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Neuvillette brings him down personally. Neuvillette never brings anyone down personally, not even the murderers. But this time, he comes down to the Fortress of Meropide at eight in the morning sharp with the Fatui’s Eleventh Harbinger on his arm.
“What the fuck,” says Wriothesley.
Neuvillette does not dignify that with a response.
“What did he even do?”
“Nothing,” the Harbinger whines, petulant. “You won’t even let me try to get arrested!”
Wriothesley stares him down, harsh and unrelenting. The Warden’s stare, he calls it. The Harbinger doesn’t even flinch. He seems to be following Neuvillette willingly, rather than being forced. Huh.
Neuvillette’s manner is very stiff. He avoids looking Wriothesley in the eye. “To the best of my judgment, he… has yet to commit a crime, yes.”
“Then why is he coming to Meropide?”
“The Oratrice pronounced him guilty. Thus, following procedure, he is to enter your care.”
Wriothesley levels him a measured look. “One of these days,” he mutters darkly. “One of these days I’m going to take a hammer to that machine and let you do whatever you want in the courtroom.”
Neuvillette frowns slightly. “That would be highly improper.” Wriothesley can already picture him doing his whole ‘I’m-not-justice-the-Oratrice-is’ speech and braces himself. But to his surprise, Neuvillette seems to consciously suppress it. “Though I do appreciate the sentiment, I suppose.”
“There you go.” Wriothesley’s sure some of the relief of escaping the impending lecture has bled into his voice, but he can’t bring himself to care. “You’ll come around eventually.”
Neuvillette flushes, and blinks in rapid succession, mouth shifting. It settles upon a frown. “I most certainly will not,” he says, in a way that makes Wriothesley certain that he will.
“Uh, guys?”
Right. The Harbinger. The Harbinger who is standing right in front of him, who is about to be contained in his immediate vicinity. “Um. Yeah. About him.”
“He shall be contained within the Fortress of Meropide until further trials can be implemented.”
“I have a name,” the Harbinger grumbles. Wriothesley didn’t actually know that. Well, he did, in theory, but he didn’t have time to read Neuvillette’s report. He makes a mental note to go over it later.
“Now, would you like to submit peacefully?”
The Harbinger looks at Neuvillette with contempt, which, understandable. He holds up his unrestrained hands. “What do you think?” he asks dryly.
“…Right.” Neuvillette straightens his cravat, inhales deeply. “I’ll be sure to send progress reports on the investigation into the Oratrice. Lord Wriothesley, I bid you farewell.”
Wriothesley watches him go. In a matter of moments, Neuvillette has vanished upwards, back to the surface. Every time he leaves, Wriothesley debates following him. It’s a debate which he always loses.
The Harbinger waves a hand in front of his face. Wriothesley jolts.
Wriothesley holds out his handcuffs like nothing had happened. “Come on.” The Harbinger stares at him blankly. Wriothesley sighs. “It’s not that bad,” he promises. “Actually, I reformed the place. It used to be a shithole. Still kinda is, but there’s a boxing ring now, and an economy and stuff.”
“You two should bone.”
“ Excuse me ?”
“You. And the Chief Justice. You should bone.”
The handcuffs slip from Wriothesley’s hands and clatter to the floor.
The Harbinger shrugs and starts walking into the Fortress on his own. After a moment of delay, Wriothesley follows him inside. What the hell is this day. He definitely deserves another cup of tea. He’ll have Sigewinne bring one for him immediately.
***
For three days, the Harbinger, whom Wriothesley learns goes by Childe, does not even enter Wriothesley’s peripheral vision. Three days of bliss. Then the fourth day comes and Childe is outside his office door.
Wriothesley does a double take. “How did you get here?”
“I walked.”
“Past the two dozen Gardemeks that guard the personnel?”
“Oh, those?” Childe gestures vaguely behind him. “Dealt with them. I’ll put them back together later if you want.”
Wriothesley sighs heavily. He can feel a headache building at his temples already. “Just get in. What do you need me for?”
Childe takes a seat across from Wriothesley’s desk. Then he shrugs.
“You evaded human security and dismantled twenty-four Gardemeks to see me for no reason.”
“Got bored.”
Wriothesley stares at him. There is no light in his eyes. “Who even are you?”
Two sharp knocks sound on the door. Wriothesley’s heart sinks. After all, this is a visitor he can't exactly turn down. “Come in,” he calls. The door’s locked, but he’d be a fool to think that would keep Neuvillette out.
It doesn’t. Neuvillette enters with composure and dignity, as if he’d always been intending to have to unlock the door himself. At this point, Wriothesley isn’t sure if he’s bothering to use the key, or if he’s just manipulating the door into doing his bidding. He wouldn’t put either one past him.
“Hello,” he says. Then he notices that his usual seat is occupied. “…Childe.”
Childe grins. “Hi!”
“Is he here for a disciplinary consultation? I was under the impression that he would be troublesome, but not so quickly.”
“No!” Childe smacks a hand over his heart, faux scandalized. “Chief Justice, what do you take me for?”
Neuvillette, looking unimpressed, ignores him.
“He isn’t,” says Wriothesley. “He just sort of walked in.”
“Hm.”
Childe sulks. Wriothesley can’t blame him; Neuvillette’s disapproving hum isn’t something to be trifled with. For not saying anything, he sure does pack a punch.
“Alright. Well, I suppose it is of no consequence.” Neuvillette snaps his fingers. Several files fly out of his briefcase, sorting themselves into a perfect pile on Wriothesley’s desk before him. They’re even right side up. No matter how many times Neuvillette does it, it impresses him. “I’ve gathered relevant data about the Oratrice, mainly previous case records where the cause of the Oratrice’s shift was unclear.”
“Unclear?”
“…I had assumed it to be a result of audience emotion.”
Wriothesley glances up. Neuvillette looks uncomfortable. It strikes him that there are precious few things Neuvillette doesn’t understand, emotion among them. For him to chalk up some odd readings to emotion makes perfect sense, actually.
“Why can the Oratrice take emotion into account, anyway?” Wriothesley asks, as he scans the documents. “Aren’t you always telling me you can’t make emotional connections because it might bias you?”
“The Oratrice is a machine,” says Neuvillette sharply. “I am not.” His slight sigh is barely more than an exhale, but Wriothesley catches it regardless. “It is unrealistic for me to form no emotional connections. I do have some.”
It takes everything in Wriothesley not to ask if he’s one of them. He’s not sure he would like the answer.
“Tsaritsa’s tits,” the Harbinger mutters, rolling his eyes. “Get a room.”
Neuvillette frowns. “I do believe this is a room. Why would you imply we need another one?”
Childe looks at Neuvillette, then at Wriothesley, then back at Neuvillette. He grimaces. “Never mind.”
“Actually, no.” Wriothesley sets down the pile of documents and stares down the Harbinger sitting across his desk. “You’re right. We do need a room. This one, in fact. So why don’t you get out?”
Typically, when he’s direct like this, Neuvillette tends to disapprove. He’ll click his tongue, or say, don’t be rude, Lord Wriothesley , or something along those lines. But this time, he stands with his mouth in a flat line that Wriothesley thinks might be disguising a smile.
“Got me there,” Childe relents, and holds up his hands in mock surrender as he gets up. Wriothesley holds the door open for him, trying not to feel too satisfied.
“Actually, could I get a madeleine while I’m here? I hear they’re-”
Wriothesley feels no remorse when he slams the door in his face.
***
It takes a week for Childe to fix all the Gardemeks, and he doesn’t earn anything for it. Wriothesley can only imagine he’s managed to befriend someone. That is, until he recalls that Childe, despite his scrawny appearance, is a Harbinger. Yeah, if a Harbinger asks for a couple drinks, any inmate who values their head would probably oblige.
But the worst part is that the minute he’s repaired them all, he goes and tears them up again.
“It’s not my fault,” Childe complains, as Wriothesley drags him back to the main because it is absolutely his fault. “I’m just bored down here, I swear! I’d be fine if I had something to fight…”
“There’s a literal arena right over there.”
“No one here will fight me!”
Ah. Well, that checks out too. No one wants to fight someone with strings attached, and the Fatui is one hell of a string.
“I’m sure there’s someone here who wants to fight you,” Wriothesley reassures, and isn’t it bizarre, a warden reassuring an inmate. “Have you tried asking at the-”
But Childe has stopped walking. His eyes are wide. Wriothesley gets a bad feeling.
“Why don’t you fight me?”
Yep. There it is. The bad idea.
“No.”
“Please?”
“No.”
“Okay. Then I’ll just break the Gardemeks every week until someone fights me.”
“…Yes.”
***
He’s not even seriously hurt. Childe isn’t all that harmful. He doesn’t even have a vision on him. He can use electro powers somehow, but Wriothesley doesn’t question it.
“It’s not that bad, I swear.”
Neuvillette is having none of it. “Show me,” he demands, holding out his hand. Wriothesley reluctantly relinquishes his arm. Lightning burns spiral up his forearm where Childe had struck him before his retaliation. Wriothesley always goes for a counter-strike, so of course he’d taken a hit or two before winning. Childe is much worse off, cryo enchantments rendering his left hand immobile, but Neuvillette doesn’t seem to care.
The burns aren’t terrible, and Sigewinne has already treated them. Neuvillette glares at Childe regardless. “Apologize.”
His tone leaves no room for argument. Childe must recognize this, because he hangs his head and mumbles, “Sorry, Wriothesley.”
“That’s ‘Warden’ to you,” Neuvillette snaps, glaring harder.
“He really doesn’t have to call me that, you know.”
“Yessir, Chief Justice,” says Childe with a salute.
Neuvillette looks at least mildly pacified. “That’s more like it.” He stands tall, haughty. He’s not any taller than Wriothesley, but his heels give him an extra few inches. “And if I hear you’ve hurt my Warden again, I’ll lock you in an isolation cell. From before his generous reforms.”
He stalks out of the Fortress with fury. Wriothesley, of course, watches him go, and once more loses the debate about following him.
“He’s not usually like that,” Wriothesley explains, for no particular reason. “I dunno why he gets so angry on my behalf.”
Childe waves a hand carelessly, already wandering back to the main fortress, where his pile of Gardemeks await their futile weekly repairs. “Don’t worry about it. Mine’s like that too.”
Wriothesley frowns, following him. “Yours?”
“My boyfriend.”
Wriothesley nearly trips over nothing. “Neuvillette is, by no standards , my boyfriend.”
“Okay, well, your boytoy, whatever.”
“If he heard you say that, he’d send a tsunami your way and make it look like an accident.”
Childe looks intrigued. “He can do that?”
“No,” says Wriothesley, too quickly. “Anyway, he wouldn’t date me. Or anyone. He’s not a super emotional guy. Except for the anger, I guess.”
“He should date you though. We’ve established this.”
Wriothesley looks over at Childe, skeptical. He crosses his arms, hoping he looks menacing enough to listen to. “He shouldn’t,” he argues, ignoring the part of him that’s in agreement, the part that wants to follow Neuvillette each time he leaves.
Childe rolls his eyes. “Why not?”
“Well, first, he’s a dragon.”
“Mine is too. Next question.”
For the sake of his sanity, Wriothesley glosses over that. “…Okay, second, age difference. I’m thirty-two and he’s five hundred.”
“Amateur numbers. I’m twenty-two and mine’s over six thousand.”
This is ridiculous, Wriothesley thinks, but it’s incredible how fast Childe is coming up with these stats. “He’s also basically in charge of the whole nation.”
“Well, mine isn’t really in charge of the nation anymore, but he faked his death and the whole country went apeshit. Hey, is the Chief Justice an Archon?”
“At this point you’re just gathering intel,” he grumbles, doing an excellent job of ignoring everything else Childe just said. “Aren’t you a Harbinger? Don’t they brief you on this stuff before you come to a nation, anyway?”
Childe sticks out his tongue. “Got me there,” he says, grinning like he’ll be forgiven if he’s upbeat enough. “But anyway, I think I won. He’s already super protective of you, y’know. It won’t be that different.”
He skips off, seeming content.
“Hey, wait,” Wriothesley calls. “You keep talking about ‘yours’. What’s that about?”
Childe skids to a stop. “Oh, yeah! His name’s Zhongli.”
Wriothesley levels him a doubtful, deadpan stare.
“You probably know him as Morax, though. Y’know, Rex Lapis? God of Contracts? Prime of the Adepti? The Geo Archon?”
Yeah, right. Wriothesley doesn’t know why he bothers. He turns around, back toward his office. “Have fun fixing those Gardemeks.”
***
It continues.
The Oratrice investigation means that Neuvillette spends more time in the Fortress of Meropide than usual. Wriothesley’s had to put his cooking skills to the test more than once. Today is one such day; Neuvillette insists he doesn’t require anything, all while Wriothesley expertly ignores him and fixes them vegetable soup and braised salmon for lunch.
Neuvillette, despite his protests, takes the offered plate without much hesitation. “It’s not necessary,” he says, even as he lifts his spoon. “To provide such things for me.”
“I want to,” Wriothesley says plainly. “It’s not inconvenient, if you were wondering.”
“But it is inconvenient. I’ve heard that guests usually are.”
Wriothesley shrugs. The soup is barely off the stove, but Neuvillette drinks it like it’s perfectly lukewarm. “I like having you around,” he says, and wonders if he knows how true it is, wonders if he knows that Wriothesley’s liked having him around since the moment his perfect facade first cracked.
They eat without much conversation. He doesn’t mind. It’s nice to have company.
Neuvillette leaves shortly after, gathering his briefcase and straightening his cravat before he turns and ascends to the surface. Wriothesley sighs wistfully and, once more, loses the age-old debate about following him.
“Ughhh.”
Wriothesley whirls around, hands flying to a defensive position, but deflates instantly upon noticing who it is. “Childe,” he greets, tired already. “Didn’t I tell you to stay in the Fortress? And not wander over to my office every day?”
“It’s not every day. I didn’t visit you yesterday.” Childe leans against the wall casually, like he’s waiting for the aquabus or something. “Thought you might be lonely.”
“I don’t get lonely.”
Childe snickers. “Yeah, ‘cause your loverboy keeps coming over.”
Maybe there’s a psychological explanation for it, but Wriothesley has given up on resisting the Neuvillette-is-his-loverboy allegations. “Just don’t let him hear you saying that.”
“Fine, fine.” Childe drums his fingers on the wall, eyes flitting around the room without settling on anything. “So… can I come in?”
The door is still ajar from Neuvillette’s departure. Wriothesley doesn’t know why he even asks. “Yeah, sure.”
Childe closes and locks the door behind himself. Very considerate, Wriothesley thinks, until he remembers that this kid is Fatui and probably does that before killing people. Yikes. He tries to picture Childe doing malicious things. It’s alarmingly easy.
“Actually,” Childe asks, “how did you two meet?”
“What?”
“You and the Chief Justice. How did you meet?”
Wriothesley frowns. “What’s it to you?”
“Come on!” Childe drags out the vowels like a toddler who wants playtime extended indefinitely. “I’m just interested. It’s so boring down here. None of the inmates will fight me and now you won’t fight me either.”
“I’ll gladly fight you,” says Wriothesley. And gladly kick his ass again , he thinks privately.
Childe flops across his desk dramatically, facedown. “But the Chief Justice would kill me!”
“He wouldn’t.”
“Okay, isolate me, whatever. Anyway.” Childe lifts his head. “Entertain me.”
Wriothesley recalls, with sudden clarity, that this guy is a decade younger than him. He doesn’t know how he forgot, actually. Most of the people in the Fortress of Meropide are surprisingly reasonable. They, at least, have self-preservation, and perhaps an inkling of common sense. Not this one, though.
“We’re coworkers,” says Wriothesley, monotone. He leafs through some papers, trying to look busy.
“That’s it?”
With an exaggerated sigh, he puts away the files. “We met when I first accepted this position. I had to write him for the funds to make repairs.”
“Ooh, letters,” Childe sighs, propping his head in his hands like a charmed magic show patron. “That’s so romantic. So? What happened after that?”
“I got the money and then I made the repairs.”
Childe raises a single eyebrow.
“Fine,” Wriothesley grumbles, taking a long sip of his now-lukewarm tea. “We kept up correspondence. Cooperation between the Opera and the Fortress. All that stuff. There was also that time I found him in the rain and we shared an umbrella and I walked him home and we had a couple glasses of wine and I stayed the night.” He clears his throat. “You know.”
If Childe notices the very obvious discrepancies and omissions in his story, he doesn’t mention it. In fact, he doesn’t look disappointed at all: he’s grinning, which is arguably worse.
“Normal work stuff,” Wriothesley says, mainly for his own sake.
Childe nods in sagely agreement. “So did he top?”
Wriothesley has never been more thankful to have set aside his teacup, because he would have dropped it directly onto the floor if he’d been holding it. “ No! ”
“So he bottomed?”
Wriothesley glares at him, willing his face not to heat up. He’s a grown-ass man and he will not let this child be the end of him. “He didn’t top because we didn’t have sex, you idiot.”
“Shame,” Childe says offhandedly. “How long since you met? Like, twenty years?”
“I’m not that old,” Wriothesley mutters, but then clarifies, “Seven.”
“No way you’ve gone seven years without having sex together once .”
Wriothesley glares at him. “Maybe this isn’t your business.”
“You haven’t kicked me out yet.”
Begrudgingly, Wriothesley has to admit he has a point.
“But seriously, it’s pretty weird,” Childe continues, like nothing ever happened. “I mean, you’re clearly into each other- don’t argue with that, I know I’m right- but you’ve gone a long-ass time without doing anything about it. Why?”
The earnest, genuine curiosity in Childe’s eyes is what does it for him. Wriothesley gives up. He sighs heavily, leaning back in his chair. “He’d never agree to it,” he says quietly, though he knows Childe hears. “You heard him. He’s the Chief Justice. He’s not supposed to form emotional connections.”
“No, I heard you say that. All he said is that he does have emotional connections. Then you stared at each other with that stupid pining look for, like, ten seconds.”
And Wriothesley realizes, in that moment, that Childe genuinely wants to help. That he just wants to give them a storybook ending. It’s a nice idea. It’s the sort of story Lady Furina would like, a slow-built romance with a perfect resolution.
Actually, it’s the sort of story he’d like too.
“Is it working?” Childe asks gleefully. “Are you doubting your whole relationship and thinking, oh, I should totally get together with him now?”
“No,” Wriothesley says, like a liar. “Get out of my office.”
Childe does, cackling with laughter all the while.
***
“Hello.”
Wriothesley blinks. Then he blinks again. The man in front of him, unfortunately, doesn’t appear to be a hallucination.
“My name is Zhongli,” he says. He’s very proper, straightening his coat and inclining his head in greeting. “I believe this fortress houses the Eleventh Harbinger?”
“You’re the Geo Archon,” Wriothesley says, rather stupidly.
“Not anymore.”
“Yeah.” Wriothesley clears his throat. “Uh, right this way.”
He leads Zhongli to his office, where Childe waits outside the door. Childe’s eyes light up upon seeing him, and Zhongli only laughs as they embrace in a horrendously sweet reunion. Wriothesley notices, for the first time, the ring on Childe’s pinky finger, and wonders what it means. From the matching band on Zhongli’s thumb, he’s got a guess.
“By the way,” says Wriothesley, as he’s closing his office door, “your trial date has been set. It’s next week.”
Zhongli frowns. “Trial?”
“Ahaha, well. I may have been charged with a teensy little crime?”
“Serial kidnappings,” Wriothesley fills in. Zhongli doesn’t even look surprised.
“Come on, I didn’t even do it this time! Zhongli, you know I wouldn’t do that, right? …Zhongli! Why aren’t you saying anything?!”
***
The rest of the week is blissfully, wonderfully Childe-free. Finally. Wriothesley barely remembered what life was like without him. It’s great.
And at the end of the week, when the Oratrice gets dismissed and Neuvillette himself gives Childe his final verdict, Wriothesley actually comes to the surface.
“You haven’t attended a trial in years,” Neuvillette observes, as everyone filters out.
Wriothesley hasn’t, but he didn’t know Neuvillette was paying attention. “I figured it’s the least I can do. Since Childe has been… a lot.”
“Has he?”
“Don’t get me started,” Wriothesley fumes, huffing out an exhale. “He just wouldn’t shut up! Every single time you visited, he’d be all, oh, Wriothesley, you two are so perfect, you should date, why haven’t you had sex already ? Worst conversations of my life.”
Neuvillette’s mouth turns up slightly. “He said that?”
Wriothesley realizes belatedly that he’s said too much. “Uh. No.”
“I see,” Neuvillette says, sounding vaguely amused. “Then, I can only presume you brought up the prospect of romantic relations just now of your own volition?”
“Nope. Didn’t say a thing.”
“Hm.” Neuvillette pauses, smile only widening. “In any case, would you care to accompany me to dinner? I’m afraid I don’t have much at home, but perhaps the Bistro 640 will do?”
Neuvillette turns to leave. Wriothesley debates about following him, like always, but this time he doesn’t lose. Instead, he grins. “Only if it’s my treat.”
***
“What are you doing here,” Wriothesley asks, deadpan.
Childe only beams as he sits across from Wriothesley once more. “Honeymooning! Anyway, how are you and Neuvillette doing?”
“We’re doing great. Now piss off.”
“So I was right.”
“I said piss off.”
“I was totally right though.”
“I have more Gardemeks that need fixing, if you want to stick around.”
Childe grimaces. “…Yeah, no thanks.”