Chapter Text
It was supposed to be a normal night.
It was supposed to be a normal night.
A peaceful night, even, since the day leading up to it is hectic. More busy than Scar is used to, especially after a long night of patrolling. He visits Mumbo in the tech labs, and—as is inevitable when around a redstoner such as Mumbo—has to dodge no less than three explosions of varying intensities. It doesn’t help his joints, which are already immensely sore from the night before.
Then, he helps Lizzie and Joel with their training. Lizzie has been wanting to practice with her shadows, and Joel has been wanting to practice controlling his excess strength, so Scar is left to be Joel’s punching bag and Lizzie’s practice dummy. He leaves the training room afterwards bruised and disoriented and aching, and with Lizzie’s frazzled and guilty orders to go get checked out by Skizz.
He doesn’t blame them, of course. After all, this is what he signed up for. That doesn’t mean he has to enjoy it, though.
Later—he never does go get that check-up from Skizz—he visits Xisuma’s office to collect all the paperwork he has to do regarding last night’s patrol. He had come across Mimic, one of the numerous villains in the city, and the man who Scar had been assigned to detain and imprison. That in and of itself had been exhausting enough to make Scar not want to leave bed this morning, but that wasn’t all.
Scar’s fights with Mimic are often, to an extent, enjoyable. They talk back and forth, tease each other, and though they’re trying to defeat each other the whole time, there’s a certain amount of camaraderie to it.
Not last night, though. Last night, Mimic fought harder than he ever has before—hard enough that Scar is still sporting numerous painful bruises. He’d been more reckless, less thoughtful about his actions, though Mimic is one of the smartest people Scar has ever had the displeasure to meet. And, perhaps most significantly, Mimic had been paranoid to the point of distraction. He’d been constantly glancing over his shoulder, flinching at things that weren’t Scar, and at one point, he was so focused on something else that he let Scar get close enough to nearly clamp cuffs on his wrists. He escaped before Scar got the chance, but still.
Mimic has never done that before.
So of course, Scar has to record all of these observations in his paperwork, which takes forever. He has to list every single difference in Mimic’s fighting style that he noticed, then analyze it, then give his thoughts on why it’s happening and what it means and by the end of it all, he’s so emotionally and mentally drained that he decides that he’s not doing anything else for the rest of the day. Xisuma won’t mind, he reasons. So he shuts the door to his office and flops over on the couch, throwing an arm over his eyes and releasing a long, weary sigh.
Before he even gets a chance to relax entirely, the dormant alarms on the ceiling blare to life with a ear-piercing shriek, startling Scar to the point that he nearly falls of the couch, which does not help his aching muscles. He presses his palms over his ears, exhausted and overwhelmed tears prickling at his eyes as Xisuma’s voice lifts above the alarms.
"Hello, everyone. We are conducting an evacuation procedure. This is a drill. I repeat, this is a drill. Please follow the procedure accordingly. Thank you."
Scar squeezes his eyes shut. "The world hates me," he mutters to himself, sitting up and making his way to the door slower than he should in the case of an evacuation. "The world hates me. That’s the only explanation. I’m being tortured by the universe itself."
When they’ve all evacuated, Scar finds himself standing just outside of the tower, staring vacantly at the door as if it shredded the paperwork he took so long to complete. Mumbo comes up to him and nudges him in the side in greeting.
"Hey, mate, you alright?" he asks, smiling in amusement that’s mixed with some mild concern.
"Mumbo," Scar says pleasantly. "I want you to kill me."
By the time they go back inside, Scar has given up on doing anything else for the rest of the day. He’s sore, and exhausted, and miserable, and he still hasn’t entirely recovered from the disorienting feeling of being smothered by Lizzie’s shadows, and he thinks if one more thing goes wrong, he might cry.
There’s one bright spot in his day, and it gives him the energy to make it to dusk. In between his training with Lizzie and Joel and retrieving the paperwork from Xisuma, Scar takes his lunch break. And really, that’s the only reason he hasn’t decided to lie face-down on the ground and stay there until someone comes to get him.
Halfway through work, before the paperwork and the evacuation drill, Scar visits his best friend at the café where he works, and his lungs fully inflate for the first time all day.
"You look miserable," Grian informs him bluntly from behind the counter. Scar blinks at him.
"Speak for yourself."
Grian has dark circles painted under his eyes, not quite concealed by his glasses. His face is pale and gaunt, and his hands are trembling almost imperceptibly. He’s favoring his right side, too—and Scar only recognizes this because of how long he’s spent noticing when his coworkers back at the Hermitcraft Tower have been injured. Grian looks like he’s about to drop, and although he’s doing a good job of hiding it, Scar knows his best friend. He knows the signs when Grian is barely functioning, and right now, he can’t help but be immensely worried.
Grian just shrugs in response to his words and casts a quick glance over his shoulder, into the back of the café. He returns his gaze to Scar and sets down the cup that he’s been washing, bracing his forearms on the countertop and leaning forward. He gives Scar a strained smile. "Yeah, well. You know how it is." He eyes Scar closely, tilts his head. "Rough day at work, so far?"
Scar groans and slumps forward, pillowing his arms on the counter in front of him and burying his face in them. "You have no idea," he huffs, voice muffled. "I’m so sore. I’m so bruised, Grian. I’ve been wounded. I nearly got—" He almost tells Grian about how Mumbo nearly exploded him, numerous times, but he cuts himself off with a cough and lifts his head. Grian is watching him with a raised eyebrow and a quirk to his lips, arms crossed.
"Anyways!" Scar says loudly, because Grian doesn’t know what his job actually is, and Scar doesn’t intend to tell him. "Moving on!"
"That’s concerning, you know," Grian tells him, tone mild as he pushes his glasses up on his nose and returns his focus to the cup he was washing. "Most people don’t get super bruised at their jobs every day."
"Oh, yeah? Well, most people don’t show up to work with mysterious injuries that they try to hide from everyone, including—" He lifts a finger, narrowing his eyes at Grian, who has opened his mouth to protest. "—Including your very best friend in the whole wide world."
Grian puffs out his cheeks, exhaling long and hard. "That’s not fair," he mumbles, scrunching up his nose. For a moment, his eyes flicker around, as if searching for something, but he swallows and ducks his head before Scar can look too close. Grian finishes cleaning the cup in his hands and sets it off to the side, grabbing another one. "You’re the one who won’t even tell me where you work. And besides—" He reaches, grimacing a bit as he stretches to grab a washcloth. "It barely hurts, anyways."
Scar tilts his head skeptically. "Sure," he drawls, because he can see how Grian winces every time he moves, and how he’s being incredibly careful not to move too quickly. But he drops it, because this has happened before, and Grian is stubborn enough that any questioning would be futile. He could ask Grian about it—he could use his status as a hero to figure out what’s going on—but that would be breaking Grian’s trust, and he refuses to do that. Grian will come to him when he’s ready. If nothing else, Scar is confident of that.
"Anyways," Grian says, echoing Scar’s words. "Long day, you said? What are we thinking for today?"
Scar hums. He lifts a hand to massage absentmindedly at a bruise on his shoulder. "I dunno. I think I’ll die on the spot if I have to make a decision right about now." He scrubs at his face, yawning, and Grian nods sagely.
"Highly caffeinated, got it." And he gets to work, bustling around the area behind the counter and allowing Scar to watch him. Scar leans forward, not really paying much attention, just letting Grian’s confident and familiar motions soothe his tired mind.
He yawns again, and closes his eyes. He rests his chin in his hand.
"Done."
There’s a clink on the counter in front of him, and Scar’s eyes flutter open. Grian has set a drink down for him, and Scar has no clue what it is, but it smells heavenly, so he picks it up and drains half of it in one solid swig. "You’re a lifesaver, G," he sighs, the dull pounding in his head already fading. "Thank you. Uh—hold on." He digs in his pocket, pulls out his wallet, but Grian shakes his head.
"I don’t understand why you keep trying to do this," he complains, dodging Scar’s hand as Scar tries to shove a crumpled bill into his hand. "No, you’re not paying. You’ve never paid before. Go away."
"‘Go away’?" Scar gasps, pressing his hand to his chest in mock offense, but he tucks the money back into his wallet. "Grian. G. I thought we were friends."
"We are friends," Grian states dryly. "That’s why you don’t pay."
"Because you think I can’t afford it?" Scar crosses his arms. "Assuming someone’s financial state is rude, you know."
"Shut up," Grian huffs. "I know you can afford it. You know just as well as I do why I never let you pay."
Scar does. When they were both younger, just progressing into adulthood, Scar got lucky. He found a solid job, a nice apartment, somewhere that was clean and tidy, despite its small size. He was in a safe neighborhood, and as soon as he reached an age where he was eligible, he registered to become a hero. He never wondered where his next meal would come from. He never faced a true sense of fear, at least not one that stemmed from not having a place to sleep.
Grian, though? Grian didn’t have the same experience. Scar lost touch with Grian for what must have been months before they found each other again—or, rather, Scar found Grian, living on the streets and taking odd jobs just to stay alive.
So Scar took him in. Of course, he did. He never regretted it for a moment, and he still doesn’t. Grian lived with him until he managed to get on his feet, and now, Grian has been supporting himself for years, and Scar couldn’t be prouder. Somehow, though, Grian still feels like he owes Scar, and Scar doesn’t know what to do about it.
"You know that I never—"
"I know," Grian cuts in. He sees the discontent twist to Scar’s face, and he softens. "I know. This isn’t me trying to—repay you, or anything. Nothing I do could ever do that. But it’s the same type of thing, yeah? You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours, and everything."
"Yeah, except my back isn’t itchy," Scar points out, and Grian sighs.
"You’ve taken the metaphor too far, now, by the way," he informs Scar, and Scar deflates.
"Oh."
"Mhm." Grian glances at his watch. "Also, you’re going to be late getting back to work if you don’t leave right now."
Scar mouths a curse, pulls out his phone from his pocket to check the time and confirm that Grian is correct—which he is, of course. Grian may not know his job, but he knows Scar’s schedule with the same familiarity as his own. Scar is the same way. It’s how he knew that Grian would be on shift today during his lunch break.
"Alright, G, gotta run!" he blurts, and Grian has already poured the remaining half of his coffee into a to-go cup and shoved it into Scar’s hands.
Scar pauses, despite knowing he’ll be late if he doesn’t move quickly. "You’re the best, G," he says softly, and Grian smiles thinly at him. Almost subconsciously, as if he doesn't realize he's doing it, his eyes flicker around the café. Scar squints at him; is this odd? Is this a new development? Grian has seemed more…on edge, lately. It's making Scar nervous.
"I try."
But Grian still sounds exhausted, and Scar purses his lips. He sets down his to-go cup of coffee and lunges forward, reaching over the counter to drag Grian into a hug.
Grian flinches back. Scar freezes.
"Grian," he says slowly, and Grian shakes his head.
"Leave it, Scar." His voice is trembling, and he adjusts his glasses, looking everywhere and anywhere except for Scar’s eyes.
"Grian, are you—"
"I said leave it." Grian makes a show of checking his watch once again, though Scar can see the tension in the gesture. "You have to go." When Scar still doesn’t move, he huffs. "You startled me, okay? Most times when someone’s jumping across the counter at me, it’s not for a good reason. Aggressive customers, and all."
Scar’s frown deepens. "Does that…happen a lot?"
Grian laughs. It sounds nothing like him at all. "How else would I get these battle scars?" He settles a hand on his right side, just over his ribs, and Scar scoffs.
"Look, you don’t have to tell me, but don’t lie about it," he huffs, and Grian’s expression of fake ease dissolves into something almost hopeless. "I—I have to go, G, but if you ever need to talk…."
"Yup, yep, got it, thank you!" Grian sings, shooing Scar towards the door. "Get outta here, I know that whoever your boss is won’t be happy if you’re super late."
Scar snickers, thinking of Xisuma. "It would be funny though, wouldn’t it?"
"Depends," Grian admits. "Not if you lose your job, though."
Scar acquiesces and turns to leave, and he’s already at the door when Grian calls after him. "Wait, Scar, your coffee!"
Scar turns around, and by the time he begins moving back towards his coffee, Grian has already vaulted the counter with surprising ease and shoved it into his hands.
Scar would be impressed by the smooth leap if not for the way Grian immediately doubles over with a yelp, clutching at his ribs.
"Why would you—" Scar hisses, already hurrying to his best friend’s side, but Grian waves him off with gritted teeth.
"Scar, if you lose your job because you’re trying to make sure I’m okay, I will never speak to you again."
Scar straightens. "Noted! Okay, G, text me when you’re no longer immobilized with pain!"
Grian snorts. "I will," he agrees, and at that, Scar bolts, grumbling under his breath with gritted teeth about his stupid job, and stupid paperwork, and all of this is stupid. Stupid.
He doesn’t believe that, of course. But sometimes, it’s nice to complain.
Though, when the evacuation drill is announced over the speakers and through the very loud alarms, Scar decides that he does, in fact, hate his job. And that’s why he decides to go home early and, for the first time all day, finally relax.
He grabs his cane as he enters his house, which is leaned against the wall right beside the front door. He doesn’t use it when he’s out and about—it wouldn’t mesh well with his job, and he can usually handle the pain, anyways—but it always helps when he comes home to find it right where he left it. It takes some pressure off his joints, and though it doesn’t take away his many bruises or his headache that returned with the alarms, he still sighs in relief when he grips it in his hands.
Jellie purrs as he limps towards the couch, curling around his legs and rubbing her soft and furry body against his shins. A heavy load lifts from his shoulders, and he smiles, reaching down to scratch between her ears.
"Hey, girl," he coos, and she meows at him. "I know, I know, it’s dinner time. Just hold on."
It doesn’t take long to get Jellie her food—barely over a minute—but it takes long enough that Scar is entirely drained afterwards. If he had been functioning on fumes before, they’ve all run out, by now, and he collapses onto the couch with a long, exhausted groan.
He’s hungry, he realizes. He hasn’t made himself dinner, and he didn’t really have any lunch besides a cup of coffee. He’d been a bit distracted by talking to Grian. But making dinner would require standing up, and thinking about what to make, and actually making it and Scar just doesn’t think he can handle that, tonight.
He knows that Grian won’t like that, when he finds out—and he will find out. Scar has had a history of skipping meals, and look, it’s not his fault! He’s a busy guy. It’s not his fault that sometimes he gets tired, or distracted, or he gets a bit too excited about one thing or another and works on it for so long that he forgets to eat.
Unfortunately for Scar, Grian cares about him. The first time he learned that Scar doesn’t always eat dinner, he stated, clearly and firmly, that he was going to text Scar every night to remind him. He started doing it that very night, and he never once broke his streak.
So Scar pulls out his phone to apologize for missing a night, but Grian hasn’t texted him since a quarter til one, when he followed through on his promise to let Scar know that he was alright. That’s…odd, and Scar furrows his eyebrows, sitting up straight despite his aching muscles.
He could call Grian to check in—and, honestly, it’s tempting. Something tightens in Scar’s chest, and it screams at him that something is wrong, something is wrong, Grian isn’t okay. But that’s ridiculous, isn’t it? Grian doesn’t have to text him every single night. Maybe he forgot. Maybe he got distracted, or he’s busy. Maybe he’s preoccupied with taking care of whatever injury is plaguing his right side.
…Or maybe he’s in trouble.
Scar shakes his head in an attempt to dispel the thoughts that poke at the edges of his mind. Grian is fine. And, if Grian wasn’t fine, he’d come to Scar. But he wouldn’t want Scar to go to him. Not for something like this, where it’s just a distant feeling of anxiety in his stomach. Grian has, many times, expressed his frustration when Scar is too protective over him. Scar just…can’t help it. He spent so long worrying about Grian, and besides—Grian is his best friend. Of course he’s worried.
But Grian won’t like it if Scar shows up at Grian’s house, distraught and overthinking. He’ll humor Scar, of course—he always does, because he understands that Scar can’t always control his thoughts when they start running away—but he won’t love the implication that Scar thinks he can’t handle himself.
So Scar won’t worry. Scar will just shoot Grian a short text, something easy and light and unobtrusive, and Grian will respond—maybe not now, but definitely in the morning—and everything will be fine. And Scar will ignore that persistent feeling in his gut that tells him that something is very, very wrong, because nothing is wrong.
(Though, Scar has been a hero for a long time, now. He’s learned when his gut is lying, and when he should listen to it. But surely everything’s fine, right? This isn’t one of his patrols, or a battle against Mimic. This is Grian.)
Scar types something and sends it—nothing too probing, just a check-in. Grian doesn’t mind these, usually. He knows that it’s a result of Scar’s anxious mind, and he knows that the other option would be for Scar to knock on his door, distressed.
Grian doesn’t answer immediately, but that’s fine. It’s fine. He’s not obligated to respond to Scar as soon as he’s seen the text. It’s entirely possible that he’s eating, or he’s in the shower. Or that he decided to go to bed early—he did look exhausted, earlier.
Scar sighs and stands up, pushing Jellie off of his lap as she meows at him in protest. "I know, Jellie," he sighs, reaching for his cane again. "I don’t want to get up, either. But G always tells me to make tea when I get like this." He huffs. "I don’t even like tea that much, but if he thinks it helps…."
Jellie purrs and follows him. Scar keeps talking. "You remember Grian, right? Of course you do—you love him. He’s over here all the time. Red sweater, glasses—that guy." He pulls a tin of tea out of a cabinet—the only one he owns. Grian gifted it to him once, and it’s lasted him for years because he’s barely touched it. Grian insists that it helps with anxiety. Scar doesn’t see it, but it reminds him of Grian, at least, so maybe it’ll help in this case.
He’s not going to bother using a kettle, though. Grian would slaughter him for that, but Scar is perfectly fine with his lukewarm microwaved tea. Besides, it’s easier, and Scar doesn’t have the energy to think too hard, tonight.
He leans against the wall as the mug revolves slowly in the microwave, too tired to stand up straight. In the background, the clock ticks, slowly lulling him into a soft doze. Slowly, his eyes flutter shut, and his breathing evens out, and he can feel himself slump, muscles loosening and head drooping.
The microwave beeps and Scar starts, bumping his elbow against the wall. He hisses and rubs at the sore spot, blinking awake, disoriented. He scrubs at his bleary eyes as he hurries over to the microwave to stop the incessant sound.
He’s more tired than he’d thought, he realizes as he cradles his tea in both hands and makes his way over to the couch unsteadily. He yawns, drags a hand down his face, and sinks down onto the soft cushions.
He doesn’t even acknowledge Jellie when she curls up beside him, tail flicking lightly, purring. He just leans back and closes his eyes, resting the tea in his lap and setting his phone firmly face down on the couch.
The tea doesn’t help with his anxiety, but it does make him feel considerably less lonely.
He drains it slowly, sipping bit by bit, barely tasting it as he stares blankly at the wall in front of him. Jellie rests her chin on his leg, and he scratches at her head absentmindedly, mind still spinning. He only finishes about half of the mug before he can’t stomach any more, and he lets his hands lower, tipping his head back to lean it against the couch cushions.
He’s so exhausted.
Slowly, Scar’s eyes slip shut. His grip on the mug goes lax.
Someone pounds on the door, several sharp raps in a row, and Scar yelps, jolting violently. His hands jerk, and the tea spills all over his lap and the couch.
Jellie yowls and jumps up, scampering away from the puddle of lukewarm tea and the now-empty mug. Scar stares at all of it—the tea, the mug, the mess all over his legs and the ground and the cushions and everything—and buries his face in his hands. He squeezes his eyes shut and pretends that the tea isn’t slowly soaking into his clothes and his couch, and that there’s no one at the door.
He doesn’t get to pretend for long, though. There’s another series of knocks at the door, louder, more insistent. Almost desperate, in a way. Scar should get up. It could be important.
He still doesn’t move, and the knocks stop. For a moment, Scar thinks he might be in the clear. But then there’s a thump, and then silence, and Scar sighs miserably. He should really, really check what’s going on.
Standing up, Scar tries to ignore the tea that’s most definitely going to stain his clothes and his cushions. He picks up the mug off the floor and hurries to the door, attempting briefly to peek outside through the window. It’s dark, and he can barely see outside, but he can just make out something lying on his doorstep in a heap. It could be a trick. Someone’s way of trying to mug him, or steal something, or whatever.
Scar doesn’t particularly care. What are they going to take? His tea-stained couch? Anything else they might actually want is hidden so well that there’s no way they could find it. Besides, Scar is a superhero. What are they going to be able to do to him?
He opens the door, empty mug still in hand. A familiar figure is slumped on the ground, motionless. They’re dressed in shades of dark red and black, with a mask concealing their features and hiding the lower half of their face.
Scar stares down at Mimic, the supervillain, and curses.