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This is Mumbo's least favourite part of being on the job: he can never rest. Not even for a moment. No matter how little is happening, he can't rest. He's known for a long time that he's more jumpy than the average person, but when he puts on the mask it's like a switch is flipped, and every sense he has goes on instant high alert. The howling of the wind, the quick footfalls of nearby pedestrians. Every motion and jerk out of the corner of his eye, it all gets scrutinised like a metal belt at airport security.
“Stop looking around so much, you're making us look suspicious,” Scar — Hotguy — whispers, voice muffled from within his helmet. Right.
Mumbo runs a hand anxiously through his hair, tugging at his mask as he does so. “Sorry,” He says, “just a little on edge.”
Scar nods, and goes back to watching the skies for intruders. Without the ability to physically check for danger, Mumbo instead reaches out into the extremities of the magnetic field, as far as he can go. This does little else but make him jump whenever a car passes by them, but at least it gives him a place to put his nervous energy.
It’s strange, the power he has. It’s mostly become second nature by this point, but he can remember when he first got it, how viscerally weird it felt whenever a car or a bike or any bit of magnetic metal would pass him. He’s tried explaining it many, many times to Scar, but he can never quite find the words. Mumbo’s aware of magnetic objects less like he’s aware of the colour of a rose, or the sound of a firework, and more like he’s aware of his own arm. Stray bits of metal will meld into his consciousness in a way that was — at first — distinctly uncomfortable. Now, he thinks, as he fiddles with one of the sharp blades still retracted into his gauntlets, it’s more like a grounding constant.
Mumbo looks out of the alleyway they’re hiding in. There’s still no one.
“Are you sure this will work?” Mumbo whispers.
“Not at all!” Scar answers, voice crackling the speaker.
Mumbo groans and knocks his head into the brick wall. Distantly, a fridge magnet knocks against his consciousness.
“I’m gonna be honest, that’s not at all what I wanted you to say.”
“It’s true! The nice guard we interrogated could have lied to our face.”
“I hate you. If I don’t get any sleep tonight because you got bad intel, I will kill you.” They both know it’s an empty threat. Mumbo was with Scar when they interrogated the "nice guard." If the intel is poor, and Octagon isn't here at all, he is just as much at fault as Scar is.
Scar, kindly, doesn’t point this out. Instead, they fall back into a tense silence; Scar, watching the skies through his night-vision screen, and Mumbo compulsively checking the road. What he wouldn't give for some night-vision of his own, if only so he could actually see the shadows he's jumping at. Maybe that's why Scar is so calm, because from where he's standing within his suit, the screens and sensors eliminate much of the unknown.
Quietly, so quietly he might have missed it if his senses weren't on such high alert, he hears Scar heave a shaky sigh. Maybe not.
It feels like they wait hours there, in that cramped little alleyway. Mumbo feels the seconds tick by, squeezing him like a slowly constricting python.
And then, breaking the quiet, monotonous, maddening nothingness, comes a sound like sails in the wind. Both Mumbo and Scar look around and lock on to two distant shapes soaring in the sky. Scar tenses, his large supportive boots clanking as the rockets fire up in preparation. Mumbo shrinks farther back into the shadows, releasing the magnetic blades from safely within his gauntlets to resting past his knuckles like claws.
They watch as the shapes circle slowly, disappearing once out of their range of vision for so long they worry their intel was poor, but then the shapes reappear and glide downwards, kicking up dust as they land in the road adjacent to them. Mumbo looks to Scar, not daring to speak, and he responds by raising his hand and then lowering it slowly, palm down. Mumbo waits.
Their intel was right, Octagon is here. The sounds of their footsteps and hushed conversation echo in the cold air. They don't know what they're doing here, but whatever it is, it can't be good. Mumbo and Scar’s greatest enemies, Octagon, have been terrorising the city for months, kidnapping civilians to experiment on with genetic grafting. They haven't figured out where most of the experiments go, but they've been tracking the three most prolific and dangerous ones for the past few weeks; Doc, Ren, and Parrot.
Against his better judgement, Mumbo flattens himself against the wall, and steps as quietly as possible towards the road. He can't sense any magnets in and of their tech — Octagon learned that lesson early on — but they had glided down just out of view, so he peeks his head just slightly past the wall, and takes a look.
Across the street, standing illuminated by the sepia glow of streetlights, are two people caught in a heated discussion. The taller one, Doc, has his arms crossed over his chest, and is doing his best to loom over the other person. Ren, on the other hand, either doesn't notice or simply isn't intimidated, because he's talking with the animated enthusiasm usually reserved for epic tales of adventure and glory. You could almost mistake them for regular people going about their business, albeit very late at night, if not for the obviously high-tech, wing-like contraptions strapped to their backs, glowing silver-blue even in the warm lighting.
Well, that and the fact that Doc's skin is bright green, and Ren has wolfish sharp fangs with claws to match.
Doc is, to their knowledge, the first experiment. Or at least, the first experiment that started causing large-scale trouble. He's part goat, evidenced by the large sharp horns spiralling out from his head on either side, god knows where the green came from. As he moves, the streetlight catches on his prosthetic arm and eye, shining directly into Mumbo’s own.
(What he wouldn't give to get a good look at that machinery...)
Ren followed shortly after Doc, and hasn't stopped since. He was grafted with a wolf, granting him vicious claws and a face full of sharp teeth, as well as a pair of wolf ears poking through his thick hair. Patches of dark brown fur cover his arms and legs, giving him the impression of a werewolf caught half transformed.
And Parrot...
...isn't there?
Mumbo looks over the pair, still locked in whatever conversation they're having, confusion hitting him like a blow to the chest. Since Parrot's addition to Octagon, Mumbo doesn't think he's seen any of the trio without the other two. The sudden absence sets Mumbo's teeth on edge. Maybe they've split up...?
Suddenly, Doc's eye meets with his own, and that's all the warning he gets before Doc charges, artificial wings splaying as thrusters shoot him forwards. Mumbo dashes out into the street just as Scar's own thrusters fire to meet Doc in a clang of metal-on-metal. Mumbo tears his eyes away from them, finding Ren typing frantically into a clunky watch-like device. His wings fan out, and Mumbo's acting before he can think, his entire world narrowed down to (don't let him get to the sky!)
He gets there fast enough. Artificial claws fully extended, he rakes though the thin material of Ren's wings, feeling the impact though his entire arm. No time to think about that, though, because now Ren is swiping with his own claws. He dodges left, too slow, and earns a bloody cut to the shoulder, but manages to duck the next attack and swing close enough for Ren to back up.
Gotta incapacitate him, gotta incapacitate him. This time, Mumbo is the first to attack, extending his hand and flinging the blades attached right at Ren's arm. He dodges, but one of them nicks a red line on his bicep. Using the momentum from the dodge, Ren turns and goes for a bite, just as Mumbo pulls his extended hand in, pulling the magnetic blades with it. Something seems to hit, because Ren grunts and pulls something out of his shoulder.
"Rude!" Ren shouts.
"Sorry!" Mumbo calls, not in the least bit sorry.
Mumbo tries the same trick again, launching the blades on his right hand, but Ren catches on and, still holding Mumbo's weapons, dodges and strikes. Claws rip through fabric and flesh, and it's all Mumbo can do not to collapse on the ground. He scrambles backwards, mind a tangle of (oh no oh no oh no) when suddenly an explosion rings out from above them. Mumbo hazards a look to his friend in the sky. Scar seems to actually be winning, which is the only good thing about this whole situation because that's when his head hits the floor.
His vision explodes with stars, and brilliant pain lights in the back of his head, but even through the shock he manages to dodge and roll away from the next hit. Ren growls as his claws rake jagged lines though the cobblestone where Mumbo's head was moments ago.
Mumbo staggers to his feet, or tries to, but Ren knocks him down again with a swift kick. All the air escapes his lungs as he falls into the street. A rock scrapes a red line on his hand, another injury to add to his quickly growing collection. Weakly, Mumbo tries to call his magnetic blades, but Ren catches them under his firmly planted foot and, holding them firmly in both hands, snaps all six in half.
(Oh no. )
While Mumbo is contemplating his now imminent closed casket funeral, Scar is thrown into the concrete next to him, sending a shockwave through the ground and more pain shooting through him where it shakes his injured side. Ren looks about ready to charge again claws first, and so does Scar as he begins to hoist himself up on an arm, but the approaching shout of "REN!" make all three of them look up. Swooping down on them is Doc, his own wings still intact. Realisation seems to dawn on Ren, though of what Mumbo has no clue, and he raises his arms above his head just as Doc snatches him and blasts away as fast as he can.
The soles of Scar's boots erupt in a miniature explosion, preparing to send him right back into the sky, but before they can activate, Mumbo shoves himself forward, gripping Scar's metallic suit and ignoring how the movement sends the gash on his side screaming in pain. The momentum pushes both of them off balance, sending Mumbo careening into Scar and Scar fighting to keep both of them on the ground.
"We can take them!" Scar shouts, "They're retreating, we can take them!"
"No we can't!"
"Yes we can!"
"Maybe you can, but I can't!"
Like a flipped switch, Scar turns to face Mumbo. There's the faint sound of a button being pressed, and then Scars helmet opens with the shing of metal on metal. He looks tired, and angry, and there's a small cut on his cheek, but otherwise he's untouched. Mumbo, on the other hand, feels wrung out. His breathing is fast and shallow, the cut on his side is leaking blood down his suit, and there's a faint pounding like a drum beat that he knows from experience will turn into a splitting headache. Scar's eyes widen with concern and sympathy. He must look awful.
Which makes sense, considering he feels awful. Much more awful than he did a few seconds ago, in fact. The wonders of adrenaline. The world momentarily goes blurry and the ground slips from under him as he stumbles, almost catches himself, then falls forward into Scar who actually catches him.
"Oh– oh no, oh– hold on I– I think I have something for that, if you– you should sit down just wait a second–" Scar stammers out, like a buffering video suddenly jumping through half a minute in the span of two seconds. He glances around the road, then clumsily walks Mumbo over to the alleyway they started in. Mumbo tries to mutter something about being able to walk on his own, but despite his complaints to the contrary, he really does need to sit down. So he does, half collapsing against the rough brick wall, breathing through pain he can suddenly feel again.
He lied, this is Mumbo's least favourite part of being on the job. Two years since he first started being Cobalt, and blood loss still hasn't gotten easier. He makes a tugging motion with his left hand at one of the broken pieces of metal on the ground, and watches it fling across the asphalt and stick to his hand. It's grounding, but the sharp metal irritates a cut on his hand, making him wince.
Mumbo is still in the process of slowly working through his adrenaline crash when the sound of metal clanking against concrete echoes through the alleyway. He turns, winces when the motion picks at his headache again, and spots Scar, backlit by streetlights, carrying a pile of clothes.
"This is all I could find, but there's a first aid kit back at my house, we can head back there and..." Scar trails off, but Mumbo is already shaking his head. Actually, he should probably stop moving his head so much.
"I've got one at home, it's closer." He makes a vague gesture to where he thinks his apartment is.
"Oh! Good, I can help you get up and we can—"
"No, no I can... I can get there on my own," Mumbo places a hand on the wall behind him to push himself up to standing. It's harder than he would like it to be, but he does manage to stand up, leaning heavily against the wall.
"Are you... sure?" Scar says, tilting his head like he's trying to solve a puzzle. "You don't look so good."
Mumbo scowls down at his black-and-white ripped suit like it personally offended him. No, of course he doesn't, he just got beat up! Badly! He doesn't say that, though. Instead, he plasters on a fake smile and tries to hide the limp in his step as he walks forward.
"I'm fine, really. It was mostly just post-fight nerves," Mumbo says. Not totally a lie. He isn't even shaking anymore.
Scar's eyes dart to Mumbo's left, where his arm is wrapped around the cut on his side. He tries not to squirm.
"Look," Mumbo sighs, dropping the metaphorical mask for a moment to let some exhaustion peek through. "I just want to go to bed, ok?"
Scar takes a moment to pick at his words, seeming to mentally toss and turn them, checking for any flaw. Eventually, he decides he won't find any, and nods. His metal boots clank against the concrete floor as he plods towards Mumbo, and places the clothes in his outstretched arms.
"Good luck," Scar says, before his helmet closes with a hiss, and he blasts away into the cold night.
Finally alone, Mumbo leans heavily against the wall again and heaves a sigh. He slips the sleeve of a white button-up shirt on, hiding his suit and his identity as Cobolt. Shirt buttoned, and the stretchy fabric covering his nose and mouth pulled safely down below his neckline, he makes a start on the grey trousers. Before he can gather himself enough to get moving, though, a dull thud echoes from somewhere near the alleyway. He shoots up, confused and wary, but no other noise comes. He listens for a moment, silent and still, before deciding that is a problem he can deal with while not actively bleeding.
He starts walking.
][][][][][
The walk to his apartment is slow and painful. Every time he puts weight on his left foot, pain shoots through it, leading to an odd limping stride. His headache has only gotten worse (does he have a concussion? He really, really hopes not), and a myriad of other scrapes and bruises he's collected through the night all vie for his attention, most persuasive of which being the gash on his side.
He moves his fingers, winces at the twinge of pain, and pulls his shirt up to take a look at the wound.
(No vital organs hit, that's good. He'd know if there were vital organs hit, but still, bright sides. He'll need to clean it and get it bandaged, but he probably won't need stitches? Which is good. Unfortunately, that means he won't be able to sleep until he gets it sorted, but he's had longer nights.)
He raises his arm to glance at his watch, displaying the time in bold white letters: 3:27AM. He sighs.
At least his apartment door is in sight. Mumbo can't quite remember getting there, which isn't a good sign, but he'll take what he can get.
Mumbo slips a key into the keyhole, leaning all of his weight on the smooth wood for a moment. He mentally steels himself for the arduous task that will be patching himself up, and then twists the key with a satisfying click!
Here's the first thing he should have noticed: the lights are on.
Well, that's not quite right. He very much does notice that the lights are on. It's difficult not to, with the way they bang against his headache like a nail splintering wood. He blinks blindly, then screws his eyes shut, closing and locking the door with a single twist of his hand.
Here's the second thing he should have noticed:
"Ouch. Bad night huh?" Parrot says.
The noise that leaves Mumbo's throat is not one he's proud of, somewhere between a scream and a squeak. He jumps sideways, trying to reach for a weapon that isn't there, when he remembers his twisted ankle just as it collapses under him. On his way down, he manages to anger some scrape or bruise in his collection — though at this point they all melt together too much to pinpoint which one — leaving him grunting in pain when he tries to get up. He resolves to just prop himself up to sitting against his coffee table, instead.
(Oh, he thinks, in the distant way of someone in a lot of pain and a lot of danger. That's where Parrot went.)
Parrot, for all Mumbo knows he's dangerous, doesn't exude strength the way Doc and some of Octagon's other experiments do. His clothes are ordinary, the fraying hem of a red knit sweater flowing over top of simple grey trousers. If circumstances were different, he might not even take notice of Parrot walking down the street. The only sign of his affiliation with Octagon is the clunky black watch-like device he's fiddling with in one hand, that the group uses to communicate. That, and the massive multi-colour wings folded behind him, their strength matched only by the knife-sharp talons growing from his hands and feet.
To his credit, Parrot does manage to look slightly rueful. His wings fluff up in surprise and he hops back a step from where he's sitting. In Mumbo's apartment. On his kitchen counters.
Maybe it's the exhaustion, or the potential concussion, or maybe Mumbo's just lost more blood then he thought, but of the many, many things he wants to say, what ends up reaching his mouth is "Wh— get off of my counters!"
Parrot, maddeningly, does not get off of his counters. Instead, he cocks his head to the side, eyebrows knit together in something resembling — worry? Concern? That can't be right. The gaze of his sharp, hawk-like eyes makes him feel like a wounded animal being examined, or like he's a potential enemy being sized up. But his expression doesn't look angry. Mumbo doesn't know what to do with it, so he sits and holds his breath, like if he broke the silence between them then whatever is keeping Parrot from attacking will break with it.
Finally, after an hour-long moment, Parrot seems to come to some kind of decision. The feathers on the side of his face and ears flit with something Mumbo can't decipher, and then he hops down from the counters with the sickening screech of talons on linoleum. Mumbo has just enough time to register the gashes left behind, before his conscious, fighting brain snaps back into action.
(Parrot is walking over to him. Oooooh, that's not good. He's in no state to fight right now, even the thought sends phantom pains shooting through him. He's got no weapons, no backup, he can't even stand. If this came down to a fight, he'd stand no chance.)
His eyes are drawn to the vicious claws extending from every one of Parrots fingers, black and sharp and reflective. He knows from first hand experience just how deadly those claws can be, and the thought only sends another jolt of panic through him, gripping his heart like a stress toy.
Parrot is saying something, but Mumbo's hectic heartbeat is far too loud in his own ears to understand whatever it is. He tries to shuffle backwards, which succeeds in digging the corner of the coffee table painfully into his back and little else. His frantic searching for something, anything finally stops when he gathers himself enough to feel the magnetic field, his mind grips around something, no time to think just act he tugs on it and—
"Ow!" A fridge magnet collides with the back of Parrots head. Great. His feathers fluff up in agitation. "A fridge magnet, really?!" Parrot squawks indignantly.
"I don't know! I panicked!" Mumbo shouts. Parrot inspects the little magnet — a souvenir from some trip or other, probably from Impulse — with a sneer, like it had personally insulted him. Then, he tosses it unceremoniously backwards, letting the little object clatter to the floor.
With his now free hand, Parrot reaches towards Mumbo, who bats it away.
"No, no, stay away, what are you doing?" Mumbo stammers, shuffling awkwardly to his left, as far away from Parrot as he can manage.
Parrot moves with him, leaning with his head first, an owl stalking its prey. "You're hurt," He says, brows knit together in that odd expression again, the one that would almost look like worry if Mumbo didn't know better.
"Yeah, cause your friends beat me up!" Mumbo says, gesturing wildly with an arm and quietly calling the fridge magnet to his hand with the other.
Parrot wrinkles his nose at that, the feathers near his face flitting again. "We're not friends. More like... coworkers," He says, as he tries to lift Mumbo's shirt up from his bloody wound. He jerks sideways.
"Stop moving."
"Get out of my home!"
Parrot rolls his eyes at this, which Mumbo thinks is a bit unfair. "For goodness sake— don't you think if I was going to kill you, I would've done it by now?"
"No! I have absolutely no idea why you're here, or what you want with me!"
Parrot's feathers ruffle in something that might be anger, or annoyance. He grabs Mumbo's wrist, harder this time. Mumbo drops the magnet in surprise, and Parrot uses a talon to kick it into the far wall. "I'm trying to help you!" he shouts, then grabs Mumbo's other wrist, pinning him to a neaby table. His claws dig into Mumbo's wrists, not enough to draw blood, but enough to warn, like running your finger down a knife's edge. Mumbo flinches instinctively, but instead of whatever he expected to happen, Parrot simply lifts Mumbo's shirt to expose the slash on his side. He has just enough time to wonder, again, what Parrot could possibly want from him, before Parrot pokes some angry nerve ending and he stops wondering much about anything.
Parrot makes some kind of displeased sound behind his teeth, and releases Mumbo's shirt, but the iron grip on his wrists doesn't move. Eyes still shut in a pained grimace, Mumbo doesn't see Parrot move, but he feels the sharp pinpricks of claws prodding his face. Somehow, despite how wicked sharp Mumbo knows Parrot's claws can be, he doesn't cut him. The display of self control is impressive, and frightening. This is someone who knows intimately the limits of their own power.
Then, just as unceremoniously as everything else, Parrot lets go. It's like a weight has just been lifted off of Mumbo's shoulders, and he gasps like he’d forgotten to breathe the entire time Parrot was scrutinising him.
Mumbo opens his eyes to stare, incredulous, at Parrot. He's shuffled back a step, head cocked to one side and crouched low on hawk-like legs, wings splayed wide for balance. He's staring at Mumbo still, wide black eyes trained on his face.
"You've got a cut on your head," Parrot says bluntly, making a vague gesture near his own hairline. Mumbo reaches up a hand, only for it to come back sticky and wet.
"Oh," He mumbles. "I.."
With as much warning as he's given everything else — that is to say, none — Parrot jumps up to standing and starts opening all of Mumbo's cupboards. The sudden shift of action seems to snap Mumbo's mind back to working, breaking him out of the shocked spell he was under.
"What are you— oomf!" Mumbo tries to say, but is cut off when his attempt at standing sends a shock of pain through him. He half-tumbles back down, managing to hit his elbow on the way, and feels it smart like sparkling water in his bones.
"Sit still," Parrot chides, opening another cupboard. He takes out a bag of flour and dumps it on the counter roughly, letting a small puff of powder escape, all the while frowning like he'd been personally insulted. His face lights up when he spots something in the cupboard, and he takes out a bag of sunflower seeds held loosely with one hand. He doesn't close the cupboard.
Mumbo, resigned to his fate and too confused and sleep deprived at this point to be truly scared anymore, does as he's told. He suspects another attempt at standing would yield similar results to the others, so it's probably for the best. Instead, he slumps against the coffee table, and waits for... something. For this to start making sense somehow, maybe.
"Where do you keep your first aid kit?" Parrot asks.
"What?" Mumbo says, wrenching his eyes open (when had he closed them?) He cups his face in his hands tiredly. All the fighting is doing worse for him than he'd imagined.
"Oh, please don't tell me you don't have a first aid kit? You've been doing this for how long and you haven't even bothered to get a first aid kit? "
"No, obviously I have a first aid kit! What do you want with my first aid kit?"
Parrot grabs a handful of sunflower seeds and shoves them in his mouth, looking Mumbo up and down and lingering on his side pointedly. After a moment he deadpans, "To stop you bleeding to death."
Shocking even himself, Mumbo rolls his eyes. The motion sends a stab of pain though his potentially-concussed brain, but he ignores it as best he can. If the idea of Scar fixing him up makes him want to crawl out of his skin, the idea of Parrot doing so makes him want to abandon his flesh and bones entirely.
Instead of explaining any of that, Mumbo responds in a clipped tone, "I think I can do that myself, actually."
"Riiiiight," Parrot drawls, mouth half-full of sunflower seeds. He swallows, sets the bag down, and continues searching haphazardly through Mumbo's personal belongings.
"Would you stop messing with my things!" Mumbo shouts.
"You need medical attention, so whether you like it or not, I am going to find your first-aid kit," Parrot says, knocking over a stack of books on a table. "Or, you could just tell me where it is and let me help you!"
"Sorry if I don't immediately trust in your personal goodwill, you've tried repeatedly to kill me!"
Parrot turns on his heel so fast his claws carve into the wood. Mumbo winces. "For goodness sake, you were fine! You are fine! Like I already said, if I wanted to kill you I would have just done it by now!" Parrot's wings flare behind him, reaching two or three heads above even himself, like a looming owl. Mumbo tries not to flinch.
Mumbo opens his mouth to say — something, he's not entirely sure — but Parrot beats him to it, eyebrows knit together in something similar to that strange, almost-worried expression from earlier.
"Is it about the first-aid kit? Do you not like people treating you?" He cocks his head to the side, neck twisting in a slightly unnatural angle. "That's odd. Your group never seemed like the type to care about showing pain, unless—" His face lights up, wings folding back into a slightly less threatening position, "Oh, that's why you didn't want Hotguy coming with you! You didn't want him to fix your wounds. Oh, you made my job a lot easier. There I was, worried I'd have to cause a scene to stop the other guy with you right there, and then you split up, and all I have to do is wait until their back is turned."
Mumbo is silent for a moment, waiting for his mind to catch up to the strange word-vomit he just witnessed. Disjointed thoughts shove past each other to the fore-front of his mind, tumbling over each other in a jumble of (how did he know about that) and (Scar and I were alone) and (the sound in the alleyway) and (wait.)
"That was you? " Mumbo squawks.
Parrot huffs and crosses his arms, the feathers on his face flitting again. "Well, I didn't kill them if that's what you're wondering. Figured your lot wouldn't appreciate it."
"Er, thanks?" Mumbo says.
"You're welcome," Parrot says genuinely, "now, where is your first-aid kit?"
A long-suffering groan escapes past the hands Mumbo has cupping his face. "I told you, I can handle it myself. "
Parrot raises an eyebrow at him. "Ok, then get up and get it." It sounds like an accusation.
Mumbo grimaces, braces himself to get up, and manages for all of five seconds before his bad leg collapses under him again. Parrot looks unconvinced.
"Look, whatever thing you have with medical care, or whatever, you cannot stand up right now and I can, so at the very least let me get the kit for you."
Mumbo scowls, but the part of his brain that is deeply exhausted and in pain has to admit Parrot is right. He points towards a chest of drawers in a corner. "Second one from the top."
" Thank you, " Parrot bows theatrically, and goes to grab the square green box from where it's been collecting dust.
Parrot sets the box down next to Mumbo's leg, along with a bowl of water and a clean rag, and jumps onto the dark blue sofa sitting facing the table. He hops up onto the arm, knees to his chest, balancing easily and idly carding fingers through a wing, while Mumbo opens and looks through his medical supplies.
Parrot, even when he isn't talking, isn't silent. It's less about the actual noise he makes, Mumbo thinks, and more to do with how much space he takes up. Oh, sure, he isn't a particularly imposing figure. His head reaches somewhere around Mumbo's chest, but that's not counting the massive wings. It isn't even really that, though. There's something about the way he watches people, with his full attention at all times, that makes the hair on Mumbo's neck stand up. He's just watching, not even doing anything, like a hunter stalking its prey, like an owl watching a mouse, with the same almost-worried expression as before and Mumbo—
"You know, you need to actually move the towel to use it," Parrot says from his perch on the sofa. Mumbo refocuses from where he's been staring vacantly at a bowl of water, clean cloth in hand for... probably too long. Right.
"Right," he says, and takes a steadying breath. He can do this. It won't hurt that bad. No one else will see him— well, other than Parrot.
He glances back at the man in question, who's still staring at him intently. He looks back at the bowl of water.
"Do you need help?" Parrot asks smugly.
"I'm fine, " Mumbo says convincingly.
Parrot, apparently, is not convinced. He makes a tsk sound against his teeth and jumps over Mumbo with the soft rustling of wings, landing smoothly in front of Mumbo and the bowl of water.
He makes a grab for the towel. Mumbo yanks it out of his grip, almost spilling water all over the wooden floors.
"What do you have against being helped?" Parrot asks. It's the kind of question you would expect to be sarcastic, but Parrot's voice is entirely earnest, head tilted to the side quizzically.
"I'm not sure what you expected to happen, but after all the times you've tried to kill me I don't exactly trust you. I don't even know your name. " Frustration tinges the edges of his voice, and he tries to stamp it down. There's no point wasting his energy being angry, especially when Parrot hasn't even done anything wrong, this time. If his story is true, then he actually saved them from being attacked in the alleyway. If they had been cornered there, or if Scar had been followed, or if Mumbo had been attacked when he got home instead of just surprised out of his skin, the night would be going a great deal worse than it already was, so there's no reason for him to be angry—
"I think it's Grian," Parrot says.
"What?"
"My name," He says, which surprises Mumbo enough that his eyes snap to Parrot's — Grian's? — face. His gaze has lost a bit of that piercing quality, looking down at himself introspectively instead of through Mumbo's soul. "I don't really have a life outside of, you know," He gestures to his wings, "Not really called much other than Parrot nowadays, and I don't remember a lot from before Octagon, but I think I was called Grian."
"Oh. I'm sorry?" It comes out more like a question than he intended it to, like he's asking permission to feel sympathy for the other man's name being taken from him. He shrugs noncommittally, expression regaining it's normal uncanny quality.
"Do you want me to call you Grian, then?" Mumbo says as he puts the rag down, first-aid temporarily forgotten.
"Can if you want to," Grian says, giving another shrug. The feathers on his face and wings ruffle, and he combs a hand through them absent-mindedly, looking actually uncomfortable for the first time since he broke into Mumbo's apartment. The expression is gone as soon as it comes, replaced by chaotic glee as Grian successfully snatches the rag in his claws.
"Ha!" He says, pumping his fist in the air. He makes a grab towards Mumbo, who flinches involuntarily, but seems to catch himself, some unreadable expression crossing his face. Mumbo thinks he can actually see the gears turning in his head, like a child rethinking acting on an impulse for the first time in their life. He almost wants to laugh.
"Er, can I— I mean, if you don't want me to, you can..."
Mumbo shakes his head and pushes the water bowl towards Grian. "No, it's..." He takes a deep breath, consciously forcing his jaw to unclench. "It's fine."
Momentary lapse of impulse control forgotten, Grian soaks the rag in water and begins cleaning Mumbo up, starting with the gash on his side. Every tug and pull of cloth sends a shock wave of pain, but even when he squirms or flinches, Grian's claws never draw blood.
"Alright," Grian says, as he pauses to soak the rag again, "I told you my name, now you tell me what's up with you and your injury-thingy."
Mumbo opens his mouth to say something, probably along the lines of "I don't have an injury-thingy!" closes it again, and turns the question over in his head. On the one hand, he could refuse to answer, but Grian did give him his name, and it only feels fair to give something in return. He isn't sure when he stopped worrying about Grian killing him, but he isn't, and it provides a good distraction from how vulnerable he feels. After a probably-too-long moment of silence, he starts speaking, carefully avoiding Grian's eyes.
"It's not that I feel ashamed, exactly, it's more..." He looks at his hands, still covered in scrapes from the fight. He traces a scar going from the base of his thumb to his middle finger with his eyes, and remembers the fall that had gifted it to him, he pictures the dodge he should have taken, how easily he could have done it. Maybe, if he'd just been better , they would have won.
"I started doing this to protect people. When I get hurt, it's because I did something stupid. Because I didn't do my job right. And then I need those people, who I failed to protect, to fix me? No, they shouldn't have to do that. It was my mistake, so I should be the one to fix it."
He feels a sharp sting as Grian puts some antiseptic cream on a cut. "Well that's stupid," Grian says bluntly.
"Hey!"
Grian continues as if Mumbo hadn't interjected. "Those people you're trying to protect won't be getting protected if you're taken out of commission by sepsis.”
Silence falls over them for a moment, broken only but the splash of water as Grian soaks the rag again.
“My name’s Mumbo,” Mumbo says, surprising even himself. “Since, you gave me your name and all. S’ only fair,” He drawls tiredly. He hadn’t exactly meant to say it but, well, there it was. And he can’t find that he regrets it.
Neither of them can come up with something to say to that, so they say nothing at all. All the excitement from the night, the fighting and the losing and the bleeding and Grian, is starting to take its toll on him, dragging his eyelids down like they're weighted down by dumbbells. He could probably fall asleep right there, and would have, if not for his injuries being prodded and poked as Grian tries to save him from a nasty infection. For all he's clearly experienced with this, and his obvious attempts at being gentle with his claws, Grian has a bit of a rough hand, leaving Mumbo in just enough constant discomfort to keep him from falling asleep on the spot.
Mumbo feels a gentle poke on his arm, that he brushes off as Grian doing something or other, and then he feels a decidedly less gentle jab to his cheek. He blinks his eyes open (he should probably keep better track of when he closes them, at this point) and finds that Grian has wrapped a bandage around his midsection, and applied plasters to the various cuts and scrapes collected on the rest of his body that weren't quite bad enough to warrant a bandage.
Grian himself is balanced on the arm of the sofa again, arm extended like he was prepared to poke Mumbo again if he had to. Seeing that Mumbo was in fact awake, he opens his hand, palm facing up, to turn the motion into a helping hand. Mumbo takes it.
He feels like he should say something, but all the fight has drained out of him like water from a squeezed sponge, and all really wants to do is fall asleep. Grian looks as awake as ever, but he is talking less, so maybe that's his way of appearing tired. These are all lovely questions that Mumbo will try his hardest to answer in the morning. For now, he lets Grian tug him onto the couch, where he lays down and finally, finally, closes his eyes.
Mumbo has enough wherewithal, before sleep takes him, to think (oh, maybe I should call Scar) before exhaustion catches up to him, and he goes out like a light.
][][][][][
Grian is up before Mumbo is.
That's fine, he doesn't exactly need to sleep the average eight hours, but it does leave him a lot of time to think.
Betraying Octagon had been a nerve-wracking decision, though not an impulse one. He'd been planning and plotting for weeks before he heard news of their latest scheme, and opportunity struck. Originally, they really were going for their own reasons, but when Doc learned that one of the guards cracked, they managed to turn it around into a trap.
His job had been to tail Hotguy. Instead, he knocked out the person meant to tail Mumbo and snuck in through the window.
Telling Mumbo his name had been somewhat unexpected, if he's honest. As is the effect being called Grian again has on him after so long. He supposes, as he hops back onto Mumbo's counter and reaches into a bag of sunflower seeds, maybe it's not such a bad thing.
There's a knock on the door, bringing Grian out of his thoughts. He hears a key in the lock and stands frozen for half a second before years of training kicks in and he hides behind the door. Not a great hiding place, but in the worst case scenario, he can probably beat whoever it is in a fight.
(Unless it's Octagon. He probably can't beat Octagon in a two-on-one fight, and Mumbo can't help in his state.)
Sudden fear lances through him, not for himself, but for Mumbo. That's... unusual. He squashes it down, stuffing it into the space beneath his ribs. If it's Octagon, they'll find a way to deal with it.
It's probably not Octagon anyway. Why would Octagon have a key to Mumbo's apartment?
The sound of the door opening brings Grian back to reality. From where he's standing, he can't see whoever just came in, but their voice carries more than well enough.
"Good morning, Mumbo!" The voice calls?, to the very much still asleep Mumbo. The owner of the voice starts to shut the door behind them and Grian winces in preparation. "I know you said you're fine, but I just wanted to check up on you and make sure you were actually fine, oh and by the way I brought soup— OHMYGOSH."
The door shuts, revealing to Grian a wide-eyed, brown haired man, scar covered face staring at him in shock as he wheels his wheelchair as far back as possible, landing against the far wall. Grian pulls his wings in and tries to look non threatening.
From the couch, Mumbo stirs, mumbles something, and then shoots upright. The motion probably aggravates something, and instead of whatever it is he was going to do, Mumbo crumples in on himself like a piece of paper. Grian and the newcomer both make a move like they're going to help Mumbo, and then catch the other doing the same, and then stop like they're rooted to the spot.
"Ow! Scar it's fine he's with us!" Mumbo says in one breath, and that's when it hits him.
" You're Hotguy?" Grian shouts.
"You're Parrot!" Scar — Hotguy — yells.
"He's Grian," Mumbo says.
Hotguy turns to him, confusion twisting his face. "You know his name?"
Mumbo sighs, rakes a hand down his face tiredly. He pats the sofa, beckoning them closer, “I think it's time we all got formally introduced.”