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musings-of-miss-j · 8 months

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no rest for the wicked (nor the foolish)

part four: in which the doctor is irritated (nothing new), you lose a rather important item and signora requests your presence

a harbingers x gn reader series!! (includes dottore, childe, arlecchino and pantalone x reader. the rest of the harbingers will most likely not be romantic interests)

notes: slowburn that makes you want to tear your hair out according to my friend, snarky reader, fluff, crack, slight social anxiety, reader is referred to as 'miss' but no pronouns, childe is pining, you are oblivious and the rest of the harbingers got a -9 on their 'how to romance your crush' exam

be sure to notify me of any pronoun slips!!

series masterlist

word count: 4433 words

author's note: thank you so so so much to everyone who has expressed interest in this series!!! a special thank you to @viridian-coffer, @nin3ss and @@vvzhyxx !!! i hope y'all don't mind being tagged but your little comments are so so appreciated <333 please continue engaging, it makes me unbelievably happy (also about scara: he's getting his own separate fic so stay tuned for that!!) quick reminder that asks and requests are always open :)

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The mystery occupied your thoughts more than it should have; the next day at the lab you dropped a replica of a ruin mechanism you’d made and were forced to endure the agonising process of watching it shatter to pieces on the floor. You mourned its loss as you picked them up, and the Doctor muttered something derisive under his breath.

“Just what is the matter with you?” He demanded from across the lab. He was prodding away at a poor fox’s corpse, testing out yet another one of his artificial hearts. It had been difficult to hide your distress at seeing the furry little thing dead on his workbench, and this trial of his wasn’t going any better than the others; he was in a particularly foul mood.

“Nothing, doctor,” you replied, disposing of the remains of your wonderful model. It’ll take me at least a week to make a new one. Damn that mystery woman for distracting me.

He tsked, abandoning the fox and the metal parts and striding over to you.

“Are you ill? Drunk?” He leaned in close, and you stepped away until the cool bite of the marble workbench dug into your back. The tip of his pointed mask was just inches away from your nose, and you fervently hoped he wouldn’t stab your eye out with it. “Your behaviour has been irregular since you stepped foot into the lab today. Whatever instability you pose is a danger to my experiments, and unless you provide a satisfactory explanation I’ll have you dismissed for a week.”

You clenched your teeth. Such a delay would put you severely behind schedule, something he was no doubt aware of. The Doctor was knowledgeable even in the science of making highly effective threats. And invading your personal space, apparently; the hard edge of marble was beginning to bruise your back the closer he leaned in.

“I assure you that won’t be necessary.”

“Then for the Tsaritsa’s sake, stop acting like a bumbling fool. Better yet, tell me exactly what caused this deviation from your usual efficiency so I can eliminate it myself.”

You allowed a small grin to take over your features. “I'm efficient, doctor?”

“Don’t play coy. You’re well aware of your capabilities, which clearly include diverting from the subject of conversation.”

“Oh, alright.” What harm could it do to tell the Doctor about the mystery woman? You pushed him away. Or at least tried to; he didn’t budge an inch and now your hands were on his chest. You quickly pulled them away, fighting the urge to avert your gaze in embarrassment at the proximity. How adorable, he thought. “A strange woman all but interrogated me in the dining hall last night, and admitted to be disguised as a recruit. She asked me a great many questions with the air of a person who’s used to obtaining answers, but refused to divulge her true identity. I’ve been wondering who she might’ve been.”

“That is what’s been occupying your mind to the point where you fumble in the lab?” He demanded after an incredulous silence.

“A scholar’s unsatisfied curiosity isn’t the most manageable of problems.”

“Unbelievable,” he muttered under his breath, tracing his mask with his thumb. “My apprentice, a supposed genius, led astray by a cliché mystery.” You could no longer tell if your face was red from how close he was standing or his derisive tone; either way, you were left flustered and a little indignant at how nice the Doctor's cologne smelled. You'd expected him to stink of laboratory chemicals, but the subtle earthy undertone was rather appealing. You toyed with the fingertips of your gloves in an attempt to distract yourself from such thoughts.

With a roll of your eyes, you retorted: “She was capable of illusionary magic. Do you have any idea who she might be?”

The set of his mouth revealed nothing, but he let out a soft 'ah' of realisation.

“Well?” You prompted. “Who was she?”

“That, my dear student, is none of your concern.” He backed away from you and returned to what you considered his half of the lab.

“Oh, why the change in tune, doctor? I thought you intended to eliminate any distractions?” You tugged your gloves and turned back to the sketch you’d made of an ancient ruin in the depths of Avidya Forest. It was a prime example of how elemental magic, in this case dendro, affected physical structures and their functionality; one particular crack in the stone wall housed a Dendroculous, and around it moss and other greenery flourished although the conditions for plant life were less than optimum. The mechanism to access the ruins had also changed due to elemental exposure; when formerly it could only be activated using a key or some other specific piece, it now responded to dendro application. Fascinating. “Oh, right. Doctor, where can I acquire a mask?” you asked, flipping through the pages of blueprints you’d made to build a replica of the ruin mechanism. You wanted to see how it might have functioned years ago, and now you’d have to rebuild the whole thing.

“How should I know?” Came the disdainful reply. It had been by design that you didn’t receive a mask, after all; it would obscure your expressions and make it difficult to read you. And your eyes were too pretty to be hidden.

“Then who should I be asking if I want a helpful answer?”

He muttered something under his breath, no doubt scornful, before replying. “Regrator, I suppose.”

Another unhelpful answer, and he sounded even more contemptuous than usual. You bit back a sigh and resigned yourself to asking Childe or Signora.

You spent the rest of the day rebuilding the replica. Thankfully it didn’t take as much time and you even managed to draw up a few prototypes for the key. Which looked nothing like a key at all, more like a vaguely star-shaped disk with four distinct points, and by the time the sun slipped beneath the horizon and the sheer chill of Snezhnayan night time truly set in, you were in high spirits and reluctant to leave the productive atmosphere of the lab. You decided to write the report for the day instead of leaving, but soon encountered a problem; there weren’t any chairs in the lab. Not a single one. The Doctor was completely immersed in the mechanical heart that had finally begun to beat underneath his fingers and you doubted he’d register any questions you sent his way, and so you reverted to the tactic you’d been forced to utilise during secondary school; perching cross-legged upon the workbench. The lighting was thankfully much better than it was in the rest of the palace. No dim floating lanterns for the Doctor, no, no. Instead the ceiling was mounted with large, circular lamps that glowed anywhere from bright white to soft yellow, and you settled beneath buttery radiance that was almost reminiscent of Sumeru summers. Quiet prevailed, with only the scratching sound of your pen and the metallic clinking from the Doctor’s direction disturbing the stillness. The scene contrasted vastly to the chaos of the Akademiya’s hectic workspaces; tranquil and unhurried where the latter had been loud and frantic, with panicked students rushing back and forth between different experiments and yelling at each other when their experiments affected each other. You still resented the Akademiya somewhat for showing such clear favouritism towards the literary and historic Darshans.

Working like this, after a successful lab session with no younger students coming dangerously close to breaking your apparatus or begging for help, snow swirling outside and a lovely big workspace and minimal pressure, you could almost convince yourself that this had been your plan all along. That you were here, in the Fatui’s headquarters, because you’d wanted this position and not because you’d been afraid of refusing. It was far from unpleasant, sitting on the workbench and refining your draft for a report about a subject you’d chosen.

Until the Doctor looked up and opened his damn mouth.

“Why are you sitting there?” The way you perched on the countertop, of all places, with your legs crossed beneath you reminded him of a bird. The sheer self-assuredness could’ve been enough to make you feel as though you were committing some atrocious, unforgivable crime. Luckily, your sense of guilt had been left a little weathered after several long years of defending yourself and your research.

“Because there’s no other place to sit, doctor,” you replied without looking up.

“If you deem your work enough for the day and find yourself with enough free time to bemoan the lack of seating then perhaps you should return to your dormitory.”

Unbelievably passive-aggressive. What difference does my presence make, anyway?

“Perhaps,” you conceded, without making a move to get up.

“Oh, for the Tsaritsa’s sake. Go to dinner or whatever other meaningless rituals you practise,” he said, that special brand of casual contempt lacing his words. You couldn’t even find it in yourself to be offended; you’d become accustomed to his brash mannerisms in the span of little more than two weeks. Besides, it was funny to think that he wanted you to leave so badly. You adjusted your notebook in your lap and continued writing.

“Surely you can abide my presence a little longer, doctor.”

“Leave, you insubordinate pest.”

That drew a surprised laugh from you. He was seized by the urge to make you do it again. The Doctor usually dealt in elegant, intricately-worded insults, and this outright rebuke was such a change in pace you couldn’t help but laugh. The intensity of his stare grew until you were worried you’d offended him, and you glanced up to see him standing before the array of mechanical spurs and gears strewed across his workbench, arms crossed and head tilted to the side as he surveyed you. You wished you could see what emotion was in his eyes behind that damn mask. After a few moments more of staring, you gathered he could very well be contemplating the prospect of dissecting you if you didn’t leave (really, he just didn’t want to continue one of his more gory experiments in front of you. The discomfort would surely make you clumsier, and he couldn’t have an inefficient apprentice in his lab), and so you pocketed your notebook and pen and hopped down from the abnormally high countertop.

“I shall disturb you no more, doctor,” you said, slightly amused, before opening the door with a series of complicated knocks and leaving.

You no longer needed to consult your little map to find your way; the winding corridors had lost their daunting unfamiliarity. In fact, the whole palace was beginning to develop an air of friendliness; the silver phrases in the walls served as landmarks, the floating lanterns brightened whenever you approached, and the glowing jasmine perfumed the air with its delicate scent. Despite knowing that it would be much smarter to keep your guard up at all times, it was difficult not to relax when the palace so cheerfully presented itself to be discovered and mapped.

You stepped into your room, humming absent-mindedly under your breath as you went through the usual motions after a day in the lab; hanging up your cloak, letting down your hair, checking to see if your hidden store of valuables had remained untouched during your absence, tidying the myriad of reports, articles and notebooks strewn across your desk and other such minor chores.

A peaceful evening, if it weren’t for the fact that Signora was watching you.

“So this is what the little one gets up to after a long day.”

You gasped, startled, and dropped the teapot you’d been in the process of removing from the fire. Signora emerged from thin air and caught it before it could crash onto the floor, setting it calmly down on the table. You froze, shocked and partially wondering if she was a hallucination. Her beauty certainly seemed beyond the realm of understanding; she wore a black silk gown studded with blood-red gems, elbow-length gloves and a smile glorious enough to raise the dead. She watched you try to gather your wits with a bemused expression, and when your brain finally caught up with her sudden appearance you bowed and stammered out a greeting in an attempt to gloss over your initial shock.

“Good evening, my lady.” Her smile grew; you’d learnt the correct way of addressing her. She quite liked the way her title sounded on your tongue, almost as much as she’d liked the wide-eyed look of astonishment on your face, “To- to what do I owe the pleasure?”

She lowered herself into one of the armchairs

“Do I need a reason to visit?” She asked, crossing one leg over the other and raising an eyebrow.

“You’re always welcome here, my lady,” you replied, straightening and regaining some of your composure. You busied yourself with taking out the tea set and grabbing a serving of your most expensive leaves, mostly so you could avoid her gaze and knowing smile.

“I hear you’ve taken to hiding away a servant girl in your chambers,” she said as you passed her a cup. You stiffened slightly, glancing up at her and hoping she hadn’t taken offence; just in case, you quickly cycled through potential responses to avoid an uncomfortable situation. Noticing your dilemma, she laughed and took a sip of her tea.

“Relax, little one. I can practically hear you worrying.”

You chuckled awkwardly, toying with your glasses.

“Now, I do in fact have an ulterior motive for paying you this visit,” she began, leaning back in the chair and surveying you through her one visible eye. Her statement didn’t surprise you in the slightest; it made perfect sense that a Harbinger would exercise a measure of cunning.

“You see, our yearly gala to strengthen some political connections is just around the corner.” Your brow furrowed; what did that have to do with you? “My fellow Harbingers and I would like you to attend.”

You blinked. Raised your eyebrows. Fidgeted with your gloves. Anything to fill the silence before she redacted or rephrased the statement. Your scepticism only grew when she made no move to do so, instead revelling in your bewilderment with that half-lidded look of sheer satisfaction.

“My lady, I fail to see what my presence will contribute to such an important event.”

“You’re too humble. Why, I hear the Akademiya is frothing at the mouth with rage over losing a genius like you!”

You hesitated and sat down across from her to process, refraining from pointing out that you largely came to Snezhnaya on the basis of subtle threats from them.

“Surely one needs more than intellect to gain such an invite.”

“And you, little one, are the whole package!” She tossed her hair over her shoulder with a laugh. It was odd, how she’d been stinging and harsh the first time you met, and now she was all smiles and cordiality. You wondered which side was her true one, and marvelled at how both temperaments fit her like a second skin. “It’s a wonderful opportunity to show you off.”

You stared at her blankly. It had been a long day, and you were not in the mood to engage in verbal acrobatics.

“I still don’t see the purpose of the invitation, my lady.”

She sighed. “Oh, well. Your presence is expected either way.”

You frowned. A big social event where you’d most likely be alone was not an appealing prospect. “My lady, please. I don’t think my schedule will allow for it, and I’m certain the invitation will be better received by a more influential member of the Fatui.”

“Do you plan on rejecting the invitation I went to such lengths to acquire for you, little one?”

You were trapped, and she smiled because she knew it. You let out a sigh of defeat, running a hand through your hair. “Yes, my lady,” you murmured, a touch of your dreariness seeping into your voice.

“Good, good,” she all but purred, adjusting her fur collar and rising from her chair. At least she was leaving so you could go to sleep. You followed her to the door, taking off your glasses to rub your tired eyes. The day was beginning to catch up to you, and the knowledge that you’d have to partake in a magnanimous social event did nothing to lessen your exhaustion; already you were beginning to worry about the overwhelmingly likely prospect that you wouldn’t know anyone at the gala. How bothersome. Signora paused in the doorway. “I’ll have the servant girl inform you of the details, since you’re so fond of her to the point where you’ll let her hide in your room.”

Heat rose to your cheeks. She made it seem so shameful, like an unforgivable sin that you should have been mortified to commit. You locked the door the moment she stepped out, feeling rather cheerless and vexed at more or less everyone in the palace. With a grumble, you grabbed the warming packet you’d designed in secondary school and shook it with perhaps more force than strictly necessary to trigger the flaming flower stamen within it. It was quite the handy little thing, utilising the flower’s reaction to nearby movement to heat up the agnidus agate within. You were especially thankful for it here in Snezhnaya, where the nights stung with a bitter cold that couldn’t be dispelled by a hundred blankets. At least I have a warm bed, you reasoned dejectedly to yourself, collapsing into it. Maybe I should run away and forge a new identity to avoid this damn gala.

The morning brought a splitting headache (predictable) and clear skies (surprising). No snow fell, and though the world was blanketed with the perpetual layer of white you could glimpse snatches of a frosted-over pale blue sky through the stained glass of your window; you admired it from the comfort of your bed. You moved to get up, but a precise and agonising throb in your skull abruptly put a stop to that plan, and you collapsed back onto the mattress with a pained groan. After a few moments, you tried to sit up again; your head pounded even harder, as though in warning, and an ache began to form behind your eyes. Cursing under your breath, you rootled through the drawer of the nightstand for a bottle of your special all-cure. You’d concocted it specifically for your body mass, metabolism and stomach acidity, and even done the same for a few others and sold it as a custom medicine, so it worked like a charm. If only it tasted half-decent, you lamented as its acridity burned your throat on the way down. Kaeya had likened it to drinking cheap liquor, and Kaveh had taken a similar stance. Still, they gladly asked for refills of it every year when winter struck, much to your eternal smugness.

You stumbled out of bed with a groan, rubbing the painful spot on your neck. The beginnings of a cold were settling in your throat and chest, and you resigned yourself to going to the dining hall that day to fetch a few jueyun chilis and performing a quick whopperflower nectar extraction in the lab to dispel it. How troublesome.

A knock sounded at your door just as you were lacing up your boots.

“Come in,” you said without looking up, knowing it would be Anya. She stepped inside, carrying a tray laden with a breakfast you wouldn’t eat and insist she have instead. You’d grown used to her presence, fond of her even, and you smiled at her as she walked in. With Childe in tow. Your eyebrows quirked up in surprise, and you rose to your feet and moved to grab your cloak from where it was draped across the back of your chair. Which it blatantly wasn’t. You frowned.

“Anya, Lord Eleven,” you greeted them, patting Anya’s shoulder as she walked past you to set the tray on the table in front of the fireplace. Childe eyed the motion, mildly jealous. Not that you noticed, too preoccupied with looking for your cloak. “Good morning to you both.”

Anya remained silent, clearly nervous from the Harbinger’s presence. Childe had no such reservations; he strode up to you and ruffled your hair, undeterred by your glare. He’d made it a habit, much to your chagrin.

“Why so cold, Trixy? I came all this way and all you can offer me is a ‘Lord Eleven?’”

“I suppose you’d prefer ‘sweetheart?’” You deadpanned, your tone wry. He grinned.

“I would, actually.”

You brushed his response off, rummaging through your closet for your cloak. You were beginning to get irritated; the barely-receding headache and your lost cloak weren’t helping in the slightest.

“What’re you looking for?” He asked, leaning in from behind you to survey the closet’s interior.

“My damn cloak.”

“Oh, that stylish thing? You’ve lost it?” He’d noticed you weren’t wearing it the moment you opened the door; he was surprised to see you without it. Normally you had it over your clothes, and in its absence he couldn’t help but let his eyes linger on your figure. Knit turtlenecks looked unfairly good on you.

“Evidently,” you bit out, slamming the closet door shut. His eyes caught on the flowers painted at the base of it. Those hadn’t been there before; he’d know, this had been his room and he’d pulled several strings to make you its new resident. Cute. You liked to paint. You ran a hand through your hair with a disgruntled sigh, pondering your options. Or lack thereof; you’d spent a hefty chunk of mora on that cloak and you didn’t have an adequate replacement, especially considering the looming threat of getting sick.

“Damn it all,” you muttered under your breath, clipping your pocket watch onto your belt.

“What, don’t have anything else to wear?”

“No. Don’t sound so bloody smug about it,” you added. He chuckled; it was thoroughly enjoyable when you became aggravated enough to let go of just a bit of your polite facade.

“I can lend you something,” he suggested, leaning his shoulder against the closet. “For the right price,” he added with a wink. You shot him an unimpressed look, then let it drop off your face with sigh; you really didn’t have any other choice. It was either accept Childe’s help or increase the risk of getting sick by a significant margin, and catching a cold was very close to the bottom of your to-do list.

‘Alright,” you conceded with a resigned air.

“Great. I’ll be right back, then.” He sauntered out of the door, clearly pleased with himself though you couldn’t pinpoint why; he probably liked having you ask him for something, you concluded. (The idea of you wearing his clothes just excited him.)

You sighed and turned to Anya, who was hovering over the table with her hands clasped in front of her. “Thank you for the breakfast,” you said with a brief smile. “Would you eat it in my stead once I leave?”

She laughed quietly. “It’s a shame you refuse to have breakfast, miss. Isn’t it meant to be the most important meal of the day?”

“Gluconeogenesis will do just fine.” You knew she’d appreciate the joke, as she was a student in a Snezhnayan academy who’d taken the biology pathway. Sure enough, she chuckled under her breath.

“If you say so, miss.”

Childe returned a moment later with a white coat in his arms. You made to take it from him with a muttered ‘thank you,’ but instead he stepped behind you and draped it over your shoulders, gesturing at you to slip your arms through the sleeves.

“Ah- thank you, but there’s no need for that, really,” you said as he adjusted the prominent collar, a little embarrassed. He ruffled your hair, and you grudgingly let him.

“Nonsense. It looks fantastic on you, Trixy.”

You let out an amused chuckle, rolling up the long sleeves. It was clearly made for someone with broader shoulders and a taller frame than you; the hem fell almost to your knees and the seam of the shoulder was too far down your arm. Still, it was warm, and you appreciated it.

“Thank you again, Eleven,” you replied with a small, earnest smile. Childe was immensely grateful you looked away to grab some paperwork so you wouldn’t see the love-struck look on his face. You’d never smiled at him without a bite of irony before. “I’ll return it to you as soon as I’ve found my cloak.” He was almost disappointed.

“It’s no rush, you’re welcome,” he replied when his tongue finally started working again. You left the room and he followed you.

“Oh, I’ve been meaning to ask you or Lady Eight,” you added off-handedly, weaving between the crowds of people in the hallways. “Do you know anyone named ‘Regrator?’”

“Huh? What do you need him for?”

“The Doctor told me I should ask him about why I didn’t get a mask. Or a uniform, for that matter. Where could I find him? Who is he, anyway?”

Childe followed close behind you as you made your way up the spiral staircase to the lab.

“Well, Regrator is the Ninth Harbinger’s code name.”

You paused in your tracks, glancing back at him with a surprised expression.

“Really, now? Why would the Doctor refer me to him for matters as trivial as a recruit’s uniform?”

Childe shrugged. “He’s the banker, to put it simply.”

“That… doesn’t offer a very satisfactory explanation. Is the delegation of work among the Harbingers devoid of logic?”

“Sure,” he allowed with a laugh.

“Right.” You sighed, starting back up the stairs and mulling over this new information. It was unlikely you’d be able to get an audience with a Harbinger you had no affiliation with, much less for something as inconsequential as a missing uniform.

“Why do you want a mask, anyway?” Childe prodded. The world was all the better with your eyes on display, he thought.

“It’s unreasonable for every other employee to have one with me as the exception.”

“You’re just special like that, Trixy,” he teased.

“Oh, yes, I am simply bursting with individuality,” you quipped back. “The first candidate who comes to mind for exclusive treatment.” Reaching the door to the lab, you tapped the four corners and knocked twice on the centre with the knuckle of your index finger. You turned back to Childe as it swung open.

“I’ll see you in the dining hall today,” you informed him.

“Finally you decide we’re worthy of your presence! What brought about the change in heart?”

“I need some jueyun chilis from the kitchen,” you reply over your shoulder as you head into the lab.

“I’ll hold you to your promise!” He called as the door slammed shut behind you.

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