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The two heretics strolled down the frozen hall. Dottore’s breath frosted to the little exposed skin below his beaked mask. Scaramouche had no breath to freeze, not even as he jogged to keep up with his superior’s longer gait. He had no coat to weigh him down nor coverings to stave off the frost, for he was above the whims of the weather.
Or so he thought. Scaramouche rubbed his hands together and refused to acknowledge the thin skin of ice that flaked off of him with the motion.
The Doctor prattled on about his latest battery of tests and the subjects he had acquired. Preliminaries, he said, testing on someone less valuable before risking the puppet’s life. Scaramouche felt a twinge of pride at being valuable enough to call for safety measures.
But that didn’t negate the Doctor brazenly strolling into Mondstadt for ‘materials’ and nearly starting a war. He watched him sidelong, totally unbothered by the Jester’s scolding from earlier.
“How on earth did you survive without Pierro’s protection?” the puppet asked.
“Elaborate.”
“Your clone barely got out of Mondstadt alive. Every government wants to kill you specifically. How did you get this far? Didn’t the Akademyia have a strict police force to hunt people like you down?”
“Ah, the Matra. Yes. It’s actually quite simple.” The Doctor opened the door to his study and gestured for the shorter man to enter first. “It’s pretty privilege.”
Scaramouche laughed, then realized he was completely serious. He waited for his superior to lead the way into the room and lagged along behind. “What?”
Dottore shrugged his admittedly well-built shoulders. “I was blessed with a luxurious voice, a strong figure and a handsome face. That alone will carry you far.”
He chuckled and gestured for his subject to sit while he put on a pot of coffee. “But you know that. You didn’t honestly think the humans of Tatarasuna loved you for your… absence of a personality, did you?”
Scaramouche snarled. He dropped to a low, confused growl as Dottore reached over to ruffle his hair.
“You have a divine beauty that draws mortals like… like a child to the thin ice on the lake. They’re utterly enraptured by their ideation of you and convince themselves that it reflects some sort of inner beauty, regardless of reality. They’d rather justify their hasty conclusions than admit that they have shallow urges just like everyone else.”
The puppet cringed away from the petting. The hand followed for one last scritch, then retreated to make their coffee.
“If anything, I’m jealous of you,” Dottore continued. “Just think of what I could’ve gotten away with if I had your unimposing, boyish looks.”
He couldn’t tell if he was being complimented or insulted. He fixed his superior with a fierce glare. Dottore happened to glance over just as he did, pouting slightly.
“...Though the eyes ruin the ‘innocent’ façade. Eh, besides,” he tutted. “I’m content with the hand dealt to me. I’ve yet to find something so loyal as a simpering fool with a father complex, and I doubt I’d be able to attract them with your likeness.” He chuckled. “You wouldn’t believe what I’ve talked people into with a shred of praise as the only reward.”
Well that resonated uncomfortably. Scaramouche made a face as the man that he definitely did not consider a role model handed him a mug devoid of milk or sugar. “You’ve put a lot of thought into this.”
“Of course. I aim to understand everything. Like you suggested, I have been… remarkably lucky avoiding the consequences for my actions.” He leered in close and flipped the younger man’s nose before making his way to the armchair opposite him. “But I don’t believe in luck.”
Scaramouche sipped the bitter coffee and looked anywhere but at the pretty man, suddenly hating the playful flick that would normally have him buzzing for days. The room looked like he’d taken a cutout of Sumeru and dropped it in the middle of the frozen wastes. The study even smelled like the open air markets.
Dottore sprawled in his armchair, kicked his boots off and stretched his legs out in front of him with a happy groan. “And once I understood the precedent for their behavior, it was easy enough to manipulate. A “good girl” here, a gentle encouragement there, praise when earned but not too much…” He blew on his coffee and took a sip. “It’s not even difficult.”
Scaramouche stared at his reflection in his drink while the floor dropped out from under him.
“Of course, this all hinges on my praise being something of value. The aforementioned ‘pretty privilege’ creates the demand - and as I’m sure you’ve heard Regrator go on about - scarcity and demand drive the price that people are willing to pay.”
He continued, oblivious to the younger man folding into the cushions. “There’s also the cost sunk angle, where people are more likely to bend their boundaries for you the longer they’ve committed. That one’s a bit harder to utilize given the, ah, turnover rates around here.”
“Mm,” Scaramouche agreed.
Dottore leaned forward and smiled, cheek propped on his fist. “You should try it sometime.”
“Huh?”
“I think you’d get better results with your men if you…” he trailed off, chewing on his lip while he thought. “Broke the violent tyrant routine sometimes.”
“Are you saying I should be nicer?”
“No, not necessarily. The mean thing works for you.” He snorted. “Some people love being degraded. I’m just saying you should consider sprinkling in some positive reinforcement sometimes. Pick and choose your moments.”
“Actually, here,” he leaned back in his chair and reached behind to his bookshelf. He dragged his finger along a couple volumes before letting out a cheerful “aha!” and peeled one off the shelf, tossing it to his guest.
Recognizing Abuse and Breaking the Cycle stared back at him in Sumeran script. How subtle. Scaramouche swallowed and looked back up at his superior.
“I mistakenly grabbed that when I looted the library last time I was asked to leave Sumeru, and I am so happy I did. It details abuse and manipulation from the perspective of the target. I’d highly recommend studying up on it, take some notes. Even Pierro commented that my leadership improved afterwards.”
He blinked. “You… don’t see a problem with this?”
“A problem relative to me or to everyone else?”
“I– Nevermind.”
Dottore just leaned forward with a sick grin. “The best part is that the cultured obsession isn’t necessarily romantic. I don’t even have to entertain someone’s fantasy. I can just be, well, myself!”
He wanted to cry. On some level he knew that Dottore didn’t care about him, not really, but it was one thing to know and another to be reminded. Brutally. Cheerfully. Have it explained to him.
“Scaramouche?”
Oh he hated himself for getting shivers every time he said his new name. He’d earned that name. He had pride in that name!
He covered his inner turmoil too late. He glanced up at Dottore, now sitting forward with his head cocked. The small frown tugging at the corner of his mouth sent panic gripping his chest, strangling the habitual breaths. Despite the recent revelation, he still couldn’t bear to disappoint him.
“You realize that I’m not referring to you, right?”
Scaramouche rolled his eyes and hoped the caffeine explained his trembling hands. “Of course. I don’t worry about silly things like that. I don’t get insecure,” he lied.
Dottore’s voice took on an unusually warm quality. “Good! Because you are very special. The Electro Archon was a fool to abandon you.”
What a saccharine sentiment. He took a shaky sip from his coffee and tried to calm down, unsure whether to accept the compliment at face value or accept that it was a lie . A lie to make him feel important and compliant and–
He glanced up as Dottore stood. He stripped off his heavy overjacket and draped it over the back of his chair, then turned and padded over.
“She fell prey to the same folly as all the other gods - too obsessed with their rigid rules and principles to recognize the potential in front of them.” He dropped to a squat in front of the puppet. “Or perhaps the lazy bitch didn’t want to put the work in.”
Scaramouche recoiled. Nobody, not even himself, had ever dared say something so blasphemous, so vulgar , about his mother. He felt vindicated, but also conflicted. He was falling for it again.
“And why would she? The gods are terrified of their creations overthrowing them. Of course she would handicap you before she tossed you aside.” Dottore shifted to a kneel, crossed his arms on the puppet’s knees and leaned on his elbows. “And that’s what you have me for.”
“I–” he stammered intelligently. His brain short-circuited as the Doctor booped his nose.
“You have made incredible progress, Scaramouche. It won’t take long to free you from the last of your shackles.”
He didn’t know what to say to that. Dottore was not a touchy man, at least, not in a positive sense, and he was torn between reveling in the attention and doubting its motives.
“You’re shaking.”
“It’s cold,” he lied.
Dottore tutted and stood, then sat on the arm of the chair and pulled the smaller man into an embrace. The puppet froze, overwhelmed by the warmth and texture and cloying smell of fake roses and the fact that his… whatever the hell Dottore was to him, was hugging him. Touch was reserved for experiments, reprimands and the rare moments after he had limped home after a rough deployment and needed to be stitched back together. They’d hugged before, but it never failed to take his metaphorical breath away.
Dottore stroked the back of his hair. “You’re very special. I couldn’t accomplish half of what I have without you.”
Scaramouche hesitantly hugged him back, his face awkwardly jammed into his chest. That was true. He’d used what he’d learned from him to make the segments, a breakthrough in every way. That made him valuable. Maybe he was special? Maybe he meant it?
Dottore hummed, a low, resonant croon that vibrated through his entire body. “Our partnership is built on trust, is it not?”
No. Yes? He didn’t know anymore. The puppet took too long to answer and the Doctor pulled away with the faintest flicker of anger.
“Oh come now. I’m making you into a real god and you still find ways to doubt my love for you?”
“No! No, that’s not…” God, it still sent him reeling every time he said he loved him. He never said that about anyone or any thing else. “It’s just, you said–”
“How important you are to me? Lauded praise for your potential?” Dottore scoffed and went to stand. Scaramouche reluctantly released him, embarrassed at himself for craving the contact when he was clearly sick of it. “Was it not me that carried you out of that hole after the smiths betrayed you? Did I not teach you everything about Snezhnaya and our organization? Did I not pull you from the wolves’ teeth that you so blithely stumbled into?”
His voice took on an edge of hurt as he crossed his arms, his back to the puppet. “I am setting you up for godhood . How could you suggest that I would treat you like one of the pawns after everything I’ve done for you?”
“That’s not what I meant! I’m sorry.”
The Doctor remained standing. Scaramouche set the book facedown on the floor and crept over to his superior. “I’m sorry,” he repeated.
He softened, just barely, and looked at him over his shoulder. The tight line of his jaw relaxed to something more pitying and he sighed. “...No, no. I’m sorry.”
He held his arm open for another embrace. The puppet rushed to fill the gap, relief spilling out in ragged gasps. Dottore wrapped around him properly and buried his nose in his short hair. Dottore had helped him cut it. “It’s just frustrating when my efforts aren’t appreciated. Do you understand?”
Scaramouche nodded into this chest, too craven and weak to care about appearances anymore. He gripped lines into the older man’s back. “I do. I’m sorry. Please, don’t…”
Even if he was manipulating him, he couldn’t afford to care. Dottore was all he had. He’d set his homeland on fire and slaughtered anyone that reminded him of what he’d lost. What would he be without Dottore? Just another failed project wandering the countryside? Dead? Worse, empty?
He stiffened when the Doctor pressed a tender kiss to the top of his head. “It’s alright. It has been difficult for you lately. I forgive you.”
He didn’t want to cry. He didn’t want to cry. Scaramouche choked it down as best he could, but he couldn’t hide it from the Doctor’s predatory eye.
“Oh,” he murmured and rocked him gently. “It’s okay. You’ll get stronger as we continue to work together. Just remember what you were like when I first found you…”
He hiccuped and bowed his head, finally starting to relax. Dottore kissed him again. He shivered and risked a look up into that empty mask, the metal reflecting his own harrowed expression back at him.
The older man cupped his cheek and bent to give him one last peck on the lips. “Good boy.”
And just like that, no matter how much he didn’t want them to, the seeds of doubt took hold.