Chapter Text
Even puppets built to withstand erosion are fallible—a fact Scaramouche knows too well.
Amidst an ambush, he tucks and rolls, narrowly avoiding the onslaught of Abyssal energy—but his subordinates aren’t quick enough. Their machinery is caught in the downpour, shattering on impact. Metal cracks and bends, rupturing with white fire. The explosion is ugly, and he hears a crackle in his audio drivers before—
They snap—stabbing deep behind the eyes. The ear-splitting sound sends Scaramouche to the floor, the noise warping and distorting. Feedback drowns out the world, and every vibration is excruciating, rattling in waves of agony. His hands are ripping out his hair. His throat burns.
He doesn’t remember losing consciousness. Much later, The Balladeer wakes up on a familiar operating table, resting sideways.
The overhead lights that sting force him to squint, gaze landing on Dottore, preoccupied with a surgical instrument. He feels limp, but his body throbs, aching all over. He knows he’s woken up while under the knife. Unable to move, he studies the medical trolley before him, laden with his own cogs and screws. Dottore reaches and swaps for one of the tools sprawled upon it, leisurely with his pace. He finally notices The Balladeer’s opened eyes.
The looming man appears unalarmed, his gaze methodical. When his lips move, Scaramouche waits, but hears nothing. Disoriented, it dawns on him, stupidly: his ears are broken.
Dottore must read the anticipation on his face—Scaramouche watches his chest rumble with cruel laughter. He realises that The Doctor must have been musing to himself. He often does during theatre, his comments provocative, laced with ridicule. Scaramouche doesn’t want to know what he said.
A cold screwdriver bites into his skin. Dottore works with precision—efficient, unflinching, and utterly indifferent to the pain he causes. His only concern is that the repairs hold. Tools crank and click, each agonising twist jerking through Scaramouche’s skull. The latches come loose, one by one, and he writhes against the pain, but a brace keeps his head still.
He feels the scalpel trace along his skin, making an incision. Dottore dismantles his outer shell, plucking off more nuts and bolts. They join his growing collection on the trolley, and the volume of pieces tells Scaramouche that his face must be concave. The deeper Dottore travels, the longer the utensils become. He pokes inside, looking for the grooves. With a tug, a switch is flicked deep within the puppet.
Eventually, Scaramouche feels his ear pop, followed by a wave of static and the sloshing of blood. There’s the clanking of metal, and when the sound of his own sobs finally reaches his ear, he hiccups, shutting up immediately.
“Regained your hearing?” Dottore’s laugh is muffled and distant. Scaramouche wishes he could have slept through more of the surgery—they aren’t even halfway through.
“You’re long overdue for a checkup. You’ve neglected your health, and now you have a puppet's version of a ruptured eardrum.” Scaramouche can hear the derisive tone even with metal in his ears. The tool continues to pick, and he can’t hold back his sobs anymore.
“Perhaps you’ll now see what avoiding me achieves, hmm?”
The Wanderer jolts awake on his bathroom floor.
The chill of the tiles is welcoming against his flushed skin. He must have passed out—groggily, he pulls himself upright, gripping the basin hard for leverage, his legs shaking as he regains balance. In the mirror, tear-streaks are smeared across his face.
He wipes them away hastily and tilts his head, focusing on his ear.
Both auditory sensors—broken. He can hardly believe it. They almost never fail together, not unless there’s been blunt trauma. One deafened ear is manageable, but both….
Since leaving the Fatui, he disgruntledly realised how dependent he‘d become on The Doctor, who always handled his maintenance. Now, The Wanderer’s left to do the repairs himself, and his hands don’t have the same accuracy. He scowls, tears threatening to fall again. Was the plan to rely on Dottore forever? Scaramouche was a stupid man, but The Wanderer might be even dumber.
He begins prodding with his fingers. Straight-on with the mirror, he can’t see his ears—but turned sideways, the angle shrouds the ceiling light. He groans, fumbling blindly, but he can’t even feel what he’s looking for. His hands tremble, mind racing—he probably needs to strip the panel and recalibrate the internal settings, but he doesn’t even have a screwdriver.
The bathroom light flickers off and on. He barely registers it—maybe he could use a pen and jam it into the groove, or a knife? He must have one around somewhere.
The light flickers again, this time rapidly. He groans. Dead bulbs are annoying, but fixable. He’ll deal with it later—it’s not like he needs the light right now. He reaches for the switch by the door.
The hand already there yanks him back into reality.
Aether’s body snakes in through the doorway. His face is tight with anxiety.
Wanderer jerks away, ripping his hands from his ears and screams, “What the hell are you doing here?!”
Aether blurts frantically, his lips too fast to read—before he stops mid-sentence, realisation crossing his face. He presses his lips together, frowning.
Wanderer’s eyes dart towards the light switch. … Aether must have realised he can’t hear anything.
Hot embarrassment floods through him. How long had Aether been standing there, trying to get his attention?
“Why are you in my house?” he barks—at least, he thinks he does.
Aether’s hands wiggle with uncertainty, fumbling for an answer—until an idea strikes. He digs into his pocket and produces a key. Wanderer recognises it instantly. It’s the spare that belongs to Lesser Lord Kusanali.
He hasn’t told anyone his ears broke, least of all her. Did she somehow sense something was wrong? Did she send The Traveller to check on him? That can’t be right… can it?
“Why did she make you come here?” he snaps. Aether starts to squirm again. Wanderer gestures vaguely away, frustratedly. “Go find paper and write it down, or something!”
He expects Aether to leave, but instead, he suddenly notices the way Aether’s hands move. The motions look predetermined, not as flappy and panic-induced as he assumed. They’re familiar, and Wanderer blinks, thrown off. He’d been so focused on lip-reading Aether’s mouth that he hadn’t bothered looking at his hands.
“You….”
Aether lights up, and with the other’s undivided attention on his hands, he repeats the gesture—slower, clearer. It’s unmistakable. He’s using sign language.
With his hands, Aether says, “Are you okay?”
“I’m….” Wanderer blinks. He’s bewildered before anything else. “Why do you even know sign language?”
Aether continues signing. “When I was learning the common tongue, I didn’t speak much. People assumed I was deaf. I’ve picked up on a lot of languages in Teyvat. I learn quickly.”
His sentences are clipped, his form a little rough. Wanderer can tell he’s not fluent—but it’s still better than nothing. He mulls over Aether’s explanation. It’s true that, back during the meteorite incident, Aether barely spoke. He’d just assumed it was because the three women around him had louder personalities. He’s never really thought about it before.
“How did you know I knew sign then?” he asks. “I haven’t told anyone, not even Lesser Lord Kusanali.”
“She told me something was wrong with your ears. I assumed this was recurring. I’m glad my guess was right.”
Of course Wanderer had learned sign. Dottore was often deployed on missions for weeks—sometimes months—before returning to repair him. Wanderer might have figured out how to patch his ears later in life, albeit shoddily, but for a few centuries, he simply … didn’t.
“... You’re here to help me repair them?” Aether nods enthusiastically. Wanderer folds his arms, sceptical. “Did you bring any tools?”
Aether lifts a small toolbox from the floor, flashing a quick, proud smile. He must have been too worked up earlier to notice it before. Now that the panic’s faded, his head feels clearer… and heavier.
He really doesn’t want to be indebted to The Traveller for another thing.
“The sooner you fix it, the sooner you can leave,” he mutters, stepping past Aether and into the hallway. “Let’s sit down.”
He doesn’t wait to see if Aether follows, strolling into the dim living area and flicking on a lamp. The light spills across the Sumerian-style couch—rich adhigama wood, soft green cushions. He sits, arms crossed and eyes closed, trying to calm himself.
… When Aether doesn’t join him on the couch, Wanderer looks up, catching how the other is studying his decor.
“What?”
Aether sets the toolbox down, preoccupied. “Your house is nice.”
“We don’t have to start with small talk. It’s fine.”
Aether’s expression softens, finally sitting. “I’m just surprised you live here. I assumed you were living in a dorm while you studied, or even with Nahida.” His gaze drifts around the room, as if trying to understand it—and by extension, the man who lives in it. “It’s peaceful.”
“I need somewhere I can come and go without receiving looks, especially when I’m doing investigative work for Lesser Lord Kusanali. Is it surprising that I like privacy?”
“What if there was an emergency?”
“I can fly,” he says, deadpan. “She can contact me instantly, whenever she needs to, and distance isn’t an issue.” He reaches down into the toolbox and picks through its contents, plucking out what he needs. Wielding his tool, he tucks his hair behind his ear and feels for the groove again. “Can we start?”
Aether nods, steadying himself. “What do you need me to do?”
“Help me find where the screwdriver goes. There should be a notch.”
With that, Aether wriggles closer, leaning in with caution. He reaches to touch the surface, his hand hovering. “... Can I?”
Wanderer nods, turning his eyes forward.
He feels how Aether very gently traces the area, his fingertips feeling for the recess. His touch is so light it almost tickles. He runs over the notch twice to be sure, then guides Wanderer’s waiting hand toward it. Metal clinks softly as the screwdriver slips into place.
Wanderer begins unscrewing the panel, slow and deliberate. He doesn’t ask for help with it, so Aether doesn’t interrupt, patient and watchful. When the last screws come loose, Wanderer peels off the layer, careful not to drop the pieces.
He feels the exposed area again, then swaps tools. “Do you have a steady hand?” he asks, glancing wearily at Aether.
Aether nods eagerly, palm open. The tool is cold when Wanderer sets it in his hand. The Traveller adjusts his posture and begins working as instructed, twisting delicately until something clicks back into alignment.
Wanderer exhales slowly. It’s going smoother than he expected. The precision in Aether’s movements—obedient, orderly—reminds him of himself back in the Fatui, when he used to follow orders without question. Back when Dottore’s hands were the ones hovering over him instead.
During his time as a Harbinger, whenever his ears blew out, Scaramouche liked to make it everyone else’s problem. He remembers strolling the halls of Zapolyarny Palace, making as much noise as possible—yelling, laughing, just to spite them. His subordinates never dared to stop him. When they tried to meet his eyes, he’d deliberately look away. As if he was going to lip-read and spoil his own fun.
Wanderer softly chuckles at the memory. Aside from the obvious, being in the Fatui wasn’t all bad.
Aether raises his brow, but the other doesn’t elaborate. He continues to tinker. Wanderer feels him shift closer, the air between them warm and still—and then, suddenly, there’s a sharp pinch.
He jolts, ripped from the memory.
“I heard you’ve been causing quite a stir lately. She ordered me to fix you as soon as possible—to keep you out of trouble.”
Dottore had said those words once, after one of his little shows.
Aether hops back, pulling the tool out. It’s hard to sign cleanly with it in his hands, but he prevails. “You jumped. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” he grumbles, waving him off. “Continue.”
The other clearly doesn’t believe him, but he obeys, following each instruction in silence. They swap tools regularly. As Wanderer hands him one, he says, “I need you to use this deep into my ear.”
Aether lights a small flame in his free hand, the soft Pyro glow glimmering against their faces. He sizes up the task, his expression uneasy.
“This will probably hurt.”
“I’m aware.”
“If it really hurts, tell me.”
Wanderer shakes his head. “Don’t stop. It’ll only drag this out longer.”
Aether frowns, leaning in very close. His concern looks painfully genuine as he readies himself. He signs something, his hands almost too near for Wanderer to read. “Are you ready?”
Wanderer nods. He can feel the other’s soft, hesitant breath brushing his neck. The tool glints, heat from the flame brushing Aether’s cheek. Wanderer watches the careful furrow of Aether’s brow, the line of focus in his eyes—and then the first touch comes.
He winces, but neither of them speaks. Aether pokes, and Wanderer braces for the flush of hot pain. His breath turns uneven—ragged and broken, shoulders shaking before he realises it. He doesn’t even know why he’s trembling.
There’s no pain.
He feels how Aether props against him gently, holding the skin around his ear. He works with Wanderer, patient with his sudden flinches and movements. He slowly amends bolts, nuts, metal. He hears soft clicking. Aether is moving so, so slowly.
Why is he moving so slowly? Why is he treating him like he’s dainty and precious, like he might break if handled wrong? Even if he did, Aether could just fix him. Why does he keep looking back, adjusting his pace whenever Wanderer’s face tightens, twisting in a grimace?
This operation usually hurts.
Right now, it’s … mildly uncomfortable, sure — but nothing like the blistering pain Dottore would leave him with.
That makes zero sense. He doubts Aether has any real experience with robotics, not like Dottore did.
The truth seeps in like acid, boring a hole deep through his chest, festering in his gut. The realisation aches. Dottore could have made it painless. He simply chose not to.
Dottore had always been distant—too self-absorbed, too fascinated by the line between man and machine and how far he could twist it. Wanderer had known that. He was nothing more than an experiment, and he’d accepted it—maybe even liked it. There was comfort in being useful, in understanding exactly what was expected of him, and meeting those expectations perfectly.
He’d always known this, so why is he fighting the urge to vomit?
He gasps for air. If he hadn’t given himself to Dottore, who would he have been without a purpose to fulfil—a utility to offer?
Not even his own mother had use for him.
He doesn’t know if any of this matters now. He’s only ever traded one Archon for another, The Raiden Shogun and The Tsaritsa echoing through his mind. He serves Lesser Lord Kusanali now, and he thought he’d finally broken the cycle—but he’s only fallen back into routine. The comfort in the expected is too rewarding.
He craves purpose but is disgusted by dependence. He mistakes control for safety, and transaction for connection.
What is wrong with him?
He sits there, dazed, looking at nothing. He hasn’t even realised that Aether has completely stopped, or that he’s touching his shoulder.
“… Why?”
Wanderer’s thoughts echo throughout Aether’s mind, and it takes him a second to realise that these words were not said aloud. Wanderer meets his eyes suddenly, telling Aether that whatever just happened was accidental. He looks at the hand that connects them, then up to the other’s face.
He shouldn’t be surprised that The Wanderer can still connect their minds, even now. Nahida once explained that it was possible so long as the people involved wore their terminals, but she still links with Aether despite the network being offline, as she did today. She claims their bond is strong—but perhaps the Akasha Terminal merely served as a bridge, allowing her to establish a link and connect their plane of consciousness.
Aether knows those two were both born from the wood of Irminsul. Nahida is its avatar, while Scaramouche’s very constitution gave him the innate ability to enter it—a gift that almost let him usurp the title of God of Wisdom. And of course, The Traveller’s own nature grants an unusual sensitivity to that silver tree. In the end, it must be their shared connection to Irminsul that truly matters, much like those who can see the Aranara.
The Wanderer is, in essence, a demigod.
… A demigod who looks to be almost on the verge of tears.
Wanderer’s breathing starts to break. Dottore’s roughness, his indifference—that made sense. Pain was proof of purpose. When it hurt, it meant he was useful enough to be broken apart and rebuilt.
But Aether’s touch is steady, careful, unearned. There’s no demand behind it. No price.
“Why are you helping me?”
Aether replies, voice echoing. “Why would I not be?” Wanderer can’t find an answer to that, so he doesn’t respond. The silence unnerves Aether, making him amend his answer. “... Because I don’t want you to be in pain?”
“What?” Wanderer is so affronted that he speaks aloud. He looks in pain just from those words. “No—What do you want from me? Are you trying to impress Lesser Lord Kusanali because she’s your friend?”
“She was worried about you, and if she was, I was. Is that not reason enough?”
The words echo. “... You must want something.”
“I want to help you.”
Aether can feel the thrum of Wanderer’s emotions, simmering unseen beneath the surface of their connected consciousness. He knows the other is containing them as best he can, and Aether doesn’t push. He already knows that this is far more vulnerable than the other ever wants to be.
Wanderer’s never had unconditional kindness before—and that terrifies him greatly. If Aether’s kindness isn’t something he earned, then it can’t be secured, and if unconditional means eternal, will Wanderer be forced to repay an endless debt forever, lest it vanish?
The words that are too vulnerable to be said out loud … Aether can feel them, along with his heart.
“I think that …” Aether begins, “if compassion is something you have to earn, then maybe it's not compassion at all. Maybe it's another thing entirely.”
Wanderer is once again silent.
It takes him a while to calm down. When they eventually resume, a twist of Aether’s wrist is followed by a soft, painless click. The drives boot up in his ear, and white noise from the calm air begins to swell. The audio is still muffled, but it’s back on.
Aether chooses to speak into the void of their minds. “Hey, it’s … it’s okay to cry, if you want.”
“I don’t want to cry,” he says begrudgingly, the thought whispered.
“I’ll help you with your repairs again, if you’d like. You can mail me through the Guild if I’m in another nation. The Teleport Waypoints are quick. I’ll be here.”
The Wanderer doesn’t stop crying for a very long time. Aether pats his back softly, and it was never, never like this. Why couldn’t it have been anything like this? Why couldn’t he have been used by someone who cared for him?
Aether’s heartbeat fills the air, thumping behind him. Not even Dottore’s segments had a heartbeat.
“Thank you.” This, too, is spoken between their minds, too fragile to be spoken aloud.
“Of course,” Aether swells, voice earnest, but that’s not what The Wanderer was thanking him for.