Chapter Text
"I'm dying," gasps Baal, hunched over the toilet bowl. Her head is pounding like a drum, eyes squeezed shut against the thin rays of light cutting through the blinds. She gags again, nothing coming up by now, and a thought strikes her, betrayed and indignant: "He poisoned me."
"Did he?" Scaramouche sighs from over her shoulder. "Or are you just hungover?"
"Am I what?"
"Have you seriously lived for almost 500 years without finding out what a hangover is?"
She tries to sort through her memory banks, but they're still a bit on the fritz. She remembers events after leaving the bar only vaguely. Waiting at the fountain, and waiting, and waiting. At some point, Scaramouche returned. Somehow they got to the inn and then... Baal distantly remembers going into a panic when she realized she was having difficulty accessing any of her protocols. How embarrassing. She can find them now, though it still takes a bizarre amount of effort.
"It happens when you drink too much alcohol," Scaramouche explains bluntly. "It'll wear off within the day."
"Why," she asks in something perilously close to a whine, "would humans do this to themselves for fun?"
"Key words: Too much."
"I only had three," she protests morosely. And she was told they were "light" drinks - fruity and sweet. "Venti drank at least twelve."
"Yeah," snorts Scaramouche. "Word on the street is, that bard isn't genuinely inebriated until at least twenty cups deep. Speaking of which-" He shifts, making way for more light that was previously blocked by his silhouette. Baal lets out an undignified noise like the hiss of a cat, dropping her aching head against the toilet seat. "Baal, what the hell did Barbatos want with you?"
Well, I was right, she considers grimly. Nii-san isn't happy.
It's her most pathetic mission report yet, vague and rambling in a croaky voice as she stays slumped over on the cool bathroom tile. Scaramouche stands there with his brow furrowed and arms crossed, foot tapping in contemplation. Baal waits for his judgment.
"Well," he says finally. "Barbatos always has been an odd duck."
Have you met him before? Baal wonders. Then she remembers that Scaramouche mostly doesn't mind questions, and asks, "Have you met him before?"
"No." Scaramouche rolls his eyes. "He's been hibernating for most of my existence, and I kept well clear of him the last time I was in Mondstadt. But I figured he'd be seething with rage after Signora took his Gnosis."
"Signora did?"
"Yes." Scaramouche eyes her. "That's right. You've met her, haven't you?"
"Yes," Baal says. "She's unpleasant." And rather beautiful, though Baal keeps that thought to herself. She wonders what happened when the Harbinger showed up to an empty throne room. She wonders how their creator responded.
Scaramouche snorts a dry laugh, but then he fixes her with an intense look that has her straightening her spine on pure instinct. It's exactly the sort of firm, assessing look she's used to receiving from Ei. "It seems no harm was done, but I can't have you blabbing our business to anyone who's nice to you. Does the word 'undercover' mean nothing to you?" He takes a deep breath and then declares, "One more information leak like that and I might have to leave you behind."
Baal feels an awful lurch in the general vicinity of where her heart should be. She squares her shoulders, trying her best to project competence while slumped miserably over a toilet. "I won't," she swears. "I won't fail you. Nii-san."
He holds her stare for a few moments more, before his gaze darts off to the side and a small huff leaves his lips. "Alright," he says, evenly. "See to it that you don't. And for that matter," he blusters, turning suddenly on his heel, "don't take drinks from strangers, either!"
Then he goes to close the blinds, and Baal drops into blissful darkness.
*
It's afternoon by the time Baal's headache recedes. Scaramouche retrieves her dry clothes from the balcony - she has no memory of how they wound up there - and they trundle out into the chill spring air, Baal still squinting slightly against the sun. She trails him to the Knights of Favonius headquarters where a young blond man with cool, assessing eyes and Khaenri'ah's four-pointed star at his throat hands Scaramouche his order.
"I'll wire the Mora over later," Scaramouche lies. Baal is pretty sure it's a lie, because she knows he no longer has access to any of his Fatui accounts. The young man barely pays him mind, staring at Baal for a length of time she's almost certain exceeds the socially acceptable.
"Nii-san-" she hisses as they walk away.
Scaramouche rubs at his forehead. "Yes. I know. I'll explain it to you later, Baal, okay?"
Yes, but she's curious now. Then she remembers his warning about staying undercover, and the general concept of sensitive information, which isn't really new to her since there were a million things she was not supposed to tell the Inazuman populace at any given time. It's simply that she's having trouble applying the concept now that there isn't a clearly delineated protocol defining what she can and can't talk about in front of other people.
Scaramouche seems to be in a tense mood, and doesn't get around to explaining it before they start the trek up Dragonspine. Baal finds it a fascinating place, frigid and barren but possessing its own stark beauty. They're well past the threshold of temperature that would be dangerous to a human by the time Scaramouche calls a stop; Baal herself is beginning to feel it in the labored creaking of her joints. It's only enough to slow her down a bit, but surely even the two of them would malfunction eventually if they stayed out here long enough.
It's quiet but for the muted howl of wind through the pines. All around are planes of undisturbed snow. They're in a clearing nestled among sheer cliffs, and there's a cave mouth nearby, somewhat small but suitable for shelter. Scaramouche doesn't start toward it. He pauses and dusts his palms off on his knees. Hesitates. "Alright," he says. "Alright."
He draws the Gnosis from its hiding place. It's bright as a jewel, throwing purple sun-shadows onto the glittering white snow. Baal can't help but draw in a breath at the sight, and Scaramouche glares at her, turning to shield its presence, jealous as a dog with a bone.
She blinks. Doesn't protest. Doesn't move. Like he's a skittish animal, one she doesn't want to startle.
She doesn't see it when he puts the Gnosis in his chest. His back is turned to her, an action that strikes her as strangely trusting and almost shy. His breaths grow tight with anticipation, and then-
She hears him gasp. She hears him choke. His shoulders hike up, body hunching over like he's taken a wound. The reflections on the snow go wild, an amethyst-hued lightshow accompanied by the hissing and spitting of electro.
"Nii-san," she starts, and takes a step forward, but-
"Stay back!" he snarls, whipping around just enough to face her. His eyes have lit up with a stormy inhuman glow, the same way Baal's do when she uses the Musou no Hitotachi. His expression is fierce and defensive, though even as she watches it contorts. He chokes again, a hand flying up to claw at his chest. She doesn't see the Gnosis, just a bright purple glow from inside him, electricity crackling sporadically from near-invisible seams.
It's hurting him. Clearly, it is hurting him.
"Nii-san-" she tries again-
"Shut up! Shut up, shut up!" he screams. "I can handle it!" He staggers, then catches himself, hands braced on knees as he breathes in harshly through the pain. His fingers spasm. His expression is such a jumble it's hard to read - agony and grim determination, anger with a growing undertone of panic.
What is she supposed to do? This is the one thing he's consistently told her he's wanted. Her protocols are of no help here. He's not supposed to have the Gnosis, except Yae Miko said that he could; the Shogun's not supposed to harm him, but there's no instruction for when he's harming himself. Baal stands there, frozen, as he struggles.
Then, with an arc of electro so bright it sears her eyes, he loses his footing and crashes sideways into the snow. Throwing restraint to the wind, Baal runs to his side and turns him over. He lets out a ragged cry, legs kicking out, jerky and uncoordinated. She's shocked to see tears pooling in his eyes. His body is stiff, synthetic skin feverishly hot beneath her fingertips. Electro leaps off of him, crackling up her arm with intensity enough to make her numb.
"Get off of me!" he shouts, high and strangled. "Get off of me- Get off-" Then his voice breaks into an awful keen, clutching at his chest as his eyes glaze over and hisbody curls inward. Baal finds her decision is made.
She grabs him and drags him into the cave she spied nearby, ignoring his protests. "Let go of me," he demands again and again, "Let go, let go, let go-"
She releases him on the cave floor and he lies there on his side, unable to get up. He's heaving for breath, shaking violently. He stares at her with pinprick pupils, the emotion in his gaze so arresting it freezes her in place. Hatred and anguish and fear. Terrible fear. Tears slip down his cheeks one after the other. He looks suddenly young and fragile. Breakable.
For the first time she wonders if this is what their mother saw in him. If this is what made her declare him unfit to rule. Too emotional, Yae Miko said. Was she right? Does it matter? Isn't it their creator's fault, if she did not make him strong enough to withstand what he was designed to do? Was it beyond even Raiden Ei's capability, to create a vessel fit for a Gnosis? There must be a reason why it does not factor into Baal's design at all, and like this it is easy to imagine one.
Lightning flashes erratically, throwing strange shadows across the cave walls. Scaramouche seizes, a whimper spilling past his lips. Still, he tries to jerk away when she approaches. Lacking the power to run, it comes out as little more than a flinch as she kneels at his side.
"Don't you dare," he snarls, the syllables cracked and warbling with pain. "Don't- I'm telling you- I'm ordering you-" His fingers scramble at stone as she reaches toward the violent glow at the center of his chest. He flings an arm up to physically shield the compartment for the Gnosis, but the ordeal has made him weak, the limb easily pried away. As she catches his wrist his show of aggression splinters into something far more desperate, the sound of his voice sinking into her like fangs: "No. No, no, no- It's mine- It belongs to me- you told me- you said-"
Baal hesitates. He's pinned beneath her, one arm under her knee, the other wrenched away by its wrist, her free hand reaching for his bare chest- it feels wrong. She doesn't want to do this to him. She doesn't want him to hate her. "It is killing you," she tells him, harsh and low, and-
"I don't care!" he shrieks, eyes wild, body bucking in a last frantic attempt at resistance-
But Baal-
Baal does.
Though she has no conscious memory of it, she finds the tiny mechanism to release the compartment easily. It springs open, and he sobs, "No, Mother, please-"
But it's too late. His whole body slumps as she yanks out the Gnosis, the foreign energy running out of him, the cave going dim. Baal fumbles with the artifact, searingly hot in her hands, absurdly small for the power it holds. She shuffles away to give him space, and then, on impulse, shoves the Gnosis into his hands.
It admittedly might be a stupid thing to do. He could very well shove it right back into his chest. But he doesn't. His fingers twitch, then curl tightly around it. He looks up at her slowly. She waits anxiously for his hatred, his fury, his rejection- for him to tell her to get out of here and never return.
He doesn't do any of that. "Baal," he mumbles, like he's remembering. For one frightening moment, his expression is perfectly empty. Then it begins to crumple, and Scaramouche begins to weep.
He sits up, clutching the Gnosis as close to him as it can be without being inside him. He rocks forward, indigo hair hiding his eyes. Tears plip-plop steadily onto the stone, his shoulders shaking, the noise of his crying all the more painful for how forcibly quiet it is. Each ragged breath wrenches out of him like a shameful admission.
Baal doesn't know what to do. She wants to help him- the desire startling in its sudden intensity- but she doesn't know how. Even if she did, she isn't sure there's any help from her that he would permit. She's come to know him as easily embarrassed, and violent in reaction to it- she still can't shake the sense that after this is over, he's going to tell her to leave.
Humans, she knows, seek and offer physical comfort when strongly distressed. He's about as likely to attack her as accept it, she thinks, but Baal doesn't have any other ideas, and she can't bear to see him like his. Hesitantly, she opens her arms, reaching out and brushing her fingers cautiously at his elbow-
Scaramouche's head jerks up, his expression plainly incredulous. Baal flinches, prepared to retreat and apologize for overstepping, but-
Before she can, with a speed and intensity of movement that startles them both, Scaramouche lunges for her and wraps an arm around her back. It's almost painful, the strength of his hold. His other arm stays folded between them, clutching the Gnosis to his chest as he buries his face in her shoulder and sobs.
She's never experienced anything like it before. Carefully, she wraps her arms around him in return.
"Shut up," he chokes out, "Shut up- don't say a word-"
She hasn't said anything. What would she even say? Maybe he realizes it, too, because he falls quiet but for his cries. His body quakes with the strength of them, finally letting them out fully now that they're muffled by her robes. His back rises and falls beneath her palms, her shoulder quickly growing damp. He doesn't seem to know how to stop.
She wishes there were something she could say to offset his despair. She wishes she knew why this was so important to him.
It may have been his original purpose, but their mother isn't about to take him back if only he can do it now. She doubts that's even what he wants; he seems to hate their mother, after all. Did he simply want to prove her wrong? Why is that alone important enough to abandon his established life in the Fatui? He's evolved far beyond his original programming, and to Baal that alone is wondrous. She's only just begun to comprehend the basics of emotion; she can scarcely begin to understand the twisted-up knot of them at the core of his obsession with the Gnosis. And so, she doesn't know how to comfort him beyond just staying at his side. She holds him to her, so warm and alive in his suffering, and cannot help but feel inadequate.
She doesn't know how long this goes on before there's a sound at the entrance of the cave, the scuffing of a footstep. Her head whips up, grip tightening on her brother protectively.
"Well, well, well," calls an unfamiliar voice that grates on her ears. "Isn't this interesting?"
Scaramouche freezes, tears choking off as he goes rigid in her arms. The voice comes from a tall, pale man, blue hair framing a face obscured by a mask beside his razor-sharp grin.
Slowly, Scaramouche turns. His eyes are still red-rimmed, but his voice is steely as he can make it when he faces the man and says, "Dottore."