Chapter Text

Dadttore but for real this time

“I’m never,” Scaramouche heaved, and hissed between breaths, “ever,” a snarl, “letting you touch me again for the rest of our lives!”

Dottore is sure that the remark does not encompass the usual routine maintenance and the unusual lab experimentation, but he mourns the activity he’s gotten accustomed to in his bedroom, just a little.

Scaramouche swipes at him. Dottore sidesteps it, and receives a wordless yell of rage in reply.

Despite their best efforts, Khariji-Boru Novikov is born a healthy baby boy on the dawn of a tired, new day.

Dottore holds his son for 0.27 seconds before Scaramouche rips the baby out of his arms to clutch him to his own chest, and affixes him with the most venomous glare he must be able to muster at the moment, dampened by his tear-streaked cheeks. “Get out!”

Around them, the staff - the nurses, the anesthesiologist who had found herself useless in the first few minutes of this ordeal and then lingered just to be a hindrance, and the medically-certified surgeon that Scaramouche had insisted be present because Dottore was a “useless Akademiya-dropout-Dastur-wannabe who has probably never even seen the inside of an Amurta classroom so there’s no way I’m letting you helm this surgery!” - look between them with poorly disguised amusement.

Dottore tries, “Scara-”

“Lord Harbinger,” the surgeon whispers to him, “pardon my insolence, but we really do try to cater to the mother’s preference here, for their comfort. Especially since they’re the ones doing most - or, really, all - of the work.”

Dottore opens his mouth, shuts it. Ducks out of the room the same time Scaramouche whips a scalpel from the open equipment tray and chucks it at him, leaving it embedded in the steel door.

“Congratulations to the happy - oh, where’s the baby?” Tartaglia cranes his neck over his shoulder. He lowers his party popper. 

“Where do you think?” Dottore says. “What are you doing here?”

“I heard Scara went into labour and I came over as fast as he could!” In his other hand, a bag which he waves in Dottore’s face. He whistles. “Twenty three hours! That’s a long time. My Ma only took like, eight hours for my younger brother. I imagine he must be exhausted, so I brought over some stuff. I made some stew, there are some blankets, my Ma sent over some of her books, she would have gotten together some of my baby bro’s old things but I told her Scara probably won’t be a fan of hand me downs…”

“He’s not taking visitors,” Dottore calls after him, but Tartaglia has already bound over to the operating room and is currently gesticulating wildly to the nurse who had peeked her head out to greet him.

Then, the door opens wider. “Lord Harbinger Balladeer says you can enter,” she says.

“Oh, neat!” Tartaglia says. “Catch ya later, Doctor. Hey, Scara! Wow, you’re glowing! Is that him? Oh, how precious-” 

His voice fades as the door slams shut. Dottore stares at it, fuming. 

Of course, Pierro hadn’t been pleased when he’d first found out about the pregnancy, even less so than when they said they were - sort-of - keeping it. 

Not because they wanted the damn thing for any sort of sentimental reason. But as it turned out, Scaramouche had a… complex, for mothers and children and feelings of abandonment, regardless of said child being, at the point of discussion, a lump of non-sentient cells that have yet to even form any awareness of its own existence. But he had snapped awake in a panic mid-way through being prepped and taken out half of Dottore’s staff and most of the operating room, so surgical intervention was deemed unsuitable.

In response they had devised a work-around, and Scaramouche demanded an expedition into the heart of the Abyss. Getting rid of the baby intentionally while he was conscious enough to resist it was evidently a no-go for him, he reasoned, but if he were to lose the damned thing as a result of a battle or to the effects of abyssal corruption, then it wouldn’t matter as much. 

The only thing that they failed to account for was how damn good Scaramouche was at his job. He’d returned after five months victorious, covered in the blood of his fallen opponents, and round like a ball. And then he sank to the floor of Dottore’s laboratory and then burst into tears. 

Their colleagues had been fascinated by the development. When Scaramouche was seven months in, Tartgalia had taken it upon himself to host a baby shower in lieu of their usual monthly meeting, and Pierro had signed off on it on account of Scaramouche’s recent expedition success. Tartaglia cooked most of the food; Pulcinella had brought a cake.

“I look like a whale!” Scaramouche had wailed, hands twisting into a spare scrap of machinery like it’s nothing more than a piece of paper. Dottore winced at the screeching of metal. Tartaglia tutted at him and swapped it for a bowl of soup.

“I think you look absolutely radiant, Scara!” He said cheerfully. “You have that nice pregnancy glow around you! Eat that soup, it has all the good nutrients in it, I used to make that for my Ma when she was pregnant with my younger siblings and they all turned out as fat healthy babies!”

Scaramouche sniffled and downed the bowl in a single gulp. “You think so?”

“I know it,” Tartaglia said. “Now,” he clapped his hands together, “presents! That’s the best part of a baby shower!”

Scaramouche wiped a tear. “You all got me presents?”

“We got the little runt presents,” Arlecchino corrected, and dropped something on his lap. Dottore shifted a little in his chair, but what could a box do to Scaramouche’s round belly if five months in the Abyss didn’t faze him? 

“I commissioned a bunch of toys,” Arlecchino nodded, mostly to herself, looking pleased. “The House of the Hearth has numerous capable craftsmen. They were eager to contribute to the new member that was joining the Tsarita’s family.”

Tartaglia leaned forward. “Have you figured out if it’s a boy or a girl?”

“No,” Dottore said, the same time Scaramouche said, “it’s a boy.” They glared at each other.

“Now, now,” Tartaglia said. “No fighting. Especially not you, Scara. You have to keep your blood pressure down. Who’s next? Pantalone?”

“I opened an investment account in the baby’s name,” Pantalone said from his seat, not looking up from his slice of cake.

Scaramouche glared at him. “The baby doesn’t have a name yet.”

“Fine, I’ll open one when you name it.”

Tartaglia gasped, looking genuinely delighted. You would think he was one of the parents. “That’s so thoughtful of you! Now the baby won’t have financial troubles!”

“I guess,” Scaramouche mutters.

“Ooh, my turn!” Columbina hopped from her seat. Dottore sat up straighter - he’d pit Scaramouche against the Abyss, not the Dove. But all she did was drop a bundle of cloth into his arms and float back to her seat. Scaramouche lifted it to the light - it looked like soft lace, the sort of translucent material she had pulled over her eyes, and it was shawl-sized, less for the cold and more for an aesthetic sense. Scaramouche thanked her, Dottore leaned back in his seat.

Next, Tartaglia called upon La Signora, who strutted towards Scaramouche haughtily but then lowered her head. “To your child, I give them the blessing of a frozen heart. May it hold cold and unyielding to the follies of man.” She paused, and Scaramouche snorted.

“Always one for dramatics, aren’t you, my fair lady?”

Signora rolled her eyes. “And this, I suppose.” She dropped a little pendant - a pin on a chain - in his hands. “A relic from my Akademiya days. If your child pursues scholarly interests, I suppose that as their senior, I can wish them luck.”

“Have you seen their other parent?” Scaramouche grumbled. 

Signora grinned. “At least I graduated.”

Tartaglia attempted to hide his laugh behind a cough. Scaramouche did not bother doing so. Dottore stared flatly at them.

“And here is my gift,” Sandrone said, and lifted a hand. Her automation trudged forward and lowered a little mechanical box, that immediately began whirring and shaking and rattling away. And then the lid sprung open.

“Oh!” Scaramouche said, thrusting out both his hands. He looked a comical sight, barely able to sit up to receive the gift. The automation placed it ever so gently on his palms. “A music box.”

“I had spare parts in my laboratory,” Sandrone told him. “It may be small, but do not underestimate its features. It will replicate anything you play to it, including your voice, and it can run forever until you shut the lid. Perfect for soothing the child on difficult nights or on long missions.”

“Dottore better pick up the slack for my long missions,” Scaramouche said. “He never leaves his lab, anyways, so he might as well be useful.”

That was only partially true. Il Dottore the Harbinger was a very busy man, but Scaramouche was well aware that there would always be at least one of them left behind in their main headquarters here in Zapolyarny Palace. Dottore had no desire to leave the child in the care of any of his segments, but should Scaramouche insist-

“Then again, he’s insane, so perhaps not,” Scaramouche mused aloud. To Sandrone, “I’ll use this.”

He’s right, but still.

Sandrone smiled at him. “I’m glad to hear that.”

“Did you enjoy the cake, Scaramouche?” Pulcinella said. “I brought you the recipe.”

“Pulcinella!” Tartaglia chided. “Don’t tell me that’s your gift!”

“What happened to being polite to your seniors?” Pulcinella said, but he remained smiling. “I am jesting, of course. Your real gift is being prepared and will be delivered to your quarters once it is ready. I have arranged some furniture for you, such as a cot and a playpen.” 

“Ah,” Scaramouche said. “That is appreciated.”

“My turn!” Tartaglia said, jumping up excitedly. “I got your baby… a little bow! And a little sword, and claymore, and polearm! I made these myself, you know, I carved them out from wood very carefully, I made sure there are no sharp edges and made them really light so they can play with them safely!” 

No sharp edges on a sword?

“Oh,” Scaramouche said. “That is… thoughtful, Tartaglia.”

Tartaglia flashed him a thumbs-up. “No problem, comrade!” He looked around the room. “Well, that’s all of us! I invited Pierro but he didn’t come. That’s sad. It was fine if he didn’t want to bring a gift, but I thought it would be nice if he showed up anyways. It was awful that he made you go to the Abyss even when pregnant, hasn’t he heard of maternity leave? I’m just glad you and the baby were alright.” 

Scaramouche stayed silent.

“Anyways!” Tartaglia patted his hands down. “Thanks for coming, everyone!”

“This was such a waste of time,” Pantalone grumbled, as he stuffed more cake into his mouth.

Scaramouche has taken to motherhood like a duck to water, or so Dottore presumes. The next time he sees him he has the baby in one arm, bundled in a layer of thick fleece tied together by Columbina’s shawl. Dottore puts his hands out, but Scaramouche turns away, looking irritated. 

“Deadbeat!” Scaramouche kicks at him, a little lackluster with the bundle in his arms. 

“What?” Dottore says. “It’s been two weeks!”

“Yes!” Scaramouche hisses. “Two whole weeks and you didn’t even come to see him once!”

Dottore is affronted. “You told me to leave!”

“Well, I didn’t tell you not to come back!” Scaramouche snaps. With that, he swivels on his heel and stomps off in the other direction.

Later, Tartaglia comes by to scold him. “Everyone knows emotions run high in those moments, and he’d just given birth, he just wanted some breathing space! If I’d known you hadn’t dropped by in those two weeks I’d have come by earlier to tell you off!” He’s gotten gutsy, the kid. He’d not have spoken to Dottore like this a year ago. But he’s covered in a faint sheen of white that smells more like baby powder than frost, and he has a hand on a hip. “You must bring an apology gift.”

Dottore eyes him warily. “What kind of gift?”

Tartaglia huffs, folding his arms. “Well, something sincere, for one. Something that says, sorry for not coming to visit sooner.” He prances off, humming to himself, leaving trails of baby powder in his wake. The gall of that brat.

Dottore manages to ignore the situation for one more week. In that time, the whispers and furtive glances from his men have grown tenfold, although none have dared breach the subject with him so blatantly. Scaramouche’s condition had been hard to keep secret, quite the significant body modification that it was. Pierro had decided it would be better for morale if they came clean about the other father, lest rumors led a slippery slope to unfounded speculation.

But now everyone and their mothers think of Dottore as an absent father. He swipes the latest flyer - the importance of paternity leave - that some insolent subordinate has tacked to his desk, and crushes it in his fist.

Ultimately, the problem had not been with his men, who may be irritants but ultimately dare not cross him. Himself, however, is a different matter.

“You haven’t made up with Scara yet?!” Beta is being a nuisance again. “I want to meet my nephew!”

“Go away,” Dottore says. 

“Ah, it’s been almost three weeks,” says Gamma, legs kicked up on his worktable. He’s tinkering with a gadget, exactly what Dottore does not know, but he tends not to interfere with his segments’ idiosyncrasies as long as it does not hinder his own work.

“Since you’re being such a stickler about it,” says Delta, head poking out of one of the adjacent rooms, “one of us can go pick up the baby instead.”

Terrible idea. “No.”

“Beta can go,” Gamma says, not bothering to look up. “Scara likes him better.”

“No,” Dottore repeats. 

Beta gets to his feet. “I’ll bring the baby back. We can introduce him to everyone.”

“No!” Dottore says. “You are all bothersome! I’m leaving.” He swivels on his feet, and hears cheers erupt behind him. Bastards, the lot of them.

A part of the Sixth Harbinger’s wing has been converted into a nursery. Fatui agents skitter out of his way as he stalks through the hallways; they ogle as he pauses by the edge of the tatami mats to unlace his boots, lest Scaramouche gives him another earful.

The baby is asleep in his cot, and Scaramouche is lounging on a chair at the other side of the room, reading. He scarcely looks up at Dottore’s entrance. “You can put that down on the side table, whatever it is.”

“It’s a box of tea.” A popular Inazuman blend, to be specific. His assistants had giggled when he’d instructed them to make the purchase, and they had presented it to him already wrapped with a bow. Presumptuous. He had thanked them anyways.

Dottore eyes Scaramouche warily. He looks none the worse for wear, which he hears is unusual for parents of newborns. “You look well.”

“Hm,” Scaramouche says, and flips a page. 

“Have you been taking care of him by yourself?” Dottore asks. “Do you not have a nanny?”

“I do not grow tired, so it is of no concern to me.” Another page. “Besides, this baby is a regular human. I do not trust other people to care for it.”

Dottore has read the medical reports. How strange that themselves - an artificially enhanced human and an archons’ puppet, both over four centuries old, have produced a seemingly ordinary human child. He does not know if this will change in the future, he cannot make more hypotheses without conducting tests.

“Am I, other people?” Dottore asks.

Scaramouche finally looks up. “You’re here, aren’t you?” He says. He looks mildly displeased, but he does not stand up to stop Dottore as he walks closer to the cot. “I am perfectly capable of raising the child on my own, but it would be unfitting of me to deny you opportunities to contribute to the child’s development, seeing as you are indeed his other parent. But I will be watching you closely, Doctor.”

“You really care about this,” Dottore marvels.

Scaramouche bristles. “I am not a neglectful parent.”

“Quite the opposite, I see,” Dottore says, and he watches in fascination as Scaramouche relaxes into his chair, stretching out like a satisfied cat. He looks back down at the baby, who must have stirred awake at their voices, because he is now blinking back up at Dottore with large, violet eyes.

“Support his head,” Scaramouche says.

“I know how to hold a baby,” Dottore gripes. He doesn’t, not really, but he’s not giving Scaramouche the satisfaction of being caught incompetent at something, and he’d seen enough how-to flyers on his desk for the past few weeks to manage.

Scaramouche finally allows for visitors, other than Tartaglia and Dottore, after week four. He’d been adamant against the idea of letting Dottore take off with the baby, but he’d considered and then relented to allow the segments to visit his quarters. They went over one at a time, which was the sort of thing you did when you were multiple identical people masquerading as one, and as it turned out each of them had procured their own version of a gift. 

Beta had given Scaramouche a ring, because “that foolish other of me does not seem to want to make an honest man out of you.” Scaramouche had rolled his eyes before sliding it over his finger. Afterwards Beta tells him that the fanfare had been for propriety’s sake, after the chatter amongst the more conservative nobles in the Tsarita's court had dwindled. Not that Dottore had his doubts in the first place, although he privately didn’t think the concept would have been that far fetched, with Beta being the first segment created back in the day and consequently had… spent more time with Scaramouche, as compared to the others. But of course, ring aside, what Beta had given Scaramouche was really the peace of mind from the gossiping court. How gracious of him.

Gamma, as it turned out, had been working on a portable communication device akin to the Akasha system, but with a linkway between the user and the hivemind collective. It was far more discreet, as it did not glow bright green. Scaramouche had been bemused. “When he’s older,” he said, and Gamma agreed - “I doubt there is much in ways of communication when all we can hear is baby babble.”

“The baby has not even begun babbling yet,” Scaramouche says. “That shall be in a few months.”

Delta and Epsilon, who had recently returned from their expeditions in Mondstadt and Liyue respectively had procured several toys, like colorful pinwheels and lanterns to display in the child's nursery. Dottore wonders if his reputation has been irreparably damaged. No doubt the world now knows that two of the Tsaritsa’s Harbingers are doting parents.

Arlecchino is the first of the other Harbingers to drop by, which Dottore suspects is her attempt at staking a claim on the child, Master of the House of the Hearth that she is. It’s a bold move, but she does not overstep her bounds when she visits, all cherry politeness. Scaramouche watches her carefully as she coos over the child, and looks almost disappointed when she asks, “so, just human?”

“As far as we know, for now,” Dottore tells her.

“Well, if he ever wants a playmate,” she sighs, and stalks off. The other Harbingers come by after that, their barely-there interest waning at how unremarkable the child of the Second and Sixth are. Strangely, for all of Scaramouche’s obsessive ambition towards divinity, he doesn’t seem to mind that particular quirk about their son at all. They haven’t talked about his future yet, the plans they have for him or the role he’ll play as a child and ward of the Harbingers. They are not human, nor good people - none of them will be dealt kind fates.

The naming of their son had been simple. Dottore had chosen a Sumerun name, Scaramouche an Inazuman one, and neither of them were good at compromise, so they decided that the child will simply learn to respond to both. The both of them had no family to speak of, so Pierro simply chose a Snezhnayan last name for them. It didn't matter much to Dottore who regarded names as interchangeable titles, and Scaramouche liberally changed his name whenever he was so inclined, so their child would be free to do the same.

On the hundredth day of the child’s birth the Tsaritsa herself descended from her throne and gave her blessings to the child’s health. “Son of house… Novikov,” she said, her lip quirked upwards, “may you lead a healthy, fruitful, productive life.”

Scaramouche had kissed the child lightly on the nose. “Little one, you will grow up and you will survive.”

Chapter Text

"It's fascinating how your physiology supports pregnancy but not the other elements of childrearing," Dottore says.

"Be glad you're holding Boru or I'd have already stuck this into your eye," Scaramouche says pleasantly. He's holding a scalding bottle of milk which is cooling quickly in the winter air. It's a special formula that Scaramouche had apparently told Delta to concoct for him (Dottore wonders how many of them have turned into Scaramouche's errand boys when he wasn't looking), and Scaramouche had tried to chop off his hand when Dottore asked why he couldn't produce milk naturally. The baby babbles something and reaches for him, pudgy hands waving in the air, and Dottore watches Scaramouche's eyes soften as he lifts his free hand to wave back.

"Oo," says the baby.

Scaramouche thrusts the now-lukewarm bottle in Dottore's direction. "Pull your weight, deadbeat."

Dottore scowls at him. "Stop calling me that. I'm here, aren't I?"

"The pinnacle of parenting!" Scaramouche exclaims. "A visit once a week."

"I am busy," Dottore says, and then sighs. "Do you want me to come tomorrow?"

"No. I don't want to see you." 

Shortly after, Dottore's own work brings him out of Snezhnaya. He stops by to see the baby beforehand, as one of his staff reminds him to do - he supposes he's due a public appearance to reaffirm his status as an involved parent. Scaramouche is displeased as he tends to be when pulled out of his quarters these days, and he meets Dottore out of uniform (Dottore can tell, he is missing at least three types of jingles that usually emanate from his outfit when he walks with his ornate Inazuman getup,) but no one else should be able to, with his usual harbinger coat wrapped around him. 

“Lazy day in?” Dottore says, as if Scaramouche hadn’t adopted a recent sedentary lifestyle. Maternity leave, Beta had called it. It’s only a matter of time before Pierro gets antsy about the lack of activity, but he’d seemed tempered as of late, and surprisingly scarce around the infant. Dottore doesn’t care enough to unpack that.

Scaramouche scoffs. “I’m doing plenty of work. This little bugger needs to be fed every three to five hours, you know.”

“Oh,” Dottore says.

The baby is blinking up at him. He is at the stage where he recognizes faces, or so the parenting books say. Dottore doesn't know if that's the truth because the baby cannot give a self-report, and Scaramouche vehemently opposes Dottore experimenting on him.

Or even checking up on the baby in any medical capacity. The current pediatrician seemed fearfully apologetic the one time Dottore met him, like he thought that he would accuse him of taking his job. This arrangement suited Dottore well, in his opinion - he wasn't a medical doctor and had no desire to be one. But of course he took full advantage of that fear and interrogated the man thoroughly. Scaramouche had chewed him out for that one - he thought it was hilarious.

"Say bye to your papa," Scaramouche coos to the baby, the very picture of domesticity.

Dottore furrows his brows. "I thought you were going to be papa."

Scaramouche scowls, but it quickly smooths out, and his face returns to that placid porcelain flatness. "I am mama for now. There aren't many words he can say at this age, let alone complicated sounds like daddy or father."

"Daddy," Dottore snickers.

Scaramouche kicks him. "Hold the baby."

Dottore holds the baby. "He's really small, isn't he?"

"Didn't feel that way, that's for sure," Scaramouche mutters.

"How big will he be when I return, do you think?"

"You're gone for two months, not two years. He'll be roughly the same size. How fast do you think babies grow? Aren't you supposed to be a genius?"

Dottore snorts. "Maybe he'd unlock some inner ability of his in the time I'd be gone. Or maybe you'll take him to the Abyss again and return him fully grown."

"Psh, you know he's human. And I'm not planning to kill him this time," Scaramouche says, and then louder, "say bye-bye, Boru!"

"Aa aa bah!"

"Goodbye to you too, Khariji," Dottore says, and for the first time since he's gotten a new one, leaves his family a nation behind.

One month later Pantalone joins him in Fontaine. Dottore spots him signing a package to be delivered to Scaramouche. "He has you running errands too?" Dottore snorts derisively. Also, if he needed something from this country, why wouldn't he have just asked him?

“No,” Pantalone looks offended. “It is simply a gift out of my own generosity.” The agent scampers off with the package. 

“You, generous?” Dottore barks with laughter.

Pantalone looks left, right, behind him. “If you must know it is not really about generosity,” he sniffs. “Simply keeping up appearances, is all.” 

“What in the world are you talking about.”

“For the Second Harbinger you are infuriatingly oblivious about matters of prestige,” Pantalone mutters, pushing up his glasses. “Listen. I will explain this to you once. Your baby is the most powerful baby in Snezhnaya.”

Dottore stares at him. “My baby is human.”

“I know that!” Pantalone snaps. “Status, Doctor. Power!” He tosses his hands into the air. He looks ridiculous. “A child of two of the most powerful people in the Tsaritsa’s court! Everybody will be clamoring for the boy’s favor. They already are!”

“Like you, you mean,” Dottore says.

“I am simply protecting my interests!” Pantalone says. “It is not a good look for the Eleventh, who is ranked below me, to gain more favor with both Scaramouche and the baby! He has a younger sister, it will be all too easy for him to arrange a betrothment between the both of them. Where will I be, then? Twelvth?”

“What in the world are you talking about?” Dottore says. “Tartaglia is a glorified babysitter, at most. And what do you mean betrothment? The baby’s not even a year old!”

Pantalone shakes his head. “Oh dear. You truly know nothing. Scaramouche and Tartaglia are practically attached at the hip-” Dottore highly doubts that “-and for someone of your child’s status, it’s already too late for the arrangements! Your child is already getting proposals left and right. Of course, Scaramouche has a discerning eye, I trust that, at least.”

“What? I haven’t heard about any of that!”

A pause. “Well, I suppose you would not have,” Pantalone says. “Family arrangements are handled by the matriarch, in Snezhnaya, given the Tsaritsa’s influence. The both of you are men, but Scaramouche carried the baby, so it seems that the people deemed it suitable to send their proposals over to him.”

Dottore folds his arms. “And how do you know all this?”

“I don’t make empty promises, you know,” Pantalone sneers. “I deliver my dues. I opened a bank account in your son’s name and I went to Scaramouche to settle the proceedings. We got to chatting. How come you don’t know all this?”

Dottore does not answer. Pantalone scoffs at him. “Ridiculous, truly.”

“I refuse to be in-laws with Tartaglia.”

Very slowly, from where Scaramouche is feeding the baby, he places the bottle down and looks up. The baby fusses at the motion but then brightens up as he notices him - he waves with a fat little hand. Dottore waves back.

“Hah? Has the god-damned polluted waters in Fontaine rotted your brain? What in the world are you talking about? Why would we be in-laws with Tartaglia?!”

Good. Dottore, nods, satisfied. “Great day to you as well, Scaramouche.”

“Coming back and the first thing you do is piss me off! Get lost!”

On the seventh month of their son’s birth, Scaramouche resumes his regular duties and embarks on his next expedition. He is more suited for field work than lying idle, his cunning and adaptable disposition making him the ideal candidate for Pierro’s covert assignments. His men have warmed up to him significantly in the past months - having been treated to a new side of him, as it were - but that does not mean Scaramouche reciprocates the comradeship. Whatever he’s sent for this time, he’s gone off solo.

Dottore hears all of this from Beta, as his unruly segment comes barging in one day, the baby on his hips.

“What in the fu-”

“No swearing!” Beta scolds, with a dramatic gasp, as he bounces the little thing in his arms. Digamma snickers. Dottore graces them both with an unimpressed look, the baby blows a raspberry at him.

“We’re watching him until Scara gets back,” Beta tells him. “As part of our family duties.” 

Dottore scowls at him. “Why would he go to you and not me?”

“Eh,” Beta says, shrugging. “You weren’t there,” the same time Digamma says, “it’s because Scara likes Beta better.”

“Hey, I’m not the father,” Beta says, and hands the baby over to Dottore. The little thing fusses but then settles in the crook of Dottore’s arm. Beta stands up, stretches, and then meanders off.

“Oi,” Digamma says, but falls silent when Dottore stares at him.

He heads back to his room, baby in his arms. "It's not like he'll know how to take care of you any better than me," Dottore mutters to him. The kid bats at his earring, babbles something incoherent, and then sticks his own fist inside his mouth.

There's a nursery room in Dottore's living quarters that none of the segments would admit to installing. It's sparse compared to Scaramoche's set-up, and unsuitable for leaving a baby unattended, Dottore knows that much. Besides, the kid is at the right age to wake up every few hours to eat. How troublesome. Perhaps he should have just let Beta take him after all.

Dottore sighs. “What am I going to do with you?”

"Aah," says the baby.

"Everyone, we have a visitor today. I trust that you will all be on your best behavior."

"Of course, Lord Harbinger," the room choruses, most of the staff not even bothering to look up from their work. Until one of them does. And screams and points.

"Baby!"

Everyone looks up.

"Ba ba," says the baby.

"Yes, yes," Dottore says. "Everyone, Khariji. Khariji, everyone."

"Ba bah bah." A palm to his nose.

"No touching things in the laboratory," Dottore tells him. The baby gurgles something unintelligible and giggles. Little brat. Dottore addresses his staff, "I'll be reviewing your reports in my office. Do not enter with contaminants. If Khariji dies, I'll kill all of you." 

Pause. A series of staggered "yes, Lord Harbinger!"s, and Dottore nods at them, satisfied. There's also a cot in his office, installed by yet another one of his segments who won't confess to the vandalism (he wonders exactly how many times they have brought him over), but it makes for convenience now. He settles the baby in and then begins filtering his way through the pile of research on his desk. He hates paperwork but there is not much he can do with Khariji. He’ll leave him with one of the segments later - not Beta, because he’ll get a big head from it. Gamma’s out of the country, so maybe Delta?

"Mamammaba."

"What do you want."

"Pah ba eep."

"I thought you slept all day. Or have you grown out of that stage already?"

"Ady."

What did Scaramouche always do with the baby, other than feed it and rock it to sleep? He always reads to him. Dottore didn't have child-friendly material in his office, nor would he waste time with that sort of thing, and he doubted the baby had enough cognition to parse whatever it may be. However, Scaramouche never seemed to discriminate in his material, and Dottore has spied him going through storybooks from different languages, and he highly doubted the baby understood it all. So it must just be for auditory stimulation instead of academic enrichment. That was just as well, he supposes.

Dottore clears his throat and picks up where he's left off. "Trial thirty six B. Recorded by G. Princeton - ah, that imbecile, has rocks for brains. I wonder how he even graduated from the Akademiya. I'm this close to turning him into a ruin guard. Applied solvent V, left at room temperature for - that fucking idiot. This is Snezhnaya. Room temperature…"

"Col," the baby says.

"Yes," Dottore agrees. "What the fuck? You aren't supposed to talk yet. Are you?" He grabs one of the parenting books off the top of the pile. "You have at least two months to go." These sort of milestones were more significant when the person was a quarter of his life away from achieving them.

"Mamama." The baby says. "Phak."

"No," Dottore says in horror. "Absolutely not."

"Na."

Dottore grabs the baby's cheeks and angles his face to look into his eyes, then checks the space behind his neck to see unblemished skin. He says, "shock me with electro."

"Bah," says the baby, slapping his hands with his own.

"Ugh. Nevermind. I'll wait for Scaramouche to come back. Perhaps you just got lucky on this brain development front. Of course you did, you're my son, after all..."

"Ma?"

"He's not due back for another month, at least."

"Bah!"

"Stop complaining. I'd give you back sooner if I could."

Scaramouche kicks the door down. "Baby."

"Hey mama, looking good yourself," Beta says.

"I'm not calling you a pet name, idiot. Where's my baby?"

Delta emerges from his room, nine-month old held aloft his head. "Here he comes!" 

"Hold him properly."

"Yes, mother." 

"Hi, Boru," Scaramouche coos, plucking him from Delta's arms. "I missed you dearly. How have you been?"

"Mamamama," the baby says. "Phak!"

Scaramouche's head snaps up.

Beta and Delta quickly glance at each other, hands raising in defense. "It wasn’t us.”

"That mother," Scaramouche says pleasantly. "I'm going to kill him."

"Ma!"

Chapter Text

Snezhnaya celebrates Boru-Khariji Novikov’s first birthday in grand extravagant fashion, as demanded of by the patron Archon of Love. For weeks on end, presents are sent to both Dottore and Scaramouche’s wing. They are all, of course, immediately repurposed, because Scaramouche does not trust any of them to not be tampered with and Dottore is inclined to trust his rightfully-paranoid co-parent’s judgment. Besides, between the both of them, there is nothing they cannot afford nor procure themselves, otherwise.

The day itself is spent in the Second Harbinger’s Wing, so there wouldn’t be any fanfare of segments attempting to sneak in and out of the Sixth’s. Scaramouche lounges on a recliner and snacks as the baby babbles up a storm in his high chair, hands slapping against his plastic utensils. Gamma and Delta are making a game of feeding him cake.

“Can he tell us apart, you think,” says Epsilon.

“No social experiments on my baby,” Scaramouche calls out. 

Digamma elbows him. “Behave or we lose nephew privileges.”

It’s a wonder they’re fascinated with the kid, Dottore thinks. There is not often a mystery put in front of him that Dottore does not have permission to dissect. There is also the proximity to Scaramouche, which, for all their centuries of work with him, they have yet to unlock his true potential, and there is so much yet to learn about the Archon-built mechanisms. The fact that he can birth a child, who turns out to be an ordinary human? Fascinating.

Or perhaps their interest in the baby is but the simple reason that they’ve never had a kid of their own. 

“Dada,” the baby demands, and for a moment they pass the kid between the segments, each trying their best (poorly) to sooth him, but the kid does not stop fussing until Dottore stands up from his corner of the room and goes up to him.

“That’s not fair,” Gamma says. “You’ve just had more practice.”

“It wouldn’t make sense if I had less practice than you lot, now, would it?” Dottore says, rocking the baby in his arm. The little thing makes a wild grab for his earring. Ouch.

“Don’t do that.”

“Dada.”

“Yes, yes.”

Scaramouche snorts. The baby spins to him and then waves its pudgy hands in its direction. Psh. Favoritism. 

Boru-Khariji Novikov’s name makes its rounds in the newspapers of Teyvat, and then again when a gaggle of Fatui recruits spy him scampering down the halls of Zapolyarny, Scaramouche trailing behind him with poorly disguised fondness. Another time, Dottore, holding the child on his hip, seen through a high window from the training courtyard below.

It all creates an illusion of a domestic partnership. It changes their reputations, for better or for worse. In a mission gone awry (for the other party), a desperate man dared to threaten the child. Dottore idly wonders (as he kills him slowly in front of everyone else) whether this was the sort of thing that should bother him.

After all, it is not as if he wanted a child, nor that he couldn’t make another if he so wished. Khariji’s mundane humanity rendered him useless - an utter shame given the pedigree of his parents. And now he would be subjected to a life of trying to hide this fact, lest he loses his life. Perhaps it would be better off to meet an early, decisive end before he develops enough capacity to understand the fear of death…?

Ah, the screaming has stopped.

When he returns to Snezhnaya, Scaramouche promptly sets off - a tight schedule runs between them. Cargo traded, squealing in his arms, Dottore returns to his quarters. Khariji tugs at his hair, his ears, his nose, his chin. When he tires of smacking his hands all over Dottore’s face, he plays with the lapels of his coat. He is still quite small, and useless.

He coos, “Dada!”

Dottore remains unflappable. “Your nails are sharp,” he chides the kid, who giggles. 

Alas, conflict is inevitable, given the nature of Khariji’s parents’ relationship. Dottore hardly remembers why, this time around, only that he finds himself testing weaponry with his most volatile experiment, who on a good day would have already allowed Dottore to fuck his grievance out of him; now Dottore had to incapacitate him in other ways.

"Guys! Stop!" Tartaglia's voice carries from a distance but his footsteps are getting louder.

"Stay out of this!" Scaramouche yells. He raises a hand, fingers crackling-

Tartaglia leaps out of the way of a bolt of thunder and lands in a crouch. 

"Your fatal flaw is being easily distracted," Dottore sneers, grasping the opening as Scara’s attention wanes from him, and-

A child squeals. "Boru?!" "Khariji?"

-Scaramouche whips around. A blast of energy hits him straight in the chest.

"Oh my god!" Tartaglia screams. His arms are full of wailing baby.

Dottore stares at him, aghast. "Tartaglia! What is the meaning of this!"

"I'm sorry!” Tartaglia yells. “I thought bringing him will get you two to stop-"

Boru, upset: "Mama!"

Tartaglia: "Is he alright?! Why isn't he moving?!"

Dottore grits his teeth. "Because I aimed that shot to disable him, that's why!"

Children take social cues from adults. Tartaglia is not helping pace Khariji’s mood with his distress. "You KILLED him?!"

Boru, louder: "MAMA!

"I didn't kill him! He's - he would have dodged if if you didn't bring the fucking baby!"

"Sorry!" Tartaglia looks frustrated. "I didn't-" 

"You don't think, that's what! You never do!" Dottore snaps. "Why would you think to- nevermind, give me the brat, bring Scaramouche to the lab!"

"...Fine," Tartaglia says, face twisted into a grimace, but he goes to pass the baby over-.

"No!" The baby kicks Dottore square in the face. "No!" Dottore draws back, surprised.

Tartaglia blinks and withdraws quickly from him. The damn thing wails in his arms. "Er-"

"Mama! MAMA!"

Dottore opens his mouth, shuts it, purses his lips.

"I'll hold him," Tartaglia says.

"Fine," Dottore grits his teeth. He goes to grab the unconscious Scaramouche.

The kid is inconsolable. Dottore does not slam the door of the operating room, but it's a near thing. He can hear Tartaglia stammering his way through an explanation of the situation to Beta as the baby continues screaming bloody murder; he heaves a sigh when the door shuts. The soundproofing was meant to keep the sound from leaking outside, but today he appreciates it for it’s utility the other way round.

"Now." This should be simple. He designed the device to knock Scaramouche out temporarily. He's self-healing, that resilient little thing, so he'll snap back awake if left alone long enough. Of course, Dottore can wake him immediately with a swift hard reset.

The door opens. 

Dottore glares at the offender. "Can't you see I'm - Beta."

"Hey." He's holding the baby. The damn thing isn't crying anymore, thumb in his mouth. But his large eyes rove over the laboratory and to the prone form of his preferred parent on the worktable.

He resumes bawling. "Mama!"

Dottore grits his teeth. A mounting headache. "Get him out of here!"

"No, do your thing," Beta says. "He's already seen you kill his mom, he can't be any more traumatized than that. He needs to see you wake him up."

Dottore stares at him for a beat - Beta stares back, expression infuriatingly placid, his eyes sharp. The baby must be able to tell them apart, it sniffs as Beta puts a hand on his head. Dottore returns to Scaramouche. A twist here, a click there, another jolt-

Scaramouche's arm snaps up to clock Dottore in the face.

"Ah! Fuck!"

"Papa!" Oh, okay, now the baby cares about him. "Mama!"

Dottore staggers to his feet, hand over his nose, and he watches Beta pass the baby into Scaramouche's arms. The latter turns to glare at him. "Asshole."

"As-ho," repeats the baby.

"Alright, Mama and Baby out of here," Beta shoos. "Stop Tartaglia from wearing a hole in the carpet. You," finger jabbed at Dottore, "Come here."

Scaramouche doesn't look back as he sweeps out - Dottore suspects another apology gift in his future. Beta grabs his chin and whistles. "Shit's broken. We're amputating. Congratulations Doctor, it'll be an upgrade."

"Fuck off."

"You deserved it. Let me set it, stupid motherfucker."

Time passes quickly. A blink of an eye, really, to people who have lived as long as they. (They do not address the question: will Boru-Khariji grow and live and age and die, only for his parents to remain unchanged?)

Dottore does not know, with the pinpricks of blood he gathers under Scaramouche’s watchful eye. He’s a smart whip, the kid, perhaps due to genetics, or his revolving door of mad-scientist babysitters. He’s four, he wields a sword, and he has his Dad’s large guileless eyes. 

There is little sense in keeping him locked up in the palace. He is just as fidgety and curious as his parents, and quite the sponge for his Father’s rattling lectures. His uncles tell him of the sights they have seen.

Sumeru; Inazuma. His parents, for all they insist on having abandoned their roots, have given him names in their languages. Father pretends to be unfeeling when Boru-Khariji asks him about the Akademiya (the sides of his face twitches.) Dad is harsh, at first, and eventually relents:

“Through Sumeru, then to Inazuma,” Dad sighs. “I have a work errand to run, anyways.” 

“Khari, what do you have there?”

He’s Khariji today, for familarity, to suit the purposes of their story. “The store keeper there gave me a pack of candy nuts.” Khariji waves the package in Scaramouche’s face. “I asked him to eat one first.”

“Good boy.” Scaramouche ruffles his hair. “We best head down to the port. The ship is waiting on us.” Mid-morning Port Ormos bustles with activity, and Scaramouche keeps a hold on Khariji’s free hand as he tries to shake candy into his mouth with another. A few nuts roll off his tongue and onto the sticky floorboards. Scaramouche shoots him a sharp, amused look.

“Sorry for the delay, Captain,” Scaramouche says as he approaches the man at the helm of The Tirad, a passenger cruiser between Sumeru and Inazuma. He’s smiling in that smooth, seamless, way that makes it look like his lips are painted on his face. 

“No trouble,” the Captain says. “Looks like your boy got into someone’s sweet stash, eh?”

“Hi, Cap’n,” Khariji waves. Scaramouche hooks an arm around his waist and lifts him easily onto the deck. They get situated across another family - Inazuman, from the looks of it. 

“Hope I didn’t keep the ship waiting,” Scaramouche is saying to the couple, still smiling. He is in the mood for small talk. Khariji looks at the kid between them - the daughter - and offers a nut.

“We’re still holding on for one more group, it seems,” says the Father. “Came to Sumeru for a vacation, too? Nice place. We might have to come back sometime soon.”

“Other way round, I’m afraid,” Scaramouche says. “I haven’t visited the homeland since I had Khari. His other parent is always busy - one of those Akademiya men, you know the type. He finished one of his projects recently, came into a bit of money, and offered to send us over.”

The Mother tilts her head. “He’s not coming?”

“Stuck in yet another project,” Scaramouche tuts, making a vague gesture in the air. “Said it’d take him away for too long. No matter. We’ll get him something nice, right Khari?”

“Right!” Khariji chirps.

The last set of passengers arrive - a Sumerun couple on their way to visit family. Scaramouche pulls them into conversation. Khariji and the girl - her name is Rika - finishes off the last bits of candied nuts, and then Khariji lays his head on Scaramouche’s lap and falls asleep to the rocking of the boat.

The crew docks at Ritou in the late afternoon. Khariji yawns as Scaramouche bids the family goodbye, promising to swing by if they pass. 

Scaramouche goes ahead to the visitor registration counter, Khariji follows on his heels. He stands on his tiptoes to write his current name - "Khari" - and Scaramouche pats his head before he pens his own - "Kusahi". He makes small talk with the lady running the stand - Khariji fidgets, but Scaramouche keeps a firm grip on his wrist. "Yes, I'm bringing my kid to visit my hometown. No, no family." 

"Hope you enjoy your stay in Inazuma!" The lady chirps, handing Scaramouche a few papers. He tucks it under his arms.

"Come on, Khari," he says. "Hungry?"

"Mhm."

"There's a very good authentic local place round the corner," says the lady.

Scaramouche smiles at her. "Thank you very much."

Scaramouche buys them both noodles and makes more small talk with a man waiting for his order.

"We're from out of town," Scaramouche says. "We plan to visit old family friends.  The Yamisakos, if you've heard of them?" He squeezes Khariji's hand.

Khariji looks up, recognizing the name - the family that sat across them on the boat here. He spoke briefly with the girl. "Rika?"

The man beams. "That's their daughter! I'll point you to where they are. I know everyone in this city."

"That will be very helpful," Scaramouche says. "Can I ask you about something else? The Kaedeharas, have you heard of them? I was thinking of dropping by to pass on my regards to Master Kageharu."

But the man's face falls. "Oh, of course you wouldn't have known, being out of the country. The old master passed a while ago."

Scaramouche gasps - but it's the kind of gasp that tells Khariji he'd already known. "Oh dear. What happened?"

"An illness, I'm afraid," the man shakes his head. "The young master inherited his father's estate, but Kazuha is, er, a little hard to track down…"

Scaramouche makes a show of sighing. "No. I owe a debt to the late Master Kageharu, but I do not know his son. It would be hardly appropriate to impose on him."

When the man - Thoma - leaves, Khariji asks, “Who are the Kaedeharas?”

“Nobody important,” Scaramouche laughs, bouncing him on his knee.

They don’t go to visit the Yamisakos. Instead they head west, into the countryside, where the buildings grow shorter and scatter across the land with misplaced flower fields. Dad is searching for something, and Khariji tries not to run underfoot. Dad used to live here, and he points out landmarks to Khariji - the tall mountain in the distance, the dilapidated domain, the furnace that no longer runs. He kisses Khariji on the head as he peels them lavender melons. 

They finally return to the city, at the end of the trip, and they have one more day to relax before they’re bound back for Snezhnaya Sumeru.  

Dad haggles with business owners on a shopping street, keeping watch out of the corner of his eye, as Khariji is let to go play. The nice lady offers him some candy.

"Thank you," Khariji says. "Please take one too." 

"Oh, no!" Yoimiya laughs, shaking her head. "I got these sweets for you!"

Khariji shakes his head firmly. "My dad says we must say thank you and share good things with others, so I must always give one back."

"Oh, my, that's so sweet," Yoimiya says, hand coming up to her chest. "Alright then, I'll have one!" She plucks out a piece of candy from the bag in Khariji's hands and pops it in her mouth. Satisfied, he takes one too. It melts on his tongue.

Chapter Text

“Uncle Bee!”

Beta picks up the giggling kid as he collides into his knees. Boru-Khariji is bigger every time Beta sees him. “What’s got your dad into a tizzy?” Beta asks him, watching in amusement as Scaramouche storms into Dottore’s office.

“I asked if I could go on a trip with Father to Liyue,” Boru-Khariji says. “Dad says he’ll ask for me.”

“You didn’t want to ask yourself?” Beta says, and laughs when Boru-Khariji shakes his head no.

“Father’s scary.”

“He is, isn’t he?” Beta says brightly. “Let me tell you a secret. Your father would do anything for you.”

“Mm…”

“Really. He’ll figure out how to break the rules of space-time itself for you. So rarely does he get to call something his own, you know?”

“Father never wants to bring me anywhere.”

“Hm, well that I have to agree is for your own good,” Beta says. “Your father is a very messy man. He doesn’t have good bedside manner.”

Boru-Khariji sounds skeptical. “Messy?”

“Just horrid at cleaning up after himself. It’s nothing you would want to see, dear, I promise.”

Boru-Khariji sniffles in his shoulder. The door abruptly swings open, and his two parents emerge mid-squabble. Dottore looks to be in a foul mood, so Beta quickly hands the kid to him. Despite his reservations, Khariji’s hands come to cling over Dottore’s neck.

Dottore is saying, “A ruin guard factory is no place for a child.”

“Far more sanitized than your other projects.” Scaramouche sniffs. “I’m telling you to spend time with him.”

Boru-Khariji mumbles, “I don’t hafta go.”

Dottore says, “Well, you want to, right? Have more conviction in your ambitions.”

“Um…”

“I’ll show you how to take apart a ruin machine.”

Liyue is bustling with activity. Dottore holds the kid in his arms so he doesn’t get trampled, and considers what to do with him. He does not actually want to bring him to his factory, lest the child lose an arm… but he cannot simply lock the kid up in a hotel room. A Fatui camp in the wilderness would be an even worse idea. 

The final option: the up and coming Northland Bank, still being led in an administrative death spiral by the Qixing, so much so that the Harbinger of Finance himself has made his way down to tackle his accursed homeland’s paperwork.

Dottore barges in, and sets Khariji on the ground. “Regrator.”

“Oh,” says Pantalone, as the staff coo. “What are you doing here?”

Dottore says, “Watch him,” and pivots on his heel.

“Wait! Dottore- Doctor - wait!” Pantalone grits his teeth. “Ugh! He thinks he can boss me around, just because he’s my boss…”

“Is that him?” “The second and sixth Harbinger’s child…” “He looks just like his parents!”

“Shoo, all of you,” Pantalone says, and gets down on one knee. “Boru, did your father say when he’ll be back?”

“Nope.”

“Ugh… the probability of you getting kidnapped or killed when left to your own devices is too high…” Pantalone clicks his tongue. “You’re going to watch me do paperwork.”

The kid, surprisingly agreeable unlike his genetic sponsors, chirps, “Okay!”

“Lord Regrator,” Says a Fatui agent who seems to have drawn the short chopstick, “ We could take the kid…”

“Hm. Compelling.” Pantalone says. “If he dies, we are all dead. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Fine, just out for a short - where the fuck did he go.”

The space where the kid once stood (five seconds ago) is empty, nary a footprint in sight. Pantalone shuts his eyes, takes a deep breath, and allows himself a second to appreciate the weight of the world crashing down around him.

“...Lord Regrator?”

“Why on Morax’s corpse are you useless grunts still standing here?! Go and fucking find him!”

There’s a pull in his steps that Boru-Khariji cannot put to words. It draws him to chase the strangely colored finch that hops from cobblestone to cobblestone in front of him, pausing every few wing-beats to peer at him with the curious eyes of a too-sharp animal. 

Abruptly, the finch takes off into the sky. Boru-Khariji lifts his head to watch him go, up, up and up until his eyes meet the wording of the sign. Past Life Hall…?

He chooses to explore. There’s a woman standing by the door whose gaze zeros in onto him. She beckons him over and past the double-doors of the building. “Master Hu, there seems to be a lost child wandering out here.”

“Hm…?” A girl’s head pops out from behind a desk. “Ahh… never seen you around before! Want a coupon?”

The woman sighs like Uncle Beta. “Master Hu…”

“Don’t look at me like that, Ferrylady! I know how to handle kids!”

“I’ll call Consultant Zhongli…” The woman hurries away.

The girl tries to hand him a candy, and wouldn’t take it back when Boru-Khariji tries to offer her a bit. So he doesn’t eat it. She says, “Not a fan of sweets? Where are your parents, hm? I can’t imagine you having wandered here by yourself… It’s a little too early for you yet, but you never know!”

“Don’t say such inauspicious things to children,” a man’s voice chides. Boru-Khariji perks up. The woman from earlier has returned with a tall man who wears glowing eyes. The finch is chirping up a storm on his shoulder. 

The man regards him curiously. “Oh my… you’re a lot smaller than I remember… Hm… no, you’re…”

“You know this kiddo, Zhongli?” Says the girl, legs kicking in the air.

“No, I don’t think so,” says Zhongli. “He simply resembles an old friend.”

“A living friend?”

“...I would say so, yes.”

“Bo-ring. Better return him, then.”

Zhongli picks him up and walks out of the building into the sun. He says to Boru-Khariji, “Do you recognize me?”

“I don’t know,” Boru-Khariji says. “You smell funny, Mister.”

“Do I?” Zhongli says, with good humor. “Who did you come here with?”

“Father brought me to Liyue. Can I pet your bird?”

“If he allows it,” Zhongli says, and the bird, if birds could do such a thing, seems to glower at the man. But he hops a few paces towards Boru-Khariji so he could reach one hand to stroke the top of its feathery head. “Who is your father?”

“Lord Il Dottore, Second Harbinger of the Fatui.”

“How curious. It seems that there are many things I can still learn about, even in this long life of mine. Tell me your name.”

“Boru-Khariji Novikov. What’s yours, Mister?”

“I believe you already know it,” Zhongli laughs, and then he turns the corner to come face-to-ace with a bewildered Pantalone.

“U-unhand the child!”

“Calm,” Zhongli says. “I found him wandering the streets and I would like to return him to his guardian. I presume that would be yourself?”

In the blink of an eye Khariji-Boru finds himself swaddled in Pantalone’s coat. “I suppose I would have to thank you,” Pantalone says, as painfully as Father sounds whenever he has to apologize to Dad about anything. 

“No thanks necessary. I am simply doing as any good member of the public would.”

“...I see,” says Uncle Pantalone, straightening up. “I do not like to be in anyone’s debt. Name your price.”

Zhongli laughs, which seems to make Pantalone a little annoyed. “I am in no need of money.” For some reason, that makes Boru-Khariji laugh, too.

“Everyone finds themselves in need of money someday,” Pantalone sniffs. “Who am I to stop you from your hubris? And… you have my gratitude for your assistance in locating my ward.”

“You’re very welcome.”

“In no need of money,” Pantalone grumbles, on the way back to the Northland Bank. “What an arrogant man. Remember, if someone offers you a sum, take it. Save it, invest it, don’t pass up on a free opportunity, understand?”

“Dad says I shouldn’t accept gifts.”

“Because your Dad is a paranoid bi-... person. Remember, this little escapade stays between us, got it? Don’t tell your Father and especially not your Dad that I let you out of sight. Morax, I need to put a leash on you. Or a bell. How are you so quiet?”

“I was chasing a funny bird. It was green.”

“Well, no more of that. If you leave my sight until your father returns I will… I will…” Pantalone struggles to think of a threat he is capable of enforcing. “I will lower the interest rates on your savings account.”

“What’s that?”

Pantalone stops short and stares, stunned.

“-And that is what fixed deposits are. Relatively low risk, low returns as compared to other investment opportunities, but-”

Something in his awareness pings, three seconds before Father walks through the doors of the bank. Boru-Khariji runs for cover.

“Hey!” Pantalone barks after him. “I told you not to - Dottore. You’re back.”

Dottore says, “Somehow, I’m genuinely surprised my son is with you in one piece.”

Pantalone looks miffed. “Are you calling me a bad babysitter?”

“Yes.”

“Well, give him back. I was teaching him about finances.”

“He’s five.”

“His other parent is an intelligent machine,” Pantalone says, and Father actually seems to be considering it. Boru-Khariji frantically shakes his head.

Dottore says, “Well, maybe later.” To Boru-Khariji, “I returned briefly to check in on you.”

“Father, Uncle Panty is so boring…”

“Hey!”

Dottore snorts. “Of course he is. What did he feed you for lunch?”

“...”

“...”

“...Pantalone.”

“I mean, does Scaramouche even eat?” Pantalone says, cringes, and throws a bag of mora in Father’s face. “We had a snack break!”

“Mm,” Khariji-Boru says. “Almond Tofu is yummy.”

Dottore sighs and walks out of the bank, Pantalone’s life spared, Boru-Khariji on his hip.. “Too much sugar is bad for you.”

“Father, I saw a cool bird today.”

“Mm, did you catch it?”

“No…”

“Well, try harder next time. Then we can dissect it together.”

“Oh, okay.”

Boru-Khariji’s time in Liyue passes by in a blink. He celebrates his sixth birthday back home before Dad leaves for Inazuma again, this time without him. 

Something brews in the Harbingers, that much he knows. Father is equally as scarce even as he remains in his lab, his siblings running around everywhere. 

Dad returns from his travels. He says, “Boru, the world is coming into its reckoning sooner than I thought.”

“Huh?”

He pulls Boru-Khariji along with him. “Dottore! Dottore, answer my letters when I write you! The descender has awoken in Mondstadt.” There are abandoned research papers over every surface of the lab. Boru-Khariji scans them curiously. “Dottore!” 

“I heard you the first time,” calls Father’s voice, echoing through the hallways. Dad redirects his path with purpose. “Dahri’s increased activity is causing ripple effects in the overworld. Fancy another trip into the abyss?”

Dad’s hand tightens over his. “There’s no time to waste. I suspect the descender plans to make their rounds between the nations of Teyvat, much like their predecessor. Inazuma is most accessible through Liyue, via Mondstadt.”

A pause. “Well, that is bound to be problematic.” 

They finally locate the room Father is in. “You’re telling me,” Dad scoffs, hefting Boru-Khariji up onto a clean surface. Father ruffles his hair as he passes. “That second-rate algorithm won’t have the mental faculties to deal with the descender. She’s going to short her circuits and pull that temperamental wretch out of hiding.”

“Et, tu?” Father says, and Dad swipes at him. Father continues, “Surely you can delay the movement. You shared that Inazuma was gearing towards a civil war. Should war break out, international travel would be impeded, no?”

“That descender is going to worm their way into the Knights’ and the Qixing’s good graces,” Dad groans. “Petty political barriers won’t be much of an obstacle. Unless… bah, I can piss off that woman enough to instigate a full lockdown...” Dad’s voice tilts up. “Hm, she’s always been an extremist…”

“Like someone I know,” Father says. “How have you been, Khariji? Anything interesting happen?”

“Uncle Tartie sent me some sweets from Liyue.”

“Hm?” Father says. “He’s in Liyue already? Isn’t that transfer supposed to happen in a year?”

Dad pauses in his rambling to say, “How long have you been holed up in this dingy place? He left last month.” 

“Cases of eleazar have skyrocketed recently, pointing to a potential shift in the sands of Forbidden knowledge. Also, one of my promising test subjects has escaped. I’ve sent Gamma to Mondstadt.”

Dad’s eyes light up. “The Khaenri’ahn is there. Have him do a bit of prodding, will you?”

Boru-Khariji enjoys hearing his parents talk, especially when they are working together like this. After a while Father glances at him and says, “What do you say about lunch? We do so rarely spend time together.” 

“Because it’s been about a year since you crawled out of your hole, apparently,” Dad snorts. “We’re due another PR appearance anyways. Also, it’s dinner. We need to get you a clock in here.”

“Not all of us come with an internal timepiece,” Father says, hefting Boru-Khariji up on his hip. “You’re getting big. You are… 7?”

Dad says, “Good answer.”

Chapter Text

The Night-Bird Falls at the Curtain's Call

"Traveler… Is it possible… to… change the past?"

Chapter Text

Newcomer

gwendee

Summary:

Dottore parents against his wills.

“Support his head,” Tartaglia says.
“I know how to hold a baby,” Dottore gripes. He doesn’t, not really, but he’s not giving Tartaglia the satisfaction of being caught incompetent at something.

Chapter 1

Dadttore but for real this time

A baby had appeared in his laboratory. Dottore had no idea how it got here.

“We didn’t see anyone leave or enter, Lord Harbinger!” Say the nervous pair of guards outside his wing.

“You lot are useless,” Dottore says, and slams the door on them.

Dottore’s instinct is to surrender the child to the House of the Hearth. Something unexplainable stops him, so his first order of business is to conduct a genetic test. His second order of business is panicking.

It should be impossible, and yet the child in his arms was unmistakably his.

Dark soft hair, red eyes… little fingers that curled over his thumb.

His hypothesis: An affair that resulted in an unwanted third. (He cannot seem to recall a recent instance of intimacy - perhaps he was intoxicated?) Dottore is just surprised that they had chosen to drop the child off anonymously instead of demanding something of him, given that they clearly knew who Dottore is.

He’s baffled.

He’s a father…?

Of course, Pierro hadn’t been pleased when he’d first found out about the baby, even less so than when he said he was - sort-of - keeping it. Not because he wanted the damn thing for any sort of sentimental reason. But as it turned out, Dottore had a… complex, for fathers and children and feelings of abandonment, and he had, after all, been alive for a long, long time.

His colleagues had been fascinated by the development. Tartgalia had taken it upon himself to host a post-birth baby shower (the event name was misleading , Dottore did not "birth" the damn thing, he demanded Tartaglia change it) in lieu of their usual monthly meeting, and Pierro had signed off on it, for some reason. Tartaglia cooked most of the food; Pulcinella had brought a cake.

Tartaglia said. “Now,” he clapped his hands together, “Presents! That’s the best part of a baby shower!”

Dottore looks suspiciously at the lot. "You all got me presents?"

“We got the little runt presents,” Arlecchino corrected, and dropped something on his lap. “I commissioned a bunch of toys,” Arlecchino nodded, mostly to herself, looking pleased. “The House of the Hearth has numerous capable craftsmen. They were eager to contribute to the new member that was joining the Tsarita’s family.”

"How fun!" Tartaglia said. “Who’s next? Pantalone?”

“I opened an investment account in the baby’s name,” Pantalone said from his seat, not looking up from his slice of cake.

Dottore rolls his eyes. “The baby doesn’t have a name yet.”

“Fine, I’ll open one when you name it.”

Tartaglia gasped, looking genuinely delighted. You would think he was one of the parents. “That’s so thoughtful of you! Now the baby won’t have financial troubles!”

“I guess,” Dottore sighs. Not that he'd have had any to worry about in the first place, being both an infant and also his son.

“Ooh, my turn!” Columbina hopped from her seat. Dottore sat up straighter, but all she did was drop a bundle of cloth into his arms and float back to her seat. He lifted it to the light - it looked like soft lace, the sort of translucent material she had pulled over her eyes, and it was shawl-sized, less for the cold and more for an aesthetic sense. Dottore leaned back in his seat.

Next, Tartaglia called upon La Signora, who strutted towards Dottore haughtily but then lowered her head. “To your child, I give them the blessing of a frozen heart. May it hold cold and unyielding to the follies of man.” She paused, and Dottore snorted.

“Always so dramatic, aren't you, Signora?”

She bared her teeth at him. “Pot, kettle, Dottore." She dropped a little pendant - a pin on a chain - in his hands. “A relic from my Akademiya days. If your child pursues scholarly interests, I suppose that as their senior, I can wish them luck.”

“Excuse you,” Dottore says. 

Signora sneers. “At least I graduated.”

Tartaglia attempted to hide his laugh behind a cough. 

“And here is my gift,” Sandrone said, and lifted a hand. Her automation trudged forward and lowered a little mechanical box, that immediately began whirring and shaking and rattling away. And then the lid sprung open.

“What is that."

"Take it," Sandrone said. Dottore scowled but opened a hand, and the automation placed it ever so gently on his palms. “A music box.”

“I had spare parts in my laboratory,” Sandrone told him. “It may be small, but do not underestimate its features. It will replicate anything you play to it, including your voice, and it can run forever until you shut the lid. Perfect for soothing the child on difficult nights or on long missions.”

“Fine, I suppose that's useful," Dottore grumbled.

"You can look into hiring a nanny," Arlecchino said. "Want some recommendations?"

"No. I don't trust any of your men."

“Did you enjoy the cake?” Pulcinella said. “I brought you the recipe.”

“Pulcinella!” Tartaglia chided. “Don’t tell me that’s your gift!”

“What happened to being polite to your seniors?” Pulcinella said, but he remained smiling. “I am jesting, of course. Your real gift is being prepared and will be delivered to your quarters once it is ready. I have arranged some furniture for you, such as a cot and a playpen.” 

“Ah,” Dottore said. “That is appreciated.”

“My turn!” Tartaglia said, jumping up excitedly. “I got your baby… a little bow! And a little sword, and claymore, and polearm! I made these myself, you know, I carved them out from wood very carefully, I made sure there are no sharp edges and made them really light so they can play with them safely!” 

No sharp edges on a sword?

“I suppose there's no such thing as a too early start on education.”

Tartaglia flashes him a thumbs-up. “Well said, comrade!” He looks around the room. “Well, that’s all of us! I invited Pierro but he didn’t come. That’s sad. It was fine if he didn’t want to bring a gift, but I thought it would be nice if he showed up anyways. Thanks for coming, everyone!”

“This was such a waste of time,” Pantalone grumbled, as he stuffed more cake into his mouth.)

The naming of his son had been simple. Dottore had chosen a Sumerun name, and he had no family to speak of, so Pierro simply chose a Snezhnayan last name for him. It didn't matter much to Dottore who regarded names as interchangeable titles, so the child would be free to do the change his name should he wish.

On the hundredth day of the child’s birth the Tsaritsa herself descended from her throne and gave her blessings to the child’s health. “You are... ah, I see. Son of house… Novikov,” she said, her lip quirked upwards, “may you lead a healthy, fruitful, productive life.”

Dottore had kissed the child lightly on the nose. “Little one, you will grow up and you will survive.”

Chapter 2

Notes:

stop making fun of my son's name, foreign external object newcomer soldier from a noble family in Snezhnaya

this fic really got me googling baby development stages smh

Shortly after, Dottore's own work brings him out of Snezhnaya. He considers bringing the baby for a brief moment, but given the nature of his work, he quickly dismisses the thought. But the idea of leaving him with an unrelated nanny is… disconcerting, at best.

(How strange to have grown attached to such a small, defenseless creature so quickly. Perhaps it was the propinquity. And the way that thing looks up at him with the largest, most trusting eyes like he's never doubted he belonged anywhere else.)

So…

"I'll take good care of him, Dottore!" Tartaglia salutes with one hand. 

"Hold him properly," Dottore snaps.

"I am!" Tartaglia laughs, but he adjusts his grip to hold the baby with two hands. 

"How big will he be when I return, do you think?"

"You're gone for two months," Tartaglia says. "I wouldn't be too worried about missing the milestones. Babies don't grow that quickly."

Dottore snorts. "Maybe he'd unlock some inner ability of his in the time I'd be gone."

Tartaglia furrows his brow. "He's human, isn't he? I mean, other than the fact his eyes glow."

"Yes," Dottore says. "Other than that." And what a mystery it still is.

"Oh well," Tartaglia says. "Say bye-bye to your papa, Khariji!"

"Aa aa bah!"

"Goodbye to you too, Khariji," Dottore says, and for the first time since he's gotten a new one, leaves his family a nation behind.

One month later Pantalone joins him in Fontaine. He's flanked by a poor agent up to the neck in gift boxes, which he then deposits at Dottore's feet.

"What."

"It's a gift," Pantalone says. "Alongside opening a Northland Bank account for the little one. You're welcome." The agent scampers off quickly, casting them terrified glances. 

“What's with this?” Dottore stares at him skeptically.

Pantalone looks left, right, behind him. “Simply keeping up appearances, is all," he sniffs. 

“What in the world are you talking about.”

“For the Second Harbinger you are infuriatingly oblivious about matters of prestige,” Pantalone mutters, pushing up his glasses. “Listen. I will explain this to you once. Your baby is the most powerful baby in Snezhnaya.”

Dottore stares at him. “My baby is human.” Probably. Until proven otherwise.

“I know that!” Pantalone snaps. “Status, Doctor. Power!” He tosses his hands into the air. He looks ridiculous. “A child of one of the most powerful people in the Tsaritsa’s court! Everybody will be clamoring for the boy’s favor. They already are!”

“Like you, you mean,” Dottore says.

“I am simply protecting my interests!” Pantalone says. “It is not a good look for the Eleventh, who is ranked below me, to gain more favor with the baby! He has a younger sister, it will be all too easy for him to arrange a betrothment between the both of them. Where will I be, then? Twelvth?”

“What in the world are you talking about?” Dottore says. “Tartaglia is a glorified babysitter, at most. And what do you mean betrothment? The baby’s not even a year old!”

Pantalone shakes his head. “Oh dear. You truly know nothing. For someone of your child’s status, it’s already too late for the arrangements! Your child is already getting proposals left and right.”

“What? I haven’t heard about any of that!”

A pause. “Did you throw out all your damn mail?” Pantalone says. “Why am I even asking? Knowing you, of course you did. You must stop waiting for news to come to you via the rest of us, you know."

"First of all, if it's truly important information, someone will come to me in person." Dottore folds his arms. “Second of all, how do you know all this?”

“I keep my ear on the ground, as someone in your position ought to do,” Pantalone sneers. “The nobles think you have a discerning eye, with all these rejected letters. Little do they know the great Second Harbinger just doesn't like reading his mail.”

Dottore does not answer. Pantalone scoffs at him. “Ridiculous, truly.”

“I refuse to be in-laws with you.”

Very slowly, from where Tartaglia is feeding Khariji, he places the bottle down and looks up. The baby fusses at the motion but then brightens up as he notices him - he waves with a fat little hand. Dottore waves back.

“Uh," Tartaglia says. "I… have no intention of that, too?" 

Good. Dottore, nods, satisfied. “Great day to you as well, Tartaglia.”

“Sure… okay, have him back, bye!”

"Everyone, we have a visitor today. I trust that you will all be on your best behavior."

"Of course, Lord Harbinger," the room choruses, most of the staff not even bothering to look up from their work. Until one of them does. And screams and points.

"Baby!"

Everyone looks up.

"Ba ba," says the baby.

"Yes, yes," Dottore says. "Everyone, Khariji. Khariji, everyone."

"Ba bah bah." A palm to his nose.

"No touching things in the laboratory," Dottore tells him. The baby gurgles something unintelligible and giggles. Little brat. Dottore addresses his staff, "I'll be reviewing your reports in my office. Do not enter with contaminants. If Khariji dies, I'll kill all of you." 

Pause. A series of staggered "Yes, Lord Harbinger!"s, and Dottore nods at them, satisfied. There's also a cot in his office, which makes for convenience now. He settles the baby in and then begins filtering his way through the pile of research on his desk. He hates paperwork but there is not much he can do with Khariji. 

"Mamammaba."

"What do you want."

"Pah ba eep."

"I thought you slept all day. Or have you grown out of that stage already?"

"Ady."

Dottore didn't have child-friendly material in his office, nor would he waste time with that sort of thing, and he doubted the baby had enough cognition to parse whatever it may be. However, it didn't make sense for the baby to have enough cognition for academic enrichment at this stage, so Dottore supposes that any form of auditory stimulation would do. 

Dottore clears his throat and picks up where he's left off. "Trial thirty six B. Recorded by G. Princeton - ah, that imbecile, has rocks for brains. I wonder how he even graduated from the Akademiya. I'm this close to turning him into a ruin guard. Applied solvent V, left at room temperature for - that fucking idiot. This is Snezhnaya. Room temperature…"

"Col," the baby says.

"Yes," Dottore agrees. "What the fuck? You aren't supposed to talk yet. Are you?" He grabs one of the parenting books off the top of the pile. "You have at least two months to go." These sort of milestones were more significant when the person was a quarter of his life away from achieving them.

"Dadada." The baby says. "Phak."

"No," Dottore says in horror. "Absolutely not."

"Na."

Dottore grabs the baby's cheeks and angles his face to look into his eyes. "Say something else. Hit me with an element."

"Bah," says the baby, slapping his hands with his own.

"Ugh. Nevermind. Perhaps you just got lucky on this brain development front. Of course you did, you're my son, after all..."

"Pa?"

"Yes, yes, you're doing great."

Chapter 3

Notes:

Welcome back, foreign external object newcomer soldier

Hehe apologies for the wait until this chapter! I thought of a conclusion for this fic that you'll love, probably...

Snezhnaya celebrates Khariji Novikov’s first birthday in grand extravagant fashion, as demanded of by the patron Archon of Love. For weeks on end, presents are sent to Dottore’s wing. They are all, of course, immediately repurposed, because Dottore does not trust any of them to not be tampered with. Besides, there is nothing he cannot afford nor procure for himself, otherwise.

Dottore is fascinated with the child. Who is he? Where has he come from? He conducts a multitude of experiments, all inconclusive - there's something missing. An insurmountable gap that he can't seem to fill, no matter how many hypotheses he generates.

Khariji Novikov’s name makes its rounds in the newspapers of Teyvat, and then again when a gaggle of Fatui recruits spy him scampering down the halls of Zapolyarny, Dottore trailing behind him with poorly disguised fondness. Another time, Dottore, holding the child on his hip, seen through a high window from the training courtyard below.

It changes his reputation, for better or for worse. In a mission gone awry (for the other party), a desperate man dared to threaten the child. Dottore idly wonders (as he kills him slowly in front of everyone else) whether this was the sort of thing that should bother him.

After all, it is not as if he wanted a child, nor that he couldn’t make another if he so wished. Khariji is currently mundanely human, the identity of his other parent nonwithstanding. And now he would be subjected to a life of trying to hide this fact, lest he loses his life. Perhaps it would be better off to meet an early, decisive end before he develops enough capacity to understand the fear of death…?

Ah, the screaming has stopped.

When he returns to Snezhnaya, Tartaglia promptly presents him with the baby, all powdered and fluffed up. Cargo traded, squealing in his arms, Dottore returns to his quarters. Khariji tugs at his hair, his ears, his nose, his chin. When he tires of smacking his hands all over Dottore’s face, he plays with the lapels of his coat. He is still quite small, and useless.

He coos, “Dada!”

Dottore remains unflappable. “Your nails are sharp,” he chides the kid, who giggles. 

Time passes quickly. A blink of an eye, really, to a person who have lived as long as he. (He does not know how to address the question: will Khariji grow and live and age and die, only for Dottore to remain unchanged? 

Dottore does not know, with the pinpricks of blood he gathers while trying to soothe the child. He’s a smart whip, the kid, perhaps due to genetics. He’s four, he wields a sword, and he has large guileless eyes. 

There is little sense in keeping him locked up in the palace. He is just as fidgety and curious as Dottore, and quite the sponge for his father’s rattling lectures. The Harbingers tell him of the sights they have seen.

For all that Dottore insists on having abandoned his roots, he had given Khariji a name in his language.

Father pretends to be unfeeling when Khariji asks him about the Akademiya and a trip abroad (the sides of his face twitches.) But he eventually relents: "I have an errand to run in Liyue, anyways."

Liyue is bustling with activity. Dottore holds the kid in his arms so he doesn’t get trampled, and considers what to do with him. He does not actually want to bring him to his factory, lest the child lose an arm… but he cannot simply lock the kid up in a hotel room. A Fatui camp in the wilderness would be an even worse idea. 

The final option: the up and coming Northland Bank, still being led in an administrative death-spiral by the Qixing, so much so that the Harbinger of Finance himself has made his way down to tackle his accursed homeland’s paperwork.

Dottore barges in, and sets Khariji on the ground. “Regrator.”

“Oh,” says Pantalone, as the staff coo. “What are you doing here?”

Dottore says, “Watch him,” and pivots on his heel.

“Wait! Dottore- Doctor - wait!” Pantalone grits his teeth. “Ugh! He thinks he can boss me around, just because he’s my boss…”

“Is that him?” “The second Harbinger’s child…”

“Shoo, all of you,” Pantalone says, and gets down on one knee. “Khariji, did your father say when he’ll be back?”

“Nope.”

“Ugh… the probability of you getting kidnapped or killed when left to your own devices is too high…” Pantalone clicks his tongue. “You’re going to watch me do paperwork.”

The kid, surprisingly agreeable unlike his genetic sponsor, chirps, “Okay!”

“Lord Regrator,” Says a Fatui agent who seems to have drawn the short chopstick, “ We could take the kid…”

“Hm. Compelling.” Pantalone says. “If he dies, we are all dead. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Fine, just out for a short - where the fuck did he go.”

The space where the kid once stood (five seconds ago) is empty, nary a footprint in sight. Pantalone shuts his eyes, takes a deep breath, and allows himself a second to appreciate the weight of the world crashing down around him.

“...Lord Regrator?”

“Why on Morax’s corpse are you useless grunts still standing here?! Go and fucking find him!”

There’s a pull in his steps that Khariji cannot put to words. It draws him to chase the strangely colored finch that hops from cobblestone to cobblestone in front of him, pausing every few wing-beats to peer at him with the curious eyes of a too-sharp animal. 

Abruptly, the finch takes off into the sky. Khariji lifts his head to watch him go, up, up and up until his eyes meet the wording of the sign. Past Life Hall…?

He chooses to explore. There’s a woman standing by the door whose gaze zeros in onto him. She beckons him over and past the double-doors of the building. “Master Hu, there seems to be a lost child wandering out here.”

“Hm…?” A girl’s head pops out from behind a desk. “Ahh… never seen you around before! Want a coupon?”

The woman sighs. “Master Hu…”

“Don’t look at me like that, Ferrylady! I know how to handle kids!”

“I’ll call Consultant Zhongli…” The woman hurries away.

The girl tries to hand him a candy, and wouldn’t take it back when Khariji tries to offer her a bit. So he doesn’t eat it. She says, “Not a fan of sweets? Where are your parents, hm? I can’t imagine you having wandered here by yourself… It’s a little too early for you yet, but you never know!”

“Don’t say such inauspicious things to children,” a man’s voice chides. Khariji perks up. The woman from earlier has returned with a tall man who wears glowing eyes. The finch is chirping up a storm on his shoulder. 

The man regards him curiously. “Oh my… you’re... Hm… no, you’re…”

“You know this kiddo, Zhongli?” Says the girl, legs kicking in the air.

“No, I don’t think so,” says Zhongli. “He simply resembles an old friend.”

“A living friend?”

“...I would say so, yes.”

“Bo-ring. Better return him, then.”

Zhongli picks him up and walks out of the building into the sun. He says to Khariji, “Do you recognize me?”

“I don’t know,” Khariji says. “You smell funny, Mister.”

“Do I?” Zhongli says, with good humor. “Who did you come here with?”

“Father brought me to Liyue. Can I pet your bird?”

“If he allows it,” Zhongli says, and the bird, if birds could do such a thing, seems to glower at the man. But he hops a few paces towards Khariji so he could reach one hand to stroke the top of its feathery head. “Who is your father?”

“Lord Il Dottore, Second Harbinger of the Fatui.”

“How curious. It seems that there are many things I can still learn about, even in this long life of mine. Tell me your name.”

“Khariji Novikov. What’s yours, Mister?”

“I believe you already know it,” Zhongli laughs, and then he turns the corner to come face-to-ace with a bewildered Pantalone.

“U-unhand the child!”

“Calm,” Zhongli says. “I found him wandering the streets and I would like to return him to his guardian. I presume that would be yourself?”

In the blink of an eye Khariji finds himself swaddled in Pantalone’s coat. “I suppose I would have to thank you,” Pantalone says painfully. 

“No thanks necessary. I am simply doing as any good member of the public would.”

“...I see,” says Uncle Pantalone, straightening up. “I do not like to be in anyone’s debt. Name your price.”

Zhongli laughs, which seems to make Pantalone a little annoyed. “I am in no need of money.” For some reason, that makes Khariji laugh, too.

“Everyone finds themselves in need of money someday,” Pantalone sniffs. “Who am I to stop you from your hubris? And… you have my gratitude for your assistance in locating my ward.”

“You’re very welcome.”

“In no need of money,” Pantalone grumbles, on the way back to the Northland Bank. “What an arrogant man. Remember, if someone offers you a sum, take it. Save it, invest it, don’t pass up on a free opportunity, understand?”

“Father says I shouldn’t accept gifts.”

“Because your father is a paranoid bi-... person. Remember, this little escapade stays between us, got it? Don’t tell your Father that I let you out of sight. Morax, I need to put a leash on you. Or a bell. How are you so quiet?”

“I was chasing a funny bird. It was green.”

“Well, no more of that. If you leave my sight until your father returns I will… I will…” Pantalone struggles to think of a threat he is capable of enforcing. “I will lower the interest rates on your savings account.”

“What’s that?”

Pantalone stops short and stares, stunned.

“-And that is what fixed deposits are. Relatively low risk, low returns as compared to other investment opportunities, but-”

Something in his awareness pings, three seconds before Father walks through the doors of the bank. Khariji runs for cover.

“Hey!” Pantalone barks after him. “I told you not to - Dottore. You’re back.”

Dottore says, “Somehow, I’m genuinely surprised my son is with you in one piece.”

Pantalone looks miffed. “Are you calling me a bad babysitter?”

“Yes.”

“Well, give him back. I was teaching him about finances.”

“He’s five.”

“His your son,” Pantalone says, and Father actually seems to be considering it. Khariji frantically shakes his head.

Dottore says, “Well, maybe later.” To Khariji, “I returned briefly to check in on you.”

“Father, Uncle Panty is so boring…”

“Hey!”

Dottore snorts. “Of course he is. What did he feed you for lunch?”

“...”

“...”

“...Pantalone.”

Pantalone cringes, and throws a bag of mora in Father’s face. “We had a snack break!”

“Mm,” Khariji says. “Almond Tofu is yummy.”

Dottore sighs and walks out of the bank, Pantalone’s life spared, Khariji on his hip.. “Too much sugar is bad for you.”

“Father, I saw a cool bird today.”

“Mm, did you catch it?”

“No…”

“Well, try harder next time. Then we can dissect it together.”

“Oh, okay.”

Chapter Text

The Kabukimono's Finale

"..."

"..."

"I… have a kid?"

Chapter Text

The world has moved on without him. Wanderer walks past a stranger, who spins around and blurts:

"Wait!"

He's just like Wanderer remembers. (He’s taller than Wanderer remembers.) 

The kid runs up to him. “Excuse me…” He has scrutinizing round eyes, a nervous frown. “Mister, I…” He struggles for the words. 

Wanderer should not encourage this interaction. He should leave. He stays rooted to the ground as Boru-Khariji (Khariji) avoids his gaze. He finds himself giving the kid his most disarming smile, like the time he encouraged Khariji to make his own purchases at a fruit store.

Khariji returns the gesture instinctively, but it quickly flickers off his face. He looks upset, confused. “Do I know you?”

Wanderer wants to say, you don’t. He says nothing.

Khariji fiddles his thumbs and continues, “You look like… you look familiar.”

Another familiar voice calls out, "Khariji?"

"Father!" Khariji runs up to him . Grips at his pants. Dottore is staring at Wanderer from behind his mask, and Wanderer pictures vividly the expression on his face, the way his eyes must be widening to match the parting of his lips. Wanderer wants to break his face in, and yet this is the reality where his - their - son is clinging onto him.

"You are…?" Dottore says, in the firm-even way he gets when he's trying to be politely threatening. Wanderer wants to laugh. He lowers his head. 

"No one you should be concerned about," he says. Khariji is staring at him. Wanderer wants to smile at him, and draw him in, and tell him to turn away.

"Father," Khariji says, in almost a frantic whisper, his fingers twisting the fabric of Dottore's pants. How have things developed between them this time, Wanderer can only imagine. 

A reality where he didn’t exist. Did a memory of a stranger replace Scaramouche’s role in Khariji’s life, just like how folklore is twisted to say that a stranger’s name killed the Inazuman clans? Or did the Irminsul simply wipe the role of the other parent off the board, and twist the memories to say Dottore raised Khariji himself? 

"There's something about you," Dottore starts. 

Khariji, Wanderer thinks with a vicious satisfaction, still looks more like him than Dottore. It’s laughingly obvious that they must have some family connection. How many coincidences are there in Teyvat? He knows Dottore, a scientist at heart, doesn’t believe in chance. "You're mistaken," Wanderer says. "Goodbye."

He turns. One step. Two. It shouldn't take so long to walk away from them. He'd practically jumped headfirst into it, the first time. 

“Wait. Excuse me.” Dottore reaches out, just barely grazing Wanderer’s sleeve. Wanderer steps back quickly to put distance to them, and Dottore doesn’t follow. Instead he says, “A little bit of your time, I implore you.”

Wanderer clenches his fist and forces it to relax. He manages to say, “I don’t think there’s anything to discuss.” 

Luckily Khariji says nothing more, or Wanderer might have caved there and then. Luckily Khariji doesn’t meet his eyes, and instead continues clinging onto his father. Luckily Khariji looks like a well-loved child, huddling behind a version of Dottore more protective than he’s ever seen, with one of his hands rubbing the back of Khariji’s shoulders and the other hovering over his weapon. Or Wanderer doesn’t know what he would have done.

Wanderer wants to laugh. He wants to cry. He runs.

They’re looking for him. It is a good thing that Wanderer cannot be found unless he wants to be. It is even more humorous when Lesser Lord Kusanali comes to him, hands on her hips. “I’ve been asked for a very expensive favor.”

“He went to you?! ” Dottore must be desperate. Wanderer cackles. “Does he have another gnosis to trade?”

“The immediate removal of Fatui forces in this region of greater Sumeru for your whereabouts,” Nahida says, looking shifty, and that’s when Wanderer’s jaw drops. “And the promise of a meeting you can’t escape from, for half an hour.”

“You sold me?! What am I, an escort?” This is suddenly no longer funny.

“He wanted a full hour. I bargained.” She does not look like she tried very hard. “You told me last week you wanted to reconcile with your son. Isn’t this a win-win?”

“On my terms, not on yours!” Wanderer hisses at her, and she finally begins to look a little contrite. “I just found out that the father of my child instigated and orchestrated most of my life’s tragedies. Now I have to go play nice with him!”

Nahida’s ponytail droops. “Um, for future reference, how long is the expected, um, mourning period for appropriately weighted life events…?”

“You tell me, Archon of Wisdom,” Wanderer spits. But then, unbidden, he thinks about the day after Dottore had shot him. Khariji had already been fussing to go see his precious Dada. He cannot even bring himself to feel bad.

“It’s fine, Nahida. Go make the necessary arrangements.”

She perks up. “Tonight, Puspa Cafe, at 6!”

Presumptuous. Wanderer warns, “There might be bloodshed.” 

She claps her hands together. “I believe you’ll temper yourself for Boru-Khariji.”

“I believe it’s just Khariji now,” Wanderer says, examining the glint of his feather ornament through the glow of the skylight. “I know what I gave up.” 

But how could he have anticipated the extent of his losses? 

He didn’t change anything that happened to Niwa, or Tatarasuna, or the child; in the end. Nor did he change the fact that he had always been first and foremost cast aside by the Electro Archon.

Did he even gain freedom from the Fatui? He’s about to go running back to their second Harbinger. 

They have dinner.

It feels like no time has passed at all. Khariji sits nearer to Dottore. Boru is on Wanderer’s lips. He watches as Dottore wipes a bit of sauce from Khariji’s cheek without hesitation, Khariji leaning into his touch like it’s second nature. Underneath the table he almost digs his fingers into his thigh, but he can barely muster the energy to be mad.

At what? The version of his child’s father that stayed?

More than anything, he’s exhausted. 

Dottore begins, “I know who you are.” (Wanderer stiffens.) “You’re the amnesiac errand boy that appeared in the Grand Bazaar a while ago. I heard you go by Wanderer.”

Wanderer relaxes. “So the Fatui have been watching me. What could they possibly want?”

Dottore shakes his head. “Nothing. It was just a casual observation from my men. Frankly, you were not a person of interest then.”

He must have been of some interest, given that he was noticed enough to be brought up to a Harbinger. Wanderer does not comment.

Dottore briefly glances at his watch. (Wanderer snorts.) “I’ll get to the point. I’m sure you see the resemblance between yourself and my son.” A hand lands gently on Khariji’s head. 

Wanderer takes a sip of his tea.

“I have a vested interest in finding the identity of my son’s other parent. As you know, I’m a rather prominent figure in the Fatui. And certain… traits, of Khariji’s, require further investigation into his genetic history.”

Wanderer says, “This should be your business. Why ask me?”

Dottore continues, “I have no memory of the circumstances surrounding Khariji’s birth, and that is... abnormal.”

“Is that so,” Wanderer says blandly.

Dottore nods. “My memory is… frankly, impeccable. There was no way for me to have forgotten… personal relations.”

Wanderer says, “So you’re asking me if we’ve f-” He glances at Khariji’s wide, accusing eyes. “Fornicated.”

Dottore doesn’t react. “Not the only way to produce offspring, but I assume with any other method, I would have retained better clarity of it.”

It was the easiest truth. They did sleep together to create Khariji, after all. And Wanderer knows he has to give Dottore some answer, enough for him to be satisfied. Otherwise, he’ll keep digging. He’s never known when to quit. “Let’s say we did.”

Dottore says, “What was your agenda? What transpired between us that took away my memory - and, if accounts were to be believed, yours as well?” 

Wanderer says, “Maybe we were just intoxicated.” Of course he knows the answer to that. Dottore never puts himself in a more vulnerable position with another party. Wanderer’s physiology made it impossible for him to get drunk or drugged, so Dottore had always stayed sober around him.

“...Perhaps,” Dottore says stiffly, and Wanderer is again reminded that Dottore doesn’t know him. Wanderer could have been a normal human. They could have been drinking together. They could have-

“But,” Dottore continues. “The more likely hypothesis is that something tampered with our memories, given the scale of your own memory loss.”

Dottore’s hand lands on Wanderer’s hand. Wanderer snaps his arm back, causing Khariji to flinch.

Wanderer snaps, “Do not touch me. I remember all that I need to.”

Dottore watches him for a moment, expression inscrutable. “Your overt hostility indicates…” He coughs. “Was Khariji's conception unwilling on your part? If so, I apologize.”

Wanderer scoffs. What does that entail in this scenario? He’s sure he has some version of stockholm syndrome at this point. “You know nothing.”

“But as I’ve said,” Dottore continues quietly, “I have no memory of the incident.”

Arrogant as ever. “So you believe that a lack of acknowledgement will absolve you of your sins?”

This looks painful for Dottore to admit: “...Of course not. I simply wish for the well-being of my son.”

Wanderer finds himself rolling his eyes. “You can drop the act. You were never a doting parent.” As the words leave his mouth he finds himself believing otherwise. The original Dottore was never a paragon of a perfect father, and he was occasionally inattentive. But he had fun with Khariji, and enjoyed spending time with him. He always gave him back when Scaramouche asked. But Boru always told Scaramouche about Dada teaching him his numbers, Father telling him sumerun folktales, letting him dabble in his experiments, even watching him up close.

Scaramouche was never deluded into believing they were innocent interactions - they were just as likely to be social or psychological experiments, and more of a morbid fascination than of any tender love. 

But Dottore was there. That’s more than Scaramouche could have ever said about Raiden Ei, and more than the current Wanderer could say about… himself.

So it barely stings at all when Khariji stands on his feet and yells, “That’s not true!”

Dottore tries, “Khari.”

Khariji rubs at his eyes. “You don’t get to say anything about Father! You… you were the one that left!”  

“You think I wanted this?!” Wanderer says. “I never wanted to give you up! I loved you!” 

Khariji is crying. Dottore surges forward, and for a moment Wanderer thinks he’ll hit him. But to his surprise Dottore just grabs Wanderer by the shoulders. 

“Whatever happened to us, I’ll find out. I’ll fix it, I promise.”

“What the - are you insane?!”

Dottore grins at him, all sharp teeth. “You don’t know the extent of what I can do. Lesser Lord Kusanali does not hold a candle to me.”

Wanderer looks at him incredulously. “What are you- What are you saying?!”

“Do not bother to defend your captor. How else did she locate you so quickly? Who else has domain over memories? It is obvious she tampered with our minds. She must have the motive to do so, as well, to keep me in check. By doing so, she removed your agency, and alienated you from our son.”

Wanderer doesn’t have an inkling as to how he’d led Dottore down this line of thinking. But Dottore is a highly intelligent man, and has scarily put most of the pieces together. He’s missing some crucial information, but the story he’s hammered together is frighteningly close to the truth. But Wanderer needs to nip this in the bud right now , else Dottore is going to go sniffing where he isn’t allowed, and Wanderer does not want to disclose any more information about the Irminsul into his hands.

“Dottore,” he says. To catch his attention, “Zandik.” 

It works, he stalls, and looks at Wanderer like he’s seeing him for the first time.

Khariji gasps, meatball-in-fork dropping onto the ground. 

Wanderer resists the urge to smirk. He almost wished he hadn’t revealed this trump card too early, but it was worth it to disarm the man with knowledge of his personal information. Perhaps Dottore would know not to underestimate him. “Whatever happened in the past, leave it alone. Your quarrel is not with the Dendro Archon. It is with me. ”

Dottore says, voice wavering, “I… I see.”

“Is half an hour up yet?”

Khariji grabs his father’s wrist to angle it to himself, and then says, “two more minutes.”

Wanderer smiles. “Khariji. It is very good to meet you again.”

He receives a bug-eyed stare in response. And the kid lets him reach over and shake his hand in his, small palm against Wanderer’s gloves. 

Wanderer thinks, I missed you. He says, “It’s good to see you again.”

Chapter Text

Dottore is silent on the way back to Fatui quarters. Khariji nibbles on his bottom lip. “...Father?”

“...Hm?” Dottore falters. He never does. “Apologies. I was deep in thought. What do you think about Wanderer?”

“...Is he really my other parent?” Khariji says. 

A long pause.

“Father?”

“...”

“Father!”

“Ah.” Dottore glances over and brushes a finger against Khariji’s cheek. “You look a lot like him.”

Khariji says, a little judgmentally, “He looks pretty young to be my father.”

“Be more open minded. Part of his physiology is unexplained, and likely not human. If it didn’t come from me…”

“Oh! Right.” Khariji rubs his chin. “So he could be one of those non-human types… like the adepti. Do you think he serves Lesser Lord Kusanali?”

“Another possible reason for the Archon having terminated our relations, should she be concerned about her subjects fraternizing with myself.” Dottore muses.

“I heard she’s been out and about recently… Do you think she’ll grant me an audience to ask her?”

“No. You’re a target in more ways than one.” Dottore seems to remember they’re in the middle of the street and hurries them along. Khariji doesn’t pay attention to the mumbled static of passers-by, but a low-persistent buzz follows the back of his head like a pair of eyes. 

Just before they step over the threshold, Khariji scans the skyline until he spots him - Wanderer, sitting on one of the branches of the Great Tree, hand raised in a wave. 

How did he follow us back without Father noticing and get up there so quickly? Khariji wonders, in awe, before the doors shut between them. 

Khariji watches his father throw himself into his research the moment his feet hit the floor of his satellite laboratory. He begins to pull out books. Khariji skims the titles: Leylines and Memory; The Akasha System and its Effects On Human Cognition; Sumerun Gods and Their Familiars.

Khariji hops onto a bench and swings his legs. “Maybe when Lesser Lord Kusanali destroyed the Akasha System, his memories started coming back?”

Dottore flashes him a quick smile. 

“But that doesn’t explain your memory loss because you never used the Akasha… right?”

“Not since 400 years ago,” Dottore says.

“If he’s not human, do you think he might have known you from way back then?”

“We can’t discount that possibility,” Dottore says. “And besides… He knew my name…”

“Huh? Oh right. That was weird,” Khariji agrees, and then notices his father isn’t listening anymore. He draws his knees to his chest and props his chin up his hands, and watches Father twist and turn a lock of his hair again and again and again and again-

Khariji goes outside.

Viktor is sitting on the steps, struggling with a wooden block and a chisel. Khariji watches him for a few moments and then plops down by his side, making him jump. 

“Young Master! Please announce yourself!”

“It’s okay. What are you making?”

“...A duck,” Viktor says, and after some hesitation, “Did the Lord Harbinger find what he wanted to?”

“Yeah, I think we found my other parent,” Khariji says, as Viktor begins to choke and splutter. He ignores it. “So Father’s going to have to make good on his deal and find somewhere to relocate you all. I know you just moved from Mondstadt. Sorry about that.”

“It’s - fine!” Viktor wheezes. 

“And now Father’s all weird about it.” 

“W-what do you mean?” Viktor says. “No, please don’t tell me. I don’t want to have to be silenced after the fact.”

“Huh?”

“Ahem.” Viktor fiddles with his collar. “What is your mother like?”

Khariji says, “I think he’s not human.” 

Viktor somehow turns redder than before. “D-did you get your hair color from h-him?” 

“I did!” Khariji says brightly. “I’ll introduce you to him if you were staying, but, er, I don’t think he likes the Fatui very much. Not that most people do… but he and Father got into an argument. Seems that they had some history.”

Viktor coughs. “They have a kid… Some history is probably understating it. But… how do you feel? You don’t remember him, right?”

“No… but I don’t think it’s that simple. I don’t think he meant to abandon me. Seems like it was a deeper ploy to go against Father. Um, Dottore.”

Viktor rubs his chin. “Yeah, I can think of a lot of people who’d have it out for the Lord Harbinger. That’s a little sad.”

Khariji clenches his fist. “Yeah. But Father will get to the bottom of it.”

“I’m sure he will, Young Master.”

The next morning, after Khariji heads out, he spots a certain figure stalking along the paths of Sumeru city. He sprints after him. 

“Um… where are you headed?”

Wanderer adjusts his hat. “The House of Daena.”

“Oh, me too,” Khariji lies. “You’re an Akademiya student?!” he matches his pace as they walk down the long stretch of pathway. “What Darshan are you in?”

“Vahumana.”

“Do you know that Father was an Akademiya student too?”

Wanderer looks amused. “I did know that.” 

“I want to join the Akademiya too. Like… like him. And you. I’m really good at math.”

Wanderer smiles at him, and Khariji finds himself briefly stunned. “I know you are.”

“Y-you’re really pretty!” Khariji blurts, and slaps his hands over his mouth. “I mean- you have a really good complexion.”

Wanderer gets a funny look on his face. “Thank you.” A pause. “It’s genetic.”

“Really?” Khariji touches his own face. “Because I’ve been in Sumeru for a month and I feel like I’m getting sunspots everywhere.”

Wanderer snorts. “That’s because Dottore is so pasty and he’s the native Sumerun. Wear a hat.”

“Your hat is really cool.”

Wanderer smiles, again. Soft. Khariji feels strange. He says, “Would you like to wear it?”

“Yes please!” 

The hat changes heads. It’s sturdy, and surprisingly lighter than it looks, until Khariji realizes that Wanderer has a hand out with anemo at his fingertips to keep the thing afloat. When Khariji lets go, it hovers in the air a little before returning to its owner.

“When did you get your vision?” 

“Rather recently,” Wanderer answers. 

“Did…” Khariji makes a face. “Did Lesser Lord Kusanali give you your vision?”

“It doesn’t work like that. Vision’s aren’t granted on solely the will of - ask your Father. I’m sure he can explain it better.”

“I want to hear it from you, though,” Khariji badgers, and then pouts when Wanderer doesn’t cave, and simply smiles wider.

Wanderer bends down a little and whispers, “Do you think I don’t know your little espionage tricks, giving suckers your innocent looking eyes and hoping they indulge you in your curiosity, dropping information into your hands? You think Dottore was ever a cute kid? You must have gotten something from me, hm?” 

Khariji startles himself with a giggle that dissolves into breathless laughter. “Wait - wait - Wanderer-”

“Hat Guy!” Someone yells.

Khariji doesn’t pay that moniker attention until Wanderer responds in their direction. “What?!” 

Khariji whirls on him. Hat Guy, he mouths.

Wanderer rolls his eyes. They walk up to a trio of Akademiya students, two women and one man. One of the women waves at Khariji, who waves back.

“We’re going down to Puspa Cafe to study. Want to join? You can bring your little brother.”

Delighted, Khariji looks over at Wanderer for his response.

“Fakir, this is my son.”

“Wh- son- uhm- er- hah?” 

“Dad has great skin,” Khariji says. “It’s genetic.” 

Wanderer pushes a hand on top of his head, tousling his hair around. “Little rascal.” 

“Father, I’m back- whoa!” Khariji enters the Fatui quarters and promptly trips over a stack of books near the doorway. “Ow…”

He sits up, rubbing his shin, and arbitrarily picks up a book at random. Padisarahs and Theses: How a Researcher’s Love Life Can Make or Break a Career. Huh?

Holding the book, he gingerly steps into the living room. “Father? Is everything alright?”

There’s no one in the house. Khariji pokes his head into his father’s study and spies a letter unfolded on his desk. It’s written in Fatui code, so Khariji skims it.

Il Dottore,

Why have you dismissed the Fatui from Sumeru City? What is the meaning of this?

Jester

Khariji makes a face. “Father didn’t get clearance from Uncle Pierro…” While Dottore does get a lot of leeway as long as he produces results, this measure was pretty excessive… And especially given that there were no deliverables from this revelation… 

Khariji cringes and sets the letter aside. 

“I didn’t know you were a part of the Akademiya.”

“Don’t you and your son exchange information?” Wanderer yawns, in the middle of the street.

“I haven’t seen him since this morning.” Dottore answers. “Coffee?”

Wanderer eyes it with deep suspicion. “You are scaring away my classmates,” he says, and takes the cup from Dottore’s hands. (There’s a gaggle of pale-faced whispering students huddled in the corner.) Wanderer takes a sip. “Hm. Passable.”

“More sugar or cream for you next time?”

Another sip. “No. This is fine. Why aren’t you watching Khariji?”

“He’s 11. He doesn’t need to be watched. Children are hardier than they look.”

“Of course you’d say that,” Wanderer says. “With the lack of Fatui roaming the streets, you only have two eyes watching him, hm?”

“That is true, but I wager that I’m not the only person keeping him under my protection, hm?”

“Tch,” Wanderer says. “Presumptuous.” He elbows Dottore to push him out of the way of his hat.

“What darshan are you in?”

“You have to ask? Are you useless at intel gathering without your men?” 

“You know, I was quite a prominent scholar during my Akademiya days.”

Wanderer rolls his eyes. “And that was before or after you got expelled?”

Dottore stiffens and relaxes. “Ah, you know about that too.” It seemed that Dottore really had shared a lot about his personal life with Wanderer. “What else did I share with you?”

“Don’t even try. You’re not even half as cute as Khariji.” 

Dottore says, “You’re very fond of him.”

“...Of course,” Wanderer says, with a peculiar tone of voice. “He’s my son.” There’s a long pause between them. Wanderer says, “...Thanks. For taking care of him.” 

“Of course,” Dottore says. Then, almost by reflex, “After all, he’s my son too.”

Wanderer makes a face at that and shoves him.

Chapter Text

It turns out that Father never did reply to that letter - the Fatui send their resident errand boy over to come collect his dues.

“I’m here to make sure your old man didn’t go insane!” Tartaglia sings, kicking down the doors to the now-abandoned Fatui quarters in Sumeru City. 

“If I’d known he’d forgotten, I’d have sent a response instead,” Khariji says. “Please forgive Father, he’s been out in all sorts ever since we found my other Dad.”

“Yeah, that’s understandable,” Tartaglia says. “ WHAT?!?!?! ”

“I heard you just came back from Inazuma!” Khariji chirps. “How was it? I’ve never been; Father says it’s too remote.”

“Woah, woah, woah, back up a bit!” Tartaglia flails his arms. “What do you mean you found your other d- Dottore is GAY?!”

“He used to have a girlfriend so he likes both-”

Tartaglia tosses his bags into the air and gleefully takes Khariji by the shoulder. “Tell. Me. Everything!”

Khariji giggles. “Alright!” He does so - their first meeting, second, third. Dottore’s strange behavior, Wanderer’s even stranger. 

Tartaglia latches onto his priorities. “Anemo vision, you say?”

Khariji groans. “I’ve never seen him use it.”

Tartaglia’s eyes sparkle. “I bet I can make that happen.”

Oh dear. “Please don’t offer to fight him. Father won’t be happy.” Truthfully, Khariji still doesn’t know what Dottore really thinks of Wanderer. But he knows his father, and if Joint Research Projects Vol. I through III sitting on his table is any indication… Khariji can take an educated guess.

Tartaglia says, “What your father doesn’t know, won’t hurt!” He hums a jaunty tune and races out the door. Khariji groans and hurries after him. Father will know, but maybe what he gets new information out of, he can be more convinced to forgive…?

Wanderer, as usual, is not hard to find. He has a conspicuous visage, and he’s always out and about running commissions. He notices them from afar, but the shade of his hat hides his expression. Khariji catches up in time to hear the tail end of Tartgalia’s self-introduction:

“-So I think we should spar!”

Khariji splutters and kick Tartaglia in the shin. “No!”

Wanderer watches the scene with amusement. “I’m afraid you won’t get much out of me. I’m a very recent anemo user.”

“Aww, come on!” Tartaglia bounces on the balls of his feet. “I can tell you have immense potential. I’m never wrong about these things. What about this, I’ll go easy on you!”

Khariji continues hammering Tartaglia’s arm. “No, no, no!”

“Come on, you’re not curious about your old man’s fighting style?” Tartaglia eggs.

“I am, but Father is going to-”

At mention of Dottore, a strange look passes over Wanderer’s face. And then, a wicked grin. Something must click between them when Wanderer and Tartaglia lock eyes - Khariji barely has time to process the interaction before Tartaglia brandishes his hydro swords, the same time Wanderer launches him into the air with a burst of anemo.

Wanderer… is… flying!

Khariji shrieks with delight and chases them through the streets, as Wanderer and Tartaglia zip past each other in streaks of anemo and hydro. 

Street vendors jump out of their way. Students shriek. Khariji runs into a cart of cabbages. “Sorry! Send the bill to the Fatui!”

He catches up to them at the city outskirts, and sees Wanderer blast Tartaglia into the water.

Tartaglia surfaces and splutters, “Toss me in my own element? Hah!”

Wanderer says, “Watch out for that cryo whopperflower.”

“Huh?” Tartaglia whirls around and gets shot in the face.

“Pfft,” Khariji says.

Wanderer turns over his shoulder to look at him. “...The fertilizer here seems to attract more elemental beings than actual plants.”

Tartaglia has resurfaced, shivering and dripping wet. “Well played, Wanderer. Oh hey, Khariji. You didn’t see my humiliating defeat, did you?”

Khariji giggles. “Maybe.”

Tartaglia points at Wanderer in good humor. “If this were a real fight, don’t hold back on me! I can tell.”

“Hmph,” Wanderer says. 

Khariji bounces on his feet, “You can fly!”

“Just a skill I gained after being in possession of an anemo vision,” Wanderer says. “It’s no big deal.”

“No big deal?! You can fly!” Khariji stands on his tip toes. “Can you show me, please, please, please?!”

Wanderer chuckles and hovers on his feet. “Would you like me to pick you up?”

Khariji throws his arms out. “Yes please!”

Wanderer lifts him by the armpits and spins him in a few giddy circles, until Khariji is laughing too hard to breathe. Wanderer sets him down gently and ruffles his hair. He’s grinning.

“Aww,” Tartaglia says, clapping his hands together. “You two look adorable! Say, Wanderer, you seem fond of our little Khariji here. Why did you leave him?”

Khariji freezes. “Tartaglia!”

Wanderer looks briefly startled, but then his expression melds into something sadder, and then takes a deep breath. “I made an irreversible choice. No one, not even the Dendro Archon herself, could have predicted the consequences. And as a result I lost… everything. My identity, my family… my son doesn’t remember that I left him, and my own mother will never remember that she left me.”

“...” Tartaglia looks uncomfortable. “Sorry if I, er, brought up bad memories.”

Khariji quietly curls a hand in Wanderer’s kimono. “Your mother left you, too?”

Wanderer looks away. “All I can say is that she made me for a purpose I could not fulfill, and so she discarded me.” He looks back at Khariji. “I did not intend to do the same to you.” 

Dottore’s death (lack thereof) ascertained, Tartaglia goes on his merry way with the promise to update the rest of the Harbingers. Over the next few days, Khariji receives many, many letters addressed to him from the other Harbingers, which he addresses with gusto.

Pierro: “Novikov, have Il Dottore respond to my correspondence at once. Best of luck with your reunion. Do not lose sight of the motherland.”

Khariji: “Understood, Lord Pierro.”

Captiano: “It is heartening to hear you have been reunited with your family. Remember that the Harbingers are behind you.”

Khariji: “Thank you, Uncle Capitano! I’ll send you some souvenirs from Sumeru!”

Columbina: “Teehee!”

Khariji: “Thanks for thinking of me, Aunt Columbina.”

Arlecchino: “I understand from Tartaglia that you have found your other parent. That may not be a good thing. Keep your wits about you.”

Khariji: “Got it, Uncle Arlecchino! I’m doing my research.”

Pulcinella: “I heard the good news, my boy. Won’t you share more with your Uncle?”

Khariji: “Nice try. As if Tartaglia won’t share everything with you anyway!”

Pantalone: “Your other parent better not be a golddigger.”

Khariji: “I don’t know what that is!” He does, but it’d be nice to imagine Pantalone splutter over his letter as he tries to explain to Dottore about teaching his son another “bad word”. 

Father comes marching in with books in one hand and groceries in another. It’s weird that Father has to run his own errands because Lesser Lord Kusanali made him dismiss all his servants. He seems unbothered about wasting his time.

“Ran into Wanderer at the Grand Bazaar,” Dottore says. “He gave me a recipe.”

Khariji hops up on the couch. “Are you going to make it?”

Dottore declares, “I do not possess the skillset.”

Khariji nods sagely. He believes it - Father never cooked for him. “Can you get Wanderer to cook for us?”

Father says, “that was the plan.” 

And yet he’s come home empty handed. Khariji yawns. “Did you see Pierro’s letter?”

Dottore ignores him. He’s engrossed in his book. Khariji props his chin up on his hand and watches him until Dottore remembers he has a kid to feed. He snaps the book shut - A brief overview of Vahumana Introductory Concepts. “Let’s go to Puspa Cafe.”

Khariji walks side by side with him on the streets, pretending to be shy. Dottore holds his hand. Sumeru City is bustling, and even so the cafe mysteriously makes space for them. 

They eat dinner, and they go home. Khariji watches Dottore start another book. 

“I’ll reply to Pierro's letter for you.”

“I’ll do it tomorrow,” Dottore says absently. “Mm? Is it bedtime for you already?”

“I’m not five.”

Dottore sets his book down and hurries him through his nighttime routine. Tucked in, Khariji yawns, and Dottore says, “Are you upset I never took enough effort to find your other parent?”

Khariji blinks sleepily. “Why would I be?”

Dottore smiles at him, and leans down to give him a kiss on the forehead.

“Oh… yeah… I forgot to tell you that… yawn… Wanderer can fly… in the sky… zzz…”

“Hm? What silly dreams are the Aranara giving you? Restful night, Khari.”

Wanderer finds him at the end of the week, after his abrupt departure post-spar with Tartaglia. “I think we should speak.” He holds a hand out to Khariji, who takes it, and Wanderer floats them up to a branch up on the Great Tree overlooking Sumeru City.

He adjusts his hat. Khariji picks a flat sturdy spot to lean against. They stare out into the horizon for a few minutes as the breeze rustles around them.

Wanderer breaks their silence. “When faced with a choice between blissful ignorance versus the bitter truth, I chose the path of knowledge.” He turns to Khariji. “What would you pick?”

Khariji squints. “Are we talking about… your memory?”

Wanderer smiles. “You’re a smart child. You and your father have gone far with your theories, without my input. You are a scientist at heart.”

“I would choose to know.”

“Yes, I believe you would.” Wanderer strokes his hair. “I want to extend my apologies to you, and to everyone else, for everything I’ve done. Furthermore…” He makes a face. “Your father is right. You are not human, and that secret will not stay hidden forever. As I did, I believe you should have the choice to learn about the truth of your origins.”

Khariji gasps. “I want to!”

“Not right now,” Wanderer chides softly, and Khariji settles down, pouting.

“I am not ready,” Wanderer says. “You’ll learn, in due time.”

“Are you going to tell Father, too…?”

Wanderer sighs. “I suppose I must. You two come as a package deal. He’s been stalking me around the Akademiya - tell him he needs to get a grip.”

Khariji giggles. “He’s been reading.”

“Light novels?” Wanderer snorts, then makes a face, and then says, “Speaking of, I have something to give you.”

His hand hovers over his anemo vision, then floats down to the feather token over his chest. Khariji watches as he unclips it and hands it over.

It shines in the glow of his anemo vision. Khariji looks at the craftsmanship in awe. “What is this?”

“It’s…” Wanderer deliberates on his answer. “A proof of identity.”

Khariji’s brows furrow. Whose identity? He wants to ask, but he looks at Wanderer’s drifting gaze. “What’s his name?”

Wanderer shakes his head. “That person doesn’t exist anymore.” Then he pats Khariji on the head, and smoothes his hair down. “But trust me: he loved you more than anything in the world.”

Chapter Text

Over the next few weeks, Khariji spies on the Fatui in Port Ormos (they’re all in disguise, but he recognizes them, and they technically fall under the loophole of Fatui entering Greater Sumeru after the removal.)

There’s half a conspiracy about controlling elemental beings, but Khariji doesn’t really much pay attention to the science behind it all - more likely than not, Father will end up rattling to him about it anyways. 

Instead, Khariji is more interested in one thing…

Festivals! 

He loves festivals, and the Nilotpala Cup Beast Tamers Tournament is not quite one, but Port Ormos is bustling all the same. Traveler and Paimon are there, as they always are, and Khariji avoids them just on principle.

It’s not that he hates them. Paimon is fascinating, and the Traveler is a person of interest with regards to all the Fatui, but Father is largely uninterested - small fish, as they are. 

But, you know - enemy of the Fatui, versus the Fatui.

Speaking of Fatui, the undercover agents are milling around by the stage, casting nervous intermittent glances at Khariji like they think he’s here on behalf of Dottore to spy on them. He resists the urge to wave at them. 

It’s just a shame that Father declined on coming because he didn’t find the tournament interesting, and that Wanderer couldn’t come because he had… homework. Gross. Maybe Khariji doesn’t want to join the Akademiya after all…

The Tournament draws many distinguished guests.

The delegation from Inazuma is headed by the Illustrious Guuji Yae Miko of the Narukami Shrine, the Raiden Shogun’s right hand woman. Khariji has met plenty of influential people up close, but most of Inazuma’s matters have not warranted Father’s involvement. The novelty draws Khariji closer.

He mingles with the crowd. Braver people approach with pens and books. The Guuji Yae wears her vision as an earring. It sways with her head as she laughs, signing off autographs with a graceful swish of her fingers.

Khariji runs through the information he knows about her. She is a powerful electro user. She’s a kitsune-yokai who has been alive for hundreds of years. She likes fried beancurd skin. She was in possession of the electro archon’s gnosis.

Huh? Khariji wrinkles his nose as he deliberates over what he shouldn’t know. Fried Beancurd Skin? Did his memory grasp on to a tabloid headline he glanced past? The Electro Archon’s Gnosis? Father came into possession of it after its retrieval from Inazuma, but wouldn’t Aunt Signora have gotten it from the Shogun herself?

He scratches his head. He must be mixing his facts.

“Child?”

The crowd parts like ocean waves. The Guuji Yae swims forward towards him, her ears pinned back. 

Khariji bows. “Hello, Miss Guuji Yae! I’m a big fan!”

The Traveler, following behind Guuji Yae, catches a glimpse of him. Their floating companion begins to blurt, “Miko, that’s-!” As Khariji tries to glare at it to stay out of their conversation.

And then suddenly Guuji Yae grasps him by the cheeks and pulls his face towards her piercing gaze.

“Eek!”

“You…” Her eyes search his. “You are…”

So she recognizes him. Khariji supposed she would, the distributor of news in Inazuma, and all. Khariji sees Elchingen stiffen in preparation to jump into his Lord Harbinger’s defense at risk of blowing his cover, and tries to communicate a vague gesture in his direction to stay his hand. 

She releases her grip. But she does not step back. She says, “Where did you get this?” The tip of her nail has landed on his feather ornament.

“Huh? I got it from-” Khariji snaps his mouth shut. He meets her eyes, which narrow.

Guuji Yae demands, “Well?” 

Ah.

A proof of identity. “I’ve always had it.” Tell me who Wanderer is.

Guuji Yae sneers, “Impossible. Do you think I’m blind?”

So it’s a matter of appearance - no matter, Khariji looks a lot like his Wanderer, after all. He stakes his gamble: He and Father have long established that Wanderer is not human; but maybe they’ve been looking for clues in the wrong nation . “It’s been a few… decades… er, centuries? Since we’ve seen each other. Can’t I switch things up a little every now and then?”

Guuji Yae looks at him, aghast. The Traveler and their flying pet are invested enough in this show to not interject. 

And suddenly she smirks at him. “Fine, then. You’re coming with me. Back to where you belong, decommissioned, in a box.”

“Huh? Wait, what?”

(Elchingen, sweating, books it all the way to Sumeru City.)

Khariji is being kidnapped! The Traveler watches with little sympathy as they trail after Guuji Yae, en route to the outskirts of the city, so she can… what? Bury his body?

“Alright, Miss Guuji Yae, I lied, I’m sorry! I got this feather from-” Decommissioned. “-I found it on the ground! I don’t know who it belongs to! Traveler, Paimon, help me!”

Traveler says nothing. Their eyes sparkle. They know something - of course they do. Uncle Tartaglia always says they’re really nice, and here they are, watching him get dragged to his death!

Khariji says, “My Father is Lord Harbinger Il Dottore! He’s very powerful and he’ll be coming to rescue me in no time!” 

“Oh, I know that, ” the Guuji Yae says, which is not comforting at all given that Khariji is still in her grasp. She continues, about the feather, “You may not know about what this feather means, but the person who gave it to you does . And this is a very important artifact. Whoever who gave this to you must not have let go of it easily.”

“So you’re using me as bait?!” Khariji strains against the electro cuffs, but there’s no give. 

“Right…” Paimon says. “Miko, you can do this another way. Il Dottore is a really powerful enemy to make…”

She waves a hand. “I’m sure he will understand, with the circumstances.”

Khariji wails, “what circumstances!?”

“MIko,” The Traveler finally says, “I can ask the owner of the feather token to speak to you another time.”

So the Traveler does know Wanderer! Well, that’s not really helpful, since the Traveler knows everyone. 

“Father’s going to come rescue me and you’ll be sorry!”

The Guuji Yae ignores his threat. It seems like she’s no longer listening. She has her head tilted skywards, and one ear flicks - that’s about the only warning they get before Wanderer crashes into the ground between them.

When the dust clears, Wanderer is hovering in the air with his vision, as he stands protectively over Khariji between the Guuji Yae.

Well, Khariji was sort of right - one of his fathers did come to protect him!

Before he can crow about it, Guuji Yae interrupts his thoughts with a quiet gasp. “Prototype. It really is you.”

Prototype. Khariji stares at Wanderer, gaping.

Wanderer sighs softly. “I suppose, of all the names I gave up, I never gave up that one. My oversight for assuming you’ve forgotten about this, too.”

Guuji Yae watches silently as Wanderer goes up to Khariji and adjusts the feather pin. Khariji asks, “What is she talking about?”

“I’ll tell you later.” Wanderer pats his head. “Were you scared?”

Khariji puffs out his chest. “No!”

“Brave boy.” 

“Y-you’re here to save me, right?” Khariji says, and beams when Wanderer nods at him. He holds out his cuffs, but before Wanderer can make contact with them, they dissolve away.

Guuji Yae finally speaks. “You have a child? How?”

Wanderer says, “That’s something you have to take up with Ei, isn’t it? I didn’t decide my parts.” 

Ei…

She lets out a bark of laughter. “I suppose.” A pause. “I did not expect to see you… awake. Or in Sumeru.”

“I woke up a long time ago. I didn’t exactly have a purpose, so I just did my own thing.” Wanderer folds his arms. “Do you intend on taking me back?”

So he is from Inazuma.

Guuji Yae shakes her head. “No, no. Ei had hoped you’d be free. I believe this is what she would have wanted for you. Have you heard about what happened in Inazuma?”

“Of course. Is she finished with her tantrum?”

“Much better, with the help of our cuties here.” Guuji Yae gestures to the Traveler and Paimon. “She has grown more sentimental, lately. She will like it if you visit. You should bring your son.”

Wanderer closes his eyes. “I’ll think about it.”

“That’s all I ask.” Guuji Yae turns to Khariji. “You should be less arrogant in battles you have to rely on someone else to fight.”

Khariji flushes. “Why, you-”

“She’s right,” Wanderer cuts in. “Your Father and I can’t always make it in time.”

Guuji Yae cuts in, “Il Dottore? Really?”

Wanderer narrows his eyes at her. “I don’t judge Ei’s choice in lovers.”

Guuji Yae rolls her eyes. “Fair enough.” To Khariji: “Hope you didn’t mind the questioning, cutie.”

Khariji scuffs his shoe. “I minded…” 

Guuji Yae says, “You’ve been too spoiled by your parents.”

Wanderer exchanges quiet words with Traveler and Paimon, then takes Khariji’s hand. They walk back to the City in silence. 

They’re partway home when Wanderer snaps to attention, whipping Khariji behind him in time for Il Dottore to bowl into them.

Wanderer says, “you’re late.”

Il Dottore pulls Khariji into his arms and snaps to Wanderer. “Tell me the Kitsune is dead.”

“Relax. I knew what she wanted. We came to an understanding.” 

Il Dottore’s fingers tighten over Khariji’s shoulders. Khariji nods at him with a shaky smile, and he loosens his grip. His hands come up to feel his hair, the back of his head, moving his face to look at his irises. Wanderer watches the impromptu medical screening with a little smile on his lips.

When he’s satisfied, Dottore dusts Khariji off, spins him on his feet, and then marches them the rest of the way back to Sumeru City. 

Khariji falls asleep the moment he hits the couch. He wakes up in his room, and he plods to the kitchen. Dottore is there, with Wanderer, and they have made dinner.

“Come eat,” Wanderer says, and plops down a Sumerun Dish in front of them. Dottore is gazing at it with awe, which Wanderer rolls his eyes at. Khariji grabs a spoon. 

It tastes like home.

Chapter Text

Dottore quietly locks Khariji’s room door, and they head to the soundproofed laboratory.  

Dottore says, “I’m going to need an explanation.” 

“I figured.” Wanderer folds his arms. “You noticed the feather ornament Khariji has been carrying around recently.”

Dottore nods once. “He says he got it from you.”

“He did. It was a token I acquired in my past. Unfortunately, Yae Miko recognized it.”

Dottore’s eyes sharpen. He looks Wanderer up, down. “You’re from Inazuma.”

Wanderer asks, “Have you ever met the electro archon in person?” 

Dottore narrows his eyes. “I’m afraid I’ve never had the privilege.”

“Chill. You’d know if it was me.” 

Dottore does not seem any more relaxed.

“I am, however, her creation. The feather was a symbol of my connection to her. Yae Miko reacted when she saw it. I cleared up the misunderstanding.”

Dottore makes an inquisitive noise. “What do you mean by creation? Are you a pure elemental being? What is Khariji?” 

Wanderer winces. “I am… something like that. Khariji, to the best of my knowledge, is human. I had a standard pregnancy.” 

Dottore says, “Did you do something to my memory?”

“Not deliberately. I wished for my identities to be erased. The side effect was for everyone who once knew me to forget of my existence.”

“How?”

Wanderer looked away. “I had help from the Dendro Archon.”

Dottore clicked his tongue. “So I was mistaken. She is not your captor, but your ally.”

Wanderer shrugs.

Dottore continues, “Why did you want to be forgotten?”

He scowls at nothing. “Because I failed.”

The silence hangs. 

Harshly, “You failed Khariji, leaving him.”

“I told you. I didn’t want to.”

“And you failed me.”

Wanderer slams a palm into his chest. “Let me make this clear between us. I don’t know where your ideas have gotten you, but we were never lovers. We slept together once, and then-”

“But I know you,” Dottore says quietly.

Wanderer, cold, “No.” 

“I’ve known you for centuries, before I didn’t even understand what I was missing.” Dottore pivots on his feet, and he begins to pull out files. Notebooks. Charts which he spills over the table. 

“The Electro Archon’s creation… yes, it makes sense. You’ve been the missing link.”

Wanderer freezes. “What are you talking about?”

“My research.” He gestures to the papers. “My studies on elemental mastery, using archon residue in my Eleazar trials, creating delusions… all impressive work.”

Wanderer rolls his eyes.

“But illogical leaps. Even with reverse engineering and thought experiments, I cannot fathom having made so many assumptions of faith. I must have gotten the idea. And forgotten it.”

Wanderer says, “I see.”

“Over the years, I attempted to construct the fantasy of what these missing pieces might have been. Turns out… It’s been you.”

Wanderer shudders. Suddenly Dottore is near him, close enough to look into his eyes. Wanderer pushes him away - Dottore lets himself be pushed, although his gaze does not deviate from Wanderer’s face. Finally he says, “You look a lot like him.”

Wanderer scoffs. “I thought you already knew that.”

“It’s strange.” Dottore says. “I’ve always somewhat prepared for the possibility of meeting Khariji’s other parent, the list of doubts I’ve wanted to clarify, and yet… each day I learn more about you, I renew a hypothesis.” 

Wanderer mutters, “Pervert.” Dottore cannot help but smile.

“It’s obvious you know more about Khariji and I than we know about you. The erasure of our memories explains it. But that means… in the previous version of events, we spent time with one another. Did we raise Khariji together?”

Wanderer lets out an exaggerated sigh. “I doubt I could keep this from you anyway… yes, we did.”

“If that is so… that means you were a fellow Fatui member?”

Wanderer glares at him from the corner of his eye. “If you know so much, then just tell me what role you think I played.”

“Test subject,” Dottore says, and gets elbowed in the gut. “In earnestness,” he wheezes, “I cannot imagine someone with your… origins would be worthy of any small role. A captain, perhaps? A consultant?”

“I’ll let you puzzle over that one,” Wanderer says. He makes to unlock the door and leaves.

Dottore follows. “What was our relationship actually like?”

“We didn’t have one.”

“I find that hard to believe. We had a child. We raised him together.”

Wanderer whirls on him, eyes lit with fury. “ I raised him! You were-” He pauses and bites down on his lip. Then he throws his hands up in the air. “It doesn’t matter what happened. You don’t remember it. Khariji doesn’t, either.”

“Why did you do it, then? You clearly love him. This does not sound like an arrangement you willingly undertook.”

“I didn’t know what the consequences were. I was just…” Wanderer clenches and unclenches his fist. “It was an emotional decision. Whether or not I regret it is of no importance, seeing as the consequence cannot be undone.” 

Dottore frowns. “It cannot?”

“...I have no desire to meddle with the Irminsul more than I already have. Besides… I doubt Nahida would let me have a similar opportunity again.”

“Tch,” Dottore says. “Squandering such a valuable opportunity due to recklessness? If you were my subordinate, I’d-”

“Finish that sentence, I dare you,” Wanderer snarls. They walk side by side to the central hall. “So weird to see you without any of your lackeys,” Wanderer says, and Dottore stifles a smile.

“Hope you’re not planning on leaving so soon. I’m sure Khariji will have more questions for you when he wakes up.”

“You mean you have more questions for me. The answer is no to all of them. Reverse engineer what you have - don’t touch me.”

Dottore tries, “Do you have a family history of any diseases?”

“Impulsivity translates past the generations, it seems.” He scowls at Dottore. “And terrible taste in partners.”

“Khariji’s eyes glow.”

“It’s benign. We figured out that it triggers on reflex when he encounters high elemental energy.”

Dottore hums curiously. “Does he have any powers?”

“No. Pierro was pissed when he found out.”

Dottore says, “You were a Harbinger?”

Wanderer grumbles, “You think too much.”

“10th? No, we still had Crucabena around until… the 6th spot has been empty for a long time. What did we call you?”

Wanderer says, “You don’t really care about that.”

Dottore shrugs. He doesn’t. “I hear you met Tartaglia the other day. I assume he didn’t recognize you, or he would have mentioned it by now.”

Wanderer shrugs. “Eh.” 

“The other time when we ran into each other, you offered to cook ‘one day’.”

“Ran into? You stalked me.” Wanderer shot a glare at him over his shoulder. Then he marches to the refrigerator. Dottore leans against the counter.
“What do you want to tell Khariji?”

“...Whatever you say. You’re the parent he trusts, now.” Wanderer begins pulling out ingredients for a dish Dottore isn’t sure of. “But I have already promised to introduce him to Inazuma. The discovery is unavoidable with the kitsune’s presence. Furthermore, I believe he is owed the history of his origins.”

“Fair enough,” Dottore says. “...Is that why he can speak Inazuman? It’s not something I ever taught him.”

“Yeah, I did.” Wanderer smiles. “Looks like he retains behaviors that aren’t directly associated with me.

“I had assumed it might have been a quirk picked up from when he was being watched by Tartaglia,” Dottore says. “But that kid has never struck me as a multilinguist.”

“He couldn’t even learn to hold chopsticks after a year in Liyue.”

When Khariji wakes up, he joins them for dinner with an awestruck look on his face that doesn’t fade until he’s polished off half his bowl. 

“Close your mouth, you’ll form icicles on your teeth.”

“Wanderer, can you cook for us forever, pretty please?”

Wanderer snorts. “If your father doesn’t piss me off.”

“Dad…”

Dottore grumbles, “I’m working on it.”

“Wanderer, does Dad know about Inazuma?”

“With the way you phrased that question, he will if he didn’t already,” Wanderer chides, and Khariji giggles. 

“Are you really from Inazuma?”

Wanderer nods. “I am. The Guuji Yae recognized me as someone important.”

“She called you Prototype.” Khariji glances at Dottore, who smiles back at him. He turns back to Wanderer. “What are you?”

“I’m sure you have your hypotheses,” Wanderer says. “To put it simply, I am the electro archon’s creation.”

Khariji’s eyes grow wide. “She made you? Like… she’s your mother?”

Wanderer nods. “A good approximation.”

His gaze sparkles. “Creation… so you’re not really her son? Are you a robot? Like one of the Dahri machines? And if you’re just a prototype… are there more of you? What about me?! Am I a creation, too?!”

“Write a list, geez,” Wanderer says. “You take after your father too much. Dissect me after dinner.”

Khariji returns to his food with gusto.

Dottore says a little hopefully, “If I give you a recipe from 400 years ago, do you think you’d be able to replicate it?”

Wanderer says, “Then you’ll have to find me their ingredient approximates.”

“Hey, father?” Khariji says. “Do you think that’s why I know Inazuman? Did I come… pre-installed with it?”

Dottore pauses in his work to look over at his son, who has his legs kicked up in the air as he skims through an untranslated light novel. 

“I assumed you had it self taught,” Dottore says, and thinks about all the information he’s retained from Wanderer even through the memory of the man himself has gone. This was likely to be another of Wanderer’s influence.

“If the Raiden Shogun is like my grandmother, can we go meet her?”

“...” Dottore considers it. “Ask your other father.”

Chapter Text

It’s a bright morning in Inazuma. 

“Woah… I’ve never seen this place before. It’s amazing!” Khariji leans so far out of the boat that Dottore has to keep a firm grip on the back of his shirt, so his reckless boy doesn’t tip over.

When the boat hits Inazuma soil, Dottore makes the mistake of letting go. Khariji clamors over the railing and lands on his feet.

“Don’t run off too far!” Dottore yells over the deck, as two Fatui agents leap out after Khariji to chase him.

“Heh,” says Wanderer, who hasn’t moved from his vantage point on the crow’s nest of the ship. 

Dottore squints at his wayward co-parent against the silhouette of the rising sun, and relaxes minutely knowing that Khariji (now kicking up a spray of seawater as he trips over a fishing net) is still within his sightline. 

There’s a sizeable crowd gathered around the ship, pointing and whispering. The Fatui are not welcome after the events of the Vision Hunt Decree. While the finer details of the Fatui’s involvement had been kept under wraps, the people knew the facts - a Harbinger was killed by the Raiden Shogun herself, and then the Decree was lifted. It is not hard to point fingers.

Wanderer lands next to Dottore. “I’m going to make a courtesy stop.”

Dottore nods. Out of curiosity, he asks, “were you ever involved in the Inazuma phase of the Fatui’s plans?”

“Die wondering,” Wanderer says to him, and flies off.

Lady Chisato of the Kanjou Commission meets Dottore at Ritou Port. 

It’s hard to justify a visit to Inazuma from his current station in Sumeru, given that the real reason - Wanderer’s existence - must be kept concealed from the public. Dottore is hence visiting under the guise of repairing relations after the demise of Signora. It’s not a good excuse because Dottore doesn’t care about Signora, and Pierro had managed to convey great disbelief through his letter. He had approved it anyway.

His letter wrote: If you fuck up the Inazuma Company too, you’re staying there to make up for it.

Dottore considers the threat offer. Pros: more opportunity to investigate Wanderer’s history, and Khariji likes the place.

Cons: It’s too warm. He may have been born in the humid rainforest, but centuries of acclimating to the tundra did not do well for his adaptability to the beach.

He spends an hour pretending to care about Signora’s death until the Kanjou Commission Head agreed to comp tariffs for Snezhnayan goods for the next five years. Then he meanders off to look for his wayward son (and even more elusive partner.)

Khariji pops a piece of dango into his mouth, chews, swallows, and scowls at it. It tastes familiar. Is that a holdover from Wanderer’s Inazuma origins? This was so weird.

“Young master,” Alekandra says, “your Father’s meeting has concluded.”

“Which one?” Khariji says. 

“The one with the Kanjou Commission Head,” Alekandra says, misinterpreting the question. It was still an answer. Khariji nods. 

They find Dottore idly walking around the town marketplace, with other marketgoers gawking and vendors debating whether to call out to him. Khariji collides with his knees. 

Dottore pats his head. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

Khariji nods. “Do you want some of my dango?”

“No thank you,” Dottore says. “Now, have you seen Wanderer anywhere?”

As if on cue, Wanderer drops from the sky. The Fatui flanking them startle and whip out their weapons, and then sheepishly put them away. 

Khariji tugs at his sleeve. “Where did you go?”

“None of your business,” Wanderer says pleasantly to the both of them. 

Khariji shakes his dango stick at him. “I remember what this tastes like!”

Wanderer ruffles his hair. “Maybe I ate a lot of it when I was carrying you.”

Dottore tells Khariji, “That is not how the transmission of genetic memory works.”

“Psh,” says Wanderer. “Stop dwalding. Let’s get this reunion over with.” With that, he pivots on his heel and begins stomping towards the mainland.

“We’re not going to walk all the way to Inazuma City, are we?” Khariji mumbles.

Dottore says, “It’d be good for you. You sit in your room all day-”

“Ugh…”

“Always reading-”

“I’m studying!”

“-Light novels! How will that help with your studies?”

“Uggghhhh……”

(Khariji manages to convince Dottore to pick him up partway through the trip.

“Are we there yet…”

Dottore rolls his eyes. “Name and describe the principles of an alchemical reaction.”

“Um, um, yawn, I’m so tired…”

Wanderer, floats alongside them. “There’s a reality where Dottore pampered him too much,” he muttered, low enough only for Khariji to catch, but not to understand - the kid lifted his head from Dottore’s shoulder to gaze at Wanderer’s silhouette, fitting in the pieces of the countryside.)

They reach Inazuma City by noon. General Kujou Sara of the Tenyrou Commission arrives to fetch them, and stalks them, very displeased, all the way to Tenshukaku.

The Guuji Yae is waiting for them, arms crossed, one foot tapping on the floor. “Oh, you three have finally arrived. Ei has been waiting.”

“What does she have but time?” Wanderer said, sounding displeased, and he stared at the Guuji Yae, who stared back in stony silence.

The Guuji Yae acquiesced, and took a step back. “The both of you,” she lamented, “Are so alike.” At her assent, the doors to Tenshukashu open.

“I don’t remember you.” The Raiden Shogun looks just like Wanderer. She wears his expression.

“I didn’t think you would,” Wanderer answers her. “I vowed to be forgotten by the world, for a reason.”

The Raiden Shogun frowns. “Then how did Miko recognize you?”

“Guess I didn’t cover all my bases,” Wanderer says, and then gestures to Khariji. Dottore continues to hold his hand - they step forward together. The Raiden Shogun’s gaze narrows on the feather ornament that Khariji has clipped to his scarf.

“Oh,” she says. 

Wanderer says, “The boy is mine.”

The Raiden Shogun says, “And the Harbinger?”

Wanderer makes a face. “He’s whatever.”

She looks dissatisfied with the answer. “This body was built to withstand erosion.” She shakes her head. “I should not have forgotten.”

Wanderer seems to hesitate with something. “I’ll set you up with Kusanali,” he says.

The Raiden Shogun nods. Then she says, full of judgment, “the Harbinger?”

“Oh Barbatos , I’m not saying anything about you and Miko, am I?” Wanderer snaps at her, and Khariji bursts out into a fit of giggles. 

He abruptly quietens when the Raiden Shogun takes a step forward. He tries to stand up straight and be brave. His parents are here. Dottore squeezes his palm.

The Raiden Shogun places a hand on Khariji’s forehead. She murmurs, “Ah. I see. I sense within you… the residue of a God.”

Khariji’s eyes widen. “Really?”

The Raiden Shogun nods. “You are unmistakably tied to me.” Her hand falls to the feather ornament - Khariji tries not to fidget. “And this… is proof of your affiliation to me. I will allow you to keep it.”

“Thanks,” Khariji says, vibrating. “Can… can I call you Grandma?”

Yae Miko bursts into guffaws.

The Raiden Shogun looks startled. “Grandma…?”

“Um, um, because you’re Dad’s Mom, and-”

“That’s enough out of you,” Wanderer says calmly, throwing Khariji over his shoulder and heading towards the exit. Dottore bows and continues after them, snickering under his mask.

“Having an Archon for an in-law is certainly interesting,” Dottore says. 

Wanderer says to Dottore, “I don’t want to hear anything from you, of all people.” To Khariji, “Don’t call her Grandma. I’m disowning her as my mother.”

“Oh…” Khariji says. “Because… she forgot you? But I forgot you, too…” He sniffles. “Are you getting rid of me, too?”

“Do not emotionally manipulate me!” Wanderer says. “Who did you learn it from-”

Khariji blinks large, guileless eyes at him.

“Right,” Wanderer says, shaking his head. He sighs. “I’ll think about it.”

“What about Lesser Lord Kusanali? Can I call her Grandma?”

“That one I can tell you, absolutely not, for sure,” Wanderer rolls his eyes. “She’s younger than me.”

“Auntie, then?”

“Not to her face. Her ego is big enough as it is.”

The rest of their time in Inazuma is uneventful. It’s more of a vacation, than anything - for Khariji, that is. Dottore spends this time doing his reading, sorting through his unreliable memory, and piecing together a rough timeline of things. He casually speculates, “You know, I was in Inazuma, a few centuries ago.”

From the couch, Wanderer scoffs, “Get to the point or stop wasting my time.”

“I arrived to investigate the potential uses of Tartarasuna,” Dottore says, and quietly observes for Wanderer’s reactions. “About four centuries ago. Were you around, at the time?”

Wanderer says, “That’s none of your business.”

“Ah, so you were,” Dottore says, pleased. “I assume that was how we met. May I ask a follow up question?”

Khariji returns to the temporary Fatui base, arms laden with packages of sweets, and opens the door to-

“Don’t look, young master!” Alekandra yanks him by the arm and spins him around to face her instead, and quickly slams the door shut.

Khariji blinks. “What’s wrong?”

Alekandra says, “Your parents are getting along. We should leave.”

“Oh, okay,” Khariji says. 

Wanderer pauses at the sheer audacity of the Fatui subordinate, and is surprised enough to sit back on his haunches and release his hands from Dottore’s throat. “In what world does this look like us getting along?!”

Dottore says, “Well, you are on top of me.”

Wanderer seethes, “I’m trying to kill you!”

“Well, Khariji doesn’t know that,” Dottore simpers.

“You’ll never be as cute as him, so don’t even try.”