Chapter Text
Most people in Mondstadt would describe Huffman as polite, courteous, and chivalrous, always one of the first knights on the scene to help when something goes wrong. He has an earnest smile, is always ready to lend a helping hand, and does so efficiently, always turning in his paperwork on time. He’s kind, and an impeccable, if average, example of what a Knight of Favonius should be.
As a Snezhnayan with an outside perspective, Tartaglia would like to say he knows better. Huffman was part of the delegation that greeted him, the day after he arrived unannounced at the Goth Grand Hotel, and there was something in the steadiness of his gaze and the set of his brows that burned with distaste, even hatred. The few times Huffman has been sent to graciously remove him from the Angel’s Share, the same distaste was there; not in his smile, no, that was perfect. It wasn’t in his eyes, either; or at least not that he could see, since Huffman wouldn’t make eye contact with him. Instead, it showed in the rough hands squeezing his shoulder and waist as Huffman refused to let a Fatui Harbinger lean directly on him.
"Ah, Sir Knight," Tartaglia whines, tipping his head towards Huffman. "You can't take pity and support a tipsy guest?"
"No," Huffman says. And that's the end of that. Huffman digs his fingers into Tartaglia's shoulder before shoving him at the Fatui guard on duty at the hotel, and Tartaglia revels in the pressure and the impact of his shoulder on the doorframe as he falls.
Clutching the columns in the entry and turning back, he thinks he sees Huffman's mouth almost twist into a smile at the Harbinger's predicament; but then it's gone, and so is he.
Huffman, for the most part, tries not to bother with things he can't control. Like the weather, or drunk people's opinions.
But oh, Barbatos, if he doesn't want that damn Harbinger gone.
Childe is the singular most annoying person he's ever met, constantly either displaying a flirty grin or challenging someone to a fight (or both at one time). As he's discovered on the few occasions he's had to drag the man out of Mondstadt's taverns (because he's causing a disturbance and the Fatui recruits are too scared to collect him themselves), Childe is also incredibly touchy. Huffman will shove him along at arm's distance, but he still ends up adjusting his grip on the Harbinger’s shoulder at the sensation of fingers dancing over the back of his hands or sneaking farther up his wrists.
One time, after he tries to ignore the clearly illegal and likely smuggled bottles of firewater, now empty, littering the table at the Cat's Tail, he gives up and shoves Tartaglia to the ground with a short growl. The thud of the Harbinger's knees on the cobblestones leaves a satisfying echo in Huffman's ears as he shakes out his hands, trying to forget the near-constant warmth that's been hovering around him for the past five minutes.
Childe lands with his fingers splayed out on the stone and starts laughing, turning over to sit down in the middle of the street.
"You're drunk," Huffman snaps. "Stop that."
"Stop what? Getting drunk?" Childe giggles. He falls back and trails his scarred fingers over the cracks in the stones, rubbing the dirt off on his thigh and then squinting at his hand.
"Being a nuisance and public disturbance," Huffman replies, kicking the Harbinger's shin. Not hard enough to seriously hurt, but Childe whines in mock pain anyway. Huffman kicks him again, for good measure, because he can't stand the sight of him lying down in the middle of Mondstadt, looking so—
Vulnerable. Happy, almost, with a stupid smile on his face as it starts drizzling. "You'll probably want to help me up now," he says absently. His hands rest on his thighs, one of them fiddling with the odd garter belt on his left leg.
"Why would I want that?" Huffman replies. "You don't look like you want to get up. Stay here and drown, for all I care."
Childe sticks his tongue out to catch the raindrops, and his right hand trails slowly up his leg to fiddle with the Vision on his belt. "Aren't you responsible for taking me back to the hotel? You might get in some trouble if you just leave me languishing here." For someone supposedly drunk, he's very eloquent.
He hates it when this bastard has a reasonable thought. Huffman reaches down to grab Childe's hand and yank him to his feet, and tries to ignore the way he feels warm and almost dizzy after one of his knuckles brushes the exposed patch of skin on Childe's stomach. "It's just nausea," he mutters to himself.
"What was that, beautiful?" Childe grins.
Huffman lays him flat out again with a solid left hook to the jaw and stomps on the insole of his foot for good measure. "I said, shut the hell up or I'll leave you here. No one can blame me for you getting hypothermia."
Childe gasps in pain as Huffman twists his boot, the Harbinger's foot caught between it and the ground. "Oh, you sure know how to convince me. Alright, damn, I'll get up." Once Huffman backs off a step, Childe scrambles to his feet, wincing and rubbing his jaw. He puts a hand on Huffman's shoulder as he limps back up the stairs.
"Next time," Huffman says with disgust, "don't get drunk in the first place."
"Aw, but then you wouldn't be here shoving me around—Ow!"
Huffman shakes out his fingers again from the punch. "That would be infinitely preferable. I hate seeing your face."
Childe leans on him more and laughs, and Huffman ignores the churning in his gut. He hates this stupid Harbinger, and his annoying laugh, and he especially hates the way his skin burns on contact.
He's almost tempted to roll Childe's sleeves back down so his arm doesn't brush Huffman's shoulder anymore, but that would be far too intimate.