Chapter Text
Scaramouche is a fucking liar.
Childe doesn’t even know why he bothers listening to that bastard at all, other than the tiny problem of Scaramouche ranking above him in seniority. Either way, it’s clear that someone made the mistake of giving that little fucker power, to the direct suffering of Childe, and as it seems, only Childe.
“‘It’ll be like a vacation,’” Childe mutters under his breath, staring at the charging creatures (what is this, an openworld rpg??) with wide eyes. “‘Nothing will go wrong’ my ass.”
It’s all Scaramouche’s fault. He never took no for an answer, and this time is no exception. He probably found obscene pleasure in presenting Childe with the paid tickets, eyes all shiny and innocent and other adjectives that are pure bullshit within three meters of Scaramouche. Childe should have known better; he doesn’t even like breaks.
(So what if he couldn’t have possibly predicted this? It’s still the bastard’s fault. The alternative would mean it’s Childe’s, and, well, he can do no wrong.)
Childe is lucky he’s a paranoid genius even when looking for a vacation because he still has his knife (knives) strapped to his belt and guns in his shoulder harness. It’s instinct by now to reach for them, custom grips snug in his palm.
He dodges the clumsy swing of one of the masked creatures, sweeping under the blow to empty a clip into what looks should be its ribs. The bullets don’t do much other than glance off tough skin with a harsh rasp, and Childe feels a grin curl through his lips.
It would be no fun if they died so quickly, after all. He switches to his trusty knife, lunging in for the kill before the creature can react. Its attack patterns are dull and uninteresting, but its raw strength and speed makes up for some of it. It’s not enough. This time, the blade cuts easily through the flesh of its neck, wrenching out a choked screech from behind the mask.
The next couple of creatures lunging for him receive a similar fate.
The lack of blood is disappointing. Childe huffs, habitually wiping off the blade and sheathing it. His unsilenced gunshots had set off a stampede earlier, after shouts of “The hilichurls are a joke, right?!” and “where’s the cameras?” have abated, and bodies shove their way past him. He follows their path to a golden, glowing barrier (what the fuck) and waits for them to be rebounded the way he’s noticed the…hilichurls do.
Instead, the people pass through unharmed—Childe watches a cosplayer in green narrowly scramble under the claws of a hillicopter (?) on their tail. They pass through the shield in a ripple, but the creature bounces off it with a crack so loud Childe would wince if he didn’t find it amusing.
Childe contemplates going with them. It’s not his city or his responsibility, and he’s sick of Signora harping on his tiny little ‘diplomatic incidents’ like he’s an irresponsible loose cannon. (no one died or anything. What’s the big deal? She’s overreacting, like the last time Childe used her favourite heels as target practice.)
His train of thought veers off a cliff when he sees him.
He’s hard to miss, standing alone in a rapidly clearing circle of hillchurs (?) and people. His spear, obviously real in a sea of abandoned, shoddily made weaponry glints in the sunlight streaming from their new entrance made through surprise renovation. It can’t be right, but Childe could almost say it’s glowing.
Childe watches, transfixed, as the man (who Childe’s hindbrain recognizes as ‘bathroom breakdown man’) twirls the weapon elegantly, stabbing through three creatures (hili-chuck??) at once in an impressive display of strength. Paying no heed to the screeches of his victims, Bathroom Breakdown Man swings his spear once more, sending the hichurls (?) smashing into the ground into matching craters.
Everyone else with the same self-preservation as Childe gape from beyond the man’s shield, holding up their phones and occasionally swooning. “That’s so hot,” Someone says, loud enough to reach into the shield to Childe.
Bathroom Breakdown Man then proceeds to singlehandedly slaughter the paltry amount of hilichurls left, leaving a trail of bodies that flicker out of existence (the fuck the sequel). It’s the hottest thing Childe’s seen and when he sees him slit two throats in a row god he wants to—
He turns around, and Childe’s battle-addled (horny) brain stumbles to a halt. I take back what I said about you Scaramouche. I’m buying you a hundred skulls, or whatever emo things you decorate your creepy ass room with.
Because Bathroom Breakdown Man is attractive. It’s the kind of attractive that makes Childe feel shameful for even calling him something as crude as Bathroom Breakdown Man, makes his secret self-confidence meter underneath his self-confidence meter plummet like a henchman off a frigid, treacherous cliff. He’s all statuesque, corded muscle and flowing lines. Something about the angle of his eyes and the sharp cut of his jaw is holy, even when his ass…isn’t.
Oh god, and now he’s coming closer. Childe plasters a placeholder smile on his face just to seem polite, and for the first-time thanks the fact there’s no blood on him from these hili-churros or whatever.
“Thank you for your assistance,” The man says, and the three braincells Childe manages to scrape together fucks off dramatically. Traitors, he thinks bitterly. He needs them right now, when most of his vocabulary is “shall we fight to the death?” and “surrender now, and I’ll be gentle” in several increasingly violent variations. Childe sends a prayer to Tsaritsa (who may as well be a god) and dares to open his mouth.
“Shall we fight? I’ll be gentle.”
Fuck.
To his credit, the man only blinked and refused his offer with good grace, introducing himself as Zhongli. A Liyue native, for sure, with that accent and bearing. But where would someone as gifted as him hide? The Fatui have spies in every continent, and something as important as a supernaturally powered warrior (the fuck, the trilogy), enough to overturn the tides of war, would not go under the radar.
At least, the other harbingers must have heard of it, because the filler members of the Fatui are more for number padding than any actual utility. Universal recruitment does wonders for the human wall strategy (Thanks, Dottore). While Childe had come to Liyue under the guise of a tourist (diplomat, same thing) he still did some research, if only to find opponents to challenge and crush. The utter void of intelligence surrounding this man is concerning.
It’s okay, though, because Childe likes a challenge. What he doesn’t like, however, is the fucking Qixing.
“Stand down,” A calm, female voice intones. Childe lets go of the knife he doesn’t remember drawing clatter to the ground. Zhongli stands next to him, spear nowhere in sight. (Where the hell does he hide it? His very nice ass? Childe decides to explore that avenue of thought later.)
“Standing down,” Childe says, just to be difficult. His genius goes unappreciated, judging by the glare of the lady with the megaphone. “All this reception, just for me? The guns are a little overkill, though.”
He presses down the head of a rifle pointed his way by an officer in full tactical gear, ignoring the resounding clicks coming from around them. A glance tells Zhongli is as nonchalant as he is, so he takes it as his cue to continue. Antagonizing local law enforcement is part of the fun in missions, honestly.
“Fatui,” the lady grits her teeth. It’s not a good look on her. Her light purple hair is stark in the warm light, the only spot of colour among the greys and blues of the Qixing uniform. He’s always found it terribly unpractical—there’s tassels hanging off their guns, Sevens above. So many ways to use, as Childe had illustrated one mission in Liyue, a couple years back. He thought they learned.
“Qixing,” Childe drawls back, lazy. She bristles, then collects herself quickly enough.
“To whom do we owe the pleasure of a visit from a fatui diplomat? And one of the 11 harbingers, no less. I hope you understand how odd this is.”
Childe laughs at her attempt at subtlety. The Qixing could do worse with a figure as direct as her. “Just passing through. I would hate to make this a diplomatic accident.” As fun as this is, he needs to leave with Zhongli as quickly as possible before they finish collecting eyewitness accounts, and evidence, realizing his value. The Tsaritsa would be pleased to welcome him, if he can just convince them Zhongli is harmless. Easy enough when looks like he wouldn’t hurt a soul.
Her eyes narrow at the veiled threat but as her hand still clenches midair to signal the Qixing officers. They retreat, lowering their guns warily. Childe resists the urge to snicker at their misguided caution. If he wants them dead, they would be dead.
“I would hate for the Tsaritsa to hear of this,” Childe adds fuel to the fire with glee. “I’ll have to write a report, afterall.” The annoyance on his face is only partially faked, but the Qixing doesn’t have to know that.
The lady takes a deep breath. “You may leave. I trust you have not contributed to this…” her lip curls, “mess.”
Childe mocks a gasp. “Why, I would never. I’ll see you around…?”
“Keqing, of the Seven Stars.” She nearly spits. Zhongli makes a small sound at that, a tiny, choked noise that Childe pretends not to hear (and graciously stores away).
The officers around them do a good job emulating a brick wall, but Childe can see their disdain towards him through their single square of uncovered skin.
They have clearly overstayed their welcome, and Childe’s hand finds Zhongli’s arm, dragging him insistently towards the massive hole in the wall that doubles as a convenient exit.
“Bye, Keqing of the Seven Stars!” he shouts over his shoulder, laughing when she shrieks in anger. The Fatui would have never let an unknown leave as an unknown, but the Qixing can afford to be sloppy in their peace.
He’ll just have to see how far the incompetence reaches. Childe mentally sets a calendar, and bets with himself when the Qixing will come find him. Three days, he writes. No. He scratches it out and replaces it with Seven days, snickering to himself. He feels Zhongli’s look of askance on the side of his face and only grins, carefully avoiding his eyes. Looking at him will vacate all the coherent thought he needs to write his report later.
Good luck trying to figure out what happened, Qixing, when there’s no evidence there were ever hilichurls in the first place.
It’s only when they walk free when Childe realizes Zhongli has not said a word since Keqing’s arrival.
“Did…you know her or something?”
“No,” he says, but he sounds uncertain. “Does she have an associate named Ningguang?”
Childe blinks. “Yeah. I think she’s the head of the jade chamber, or something like that.” Zhongli’s eyes widen infinitesimally, a mere twitch of the eyes Childe catches only because he’s been trained for it.
“You do know her, don’t you? Why’d you even ask me then?”
“I don’t know.” Childe opens his mouth to snipe at him, then pauses when Zhongli looks at him, wide eyed and a little broken. Somehow, this feels worse than the measured control Childe saw in the bathroom, empty and cold.
“Sorry,” he says instead, and balks from the unfamiliar sincerity in his mouth.
Childe shouldn’t care. There’s very little he cares about wearing the mask of Tartaglia, because any more of who he is in the face of a cold-blooded killer means he’ll risk losing that part of him. And yet, something about Zhongli makes him want to care. Makes him feel like Ajax, instead of Childe.
Childe shakes his head. Sure, he likes a pretty face as much as any other person, but it’s not enough reasoning for the sudden attachment to Zhongli he has. If there’s anything he hates, it’s being manipulated and controlled. And, well…if Zhongli is using his handwavey magic to coerce Childe, it’s not going to end well for either of them, Tsaritsa’s interest or not.
Childe sneaks a glance at Zhongli, who is walking next to him as Childe guides them to his suite. His face is solemn as ever, but something about it tells Childe he’s deep in thought. The evening sunlight, faltering and golden, lights his eyes into glowing shards of amber, and his stride is precise and dignified. Even in his fancy cosplay, Zhongli is enough to turn heads and draw wandering eyes.
Out of his league or not, Childe will get what he wants.
(and whether that’s getting him into his bed or killing him himself, he’ll decide later.)