, competitive even, with the other segments and Harbingers.
What a joke. Does he seriously think I’m so flighty?
Although the puppet enjoyed the mature company of 65, went to Pantalone often for financial advice, and tolerated Columbina’s constant lullabies, Omega did not approve, and made this approval transparent. Some days Scaramouche didn’t have the energy to fight him. Some days he wanted to run far away, somewhere Omega wouldn’t find him.
A defeated sigh left the puppet’s lips as he laid out a loose, muted blue haori and matching trousers. Dottore had a particular fondness for blue, especially the soft, neutral tones. Like the ocean after a thunderstorm, or an early morning sky. Scaramouche swallowed down a bitter taste in his mouth—he saw traces of Zandik in him every day, little mannerisms that were reflections of the man long buried.
“Did you really miss me, old man? You’re hopeless.”
Zandik adjusted the cane across his lap and tilted his head in a bird-like way. Scaramouche would have found it endearing, if it weren’t for how irritating Zandik was at times. Despite this, he had missed The Doctor’s eccentricities in those ten years. The lines across Zandik’s bare face had deepened in his absence, and today he wore a pair of round spectacles. He looked more human, if that made sense.
“Am I not allowed to long for my puppet while he’s gone for ten years?” Zandik said, smiling wryly at Scaramouche. “Look at you now—so sharp-tongued and mature after your expedition to the Abyss. A Harbinger, too. We’ll have to get to work immediately, you know.”
The Balladeer felt a swell of pride at Zandik’s praise—although he spoke with that same flat, clinical cadence, Scaramouche knew Zandik was impressed. “Well of course,” he replied brusquely, then swept his gaze around Dottore’s office. “You remodeled, I see.”
“Yes,” Zandik said, tapping the top of his cane absentmindedly. “Scientifically speaking, blue calms the mind. As I age, it has become harder to focus. I thought a fresh coat of paint would help.”
Scaramouche’s throat tightened. “You’re not that old. Only 65.”
“75,” Zandik corrected in a smooth, slightly arrogant voice. “Have you lost count of the years, doll?”
Ten years was nothing to Scaramouche. He was immortal, immutable. To him, one trip to the Abyss went by in the blink of an eye. Fixing his gaze completely on Zandik, his throat began to tighten at the sight of Zandik’s weary eyes, the dark circles beneath them that spoke volumes of a life lived in pursuit of knowledge. Scaramouche didn’t think the years would wear on Zandik, but they did.
“Perhaps I have,” he muttered, casting aside his reservations to throw himself in Zandik’s arms once more. “Just shut up—I missed you too.”
The Doctor’s embrace, once strong and unshakable with the confidence of a heretic, now wavered around the puppet’s shoulders.
Omega entered without ceremony and shut the door behind him with a click. “There you are, doll. Have you picked an outfit?”
Scaramouche, idly tracing the patterns of the haori, snapped his head up at the sound of Dottore’s voice. “You didn’t knock,” he hissed, irritated to have been jolted out of his thoughts. “Would it kill you to have normal manners?”
“Manners go both ways, doll.” Dottore shrugged off his coat and hung it up as though he owned Scaramouche’s suite. The puppet grimaced, but said nothing as he approached and surveyed the outfit. “What a pretty color—it suits you much better than those browns and reds. Why did you ever stop dressing so elegantly?”
Propping on the edge of the bed, he crossed his arms. “You know why—a Harbinger is supposed to be threatening.” He poked a piece of spiked armor attached to Omega’s shoulder, then scoffed. “Take you, for example. You could kill someone with your attire alone.”
Omega caught the puppet’s wrist and brushed his lips against his knuckles. “Then let me take it off for you.”
“Do whatever you want.”
Crossing his legs, Scaramouche watched Omega unhook the multiple razor-sharp pieces of armor attached to his body and hang them up. Each accessory had been designed with one purpose—to create a threatening silhouette, to ward off enemies. Dottore’s strength was not entirely physical, but resided in the wealth of knowledge hidden inside his head. Creating an outfit specifically designed to intimidate others was a strategic choice Zandik made many years ago.
Stripped of his iconic silhouette, Omega looked almost human.
“Better,” the puppet said, his chest tightening for some reason. “I’ve been poked in the eye too many times by that shoulder guard.”
Omega chuckled lightly, then seated himself next to Scaramouche. “I believe it is your height that is to blame, doll.” He turned, slipping his fingers into the soft crown of Scaramouche’s hair. “You’re so prickly today. Tell me why.”
“I already said why,” he said, allowing Dottore to subtly tilt his head back. Omega’s free arm circled the puppet’s middle, coaxing him into a half-hug. “Don’t you believe me?”
“No. I can tell when you’re lying.”
Reaching up, Scaramouche pushed the mask off Omega’s face—it clattered to the floor. The Doctor’s visage was one familiar to him, but removing the mask still sent a thrill through Scaramouche every time he did it. Omega merely stared back, his scarlet eyes betraying mild amusement at the puppet’s antics.
Dottore’s face was a handsome one, with light blue lashes that starkly contrasted his blood-colored, cat-shaped eyes. His face was sculpted, masculine in contrast to the puppet’s androgynous features. Omega was a perfect—no, immaculate—recreation of Zandik at his prime. At 35, he was both beautiful and arrogant, sharply intelligent and charismatic. Zandik was 35 when he met Scaramouche in Snezhnaya, so that version of him was most implanted in the puppet’s mind.
“Even if I am lying,” Scaramouche said, thumbing the smooth, perfect skin of Omega’s cheek. It was almost too flawless. “What can you hope to do about it?”
Omega seemed to take that as a challenge, and pushed back against Scaramouche until he lay pressed up against the headboard. “A lot, actually. Lock you up in my lab for a week with no contact to my segments, or worse—force you to deliver my mail every day,” he teased, trailing gentle, possessive kisses along Scaramouche’s jaw. “I’ll ask again—tell me why you’re so averse to my presence.”
He’s awfully persistent.
Scaramouche bit his lip. “I don’t want to fight you, Dottore.”
The Doctor’s gaze darkened. “Fight me? Over something so trivial?” He cupped the shorter male’s face with one hand, fingertips making an indent in his cheek. “Are you hiding something from me? Is it another witless desire to expand your affections to someone else? Don’t think I can’t see how you slip away to spend time with the other segments.”
“Archons—you’re hopeless.” He shook his head. “It’s not about the other segments. It’s—“
Scaramouche’s voice caught in his throat. How could he say it? That today was Zandik’s birthday, and Omega hadn’t acknowledged it? It sounded petty—childish, even. Scaramouche was a Harbinger; he shouldn’t be upset over a man who died nearly two centuries ago. Zandik hadn’t been gentle, and their relationship was nothing more than raw conversations spoken over an exam table while Scaramouche’s organs lay exposed to the air. Dark nights where Scaramouche woke with night terrors and had nowhere to go except Zandik’s quarters.
Why can’t I move on?
“He would have been 268 today,” Scaramouche spoke, fixing his gaze on the ceiling. “Which isn’t a possible age for a human to reach, so it’s absurd I’m even saying this. But year after year, I still keep count.”
Omega’s hand stilled, then lowered to the bed. His fingers dug into the plush sheets. “So that’s it. Estranged loyalty to a long-dead maniac. I should have known.” His face was a smooth mask of disappointment. “I’m right here, immortal, and yet you still think of him. What can I do to shake the thought of him from your mind, doll? Do I have to take you apart and scrub every inkling of that man from your head?”
“Don’t—“ he choked, bolting upright. “Don’t do that.”
The Doctor was capable of it, too—he knew the ins and outs of Scaramouche’s body like the back of his hand. Each crevice of the puppet’s body had been explored at least a dozen times over, recorded in Dottore’s files to rest for eternity. He was Zandik, having the memories of those past experiments and those sleepless nights. But he didn’t live through them. Not all of them.
“I have half a mind to,” Dottore snapped, disgusted. “You seem to forget the manner in which Zandik died—he aged, he fell, and he was dissected at my hand. I am everything he was not, doll.”
Scaramouche groped at Dottore’s face, “I know. I know,” he choked. “I said I didn’t want to fight you, and I don’t. We’ve fought enough.”
Omega was still, unresponsive to the puppet’s desperate attempt to reestablish affection and close the gap between them. He closed his fingers around the boy’s wrist and pressed it down into the mattress, a modicum of irritation on his face. “Apologize to me, and do not bring this topic up again.”
Humiliation burned on The Balladeer’s face. “Seriously?”
“Yes,” he replied icily, then slid his fingers into the puppet’s hair. Abruptly, he pinned Scaramouche’s head to the bed and loomed over him. “Seriously. You know how little I tolerate disrespect from you.”
Wincing, Scaramouche felt the shame on his cheeks deepen. Zandik could never have physically overpowered him—he was a human, after all. Omega was different. Omega could snap Scaramouche’s in half like a reed, then have no choice but to put him back together again. Nausea rose to Scaramouche’s throat but he swallowed it down. When did this position become so familiar?
“I’m—sorry,” he stammered, arching his neck so he wouldn’t have to look Omega in the eye. “Forget I said anything—just forget about it. I won’t bring it up again.”
The Doctor said nothing, but released Scaramouche right after and smoothed his dark hair down. Imperceptibly, his gaze softened. “Better. Things become quite easy once you defer to me, doll,” he helped the puppet up, having switched back to his usual amicable self. “You know I hate it when your attention is fixed on anyone but me. Forget about the past—it’s meaningless.”
Scaramouche was cold without the shadow of Omega over him. He sat on the edge of the bed, watching absentmindedly as Dottore examined his banquet outfit with careful detail, then hung it over a chair. Silence fell thickly between them, but Scaramouche didn’t have the heart to break it.
With a grimace, he supposed it could have been worse. He and Dottore had gotten into physical altercations over less important matters. Shortly after Zandik died, Scaramouche left on a trip to the Abyss—partly to avoid seeing the segments, and partly to remove himself from the halls Zandik once haunted. Omega wasn’t willing to see him go, and warned Scaramouche that he couldn’t escape him forever.
“Don’t forget who made you the near-god you are, Scaramouche.”
Scaramouche remembered that day vividly—how he was barely able to restrain his irritation at that segment’s insistence. Of course, Scaramouche left anyway. When he returned injured and in need of repair, Omega took time to break Scaramouche a little before fixing him up again. He was cruel like that.
“Don’t look so upset.”
Snapping his gaze up, Scaramouche saw Dottore standing before him, arms crossed. “I’m not upset,” he said in a weak voice. “Besides, you wouldn’t allow it anyway.”
“Tsk,” Omega tutted, leaning down to lay a kiss on Scaramouche’s temple, then squeezed his hand. “Didn’t I tell you not to lie? Wipe that moping expression from your face and smile—smile like you used to when you were kabukimono still.”
Kabukimono. A name Scaramouche had long since cast aside.
He let out a sharp laugh. “You don’t remember me then.”
“Of course I do,” he murmured, brushing his thumb along the puppet’s lower lash line. “I have memories of that time. You were so soft and innocent. At times, I see the person you used to be behind that scowl of yours.”
That makes two of us.
Hooking his arm around Omega’s neck, Scaramouche exhaled and eased the tension from his facial muscles. “Are you gonna stay up here all afternoon?”
“Until the banquet. Does this bother you?”
“No. I’ll make some tea for us.”
The piqant aroma of tea filled Zandik’s office. He had a particular fondness for black tea, while Scaramouche typically enjoyed the sharp bitterness of coffee. Today, Scaramouche had brought something special—a box of tea from Sumeru he’d picked up from Port Ormos on his most recent business trip. Not that Scaramouche cared much for Zandik’s tastes, but he felt obligated to, considering all Zandik had done for him.
“For you,” he said curtly, pushing the ornate box across Zandik’s desk. “I picked it up on the way back to Snezhnaya.”
Zandik adjusted his monocle, then shot Scaramouche a puzzled look. “You aren’t one for gifts, doll.”
“It’s Balladeer, old man,” came the puppet’s brusque reply. “I’ve been a Harbinger for fifteen years and yet you can’t call me by my title?”
Fondness softened Zandik’s aged features—he drew the box close and traced the pattern atop. “When I was 35, I laid eyes on you in Snezhnaya. I saw you in a backdrop of whirling snow and grey skies, and thought you looked just like a porcelain doll.” He crossed his legs, chair creaking as he leaned back. “So perhaps you will always be that to me. Even in the eyes of my segments, you are my doll.”
Scaramouche’s teeth creaked as he clenched his jaw. He loathed the fact Zandik’s segments were pre-programmed with the exact same memories and affections of that time period. Especially Omega, who for the past few years had been especially opinionated about the amount of time he spent with Zandik.
“Just open the box,” he spat.
Zandik chuckled, unphased by the puppet’s irritation. “I already know what it is. Black tea leaves, the kind they grow in Sumeru. A thoughtful gift for my birthday, Scaramouche.” He opened his arm, but kept the other hand fixed atop his cane. “Come now—the greatest gift I can receive is your attention.”
“You’re worse than Omega,” he said, stomping to Zandik’s side.
Leaning down, he allowed Zandik to embrace him, and Scaramouche felt the steady thud of his beating heart. He was so fragile, nothing more than a vapor ready to disappear. Not yet. Not yet. Scaramouche dug his nails into the older man’s shoulder, but Zandik didn’t seem to mind the puppet’s desperation. He seemed to like it, even. Perhaps at one point, Zandik considered Scaramouche his family.
Those feelings had never been spoken between them—one day, Scaramouche would say them. One day, he’d be able to process the way he felt about the man who took him in when he had no one. Not today. Today he would lean into Zandik’s warmth and forget all that he’d lost.
“Happy 85th birthday, heretic.”