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Scar was used to seeing a lot of crazy things. He worked as a university teacher, of course he saw a lot of the wild trends his students got into. And he was obviously familiar with his fair share of medical problems, given the fact that he had to use a cane to get around.
But this? This was new.
He’d gone to Grian’s expecting the normal routine the two of them had worked out for every Friday night: coffee, baked goods, and grading papers together whilst gossiping about their respective students. It was a well established thing, something dependable, something Scar looked forward to every week.
Except—this time, when he arrived at Grian’s apartment and let himself in, he didn’t find the usual setup.
No, this time, he found the avian on the ground, back pressed against the wall, with a large bruise blossoming on his forehead.
Scar gasped, dropping his work bag and immediately rushing over to Grian, eyes wide and concerned and mouth going dry at the size of the knot growing on Grian’s skull.
Stars , that was big.
But when Scar reached out, hands slightly shaking, to try and help , Grian swatted it away.
“I’m fine,” he snapped, something flashing in his flushed face.
Scar paused, bristling for a moment, frustration trickling under his skin. He was trying to help, after all, and why couldn’t Grian just accept it?
But under all of that frustration there was… concern, bubbling to the surface.
Because Scarr knew Grian, he knew him like the back of his hand. He was stubborn, he didn’t like to ask for help, and those traits only got worse when the problem was actually bad.
And, and Grian was a lot of things, but—
—but at the moment, despite what he insisted, he didn’t look fine.
“Go away,” Grian said, voice sour, scooting away from Scar and deeper into the wall. His eyes were pinched and pained but his glare was striking.
The other man wrinkled his nose. He had plenty of practice dealing with Grian’s prickly personality, but worry was making it hard. Unease rolled through his stomach, turning his lunch around. “Um, no.” The words came out harsher than he meant them to and he swallowed, going for a softer tone. “You’re hurt, Grian.”
“I said I was fine.”
The retort would have been a lot more convincing without the slurring of words.
Scar sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose the way he always did when he was frustrated. Really, stars above, why did Grian have to be so stubborn? Would it actually kill him to accept help every once in a while?
Yes , Scar thought, bitterly. It might actually kill his coworker to let himself be taken care of.
“Grian,” Scar tried again, moving closer, shoving his exasperation aside, “you’re not fine. You probably have a concussion.”
Grian glared, but it didn’t hold a lot of weight to it. In fact, his whole expression was just one large, painfully painted over grimace. “ You probably have a concussion,” he murmured, an excellent comeback if Scar had ever heard one.
“Yeah,” Scar agreed, not bothering to argue with an injured man because he knew there was really no point. “Can you try to sit up for me?”
Grian winced at the idea, but he still complied, shifting his weight off of the wall and forward. “Dizzy,” he said, face screwed up into pain, pupils dilated. He swayed softly, as if dizzy despite sitting down.
“I know, I know,” Scar tried to soothe, all frustration bleeding out of him. It was replaced by mounting worry, growing stronger and thicker until it was all he could feel.
He reached out with his hand, slowly, glad when Grian didn’t hit him away again. Carefully, he ran his fingers over the bump on Grian’s head, acutely aware of the deep bruise forming.
“Is’ bad?” Grian asked, eyes half lidded, like he was suddenly tired. The fight seemed to have drained out of him, and Scar felt sharp panic slicing through him. As much as Grian’s sass annoyed him, it was better than not responding at all.
“You’re fine,” he said, the irony of the words not lost on him as he slowly eased Grian back against the wall. “Stay still.”
“Aye, aye.”
Slowly, trying to remain calm, Scar got to his feet. He grabbed his walking stick from where he’d discarded it and made his way towards the bathroom, crouching down to rifle through the cabinet.
Surely Grian keeps bandages around here somewhere, Scar thought, hurriedly, almost desperately. He didn’t want to leave the avian alone for too long.
His heart lifted when he finally found them, hands wrapping around the medical fabric. He pulled them out, struggled to his feet, feeling somewhat triumphant.
Yeah, he could do this. Just bandage Grian up real quick, then call Mumbo, then—
“Scar?” Grian called from the next room, interrupting his thoughts, and Scar felt his heart spike at the pitiful tone. “I think—”
And Scar jumped when he heard a gag, and then the unmistakable sound of vomit hitting the floor.
He rushed out of the bathroom, practically sprinting down the hall to see Grian, still slouched against the wall, holding his stomach.
He was sitting next to a pile of puke.
Scar felt his own stomach spike and he swallowed, eyes slightly wide.
At least he didn’t throw up on himself, he thought, bitterly, shifting closer the slightest bit.
It was a grim bright side.
“Sorry,” Grian murmured, eyes finding Scar’s and radiating apologies, face flushing with embarrassment and something else.
“No, no,” Scar assured, carefully sidestepping the mess and kneeling next to Grian. “It’s okay. It’s—ah—it’s okay.”
Grian just sighed, tilting his head back and thumping it against the wall, then wincing from the motion.
“Okay, let’s just,” Scar started, awkwardly grabbing Grian around the middle, trying to avoid the vomit, “Let’s get you to the couch. Sound good?”
The man hummed in response, eyes not really seeing as Scar guided him towards the living space. He settled Gran carefully on the couch, trying not to jostle him too much.
“Ow,” Grian mumbled, wings curling uncomfortably behind him. “Watch it.”
“I know,” Scar murmured, swallowing thickly. He wasn’t quite sure what else to say. “I’m . . .going to get you some water.”
Grian didn’t respond and Scar took that as his cue. He limped towards the kitchen, filling a mug with tap water, nervously running his hands under the faucet. He considered, briefly, if maybe he should take Grian to the hospital.
But he wasn’t really sure he could get the avian into the car without injuring him further. And besides, Grian was way too prideful and stubborn to willingly go to the doctor, and Scar didn’t want to force him.
Which left him with one choice.
Sighing, Scar pulled out his phone, shooting a quick text to Mumbo. He slipped it back in his pocket just as fast and grabbed the mug, making his way out to Grian.
Panic lit in his heart when he saw that the avian’s eyes had slipped closed. And he was lying so still.
He couldn’t be—
There was no way—
Scar could feel tingles on his skin and he stumbled over, hand hitting Grian hard in the chest, gentleness the least of his concern.
He tried to quiet his frantic breath, hands shaking against Grian’s heart.
Please, please.
And then, after a moment. . .
Thump, thump.
Scar sighed in relief, slumping forward, the taste sweet in his mouth.
Not dead. Thank the stars.
Steeling himself, Scar brought his hand off of Grian’s chest. He’d sloshed the water in his panic, but only a little bit. Nothing too bad.
Gently, Scar brought his fingers to Grian’s face. He tapped his coworker on the cheek, hand much gentler than before . The avian’s eyes rolled behind their lids.
“Come on, Grian,” Scar urged. “I have some water for you.” A pause, in which nothing happened. “Grian, wake up.”
“Not. . . thirsty,” Grian slurred back, eyelids lifting but only barely.
“You have to drink something.”
“I don’t want to.” This time his voice was stronger, face more awake. He at least was fully looking at Scar.
Good. If agitating Grian was what it took, then Scar could do that just fine.
For once, the avian’s stubbornness was reassuring.
But. . .it also posed a problem. Scar really did need Grian to drink. He needed to get fluids in him.
“A deal,” Scar tried, a small idea popping into his head. “If you drink this water, I’ll leave you alone.”
Grian narrowed his eyes. “Lying,” he accused.
To his credit, Scar definitely was, but Grian didn’t need to know that.
“I’m not lying. I promise.”
The avian looked at him, expression screwing up, and Scar realised too late that it wasn’t in scrutinization.
Grian whipped his head to the side, barely managing to lean over the armrest before he puked.
Again.
Scar closed his eyes for all of a second, then moved forward, rubbing Grian’s back between his wings with a gentle hand as the avian coughed and choked and gagged.
When it was all finally over, Grian sat back, heaving breaths. He practically yanked the cup from Scar’s hand, gulping down the liquid, disgust plain on his face.
“Yuck,” he gasped when he was done, cup nearly empty, eyes straying to the mess next to him.
The mess that Scar undoubtedly would have to clean up.
Scar shoved that thought away, concern taking the forefront in his mind. He didn’t know much about head injuries, but he knew throwing up twice in less than ten minutes couldn’t be good.
He had to bandage Grian up, quick.
Scar snatched the fabric from the coffee table, unrolling it with quick, skilled hands. Grian watched him with bleary eyes.
“I’m going to bandage you,” Scar warned, and he expected Grian to maybe argue back, at least a little bit.
Instead, the avian just sat there, blinking spasmodically.
Scar took that as his cue and got to work, weaving the cloth around his friend’s head, careful not to clip his ears.
Just as he was tying it off, he heard the doorbell ring, and relief sank into his weary bones.
A moment later, Mumbo walked in, looking somewhat frazzled, worried, his hands carrying a small bag that Scar hoped was filled with supplies.
“Why does it smell like—?” he started to ask, then stopped when he saw the mess on the ground.
“Yeah, it’s bad,” Scar said in terms of greeting, looking back towards Grian. “Definitely a concussion.”
“I’ll say,” Mumbo replied, tone somewhat high, but he moved forward anyway. “How many times has he—um—”
“He’s thrown up twice,” Scar answered before Mumbo could stutter through the question. “And he seems pretty out of it.”
“Not—out of it,” Grian jumped in, startling them both.
Mumbo leaned down into Grian’s line of sight. “Hey.”
Grian blinked tiredly. “Hi.” His voice was wobbly and pitched.
Mumbo set his bag down, unzipping it and rifling through with skilled hands. Scar had always wondered how, considering how anxious Mumbo got, the man managed to act so calm in situations like these. It was one of the reasons Scar had texted him.
“Scar,” Mumbo said, over his shoulder, as he guided Grian into lying down, “do you wanna clean that puke?”
“Oh, sure, stick me with the gross job,” Scar snorted, rolling his eyes.
“Scar,” Mumbo warned.
The disabled man backed up, his hands held in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. Sheesh.”
Though, to be perfectly honest, Scar didn’t mind leaving Grian to Mumbo. Mumbo was a lot smarter than him; he probably knew what to do way more than Scar did.
So Scar set about cleaning the messes, trying not to breathe through his nose, bleaching and wiping until everything was ‘just so’ again. He knew how neat Grian liked it, so even if Scar didn’t particularly like to clean, he did as good a job as he could.
When he returned to the living room, Grian was lying down, a cold compress pressed to his forehead. His eyes were half closed and he was focused on Mumbo, who was telling some sort of story.
“—and it wasn’t so terrible, you know. Some people are just bad people, but others are good—”
“Mumbo?” Grian asked, eyes still closed.
“Yes?”
“Shut up.”
Scar stifled a laugh at Mumbo’s stunned expression. “Tired, are we?” he asked Grian, finally stepping fully into the room.
“Very,” Grian replied drily but for a moment, Scar could hear the pain behind the words. It made him pause.
“Is it okay for him to be sleeping?” he asked Mumbo, who nodded. “Then maybe we should let him.”
“Excellent idea,” Grian mumbled, sinking more into the cushions. His wings settled around him, feathers soft and comfortable. Like a blanket, Scar realised.
“Sleep well,” Mumbo replied, carefully standing and dusting himself off. Scar waved him towards the kitchen and together they tiptoed their way over, out of earshot of Grian.
“He’s going to be okay?” was the first question out of Scar’s mouth.
Mumbo settled on a bar stool at the counter, sinking into it wearily, eyes slightly concerned but confident. “Yes, he’ll be fine. Definitely in pain and dizzy and probably nauseous, but he’ll be fine.”
Scar sighed in relief, slumping against the counter. His face felt warm, smushed against the cool top. Beneath him, his leg ached with pain, but he shoved it aside, focusing on the consolation working through his system.
After a moment of silence, though, he finally mumbled out, “Um, thanks. For, uh, for coming. I was kind of panicking.”
Mumbo huffed a small laugh. “I mean, it was pretty scary. It’s a good thing I took that EMT course before I went to college.”
“Yeah,” Scar murmured, finally sitting back up. He rubbed a tired hand across his face. “Why did you stop that, by the way? You could’ve been a paramedic, but instead you’re a science professor that teaches a bunch of tired students.”
Mumbo shrugged, eyes turning slightly downcast. His gaze flitted to the clock, and Scar looked, too. It was nearly midnight.
“Well,” Mumbo started, and Scar snapped his gaze back to the taller man, “it sounds ironic, but it was honestly because of my instructor. He taught us all these skills, and even though he had every right to be upset with us over all our mistakes—and there were a lot —he . . . wasn’t.”
Mumbo blinked, lifting his eyes to meet Scar’s. “I wasn’t in the best place when I took that course, and my instructor really helped me. It made me realise that I wanted to help others the same way. I wanted to teach.”
“So you went to university,” Scar prompted.
Mumbo nodded. “Yup. And it’s served me well.”
Scar mulled this information over. He’d known for a while that Mumbo had changed career paths, but he’d never asked why. It was a nice story.
“Well, we’re glad to have you here,” Scar replied, shooting Mumbo a smile. The taller man returned it in force.
“Now,” Scar said, turning to rummage through the cabinet, “the real question is, would you like some tea?”
Mumbo huffed out a laugh. “Would Grian mind?”
“After saving his butt? He better not.”
Mumbo’s laugh was brighter this time. “Then count me in.”
Scar smiled over his shoulder, producing two mugs.
“So, do we have any idea what happened?” Mumbo asked, after a moment, as Scar started filling the kettle. He thought about what type of tea to make. It was late, but he didn’t really plan on sleeping tonight anyway.
Black tea it was.
He shrugged in response to Mumbo, turning on the stovetop. “Not sure. I came over to grade papers with him like we always do, and I just found him dazed and sitting on the ground.”
A frown pulled at Mumbo’s lips. “No furniture is noticeably broken, or anything like that,” he thought aloud.
Scar hummed. “True.”
“Think he was attacked?”
The idea sent little pricks of irrational fear scattering through Scar, but he waved them away. “Nah. Like you said, nothing’s broken. No sign of struggle.”
Mumbo nodded, as if convincing himself as well as Scar. “Right. But then what—?”
“No idea,” Scar said, awkwardly, when Mumbo trailed off. He drummed his fingertips on the counter, appreciating the calming motion. “I guess we can ask him once he’s better.”
The kettle whistled, saving Mumbo from having to reply, and Scar quickly tended to it. He poured the tea and passed a mug to Mumbo. “Careful, it’s hot.”
Mumbo wrapped pale fingers around the steaming drink, breathing in the scent deeply. “It might take a few days, even weeks, for Grian to be back to normal,” he warned.
“He’ll have to call off work, then,” Scar realised.
“He won’t be happy about that.”
Scar raised his glass tentatively, blowing. It was still too hot to drink. “It’s a good thing we found him. How much you want to bet he’d have gone to work anyway?”
The taller man’s nose crinkled in slight worry, because even though Scar was joking, the thought really wasn’t all that funny. “Well, considering how often he comes in sick, I’d bet quite a lot.”
Scar sighed. “He really is an idiot, isn’t he?”
“He’s our idiot,” Mumbo retorted. He lifted his cup in the air, something aching in his eyes, like he was desperate to lighten the mood a bit. “Cheers?”
Scar smiled at the semi-childish gesture and returned it in full, black tea sloshing out and onto the counter when his mug smashed into Mumbo’s. “Cheers.”
The two of them drank, tea hot and startling, but also comforting, too. Scar finished his too quickly and refilled his cup.
“So, I’m assuming you didn’t grade any papers,” Mumbo guessed, somewhat conversationally, a hint of humour in his voice.
Scar groaned, letting his eyes slip shut. “Don’t tell me you’re really trying to get me to do that now .”
Mumbo smiled sheepishly. “No time like the present.”
Scar sighed, taking another sip of his tea to avoid answering. Sure , he knew he wasn’t going to sleep tonight. And yes , he did have some papers that were supposed to be graded and logged and then passed back by Monday.
But he didn’t want to do them.
“Stars forbid I actually relax after one of my best friends has a huge health scare,” he grumbled towards his tea, and Mumbo let out a low chuckle.
“I wouldn’t call that a huge health scare. But. . .” and his expression dropped, face turning towards the living room where Grian was still sleeping. Just like that, the mood was somber again, jokes laid aside in preference for the shock at present. “It definitely was scary.”
“I wish we knew what happened,” Scar said after a moment of hushed silence. “You really don’t have any ideas?”
Mumbo shook his head. Took a small sip of tea. “None.”
Scar sighed, raising his own mug to his mouth. “I guess we’ll see.”
****
It was a few weeks before Grian was back to normal again.
Scar stayed with him for most of that time, helping the avian out. He was dizzy and in a ton of pain, but nothing too bad that an advil couldn’t handle. Still, Scar refrained from asking about the cause of the concussion.
He’d wait until Grian was (mostly) fully healed for that.
The avian had been, predictably, forced to call off work. Scar aided in grading the late papers, but other than that, the work load relied entirely on a substitute.
“I hate subs,” Grian had grumbled, holding an ice pack to his head. “They always mess things up.”
Scar had stifled a smile and nodded sympathetically.
Mumbo came by every few days, whether to offer soup and crackers or just to interact with them. Grian couldn’t handle bright lights, so the three of them sat in the dark, swapping stories until Grian’s headache flared again.
He only puked one more time, which Scar counted as a bonus.
At the end of the few weeks, when Grian was moving around on his own and didn’t flinch at every loud noise, Scar deemed it an appropriate time to ask. He signaled to Mumbo, who was over, and the two of them slid into bar stools while Grian prepared them lunch.
“As a thank you for taking care of me,” he said, smearing peanut butter on bread, “you both get PBJ’s.”
“I don’t like PBJ’s,” Mumbo mumbled.
Grian pretended like he didn’t hear him.
“Yeah, yeah, we’re great and all that,” Scar jumped in, before an argument could start, waving his hand, “but. . .we have a question.”
Grian eyed them, squinting his eyes. “What?” He asked suspiciously.
Scar glanced at Mumbo, really quickly. He mustered his courage, took a deep breath. “You gotta tell us, Grian. How did you hurt your head in the first place?”
Scar watched as Grian’s wings tightened behind him at the question, though his expression didn’t change. “I’m not sure.”
“Bull,” Mumbo declared, calling out the lie almost immediately. “You know.”
“And it’s only fair for you to tell us,” Scar added, reaching for the peanut butter, trying to lighten the mood a little bit. He snatched the spoon from Grian’s hand and helped himself to a large scoop.
“Why is that fair?” Grian snapped, yanking the tub from Scar. “I didn’t see that anywhere in the contract.”
“Well, it was in the fine print.”
Grian sighed, pinching the bridge for his nose, clearly frustrated. “Why do you want to know so bad?”
“Call us curious,” Scar shot back.
Call us concerned.
Grian tapped his nails on the counter, his wings ruffing and unruffling behind him. “This is stupid,” he hissed.
Scar and Mumbo stayed quiet.
“I don’t have to tell you,” Grian reasoned.
Again, silence.
Grian deflated, looking away from them for a small moment.
“Fine.” He crossed his arms, fingers digging into his own skin, face flushing. “So—you know how I’m an avian?”
“Uh, yeah? ” Scar responded, gesturing exaggeratedly to Grian’s parrot-like wings.
Mumbo offered a much more polite, “Yes.”
“Well, there’s this thing about— about birds,” his words were choppy, disconnected. “They can’t, uh, they can’t see. . .glass very well.”
Scar blinked, the dots connecting themselves up in his brain. He set his spoon down. “Wait. So what you’re saying is—”
Grian held up a hand, clearly embarrassed, gaze shifting around the room to avoid meeting their eyes. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
Mumbo leaned back in his chair, processing the information. “So—you walked into your sliding glass door?”
Grian put his head in his hands. “Yes,” he said miserably, voice muffled.
Scar sat there in stunned silence, Mumbo mimicking him. He almost wanted to laugh.
“You really can’t see glass?” he asked instead, voice lined with disbelief, after a moment.
Grian’s face flushed. “Um, no. I can’t.”
“Wow.”
“How come we never knew this about you?” Mumbo jumped in, listing his head to the side to study Grian. “Like, is there a reason why?”
Grian became very interested in getting a new spoon from a drawer.
“Grian,” Scar pushed.
“Ugh, it’s because it’s stupid , okay?” Grian finally snapped out, wiping his hands on his sweater.
Scar felt his eyes widen at the outburst. Beside him, Mumbo stiffened, something akin to shock rolling through the air.
Grian swallowed, shoulders hunched forward. After a moment, he continued, voice softer, “It’s just, Iike, this dumb thing that makes me different. No one else has to deal with that. I was just. . .embarrassed.”
The last word was whispered.
Scar just sat there, feeling widely out of his league, heart thumping in his chest. Grian wasn’t—well, sure, he’d known that being an avian was sometimes a sour subject with Grian, but he hadn’t known—he didn’t realise—
“Well,” Mumbo murmured, after a long, long moment, “If it helps, we don’t think of you as someone different.”
Scar nodded, jumping on the wagon immediately. “Yeah. You’re our friend , Grian. We don’t care if you have wings or don’t have wings.”
“Or if you can see glass or not,” Mumbo added quickly.
Grian looked away for a moment, face still red. “I know. It’s just—hard to always remember that, you know? To not feel like someone other .”
“But we’d rather you tell us things like this,” Mumbo assured Grian, eyes dancing with sympathy and something else, something softer. “So that this doesn’t happen again.”
“Yeah,” Scar agreed.
Grian nodded, slowly. “Okay. Deal.”
“Deal.”
“So on that note, is there anything else we should know?” Scar asked, picking up his spoon again.
Grian went quiet for a minute, face pinching with thought. Then shrugged and said, still slightly uncomfortable, “Um, I’m allergic to chocolate?”
Scar nearly choked— again. “What? But—”
Grian nodded sadly. “A tragedy, I know.”
“What about all those cookies I baked you?”
Scar had a habit of over-baking when he was stressed. As a result, he often gave the extras to Grian and Mumbo, leaving them on their desks or dropping them off.
He’d thought they’d enjoyed them.
Apparently not.
Grian at least had the decency to look guilty. “I’m sorry, Scar. I ate what I could.”
Scar sat, dumbfounded, feeling oddly betrayed but also the tiniest bit concerned.
“Yet another prime example of something you should have told us ,” Mumbo exclaimed, waving his hand.
Grian grimaced. “Sorry,” he said again.
Scar sighed, rolling his eyes in exaggeration. “I expect a lot of PBJ’s to make up for it.”
Grian offered a small smile at the joke, and whatever resentment Scar held vanished with the shy look. “I think I can do that.”
And the three of them ate their meal in peace.