Chapter Text
Scar stood half-turned in front of Grian, sword raised, breathing hard, trying to keep his emotions under control. Every time he blinked, he saw the hand around Grian’s throat, the casual smirk as the mercenary had him pinned to the wall, pleased with himself as Grian fought for air.
Scar pushed his rage back down; he couldn’t afford to lose focus. Not with Grian right here.
Across the hall, a few of the braver mercenaries finally stopped hesitating and decided to be stupid.
A blast of water slammed into the row of chairs Martyn had overturned as cover, drenching the metal and sending a spray across the floor.
Martyn was somewhere on the edge of Scar’s periphery, moving like he was having the time of his life. He hurled a table with telekinesis so it skidded into a cluster of guards, knocking them off their feet in a tangled heap of limbs and rifles.
A second attacker came in from Scar’s left, swinging hard for his ribs.
Scar twisted aside, catching the strike on the flat of his blade. He hooked the man’s wrist with practiced precision and wrenched. The weapon clattered to the floor.
Before the mercenary could even gasp, Scar stepped in on the recoil, sword gliding up until the edge rested against the man’s throat.
He leaned in, voice a private murmur at the man’s ear.
“Walk out of sight,” Scar whispered, “and take as many of your comrades out of this fight as you can.”
The mercenary’s eyes grew wide as he turned and walked away, past his own confused peers as if nothing was wrong.
Another attack flashed in from the side, heat and light, and Scar twisted out of its path, cloak snapping.
Scar exhaled, irritated, glancing back.
Grian was still where Scar had left him, staring at the chaos around him. He was clearly exhausted, swaying where he sat on the floor as if his body were only upright out of stubbornness, his wings drooping behind him.
Scar’s grip tightened around his sword until the leather creaked.
He needed Grian out of here before he did what he was very much in the mood to do to these pests. He was restraining himself because Grian didn’t need to watch him turn this place into a bloodbath.
The hair at the back of Scar’s neck lifted as the shadows around Grian began to expand. The Count materialised out of Grian’s shadow, already dropping to one knee beside him with a concerned expression.
Scar took one look at the scene, scowled, and kicked the nearest guard into a wall on principle.
The Count’s red eyes flicked up, locking with Scar’s.
They traded a glance that contained nothing but mutual annoyance and reluctant understanding.
They both knew the plan they’d agreed on was the best option for Grian’s safety. Neither of them liked it. Scar couldn’t work with Grian sitting on the floor, looking like a ghost of himself.
Scar drew in a breath and raised his voice, letting it cut through the chaos.
“All not aligned with the Syndicate,” he said, sharply, “don’t move.”
The command hit the room like a weight.
Most of the guards froze instantly. Weapons suspended mid-raise. Eyes widening, pupils blown.
Some didn’t, earpieces, probably. People who thought they’d found a clever loophole.
Cleo made a delighted sound and moved over to handle the stragglers as Martyn came trotting over casually as if they weren’t standing in a room full of paralysed men and screaming alarms.
“Time to go?” he asked.
Scar nodded once, glancing at the door. More guards would be here any second.
His gaze cut back to the Count.
“Stick to the terms,” Scar said, voice low and sweet, “or you’re dead.”
Grian stirred, blinking hard like he’d been pulled back into the room. He turned his head toward Scar, his wings ruffling and flaring faintly before settling again.
“No killing Mumbo,” he said, sternness threaded through exhaustion.
The Count let out a huff and glared at Scar like he’d just been personally insulted, “I’m under compulsion,” he snapped. “Even if I was half as treacherous as you seem to think, I couldn’t break the deal if I tried.”
Scar’s eyes narrowed behind the mask. “I don’t make deals on faith.”
Grian’s gaze flicked between them, baffled. Then he blurted, “Wow. You’re… working together now?”
Scar, the Count, and Martyn answered at the exact same time.
“No!”
Grian blinked, then snorted, despite himself.
Something boomed in the distance.
A muffled explosion, deep enough to make the lights tremble, and a fine dust drift from the ceiling.
Scar didn’t even flinch. “Bdubs is starting early,” he muttered.
Martyn stepped closer to Grian and the Count, casual as if they were discussing errands. “You can take us to the old train station on Fifth,” he said. “I’ll get a car to come fetch us from there.”
Grian’s gaze darted up to Scar, frowning. “Aren’t you coming?”
Scar glanced back over his shoulder at the room. At the guards and mercenaries frozen in place, eyes wide, bodies locked mid-breath.
“Just have a bit of cleaning up to do,” Scar said.
Grian gave him a look that said he knew exactly what that meant, but didn’t have the energy to say anything.
The Count’s shadow rose, curling around Grian’s legs as Martyn stepped closer, settling a hand on Grian’s shoulder to steady him, only for the Count to swat it away with a scowl.
Martyn laughed, clearly delighted by the tension, and Grian let out a long, tired sigh.
As the darkness rose and closed around them, Scar caught Grian’s voice barely more than a mumble.
“Can we get cake?”
Then the shadows folded in, and they were gone.
Scar watched the last trace of it vanish, then turned back to the room.
The decision had been made in a hurry, a quick, heated argument shouted as they sprinted through sterile corridors, trying to catch up to Grian while he was still running from the guards.
The Syndicate base was the safest place for him to disappear to, at least until Scar and Xisuma could deal with whatever scraps of the Commission might still decide he was worth taking.
Xisuma and the Count had reluctantly agreed, but only on one condition.
The Count went with Grian.
Scar had only agreed on his own condition. A compulsion, to make damn sure the Count wouldn’t so much as think about revealing the base’s location or running off with Grian.
He would join them soon. He wanted to properly check on Grian.
But first, he had business to take care of.
A grin spread across Scar’s face, sharp and hungry behind the mask, as he started walking toward the frozen men, twirling his sword with slow anticipation of what was to come.
Two months passed before things started to resemble a routine again.
Grian stood beside Xisuma and blinked as the cameras went off like a strobe light, his wings curled tightly against his back. As the weeks had passed, they’d solidified into something more real, no longer flaring at random, only lighting up now when he healed.
The press conference was over. Finally.
He realised too late, as the last few photographers shouted for one more shot, that he’d forgotten to smile again. Xisuma had asked so nicely beforehand too, all quiet and hopeful.
Grian had nodded and fully intended to do it.
He just… kept forgetting.
The public narrative was that he looked so stoic because of the trauma and weight he was carrying. Because he was bravely holding himself together in front of the nation.
Meanwhile, Grian was just bored out of his mind and thinking about when it would be over.
He fell into step as they were led away from the podium, Xisuma’s presence steady at his side.
At least this was the last one for a while. The hype had started to die down, the city finally finding new things to obsess over.
Turns out the Ashen Angel wasn’t nearly as exciting when he wasn’t being constantly kidnapped.
He still seemed to have been appointed as the city’s unofficial mascot. He’d seen a tourism flyer with his face on it last week, for goodness’ sake.
At least people were starting to leave him alone in person. Mostly.
“You want to go get some lunch?” Xisuma asked as they neared the cafeteria, walking at that steady, unhurried pace.
Grian made a face. “Thanks, X, but I need to get back. Gem sent me a message half an hour ago.” He sighed. “There was an argument between a group of pensioners and a bunch of teenage skateboarders, and it somehow escalated into… an incident.”
Xisuma’s laugh startled out of him, warm and real. “An incident.”
“One skateboarder got his head bashed in with his own board,” Grian said, deadpan. “And we’ve got several old people with broken hips and dislocated shoulders because apparently they decided mobility was optional today.”
“I get it,” Xisuma said, still smiling as they turned down the corridor. “You’re doing good work. I’m proud of you.”
Grian ducked his head, pretending to focus very hard on not walking into anyone.
Xisuma’s tone shifted, gentler. “Have you sorted out your living situation yet?”
Grian’s smile went a bit lopsided. “It’s still… on and off.” He sighed. “Scar and Mumbo refuse to let me just live above the clinic on my own. Mumbo doesn’t want me staying with the Syndicate, and Scar doesn’t want me living with Mumbo again.”
Xisuma said, casually, “You could move in with me.”
Grian blinked. “Huh?”
“At the tower,” Xisuma said, like it was the simplest option in the world. “It would be like when you were little.” His voice softened a fraction. “And now that we don’t have to worry about the Commission the way we used to, you really do have every option available. You know that, right?”
Grian swallowed. Something tight rose up in his throat. He shook his head anyway, touched by the offer.
“Thanks, X,” he said, careful with the words. “Really. But… I’ll figure something out.”
Xisuma didn’t push. He just nodded once, like he’d expected the answer, and like the offer would still be there regardless.
They split at the doors, and Grian stepped out into the glare of midday and the last stubborn cluster of reporters being herded back by security.
A Hero Commission car waited at the curb to take him back to the clinic.
Grian paused for half a beat before he got in, because it was still strange, the idea of willingly climbing into anything with the Commission’s crest on it.
He slid onto the back seat anyway, hands folding in his lap as the door shut with a soft, solid thump.
A couple of months ago, the Commission had nearly torn itself apart.
After a huge data leak, everything they’d buried came spilling into the open. Underhanded deals. Experimentation. And, of course, what had been done to him at the research facility.
The fallout had been immediate and ugly. The public outrage, the investigations, the screaming headlines.
And to top everything off, the board members had vanished. The entire top layer of the Hero Commission had disappeared overnight. No bodies. No arrests. Just gone.
Grian had a suspicion of what had happened to them. He didn’t dwell on it.
He could still remember the feeling of eyes on him through a two-way window, the quiet shuffle of people whispering while he filled one band after the other. If they were gone now, he couldn’t find it in himself to care all that much.
Xisuma had stepped into the role of Commissioner in the middle of all the controversy, and somehow managed to drag the whole organisation into something that almost looked like reform.
With Xisuma in charge, things had genuinely changed. Public opinion of the Hero Commission was the highest it had ever been.
Grian stared out the window as the car pulled away, watching the city slide past, and braced himself for a clinic full of angry seniors and skateboarders.
By the time the afternoon rush finally thinned out, Grian felt like he’d been run over by a truck.
He washed his hands and shook out his wings before stepping through the archway that connected the clinic to the attached coffee shop.
Whiskers & Wellness was quieter now. The soft hum of conversation had settled into something calm, the kind of atmosphere he’d wanted when he’d imagined this place.
And then he saw them.
Two very familiar figures, sitting on separate benches, trading occasional glares across the café as if eye contact alone counted as a fight.
Pearl stood behind the register, methodically wiping down the counter and pretending with impressive dedication that neither of them existed.
“Guys. Seriously,” Grian said, staring between Scar and Mumbo. “Why?”
“What, a man can’t come say hello to the cats?” Scar said, at the exact same time Mumbo responded, “I’m on my break. Just stopping by.”
Grian pinched the bridge of his nose, then walked over, looking at them.
“Either order something,” he said, “or go loiter somewhere else. Preferably separately.”
Scar leaned back, boots crossed, perfectly at home. “I’ll take a black coffee.”
Mumbo didn’t even glance at the menu board. “Tea. No sugar.”
Grian turned to start making their orders when Pearl smiled and set a hand on his shoulder.
“I’ve got it,” she said, already turning. “It’s your break.”
Grian didn’t argue. He walked over to the benches and, very deliberately, sat down on the third empty one between them.
“Nothing is going to happen,” Grian said, flatly. “Between both the Hero Commission and the Syndicate, making it very clear my shop is under their protection… nobody is going to mess with this place.”
Somehow, his clinic and café had become neutral ground for the city’s heroes, villains and vigilantes alike. It was still strange, seeing Syndicate members and heroes drinking coffee 6 feet apart, giving each other the stink-eye, and doing absolutely nothing about it.
Because the first person to throw a punch would be in trouble with some of the most powerful people in the city.
So no one dared.
Pearl appeared a moment later with a coffee and a pastry, setting them in front of him. She gave him a small, knowing smile.
“Oh, thanks, Pearl,” Grian said, relief softening his shoulders. “I really need this.”
A warm little weight hopped onto his lap. Grian looked down to find Pearl’s namesake making herself comfortable in his lap. Maui was close behind, nose twitching as he zeroed in on the croissant.
“No,” Grian told him immediately. “Not for you. You had lunch already.”
Maui ignored him, obviously.
Grian scooped him up anyway and shifted him onto the bench beside kitten Pearl, where Maui promptly pounced, attacking the feathers on Grian's wings.
He’d adopted the two of them three weeks ago. They were still settling in, skittish around clients, and mostly glued to Pearl and Grian whenever the café got busy.
Mumbo cleared his throat, clearly trying to sound casual.
“Erm. So, Grian,” he said, eyes fixed very intently on his tea. “I was thinking. Maybe it’s best if we just… you know. Stay with the Syndicate. We’re already settled in. Not really any sense in moving.”
Grian stared at him, genuinely taken aback. “What, really? You’ve been trying to get me out of there since the whole research facility rescue.”
Mumbo’s grip tightened around his cup, knuckles paling as he searched for the right words.
Grian’s eyes narrowed. He turned sharply to Scar. “Scar. Did you compel him to say that?”
Scar looked genuinely affronted. “No! I wouldn’t.” He lifted a hand like he was swearing an oath. “Honest.”
Then he paused, just long enough to be suspicious, and added, a little too smoothly, “Mumbo’s right, though. No sense moving out.”
Grian looked between them slowly.
They had never agreed on anything before. Scar had only recently started calling Mumbo by his name instead of some creative insult. Something was off.
“What’s going on?” Grian asked, voice flat. “You two are hiding something.”
An awkward silence dropped over the bench like a blanket.
Grian waited, expression patient in the way that wasn’t patient at all.
Then he said, sweetly, “If you don’t tell me, I’ll move into the apartment above the clinic on my own.”
Both of them snapped their heads toward him.
“No!” Scar said immediately.
“What?!” Mumbo said at the same time, eyes wide.
Grian lifted his brows. “Spill.”
Scar let out a long, put-upon sigh, “Fine. There are rumours,” he said, careful now, “of an outside organisation that’s entered the city’s borders.”
Mumbo cut in, voice lower. “Information’s still scarce, even in the underground, but…” He hesitated, then forced the words out. “They seem very interested in the Ashen Angel.”
Grian sat back, the air going a little colder in his lungs.
“Oh,” he said quietly.
Scar must have seen something in Grian’s face, because he responded quickly.
“It’s nothing to worry about,” Scar said, voice bright, “We’ll have it sorted in no time.”
Mumbo nodded, a little stiff. “We will. It’s just rumours, and even if it isn’t, they won’t get near you.”
Grian didn’t fully believe the reassurance, but he let the tension in his shoulders ease a fraction anyway. At least it explained the sudden, suspicious agreement.
And, honestly, it did solve the living situation drama.
He liked living with the Syndicate. He liked the mess of it, the noise, the fact that people argued and nobody treated him like he was made of glass. He especially liked that he and Mumbo had adjacent rooms in the main living area.
Grian had just finished his coffee when Gem popped her head into the café side.
“Grian?” she called.
He glanced up. “What’s up?”
“There are a couple of people who got shot during a bank robbery,” Gem said, already backing toward the clinic with that brisk, competent energy of hers. “They need help.”
Grian was on his feet instantly, shooing Scar and Mumbo away and out the door.
“Civilians?” he asked, trotting over to Gem.
Gem’s mouth twitched, then she grinned, “No. Erm. The robbers.”
Grian let out a laugh as he followed her through the archway. “Of course.”
His clinic was one of the only places villains and criminals could come for healthcare without getting hauled off in cuffs. Neutral ground meant no arrests, no ambushes, no “just this once” exceptions. And with so many people feeling like they owed Grian, anyone who tried to cause trouble got dealt with swiftly.
He still remembered the first week they’d opened. A bunch of thugs had rushed in, shouting at everyone to get down. They’d barely lifted their guns before the clinic erupted around them.
Three heroes that were in the cafe came rushing in, two villains waiting for check-ups stood up, and a small group of vigilantes halfway out the door turned straight back around. The thugs got hit from every direction at once.
They’d had them surrounded and pinned in seconds.
After that, the city learned.
Whiskers & Wellness hasn’t had any issues since.
Grian let out a tired sigh as he switched off the clinic lights. He walked through the archway into the café, doing one last check that everything was set for the morning. Chairs up. Counter wiped. Cat toys not directly in the path of human feet.
Then he locked up.
Pearl and Maui were tucked into the big front pocket of his hoodie, two warm little lumps that purred contentedly as he moved. Grian turned toward the street, already expecting the Syndicate car waiting to take him back.
It was there. Scar and Mumbo were, too, bickering in low voices, as if they’d been waiting all day to argue in worse lighting.
Grian walked up, staring at them. “Really? You were here four hours ago.”
Scar glanced over, completely unbothered. “I didn’t have much to do today.”
Mumbo scoffed. “He means he got bored and decided to make it our problem.”
They glared at each other and then started talking over one another again.
As they climbed into the car, Grian finally caught the core of what they were arguing about.
“I mean, really,” Mumbo continued, “You’re making him a Syndicate villain suit.”
“It’s not a villain suit,” Scar said. “It’s a statement.”
Grian paused with one hand on the door, blinking. “Scar.”
Scar looked at him like this was perfectly reasonable. “You can’t keep getting put on tourism pamphlets and not have a proper outfit.”
Mumbo made a strangled sound. “It has the Syndicate logo on it!”
Grian laughed under his breath, warmth spreading through the exhaustion. He slid into the back seat, Pearl and Maui shifting in his pocket, both kittens utterly unbothered by the ongoing dispute about his future as a fashion icon for criminals.
Before the door shut, he glanced back at Whiskers & Wellness.
The sign glowed softly in the dark. The windows were clean. Inside, it was quiet and safe in a way that had once felt impossible.
Maybe it wasn’t a normal life for most people.
But it was his.
And as the car pulled away, Scar and Mumbo still arguing, Grian leaned back with a small smile and thought, honestly, it was pretty great.