Tags & Trigger warnings: Emetophilia, vomiting, hurt/comfort, mild non-descriptive scat, sickfic, whump, panic attacks, caretaking.

Summary: In which Scaramouche gets the stomach flu and has a very bad time. (Part one of the Chiscara agenda series)

Posted to Ao3: October 27 2021

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There were very few things that scared a man like Scaramouche. He was a being created by a god, made in her image only to be shortly discarded, he'd wandered the land of Inazuma learning then that the only person he could truly rely on at that moment was himself.

He was found by the Fatui and made a harbinger, the sixth one to be exact. It was one of the highest achievements that could be bestowed upon a soldier in Sneznyaha, one that many sought after and heavily desired, and yet Scaramouche never really cared. As long as he wasn't bored he was fine.

And despite all of that nothing drove a more primal fear into him like getting sick, back when he was wandering Inazuma before he joined the Fatui it was something that scared him as well. A strange unknown he didn't have an answer for despite all of the knowledge he had from the god that created him.

That unknown had terrified him, although admittedly the more he learned that fear became less prominent yet still always at the back of his mind. He may have even ended up losing it completely if only the Fatui hadn't found him.

If only he had never had the chance to meet Dottore who was also a harbinger and the Fatui's doctor as well as their leading scientist.

Scaramouche was begrudgingly grateful to the man, after all, he had helped release some of the seals placed on him by Baal and yet Scaramouche was admittedly afraid of him.

The man always looked at Scaramouche as though he were a thing rather than a person, a toy merely for his amusement or a tool to be modified as he saw fit rather than a person. Just the thought of his gaze, and the maniac almost child-like glee in his eyes whenever Scaramouche was around made his skin crawl.

This feeling of revulsion often turned to horror and fear whenever he was forced to go to Dottore's lab for his check-ups every month.

All of the harbingers were always given a check-up before and after a mission to make sure they were in perfect fighting condition and were experiencing no issues in regards to their delusion.

Scaramouche's check-ups however were always so, so much more extensive and he completely and utterly hated it. The way Dottore would poke and prod him at every angle all while looking down at him as though he were an insect under a microscope.

The look of manic glee on his face as he looked down at Scaramouche, while Scaramouche was laying on his exam table, as though he couldn't wait to dissect him was forever burned into Scaramouche's mind.

He did everything he could in his power to avoid going to Doctor's office, resulting in quite a few missed appointments that he was sure that the man would be pissed about. But Scaramouche didn't care, he'd do anything to avoid being dragged in that godforsaken place.

And nothing got Scaramouche brought into Dottore's lab faster than when he was sick, it's why being sick now never failed to make an almost visceral fear wash over him, enveloping him like a blanket.

It was also why, when Scaramouche did get sick nowadays he learned to hide, to all but shut himself off from the outside world in his house until the sickness had passed.

It was exactly what he was doing now in fact, having caught what he believes is a very, very bad case of the stomach flu.

Scaramouche groans weakly, raising his head a bit as he sniffles, drool dripping from his lips and into the small trash can he had in his lap. He's trembling slightly and wrapped up in blankets, shivering from the fever raging through his body leaving him feeling as if he were burning from the inside out.

Shallow rapid breaths leave his mouth as the low yet harsh gurgling of his stomach fills the silence of his bedroom.

His sleeping clothes are soaked with sweat and clinging to his skin leaving him feeling smothered.

He feels absolutely awful, completely and utterly drained and exhausted, and every sense of the word. His throat is raw as if he'd been rubbing it with sandpaper, his stomach is sore and killing him feeling as though it were actively trying to tie itself in a knot.

Since yesterday morning he'd been throwing up on and off by this point, his stomach is so tender and unsettled that even the slightest movement sends pain streaking across it and leaves him gagging.

Groaning low in his throat, Scaramouche wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, severing the threads of drool dripping into the trash can. Doing his best not to look at the vomit he'd just brought up seconds before that was now inside of it he moves carefully, placing the trashcan down on the floor.

He sniffles as he lays back down pulling his blankets further around himself. He closed his eyes, wrapping his arms around his stomach and swallowing hard when the dizzying wave of nausea enveloping him seems to spike sharply leaving him feeling lightheaded and breathless.

He curls further in on himself, a soft whimper leaving his mouth. A loud harsh burp tears from his lips as his stomach gives a sickening growl that has him clamping a hand over his mouth as he props himself up as quickly as he can on his shaky limbs.

Scaramouche tries to move carefully but even that is too much for his stomach, whatever contents it still has left inside of it sloshing with the motion and he begins gagging into his hand as he leans over the edge of the bed and towards the trash can.

He doesn't even bother to pick it up this time as he removes his hand from his mouth and opens it, sticking his tongue out as he allows the near river of drool suddenly building up in his mouth to drip into the trash can.

It tastes stale, sour, almost rancid, and bitter with the bile from his earlier vomiting episode, feeling far too heavy and sticky in his mouth practically clinging to his throat.

The fear that had been ever-present in Scaramouche's mind since this ordeal began flares to life even stronger than before, blaring in his mind like a siren that he needed to get this to stop before Dottore found out somehow.

That fear only grows when he gags harshly into the trash can, the noise wet and violent as he lurches forward slightly, a choked gasp leaving his mouth as his stomach heaves.

He gets a brief moment to gasp for air, a near torrent of drool dripping from his mouth, before a strangled retch tears from his lips, the noise gurgling halfway through as a small surge of bile and the rest of the water he'd forced down earlier comes up.

Scaramouche coughs wetly, spluttering as another small wave of watery, light yellowish bile surges up his throat with such force that it sprays from his nose as well nearly choking him.

Scaramouche tries his best to be quiet he really does, his number one thought being that if any of the servants in his house heard him Dottore would be called, still, it's incredibly hard to do this when he was retching so violently he felt as if his stomach were being wrung out in a vice grip.

As he's retching up another wave he feels something gurgling, in the lower part of his stomach pain streaking across it as more bile and regurgitated water falls from lips.

Whimpering Scaramouche moves, his stomach spasming as he barely forces back another retch. He manages to get up and out of bed, his legs shaking beneath him, his shoulders shaking with another barely suppressed retch as he picks up the trash can and makes his way to the bathroom as quickly yet as carefully as possible.

Today wasn't supposed to go like this for Scaramouche, violently shitting his brains out as he retched into the trash can he was holding in his lap, he doesn't know which one of his subordinates gave this God-forsaken illness to him but he does know one thing. The moment he found out which one it was they were dead.

Scaramouche pants raising his head for a brief moment before another violent retch has him practically curled over the trashcan once more.

He is desperate by this point, wanting nothing more than to pass out if only for a moment to escape this hell he was in, tears gathering in his eyes as his frustration and fear mount melding together and only upsetting his stomach further.

Scaramouche doesn't want to admit it, or rather he refuses to admit it to himself that this probably wouldn't stop unless he got Dottore to take a look at him. His mind immediately viscerally rejects that idea however, Dottore couldn't know.

Dottore could never, ever know about this. Scaramouche didn't care how sick he was, how much he clearly needed the help he would rather die than be dragged back to that lab for any reason.

It was the one place that never failed to make Scaramouche feel helpless just as he had when he first awoke and became aware, this was a feeling that Scaramouche never, ever wanted to feel again.

Cleaning himself up Scaramouche trudges back to his room with a sigh, he places the trashcan on the floor beside the bed before practically collapsing onto it, a hiccup leaving his mouth when the motion jostled his stomach slightly.

For a few moments, he just lays there harsh panting breaths leaving his mouth as he swallowed thickly the ceiling swimming slightly before his eyes. He feels dizzy and he wonders if he should go get himself some water. He had to be on the verge of dehydration at this point, but at the same time he's afraid to leave his room.

Scaramouche wasn't stupid, while his servants and subordinates feared him they weren't loyal to him. Their loyalty lay with the Tsaritsa, if they believed that he would hinder her mission then they would find a way to inform her of his condition and from there Dottore would be called.

A soft, raspy whimper leaves his mouth when a deep ache settled in his stomach seems to spike sharply. He rolls over on his side, wrapping his arms around his stomach as he curls into a ball closing his eyes.

Later, he'll get up later and get some water when he felt as if he could move without his body trying to destroy him. Besides, he was pretty sure he wouldn't be able to keep the water down at the moment anyway.

After a few moments, Scaramouche's exhaustion manages to win out over the agony and he falls into a rather fitful sleep.

~~~

"Ah there you are Tartaglia, I need you to-" Dottore begins as he followed after Childe.

"No, you can't experiment on my Foul legacy transformation and no I will not bring you a live person to test on," Childe said, cutting him off as he continued walking through the hallways of Zapolyarny palace.

Dottore continues following him however much to Childe's irritation. Just because he had to work with the man didn't mean he enjoyed his company, he didn't even like him in the slightest but the Tsaritsa had made Dottore a harbinger so Childe would begrudgingly work with him.

"Oh that, I already procured a few live test subjects myself but that is not what I needed from you," Dottore said with a scowl. "I wanted to ask you if you had seen Kunikuzushi? He's missed quite a few of his appointments with me so I wanted to request that you retrieve him for me."

At that Childe stops walking a scowl on his face, now that he'd thought about it, although he'd been too busy lately to notice, he hadn't seen Scaramouche around either. "Why do you need him?" Childe asked his expression neutral as he turned to look at Dottore.

Scaramouche hadn't admitted it to Childe and Childe was pretty sure that he would rather die before doing so, but it often seemed like Scaramouche was almost afraid of Dottore at times.

Honestly, Childe wasn't really sure what he and Scaramouche had friends with benefits? Fuck buddies maybe? Either way, they didn't hate each other as much nowadays and often slept together to kill time when they were both bored, it kept them both entertained that was for sure.

"As I said, he has missed his appointments with me and I would just like to examine him and run some tests to make sure he is in working order," Dottore explained, rolling his eyes as if he was irritated that he even needed to explain himself.

Childe sighed, crossing his arms, a scowl on his face. Since he along with the other harbingers routinely got examinations from Dottore, Childe knew just how extensive Dottore's checkups could be.

For Scaramouche, he was pretty sure it was even more extensive as it was always right after leaving Dottore's lab that he would seek out Childe for some fun. And often during those times, Childe would often find rapidly healing scars lining his body, the scars were always very small and precise the same type that would be left by something like a scalpel.

By the next morning, the scars would be gone completely. Scaramouche healed rather quickly after all.

"If I bring him to you, will you stop trying to dissect me to see how my Foul legacy transformation works?" Childe asked to which Dottore went silent for a moment.

Sighing Dottore eventually nodded. "Regrettably, yes, Kunikuzushi is more important for my research."

"Okay, I'll bring him to you then," Childe told him as he began walking away. He had a pretty good idea of where Scaramouche had run off to.

Being a Fatui Harbinger came with a lot of perks not only diplomatic immunity in certain cases but also money, a lot of money so it was no surprise that many of the harbingers had private homes in Snezhnaya. Some of the homes were closer to the palace than others, Scaramouche's home was a good ways away from the palace.

Childe sighs as he opens the front door, it wasn't locked of course because anyone stupid enough to try to break into a harbinger's home deserved what would happen to them. As he walks inside one of the maids rushes over to him with wide flustered.

"L-Lord Tartaglia, I'm afraid that Lord Scaramouche has forbid any visitors until further notice," she told him with wide nervous eyes.

Childe chuckled. "Well, if he gets pissed at you about me coming here, tell him to take it up with me."

"But-"

Childe ignores her, calmly walking past her heading for the main staircase. If he remembered correctly Scaramouche's room was on the second floor, the fifth room on the left.

The door to Scaramouche's room shockingly isn't locked either and Childe frowns because it was odd, yes Scaramouche could definitely without a doubt handle himself in a fight but he was also someone who preferred others to leave him alone hence why he'd often lock his bedroom door.

Childe carefully steps into the room closing the door behind him, the first thing he notices is the faint, sour scent of vomit hanging in the air. His eyes slowly scan the room and that's when he hears something strange, a soft almost pitiful whimpering noise.

As he approaches the bed however Childe can't help but be a little surprised, he had known what to expect but at the same time actually seeing it first hand was a completely different experience.

Scaramouche is laying in bed, on top of the blankets in his sleeping clothes practically curled up into a ball with his arms wrapped around his stomach a loud gurgling noise coming from it, filling the silence of the room alongside his labored breathing.

Scaramouche was always a bit pale, but at the moment it was as if all of the color had drained from his skin leaving him boarding on an almost ashen grey. His expression was tense and he was trembling, his clothes soaked with sweat.

Reaching out Childe grabbed his shoulders, grimacing when he felt the pure heat rolling off of him. He'd expected Scaramouche to be sick, yes but not this sick. He could just pick him up and take him to Dottore, it would be incredibly easy while Scaramouche was unconscious, Childe wouldn't need to worry about him fighting tooth and nail.

Taking a deep breath Childe gives his shoulders a gentle shake instead. "Hey, wake up. Can you hear me," he called out.

Scaramouche groans softly as he opens his eyes slightly, their glassy and glazed over, completely unfocused, and as his eyes begin to slide closed again Childe gives him another shake.

Scaramouche isn't completely sure what's happening to him right now but for some reason, the world is shaking and he doesn't like it at all, his stomach sloshing as his nausea suddenly intensifies hitting him full force, and he gags weakly a small trickle of pale bile and saliva leaving his mouth.

It drips from his lips onto the blanket beneath him as he coughs wetly and splutters, gradually becoming more and more aware.

As his vision focuses he realizes that it's Childe of all people leaning over him, a frown on the other man's face. Scaramouche isn't sure but he thinks he almost sees something like worry in Childe's eyes. "You're sick, really sick," Childe told him, his voice low.

Scaramouche knows this but the way Childe says it has a spark of irritation flaring to life in Scaramouche. He said it like a statement, not a question.

Still coughing, Scaramouche slaps at Childe's hands, but in his weakened state it's just like being attacked by a kitten. "Le-let go of me or...I'll slit your throat," he tried to snap, his voice raspy and strained.

Childe said nothing for a moment, merely staring at Scaramouche, who was coughing so hard that tears were gathering in his eyes.

"I need to bring you to Dottore," Childe told him with a scowl.

For a moment Scaramouche freezes, and for the briefest second Childe sees something akin to fear and panic flare to life inside those violet eyes as they widen slightly, but it disappears being quickly replaced by rage.

"I said, let! Go!" he hissed, putting every ounce of his strength into pushing Childe away from him.

Scaramouche wasn't human, and he didn't have the strength of one. On a good day, he might've been able to easily send Childe flying across the room, on this day though that is not the case in fact Childe barely budges still gripping Scaramouche as he stares down at him with that same blank expression.

The air around Scaramouche begins crackling slightly with electro energy and his pupils begin to glow as he draws on the elemental energy in the air.

The effect though is instantly dispersed when that deep ache suddenly punches him in the gut bringing with it an intense wave of nausea that has him squeezing his eyes shut and groaning.

Childe sighed. "See, you can barely even use your powers. Dottore needs to look at you."

Childe begins pulling Scaramouche into his arms but stops when Scaramouche whimpers and as Scaramouche opens his eyes Childe freezes when he sees the tears gathered there alongside the fear.

"Please," he whispered, "Please don't bring me to him."

Scaramouche is literally begging him, his overwhelming fear winning out over his pride for once. He has no doubt that if Childe brings him to Dottore in this state that Dottore will finally take the chance to cut him open, he'd be unable to do anything to fight back no matter how much he tried.

Completely and utterly helpless in every sense of the word.

Childe falls silent as he and Scaramouche merely stare at each other, tears running down the latter's face. It's the genuine fear and desperation visible in Scaramouche's eyes that lets Childe know that Scaramouche is neither trying to trick him nor exaggerating.

Childe has seen Scaramouche make many expressions since he became a harbinger, contempt, rage, disgust, annoyance, smug but never has he seen the man so viscerally terrified and if Childe was honest it was a bit unnerving. Scaramouche was never supposed to look like that.

Taking a deep breath Childe closes his eyes for a moment before opening them again with a soft sigh, his sympathy and pity winning out. "Okay," Childe told him softly. "I won't bring you to him."

At Childe's words, Scaramouche gives a sigh of relief, his body relaxing in Childe's grip as his exhaustion hits him full force.

His vision blurs and he blinks slowly trying to clear it, he's fighting tooth and nail to stay awake it's not that he doesn't think Childe was telling the truth about not taking him to Dottore, but the more cautious side of him is too afraid of waking up on the cold familiar metal slab of that examination table.

He faintly hears Childe sigh then there's a hand in his hair, gently stroking it. It feels nice admittedly, soothing, and yet strange because neither he nor Childe were people for soft touches and loving words whenever they got together for some fun. But if this is what it was like Scaramouche figured that it wasn't too bad.

Childe scowls as Scaramouche falls asleep, his body going completely limp in Childe's grip. He could just leave him here like this, it wasn't as if Scaramouche wouldn't have done the same to him if he was in a weakened state like this and yet that thought has the image of Scaramouche's tear-filled eyes flashing in his mind.

Muttering a curse under his breath Childe carefully placed him back down on the bed. He leaves the room briefly, going to the bathroom he grabs a towel before returning to Scaramouche's side.

He picks Scaramouche up as carefully as possible, adjusting him so that he was curled up in the crook of his arm, his head resting on Childe's shoulder.

Childe removes the dirty blanket off of the bed with his free hand, tossing it on the floor before carefully laying Scaramouche back down on the bed on his side. He takes the towel he'd gotten from the bathroom and opens it, lifting Scaramouche's head slightly; he spreads the towel out beneath it just in case Scaramouche started throwing up in his sleep.

Once that's finished he begins cleaning up the room, coming from a family as large as his it's not Childe's first time taking care of someone who was sick, although he can't help but wonder if normal medicine would even work on Scaramouche.

It seemed like he just hadn't thought to take any, but from what Childe knew it was probably because he'd been reluctant to leave his room as his condition got worse. It was also how Childe knew where exactly Scaramouche was, knowing that if he'd disappeared for days on end and he wasn't sent on a mission then it was most likely that he was sick and hiding in his room.

It was a piece of knowledge he'd stumbled onto by accident one of the few times Scaramouche had let him stay the night here.

After placing a wet washcloth on Scaramouche's head, and placing some water and medicine on the nightstand Childe goes downstairs to the kitchen to fix him something he could hopefully eat.

~~~

Hot, it was way, way too hot is the first thing Scaramouche begins to register as he slowly wakes up. A soft groan leaves his mouth as he cracks his eyes open slightly, there's something cold and soft laying on his forehead and he reaches up with a shaky hand feeling wet cloth brush against his fingertips.

Confused and still a bit disoriented from his fever, Scaramouche frowns because he didn't remember grabbing a wet washcloth before falling asleep.

It takes his slow mind a little bit to truly remember what happened, Childe coming to his room, finding him in this pitiful state, but most of all he remembers Childe promising not to bring him to Dottore.

He closes his eyes for a moment muttering a curse under his breath, Childe knew he was scared of Dottore. One of his most well-kept secrets. Scaramouche doesn't like this one bit.

Opening his eyes again he carefully props himself up on his aching, trembling limbs pausing for a moment when the nausea still swirling in the pit of his stomach makes itself known and he begins gagging emptily over his lap.

Shaking his head slightly, he takes a deep shuddering as he begins looking around his bedroom. It's clearly been cleaned and tidied up a bit even some of the blankets on his bed have been changed.

Noticing the medicine sitting on the nightstand Scaramouche gives a soft huff as he sits up all the way. He tosses the pills in his mouth taking small, careful sips from the water. It feels amazing on his still sore and dry throat but he doesn't want to take the risk of setting off his stomach again.

He's just setting the half-empty glass on the nightstand and about to lay back down when Childe comes into the room carrying a small metal tray in his hands.

"Well look who's awake," Childe chuckled as he approached the bed. He places the tray he's carrying down on the nightstand, ignoring Scaramouche's glare as he sits down on the edge of the bed.

"Why are you-" Scaramouche begins but stops, freezing when Childe suddenly leans forward and brushes his bangs aside to press their foreheads together.

Childe gives a soft hum drawing back after a moment or two as Scaramouche sits there, his eyes wide as he blinks seemingly stunned.

"Your fever is still high," Childe muttered. "At least you took the medicine though so hopefully it kicks in soon."

Shaking off his shock, Scaramouche looked at Childe with narrow eyes. "Why are you doing this?" He asked with a scowl. There had to be a reason Childe was helping him, maybe he wanted blackmail, Scaramouche didn't know.

"Because I want to?" Childe told him as he grabbed the tray off of the nightstand. It had a small bowl of soup on it and Scaramouche glances away when the sight of it sloshing slightly in the bowl makes his stomach turn.

Scaramouche scoffed at Childe's words. "Because you want to? Bullshit, you want something from me. What is-"

Scaramouche gets cut off when Childe takes the opportunity to shove a spoonful of soup in his mouth.

"Be quiet, you talk too much," Childe huffed. "So I guess if there's one thing I want you to do is for you to shut up for once. Then again if you did it'd be pretty boring."

Scaramouche said nothing, simply as if he couldn't believe Childe had just done that to him. He scowls the soup with a scowl, it tastes great, although he wouldn't admit that to Childe. Almost refreshing, crisp even. It's not heavy on his tongue either and goes down fairly easily when Scaramouche swallows although it does make his stomach ache slightly.

"Well, how does it taste?" Childe asked with a slight smile. He's expecting one of Scaramouche's usual insults.

Surprisingly Scaramouche shrugs slightly. "It's passable I guess. It didn't kill me at least so there's that."

Scaramouche goes quiet as he allows Childe to feed him again. Maybe Scaramouche just didn't have the energy to fight Childe tooth and nail like he usually would while in his state.

While Childe doesn't mind the fact that Scaramouche is being so agreeable it also feels strange. Wrong almost.

"Did you do all of this on your own?" Scaramouche suddenly asked Childe.

Strangely enough, he'd been letting Childe feed him soup for a little while now. If Childe didn't know any better he'd swear Scaramouche was actually enjoying this.

"You mean the cleaning and everything? Yeah, it was really easy plus I figured you wouldn't want anyone else seeing you like this," Childe told him.

Scaramouche rolls his eyes but says nothing as he yawned and stretched, grimacing slightly when his joints seemed to creak. He was already tired again despite not having been up for long.

"I'll take this downstairs then head back home," Childe said as he set the empty soup bowl on the tray again.

"Wait," Scaramouche told him as he was about to walk towards the door.

Childe stops walking and looks at him, Scaramouche opens his mouth only to close it again a scowl on his face his words seemingly failing him for once in his life.

"You can stay here for now. At least until this stops, it'd be annoying to wait for you to come back here in the morning if I needed something," he murmured looking away, almost as if he were ashamed of asking in the first place.

Childe gives a soft chuckle. "If that's what you want then sure I don't mind."