Archive of Our Own

It starts as an accident.

Well, that’s not quite the right word for it. A coincidence, maybe. Happenstance. Fate, depending on who you ask—but Grian doesn’t believe in fate. He can’t; he can’t let himself believe that all of the things that have happened to him and Scar were predetermined when they were born.

Whatever it is—whatever sparked this after just under a year of avoiding all of his coworkers at Hermitcraft—it doesn’t matter. All Grian knows is that this was a long time coming, and he and Scar are far overdue to start getting to know the other Hermits.

That doesn’t mean he’s not afraid—on the contrary, in fact, he’s terrified. He avoids the common area as much as possible when he’s at the facility during the day, just in case someone walks in while he’s there, and he knows that Scar does the same. Unfortunately for him, the first time he meets one of the other Hermits—outside of Pearl and Scott, outside of Etho, outside of Lizzie—is entirely spontaneous, and therefore, entirely unavoidable.

Sometimes, Grian can’t bring himself to stay in his office. It’s been this way since the very beginning; his heartbeat begins to quicken, and his skin itches, and his bones themselves feel claustrophobic enough that his lungs refuse to inflate. His office feels more like a prison, on these days, and even when Scar is nearby to help him through it, the best remedy is to get out. Just out of his own office, even if that means going to someone else’s office.

Usually, he goes to Impulse. But—he just can’t. Not yet. He’s forgiven Impulse, yes, and he’s trying to heal, okay? But it’s not that simple. He can’t help the way he flinches back from Impulse when the man moves too quickly, or the way just looking in his eyes makes his breaths stutter. He can’t control it, as much as he wishes he could, because he hates the expression on Impulse’s face: some awful amalgamation of guilt and sadness and self-hatred that Grian knows, and he recognizes, and he wouldn’t wish it on anyone, least of all someone as kind as Impulse.

So he doesn’t go to Impulse’s office. That’s fine. It’s fine. It just means that he has to find somewhere else to go, when the room feels too small and his head is spinning. It’s not easy; every instinct in his mind is begging his feet to take him where he always goes, the office a few doors down, where Impulse is doing research for their next investigation. But he grits his teeth and staggers past Impulse’s door, unable to bring himself to even look at it for fear that he’d give in.

He’s bothered Gem so much, recently, and she’s new to this. He can’t go to her every time; he can’t put this burden on her, not when she’s already done so much for all of them. Skizz is still recovering from a bad hunt—and Grian knows that Impulse was terrified for him, when he took three hours to wake up. So Grian can’t go to Skizz, either.

Not Impulse, not Gem, not Skizz—and Scar is busy right now. He would drop everything if Grian asked him to, but Grian refuses. He doesn’t want to bother Scar, and besides, he can handle this by himself. He’s fine. He can handle this.

But Grian doesn’t want to be alone. He can’t go to anyone that he normally goes to—even without the flimsy excuses his mind summons, he doesn’t think he could force himself to ask them for help, as if something is physically blocking him—but he doesn’t want to be alone.

His body must know this, and it takes him as if on autopilot to a room that he hasn’t entered since Skizz and Impulse gave him and Scar a tour of the facility, early in the morning, when there was no risk of someone else being there to catch them off guard. It’s not early in the morning, now, though, and he is not the only Hermit in the building. Really, he should’ve expected that there would be someone in the tech lab.

"Uh…can I help you?"

Yes, Grian should’ve expected that there would be someone in the tech lab. But he didn’t, so when a confused and hesitant voice pipes up from a station over in the corner, he flinches violently, eyes widening as he staggers backwards. He’s gotten better at keeping himself from being startled at sudden noises and voices, but in this wired state, his entire body tenses.

Before even making eye contact with whoever else is in the room with him, he blurts out, "Sorry!" It’s reflexive, even after the time that Skizz and Impulse have spent trying to convince him to break the habit. Coincidentally, the instinct has returned with a vengeance since Impulse was possessed.

"No, no, don’t—don’t apologize," the voice insists, and Grian now realizes who it is. He’s never met this man in person, but he has seen him before, immediately after Impulse’s possession. Grian had barely registered the man’s presence—truthfully, he’d been busy trying to juggle the paralysis in his legs and the fog that clawed at the back of his mind and the tearing pain in his hand and the sharp anxiety and—

Well. Grian had been in no condition to process the presence of anyone else, beyond a panicky feeling of being surrounded. But he does recognize this man—and, perhaps more specifically, his mustache.

The man tilts his head to the side, scrutinizing Grian closely. "Er…hate to break it to you, but you’re not looking fantastic," he informs Grian. "You’re actually looking a bit terrible, if I’m honest." He speaks bluntly enough that it shocks a laugh from Grian’s lips, watery and wobbly and hoarse.

"Thanks," he croaks out. "Cheers. Appreciate it." Even through his raw throat, his voice is dry and withering, and the man winces.

"Yeah, that was—that wasn’t very polite, was it. Pardon my manners, I shouldn’t have said that, I was just—"

"Nah, don’t—" Grian breathes shakily. He clasps his hands in front of him, twining his fingers together tightly enough that his knuckles turn white. "Don’t worry about it. No hard feelings." He tacks on, "you’re right, after all. I…don’t feel fantastic."

"I could tell," the man admits honestly. "Want to hang out in here for a bit? Tango won’t be back for a while—I think he’s busy trying to stop Zed from exploding something, so we’ll have the place to ourselves." He smiles wryly. "No one comes here but me and Tango. I think they’re all too afraid to break stuff."

"Ah." Grian swallows. "Well, I’m an expert at breaking stuff," he feels the need to warn the man, just in case it will get him kicked out, but the man just shrugs.

"Good thing I’m an expert at putting it back together," is all he says in response, and against his will, Grian’s lips twist up.

"Grian," he introduces himself, then shrinks back. "Ah—that’s my name. Grian."

"Grian," the man echoes, and he grins impishly at Grian. "Pleasure. I’m Mumbo."

"Pleasure is all mine," Grian recites dutifully, and Mumbo pats the seat beside him where he’s sitting at a lab bench, pieces of what looks like some sort of deconstructed equipment scattered in front of him.

"So long as you’re here, you might as well stick around for a bit," he offers. "Or longer, if you’d prefer. Like I said, Tango won’t be back for a while." And Grian’s tense shoulders loosen. He leans against the wall, almost dizzy with the sudden wave of exhaustion that washes over him.

Knowing himself—and knowing his legs’ tendency to turn to dust beneath him when he’s feeling particularly anxious or stressed—he deduces that sitting would be advisable.

"That would be much appreciated," Grian admits and he moves unsteadily towards Mumbo. "Thank you," he adds, quieter, as he sits down beside his fellow Hermit. They’re close enough that the sleeve of Mumbo’s suit brushes against Grian’s sweater, and their knees bump under the bench. Grian swallows back the instinct to cringe away; he doesn’t have to hide, anymore. "You didn’t have to do that. I appreciate it."

Mumbo just shrugs. His grin turns into something softer. "Not like I’ll be doing much, mate. And you looked like you needed a bit of a pick-me-up." He picks up a small piece of metal that Grian doesn’t recognize and continues, "Besides that, I always appreciate having a rubber duck. Someone to bounce ideas off of," he elaborates when Grian seems confused at the term.

"Oh." Grian stares at the table in front of him. "I don’t know anything about technology stuff," he reminds Mumbo, not looking at him. "And I break everything I touch."

Grian doesn’t get to have nice things. Not when he just messes them up eventually, anyways. Just look at what he did to Impulse.

Mumbo nudges him, firm, but soft enough that he isn’t afraid. "You don’t have to know anything about technology to listen and ask questions. And also, I love it when people break stuff."

Grian blinks at Mumbo; he must have heard wrong. No one likes when their things break. Breaking something is never a good thing. So Mumbo—Mumbo must have misspoken, or he must be wrong.

"If you break something," Mumbo continues, "then I get to fix it. And the more times I fix it, the better I understand it, so I can fix it quicker the next time."

That doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t make sense. "I don’t understand," Grian whispers. His throat hurts. His head hurts. The world feels off-kilter, somehow—and maybe part of that is from Mumbo’s words. "It’s—it’s never good to break something. It always makes things worse." Grian always makes things worse. "I…I don’t understand," he repeats, pained.

Mumbo just gives him a sad smile. "You will," he promises, but he doesn’t speak on the subject further. He just switches topics effortlessly, leaving Grian stumbling to catch up.

Mumbo lifts one of the metal pieces from the lab bench in front of him. "This is a spirit box," he announces, and Grian blinks. He glances between the piece in Mumbo’s hand and the pieces on the table.

"…Are you sure?" Because to Grian, it just looks like a pile of old junk.

Mumbo actually laughs out loud at this, eyes squinting in mirth, and Grian’s heart lightens. He can’t restrain a smile of his own, however small and exhausted it may be.

"Yeah, no, that’s a fair question," Mumbo agrees, and he returns his hands to the table. With deft fingers, he arranges the metal pieces enough that Grian can recognize it as a spirit box—one that’s not being held together, true, but a spirit box nonetheless.

"I’ve been working on changing the voice on it," Mumbo explains, fiddling with a piece that Grian now realizes is the antenna.

Grian lifts his eyebrows. His heart is beating slower, now. Steadier. "Okay…? Why?"

"Well—" Mumbo fumbles for an explanation. "You know how you can always tell that the spirit box is saying something, but it’s basically impossible to know what it’s saying?"

Grian nods. It’s always been his least favorite thing about the spirit box; there could be so much important information that just…goes right over their heads. He complained about it to the Watchers, once.

He never made that mistake, again.

"Tango and I have been working on trying to make the words clearer, because we think it could help with investigations. There’s this whole process, but I won’t get into it unless you’d like me to—"

"Tell me about it?" Grian blurts, and Mumbo stops. Grian can feel his pulse thrumming in his fingertips. "Please?"

Mumbo softens. "Yeah, yeah, of course. I assure you, you won’t regret this!"

Grian didn’t think that he would.

"So!" Mumbo points at the antenna. "If I adjust this just the slightest bit, and rework the wiring to the speaker so that the signal is transmitted more clearly. There’s also some internal stuff I need to reroute…."

At some point, Grian gets lost. He knows very little about the inner workings of a spirit box, and even less about mechanics and technology as a whole. But he nods and smiles and reacts accordingly to Mumbo’s words, until the man runs out of things to say and Grian admits, "I can’t say that I followed most of that."

Mumbo nods. "I didn’t expect you to, don’t worry."

"It all sounds very…complex?" Unnecessarily so, really. They can’t just…reprogram it, somehow?

"Oh, no, it’s actually quite simple, really," Mumbo says cheerfully, then falters. "Or—in theory, it’s simple. I still haven’t quite figured it out, yet."

"You’ll get it," Grian tells him, then swallows, embarrassed. "You—I don’t know. You seem smart. You’ll get it."

For a moment, Mumbo’s eyes are wide, surprised. Then, his face splits into a beaming grin. "Thank you, Grian," he says sincerely. "It means a lot. Truly."

— / — / —

Grian told Scar about his interaction with Mumbo almost as soon as he left the tech lab and returned to their shared office. Scar had been taken aback, but he can’t honestly say that he was surprised. When Grian had stumbled out of their office, Scar had been able to tell exactly why. Grian isn’t very subtle, as much as he tries, and Scar is an expert at reading him.

He almost chased after Grian, admittedly, but he’s glad that he didn’t. He’s glad that Grian found someone else that he’s willing to learn to trust, here at Hermitcraft.

Scar keeps to himself, still, despite Grian’s glowing review of the man he met in the tech lab just a week or two ago, now. He’s polite—oh, is he polite. Always smiling to people in the hallways, always nodding when he passes someone, exchanging mild pleasantries, always wearing that same terrified mask. But he doesn’t let himself trust any of them, and he doesn’t seek them out, because he can’t risk what might happen if he did.

He can trust Grian, and only Grian. That’s all. That’s the only thing that has been consistent for as long as he can remember, and if nothing else, he has to cling to that.

Scar doesn’t intend to go around interacting with the other Hermits. In fact, he intends to stay in his office as much as possible—it’s convenient, especially when it comes to avoiding people he doesn’t want to see.

(The other Hermits come to mind. But then also—Impulse. He’s just…not ready.)

Today, though, he’s just rolled out of his office in his wheelchair, intending on taking a short break from the suffocating pile of work that he’s been doing, when a voice startles him out of his thoughts.

"Uh, hello? Is anyone there?" A pause. "Could I…have a hand, please?"

For a moment, Scar freezes. His hands still, resting on the wheels of his chair. Because—that voice doesn’t belong to Grian, nor does it belong to Gem or Skizz. It doesn’t even belong to Impulse. And…that makes them unpredictable. That makes them dangerous.  The best thing to do—the safest thing to do would be to make a beeline right back to his office, where he can pretend this never happened.

But Scar can’t just leave someone who needs help.

"I’m here," he responds, but it’s quiet, and his voice cracks, so he clears his throat and tries again. "I’m here," he repeats, louder, even though his stomach roils and throat goes dry. God. He hopes he doesn’t regret this.

"Oh thank goodness!" the voice gasps. "I’m in a bit of a precarious position right now, if I’m honest—ah, I’m in the tech lab? If you could lend some help?"

"Yeah," Scar breathes. "Yeah, I’m—I’m on my way."

He wheels himself towards the door of the tech lab, but he hesitates before he pushes it open. His hand lingers in the air, just before touching the doorknob. He swallows, and for just a moment, takes stock of himself. Heart beating quickly, hands shaking. Tight throat, tight chest. An odd, though unmistakable, pit in his stomach.

If Grian were here, now would be the time he’d urge Scar to take a metaphorical step back, to breathe, to give himself a few minutes to ease the anxiety that surges through his veins. But Grian isn’t here right now, and the person in the tech lab needs his help, apparently. Scar doesn’t have the time to wait and think over the options, nor does he have the time to let himself calm down.

Steeling himself, Scar shoves open the door and enters the tech lab.

He…isn’t sure what he expected to see, honestly. Maybe some sort of huge mess, or someone trapped under a shelf, or something like that. Maybe tables overturned, broken equipment on the floor, something on fire. But no; when Scar glances around the room, he sees only a mustached man, sitting at the table with something in his hands, looking unnaturally pale and wide eyed.

From Grian’s descriptions, Scar knows instantly that this is Mumbo.

"Oh—hello, there," Mumbo greets him. Scar notices that he sounds shaky. "Ah—Scar, right? I’m Mumbo. Thank you so much, for coming in. I’m sure you can see, but I’m in a bit of a pickle right now?" His voice lifts at the end, as if in question.

Scar blinks. He stares at Mumbo. "Uh. Sorry. But what’s the pickle?"

Because Scar doesn’t see any figurative pickles, here. Or literal pickles, for that matter. He just sees a man who seems to be in a state of mild panic, cradling a parabolic mic in his hands, pressing down on a button so hard that his knuckles are white. The mic is humming louder than Scar’s ever heard before.

"Right! Right, of course, you’d have no way of knowing—of course." Mumbo clears his throat. "Well, it’s a bit of a funny story, really. You see, I was trying to improve the parabolic microphone’s ability to catch paranormal sounds, which meant I had to intensify the signal and amplify—" He stops. He looks at Scar’s blank face. "I’ve already lost you, haven’t I."

"Yeah," Scar admits. "I don’t know very much about how parabac—parababocticals work."

He’s ready to apologize. He’s ready to try to defend his ignorance. And, despite how irrational it may be, he’s ready to beg for mercy that he knows he wouldn’t receive. But Mumbo just laughs, and though it’s tight and just on the side of frantic, it’s not malicious.

"Yeah, no, not many people do," he reassures Scar, and Scar blinks. He…hadn’t expected that, but if Mumbo is going to be lenient today, then Scar doesn’t plan to argue. "But, uh, doesn’t matter. Bottom line is—if I take my finger off this button, there may or may not be a ninety five percent chance that the signal will overload the system, and it wouldn’t be pretty."

"Wouldn’t be pretty as in, it would explode?" Scar has to check.

"It would explode," Mumbo confirms. He nods down to the button. As if to emphasize his point, the humming from the parabolic mic picks up, growing louder and more intense. "So, um, all I’d need you to do—nothing much, really, I promise! Just hold down the button for me, so I can adjust the levels, because, ah—I can’t really fix it with just one hand?"

Scar is frozen. He can’t bring himself to move. His hands grip the wheels of his chair tightly enough that they’re shaking, and his muscles are tense enough to hurt, and he’s distantly aware of his lungs constricting. But then Mumbo shifts, anxious, and the part of Scar’s mind that’s been sent reeling slams back into place, and Scar can breathe again.

He manages a thin smile. "Of course, of course!" He forces himself to wheel over towards Mumbo, positioning himself just on the man’s left side, where Mumbo’s left thumb is keeping the button held down. He locks his wheels into place and takes a deep breath. "Okay, uh, how do I—"

"Just try to—yeah, just like that, and then hold it down until—perfect." Mumbo takes his thumb off the button, where Scar has replaced the pressure that he’d been exerting. Scar has to lean forward, shifting just a bit in his chair to make sure that he can reach the button and comfortably hold it down.

Mumbo works fast, flipping open a panel and fiddling with some wires and dials and adjusting a few things. Scar has no clue how it works, but the longer Mumbo works, the more the hum emitting from the mic dies down. It grows quieter and quieter until Scar can’t hear it at all, and he begins to sigh in relief, loosening his shoulders and moving to shift his finger off the button.

"No!" Mumbo yelps, and Scar jolts, his heartbeat quickening. His breaths stutter, and he stares at Mumbo with wide eyes. The image flashes between Mumbo, in his full suit with his mustache, and his old supervisors. The Watchers.

"Oh, dear—I’m very sorry, I just meant—I’m not entirely sure if it’s fixed, yet?" Mumbo’s voice has lifted into a higher pitch than Scar thought the man could possibly reach. He almost sounds more panicked than Scar feels. "I just—so sorry, so very sorry, I don’t mean to startle you, I was just—don’t take your finger off the button just yet?" he requests anxiously, and Scar shakes his head, thoroughly befuddled. He doesn’t understand. None of this makes sense.

"Sorry," he croaks, because it’s all he can think to say, but Mumbo shakes his head wildly.

"No, no, please don’t be sorry!" he says hurriedly. "Really, I promise, it’s entirely my fault, you have nothing to be—" Distracted, Mumbo cuts off and huffs, staring down at the parabolic mic in his hands. "Goodness. I’m really just doing this all wrong, aren’t I."

Scar can’t stop a nearly hysterical laugh from bubbling up from his chest. "What?"

"No, no, don’t worry!" Mumbo grins triumphantly, flipping a switch one last time. "I think I’ve got it. You can take your finger off the button." Scar isn’t entirely sure, because Mumbo’s next words are quiet, but he thinks Mumbo mumbles, "and let’s hope I don’t lose my mustache from this."

Scar takes his finger off the button. Nothing happens.

Mumbo leans back in his chair with a relieved sigh. "Oh, thank goodness! I didn’t plan to admit it, but I truthfully wasn’t sure that it was going to work, but it worked out, didn’t it? Sorry for potentially endangering your life, I promise that I was probably about eighty percent positive that it wouldn’t explode."

Scar waves a hand aimlessly. His heartbeat is finally slowing. "No, no, I get it," he says dismissively, and his throat is still tight, but Mumbo is smiling at him, so he just continues. "Now, Grian—Grian wouldn’t have helped you, because he’s a cruel, cruel man—" Mumbo snickers, and Scar knows he caught onto the joking tone of that sentence. "—But me? I’ll give you a hand, nay, two hands, if I must!"

"Thank you, Scar," Mumbo sighs, then his tone lightens. "Genuinely, thank you. Not sure what I’d have done if you hadn’t happened to pass by when you did."

Scar manages a smile. He doesn’t know how to handle this—this soft, sincere gratitude. Scar doesn’t deal with this. This isn’t something he’s used to, except for from Grian.

(And Skizz, and Impulse. But Scar can’t bring himself to think of them, right now.)

"Yeah, of course, of course." Scar scratches at the back of his neck. "Uh, unless there’s something else you need my help with—?"

"Oh, yeah, so sorry to keep you." Mumbo grimaces. "You can go. You don’t have to!" he adds quickly. "I mean, I’d love your company. But if you have work to do…."

"I do," Scar admits. "Technically."

But…his work isn’t that important, all things considered. He can leave it for later, or tomorrow, if he has to.

Besides. Mumbo wants him to stay.

Scar sighs and unlocks his wheels, moving just a bit closer to Mumbo and craning his neck to look at what the man is working on. "Okay, now tell me more about the parabobacital," he demands, locking his wheels back in place, and Mumbo obliges.

Later, Scar recounts this interaction to Grian, whose immediate response is, "He’s weird."

Scar can’t help but agree. Mumbo is weird.

— / — / —

Scar doesn’t know how he wandered into this room, but somehow, he managed to forget the way to his office. He could’ve asked Grian; he knows that Grian wouldn’t have said anything about it. But he’d have looked at Scar with those all-too-knowing eyes, the ones that probe through Scar’s skull and into his brain. Grian would’ve known exactly why Scar forgot the way to his office, and Scar quite honestly isn’t sure he can deal with that, today.

He died. Less than a week ago, he thinks, but it’s all a bit fuzzy. He’s still immensely sore, hence the cane in his hand, but it’s not nearly as awful as it had been when he woke up on the floor of the van, with Gem and Grian sitting nearby.

Not that he had known it was Gem and Grian, at the time. And therein lies the rest of the issue.

Scar’s gotten used to forgetting. It’s part of his revival effects; it’s not something he can avoid, in this career. That doesn’t mean it isn’t nearly torturous to be surrounded by people and places that should feel familiar, but don’t.

It always gets better, thankfully. Scar’s never permanently forgotten anything. But times like these, where he can’t recall for the life of him where he is or how he got there, are the worst.

He starts with what he knows for a fact, as Grian always reminds him to do when his memory is acting up. His name is Scar Thymes. He has a cat named Jellie. Right now, he’s at Hermitcraft. He knows all of those are true, at the very least.

Now, the problem is where at Hermitcraft.

Hermitcraft isn’t a particularly large facility, but Scar has always tried to avoid going into spaces where he might come across people he doesn’t know. Still, he and Grian got a tour when they first joined, and it’s not like Scar has never gone exploring when he knew there wouldn’t be anyone in the building.

So now, he just needs to try to latch onto the memories that are evading his grasp and sift through them until the room becomes familiar.

"Howdy, Scar!"

Scar yelps and jolts violently, whipping around with wide eyes and not nearly enough breath to summon a response, and finds himself staring directly into a pair of toxic green glasses.

Chest constricting, Scar takes a few stumbling steps back, away from this new person. He braces his cane against his floor and tries for a bright smile, but he can feel how it comes across as fake, as too much. He would try to soften it so it looks more real, but he knows that it would be just as bad as if he were to drop it entirely, so he doesn’t bother. "Hello," he greets, and shifts anxiously. "Ah—forgive me, I don’t think I remember…your name? Have we met?"

The man shrugs him off, unconcerned. "No, no, we’ve never met." Scar blinks. His heartbeat quickens.

"Oh. I’m sorry?" He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know what this man wants from him.

He gets only a casual wave in response. "Oh, it’s no problem!" Scar doesn’t know what’s happening. "Joe Hills," the man introduces himself. "From Nashville, Tennessee. It’s a pleasure!"

"A pleasure," Scar echoes, distant and almost dizzy. "I—have we met?"

He realizes belatedly—his mind still feels far too scrambled—that he’s already asked this, and Joe has already answered. But Joe doesn’t mention this. He just hums and shakes his head, and says nothing further.

Scar swallows dryly. He forces himself to keep the smile on his face, despite how it threatens to waver. He can’t let it fall, he can’t let his shield down. If he lets his shield down, he’ll be hurt, or he’ll get in trouble and Grian will be hurt in his place, and Scar can’t let that happen. He’s let it happen too many times, and every time, he would rather it have been him. He can’t let Grian be hurt again. He can’t let himself be hurt again.

Scar presses his hand against his face. He can feel the coolness of his fingers against his cheek, and he tries to breathe through the tightness in his chest. "Where…I’m sorry," he starts with. "Where am I?"

Joe gestures at the shelves around him—tall, with rows and rows of drawers. One of them has been left open, and Scar catches a glimpse of a stack of files. "You’re in the part of Hermitcraft where past meets present, my friend. Where all the investigations, all the smallest moments, are stored for eternity. Where nothing is lost, because it is our responsibility to keep it all."

"You’re in the archives," a new voice informs him dryly, and Scar starts. He spins around and meets the newcomer’s eyes—bright green, framed by curly orange hair. "And when Joe stops being so dramatic about it, he can explain the gist of what we do here." They step forward, offering Scar a smile. "Scar, right? I’m Cleo. Skizz told us about you—that’s how Joe knows your name."

Skizz. It takes Scar a moment to place the name, with his memories still scrambled. For a moment, his brain freezes, and all he can think is—does he know someone named Skizz? It clicks after a few seconds, though, and he manages a thin-lipped smile in response to Cleo’s.

"Ah, yes, of course," he agrees amiably, even as his heart rate spikes. "That makes perfect sense."

Cleo squints at him. She crosses her arms, lifts an eyebrow, and Scar clasps his cane with both hands to keep them from shaking. He can feel his chest tighten, as if something is pressing against it, and for a moment—distantly, hysterically—he wishes that Grian were here.

Cleo hums, and Scar is dragged back to some sort of panicked reality—because Grian isn’t here, no matter how much Scar wishes he was. "Why don’t you sit down?" Cleo suggests, gesturing to an office chair positioned beside a messy desk. "If you’ve got the time, we can tell you a bit about what we do, here."

Scar nods dizzily, and makes his way over to the chair. He only stumbles once, but Cleo jolts out as if to steady him, and he flinches away violently. They pull back, looking somewhat remorseful, but before they can say anything, Scar cuts in with, "Sorry!" He laughs, and it sounds almost hysterical. "Sorry. About that."

Cleo’s face twists. She grimaces, and starts, "Scar…."

"You’re forgiven!" Joe interjects easily. "I assure you, Cleo and I—we both know quite a bit about losing your balance. Nothing to be sorry for."

Scar blinks. He sinks into the chair. That…wasn’t what he’d been apologizing for. He’d been apologizing for being such a coward, for being so afraid of everything, for breaking the rules by flinching away from a punishment—

He coughs. "Um. What?"

But Cleo seems to understand what Joe is saying, now, and they grin. "I’d say Joe tends to have more experience with it than I do, but that’s simply details."

"Because you push me," Joe protests, but even through his words, he’s watching Scar with a sharp eye. When he realizes that Scar has relaxed slightly—shoulders looser, not gripping his cane quite so tightly in his hands—he seems satisfied.

"Alright, then!" Cleo claps her hands together. The sound is loud, and Scar winces. "Scar, what do you know about the archives?"

"The archives?" Scar echoes. He rubs at his throat, horribly conscious of the watercolor streak that has been stained there since his first investigation with SEE. He’s forgotten about it, mostly, after so long—and Grian has, as well, as far as he knows—but the process of meeting someone new always brings it back with a vengeance. He hates the idea of someone looking at him and seeing it. He hates the mark on his throat.

But Cleo doesn’t comment. Cleo doesn’t even look at it. "Yep," she confirms. "We—Joe and I, that is, and sometimes Keralis—take care of the paperwork, the filing. We also, perhaps most importantly, review all the recordings of the investigations."

"The…recordings?" Scar had almost entirely forgotten that they were being recorded while they investigated. Xisuma had told him, ages ago, and he’d agreed. It didn’t even cross his mind, after the first few months. It never felt too probing, or too intrusive—not like it did when the Watchers did it. At Hermitcraft, it almost felt comforting. Rather than feeling like someone was breathing down his neck, it felt more like someone was holding his hand. Like someone was always at his side.

He’d forgotten that someone was going to be reviewing all of the recordings.

"I listen to the majority of them," Joe informs him lightly. "Depending on what happens, I’ll hand them off to Cleo to make transcripts. If the recording is a bit more personal, I’ll be the one to make the transcript, and no one else will see it."

"So then—you know—" Scar can hardly breathe. A million different occasions swirl through his head—Impulse’s possession, and his own most recent death, and the millions of times that he and Grian have each panicked throughout their investigations. Has Joe seen any of that? Has Joe seen all of that?

"Whatever you’re thinking about," Joe cuts in calmly, "it’s more than likely that I’m the only one who’s aware of it. And nothing I’ve ever seen has made me view any of the Hermits any differently."

"And you—" Scar swallows. He has to ask, "You’re sure?"

"I’m sure." Joe’s voice is firm, even. "Do you believe me?"

Scar stops. His grip on his cane is so tight that his fingers ache. "I…don’t know," he breathes, and Joe doesn’t speak. Neither does Cleo. They just wait, patient, letting him duck his head and stare at the floor until his vision blurs, hands shaking.

Does he believe Joe? Not just his promise that he doesn’t think of any of them differently, but also the unspoken promise: you’re safe here. Does he believe it? Does he trust Joe’s easy acceptance and Cleo’s gentle eyes? Can he trust them?

They’ve been nothing but kind to him. Maybe it would be worth taking this chance. It worked with Mumbo, didn’t it? And before them, it worked with Gem, and before that, Skizz and Impulse and Xisuma. And then, before them all, he trusted the kid who sat next to him in chemistry class when he was in high school, with the oversized red sweater and the large round glasses and the braces on his teeth that glinted when he smiled. And that kid became his very best friend.

Scar sets his jaw.

"I believe you," he states—wobbly, unsteady, but strong, and Joe and Cleo smile at him in tandem.

— / — / —

"What are you doing?"

Grian flinches at the sudden voice from behind him, blunt and loud and abrasive, but somehow not mean. He forces his breathing to steady, trying to calm himself down from the instinctive fear that bolts through his veins when someone startles him. He’s not in danger. Not here, not at Hermitcraft.

He turns around to meet someone’s unimpressed eyes. He recognizes the man in front of him from when he met Lizzie—he’d been playing some sort of board game with her and one other person. This man has a single green streak in his hair, and he crosses his arms as he stares at Grian, eyebrows raised.

"Well?" he prompts, and Grian sucks in a breath. His heartbeat is too quick, all of a sudden. "What are you doing?"

"Sorry," Grian responds automatically, stumbling to get the word out. "I was just—"

He cuts off when the man’s nose crinkles, and he scoffs. "Why are you apologizing?" He huffs, shakes his head. "Look, you’re standing in the middle of the blummin’ hallway, staring at the wall. Forgive me for asking."

Grian doesn’t know what he’s doing, either.

He had been planning to go…somewhere. He thinks. The tech lab to see Mumbo, maybe, or his office. It’s lost somewhere in his mind, though, and he can’t quite recall. He knows that he’d stopped in the middle of the hallway, for some reason. He knows that his thoughts had dissipated before he could keep moving.

Dying always takes a toll on him. The odd paralysis has mostly gone away, but his head is still…hazy. He can’t quite find himself, as if he hasn’t yet settled back into his mind. It’s not uncommon, but it’s certainly uncomfortable. And concerning, especially from an outside perspective.

(It doesn’t help that Impulse was the one to help him through the moments after being revived. It seemed like the most logical thing, at the time, but now Grian can barely think about it without his chest tightening.)

The man in front of him scrunches his face up, squinting at Grian. Without taking his eyes off of Grian, he shouts over his shoulder, "Lizzie!"

Grian flinches at the sudden yell. His reaction is just a moment later than it should have been. He still can’t quite find his bearings; the world seems to be shimmering around him like a mirage. He’s not entirely sure that it isn’t a mirage, anyways.

"Busy, Joel!" Lizzie’s voice comes in return—familiar, and not quite comforting, but close. It lets Grian feel the ground beneath his feet, just a bit more than he did before.

"Yeah, well, I don’t know how to handle this, so some help might be nice, actually!"

Handle what? There’s nothing to handle. There’s nothing to worry about. Everything’s fine. Grian is fine.

"Get Jimmy to help!"

"Jim won’t be able to help with this if his life’s on the line, I’m not going to call—" A huff, then the man in front of him—Joel?—shakes his head. "Fine! Fine, I’ll call Jimmy."

Grian stares, wide eyed and dazed, as Joel digs his phone out of his pocket clumsily, cursing to himself and muttering something under his breath that sounds vaguely like, "Stupid, can’t believe I’m the one dealing with this, out of everyone who could’ve—why couldn’t you have stood in Xisuma’s hallway or something, hm?" Joel addresses Grian abruptly, speaking loudly and brusquely. Grian blinks. "He would have been able to handle this so much better—here, here’s Jim, hold on."

"Hello?" a voice filters from the phone that Joel is holding to his ear, sounding mildly confused. "Joel, what do you want?"

"I want some help, Jimmy," Joel huffs, and Grian can’t stop himself from cringing away from the brash tone. "Look, one of the new guys—Grian, his name is, I think—he’s just standing here in the hallway."

"Okay? Joel, mate, he’s allowed to stand in the hallway, you know."

"I know that! He’s being all weird about it, though, he’s—" Joel sighs harshly and shoves his hair out of his eyes. "He’s all drift-y, okay? It’s like the one time we found Scott, after he fell asleep on the couch in his office—you remember?"

"The time he was sleepwalking? I remember." Jimmy hums, sounding mildly concerned. "Is he sleepwalking? Grian, I mean."

Joel scoffs. "I know who you mean." A beat passes, where Joel tips his head to the side and leans towards Grian, squinting at him. Grian doesn’t move. He barely breathes. He’s not sure he remembers how. "I don’t think he’s sleepwalking," Joel finally deduces, leaning away from Grian.

"Okay…is it the thing that Pearl told us about, then? The, uh—dislocation?"

"Dislocat—you mean dissociation?"

Joel’s voice is dripping with incredulity. Jimmy seems entirely unbothered, and Grian can hear him snap his fingers on the other side of the phone. "That’s it, that’s the one. Dissociation, was it?" Joel makes a brief sound of confirmation. "Well, Joel, I’m not sure what to tell you, really. You can’t have thought that I would’ve been able to help, did you?"

"No, not at all, Jim, because clearly you have no blummin’ idea—whatever! Whatever. Pearl and Scott, then, are they busy?"

Grian can almost hear Jimmy wince. "Er, not sure where Pearl is, but Scott’s out with me, mate. We’re out with Oli, he happened to be in town."

"You’re out with Oli, and you didn’t bother to bring me?" Joel sounds absolutely scandalized. "Well, then! I see how it is! Guess I’ll take care of this myself!"

"Joel, wait—"

"Bye, Jimmy!"

And Joel hangs up. He stares down at his phone for one more moment, contemplating, then crosses his arms, scrutinizing Grian. "You’re making this so difficult, you know," he informs Grian, but he doesn’t seem angry. "Look, you can’t be upset with me later if I royally screw this all up, okay? I don’t know what I’m doing."

Grian’s mouth won’t respond to him. He can’t answer Joel, as much as his mind is begging him to say something, please, you’re going to get hurt, but Joel doesn’t get mad. He just looks back down at his phone and types something in, eyebrows drawn together, then looks back up at Grian.

He sighs. "Okay, guess we’re doing this." Slowly, he begins to walk in a circle around Grian, leaving Grian to track him anxiously with his eyes. They move perhaps a bit slower than they should. "I’m checking for immediate threats, checking-checking-checking, except there are no immediate threats because it’s Hermitcraft—" He cuts himself off, then glances at his phone once again. "Ask them to identify…see, hear, smell, tas—it’s a hallway and it’s basically empty, there’s nothing to see—"

Grian just stares at Joel as he grumbles to himself, seemingly complaining about whatever Google has told him in regard to how to ground someone. At some point, he freezes, and his eyes go wide. "‘Remind them of their identity’—I don’t know this guy!" He shakes his head. "Okay, that’s it."

Joel spins on a heel and disappears. Grian blinks and he’s gone, and he knows that Joel couldn’t have possibly moved that quickly, but he doesn’t remember watching him walk down the hallway, either. The world is a bit fuzzy, and his vision fades in and out of focus. He furrows his eyebrows and shakes his head minutely, as if that will do anything to drag him back to reality.

The door begins to open at the end of the hallway. Grian blinks, eyelids heavy, and suddenly Joel is in front of him once again, far too close. Grian flinches belatedly, and Joel huffs, gesturing at him wildly as he turns to whoever is behind him.

"See what I mean?" he huffs, and a soft voice hums.

"Yes, yes, calm down, Joel."

"But I was right?"

"Yes, love, you were right. Now calm down." A young woman with long pink hair shoves past him, her hair tied back in a loose braid. She meets Grian’s hazy eyes, and her face instantly splits into a warm smile, a stark contrast from her exasperated words.

"Hi, Grian," she speaks, slowly and clearly, but not without kindness. Grian blinks at her slowly. "Do you remember me? My name is Lizzie—we met a few months ago? This is my husband, Joel."

Lizzie. Grian remembers Lizzie. She was kind to him; he has her number stored somewhere, on a little slip of paper with a few little doodles. And Joel—Joel must have been one of the men sitting with her, playing…what game was it? Some sort of board game. Grian can’t remember. He can’t remember.

He hasn’t responded to her. He should respond to her.

He can’t.

Lizzie just hums. She doesn’t seem upset, not at all, even if she should be. "That’s okay," she soothes gently. "Is it alright if I take your hand, please? I won’t touch you unless you tell me it’s okay."

Grian can’t speak. He can hardly breathe. But he manages to move just enough to dip his chin in a half-nod, and Lizzie smiles so brightly that’s nearly makes Grian dizzy. She’s so proud of him, and for what? Nothing at all, essentially.

"Thank you," she says, then goes to take Grian’s hand in her own. She doesn’t reach too quickly—instead, she allows Grian to watch as she slowly moves forward, never too fast, never too aggressive. When she takes Grian’s hand, it’s so tender that he can hardly bear it.

"I don’t get it," Joel grumbles from behind her. "How are you doing this?"

"It’s called being patient, Joel," Lizzie shoots back. "Try it, sometime."

Joel mimes tosses his hair. "I don’t do that."

Lizzie sighs, but it’s fond. "I know." She returns her gaze to Grian. "Hey, Grian?" she murmurs. "Hi, there. Is there something you’re trying to do, here, in the hallway?"

This is a question that Grian can answer. He knows the answer to this. Or—he did, at some point. He knew the answer earlier, before he found himself standing here in the hallway, lost. He must have been trying to go somewhere, though, right? He says as much, words dazed and fumbling, and Lizzie nods.

"Okay, thank you. Do you…happen to remember where?"

Grian doesn’t answer, this time. Lizzie doesn’t push him. She just nods and slowly—gently—tugs Grian towards the elevator, just down the hallway. Joel follows behind, looking confused and mildly put out, but he doesn’t speak. He just lets Lizzie do what she needs to do.

The doors slide closed behind them. Grian blinks. The doors open once again, and Grian finds himself standing in front of the office that he shares with Scar, with Lizzie still holding his hand. He can feel himself trembling, but Lizzie doesn’t comment on it. She remains steady, rubbing her thumb up and down his hand. She lifts her fist and Grian flinches—

Lizzie knocks on the door. Grian breathes.

Grian doesn’t know when Scar opened the door, but now, he’s standing there in front of Grian, eyes wide and worried and so, so familiar. "Grian?" he says immediately, reaching out towards Grian, and Grian goes towards him easily. Lizzie lets him, releasing his hand as soon as he begins to pull away.

"Hi, Scar," Lizzie greets Scar pleasantly. She sounds unhurried, unbothered, and Grian knows it eases Scar’s worries. His shoulders relax. "Joel—that’s my husband—and I, we found Grian in the hallway, he looked like he was struggling a bit. I figured we’d bring him here, but if there’s anything we can do to help—"

"There’s not," Scar interrupts quickly, pulling Grian closer and stepping in front of him, so that Grian is behind Scar and standing in their office. "Thank you—Lizzie, was it? Thank you, Lizzie, but we can—I can take it from here!"

Joel tries to protest, but Lizzie just agrees, "Okay. Just let us know, okay?"

"Mhm!" As Grian watches, Scar tries to close the door, but Lizzie makes a sound, and he freezes.

"We’re here if you need anything, Scar," she says softly. "Anything at all. My office is just down the hall." She points to it, and Scar relaxes, though he still seems uneasy.

"Thank you, Lizzie," he says genuinely. "I—we both truly appreciate it."

When Grian finally comes back, an hour or so later, his first action is to visit Lizzie’s office and thank her. Then Joel’s, as well. Both of them insist that there’s no need to thank them, though Lizzie’s tone is far more sincere, and Joel’s is very blunt.

The next time Grian sees them in the hallway—far more aware than before—he smiles at them hesitantly. They both grin back, and as reluctant as Joel’s may be, it’s still genuine.

— / — / —

Grian ushers Scar into their office and slams the door shut behind him, fumbling desperately with the lock. It takes him multiple tries before he can get it to click into place, and once he does, he turns around and presses his back against the door, eyes wide and breaths labored.

He stares at Scar, who looks equally panicked. He’s wrapped his arms around himself, digging his fingernails into his skin, and his legs are shaking badly enough that Grian is surprised he hasn’t collapsed yet.

"Scar," Grian chokes out, and Scar’s face—so pale it’s almost stark white—splits into something devastated.

"Grian."

"I didn’t know what to do," Grian gasps. "I thought—I thought he was going to—"

"I know," Scar manages, and Grian can tell from the way he’s swaying that he’s about to drop, but he can’t move to do anything about it. "I know, I thought so too. I thought so too."

Grian sobs and buries his face in his hands, sliding unsteadily down the door until he’s on the ground, knees pulled to his chest. He feels oddly dizzy, like he’s going to pass out—and, oh. That may be because he’s breathing too quickly, and not taking very much air in at all.

It was a good day. It was a good investigation. Everything was fine. It was all supposed to be fine. Scar did so well. He figured out the ghost—a Yokai, and Skizz was so grateful that they could leave early, because he hates Yokais and their tendency to get irritated when people talk too much, because often, Skizz is the one talking too much. And Grian was proud—Grian was so proud. And so was Gem, and Skizz, and Impulse.

And then Impulse lifted his hand. And Grian’s vision went white.

He doesn’t know what happened, over the next few seconds, but the next thing he remembered, he had been standing in front of Scar, hands raised as if ready to block a blow. Scar had been cowering behind him, breathless and terrified. And Impulse was several steps away, holding his hand to his chest as if it had betrayed him, eyes wide, speechless. Skizz had been beside him, holding his arm tightly as if he yanked Impulse back.

Gem had tried to talk to them, but Grian’s ears had been ringing too loudly, and he couldn’t handle it. He’d just grabbed Scar by the arm and dragged him away, into the facility, up to their office. And Scar had gone willingly.

Grian can hear it as Scar collapses into the chair, and he looks up with puffy eyes and blurry vision.

"I just—" Scar’s voice comes out as a hoarse croak. "I thought we were safe, here."

Grian’s heart fractures. "We are safe—" he tries, but he’s not even sure he believes it anymore, so he swallows and changes directions. "I know," he whispers. "This—Hermitcraft is safe."

Hermitcraft was supposed to be safe.

"What do we do?" Scar whispers, and he sounds almost afraid to ask. "Do we—"

Leave?

Scar doesn’t finish speaking, but Grian completes the sentence in his head. Do they go? Do they run before anyone else can hurt them?

(Grian doesn’t want to be hurt, anymore. He doesn’t want Scar to be hurt, anymore.)

"I don’t know," Grian whispers. He closes his eyes against the room as it wavers around him. He feels numb, down to his very bones, but his chest burns. "I don’t know. I’m sorry. I don’t know."

A hesitation, and then Scar breathes, "I’m okay, G." His voice is shaky, but his words are certain. "He didn’t—he didn’t actually hurt me." He didn’t get the chance, is what Scar doesn’t say, but Grian hears regardless.

Grian laughs hoarsely. It costs him what little breath he can spare, and he can’t quite muster up a response, so he shakes his head and dips his chin, curling his arms around his knees. He can hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

"We—we have to go." He barely even realizes that he’s speaking. "We have to go, don’t we? We can’t stay here. We can’t—we can’t be here, anymore."

"Go?" Scar shudders. He curls his arms around his stomach. "I…I guess we do. I guess so. We have to—to go."

Neither of them move. Grian has to bite down on his tongue to keep his breathing from getting too uneven. Scar drags a trembling hand down his face.

It’s several minutes before Grian finally stands up. He’s so unsteady that he nearly crumples as soon as he’s on his feet, and he needs to rely heavily on the door to stay upright, and Scar’s eyes widen. "I’m going to—I’m going to pack our stuff," Grian manages hoarsely. "I’ll start getting us ready to—to go."

Go. As if it’s that easy. As if they can just pick up their things, throw it all in a box, and march out the door. As if they can run and never look back. As if this place hasn’t become home, to them.

Scar nods. "I’ll help."

"No!" Grian blurts quickly, and Scar freezes. Grian breaths shakily, then repeats, "No. I’ll—I’ll take care of it. You just—rest."

Scar exhales, but nods again. "Okay. Okay." A pause. "Grian, I—I don’t know what to do."

"I know, Scar," Grian breathes.

"I’m scared."

Grian wants to sob. "I know," he repeats, voice cracking. "I’m scared, too."

His gaze is locked with Scar’s. He knows that the tears in Scar’s eyes mirror the ones in his own. Scar’s teeth have snagged his lower lip to keep it from trembling so violently, and everything is so wrong.

It’s the worst possible time to be interrupted, and so, of course, there’s a knock on the door.

Grian flinches away from the door so violently that he nearly loses his balance. He stumbles in his haste to get away from it, and he has to catch onto the desk to keep himself from sinking to the ground.

"Are you okay?" Scar hisses, terrified, but Grian doesn’t get a chance to respond.

"Scar? Grian?" It’s Gem, and Grian loves Gem, but he can’t handle this, right now. Not when they’re about to leave. Not when nothing makes sense, and everything is a threat. He can’t. "Are you guys—are you in there? Are you okay?"

"We’re fine!" Grian calls back, and his voice is just on the wrong side of being strangled and high-pitched and scared that he knows it couldn’t possibly have come across as natural. "Everything’s—" His breath catches. "Everything’s fine."

He needs to convince Gem that they’re okay. He has to, because if he doesn’t, then she’ll go back and she’ll tell Skizz and Impulse and they’ll be upset, because Scar and Grian are breaking the rules, and then they’ll come up to the office and they’ll force Grian to open the door and then they’ll—

"Grian, open the door," Gem pleads. It’s the only time Grian’s ever heard her like this—so worried, and concerned, and genuine. "Scar? One of you, just—it’s okay, no one’s upset with you, we’re just worried—"

"Go away," Scar chokes. Grian grasps desperately for Scar’s hand, and Scar reaches back. They tangle their fingers together fearfully. "Go away."

"I—okay." Gem sounds devastated. "Okay." A pause. "We’ll be here whenever you’re ready."

She leaves. Grian takes a shuddery breath and turns to the desk, forcing himself to not look as he shoves every last item into a spare box.

They didn’t have much, when they arrived at Hermitcraft. They had nothing at all, really—nothing that they bothered calling their own, at least. They’ve been at Hermitcraft for almost a year, now. In that time, they’ve collected a million little things—pictures and knickknacks and little gifts from Skizz and Impulse and crocheted trinkets from Gem. And Grian is able to ignore all of it, for the most part.

He picks up a picture frame and freezes.

It’s a photo that Xisuma took, when he came into the facility one morning to find the entire GIGGS crew fast asleep on the couch together. It had been a long investigation the night before, and an exhausting one. They hadn’t even managed to summon the energy to go back home. So they’d all passed out, curled up together, more comfortable with each other than they’d been in ages.

Impulse and Skizz leaning against each other in the middle of the couch, with Impulse’s head on Skizz’s shoulder and Skizz’s arm wrapped around Impulse’s back. Gem, lying down at one end with her legs tossed over Impulse’s lap, one arm thrown over her eyes and her hair—normally in a braid—hanging loosely off the couch. Scar, slumped against Skizz’s side, and Grian, curled into Scar’s chest. They were comfortable. They were happy.

Grian shatters.

He drops the picture back onto the desk and buries his head in his hand, releasing a choked sob. Scar is on his feet in an instant, at Grian’s side, begging him to breathe and reassuring him that it’s okay, it’ll be okay, we’ll figure it out—

"Um, hello?" a new voice calls from outside, and Grian and Scar both freeze. The voice is awkward, and familiar, but not like Gem or Skizz or Impulse. "Uh, I was just coming to ask if either of you had any input on my project, but—it sounds like this might be a bad time?"

Mumbo.

Mumbo.

Grian laughs hysterically, unable to control himself as his knees buckle, and Scar jolts forward to help lower him to the ground with practiced ease. "Yeah," he croaks, and he’s not even entirely sure that it’s loud enough for Mumbo to hear. "Yeah, it’s—not the best time, Mumbo."

Grian can hear the way Mumbo shifts anxiously. "Uh, yeah, okay. Sorry about that." There’s a beat of silence, but Grian can tell that Mumbo is still standing just outside the door, trying to find the right words for whatever he wants to say. "Is there…anything I can do to help?"

"What is he doing?" Scar breathes, almost feverishly, and Grian shakes his head. He doesn’t know.

Mumbo keeps talking. "Because, well—I hate to assume, but it sounds like you’re having a pretty rough time, you know? So I’m not—I’m not going to just leave you alone, right? But, uh, if there’s anything I can…bring you, or something." They hear a huff, and a soft thump outside, as if Mumbo has sat down right outside the door. "Look, guys, I’m doing my best, here. But I’m not leaving."

"God," Scar breathes. "Did—did Gem put you up to this? Or Skizz, or—" Impulse? Scar doesn’t finish the sentence. Grian understands why.

"Uh, no?" Mumbo giggles. "Sorry, I don’t mean to—no, she didn’t." A pause. "Did…did something happen? You know, like—that might have made Gem feel the need to…put me up to this?"

Grian cackles, feeling almost dizzy in his delirium. Scar looks at him and murmurs his name, concerned, but Grian just chokes out, "Did something happen?" He laughs again, this time more bitter than before. "Yeah. Yeah, you could—you could say that."

"Ah." Mumbo is quiet for a moment. "Do I need to go beat someone up?"

Scar scoffs wetly. "You couldn’t beat someone up if you tried, Mumbo," he accuses, and Mumbo hums in mild agreement.

"Yeah, well. It’s the thought that counts."

For a moment, none of them speak. Grian leans against Scar, resting his head on his friend’s shoulder. Scar tugs Grian closer. There’s a quiet thunk as Mumbo tips his head back, bumping it against the door.

The world is quiet.

"You’re—you’re not going to try to leave, are you?" Mumbo’s voice is soft, anxious. He sounds like he’s trying to keep his composure, but his voice wobbles, and he sounds almost scared. "Just—I really like you guys? And I’ve enjoyed spending time with you, and I—I don’t know. I’d really like to keep getting to know you, and it sounds like—and correct me if I’m wrong, of course, but I thought I heard you guys packing some stuff, and you sound really upset, and—just, please don’t leave? I like having you guys as my friends."

Oh.

Mumbo considers them friends. Mumbo wants them to stay.

Grian squeezes his eyes shut. Scar takes the opportunity to respond. "We—we can’t," he breathes. "I’m sorry, we just—we can’t stay. Impulse—he tried to—"

Scar cuts off with a gasp, and Mumbo makes a confused sound. "Sorry, Impulse? What did Impulse do? That guy—he adores you, you know. He wouldn’t do anything—well, not on purpose, at least—but he wouldn’t want to do anything to hurt you, or drive you away, or anything." Mumbo hesitates, then asks, softer, "Did he…do something?"

"He tried to hit Scar," Grian whispers.

He isn’t positive that Mumbo hears it until the man inhales, sharp and shocked. Grian closes his eyes and tugs Scar—who is trembling violently—close to his side.

"Well, then." Mumbo’s voice is shaky. "That’s—that’s not great, is it." Grian hears Mumbo breathe deeply, as if to calm himself down. "And—and you’re sure that’s what he was intending to do? He wasn’t trying to—I don’t know. But you’re sure he was trying to…do that?"

"He lifted his hand, Mumbo," Grian snaps, quivering with the force of the emotions roiling in his stomach. "What else was he going to do?"

"I—I don’t know! I don’t know. Just—think for a moment. You’ve known Impulse for almost a year, right?" Almost a year. Almost a year, and it’s all falling apart, now. Almost a year, and now? "Can you really imagine him, like, trying to do something like that?"

Grian freezes. Scar goes still in his arms.

Because, honestly, the answer is no. No, Grian can’t imagine Impulse trying to hit Scar—trying to hit either of them, really. Just like he can’t imagine Skizz taking away his headphones or Scar’s cane, and he can’t imagine Gem pulling out a knife on him—

"But—" Scar whispers. "—He lifted his hand?" Grian releases a choked sob. He’s just confused, now, and unsure, and so, so tired.

"I know," Mumbo soothes. "But—if you’re willing, and comfortable, I can maybe get Impulse up here?" Scar tenses, and Grian holds him tighter, but Mumbo says quickly, "He’ll stay outside the door! And I’ll be here to keep an eye on him, and stuff, and—just to see what he has to say? I swear to you, if anything seems off, I’ll beat him up, myself."

Scar shakes his head and buries his face in Grian’s shoulder. Grian doesn’t know what to do.

He makes the decision for them both, because he knows that Scar won’t be able to, right now. "Okay," he whispers. "Okay, yeah, you can—yeah."

Scar looks up at him, eyes wide and horrified. "Grian—"

"It’s okay," Grian breathes. "I’ll protect us. I won’t let him touch you." A beat passes, and he laughs hoarsely. "And it sounds like Mumbo will do the same."

"I will!" Mumbo jumps in. "I mean—I don’t mean to eavesdrop, but yeah. I will."

With Grian’s permission, Mumbo goes and retrieves Impulse. Impulse apologizes profusely, and explains himself, and Grian has known the man for long enough—has learned how to recognize when someone is lying, for his own protection—that he knows that Impulse is telling the truth.

(It was a high five. It was just a high five.)

Grian bursts into tears, and Scar sobs into his shoulder, and they finally let Impulse in to embrace them both and hold them close. And, once they’ve calmed down enough to compose themselves, they invite Mumbo into the hug. And Mumbo joins.

— / — / —

It’s late October when Grian bursts into the tech lab, nearly startling Mumbo into losing his hold on his latest project and prompting Tango to release a surprised peal of laughter.

"Grian!" Mumbo hisses, scandalized. "You nearly made me drop this! It would have broken, you know!"

Months ago, Grian would’ve cowered. He’d have hunched his shoulders and apologized, throat tight and hands shaking. Not anymore.

"Mumbo Jumbolio, I have some very important things to tell you," Grian announces. He’s fidgeting; there’s always a part of him that’s afraid to be a bother, a burden. He’s interrupted Mumbo’s work. Mumbo must be furious. The Watchers would have been.

But Mumbo just sets down his tools and swivels his chair to give Grian his full attention. He’s dramatic about it, of course—he heaves a long sigh, he rolls his eyes, he crosses his arms—but a smile is playing on his lips the entire time. He doesn’t look irritated or upset or angry, as Grian had grown to expect. He just looks fond.

"Well, go on, then," Mumbo prompts him, waving a hand carelessly through the air. "Haven’t got all day."

But Grian knows that he does, in fact, have all day, so he just smiles cheekily. "You and me and Scar," he declares, and Mumbo raises an eyebrow.

"…Yes?"

"For Halloween," Grian states plainly. "We’re going as Mario characters."

"Hm." Mumbo’s eyes return to his work, though Grian catches the grin he’s suppressing. "Truthfully, mate, I hadn’t been planning on trick or treating this year. Haven’t gone since I was in high school."

"What?" Grian squawks, and shakes his head. "No, no, I have a plan, Mumbo. You wouldn’t want to mess up my plan, would you?"

"Oh, well, if you have a plan." Mumbo is mocking him. He’s not even hiding it, now; he’s fully grinning, and his words are teasing. Grian doesn’t mind.

"I do!" Grian nods emphatically. "I do, I do. You see, Scar’s going to be Luigi—he already has his costume—and I’ll be Mario, so that makes you Peach!"

"Wh—sorry?" Mumbo splutters, and Grian snickers. Mumbo has given him exactly the reaction he’d been hoping for. "Why am I Peach?"

"Well, I can’t be Peach," Grian reasons. "I don’t have the build for it."

"And I do?"

"No, no, he’s got a point there, Mumbo," Tango interjects, trying in vain to be serious even as laughter bubbles up in his chest. "You’ve got the physique, y’know?"

"No?" Mumbo hedges, but Grian entirely ignores him.

"See? Tango understands my vision!" Grian grins at Mumbo. "Besides, I can’t be fake-dating Scar. That would be weird."

"Oh, but not if it’s me?" Mumbo throws his hands up in the air. "What if I don’t want to fake-date you?"

Grian gasps. "Mumbo," he breathes, feigning offense. "That’s hurtful! I want a divorce!"

"We’re not married!" Mumbo shakes his head incredulously. "I don’t want to marry you! I think I want to marry you even less than I want to fake-date you!"

"Mumbo," Grian groans. "You’re no fun." He hides the smile playing on his face. "If you’re not dressing up with us, then…." He heaves a deep, tragic sigh, shaking his head pitifully. "I suppose Scar and I will just have to go by ourselves. Oh, no, please don’t feel bad!" he cries dramatically, pressing a hand against his heart. Mumbo hasn’t moved, or said a thing; he just purses his lips as he tries not to laugh. "Really, Mumbo, it’s okay. Scar and I—we’ll forgive you, eventually." He hums, and tacks on, "Probably."

"Now, hold on there, Grian."

A snicker slips from Grian’s lips, but he quickly smothers it in favor of forcing a serious expression on his face. "No, no, really, it’s okay," he assures Mumbo, dipping his head sadly. "We understand. Well—I do. Scar might be…." He trails off, sighing. "Well. Forgiveness takes time, you know."

"Grian!" Mumbo huffs. "No, no, I won’t stand for this. I refuse." He stands up decisively, and Grian has to crane his neck to meet his friend’s eyes. He grins impishly at Mumbo, who crosses his arms. "I’m going with you," he announces, "and you can’t stop me."

"As Peach?" Grian has to ask.

"As Peach," Mumbo confirms, and Grian whoops, leaping in the air and pumping his fist.

"Mumbo Jumbo, I love you!" he cheers, and he lunges forward, curling his arms around Mumbo’s back and squeezing tightly. Mumbo reciprocates the gesture easily, as if it’s as natural as breathing, and something in Grian’s chest hurts. It’s a good pain, though—like smiling so hard that your cheeks ache.

"Well, I would hope so," Mumbo teases, only holding him tighter. "If we’re going to be fake-dating."

"Actually," Tango interjects, and Grian turns his head to meet the inventor’s eyes. In doing so, his ear rests against Mumbo’s chest, and he can hear Mumbo’s heartbeat. It’s soothing, and he can’t help but close his eyes, sighing contentedly. "Technically, Peach and Mario aren’t actually dating. It’s been confirmed."

"That’s ridiculous," Mumbo huffs, and Grian snickers. "Everyone knows the truth."

Grian can hear the grin in Tango’s voice, and he can imagine the way he shrugs. "Look, don’t shoot the messenger, okay? I’m just the guy with the information, around here."

"Yeah, well, you can take your information and shove it up your—"

Grian yawns, cutting off Mumbo’s mildly hostile response to Tango. Mumbo goes quiet, then exhales, soft. He pats Grian’s back with his hand to get his attention. "Er, G?"

"What?" Grian grumbles tiredly. He’s more than content to stay here, resting against Mumbo’s chest. Mumbo would let him fall asleep here, he knows. If he did, Mumbo wouldn’t let him fall. He never has, and as far as Grian is concerned, he never will.

Mumbo laughs. The sound reverberates through his chest, and Grian clings on tighter to the back of the suit that he always wears. "Are you falling asleep?" he asks incredulously, and Grian hums, opening his eyes to squint up at Mumbo.

"Yeah," he grumbles, yawning again as he leans into his friend. "We had a long investigation, today. ‘M tired."

"Yeah?" Mumbo begins to move a hand up and down Grian’s back, rhythmic, like he’s soothing a small child. Grian’s eyes slip shut again, and he sighs, only half-listening to Mumbo’s words. "What happened at your investigation?"

"‘T’was a stinky Spirit," Grian complains sleepily. His words are beginning to slur, and the letters have become indistinct from one another. "We thought it was a Shade for the longest time, but then it did…something, when we were in the room, so it couldn’t be a Shade…and then Impulse insisted on staying even longer because we weren’t sure, and he didn’t wanna go until we were confident, or whatever…."

"Hm." Mumbo sounds almost concerned. "Revival effects?"

Ah, that’s why. Grian shakes his head before burying his face back into Mumbo’s chest. "Nah." It wasn’t a revival effect that made Impulse refuse to leave until they were positive that they had the right ghost. "Just Impulse."

"Sounds about right," Tango snorts. "He’s always been like that."

"Yeah, has he?" Grian turns his head just enough to look towards Tango. "Like, when you and him and Skizz and Etho—"

"Mhm," Tango confirms, grinning so hard that his eyes squint. "He’s always been crazy intense. You just gotta learn when to be concerned." He sighs, and Grian can hear a familiar note of nostalgia in the sound. "One time, Skizz had to tackle him to stop him from charging headfirst back into a house with a Moroi, zero sanity. Etho and I had to tag-team dragging him out of there. No revival effects, mind you! It’s just how he is."

"Oh?" Mumbo sounds mildly perturbed, but Grian just giggles, feeling almost giddy with pleasure and drowsiness. Of course Mumbo, who lives his entire life in this little lab, would be troubled at hearing about the many difficult moments of field work, but Grian has worked for Hermitcraft for over a full year, now. He’s been hunting ghosts for more than twice that. This is nothing new to him.

"Yup." Tango stretches, briefly setting down whatever project he’s been working on. "Part of the reason I switched to lab work. All that investigating stuff got way too intense for me." He leans back and grins. "I’m happy here, chilling in my lab."

Mumbo coughs. "Ah, excuse me?"

"Our lab," Tango corrects himself, rolling his eyes. "In which Grian is actively falling asleep on you. Do you want to move him to the couch?"

"‘M not falling asleep," Grian grumbles, eyes squeezed shut and face pressed against Mumbo’s suit, but Mumbo just completely ignores him. He doesn’t even acknowledge that Grian spoke at all.

"Yeah, but see, Tango, if I move him to the couch, then I have to go with him." Mumbo gestures down to Grian, who is—to be fair—clutching very tightly onto the back of Mumbo’s suit jacket. "And I—I have work to do, I can’t just sit with Grian on the couch all day."

"Aw, but Mumbo!" Tango snickers. "Look how sweet he’s being? You’ll never see him this sweet ever again!"

"I resent that," Grian mutters into Mumbo’s chest. Mumbo heaves a long, weary sigh. Grian doesn’t miss the tender undertone.

"Yeah, yeah, I know," he huffs in response to Tango. "Guess I should, huh."

"Might be advisable," Tango agrees.

Mumbo shakes his head. He holds Grian closer. "Absolutely ridiculous," he complains. "I was going to be so productive today, Tango. I was going to get so much work done."

Tango scoffs lightly. "Don’t lie to yourself, you were just complaining to me about how little motivation you have today."

"Yeah, but if Grian hadn’t come along, then maybe I would have had motivation!"

At that, Grian can’t restrain a soft, pained sound. It escapes against his will, though he tries to stop it. He knows that Mumbo is just teasing. He can hear it in his friend’s voice—the softness, the lighthearted joviality that signifies a joke rather than a true frustration. But the words hit just close enough to home (stupid, useless, always messing everything up, always making things harder for everyone else—) that they hurt to hear. And maybe it’s the sleepiness, or maybe it’s the fact that he trusts Mumbo with his life, or maybe it’s just that he’s grown soft since joining Hermitcraft, but he can’t quite bring himself to shut up and deal with it.

Mumbo sucks in a breath through his teeth. "Sorry, mate," he murmurs, and he lifts a hand to card it through Grian’s hair. "I didn’t mean it, I swear. You know I love when you come into the lab. Tango does, too."

"Always, buddy," Tango soothes. It’s immediately different from his earlier volume and teasing tone. This is the side of Tango that comes out when Grian is struggling. It’s the very first side of Tango that he met—when he stumbled into the lab, desperate and panicked, to find Mumbo to help calm him down and came across someone he’d never met, but who became just as close of a friend as Impulse and Skizz. "You’re always welcome, here. You’re not a bother in the slightest."

"I’m sorry," Grian still has to say, because he’s still broken a rule by interrupting them and he’s still messed things up for them, but Mumbo just shakes his head.

"You stop that," he scolds, but it’s painfully gentle. "You’ve honestly made my day from being here."

"But I shouldn’t—" Grian exhales, stressed. He squeezes his eyes shut and clutches onto Mumbo tighter. "I shouldn’t be bothering you so often," he mumbles. "You have—you have work to do, and—"

"Shut up," Mumbo huffs. "Bother me more. Please, bother me more."

Grian…doesn’t understand. "What?"

"You think anyone would be friends with anyone if it was all about not being a bother?" Mumbo laughs. "Goodness, Grian. I want you to bother me. Just like I want Scar to bother me, and all the other Hermits here."

"Oh." Grian snuggles closer into Mumbo. He hesitates, but eventually whispers, "can I bother you for a nap, then?"

"Grian." There’s a smile in Mumbo’s voice. "I thought you’d never ask."

They don’t rest for long. Mumbo half-drags, half-carries Grian over to the couch in the common room, then helps them both get settled in. Grian falls asleep leaning back against Mumbo’s chest, with Mumbo’s arms curled loosely around him and his chin resting on Grian’s head. At some point, someone—probably Tango, if Grian had to guess—drapes a blanket over them, and Grian can feel the soft weight as it settles over him. He curls into it, pressing into the fabric, sighing contentedly.

Scar rouses them both after what must be only an hour or so. "Hey," he whispers, then louder, "Grian. Griiiiiii-aaaaan." Grian doesn’t move. He just yawns and nestles further into Mumbo’s chest. "Grian, get up. Get up, I need to ask you something." Then, when Grian continues to pretend that Scar isn’t there, Scar turns his focus to Mumbo. "Mumbo."

"I’m up," Mumbo confirms, voice still thick with sleep. He begins to shift beneath Grian, and Grian grumbles in complaint, opening his eyes and squinting disapprovingly at Mumbo.

Mumbo just laughs at him, snickering at the murderous look in Grian’s eyes. "Dude, we can’t sleep forever. I have stuff to do today, and I guarantee that you do, too."

"He does," Scar interjects, nodding sagely. "He has a lot to do. He’s been freaking out about it for the past week and a half."

Grian huffs, ignoring Scar on principle. "Just don’t do it, like the rest of us!" he groans in response to Mumbo, and he closes his eyes, burying his face in the blanket. "It’s fine."

"Yeah, no can do." Mumbo shakes his head. "Xisuma will skin me alive if I don’t get this done."

"Mm…no he won’t," Grian disagrees. "Xisuma wouldn’t do that. He’s not gonna hurt anyone."

"I—I know." Grian opens his eyes, confused, as Mumbo falters. "He—it’s just an expression, Gri. He—I didn’t mean he was actually—"

Mumbo goes quiet, and Grian raises his eyebrows. He looks at Mumbo’s tense face, the anxious set to his mouth, and he sighs. "I know it’s an expression, Mumbo." He tilts his head, mildly amused. "I wasn’t concerned, don’t worry."

Mumbo nods. His face still has a strange twist to it. "Right. Right, of course."

Scar breaks the awkward strain with a snicker. "Mumbo, are you overthinking, again!"

"Well—no!" Mumbo waves his hands around in the air, and Grian cackles at his indignant protest. "I’m just—I’m thinking the perfect amount, thank you very much!"

"You never think the perfect amount," Grian comments. He sits up on the couch, finally getting off of Mumbo. "You’re either thinking too much, or not at all. Overthinking and under-thinking."

Scar shakes his head slowly, with a sad sigh. "It’s tragic. Mumbo just can’t think like a normal person."

"I can!" Mumbo insists. "I can, really!"

"Scar," Grian says loudly, entirely ignoring Mumbo. "Scar, I have something to tell you. I have something very important to tell you."

"Ooh!" Scar immediately says, eyes lighting up in excitement. Mumbo throws his hands up into the air exasperatedly. "What? What is it?"

"You remember our ideas about Halloween? You remember our costumes?"

"Mhm!" Scar nods eagerly. "Yours and mine have already arrived, and Mumbo’s is arriving in two days!"

Mumbo gasps, scandalized. "Sorry, excuse me? Have you already bought my costume?"

"Mumbo agreed!" Grian acts like Mumbo hasn’t spoken, and Scar follows suit, leaping into the air with a cheer and then yelping when he stumbles upon landing. "He even agreed to be Peach!"

"Pardon, was there any other option?" Mumbo waves his hand. "Doesn’t matter. You already bought my costume? What if it’s the wrong size?"

"We checked your suits," Grian dismisses easily. "It’ll be the right size, don’t worry."

"Oh, everyone else is going to be so excited!" Scar jostles Mumbo’s shoulder in his elation. "Mumbo—everyone told us that they keep trying to get you to trick or treat with them, and you keep saying no. And now you’ve finally said yes!"

"‘Everyone else’?" Mumbo laughs, surprised. "Is anyone else going?"

Scar nods enthusiastically. "Lizzie is going as the Fairy Godmother from Shrek, and Joel is going as Shrek himself!"

Mumbo furrows his eyebrows. "Lizzie isn’t going as Fiona?"

Grian scoffs lightly. "Of course not. Jimmy’s going as Fiona."

They must be a sight to see, on Halloween. Mario and Luigi and Peach, holding hands, walking down the road with Shrek and Fiona and the Fairy Godmother. Behind them, they’re accompanied by a muppet, Joe’s costume, and Cleo’s zombie ensemble. All of them are followed closely by Skizz and Impulse and Tango, who are dressed as "ceiling fans", complete with foam fingers and T-shirts that say, GO CEILINGS in garish colors and an obnoxious font. The others are nearby, as well, in their own respective costumes.

Xisuma trails after them, dressed in black and yellow with antennae and fabric wings. Upon looking back at him, all Grian sees is the blinding smile across his boss’s face.

Scar squeezes Grian’s right hand, and Mumbo squeezes his left hand, and Grian has never felt so happy. He’s never felt so safe.