Y/n was a woman who had lost everything, while Scaramouche was a puppet on the road to the one thing he'd always been searching for. Through Y/n's crimes against the Fatui, they met when Scaramouche sought her out to execute her, but things didn't q...
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I. THE MURDERING OF INNOCENTS
"How was work?" You asked as you prodded the cooked fish on your plate with your fork.
"It was alright. You should eat, you look awful," Ajax replied.
"Wow, thanks," you spat, slamming your fork down into the meat so hard that the plate shattered beneath it.
"Hey, wait, I didn't mean anything by it," he sighed, standing up from his seat. "I'll clean that up, leave it alone."
He put his gloves on and grabbed the fish, tossing it in the sink. As he picked up the sharp pieces from the plate, he glanced at you with worry.
"So..." He started, turning around to discard the parts in the trash. "What happened this time?"
"It's the same every time," you muttered, propping your head up with your hand as your elbow rested on the table. You really didn't feel like talking.
"₴ⱧɄ₮ Ⱨł₥ Ʉ₱."
"No, I mean, what caused it this time?"
"I don't want to talk about this."
"That's too bad, Y/n. It's important, if I can get rid of anything that'll be a trigger for you, I'm going to."
"I don't want you to get rid of it," you said, staring at your free hand as you tapped your fingers on the wood rhythmically.
"ⱧɆ'₴ ₮ⱤɆ₳₮ł₦₲ ɎØɄ Ⱡł₭Ɇ ₳ ₵ⱧłⱠĐ."
He took his gloves off and turned around, crossing his arms over his chest while he leaned against the kitchen counter, "Y/n, what is it?"
"I'm not a kid, I can take care of myself," you hissed.
"Y/n, you just went through some of the most traumatic experiences of your life. You're not in the right state of mind to be making decisions for yourself," he argued.
"ⱧɆ'₴ ₮ⱤɎł₦₲ ₮Ø ₵Ø₦₮ⱤØⱠ ɎØɄ."
"No. No, he's not," you whispered.
"What?"
"Nothing, I wasn't talking to you," you said.
He furrowed his eyebrows with concern, searching your expression for any sign of... anything. But you looked dull and gloomy, no emotion to be seen. The only sound in the room (for him, at least) was the tapping of your fingers. It became so constant that it sounded almost like you were counting down to something; like a clock.
"What are you thinking?" He asked softly, and suddenly you stopped. Your face was no different, but your fingers froze. He waited patiently for a response. He knew you could've kept him there for at least an hour as you thought, but he wanted an answer.
After ten minutes of buzzing in your head, you responded, "I'm not."
"...What?"
"She is," you continued tapping your fingers, using a different melody this time.
