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atths--twice · 1 year

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A Surprise, a Birthday, and the Constellations

It's Mulder's birthday and after the night spent on a baseball field for her own birthday celebration, Scully has a special surprise planned for him.

In December, a tweet was posted by @gabby-msr that read: "Mulder teaches Scully to play baseball for her "birthday." What do you think Scully would teach Mulder for his "birthday"?"

@tofuttim tweeted back with a fabulous idea: "How to navigate the seas with the stars which she learned from her father when she was younger."

I LOVED that idea and added a bit to it. As a result, she approached me with the idea to collaborate on a story.

Well... we did, @tofuttim and I! It has been incredibly fun to write, working together and sharing ideas. We hope you all enjoy this sweet and fluffy little story. 💓

Scully sat alone at the desk in their basement office. Mulder was running down a lead and would not be back for another fifteen minutes. The moment of solitude would prove to be a perfect opportunity to go over the plans she had set in place for tomorrow evening.

She reached into her suit jacket pocket and pulled out a list. With a pencil in hand, she went through each item carefully making sure she did not miss any details. If she was going to pull this off, she would expect nothing less than perfection. She recited the handwritten inventory softly to herself:

Telescope, check Boat rental, check Whites Ferry Boat Ramp, check Compass, check Dad’s October night sky star map, check Lone gunmen, check Sea sickness medicine, check Birthday cake, pick up tomorrow at 8:00 am

After Mulder had surprised her with either her very early or very late birthday baseball lesson, she knew then she had wanted to do something special for him in return. To an outsider, his gesture might have seemed inattentive or ordinary, but Scully understood just how significant the act was. It was an expression of devotion, admiration and a long standing partnership built on trust.

Possibly more, she thought.

She picked up the phone and dialed the Lone Gunmen’s secure line and a familiar voice radiated through the phone.

“Frohike.”

“Frohike, it's me. Am I on speaker phone?”

“Yes you are, little lady.”

“Good. I'm just double checking to make sure you all have everything in place for tomorrow night.”

“Don't sweat it, sister. We have it all planned out. Mulder doesn't suspect a thing.”

“Good. I need this to go down perfectly, Frohike. There’s no room here for error. You know how intuitive Mulder is, he can't catch onto the plan. You boys need to be on top of your game.”

“We got your back, G-woman. Langly has Mulder believing we are taking him to visit a couple who have befriended a Sasquatch child.”

“A… what?” she asked and then shook her head, closing her eyes . “You know what, forget I asked.”

“Byers even created a fake email correspondence to make it all believable,” Frohike continued with a chuckle as Byers shouted out from the background.

“Don’t worry, Scully. We won't let you down!”

Scully took a deep breath of relief and nodded, opening her eyes.

“Perfect. Have him at the boat ramp a little before dusk, so let's say… five? Five thirty latest?”

“You got it. Oh… and Scully, I know I don't have to tell you, but this is going to blow our boy’s socks off. I don't think anyone has ever done anything like this for him… ever. Thanks for putting this together.”

Scully smiled into the phone, always appreciating Frohike’s candor.

“Don't thank me yet. We still have fifteen hours to go without spoiling the surprise.” She glanced at her watch. Mulder was due back soon. “Gotta go, boys. Thanks again.”

She hung up the phone, but not before she received a bye in perfect unison from all three gunmen and she laughed silently, but then she sighed. Her heart hurt thinking about Frohike’s words, but it only solidified her resolve to plan and execute the perfect birthday surprise for Mulder.

Failure was not an option.

Five minutes later, the basement office door swung open and Mulder, clearly exasperated but full of kinetic energy, shuffled into the room. He plopped down in Scully’s chair and grabbed some sunflower seeds out of his suit pocket, tilted his head back, and popped a few into his mouth.

She always admired Mulder’s ability to enter a room with confidence, no matter his mood. She sat at his desk, her arms crossed as she checked him out.

He was wearing his blue button down shirt, her favorite, sleeves rolled up to his elbows exposing his toned forearms. She could not help but think how incredibly handsome he looked.

Clearing her throat, she hoped her reddened cheeks had not given her thoughts away as he sighed deeply, his neck resting on the back of the chair.

“Dead end, Scully,” he said in a glib voice.

“I’m sorry, Mulder,” she said sincerely and then hurried on. “Would you mind if I head out a little early? I… uh… have some things I need to do.”

“Reallyyy?” he asked with a slight spike in his voice as he raised his head and an eyebrow. “What's so important that it can’t wait? Anything I can help with?”

She could tell she had piqued his interest. She knew her partner well enough to know, if she stayed any longer, his line of questioning would become more invasive and given the opportunity, he would be able to poke holes in any story she came up with of why she needed to leave early. She had come this far and she certainly was not going to be the reason the surprise was spoiled now.

“No, Mulder, but thank you.” She stood up quickly and walked around the desk to leave. Pausing beside him, she placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently. “Night, Mulder. See you later.”

Scully held her breath all the way down the basement hallway, certain he would catch up and deter her. When she finally made it into the elevator, she leaned against the railing and slumped her shoulders, letting out a deep sigh of relief when she did not see him.

This might just work, she thought, grinning to herself as the elevator doors shut.

___________

Mulder turned and watched Scully as she left the office. He found himself stealing glances and watching her more often than he probably should be. But who could blame him. Scully was stunningly beautiful and he could not help it.

But she was more than that, he thought, letting out a deep sigh.

When she shut the door behind her, he slumped down in the chair again, slightly disappointed. He knew he should not be because he was aware that he was the worst when it came to remembering important dates. But not Scully, not by a long shot. She always remembered special occasions.

His birthday was tomorrow, and he thought she would have mentioned it, especially considering he would be taking a personal day tomorrow and would not be in the office.

He had taken the day off to spend it with the Gunmen. They had called him, talking excitedly about a lead on a juvenile Sasquatch and had invited him along to authenticate the claim, to which he had happily agreed.

But deep down, he had hoped Scully might have asked him to a birthday lunch or even better, dinner and drinks. He would have gladly canceled any and all plans, if Scully had even hinted at either option.

One could only hope.

He stood up and stretched his arms towards the ceiling, letting out another loud sigh. He tinkered around the office for another thirty minutes then decided to head home to his apartment. Patting his pants pockets, checking to make sure he had his car keys, he gathered up some case files from his desk and headed out the office.

Turning off the lights, he shut and locked the door behind him, wondering if Scully would think to call him tomorrow and wish him a happy birthday.

_______________

Scully opened her eyes before the morning sun had a chance to greet her through her bedroom window. She rolled over onto her side, peeked at her alarm clock and rubbed her eyes.

6:00. Ahead of schedule, she thought.

She could hardly blame herself for waking up so early, as she was far too wired to sleep.

Wired and excited.

Today was October thirteenth, Mulder’s birthday. She smiled as she sat up and reached for her phone to call him, hoping he was still sleeping and not awake at this early hour. If he answered, it might jeopardize the surprise, as he might suggest that they meet for breakfast or possibly lunch. She dialed his number and when it went straight to his answering machine she was instantly relieved.

“Mulder, it's me. Happy birthday. Enjoy your day off. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She ended the call and put her phone down on the nightstand. Making her way to the bathroom to take a quick shower, she thought of her plan, mentally checking through her list once more and pausing on the star map with a smile.

When she was a little girl, her father had told her stories of sailors using maritime constellation maps to navigate the seas at night. Seafarers would create maps of the stars during the different seasons. With the constellations as their guide, ships were able to stay the course throughout the night.

One particular story always stood out to her and she would often ask her father to recite it, though she knew it by heart, which he would with a chuckle.

A young sea captain and his small crew of sailors were lost at sea one October night. He was newly married and had been gone from his pregnant bride for several months. The young captain used the constellations as a guide to steer his ship and crew back on course, bringing them home safely. The captain made it home in time to see the birth of their first child, which they named Corona, after the star cluster he tracked at night.

With that story in mind, she had come up with the idea to rent a boat and take Mulder out to “sea” to stargaze using the old maritime constellation map as a guide. Her father had given it to her years ago, smiling as he told her to “use it wisely.”

Scully could not help but think of his words as she also thought once again how employing the constellations as guides to navigate the seas at night was both romantic and pragmatic. She knew when she told Mulder the story she had loved as a girl, he would appreciate the juxtaposition of science and intuition.

However grand her plan though, she knew a trip to the actual ocean would be too far, and so the Potomac River, which admittedly was enchanting at night during this time of year, was the next best thing.

The river was large, but also close to the city lights and she had needed to find a section on the river that was away from the city to have a better view of the stars. Whites Ferry public boat ramp proved to be the closest spot, without going too far out. It was only two hours away on the Maryland-Virginia border and it offered stunning views of the stars at night.

It would be the perfect setting for her birthday surprise.

As an FBI agent, there were certain perks one could take advantage of and under the circumstances, she was not too ashamed to admit she had pulled a few strings to rent a boat. Everything was in order and going as she had planned and thanks to the help of the Gunmen, Mulder was still none the wiser.

She finished getting ready, smiling as she headed out to pick up some last minute things, including Mulder’s birthday cake, then she set out to pull off what could arguably be the biggest surprise of Mulder’s life.

_________________

Mulder woke to the sound of knocking. Startled, he instinctively reached over to his coffee table feeling for his glock.

Less groggy as he began to remember his plans for the day, he put his gun back on the coffee table with a sigh and sat up on the couch. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and stood, taking a second to stretch.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

“Mulder, it's us. Open up.”

“Alright, alright… give it a rest. I’m coming.”

He dragged his feet to his apartment door and unlocked the deadbolt, turning around to head back to his bedroom.

“It's open, fellas.”

The door opened and the three Gunmen entered his apartment like a hurricane. Mulder turned around, gesturing in the air as he opened his bedroom door, and looked at them.

“Guys, it's early. Can you not be so… you?”

“Sorry, buddy. Langly doubled our expresso this morning,” Byers said apologetically and Mulder rolled his eyes.

“I'm going to hop in the shower. Don’t break anything while I'm gone.”

He smiled to himself as he turned on the shower, shucking his clothes as the water warmed up, thinking about the three grown men in his living room who were now trying very hard to heed his warning.

___________

Frohike paced the apartment while Byers and Langley sat on Mulder’s couch. All three exchanged glances. Frohike looked at his buddies, tapping his watch with a nod.

“This has gotta work,” he said. “We can't let the little lady down.”

“You know, Frohike,” Langly said, his knee bouncing from too much caffeine. “I think you just might be the only person who can get away with calling Scully little lady and still be walking upright.”

“What can I say, boys? I can’t help it if I’m her favorite.”

“Yeah,” Langly snorted. “Whatever.”

“You’re just jealous, hippie.”

“Alright,” Byers said, glancing at his own watch. “We get Mulder out of here as soon as he’s ready. Grab a bite and get a move on.”

“No fucking around,” Langly added and Byers shrugged.

“I didn’t say that,” he replied as Langley stood up to peruse Mulder’s video collection.

“But it was implied,” Langley said and Byers nodded.

“T-minus twenty minutes, fellas,” Frohike said and they all nodded.

____________

Scully stepped onto the boat, setting down the last bag of items she had brought with her and sighed as she looked around.

It was a beautiful fall day, the air crisp and the sun bright. It would be a perfect night for stargazing later, so long as the clouds continued to stay nonexistent.

Taking off her coat, the sun and recent activities warming her, she set about preparing for her trip down the river and Mulder’s eventual arrival, smiling as her stomach gave a little lurch of excitement.

___________

“Are you guys sure about this couple?” Mulder asked, sitting in the Gunmen’s van, staring at the park bench where the couple had agreed to meet with information about the Sasquatch child.

“Yeah. They said they would be here. We just need to wait.”

“They said at one. It’s almost two thirty now,” Mulder said skeptically. “I think they’re gonna be a no show, if they were ever the real deal to begin with.” He sighed and shook his head.

“Hey, man, don’t say that,” Frohike said, glancing quickly at Byers. “Sometimes it takes time. You know how people can be.”

“I can try and call them. They gave me a number,” Byers suggested and Mulder shook his head.

“Nah. Pretty sure that will be a bogus number. I had a feeling this was too good to be true.”

“I’ll try it, let me see.”

Just as Byers took out his phone, it rang and they all looked at one another.

“Hello? Yes? It’s Byers, yes. Okay. Where?” He looked at his watch and nodded. “Yeah, we can be there in… a couple of hours. You have the… oh. Yeah, I understand. Yes. Okay. Thank you. Good… bye,” he said, looking at his phone before hanging up. “Well, that was them. They said they were here, but there were too many people around. That they felt nervous.”

“So what do they want? Where do they want to meet?” Mulder asked, feeling both annoyance and excitement at the possibility of speaking to them.

“Whites Ferry boat ramp,” Byers said and Langley nodded, taking out the map guide he kept under the seat and began searching for the quickest route to Whites Ferry.

“A boat?” Mulder moaned, leaning his head back and closing his eyes with a sigh, already feeling seasick.

Byers looked at Frohike and they both smiled before Frohike jumped into the driver's seat, arguing with Langly as the other two put on their seatbelts.

_______________

Scully stood on the boat, her cell phone in her hand, tapping it against her thigh as she waited for it to ring once, announcing the arrival of Mulder and the Gunmen. Her mind scrolled through the rolodex of thoughts she had of the day and settled on the anticipation of what was to come.

Everything was ready, all she needed was Mulder.

Her phone rang and she jumped. When it did not ring again, she knew they had arrived and Mulder would soon be walking down the ramp. She slipped her phone into her pocket and grinned.

Staying out of sight, but standing where she could watch his arrival, she waited, her heart racing.

She saw him and she grinned, noting the excited trepidation on his face as he looked at the boat. The guys were not behind him, and would most likely already have driven away, as was the arrangement. She grinned again as she saw him sigh and then step onto the boat ramp.

“Hello?” he called out. “It’s Agent Mulder. You spoke with Byers earlier and said to meet here? Is it alright if I approach closer?”

“That would be ideal,” she said, stepping into view and smiling at him. He stared at her, stopping in his tracks.

“S… Scully? What…? How…?” he said, frowning as he shook his head. “But… I don’t understand.”

“Happy birthday, Mulder,” she said, stepping off the boat and onto the ramp.

“Birthday?”

“Yes. It is your birthday today, correct?” she teased and he nodded with a confused look on his face.

“But the…” He looked back toward the parking area and then back at her. “There was never a Sasquatch child, was there?”

“No,” she said with a smile, shaking her head.

“You planned this? The guys knew that you…?”

“They did.” He stared at her and she smiled again. “I needed time to get down here without you suspecting where I was for the day.”

“So you sent me on a snipe hunt?” he asked, a smile twitching at his lips.

“More or less,” she agreed with a nod.

“Okay… so, what’s the plan? I’m… They left didn’t they? Dropped me off and drove away?”

“They did.” She grinned and he nodded with a hum.

“I take it your car is not here and the only mode of transportation is this boat,” he said with a heavy sigh.

“Your assumptions are correct,” she said. “However, I did take into account your lack of sea legs. Or river legs, as it were. Hold on a second.”

She stepped back into the boat and picked up the sea bands she had bought, along with a bottle of water and the nausea pills. Stepping out again, she handed him the bottle of water.

“Here. Give me your arm.”

He held out an arm and she slipped the band onto his wrist, twisting it to the correct location. He switched the bottle of water into his other hand and she slid the band onto his opposite wrist, situating it as well.

“These are supposed to help with nausea, but I’m not entirely sold on them, so you should also take a pill to help it. Don’t want to ruin your birthday surprise by puking your guts into the river.” She smiled as she opened the bottle of pills and handed him one. “I think one should be enough. Don’t want you getting too drowsy.”

“I’d take drowsy over pukey any day,” he said, putting the pill in his mouth and opening the bottle of water. Drinking it down, he wiped his mouth and stared at her as he replaced the cap. “So a boat was the idea you had for my birthday surprise?”

“Yes,” she answered with a nod.

“Despite me needing all these precautions?” He looked down at his wrists and then back at her.

“Yes,” she said again and he hummed as he looked at the boat, a finger running across the band on his right wrist. “It’s something I love.”

“What?” he asked, looking back at her. She smiled as she turned her head to look out at the water.

“I’ve always loved the water. Boating. Sailing. It’s calming. My dad used to take us fishing when we were little. Sometimes the rocking would make me feel sleepy and he would laugh as I nodded off. There’s just something about it…” She looked at him again and she smiled softly. “You shared something you love with me for my birthday gift and I wanted to do the same for you. Yours just needed some… precautions.”

She glanced at his wrist bands and shook the bottle of pills and he chuckled.

“Well… then I suppose we should shove off,” he said and she nodded, excitement again stirring in her belly.

“You get in and I’ll take care of it.”

______________

Mulder smiled as he stepped into the boat, sitting down and watching Scully prepare the boat to leave. She was quick and sure as she untied the ropes and tossed the boat's bumpers from the outside of the boat into the inside. Giving it a good shove once she was finished, she hurried aboard, laughing as she did.

“When I was little,” she said, stepping to the steering wheel and turning the key to start the engine. “I was always the one to shove us off. Bill grumbled about it sometimes, saying it was a “man’s job” and my dad laughed, telling him to pipe down. I was the smallest and the quickest, not rocking the boat much when I jumped on.”

“I bet he hated hearing that,” Mulder said, smiling at her as she started backing up.

“He did indeed,” she laughed, turning the wheel when she had backed up far enough and then driving forward, not quickly, but at a comfortable pace.

“So this is my birthday present, huh? You shouldn’t have,” he said, remembering her words to him on a baseball diamond a few months back.

She looked at him with a smirk and he smiled as he looked up at the evening sky, the stars just beginning to come out.

“It’s not a Sasquatch child, I know, but…” she teased and he chuckled.

“It’s better,” he said softly, not looking at her, but watching her from the corner of his eye. He knew she had heard him above the sound of the motor by the way she glanced at him and he held back a smile.

Watching the water as they drove smoothly over it, he felt happier than he had in a long time. Especially on any birthday he’d ever had.

They did not really do birthdays, her and him, except the year when he had given her the Apollo Eleven keychain as they had shared dinner and drinks at The Headless Woman’s Pub.

They did not go there anymore, however. Not since Pendrell had been shot and then died. Scully said she would rather not eat there again, her eyes sad when he had suggested it one night.

No, they did not do birthdays. Yet this year… they were celebrating each other’s, sharing things they loved.

He turned his head and looked at her, admiring her profile and smiling at the small smile he saw on her lips.

“So,” he said, clearing his throat and adjusting the sea band on his wrist. “You had all the precautions. What’s the rest of the plan? Are we headed somewhere?”

“Not in particular,” she said with a shrug.

“Not to some rock in the middle of the river to have a good heart to heart?” he suggested and she laughed, the sound of it echoing out over the still water.

“I’m not planning on sinking another boat, no,” she stated, laughing again and he shrugged.

“That was Big Blue, Scully. Not your fault.”

“Mulder…” she said warningly and he nodded, looking around the boat.

“Where did you even get this boat?” he asked, standing up carefully and stepping toward the door to what he knew had to be a small cabin area.

“No. You don’t get to go down there,” she said, holding her hand out and stopping him from opening the door.

“What? Why not?”

“Because I said you can’t. Please sit back down.”

They stared at each other and she raised her eyebrows, her hand still blocking his access to the door.

“Is the Sasquatch child in there? Is that my surprise?” he teased and she rolled her eyes.

“Yeah. You figured it out. I’ve taken a forest dwelling cryptid from, not only its home, but its mother, and put it on a boat to take it for a cruise down the river. I thought it might enjoy being away from all it knows, locked in a cabin and waiting to be stared at by you with your crazy and excited eyes.” She stared at him and then rolled her eyes as she shook her head.

“Ah, Scully. You truly know the way to a man’s heart,” he said, covering his heart with both hands as he stepped back from the door, grinning at her. “I’ll do my best to act surprised when I see it.”

“You do that,” she said with a scoff and another roll of her eyes, shaking her head as she smiled. Putting up his hands, he sat back down and exhaled deeply.

“How did you get the boat though?” he asked and she shrugged her shoulders.

“I have my ways,” she said, glancing at him quickly.

“The guys help you procure it?”

“Nope.”

“Hmm…” he said, leaning back and crossing his arms.

“Agent Lincoln actually helped me out,” she said and he sat up with a slight frown.

“Did he?” he asked, as he pictured the tall, sandy-haired agent. “How?”

“Well, he happened to overhear me on the phone and asked if I was trying to find a boat to rent. I said yes and he suggested a guy he knew. I called him up and told him what I needed and…” She gestured to the boat with another shrug.

“Just like that?”

“Well…” She smiled at him and then licked her lips. “I might have implied it was for official bureau business.”

“You lied?” he asked in mock incredulity, his mouth dropping open. “Agent Scully, I’m surprised at you.”

“It’s not exactly a lie. We are federal agents and if we don’t technically use it for a case, how will they know? Maybe the mere thought of it will be their new claim to fame. People are drawn to odd things.”

“Are you trying to imply something, Scully?”

“No,” she said, laughing and shaking her head.

“I don’t know,” he said, leaning back again, Agent Lincoln no longer a threat in his head. “I think people at the bureau would say otherwise about us working together.”

“No they wouldn’t, Mulder. They don’t find me odd.”

It was his turn to laugh, looking at her as she smiled at him, pushing the boat to go just a bit faster.

____________

“Are you feeling alright?” Scully asked, noticing he had his eyes closed.

“Hmm,” he hummed with a nod. “Not nauseated and only very slightly drowsy.”

“Well, I suppose that’s as good as it can be considering your shortcomings,” she teased and he huffed out a laugh, his eyes still closed.

She stared at him, his arms crossed and a smile on his lips, and she let out a quiet breath.

The memory of his arms around her as they shared a baseball bat, hitting balls out into the night sky and laughing happily, pushed its way to the front of her mind. It had been fun, silly, and perfect.

When she had left, her new suede coat, which was far too expensive, smelled of him. His cologne, deodorant, and him. The scent was simply Mulder, and one she would know anywhere. She had smelled her coat repeatedly, her stomach fluttering, until she had forced herself to stop, shaking her head at her almost childish behavior.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

“What?”

“You’re staring at me. If we weren’t on the open sea… er river, without the fear of other vehicles close by, I’d be worried we might get into an accident.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m just saying,” he said, smiling roguishly. “You seem more confident on the water than you do on the road. Maybe it’s the lack of needing to move a seat to reach the pedals.”

“Mulder,” she warned.

“It’s a compliment,” he hurried to assure her and she narrowed her eyes at him. “You said it yourself, you've always loved the water. I think it’s obvious in your ability to maneuver on it so well.”

“I think that medicine may be affecting you more than you think,” she grumbled and he laughed.

“All I’m trying to imply is that you look as though you belong to the sea, I mean river. As if you’re a seafarer who has taken on a watery quest, ferrying a soul across the River Styx or some such important task.”

“Wow… You’ve taken anti-nausea pills before, right?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Did it act as a truth serum as it seems to be doing tonight?”

He laughed again and shook his head.

“Nah. And it’s not from the pills. I thought it last time I watched you drive a boat. Just didn’t think to say it then.”

“Hmm,” she hummed, thinking of the last time they had been on a boat together. “Poor Queequeg.”

“Yeah,” he said softly as she sighed, her eyes on the water. He exhaled loudly and then hummed. “I understand what you were saying now. How you would find it sleep inducing when you were younger. Being on a boat, I mean.”

“You know, for a man who had a waterbed until very recently, I’m surprised that being on a boat makes you feel queasy, but that didn’t,” she said, giving him a look.

“Oh… it did at first. It took a while to become used to it, as the couch had always been just fine, especially with it being so nice and stationary,” he said with a chuckle. “What took longer to get used to though, were the mirrors on the ceiling. But once the waterbed busted, I took those down.”

“I’m sorry… what?” She looked at him, her brain trying to figure out if she had heard him correctly. “You… what?”

“Look, I didn’t put them there,” he said defensively, shaking his head. “They were just… suddenly there.”

“Mirrors. On your ceiling. They were just… there one day?”

“Yeah. Actually, it was the same day as the waterbed. Remember when we went to Nevada? By Area 51?”

“As if I could forget,” she scoffed.

“Well, when we came back, all of that stuff was there. And the apartment was spotless.”

“Did you order it all and you forgot?” she asked, her mind still on the mirrored ceiling, her thoughts racing at the images presenting themselves to her.

“Ha!” he laughed loudly, sitting forward and shaking his head again. “Do you think I seriously stood in my bedroom one day, looked at the ceiling and thought, you know what it needs in here? Mirrors. Really, Scully?”

“I don’t know,” she said with a shrug. “Hearing you had a waterbed was quite shocking. This is… it’s…”

“Porny?” he asked with a grin.

“Well… I…”

“Believe me, it’s what I thought,” he said, standing up carefully and walking towards her. He stood beside her and leaned against the closed cabin door. “There can only be one reason people put mirrors on the ceiling, and it’s definitely not to stare at their own selves in bed.”

“But,” she said, swallowing hard, her throat dry. “You’ve taken them down now.”

“And without ever getting the true use out of them,” he said, sighing as he looked down and shook his head slowly.

“Oh?” she asked, her heart fluttering oddly at that information.

“Yeah,” he said, looking at her with a smile. “Now the only things up there are pencils, as it should be.”

“Hmm,” she hummed, her thoughts still on what those mirrors and what would have shown if she had been in his bed.

Stop it, she said to herself, shaking her head as if to get rid of those thoughts.

“Mulder, you never cease to amaze me,” she said, looking ahead and turning the wheel to the left, although it was not exactly needed.

“Because I took them down? Should I have kept them up and shown them to you first?”

Her breath caught, which she covered with a cough. She glanced at him and then looked away.

“No. That’s not what… I mean to each their own, but I… No,” she stuttered as the smile on his face grew and he nodded.

“Yeah, it was good I took them down.”

“You want to drive?” Scully asked, desperately wanting to change the subject. Stepping to the side slightly, she made some room for him.

“Hmm…” he said, quirking his mouth and then shaking his head. “Thank you, but no.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I don’t know where we’re going for one, and for two…” He smiled, his eyes dropping to her lips before meeting her eyes again. “Seafaring Scully, on her mysterious quest, is enjoyable to behold.”

If they had been different people, a couple in some romantic fashion, she would have kissed him. Would have pulled him close and perhaps gotten a little handsy with him.

A lot handsy, she thought as the wind carried the scent of his cologne straight to her nose.

But they were not different people and so instead, she rolled her eyes as she took control of the wheel once again.

“I hope you’re not disappointed that there isn’t exactly a destination spot,” she said, suddenly worried that her idea would not live up to his expectations.

“Can’t imagine I’ll be disappointed,” he assured her as she looked at him.

“I… we just need to get a little further from the city lights.”

“Whatever you have planned, Scully, I’m completely… onboard. Starboard, actually.” He grinned and she chuckled softly.

“Technically, you’re port, as you’re to the left of me. I’m starboard.”

“Eh,” he said with a shrug. “Sasquatch. Bigfoot.”

Laughter burst from her, a deep belly laugh that made her lean forward over the steering wheel, gripping it tightly as her body shook from his incredibly corny words.

“Mulder…” she said, still laughing softly as she shook her head and he grinned at her, winking before he turned to look out at the water.

____________

Back in his seat now, Mulder hummed and he closed his eyes, the anti nausea medicine indeed causing him to feel tired. Added to the late hour he had gone to bed and his early morning visitors, he could have nodded off easily.

The engine cut off and he opened his eyes, looking over at Scully. She flipped a switch and he heard the anchor lowering. The boat rocked, and thankfully he found that it did not make him feel sick.

“I think the combination of the sea bands and the drugs you supplied are doing the job nicely,” he told her as he looked around and realized they were in a little cove.

“Good,” she said, opening the cabin door and turning on a light.

“Oh… can I go down there now? Am I allowed?”

“I suppose,” she said, rolling her eyes with a smile as she made her way down the ladder like steps.

He stood up and followed her down into the small cabin and looked around, his eyes falling on the kitchenette, small table, and the bed. Opening a door, he found a toilet and he nodded as he closed the door.

“You know, aside from the fact that I’d be on water, I think I could live like this- it’s simple, no fuss.”

“There’s no shower,” she stated as she took a large leather tube shaped item from the bed.

“We’re surrounded by water,” he replied and she gave him a disgusted look. He laughed as she shook her head. “Okay… I’d find some place and shower. It wouldn’t be so bad.”

“Hmm…” she hummed, shaking her head again. “I do love the water, but not enough to live on a boat. At least not one this size. It’s too small and the lack of a shower or tub, no thank you.”

“What do you have there?” he asked, pointing to the item she held.

“This…” she said with a smile, patting the tube. “This was a gift from my father. Something I’ve treasured, but haven’t had an opportunity to look at for quite awhile.”

“What is it?” he asked again, his curiosity piqued.

“It’s a constellation map,” she said, opening the tube and taking out the contents inside.

“What?” he asked, stepping closer as she unrolled the crinkly, but well preserved, paper out on the table.

It did not lay flat, so he looked behind him, taking spice containers from the rack secured to the wall and placing them on the paper, using them as paperweights.

“Thanks,” she murmured, smoothing the paper and letting out a sigh.

He glanced at her, seeing the soft smile on her face as she looked at the constellations drawn upon it. Looking back at the map, he saw some he recognized, but many that he did not know.

“You know, of course, that my father was in the Navy. He loved the sea, always speaking of it with great reverence.” She smiled again and he watched her trace the constellations, whispering their names softly. “He would tell us stories about when he was gone, but I would always pester him for different stories. There were many he knew, but one in particular was my favorite. I liked it for the romance of it, though I never would have admitted it, lest my brothers make fun of me.” She chuckled and he smiled with a nod of understanding.

“Tell me the story,” he said softly and she nodded.

“A young sea captain, who was newly married, was lost at sea with his crew one October night. They had already been gone for several months and while the crew was worried about their predicament, the captain's own thoughts were on his bride, who was pregnant with their first child.”

“Newly married… they worked fast,” Mulder murmured and she laughed quietly.

“Well, they’d had some time together before he left. Couple that with a lack of any type of protection and… well…” She smiled and he nodded as he raised his eyebrows and shrugged.

“Please continue,” he said. “Did they make it home?”

“They did,” she said, tracing the constellations again. “The sea captain used the constellations as a guide to steer the ship, bringing himself and the crew home safely. He made it in time for the birth of his child, whom they named Corona, after the star cluster he had tracked that night, knowing that it would be the one to guide him home.

Mulder smiled as she turned her head to look at him with a smile of her own.

“That’s a really great story.”

“Yeah. One of my favorites,” she said, looking back at the map. “I would listen to it and imagine this young man who, when it was discovered that he was lost, felt it keenly and-”

“Well, not only himself, but the entire crew,” Mulder interrupted, picturing the ship of men under the starry sky. “Most likely most of them were his own age, possibly even younger. Boys who would have gone to sea because it called to them or they were looking for work. All of them had families of their own, in some form or another. I’m sure they were all scared, but didn’t want to show it.”

“Yeah,” Scully said softly. “Exactly.”

“And the captain, being an intelligent seafaring man, knew the stars and how to read them. He knew how to bring them where they needed to be.”

“Yes,” she said again, nodding slowly.

They stared at one another, each imagining the story from different perspectives.

Mulder could picture himself captaining the ship, bringing all of the lost souls home and hearing the relief and happiness in the voices of the mothers and sweethearts who had been waiting on land.

Scully had always gone back and forth in her thoughts, wanting to both be on the ship as it sailed on the open sea, and also waiting at home, walking the shore as she waited for her beloved husband to return.

Her romantic younger self had imagined the homecoming many times, caught up in the happiness. The sea captain had always looked similar to Tommy Shanahon, from down the street when they were stationed in San Diego, anytime she would think of the story.

Now, as she stood in the small boat cabin with Mulder, his eyes shining from the story, she could only see him as the captain as he stepped off the ship, his eyes locking on hers as he grinned and hurried to her side.

“So,” she said, turning abruptly and also taking a small step back from him, the image vanishing. “What I thought, for your gift, is that I could teach you how to navigate by constellations, like my father taught me. I could show you and you could guide us back home.”

“Yeah,” he said, smiling broadly and nodding his head. “I would really like that. Show me what I need to know.”

______________

Scully watched Mulder as he slowed the boat down and stepped back to look up at the night sky, for at least the tenth time, and she smiled.

He had been very enthusiastic as she pointed out the different constellations on the map. He knew many of them, but not their precise locations. Using the map, holding it up and comparing what they were seeing, he grinned as he named the constellations.

“You sure you don’t want to use the telescope I brought?” she asked him again and he shook his head. “It would make it easier for you to see.”

“I appreciate the offer, but no thank you,” he answered, as he continued looking up. “It wouldn’t be as authentic.” She smiled as she nodded and crossed her arms.

“Well, it’s here if you change your mind.”

“Thanks,” he said again, pointing up. “Hercules. He almost looks like he’s dancing, don’t you think? Some weird dance moves. Do you see it?” he asked and she nodded as she also looked up at the sky. “Bootes now… it looks like a giant kite. And Serpens, it reminds me of a… huh, a satellite dish.”

“A satellite dish?” she asked, smiling at him.

“Yeah, look,” he said, holding the map up as she took her flashlight from her pocket and shone the light on it. “See how it’s a triangle with a bendy line? Definitely a satellite dish.”

“Okay,” she had said, turning off the flashlight nodding.

“I think Corona was a perfect name for the captain’s child,” he said as he kept staring up at the sky. “Not just because it was the constellation he followed, but because of the shape of it.”

“How do you mean?” she asked, frowning as she tilted her head back, looking at the Corona constellation and then turning her head towards him.

“It’s almost shaped like a horseshoe,” he said, pointing again as he traced the air with his finger. “With the ends of it pointing up, a horseshoe represents good luck being collected. Even if the captain hadn’t known, or been overly superstitious, he followed the stars with a lucky symbol attached to it. It was destined to be.”

He smiled at her as he rolled up the map gently and went back to the steering wheel. Increasing the boat’s speed slowly, he hummed under his breath.

She looked at him and then back up at the sky. Her father had described the constellation as a crown, which was how she had always thought of it. But now, she did see it as a horseshoe shape and she found that she liked it better that way.

Turning her attention to the water, she closed her eyes briefly as the warm fall wind blew through her hair. Opening them, she stepped closer to Mulder.

“You’re quite the natural,” she said, her eyes traveling over him, liking the way he looked manning the boat.

“Thank you,” he said, glancing at her and she nodded as she watched him.

“You just need um…” Placing a hand on the steering wheel, she turned it slightly to the left. “Only a little this way.”

“Hmm, thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

They drove for a while, neither of them speaking, no other people out on the water, the city lights glowing dimly on the horizon.

“Imagine spending months on a ship,” Mulder said, breaking the silence.

“Didn’t you say earlier that you wouldn’t mind living on this boat, or one like it?” she teased and he nodded with a smile.

“True. But, me on my own is significantly different from a ship full of men. Especially as it wouldn't have a shower nor a toilet,” he said and she made a face.

“The air would undoubtedly be thick with the spice of men,” she stated and he laughed.

“I’m sure it was quite ripe,” he said. “But, I was actually thinking more along the lines of leaving your family behind. Your wife, children… I’m sure it was difficult.”

“It’s what my father did. What many men, and women, still do,” she said with a small shrug.

“Eh… I don’t see it that way, not exactly. With technology and more advanced vessels, it’s different,” he said, shaking his head.

“I suppose it is,” she said, thinking of the days when a ship would be gone for months, no word of where it was at times. Mothers, wives, and children not knowing if their son or father would return.

Again silence fell between them, her thoughts staying on the young captain, confidently following the stars that he knew would lead him home.

Though her journey to meet him at the ferry had felt longer, it seemed that it only took half the time to reach the harbor where she had rented the boat. Switching places, as Mulder was not accustomed to docking a boat, he followed her instructions to ready it, jumping out to help lead it in and tie the rope to the cleats in the front and back.

He grinned at her as he stepped back onboard, quite proud of himself.

She gathered everything up, including the small cake she had purchased for him. Placing it in a bag, she turned the lights off and left the cabin.

Dropping the keys in the after hours box as she had been instructed to do, she turned to Mulder and smiled.

“So… you had fun?”

“I did,” he said with a grin. “Much more than I had anticipated when I realized we would be spending time on the water.” He took off the sea bands and put them into his pocket. “They look and feel a little strange, but I think they worked really well.”

“Glad to hear it,” she said with a chuckle. “I do have something else for you.”

“Is it a keychain?” he teased.

“It is not,” she said, laughing again.

“An alien implant?”

“No.” She rolled her eyes and pointed to the picnic table underneath a street lamp a few feet away. “Let’s go sit down and I’ll give it to you.” He turned, walking ahead of her, and she smiled as she followed.

“It’s not exactly a gift,” she said, placing the bag on the table and taking out the cake. “But, it’s something you’ll enjoy.”

“Ohhh…” he said, sitting at the table and leaning forward with interest. “Is it chocolate?”

“Of course. But… wait.”

She opened the lid and then took out the sparklers she had also purchased. Pushing them down into the cake, she lit them with a lighter. They popped and sparked as she pushed it towards him.

She watched his face as he saw the decorations on the cake, highlighted by the glow of the sparklers. Looking up at her, his expression unreadable, he looked back at the cake and shook his head.

It was plain, with only vanilla frosting. On the top however, she’d had the bakery write Happy Birthday in brown icing. It also had a design, depicting their evening. A brown boat sat on blue water, the moon and stars above it. One constellation hung above the boat, a horseshoe crown shaped constellation, the yellow points placed in the exact locations.

“Scully,” he said softly as the sparklers continued to pop and spark.

“Happy birthday,” she whispered and he looked up at her again. She smiled and he sighed as he stood up and extracted himself from the table.

Standing in front of her, he shook his head and then pulled her to him, surprising her as he held her tightly.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “For everything today. I… It’s the best birthday I’ve ever had.”

“Surely not ever?” she asked with a small laugh, trying to lighten the sudden heavy feeling.

He pulled back, holding her upper arms gently as he nodded his head.

“Ever,” he assured her. “It was thoughtful and surprising. I never would have anticipated it. Thank you, Scully.” He pulled her close again and she sighed as she hugged him back, closing her eyes.

“You’re welcome,” she whispered.

They both heard the sparklers fizzle out and they laughed softly as they broke apart, glancing at the cake before looking at each other and smiling.

He cupped her cheek, his thumb running gently across it. She drew in a breath as he dipped his head and kissed her cheekbone, just above his thumb. Her eyes closed as he kissed her again and her stomach fluttered.

When he pulled back, she opened her eyes and let out a slow breath. His eyes dropped to her lips and she nodded ever so slightly. A smile pulled at his lips and then they were pressed to her own in a soft, slow kiss. Twice more he kissed her in the same fashion and then he pulled back, searching her face.

She smiled, her heart racing, and he grinned back.

“Well… let’s see if this cake tastes as good as it looks,” he said and she laughed with a nod. He caressed her cheek as he dropped his hand and they stepped back from each other.

He sat back down and took the spent sparklers from the cake as she took out the knife, plates, and forks from inside the bag. Cutting them each a generous slice, she handed him the piece with the Corona constellation. He smiled as he picked up his fork and took a bite, humming his approval.

She sat beside him and took a bite of the cake, which was indeed very good, but her thoughts were not on the sweet taste of it.

No, she thought only of the kisses they had just shared, the softness of his lips, and the gentle touch of his thumb against her cheek.

His knee bumped her leg and she glanced at him with a smile.

“If there’s an iced tea in that bag of yours…” he said, looking at it and raising his eyebrows. She laughed softly, reaching for the bag and taking out a bottle of iced tea. “Ahh, Scully. This birthday just keeps getting better and better.”

She laughed again as he opened it, took a long drink and then offered it to her. She accepted it and took a drink as he reached for the cake and cut himself another slice.

“Did I ever tell you about the Lizard Man in South Carolina?” he asked as she set the bottle of iced tea down.

She rolled her eyes with a quiet groan as he took a bite and began speaking. Tipping her head back, she looked skyward and sighed, ready to debate him about the scientific impossibility of a lizard man.

The Corona constellation was directly above them and she smiled. As it twinkled, she changed her mind, deciding to let him talk for as long as he wanted about whatever he wanted. She could wait until tomorrow to discuss the inaccuracies.

It was his birthday after all.

#the x files #xf fanfic #season 7 #birthday surprises #boats #constellations #stars #seasickness #teasing and flirting #fluff #birthday fluff #msr #happy #romantic fluff

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pokemonispain · 2 years

Text

Food Poisoning on the High seas- Childe/Scaramouche

Summary: In which Scaramouche realizes that coming on this mission with Childe was a mistake.

___________________________________________________________________

Scaramouche should’ve known the moment he’d been assigned on this little mission with Childe, that one of two things would happen. Everything would go to shit being more of a hassle than it was worth or they would succeed, but not without Childe doing something idiotic.

Surprisingly neither had happened, Childe’s presence hadn’t been as irritating as usual. If anything Scaramouche found himself slightly at ease in a strange way. Perhaps maybe, just maybe this was the world’s way of telling him he should’ve been more careful, the calm before the provable storm so to speak.

Scaramouche gives a soft groan as he opens his eyes ever so slightly, his head is killing him, throbbing so violently to the point he could feel it in his teeth. In his still groggy state the headache combined with the fog clouding his mind makes it nearly impossible to gather his thoughts, each one slipping through his fingers before they could fully form.

However, despite that Scaramouche is aware of a few things. One, he’s more than likely hungover, which rarely happened to him, not because he didn’t drink but because he wasn’t human, so it typically took a decent amount to get him to that point in the first place.

Scaramouche shifts, licking his lips and cringing when he tastes the familiar stale bitter, and sour taste of alcohol coating his mouth, a faint memory of him drinking wine out of a barrel last night floating to the forefront of his mind as a slight queasiness settled in his stomach makes itself known.

The second thing Scaramouche registers when he turns his head slightly is that he’s laying in bed next to Childe, who is seemingly deep in sleep, his soft breathing filling the room. Another memory from last night returns to Scaramouche’s mind, him and Childe getting drunk and wandering, halfway stumbling, back to Childe’s room.

From what Scaramouche could see, both of them were half-dressed and he faintly remembered the two of them clumsily trying to remove each other’s clothes only for exhaustion from the mission combined with the wine to put them to sleep.

Scaramouche becomes aware of the last thing when he sits up a bit further and he swallows thickly, muffling a soft airy hiccup into his hand when his stomach lurches, seemingly sloshing with the motion of the ship around him.

Another soft groan left his mouth and he scowled as he rested a hand on his stomach, rubbing it absentmindedly as he attempted to ignore the queasiness settled there.

He’s not surprised about being at least slightly nauseous considering everything but that didn’t mean he liked it.

Mumbling a soft curse under his breath he begins attempting to climb out of bed. After all, he really, really didn’t have the energy at the moment between the god-awful headache and nausea to deal with Childe at the moment.

Which is seemingly why Childe chooses that exact moment to wake up. A low groan comes from Childe’s lips as his eyes flutter open.

“Scara,” Childe mumbled as he narrowed his eyes slightly. His entire body feels stiff, but that was likely due to sleeping in an awkward position most of the night.

The taste of stale dried alcohol coated his tongue in a bitter taste. Besides the slight dull ache he felt at the base of his skull Childe feels a bit surprised that his hangover is all but nonexistent.

“Don’t call me that, you idiot,” Scaramouche hissed as he moved to sit on the edge of the bed, his hand hovering in front of his stomach as if he were afraid to touch it.

The ship seemed to slowly sway around him, and Scaramouche instinctively clutches at his stomach when it makes a soft almost inaudible gurgling noise. He can’t help but feel slightly uneasy.

Childe yawned as he sat up taking note of both of their slight states of undress. He is missing his scarf, and his jacket as well leaving him in his pants and unbuttoned red shirt.

On the flip side, Scaramouche is missing not only his hat but his shirt and socks as well and at the moment, he had a good portion of the wrinkled blanket wrapped around himself.

His indigo hair is slightly on the fluffy side, both from when he’d been sleeping and where Childe’s hands had been running through it.

That and his lack of clothing are the only clues that show what he and Childe had been attempting to do. The faint hickeys Childe had left on his neck long healed before either of them fell asleep.

“Something wrong with you,” Childe sighed with a scowl as he ran a hand through his hair.

He was used to Scaramouche’s usual attitude but at the moment it seems as if Scaramouche’s words have an extra bite to them. Not to mention that he seemed slightly paler than usual.

After a moment though it seems to click for Childe, which he attributes to the last dregs of sleep still faintly clinging to him.

A soft snort leaves Childe’s mouth. “You’re hungover aren’t you?”

In an instant, Scaramouche glared at him which lets Childe knows his assumption is correct. “Shut up,” he snapped.

Scaramouche climbs to his feet and Childe watches him for a moment slightly amused. Especially when Scaramouche begins muttering under his breath as he searches for his clothes.

“I don’t wanna hear that from some brat who can’t handle his ale,” Scaramouche grumbled. “You-“ he stops for a moment, closing his eyes and clutching at his head when a horrible ache streaks across his skull.

His other hand going to his stomach and rubbing it slightly when that slight twinge of queasiness seems to increase. The swaying of the ship does little to help, if anything it feels like it’s making it worse, whatever contents he has in his stomach feeling as though they were being gently swirled.

And Scaramouche swallows, before giving a soft groan. He says nothing however, instead he simply stays where he is, crouched on the floor his eyes closed as he attempts to will his body to stop fighting him.

He hears Childe chuckle softly and the sounds of the blankets shifting as Childe moves. “Hold on,” Childe told him.

Scaramouche says nothing as he does his best to push down his feelings of unease. He didn’t even quite know why he felt this way at the moment either, maybe it was simply because this was the first time he’d been hungover in many, many years. Honestly, after all these years he just believed it was impossible to happen again.

Perhaps that should’ve been a clue to him that maybe something else was wrong, but with his head currently throbbing in time with his heartbeat, he doesn’t allow himself to give it a second thought.

He can’t help but jump slightly when he feels Childe’s hands on his shoulders. “Don’t touch me,” he hissed as he snatched his arms out of Childe’s grip.

The sudden movement has another soft groan leaving his mouth, especially when it feels as if it sends his brain rattling around in his skull.

Beneath his anger though is humiliation, a few cups of firewater and a barrel or two of wine should not have affected him this much. In terms of immortality, Scaramouche was very young at only 500 or so years old, he’d seen beings both younger and older than him drink wine like water without issue.

But perhaps what was even more humiliating was the fact that Childe seemed completely fine. He hadn’t drank as much as Scaramouche of course, nowhere even close but for a human, he’d drank a decent amount of the fire water.

It was infuriating.

“I mean I could leave you there on the floor if you want,” Childe told him as he reached out grabbing Scaramouche’s arms once more.

Scaramouche is silent for a moment before opening his eyes slightly and glancing over at Childe. “This is your fault, I hate you.”

Hearing those all too familiar words Childe gives a soft snort, a slight smile tugging at his lips. Getting Scaramouche to his feet is fairly easy thankfully, although Childe can’t help but think of how a person holds a cat as he does.

Scaramouche sighed softly, his gaze on the floor, a scowl on his face. While he is no longer clutching at his stomach, Scaramouche still has a hand clutching his head and Childe steadies him slightly when he sways a bit.

From what Childe could see Scaramouche was a bit pale at the moment, not to mention the way Scaramouche’s hand would occasionally rub at his stomach almost absentmindedly.

“Wait here for a second,” Childe sighed, he waited for Scaramouche to give a soft hum letting him know he’d heard him before he moved away.

Scaramouche is quiet as he simply listens to the soft yet familiar noises of Childe moving around the room. He hears the sound of a cabinet opening, along with some rustling and the sound of the sink running.

It isn’t long before Childe returns to the room, a glass of water and some medicine in hand. He didn’t know if regular medicine like this could work on Scaramouche honestly, even when Scaramouche was sick the man just seemed intent on sleeping it off rather than actually taking anything for it.

It was a little strange as during those rare times where Scaramouche was sick it almost seemed as if he’d go into a hibernation of sorts, often sleeping most of the day. It wasn’t surprising to Childe honestly after all Scaramouche wasn’t human.

Although the first time he’d witnessed Scaramouche getting sick had been a bit of a shock, mainly because Childe had found him half-conscious in his front yard half-buried in the snow and with a puddle of vomit next to him.

“Here,” Childe said as he held out water and medicine to Scaramouche.

Thankfully the other man had decided to sit down on the edge of the bed to get his bearings a bit. Taking the items, Scaramouche stares at the pills with a frown.

“What are these,” he asked as he looked over at Childe who was gathering Scaramouche’s clothes from where they’d been discarded.

“The white ones are painkillers and the blue ones are for your stomach,” Childe explained as he paused for a moment. “They didn’t come from Dottore if that’s what you’re wondering.”

Scaramouche rolled his eyes but said nothing as he tossed the pills in his mouth, he sipped at the water carefully while it felt incredible on his dry throat it made his stomach feel a bit strange.

A slight heaviness forming there as he continued to drink, he pauses with a scowl, his hand going to his stomach when a slight ache erupts along his stomach. It doesn’t hurt honestly and is more of a slight annoying twinge. What does have Scaramouche worried, however, is the fact that the slight tilting and rocking of the ship has the water he just drank swirling slightly in his gut.

Practically brushing against the walls of his stomach. Setting the water aside he grabs his clothes from the small pile Childe had placed them in and begins getting dressed intending to take a nice bath when he returned to his room.

He glanced over at Childe with narrow eyes. “How in the fuck are you not hungover?”

At that, a familiar smirk crosses Childe’s face and he pauses in the middle of collecting his own clothes that were lying around the room. “Maybe you’re simply losing your tolerance in your old age.”

Another glare is sent Childe’s way which he ignores. A huff leaves Scaramouche’s mouth. “Stupid brat.”

~~~

Scaramouche sighed as he slowly made his way back to his room intending to sleep for at least a little while. As he walks he massages his temple, his head is pounding violently in time with his heartbeat, each small noise, the soft warm lights of the lamps in the ship’s hallway felt as if they were scraping his eardrums and drilling his eyes.

Scaramouche stops walking for a moment, muffling an airy hiccup into his hand, his stomach feeling as if lurches slightly when the ship rocks and tilts beneath his feet.

His hand goes to his stomach scowling when it seemed to gurgle softly, and once more he becomes aware of the water sitting heavily in his gut merely exacerbating his queasiness.

Each time the ship seemed to tilt and sway beneath his feet, no matter how gentle the motion he could feel it in his stomach. The water sloshing and shifting in his gut in an almost nauseating fashion and Scaramouche finds himself swallowing thickly, the hand on his stomach trembling ever so slightly.

This was not due to the nausea but instead his fear and anxiety that he was doing his best to suppress. Scaramouche honestly hated being sick with every fiber of his being, being reduced to such a pitiful helpless state.

But what he despised even more, and was something that even terrified him was the action of vomiting itself. It was such a visceral way one’s body could lose control, and it was all but unstoppable and that’s what terrified Scaramouche about it.

It was why he often did everything he reasonably could to prevent something like that from happening. Beyond that though getting sick brought other fears with it as well, ones of being hauled off to Dottore’s lab and being experimented on. Displayed on that awful exam table like a butterfly pinned to a wall.

Just the thought of it brings forth some less than pleasant memories and Scaramouche can’t help but shudder slightly, noticing that it feels a bit warm in the hallway for some reason.

Another hiccup bubbles from his lips and Scaramouche muffles it into his hand. His face twisted as he cringed when a rather loud burp rumbled passed his lips bringing with it the faint bitter taste of the medicine he’d taken.

Scaramouche gives a soft huff, shaking his head slightly before he continued walking to his room more than a little eager to get some sleep.

When he finally reaches his room he finds that he does feel slightly better which he figured is thanks to the medicine that Childe had given him. He kicked off his shoes with a sigh as he trudged over to the bed and all but collapsed on it.

When he’d boarded the boat he’d remembered being slightly annoyed that his bed wasn’t too particularly comfortable, but at the moment it felt like heaven.

With both his headache and the queasiness in his stomach seemingly easing up, but not the exhaustion he’d woken up with, Scaramouche does his best to attempt to go to sleep.

~~~

It is around dinner when Childe walks into the ship’s dining room, it’s as alive with noise as usual which brings a smile to Childe’s face.

There’s a slight familiar ache to his muscles which considering he’d been training is nothing he’s not used to.

Childe pauses however when something catches his eye, Scaramouche is sitting at one of the tables in the corner of the room with a few of the nearby other tables being empty as well, no doubt because the Fatui subordinates were giving him a wide berth as usual.

Childe couldn’t help but be curious though, especially considering the fact that Scaramouche didn’t often stick around in the ship's dining room, often having his meal delivered to him in his room or simply getting whatever he wanted and leaving. The rare times he stayed in the dining room were times when Childe was already there or had arrived with Scaramouche to drink some alcohol.

As Childe gets his dinner and approaches Scaramouche’s table he notices something else a bit odd, that Scaramouche is sitting nearly completely still, his face buried in one of his hands which was propped up on the table by his elbow.

He has a nearly empty plate of food in front of him, and a slightly full glass of ice water beside the plate.

“What a surprise, I didn’t expect you to be here,” Childe said as he sat down in a chair close to Scaramouche.

Scaramouche doesn’t say anything however and if it weren’t for his breathing Childe may have assumed that he had dozed off or something. Was it just him or did Scaramouche look a bit pale beneath the lights of the dining room?

“Let me guess, still hungover from this morning,” Childe asked, and a soft snort left his mouth when Scaramouche gave a low groan in his throat seemingly in response.

Childe was willing to admit that it was slightly amusing seeing Scaramouche in this state, after all, it wasn’t every day that Scaramouche wound up hungover.

Scaramouche groans again and Childe can't help but think that the noise sounds slurred almost and he frowns as he looks at Scaramouche. It is only when Scaramouche shakily raises his head that Childe realizes that something is wrong.

Scaramouche’s face is pale as a sheet, as if all the color had been drained out, his eyes are half-lidded and slightly glazed over. Childe can see a fine layer of sweat coating Scaramouche’s face as well.

Scaramouche can’t help but flinch ever so slightly his hand clutching at his stomach when it makes a low growling noise, he hates this. Archons does he hate this so, so much. The way each tilt and shift of the boat has his stomach sloshing and churning sickeningly. His meal sitting in his gut like a heavy rubber ball being tossed around a room, wave after wave of near relentless nausea washing over him.

The scent of the food around him which would normally be appetizing instead stinks of grease that seems so heavy in the air it nearly coats his tongue. He felt strangely and uncomfortably warm, his normally form-fitting yet comfortable clothes clinging to his skin in a smothering fashion but they especially felt weirdly tight around his abdomen much like a rubber band.

Scaramouche grits his teeth, it's annoying but most of all for Scaramouche it was viscerally terrifying in a way he has only felt a few times before and it’s something he’s afraid to acknowledge honestly. That this wasn’t a hangover that somehow, for some reason he was sick.

His stomach growls again, its contents practically boiling and bubbling like an overactive cauldron, it almost feels as if the organ is rippling and writhing like a ball of snakes beneath his fingers. Scaramouche clutches at his stomach a bit tighter beneath the table, swallowing thickly when it feels as if the room is shifting beneath his feet.

Childe is quiet for a moment or so as he stares at Scaramouche, a frown spreading over his face. “Was that your stomach,” Childe asked both surprise and concern mingling together in his voice. It had been amusing when Scaramouche had simply seemed hungover after all while they could be horrible sometimes they eased up eventually.

This however seemed like something else entirely, almost as if Scaramouche was sick. Scaramouche and Childe honestly didn’t know what they had going on, more often than not both of them used each other to simply kill time when it was convenient and when boredom struck whether that be through fighting, fucking, or drinking.

It made things interesting honestly and also seemingly made it easier to bare each other’s presence bit by bit. While they could still go for each other’s throat at a moment's notice there were also quiet moments between the two when no one was looking, these moments weren’t quite gentle either though sometimes clumsy and rough but it worked for them.

It’s probably why what Scaramouche says next though has that concern Childe is feeling only growing.

“S-something’s wrong,” Scaramouche softly, the words slurring slightly as he speaks. Swallowing thickly and closing his eyes, Scaramouche grits his teeth taking shaky breaths in through his nose.

Childe glances up around the dining hall for a moment noting that things were still rather lively, although whether out of fear or respect none of the subordinates were paying attention to them yet anyhow. It would be best to leave now honestly, to try and possibly get Scaramouche somewhere secluded.

“Can you walk,” Childe asked him quickly, he knows he can just pick Scaramouche up but he didn’t want to risk setting off the man’s clearly volatile stomach, plus he knows that Scaramouche wouldn’t appreciate the gesture in the slightest.

“I-” Scaramouche begins, opening his mouth but he quickly closes it when a sloppy, airy hiccup bubbles from his lips. Scaramouche curls in on himself slightly as he bows his head to discreetly cover his mouth with his hand.

Childe sees Scaramouche’s body tense up as his stomach lurches slightly. Childe hears something audible gurgling and surging up Scaramouche’s throat the noise sounding much like someone drowning. Scaramouche makes an odd noise similar to a closed mouth gasp, his body tensing up further as he manages to catch the liquid just as it fills the back of his throat.

Scaramouche gives a very audible swallow, his body shuddering slightly before he shakily lowers his hand from his mouth, panting softly as he quickly wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand to get rid of the drool he can feel trickling from the corner of his mouth.

He needed to leave now, before something horrible happened. Maybe if he laid down, maybe that would ease the fear, anxiety, and panic writhing in his chest and cloaking him like a blank. Maybe there was some chance of averting this disaster if he could just get to either his room or Childe’s but preferably his room.

He looked over at Childe from the corner of his eye. “Le-let’s go,” he said softly his words slurring as he did his best to swallow back the saliva nearly overflowing his mouth.

Scaramouche does manage to get to his feet surprisingly, although Childe does quickly reach out to steady him when he sways for a second or two.

~~~

The walk back to Childe’s room feels as if it takes longer than it should at least for Scaramouche and he doesn’t know if it's because of the dizziness, the headache, the nausea, or the fact that his body is trembling like a newborn deer.

He has to be extremely careful as he walks, his dizziness and unsteady legs nearly causing him to trip more than once when the ship feels as if it tilts and rolls beneath his feet. Childe’s hands steady him more than once as he walks at his side.

As they reach Childe’s room and go inside a small amount of relief washes over him now that he’s away from so many of those subordinates, so many prying eyes that would see him at one of his weakest moments.

Scaramouche stumbles over to the bed and sits down with a soft sigh his hand going to his stomach when it makes a harsh sickly gurgling noise, a deep ache spreading through his stomach feeling as though he were being punched. Wave after wave of dizzying nausea washes over him relentlessly, all while his stomach writhes beneath the trembling hand he has placed on it as if the organ is trying to claw its way out through his skin, tense almost harsh gurgling noises leaving his stomach.

The pain settled there just won’t disappear and the heaviness caused by the mass of food in his gut does nothing to help things, it feels as if it’s all congealing and hardening into an actual ball that’s rolling around his stomach each tilt and lurch the ship makes seems to send the mass of food churning in that direction.

“Hey,” Childe said gently laying a hand on Scaramouche’s shoulder.

Scaramouche however shrugs him off, his eyes squeezed tightly shut as he attempted to swallow back whatever he felt bubbling at the back of his throat be it bile or air. He hates this with every fiber of his being, he couldn't be sick he wouldn’t allow it.

“Leave me alone! Get out,” Scaramouche hissed hating how his voice wavered and he quickly swallows the saliva threatening to overflow his mouth. He could still get this under control, he just needed time.

Childe gives a soft snort at Scaramouche’s words. “It’s my room?”

“Shut up,” Scaramouche said softly his words ending in a slurred groan as his grip tightened on his stomach. His nails practically digging into the skin, warmth stings Scaramouche’s eyes his fear and frustration growing stronger with each wave of nausea that rolled over him.

He hears Childe sigh, before hearing him begin moving around the room. He tries to focus on that and not how he could feel the back of his throat spasm every so often threatening to make him gag. “Who did…you tell last time…” Scaramouche manages to force out.

Childe stops in the middle of picking up the small trash can from the corner of the room when Scaramouche speaks, and he turns to look at him. If Scaramouche didn't look well before he without a doubt looks sick right now, his pale face carrying a green tinge to it, drool trickling from the corners of his mouth as he planted softly.

“Hm? Do you mean that time I found you passed out in the snow,” Childe asked with a scowl.

Scaramouche gives a small stilted nod. “Who…did you tell about what you saw,” Scaramouche demanded although in his current state he can’t muster up the usual energy for it. But if Childe had told anyone about Scaramouche’s secret, about his fear of illness well Scaramouche would make sure Childe would never open his mouth again later.

He expects it, for Childe to tell someone, which is probably why his answer surprises Scaramouche so much.

“I didn’t tell anyone,” Childe sighed as he picked up the trash can before turning back to Scaramouche. “I don’t plan to either.”

For a moment Scaramouche and Childe simply stare at each other, and Scaramouche thinks he sees something that looks like concern or worry on Childe’s face. For once Scaramouche finds himself looking away, a soft nearly inaudible huff leaving his mouth as he closes his eyes again. “Weird human.”

Scaramouche hears Childe approach him but thinks nothing of it, even when he feels Childe carefully sit down on the bed beside him.

Then to his surprise, he feels Childe grab him and pick him up. “Wha…” Scaramouche whispered his eyes wide in dumbfounded shock as Childe shifted him carefully, and Scaramouche can’t help but notice that Childe’s touch is weirdly gentle for once.

Actually, now that he thought about it since this morning Childe’s hands had been careful whenever they gripped him, the touches firm but not applying any more pressure than they needed to. Scaramouche doesn’t know why this small minuscule thing stands out to him but it does.

It is only when Childe places Scaramouche down so that he’s sitting on his lap that Scaramouche that he finally speaks. “W-what…in the fuck are you doing,” Scaramouche hissed and he tries to struggle but is stopped when that deep ache flares to life across his stomach.

Childe frowned as Scaramouche fell quiet and instant, his eyes widening when a soft whimper slips past Scaramouche’s lips before he can stop it. Childe can feel Scaramouche’s body trembling, shivering in his lap, he feels warmer than usual as well and Childe reaches up with one hand feeling Scaramouche’s forehead noting that unsurprisingly he seems to have a bit of a fever.

Sighing softly he glances down at the trash can he’d placed in front of them on the floor. “Okay just bear with me for a second alright,” Childe told him as he reached down, his hand nudging Scaramouche’s out of the way so that he can gain access to his stomach.

Childe gives a soft hiss at what he finds. Scaramouche’s stomach is taut and very bloated, his fingers sinking ever so slightly into the now soft skin there. The organ growling and gurgling violently beneath his hands as the taunt heaviness of it pressed back against his hands, nearly rippling and writhing like a ball of pissed-off snakes.

No wonder Scaramouche was in so much pain, and Childe can’t help but grimace slightly in sympathy.

“Alright…just let me know if I’m hurting you okay. I’ll do my best,” Childe told him, hoping that his tone was reassuring enough. Scaramouche merely gives another weak broken whimper in response, his entire body tense and trembling in Childe’s grip.

Childe begins to carefully rub Scaramouche’s stomach, his hands moving in small soothing circles as he attempts to help it settle even slightly.

It’s nearly completely quiet save for Scaramouche’s soft shuddering breathing and the rather harsh gurgling of his stomach. Childe can’t help but be rather worried because while he’s seen Scaramouche sick before, it’s never been to this extent and honestly if Childe hadn’t known any better he’d think Scaramouche may have been poisoned honestly.

Scaramouche gives a slurred groan, his body tensing up further, the world seems as if it is almost spinning around him and he cringes curling further in on himself when his stomach makes a harsh growling noise as if snarling at him. It almost felt like someone had his stomach in a vice grip and was squeezing it tightly practically wringing it. The drool overflowing in his mouth begins to become too much to swallow back resulting in it trickling from his mouth down his chin, the back of his throat spasming with each breath.

Childe’s touch which is admittedly been soothing is doing nothing but making things worse, his stomach churning and sloshing violently in the direction of Childe’s rubbing.

Childe pauses when Scaramouche gives a nauseated-sounding hiccup and squirms slightly in Childe’s lap for a moment. “Scara,” Childe asked with a scowl, concern clear in his voice.

Scaramouche however doesn’t answer him, his breathing shuddering as he sits perfectly still in Childe’s lap.

Childe hears Scaramouche’s stomach make a loud, sickly growling noise, practically snarling. Before he can say anything however Scaramouche begins struggling almost frantically to get out of Childe’s grip and Childe lets him go, staring at him with wide eyes as Scaramouche quickly bolts to his feet.

Scaramouche darts towards the bathroom, with a hand, clamped tightly over his mouth. He nearly trips over his own feet in his haste but manages to make it slamming the door behind him.

For a second or two Childe sits there still in shock.

Scaramouche was definitely sicker than he’d first believed.

~~~

Scaramouche feels as if his stomach is trying to wring itself out like a wet washcloth as he sits on the toilet, an arm wrapped tightly around his stomach as he leaned forward slightly, panting heavily over the small trash can he’d hastily pulled into his lap when his stomach had finally had enough.

A near river of drool trickles from his lips like a faucet as it drips into the trash can. Sniffling Scaramouche gives a low very weak groan of pure misery, as a rush of heat prickles at his skin, the saliva flooding his mouth and dripping from his lips takes on an almost metallic taste, and tears of frustration gather in his eyes because he knows that there’s nothing he can do anymore and he hates it.

Scaramouche’s breathing hitches, his body tensing up as his stomach suddenly makes a loud, sickly gurgling noise and a loud rumbling burp pried itself from his lips as he gags weakly, a small yet dense trickle of thick, lumpy tan and green vomit dripped almost lazily from his lips as it falls into the trash can.

A horrific, utterly revolting rancid sour taste similar to spoiled meat and stale grease coated his tongue. The food he’d forced down in some vain hope that it would ease his symptoms had done nothing but fester in his stomach refusing to digest and that nausea that had been torturing him this entire time bursts to life.

Scaramouche does manage to take a deep breath right before a gurgling, rumbling burp pries itself from his lips so loud it seems to practically echo in the bathroom and his stomach heaves pain exploding across it as if fireworks were going off in his gut.

A wet, sickly hiccup pries itself from deep in the pit of Scaramouche’s stomach, the noise becoming garbled halfway through as an enormous, thick, wave of lumpy dark tannish vomit falls from his lips. The mess is dense, resembling thick freshly wet oatmeal as it nearly congeals together while falling from his lips.

The plastic bag lining the trash can crinkles loudly under its newfound weight as the mess congeals into a slimy almost glistening pile in its bottom.

As Scaramouche gives a garbled retch so violent it stings his throat, he feels something gurgle and shift almost beneath his stomach, thankfully however he’s already sitting on the toilet considering his stomach is intent on killing him as it tries to turn itself inside out from both ends.

Tears prickle his eyes and trail down his face as he choked up another wave of that thick, lumpy vomit, the slop pouring from steadily for a few moments before tapering off leaving him coughing wetly and gasping for air as a near torrent of drool dripping from his lips in thick threads. His face is a mess of bile, tears, sweat, and saliva.

Scaramouche can’t help but feel lightheaded, his head pounding and his breathing harsh. His body feels abnormally weak and shaky.

However at the moment, despite being horrifically nauseous his stomach seems to give him a brief reprieve although that tightness and heaviness is still present in his stomach, it still feels strangely full and Scaramouche knows that sadly this isn’t over for him.

He manages to clean himself up a bit before he staggers towards the door on heavily trembling legs, he feels extremely dizzy and weak. He’s panting as he opens the bathroom door being faintly surprised to see Childe standing there concern written all over his face.

Scaramouche doesn’t look good as he leans against the door frame, panting harshly as he looks up at Childe through half-lidded glassy eyes. His face is washed out, nearly ashen grey, slick with sweat, and his entire body trembling.

“Still feel sick,” Childe asked.

Scaramouche gives a slow stilted nod and manages to push away from the door frame and goes to take a step forward when his legs give beneath him.

Childe all but lunges forward catching Scaramouche under his arms to help hold him up and steady him. “Okay, it’s alright I gotch you,” Childe murmured softly as Scaramouche leans heavily against him, his body nearly limp.

Scaramouche gives a weak groan in response to his words, a simple acknowledgment that he’d heard Childe that doesn’t expand the minuscule amount of energy he has left.

As Childe carefully picks him up into his arms and carries him to the bed Scaramouche says nothing for once too spent and feeling far, far too awful to put up any of his usual complaints.

“I went to your room and got you something to sleep in since I figured you’d want to rest,” Childe told him softly as he sat Scaramouche down on the edge of the bed.

Scaramouche slowly glances at the yukata Childe had gotten for him but says nothing, merely slowly nodding again. Looking as if he’s doing his best to stay awake.

He remains quiet as Childe helps him change clothes, although eventually, he does speak as Childe is in the middle of tying the sash albeit slightly clumsily, Scaramouche’s hands gently resting on his to help guide him.

“Don’t…tell anyone,” Scaramouche whispers, his voice barely audible and raspy.

Childe is quiet for a few moments as he works, only meeting Scaramouche’s gaze when he’s finished. A soft sigh leaves his mouth, “I promised you I wouldn’t tell anyone last time. Nothing’s changed.”

Scaramouche gives a soft hum in response, closing his eyes for a moment, a slight grimace twisting at his lips when his stomach gives a low growl and that nausea washing over him in waves seems to spike sharply.

He really does hate this, he despised how weak and exhausted he felt. Hell, he was sure that if he tried he wouldn’t be able to draw enough elemental energy to himself to use his powers at the moment which left him defenseless.

Perhaps it was good that he’d gone to Childe’s room rather than his own. Scaramouche wasn’t well liked by his subordinates to put it lightly, although they did fear him and seemed to respect him due to that fear, if one of them found him in such a weakened state there was no telling what would happen.

“Such a weird human,” Scaramouche mumbled as he opened his eyes slightly.

Childe gives a soft snort of amusement. “I’ll get you some medicine and water really quick,” Childe told him as he got to his feet.

If he hadn’t felt as if his body were trying to kill him he may have complained, he may have told Childe to shut up so that he could think in peace but instead he doesn’t. He finds himself seeking out Childe’s soft touches and gentle words for once, as strangely enough, they seem to ease the fear and anxiety still layered over him like a blanket ever so slightly.

Scaramouche chalks this odd behavior up to the fever that is raging through his body combined with whatever was turning his body against himself. He’s sick after all as much as he hated to admit it, but although he hates it, it also gives him a convenient excuse.

A scapegoat for anything strange he may say or do at the moment. And once he’s returned to normal he won’t have to acknowledge this feeling ever again.

Scaramouche flinches, his hand going to his stomach when it gurgles loudly sending pain bursting along his stomach. The pain, the heaviness, the violent nausea all of it is still there, gripping his stomach as if trying to pop it.

Hearing Childe’s footsteps returning to his side Scaramouche opens his eyes as a distinctly wet-sounding hiccup pries itself from between his lips, and he feels bile bubbling at the back of his throat.

Childe pauses when another nauseated hiccup leaves Scaramouche’s mouth followed by a slurred groan of sheer misery as he squeezes his eyes shut.

Seeing Scaramouche’s quickly deteriorating state, Childe places the cup of water aside on the nightstand and quickly picks up the small trash can he’d placed by the bed earlier.

Scaramouche’s eyes flutter open, his grip on his stomach tightening as he opens his mouth slightly, seemingly to speak. Childe all but shoves the trash can into Scaramouche’s lap holding it for him just as a rumbling garbled burp has a surge of slightly watery, lumpy vomit spraying from his lips.

“Just try to get it up,” Childe told him gently, a scowl on his face as his other hand goes to Scaramouche’s back. Patting it when he begins coughing and spluttering, sounding as if he’s practically choking or drowning.

A retch so harsh that it both sounds and feels as if it’s clawing its way up from the very pit of Scaramouche’s stomach, has him lurching forward, tears prickling at his eyes once more. A stream of dense, slightly watery vomit pours steadily from his lips like thick slop being poured from a bucket.

Scaramouche gets no break nor chance to breathe as the mess streams from his lips, practically congealing in the bottom of the trash can glistening with bile and saliva in the light of the room. Childe can’t help but be shocked by just how much Scaramouche is still bringing up truthfully.

It wasn’t that Scaramouche couldn’t eat a lot but more that he didn’t think Scaramouche would’ve practically gorged himself while he felt like shit.

Childe’s hand leaves Scaramouche’s back to grab his shoulder instead when Scaramouche’s eyes begin fluttering and he begins weakly slumping forward, that near stream of vomit that’d been pouring from his mouth finally tapering off.

Scaramouche is left gagging weakly and panting, thin threads of bile and drool dripping lazily from his lips into the trash can. He stares almost blankly into space through eyes glassy with tears.

“Scara? Do you think you’re done,” Childe asked as he peered into Scaramouche’s face.

The other man is clearly fighting tooth and nail to stay awake. He’s trembling and shivering beneath Childe’s grip, his skin slick with sweat despite the heat Childe can feel radiating off of him from his fever.

Scaramouche feels as if he’s floating underwater, the world and sounds around him nothing more than a blur. Although he is able to register two things, Childe’s familiar hands on him and Childe’s voice.

“Here, the medicine should help,” Childe murmured as he held the pills up to Scaramouche‘s mouth. And Scaramouche opens it allowing Childe to place the pills on his tongue.

He can feel Childe’s hand on his back as the glass of water is brought to his lips, the water is slightly cold and feels nice on Scaramouche’s sore throat.

The glass of water leaves his lips, and Scaramouche sighed softly as he feels Childe guide him to lay down on the bed.

The sounds and world around Scaramouche are fuzzier now, even fainter. But he is aware of Childe covering him with the blanket.

When Childe’s fingers begin gently stroking through Scaramouche’s hair, Scaramouche can’t help but lean into the soothing touch.

“Try to get some rest,” He heard Childe tell him softly, just before he allowed himself to finally drift off to sleep.

#My writing #emetophilia #emeto fic #hurt/comfort #Seasickness #food poisoning #genshin impact #scaramouche genshin impact #childe genshin impact #genshin emeto #genshin sickfic #whump #male whump #genshin whump #anime whump #implied scat

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