To say you were his would be an understatement. Honestly, you were like an extension of him at this point. He’d lost so many people in his lifetime, and he’d die before losing you. He loved you in his own sick way, though it was closer to that of infatuation. You were never away from him—he brought you on missions (as long as they weren’t dangerous), you slept in the same room. It was an unhealthy attachment he had to you, but that didn’t mean he was any less of an abuser to you than anyone else. It was just how he was.

This mission was a particularly boring one. It wasn’t dangerous, at least not more dangerous than daily fatui life, so naturally he brought you along. The makeshift campground had a multitude of tents and fatui members patrolling the area, but you were sat in a tent with Scaramouche while he dried your hair from the pouring rain. “I hate when your hair is wet.” He muttered under his breath, exasperated with the effort he had to put in so your hair wouldn’t wet his pillow.