"This House Is Loud (And I Love It)"
a/n: Request from anon! This can be taken as a timeskip from this or just a separate story. Anyway, Scara’s trying his best. He really is. (He’s losing.)
pairing: scaramouche x you
Your mornings had changed a lot since the "just-us" days.
You used to wake up slow — tangled in sheets, Scaramouche curled around you like he was guarding something precious (because he was), the sun peeking through the curtains lazily. He’d grumble if you dared move before 10, swearing you were disrupting his 'beauty regeneration cycle.'
Now you were being woken up by a xylophone.
"Rise and shine, Mama and Dada! It’s concert day!"
The metallic twang of off-key notes echoed across the bedroom as your four-year-old proudly banged her musical weapon of choice, standing on the foot of the bed like a victorious general.
You groaned into your pillow. "Sweetheart, It’s Sunday. That means quiet cuddles, remember?"
"But I made a song for the family cat!"
"We don’t have a cat," Scaramouche said, voice muffled under the blanket.
Eventually, you dragged yourselves out of bed — Scaramouche grumbling the whole way, hair in a state of rebellion, clutching his coffee like it was holy water.
Your daughter was already at the kitchen table, surrounded by crayons and a sheet of paper she proudly called her "adoption contract" for the imaginary cat. You couldn’t help but laugh when she demanded both your signatures in pink glitter pen.
Scaramouche raised an eyebrow. "Where’s the clause that says I won’t be scooping anything out of a litter box?"
"She said you’ll handle the 'emotional support cuddles'," you said helpfully.
He gave you a flat look. "I hope our next pet is imaginary too."
By midday, your living room looked like an art exhibit curated by a toddler on a sugar rush. Paper scraps everywhere. Glitter on the couch. One sock in the fridge (you still don’t know how that got there).
Your daughter was in the middle of constructing a "princess pirate palace" using every pillow you owned.
You were curled up on the couch watching her, mug in hand, when Scaramouche dropped beside you with a deep sigh.
"I stepped on a Barbie shoe," he muttered. "I think my foot has filed for divorce."
You laughed, patting his thigh. "At least she didn’t glue googly eyes to your computer again."
"She named them last time. And gave them a backstory.”
"Be honest. You kinda liked it."
"…Okay, yeah. Officer Wiggle-Eye did have a tragic past."
Later that afternoon, after the chaos had calmed down and your daughter was happily watching cartoons while lying upside down on the bean bag, you and Scaramouche snuck into the kitchen for your rare moment of peace.
You were sipping your drink, back against the counter. He was beside you, arm brushing yours.
"She’s too much like you," he said suddenly.
You smirked. "She gets her stubbornness from you."
"I wasn’t talking about the stubbornness. I meant the sparkle pens, the dramatics, the bedtime refusal speeches—she’s you."
You laughed, warm and full. "Is that your way of saying you’re doomed?"
He grinned against his cup. "I’m saying I’m already outnumbered."
You both turned your heads at once. Scaramouche called back, "What is it now? Did the couch become lava again?!"
"No!" she shouted. "I want a baby brother! Can I have one?"
Scaramouche visibly froze with his cup mid-sip.
"…I’m sorry," he whispered. "What did she just say?"
You bit back a laugh. "She said—"
"I heard what she said, I just—what kind of cartoon gives kids that idea?!"
You shouted back, "Why a brother, sweetheart?"
"So I can boss him around!"
You reached over and gently patted his back as he coughed, tears pricking the corners of his eyes. "You okay there, love?"
"She wants to lead a cult," he gasped. "A bloodline."
You were cracking up now, leaning into him for support.
Your daughter peeked her head into the kitchen, casual as anything. "So? Can I have one?"
You and Scaramouche looked at each other.
And then he turned to her with a totally serious face and said:
"Ask me again after I finish this cup."
She blinked, then nodded solemnly. "Okay."
As soon as she left, he turned to you with wide eyes. "She’s not serious, right? Right?!"
You smirked and leaned in, voice sweet and deadly: "Well, she did draw a family portrait earlier. And it had four people in it."
Scaramouche looked at the ceiling like it might give him divine answers.
You kissed his cheek. "You’d survive another one."
He gave you a look. "I barely survived the first one."
"But you’d do it again, wouldn’t you?"
And then slowly, reluctantly, lovingly... sighed. "Only if it comes out as chill as me and not like a glitter-bombed hurricane."
You raised your mug to clink his. "We’ll see."
And in the living room, your daughter had already drawn a new family photo.
This one had a baby in it.
Had Scaramouche’s exact scowl.
And he loved every second of it anyway.
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