Hi Rinnie! You can consider this the second part of Reader!Cheshire Cat's request, or maybe not!
It's about the characters (Aventurine, Dr. Ratio, Moze, and Childe) arriving home exhausted from work, their minds tired, and they see Reader!Cheshire Cat watching TV while eating ice cream. They then head over, sitting on the couch and then lying on Reader!Cheshire Cat's lap. This doesn't really surprise them, as I expected that to happen at some point. Instead of joking around, they start telling a little story about Red Alice while stroking her hair. It's one of the rare moments where Reader!Cheshire Cat is calm and not his usual chaotic and conniving self.
I should mention that the story of Red Alice isn't technically a story about Reader!Cheshire Cat, but it takes advantage of the fact that there's no information about his "planet."
—–· ☀️🌻 ⟩ Anon.
“The Lap of a Liar, The Truth in a Touch”
Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Ratio x Reader, Moze x Reader, Childe x Reader, Cheshire Cat (from Alice in the Wonderland) based Reader, Comfort/Fluff, Established Relationships, Soft Moments, Post-Mission Exhaustion, Emotional Intimacy, Lap Pillows, Hair Stroking, Storytelling as Comfort, Quiet Domesticity, Hidden Vulnerabilities, Mild Angst with Comfort.
Warnings: Emotional Fatigue/Mental Exhaustion, References to Past Trauma (Implied), Mild Survivor’s Guilt / PTSD Themes (?), Touch-Aversion Briefly Touched Upon (?).
The door clicks open with a sharp turn, the sound of Aventurine’s distinct footsteps echoing against the marble. His overcoat flutters slightly as he removes it with a practiced flourish. He’s smiling—of course he is—but there’s a heaviness in his eyes, a drag in his step.
You don’t say anything. You’re sprawled on the couch, spooning ice cream into your mouth, a colorful show playing softly in the background. He pauses, as if debating how to keep up his flamboyant mask.
Then you pat your lap without a word.
“I was wondering when this would happen,” he murmurs with a smirk, tossing his hat onto the nearby chair. He lounges next to you first, then slowly lowers himself across your lap with a dramatic sigh.
Fingertips thread through his tousled hair. You begin to speak, voice low and uncharacteristically steady. “Red Alice once stood at the edge of her world, where the sand turned to glass. She didn’t look back, because she knew her past wasn’t behind her—it lived in her shadow.”
His eyes close.
There’s a flicker in his lashes, a twitch in the hand he thought he had hidden behind his back. Your hand brushes his cheek. No smirks, no cons. Just warmth. He lets it happen.
Ratio enters with the precision of someone who has calculated how many steps it takes from the front door to the couch. His shoulders are squared, but only out of habit. His mind is heavy, logic tangled in fatigue.
He doesn’t announce himself. He sees you: relaxed, TV humming, a spoon clinking in a bowl. Your ears twitch slightly, acknowledging his presence.
Without looking, you pat your lap.
“Statistically speaking,” he murmurs, “you were going to suggest that.”
“Not a suggestion,” you purr softly. “An inevitability.”
He sits beside you, then stretches across your lap like a question waiting for its answer.
You card your fingers through his hair as you begin. “Red Alice learned too late that logic couldn’t map her world. It curved at the edges, folding into dreams. But she walked it anyway, barefoot and brilliant.”
His breath slows. For once, he doesn’t need to speak. He just listens.
The door opens without a sound. Moze steps in, meticulous as always. Blood wiped from his gloves, hood already down, eyes tired but sharp.
He scans the room. You’re there. Ice cream. TV. A calm sort of chaos. You’re quiet—not your usual grinning riddle, not tonight.
You glance up. “Tough night?”
He doesn’t answer. Just steps closer.
You pat your lap.
He hesitates—longer than the others. But then he kneels silently beside the couch, then shifts his weight until he lies across your lap, tension trembling just beneath his skin.
You stroke his hair. Slowly. Gently. His lashes flutter but stay closed.
“Red Alice once buried her name in the snow,” you begin, “because she didn’t want to be found—not by gods, not by ghosts. But the snow melted. It always does.”
You feel the way his breathing changes. Subtle. But there.
He says nothing. But he doesn’t move.
The door bursts open—not harshly, but with that familiar Childe energy, now dulled. He walks in, throws his coat over a chair, and slumps his way in. His eyes meet yours.
You’re watching TV. Still eating ice cream.
He grins—crooked, tired. “You knew I’d come straight here, didn’t you?”
You pat your lap.
“Course you did,” he laughs, and plops down beside you. “Not gonna lie, I was hoping you'd say that.”
He rests his head on your lap. His hair is damp with snow, his cheek cold. You don’t mind.
You run your fingers through the ginger strands and begin to speak.
“Red Alice once danced with shadows at the bottom of a well. She wasn’t trapped. She was learning the dark. She said it taught her to see without light.”
Childe doesn’t interrupt. For once, he’s quiet. He stays still.
“You really are something,” he mumbles at last. “But I think... I needed this.”
