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sleepless-in-southlands · 2 years

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I’m Calling Your Bluff (And Calling You Mine)

Ao3

Summary: It was a bit hypocritical to have rules in regards to a business that existed almost entirely on the wrong side of the law, but even in a place as depraved as Heremita, common sense could be found. Don't get too attached to your business rivals, for example. Too bad Scar had never been one for too much sense. Content: AU- Mob bosses, pining (kinda), s7 mayor race but make it gay mob bosses basically; blood, violence, threats, gunshot wound, scars, codependency, homoromanticism, kissing, obligatory characters not CCs Ships: Whatever the Fuck mumscarian has going on (def romo mumbo/scar, everything else is Very fruity and up to interpretation), platonic Scar and Bdubs Notes: Part one of the Bloody Fruits au

The casino was as well-lit as ever, chandeliers of gold spilling aureate light down upon the finely dressed gamblers that filled its halls as they traded away dirty-money riches and purloined treasures for a moment of thrill. Flashing greens and blues were exchanged for cheap chips and lavish liquors, a night of expense that most of the players could afford to lose.

Scar took in the sight indifferently, leaning on his deceptively delicate cane as he loitered just past the building’s foyer. Most looking for an audience with the opulent casino’s owner need to schedule far in advance, the man both busy and unsociable. Scar was not most people.

He gave a small wave to the eyes in the sky that had been tracking his movements since the moment he had appeared on the street before the establishment. They blended into the ceiling like a charm, glazed purple domes tricking most into believing they were little more than colourful decor, but Scar made a habit of knowing when he was being watched.

Soon enough, Scar was being approached by a man no one else would notice, dressed to be little more than an extension of his surroundings. In a pressed red suit with amethyst cufflinks and tie-clip, he looked rich enough to belong but not dazzling enough to stick-out.

“Mr. Chronos.” His voice was smooth and refined, paired with a smile that was just a smidge too sharp to be genial. “You’re not expected.”

“Mr. Penemue.” Scar replied in a matching tone. “I’m not, no! I was just strolling by and thought I should pop in for a chat along the way.”

Grian’s smile didn’t falter. “Mr. Eris is a busy man, he doesn’t typically see those without an appointment.”

“Oh, but he’ll see me, won’t he?”

For that, Scar was rewarded with the edge of the other man’s lips quirking up by the smallest fraction in genuine amusement. “I suppose he can fit you in. Follow me.”

Scar allowed himself to be led through the main room of the casino, sparing glances of idle curiosity to the tables they passed. Every dealer’s move was practiced and precise, every card that moved through their hands shining as they hit the table. Scar’s shops were doing fine, and the casino business had never been his scene, but in the halls of the End Crystal Scar had to admit he could see the appeal.

A drab door marked ‘employees only’ near the back brought the two of them to a well-furnished waiting room. The late hours left it empty as they crossed the room, halting before a set of solid dark oak doors.

Scar turned as they stopped, unsurprised to find he was being offered a plain- and mostly certainly unarmed- cane. “You know the rules, Mr. Chronos.”

“Don’t trust me?”

Grian’s smile had reverted back to the fixed and never-changing one he had greeted Scar with, though the look in his eyes had become hard. “When it comes to Mr. Eris’s safety, I trust no one.”

“Oh, Grian, relax! It’s just me.” Scar handed over his cane, accepting the replacement as his was carefully placed in the ‘umbrella’ stand that did its named job poorly. “You can call him by his first name.”

Grian pulled open one of the doors without response, allowing Scar to enter before him. Scar rolled his eyes in amusement, though he appreciated Grian’s vigilance. People like Scar didn’t make it very long without people like Grian, after all.

The End Crystal’s office was as elegantly put together as the rest of the casino, but it lacked the gaudy comforts that convinced its patrons to empty their pockets. The crimson curtains were drawn on the window behind its owner, the streetlights streaming through casting him in a bloody hue. He looked up from the papers he had been marking as the door opened, one eyebrow raising. “A bit late for an appointment, isn’t it?”

“Apologies, Mumbo,” The door clicked shut before Grian walked past Scar, taking his proper place at the right of Mumbo. Though his stance remained guarded, as though ready to strike at any moment, his shoulders relaxed and his faux smile fell, “but you know how he is.”

Mumbo chuckled as he sat back, letting his pen fall against his desk. His outfit, a black suit and red tie, was a perfect mirror of Grian’s- or, more accurately, Grian’s outfit was a perfect mirror of Mumbo’s. In place of Grian’s amethysts, Mumbo’s cuffs sported moustache silhouettes outlined in red, a simpler representation of the man’s own facial hair. The design was not all that threatening if you asked Scar; which, in all fairness, made its notoriety all the more impressive.

“I do indeed.” Mumbo replied to Grian, gesturing at Scar. “Well then? What has brought us the pleasure of your company today, Mr. Chronos?”

“You South territory folks are much too formal.” Scar complained, dropping into one of the plush chairs that sat before Mumbo’s desk. “Please, it’s Scar. And I just wanted to see how your campaign efforts were coming along. Decided to drop-out yet?”

“Hardly.” Mumbo said with a self-assured smile. “For every fortune won on my floor, another dozen are lost. There are a good number of people who would trade their vote for their debt.”

Scar settled his borrowed cane across his lap. “Bought loyalties aren’t really long-term, you know. At the Glass Empire, we actually secure lasting alliances.”

“Mine need only last til the election.” Mumbo responded easily, glancing at Grian. “The South only needs each other.”

“A dangerous philosophy.” Scar’s grip tightened imperceptibly on the cane’s handle. “Isolated nations always fall in the end.”

“Everything falls in the end.” Grian replied. Scar’s eyes flicked over to his, Grian returning his gaze unflinchingly as Mumbo chuckled once more.

“Well put, Grian.” Mumbo tilted his head to the side. “But you sound as though you have a purpose to your words, do you not? If you are looking to secure another partnership for your Empire… well, the South would be willing to review the compatibility of our organizations.”

Scar’s grip loosened. Tightened again. He flashed his hosts his most winning smile as he pushed himself back to his feet. “You move so fast, Mumbo! My visit today is solely personal, not for business.”

Mumbo leaned forward, placing his elbows on his desk and creating a bridge out of his hands for his chin to rest on. “We could make this personal as well.”

Scar looked directly at Mumbo, finding him looking back with an expectant curiosity. As the moment stretched, Mumbo’s smile returned, the sharp edges of his teeth just barely showing. He was waiting for something, and the longer Scar waited with him, the more sure he became he was getting it. Like a game.

Out of the corner of his eye, Scar just barely caught Grian’s shoulders once again tensing. Always on his guard. Like a trap.

“Delightful as ever to see you, Mumbo.” Scar said finally, forcing the moment to an end, bowing his head once to both Mumbo and Grian. “The same to you, Grian.”

Pleasantries addressed, Scar made his departure, resisting the urge to turn back for one last look at the two as he left. Even as he retrieved his own cane and made his way to the casino’s exit, he kept his eyes forward, this time registering none of the risk and reward and ruin that was taking place in never ending cycles about him. Only right at the entrance did he stall, unable to help himself as he spared a single glance, finding-

It was earlier than Scar usually popped in for an unplanned visit, but it was a necessary precaution in this sort of life to never let your schedule be too predictable. Had to keep people on their toes, especially with those like the South, who treated trust like little more than a commodity with those not within their inner circles.

The lights were dim, servicing the meager handful of early-bird players adequately and adequately only. The true grandeur of full lights was reserved for the busy hours, when real profit could be raked in. Even so, Scar could still make out the back door opening from across the End Crystal’s polished floors, Mumbo and Grian entering from stage left.

Mumbo had ditched his suit jacket, dress shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows yet still not spared from the mess of the business he had been attending to. Along with the red stains in the cotton white, his hands were practically painted in the blood of whatever poor soul had crossed the South and gotten caught. He was doing his best to clean his skin with a washcloth in hand, but his efforts were only so effective.

While it was typically Grian in Mumbo’s current position, he was nearly stain-free, his role today likely just to guard and watch. There was a splash of blood across his cheek, however, arterial spray that had only just missed his suit. Grian swiped his thumb across his chin, catching a drop that had threatened to make him get dry cleaning, catching Mumbo’s attention.

Shifting the cloth to one hand, Mumbo held Grian’s chin with one hand and set to cleaning his face with the cloth. He paused after a moment, cupping Grian’s cheek with the rag as Grian tilted his head up at him, a cheeky sort of smirk slipping onto his face, and somewhere in between a blink they were kissing, Mumbo’s hands remaining on Grian’s face while Grian tangled his in Mumbo’s hair.

Scar knew he should’ve looked away. He really should’ve. When the two of them stumbled backwards, Mumbo’s back hitting the wall not stopping them. When Grian started to draw away for a breath, Mumbo only giving him a moment to get it before tugging him back in. When they broke apart again, resting their foreheads together instead like they were content to do nothing else.

He should have looked away.

But he didn’t.

-everything just as it was when he passed through, nothing and no one of note having come to occupy the space. Really, why would anything have changed? Same casino, same owner.

With a nod to himself and his inner monologue, Scar pushed through the glistening revolving doors, replacing the perfume and champagne incense of the casino with brisk night air.

The streets were dark, the End Crystal being the only business that pressed into the night with such fervor. Mixed shades of pink and purple lit up the sidewalk directly before the business, glitter gold words glowing in the coloured light and serving further to draw in the late-night wanderers with too much in their pockets.

Scar forced himself not to linger in its allure, aware that even out here Grian still had eyes on him. If Grian had returned to his regular station during the casino’s busy hours, that was; if Grian had actually left Mumbo’s office after Scar had, if Grian hadn’t instead stayed, if Grian hadn’t instead-

With a particular purposeful tap of his cane, Scar was off, setting a quick pace in a familiar direction.

It didn’t take long to reach his destination, escaping the lands of harshly edged moustaches and entering the one of paint splatter crystals. All his businesses were closed for the night, the empty streets once again making Scar consider getting into the night-life industry, though there was a good reason he never actually would.

The after-hours were a dangerous time in Heremita, part of what had given Mumbo’s organization such a fast ascent to infamy in the area. When it first popped up, the End Crystal was predicted to fail in spades. But the South evidently knew their cards, and the casino’s success rose on the backs of those who tried to stop it.

Scar still remembered the first day Mumbo had come around- with Grian right behind him, an inseparable pair from the very start- introducing themselves to every big name in town, like they already knew they were going to be something. Shame they’re not going to last, he had thought. We could be something.

But they had lasted. And yet…

Scar pulled himself from his thoughts as he realized he had come upon his destination. The jeweler's shop that served as his own base of operations was as closed down as every building around it, but the light over the back entrance was still flickering. Scar was careful to double-triple-double knock before entering, not really in the mood to get shot that particular night.

As expected, he opened the door to find his right-hand man putting away his gun, replacing it in his hand with a pen as he returned to working the books. “Welcome back, Scar.”

“You know, Bdubs, you don’t have to stay late.” Scar replied by way of greeting, shrugging off his suit jacket and hooking it on the hanger by the door. “There’s no rush, the work can wait.”

“The election can’t.” Bdubs tapped the glass of his pocket watch, proudly displayed at the front of his desk. “I’m okay working some overtime.”

“I still think you work too much.” Scar commented as he took a seat at the desk of one of his employees who had actually listened when he told them to head home, laying his head back. “But I appreciate your efforts.”

Bdubs nodded at him in recognition, pausing his work for a moment to look Scar over. “Enjoy your walk?”

“I did, thank you.”

“Visit the South territory?”

Scar lifted his head enough to shoot Bdubs an annoyed stare. “How do you do that?”

Bdubs chuckled. “I know you, Scar. You always visit the South territory, especially in these last few weeks.”

Scar let his head flop down again. “Still rude to point it out, isn’t it?”

No response to that, the conversation being replaced with quiet pen scratches and paper shuffling for a minute. “Do any business?”

“...They offered a partnership.”

“Again?”

“Again.”

“And you said?”

Scar sighed as he sat fully up, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. “You know what I said.”

Bdubs sighed as well. He put the pen down, rotating his chair to fully face Scar. He had replaced his work clothes with casual wear, a blue hoodie and jeans, but the distinctively-shaped emerald-green crystal hanging around his neck remained, a mark of his loyalties to friends and foes alike. “Scar.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“We can’t keep dancing around the subject.” Bdubs pressed. “The South is big, as potential allies and current mayoral opponents. We can’t miss this opportunity all because you’ve decided to be weird about the heads.”

Scar shook his head. “It’s just not that simple.”

“This line of work is brutal, and you know that better than most.” Scar winced, one hand coming up reflexively to cover the side of his neck and the rough reminder Bdubs was referencing. “If you let schoolyard antics affect your decision making, you’re not going to make it back ‘round for a third try.”

“You are talking back an awful lot today.”

Bdubs didn’t dignify that with a response.

Scar let his hand drop back to his lap. “Sorry.”

The apology was accepted with a wave of Bdubs’s hand as he went back crunching illicit numbers. “It’s fine, just… maybe stop taking so many walks. Nowhere in this city is safe, but strolling through enemy territory every other night is asking for trouble.”

“...Yeah, yeah, alright.” Scar agreed after a moment. “I won’t visit the South anymore.”

“Unless you’re going to accept the partnership?”

Scar turned away from Bdubs, looking out one of the small and reinforced back windows instead. “Sure thing.”

Nights like these were ones Scar most deeply regretted having a bed in the spare office. It was always good to have a place to rest and recover close by, especially in this line of work, especially for him, but it made it much too easy to avoid going home when he should. Not that Scar was really the workaholic type- at least, not with paperwork- but too often he fell victim to the 'just one more’ mentality that had accidentally trapped him at work more times than he cared to admit.

Granted, he could technically go home at any hour. But Scar wasn't an idiot.

If Bdubs was still there, Scar might have bullied him into doing his job and escorting him home. But the man had worked a few too many long nights recently and it was finally starting to catch up with him- Scar had sent him home hours ago.

“Are you sure?” Bdubs had argued, even as he was rubbing at his eyes in a desperate attempt to not fall asleep right there. “No one else is here, Scar. You should at least go home now too, while there's still light.”

"This store is better fortified than area seventy-seven.” Scar had replied, gesturing with his pen. “I'll be fine. Go home, Bdubs, you need the rest.”

There had been more grumbling, but Bdubs ended up going as requested, leaving Scar to his work in an empty store. In hindsight, Scar should have taken his advice to head home as well, while there was still light, but he had only been planning to finish filing one or two tax forms that were as accurate as anyone else's in Heremita.

Scar glanced out the window, where the faintest sliver of a moon was beginning to reach its peak in the sky. Yeah, that plan had worked out well.

Deciding to finally call it good for the night, Scar began putting away his papers, just about to stand up when he heard the unmistakable bang of a gunshot.

Before Scar had even finished processing the sound, he had his own gun in hand, crouching beside his desk and aiming at his office's door, ready and waiting for a breach. Outside, more sounds followed the shot- something hitting the ground, running footsteps fleeing the scene, a string of curses. No more gunshots. No one trying to break down the door. No one after him.

Scar remained in position despite his conclusion, listening for any sign it was a trap. But there was nothing, the only sounds left coming from the one who had been cursing. He had dropped the potty mouth, but he was muttering to himself, too low for Scar to hear through the store's walls. The voice was familiar, Scar realized, trying to identify which of his enemies it might be.

Except, it didn't necessarily sound like an enemy. In fact, it almost sounded like…

Gun still drawn, Scar moved from his desk to his office door. After checking the main office was clear, Scar repositioned by the back door, peering out the slits in the window next to it.

Scar could only spot the victim's legs, the rest of his body likely pressed against the shop's wall. Black suit pants only narrowed down the possibilities so much, but it counted more in favour of Scar's hunch than the other way around.

Steeling himself for the possibility of someone much less friendly than who he was expecting to find, Scar pushed the back door open a half inch.

As suspected, the man was leaned up against the jewelry store's wall, immediately looking up when he heard the squeak of the door. Despite the awkward way he was holding his shoulder that immediately gave away the location of the gunshot's target, he managed to turn a corner of his lips up at spotting Scar. “Mr. Chronos.”

“Bleeding out on enemy territory and you’re still as formal as ever, Mr. Eris.” Scar responded, checking each side of the alleyway before he fully stepped out of his building, gun still drawn. No sign of people lying in wait to attack, and Scar doubted that ambush was really Mumbo’s style, but you could never be too safe.

“I didn’t realize we were enemies.”

“Well we’re not allies.” Scar came to stand in front of Mumbo, finally lowering his gun, though his finger remained on the trigger. “At least, not technically.”

“That’s hardly my fault.”

Scar shook his head. Why Mumbo had decided this was more important than the hole in his shoulder was beyond him, but it did signal risk of shock or more extreme injury than was immediately visible. Or a ploy. “What happened?”

Mumbo nodded his head upwards, gesturing at something above him. Scar’s eyes followed the motion, finding a blue poster reading, “False for mayor!” plastered on the wall right over Mumbo’s head.

With a grumble that bordered on a growl, Scar tore the paper down, crumpling it up and tossing it to the side. “She doesn’t normally make the mistake of tagging bases.”

“Crime of opportunity.” Mumbo offered as explanation. “I’ve been edging into her territory recently, I’ve had her target on my back for a bit. Spotted Tango scoping out the Crystal earlier, hoped she’d be put off by me dipping through your territory. Sorry about that.”

“The alley could always do with another clean, anyways.” Scar said with a shrug. He glanced around. “Where’s Grian? Did Tango get him?”

“Grian’s safe, he didn’t see Tango. I told him to stay in the casino for the night, run some numbers on how many votes we can trade.” Mumbo answered, grunting as he got his feet underneath him. Dark blood sluggishly spilled out from beneath Mumbo’s hand at the motion, staining his suit darker than it already was as he stood up. Scar resisted the urge to offer him a hand up, instead trying his best to not look at him like he had suddenly grown an extra moustache.

“You knew someone was coming after you and you told your head of security to stay home and crunch numbers?” A nod. “What the hell, Mumbo?! What were you thinking?”

Mumbo rested his back against the wall once more. “It was safer.”

“Safer? Safer?! False could have killed you! Tango could have killed you!” Scar gestured with his gun. “Damnit, I could kill you! You have security people for a reason, and if your life’s in direct threat, they should be on you!”

Distantly, Scar was aware he was getting much too worked up by this for someone who, following the lack of allyship between their organizations, was a neutral party in the matter at best. Something in Mumbo’s expression as he watched Scar talk suggested he was thinking the same thing, but he didn’t comment on it.

“If Grian has the opportunity to sacrifice his life for mine, he will.” Mumbo said slowly, as if there was something more to his words. “It is my job to ensure such a situation never arises.”

“You’d sooner get yourself killed than let Grian do his job?”

Mumbo met Scar’s eyes dead-on, stare unflinching as he answered, “Every time.”

Silence in a blood-stained alley in the dead of night was always tense, Scar’s grip tightening on his gun (once more pointed towards the ground) as Mumbo refused to back down from his gaze. Finally, Scar let out a sigh.

“Let’s get you inside before someone comes back to ‘check’ on you.” Scar flicked the safety on his gun back on, offering his other arm out for Mumbo to lean on.

“I thought you said you could kill me.” Mumbo snarked even as he accepted Scar’s arm, using it as balance as he stumbled away from the wall. “That I was an enemy in unfriendly territory.”

“I never called it unfriendly territory.” Scar corrected as he began walking back to his door, doing his best not to out-pace Mumbo. “The South is welcome in the Glass Empire.”

“And so is the Glass Empire welcome in the South.”

This time, Scar could identify the odd tone of Mumbo’s voice; the partial confirmation of some sort of agreement between their organizations, and the confusion of why Scar would do this, but still refuse an outright partnership. Scar let the unspoken question go unanswered, helping Mumbo take a seat at one of his employees’ desks before closing and securing the door.

“Can you take your jacket off?” Scar asked him, pausing on his path to the first aid kit in case the answer was no. When Mumbo nodded, he left the room, gun still in hand as he fetched the kit. The chances of Mumbo attacking him were close to nothing, but even now they weren’t zero, and Scar knew there was no such thing as being too careful.

Scar then proceeded to nearly shoot himself in the foot when he returned to the main office area to find that Mumbo had not only stripped off his jacket, but his shirt and tie as well. He had folded them up and deposited them on the floor by his feet, the small puddles of blood that were beginning to pool around them giving Scar an excuse to think about the different cleaners he’d have to call rather than anything else.

“I could have just cut off the sleeve, you know.” Scar commented with feigned indifference, moving to the front of Mumbo and placing down the first aid kit and some towels on the desk beside him. “Didn’t need to take everything off.”

Mumbo half-shrugged in response, careful to not jostle his injured shoulder any more than he already had. Despite his attempts to staunch the flow, blood had already begun trickling down his chest, and his hand was as bloody as it was the day Scar had come early for his typical impromptu meeting. Yet another thing Scar was going to do his best to not think about.

The blood wasn’t the only thing of note on Mumbo’s chest, however. It was littered with scars as well. Most were small and faded, but one large one stretched over his heart, and another curved around his side in line with his ribs. The sight wasn’t too surprising, all things considered- this was their line of business, after all. But Mumbo was young for a boss, and new, and even now he was adding to the list of reminders that would follow him around for whatever amount of life he had left to live.

It felt wrong.

“Painkillers?”

“It only hit my shoulder.” Mumbo replied flippantly. “I’ll be alright.”

Scar placed the bottle out on the desk beside the kit regardless, just in case. He grabbed a second seat to use as his own as he started going through the first aid kit, pulling out gauze and sutures. “I won’t be able to tell exactly until we clean it up a bit, but I’m guessing you’re going to need a stitch or two.”

“All I need is a bandage, Grian can stitch me up when I’m back at the Crystal.”

“It’s funny how you think you’re leaving this building again tonight.”

For all the ease their interactions had held so far, Mumbo immediately went on the defensive, sitting up tall in his seat and looking ready to fight Scar right then. Scar admired the fact Mumbo still might manage to win on sheer determination alone. “Excuse me?”

“The last time you were outside at night you got shot.” Scar helpfully reminded, poking his own shoulder in mirror of Mumbo’s. “You’re safer here for the time being.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Alright, let me put this a different way.” Scar moved one of the towels into his lap. “Grian’s already going to kill you for this stunt, that’s a given. So either you go out in the night, again, and get him committing double homicide against you for being stupid, and homicide against me for letting you be stupid, or you stay here for one single night, and save both of us at least one murder.”

Mumbo didn’t make his choice immediately, choosing instead to glare at Scar as if that would change what he had said. Scar busied himself with laying out the rest of what he would need, briefly leaving once more to get a bowl of water. He returned to find Mumbo had once more slumped in his chair, privately grimacing.

Scar took a moment to look away and loudly fiddle with a doorknob before taking his seat once more. Mumbo’s expression was once more masked, showing no signs of pain, but he hadn’t bothered to re-straighten his posture.

“So, what’ll be, Mr. Eris?” Scar asked lightly, dipping a towel in the water bowl. “Need more blood on your hands tonight?”

“I suppose not.” Mumbo relented. “But I can still take care of myself. You don’t need to play nurse on my behalf.”

Scar’s gaze fell briefly back to the patchwork of scars across Mumbo’s chest. “I have no doubt of that.” He said, the words coming out much gentler than he had meant them. “But you are my guest, and the Glass Empire insists upon its hospitality.”

"...You are an odd man, Scar Chronos.” Scar looked up again, finding Mumbo's gaze had softened somewhat. He still didn't seem too happy with the situation, unsurprisingly, but he seemed to have accepted it. "You can't seem to decide if we are enemies or allies.”

“Why not a bit of both?” Scar said meaninglessly, scooting his chair closer to Mumbo and changing the topic. “Hand off.”

Mumbo hesitated before complying, letting the hand that had been pressing against the wound fall to his lap. Scar gave him one of the towels, letting him wash his hands and wipe down his chest while Scar focused on the bullethole.

"Did it go all the way through?”

"No, it's still in there.”

Scar nodded, grabbing his tweezers. "You're certain you don't want any painkillers?”

Mumbo twisted the towel in his hands harder than he needed to. "Positively.”

With another nod, Scar did his best to work delicately, trying not to add to the damage already done as he attempted to retrieve the bullet. Mumbo leaned his head against his uninjured shoulder, using his towel to bite on when Scar finally found his target and began to pull it out.

Scar let the bullet drop to the desk beside them when it was finally out, mentally adding the piece of furniture to the list of things that would need to be cleaned. Mumbo dropped the towel to his lap once more, letting out a long breath before looking at Scar again.

"Can I do my own stitches at least?”

"Nope.” Scar answered with somewhat put-on cheerfulness. "But if it's really important to you, I'll let you bandage it afterwards.”

Mumbo huffed a laugh before leaning back, resigned to Scar's cordiality. “No you won't.”

"Correct, I won't.” Scar confirmed, picking up the wet towel and bringing it to Mumbo's shoulder. He was careful with his motions, not wanting to aggravate the wound more as he cleaned. Mumbo watched silently as he worked.

"You remind me of Grian.” Scar did his best not to react too strongly to the sudden comment, instead raising a single eyebrow in curiosity. “So attentive. Usually I just stitch it up and call it good.”

Scar hummed as he put the towel down, replacing it in his hand with the thread and needle he would need for the coincidentally mentioned next step. “Would you do that to Grian if he was the one that needed help?”

“I wouldn’t.” Mumbo acknowledged, smirking. “But Grian is my right-hand man.”

“And you are my guest.” Scar dodged, threading his needle. “Hold still.”

Scar put in the stitches in silence, Mumbo not seeming as pained by the needlework as he had been by the removal of the bullet but hardly enjoying it either. His hand on his uninjured side patted his pocket as Scar worked, likely the location of whatever weapon he had on him. A knife, if Scar had to guess. If Mumbo had a gun it would either have been over his chest or in a leg holster. Scar would have been insulted if he didn’t understand the feeling so well himself. Scar’s work stayed steady with the knowledge that if Mumbo wanted to hurt him, he would have struck already. That, and the fact he could draw his gun faster than Mumbo could at current.

As he finished off the stitches, Scar tied off the last one and cut it off from the spool. Mumbo inspected Scar’s work while Scar once again changed the objects in his hand. He made no complaints against the stitches or the fact Scar was picking up the gauze.

Scar shifted his seat even closer to Mumbo’s, pulling more to his side so that he could wrap the gauze around his shoulder. Mumbo’s arm came to rest against Scar’s leg to give Scar better access to the injury, more small scars scratched across it. Scar couldn’t help but wonder how many of those Grian had helped with- how many of all the scars on Mumbo’s chest he had helped with, had cleaned and stitched and bandaged just like Scar was doing now.

“Why doesn’t Grian wear your symbol?” Scar asked after a moment, well aware he had no right to, well aware there was no need to ask, well aware Mumbo likely wouldn’t answer at all. But it was a question that had always been on the back of his mind, ever since the first time he had seen Grian sporting amethyst instead of moustaches, and he doubted there would ever be another time where it was even close to appropriate to ask it.

Mumbo closed his eyes, appearing to deliberate the question, deciding whether or not he would answer. Scar continued wrapping, nearly done when Mumbo finally spoke.

“I don’t want to link him to me- to the South- like that.”

“Everyone already knows Grian is your right-hand. Symbol or no.”

“It gives him deniability.” Mumbo replied, looking down at the hand still resting over his weapon. “And it means if he ever wants to leave, he can. He doesn’t have to stay.”

“You don’t want Grian in the South? Heremita?”

“I don’t want him in this business.”

Scar held the gauze in place as he reached for a piece of tape, securing the cloth. “He’s a strong member in your organization.”

“Do you think that’s all I see him as?”

“No.” Scar said quietly, moving Mumbo’s arm back into his own lap and pulling away to focus on repacking the kit. “I think you see him as much more.”

Scar could feel Mumbo’s eyes on his back as he worked. He did his best to ignore the sensation, closing the kit with a bit of a louder snap than necessary. “Do you need any help getting your shirt back on?”

“I’ve got it.” Scar nodded without looking back, taking the kit and spare towels back to where he had fetched them from. By the time he returned, Mumbo was pulling his jacket loosely over his shoulders, shirt on and tie shoved in a pocket. He looked more put together than a man who still had his own blood dripping off him should.

“There’s a bed in the spare office.” Scar informed him, pointing out the office in question.

Mumbo gave it a glance before turning back towards Scar, not looking enthralled. “Why would I sleep here?”

“The door locks from the inside, and there’s a chair you can put under the knob as well, if it makes you feel more secure.” Scar explained, flashing a small smile. “And for whatever it’s worth to you, I promise you I won’t try to break in on you. I mean what I say about hospitality.”

It took a few minutes for Mumbo to respond to that, and even then it didn’t feel like nearly enough time for him to have made such a decision in. “Alright. But only if you wake me as soon as the sun’s risen. The sooner Grian hears about this, the less I have to be chewed out over it.”

“I will.” Scar promised, watching as Mumbo made his way to the spare office. He hesitated in the doorway for a moment, turning to look at Scar again.

“Grian’s not the only person I value past their position.” Mumbo said cryptically, smiling at Scar as if he should know exactly what he meant. “The South really would be chuffed if the Glass Empire pursued a partnership. Come by the Crystal again. Our doors are always open to you, even without an appointment.”

Of the million things that sprang to Scar’s mind to say, to ask about, his only response came out as a nod. Mumbo seemed to accept it as more than enough, however, nodding back and wishing Scar a good night. The office door’s lock clicked behind him as he disappeared into the room, leaving Scar’s late reply of the same sentiments to echo in the empty main office.

Scar found himself sliding back into the seat he had been helping Mumbo in, rotating around so that Mumbo’s room was behind him and the jewelry store’s side entrance in front of him. He pulled his gun into his lap, trying not to think too hard on whether or not he was just protecting himself right in that moment.

“I'm heading out for a walk.”

"Scar.”

"Fine, fine! It's a business meeting! We don't need to be so formal about it, you know.”

Bdubs spared Scar a glance as he worked on emptying display cases, packing things up for the night. “I'm being formal about it because I want something formal to happen. Casual walks into enemy territory still aren't safe.”

“An ‘enemy’ I personally helped patch up! It'll be alright.” Scar argued, picking up his cane. “Besides, I think you're just upset over the blood.”

"We haven't had any blood in the main offices in a year, Scar, it was very rude of them to break that streak.”

“It wasn't entirely the South's fault for that.”

“Well I can't do much about you. At least we're going after False for it.” Bdubs replied. “Speaking of, our efforts at cutting into her territory have been successful, we've gained some edge buildings. Got some votes out of the business owners there as well in trade for our protection from their old protection.”

"Good. Teach her to leave her litter on my buildings.” Scar said, ignoring the look Bdubs shot him, as though there were other reasons the Glass Empire would suddenly pursue a much less neutral stance against False's organization. “I'll be off now. Don't wait up on me!”

Bdubs wished him well as he stepped out the door, heading right off for the End Crystal. The sun was already setting, nighttime fast approaching, and with Scar's expansion into False's territory he knew the late hours were going to be even less safe for him now.

As he expected, Scar found the End Crystal nearly empty when he arrived, too early in the evening for the crowds to really be flowing in. Consequently, he wasn't surprised when Grian appeared sooner than he normally might. He was dressed as finely as ever, but his posture seemed a smidge more relaxed than usual, a minor detail Scar blamed on the lack of patrons.

"Mr. Chronos.” Ah, but still as formal as ever. “We've been expecting you for a few days now.”

"Well, Mr. Penemue, you know how work can be.” Scar gave as an excuse. “I do hope I'm not so late as to have missed my appointment.”

“You miss none of the appointments you never make.” Grian joked even as he turned, guiding Scar towards Mumbo's office as he had done a dozen times before. The waiting room was again empty as they entered as they had weeks ago, the last time Scar had been in the End Crystal. This time, however, Grian brought the two of them to a halt in the center of the room.

“Is there a problem, Grian?”

Grian turned to face Scar, crossing his arms. “The opposite, actually. I wanted to thank you. You did Mumbo, me, and the South a great service in helping him that night, despite having no obligation to do so.”

“I could hardly just leave him there to die.” Scar responded, clearing his throat before adding, “You alone would have seen to the end of my organization and myself had I not helped.”

"Perhaps.” Grian admitted, before smiling knowingly and continuing, “But with False's poster, I very easily could have blamed her instead. Had you not assisted him, you would have brought about both the ruin of the South and the destruction of the Armory.”

Scar laughed. “You sound almost as if you wished I had let him die.”

“Not in the slightest. But it would have been much more beneficial to you, and because of that, I greatly appreciate that you helped him instead.” Grian paused, considering something before he said, “You know, me and Mumbo aren’t dating.”

Of all the things Grian could have decided needed to be discussed, not in several years would Scar have seen that particular one coming. “Wha-”

“You’ve been acting distant, professionally and personally, ever since you caught us kissing- Mr. Chronos, I am capable of back-watching footage my eyes saw while I was elsewhere- and so I presume the two things are related. I hoped to ease any… qualms you might have.”

“I- wait- you- okay, let’s just. Let’s back-up.” It was never a good thing to be so visibly caught off-guard in front of an opponent, much less so when it was in a manner that could be considered ‘flustered’, and much much less so when said opponent was smirking at you like it was funny. The sooner Scar would be able to recover from this, the better. “Why were you and Mumbo kissing if you two aren’t together?”

“I owe my life to him, and despite my dedication to his safety, he would much too willingly throw himself in front of a gun for me.” Grian said with a shrug, as if it weren’t as important to him as it clearly was. “We’re closer than most couples are, we don’t need to be together to kiss.”

“...None of the way you phrased that made it sound any less like you are together.”

Scar was glad to note there was some level of amusement in the exasperated expression Grian took on. “If it’s easier for you, you can think of us as non-exclusive, then. It’s not that important to my main point.”

“Your main point being?”

“I know you’re not an idiot, Mr. Chronos.” Was all Grian offered as an explanation. “You’re welcome to head in now.”

Scar lifted his cane, catching Grian’s attention with it. “Don’t you want this?”

Grian looked at the dangerous mobility aid, clenching his jaw for a moment as he seemed to make a decision. He looked Scar dead in the eye. “Hurt him in the slightest and I will take apart your Empire with my bare hands, Scar.”

He took his leave of Scar then, before Scar had a chance to fully process the threat and use of his first name. He was fairly certain it counted as a good sign, at least. Grian's form of a blessing.

His guide having left, Scar allowed himself into Mumbo’s office. The curtains weren’t completely drawn, letting in the fading daylight rays and illuminating part of Mumbo’s face as he worked. His jacket was only pulled over one arm, hanging loose around the one now in a sling.

“We were beginning to worry you weren’t coming.” Mumbo said as Scar closed the door, looking up from his papers with a smile. “I expected you sooner.”

“I wanted to give you some recovery time first.” Scar took a seat in the same chair before Mumbo’s desk, resting his cane against its side. “You and Grian, as I’m sure he wasn’t exactly thrilled at discovering your gunshot condition.”

“He has been a lovely mix of overbearing mother hen and someone who must be restrained from starting territorial warfare, so, no, I wouldn’t say he took it the best.” Mumbo joked, rolling his pen between his fingers as he looked at Scar. “But he has been looking forward to your visit as well. This partnership is long overdue, wouldn’t you agree?”

“That depends.” Scar returned Mumbo’s gaze evenly. “Are we talking professionally or personally?”

Mumbo’s smile grew into a smirk as he stood, making his way around his desk to lean against the front of it, right in front of Scar. “I don’t see why we can’t work out something for both.”

“That would be amicable.” Scar said as he leaned forward, reaching out to grab the end of Mumbo’s tie and tug him closer. Mumbo didn’t resist the motion, bending until his face was mere inches from Scar’s.

“Is it a deal then?”

Scar sat up taller in his seat, shortening the gap between him and Mumbo even more, tilting his head by a fraction. “Is Grian watching?” He asked in a low voice, as if there was anyone else who could hear.

“He always is.” Mumbo replied, equally quiet and still wearing that knowing smirk, as if he thought Scar was being cute in a manner that wasn’t quite the typical definition of cute. Scar couldn’t help but return it even as he leaned in, sealing their deal like the charming gentleman he was.

#hermitcraft #hc s7 #goodtimeswithscar #mumbo jumbo #grian #bdubs #mumscarian #scarianbo #mumscar #scarbo #grumbo #m.y funky words #bloody fruits au #first person who can describe those three relationship in ten words or less gets a sticker /j #anyways if y'all've like Any questions about this fic or the world it's set in Pls let me know #i accidentally created a shit ton of lore for it in my head i'd be glad to share it

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sleepless-in-southlands · 2 years

Text

Your Eyes are in the Sky (Mine are on You)

Ao3

Summary: In their line of work, the past was never truly the past, and neither Grian nor Mumbo were dumb enough to think otherwise. But typically moving a hundred towns over was enough to keep it at a fairly distant threat. That didn't mean it always felt like it. Content: AU- Mob Bosses, hurt/comfort; paranoia, codependency referenced/past blood/injury/violence, trust issues, protectiveness, homoromanticism, kissing, obligatory characters not CCs Ship: Ambiguous grumbo (which is to say they go ‘we’re just business partners’ and then act like they’re dating. idk man. they’re fruity as hell) Notes: Part three of Bloody Fruits au

Grian knew he shouldn’t be here.

Even in the right places, night in Heremita was never a time to be outside. The longer he remained out in the open, the higher the chance ran that someone- or someones- would appear out of the shadows and attack him.

Not that he thought he would lose any fight that might present itself, especially at that moment, but still. He wasn’t necessarily looking for trouble.

That was only part of his problem, however. The other half of it was that he was at Mumbo’s house rather than his own.

He had tried to prevent it, he had. He had done his best to pretend like today was a normal day. He had urged Mumbo to leave the End Crystal early, get home in bright daylight rather than waning sunset or actual night. And then he had gone home too, telling himself it would be alright, that all he had to do was go to bed and meet Mumbo at work the next day like always.

It didn’t work. Grian wished that was more surprising than it was.

He hadn’t been able to go to bed, no amount of rationales able to calm the part of his mind that insisted Mumbo wasn’t safe, that his attempts to ignore the date were putting him in danger, that Mumbo was going to die this time and it would be all Grian’s fault.

So here he was. Standing in front of Mumbo’s house, a well-kept secret location with a top-of-the-line security system Grian had worked on himself, a thousand miles away from their old town, trying to resist the need to go inside all while knowing that doing so eventually was unavoidable.

A poorly placed trash can lid hit the ground with a clatter as a light breeze blew through, Grian nearly shooting it as it did. While he knew he didn’t show it, his pulse was jumping and his nerves were on a hair trigger. Staying outside any longer wasn’t an option. Even if he did think he could get to bed at this point, there was no way he’d be as lucky on the way back home as he had been coming here. He was out of time to delay the inevitable.

Grian secured the perimeter of the house before entering, checking every dark corner and deceptive edge for anything or anyone out of place. Only after walking it twice did he go to the back door, aware that its hinges were better oiled than the front’s. He turned his key in the deadbolt as quietly as possible, and only opened the door as wide as absolutely necessary to slip inside.

He disarmed and reset the security system before doing anything else, always up-to-date on its combo even as it changed daily. The control screen flashed green in confirmation before dimming, leaving Grian free to clear the house.

Mumbo’s house wasn’t very large, luckily. The ground floor had an open floor plan between the kitchen, dining room, and living room, with the only separate rooms being an office space and bathroom. The upstairs was a short hallway leading into two bedrooms, another bathroom, and a spare room Mumbo mainly used for storage.

Grian went through the office and bathroom first, the rooms small and sparse enough there wasn’t much place for anything to hide. He did his best to remain as quiet as possible as he shuffled through the papers on Mumbo’s home desk, looking for any sign of listening bugs or threats, but all he found were fake business forms, made as just-in-cases for snoopy neighbors or cops.

When he returned to the main space, he started his check by ensuring he was the only person in the room, looking at and poking through every space that could possibly conceal an assailant. In the larger and more furnished area, there were more shadows cast across the floor, only just barely distinguished from the rest of the room’s darkness by the bit of moonlight that managed to slip in underneath Mumbo’s curtains. Their edges seemed to move even when Grian knew they couldn’t be, giving the impression that there was someone moving behind him. No matter how many times he turned around and found no one there, the shadows continued to move in his sight, as if taunting him and his search.

Grian nearly flipped on a light after his fourth unnecessary back-check. He knew it wouldn’t help unless he could turn on every other light in the building as well, and even just one would likely attract unwanted attention to Mumbo’s house. But just like he knew there was no one behind him, just like he knew there was no one else in the house with him but its owner, the logic of not turning on the lights did little to reassure him.

He forced himself to finish his person search, having already repeated it twice due to the shadows’ mockery. He kept his time in the kitchen area to a minimum, not touching anything as he did a visual scan before moving on.

Part of him wanted to do more, to check every pantry and box and bag, to inspect every morsel of food or spec of seasoning on the microscopic level. Most of him did, to be accurate.

But if so much as a grain of salt was misplaced, Grian knew Mumbo would notice, and he couldn’t do that to Mumbo. He trusted that if anything was wrong with the food, Mumbo would realize it even faster than Grian could. That if there was any part of Mumbo’s house Grian could do a lax check of, it would be the kitchen.

So he moved onto the mix of dining and living room, checking every spot he could think of for a bug, a camera, a warning note- any sign of an unfriendly presence. The shadows still seemed to sway about him as he worked, but he ignored them, muttering under his breath how he knew there was no one there instead as if he could convince himself on the matter.

Grian was still muttering to himself when he heard something- the slightest creak of the house, the way a noisy floorboard sounds when weight is applied to it, a sound that couldn’t have come from him as he stood stationary at Mumbo’s dinner table. He froze, silencing himself as he listened for another creak, for proof the first wasn’t just a product of his imagination running a hundred miles an hour.

For a long minute, there was nothing. Long enough that Grian was about to go back to his searching and write it off as nothing. But then there came a second squeak, this one the tiniest bit louder. Closer.

Grian spun on his heel, raising his gun in the same motion. He aimed for the approximate location of the unknown person based on what he had heard, finger at ready on the trigger.

Only to nearly drop the gun when he realized he had it pointed directly at Mumbo.

In later hindsight, it would be obvious to Grian that it had been Mumbo he had heard approaching. Who else would know the house well enough to make it to the stairs without stepping on more than two loud spots? Who else would have been upstairs when there was no sign of forced entry on the ground level? Who was simply the most likely person to be in the house?

But in the moment, searching for enemies and traps in the dark, Mumbo was the last person Grian would have thought was approaching him.

Realizing his intruder was Grian, Mumbo lowered his gun as well, relaxing slightly. Even though Grian had seen him in outfits outside of his work suit plenty, there was always something slightly off about it. Even with his weapon still held tight in hand, in a loose shirt and sweats, Mumbo didn’t look like a criminal, much less one of the most powerful mob bosses in town. He just looked like a civilian. He just looked tired.

“Guess I should’ve known it’d be you.” Mumbo said lightly, teasingly, as he came the rest of the way down the stairs. His steps were still near silent as he went, muscle memory walking the quietest path for him.

“Mu-” Grian started to respond, cutting himself off before he could even finish Mumbo’s name. Nothing had changed in the area around him aside from Mumbo joining him, nothing to suggest there was suddenly a danger right nearby, but an alarm bell still went off in his head at the name.

What if there’s someone listening? What if there’s someone who doesn’t know it’s Mumbo here? What if you say his name and give it away?

It was irrational, Grian knew that. He had no proof anyone was listening. And even if someone was, they would surely already know who they were listening to. No one decides to eavesdrop on a random house for no reason. They wouldn’t even get Mumbo’s full name, or anything incriminating. Nothing would happen. It would be fine.

But the logic didn’t click, the alarm bell still ringing, the word caught in his throat as he gave up on trying to say it. Instead, he fell back on what even his mind could accept as a ‘safe’ response.

“My Keeper,” Grian began successfully, Mumbo’s expression changing to one of concern at the codename, “I apologize, I- I didn’t mean to come.”

To anyone else, the sentence wouldn’t have made any sense. But Mumbo understood. He always did.

“You never have to apologize for this, my Watcher.” Mumbo replied, giving the room a quick glance-around. “I assume you want to finish searching the premises?”

“...Yes.”

Mumbo reached forward slowly, giving Grian a chance to step back. Grian didn’t, and Mumbo’s hand cupped Grian’s cheek. It was warm. Not clammy, not pale, not sticky with barely dried blood. Just warm.

Grian raised a hand to rest over Mumbo’s and allowed himself a single moment to pause and relish the warmth.

“Alright.” Mumbo said softly in a way that had nothing to do with the fact he was whispering. “I’m going to get some water.”

And then Mumbo stepped away, going to open one of his cabinets, because when he said I’m going to get some water he meant I’ll go check the food, because I know, for my sake, you won’t, even though you think you have to, and I want you to sleep tonight, and these little things I can always do for you, and Grian knew that today being a special day didn’t make this particular dance any less familiar for the two of them.

So he left Mumbo to the kitchen as he finished going through the dining and living area and moved on to the upstairs, checking each step for tripwires as he climbed. He searched each room the same as he had the ground floor ones, but there was nothing out of place to be found in any of them, save the unmade bed in Mumbo’s room and the open drawer he kept his gun in.

By the time he had come back downstairs, Mumbo had finished up in the kitchen and was sitting on his couch. His gun was set in front of him on the coffee table as he pointlessly combed his fingers through his bedhead. Once again Grian was struck by how nearly-normal it all looked, as if Mumbo was only two steps away from truly being some boring, law-abiding citizen who paid taxes and ate his food without double-checking every ingredient.

Grian, caught up in his own thoughts, ended up lingering on the stairs too long, only realizing it when Mumbo looked towards him with a frown. “Is something wrong, my Watcher?”

“No,” Grian replied, stepping down the last few stairs before walking over to Mumbo, “it’s just us here.”

“Good.” Mumbo tilted his head up to keep his eyes on Grian’s face, frown lessening but still present. “What do you want to do now?”

“I…” Grian hesitated, holding Mumbo’s gaze for a few seconds too long before he glanced away, “I should go home.”

Grian flinched when Mumbo took hold of one of his hands, the near imperceptible reaction the result of shock. Mumbo still waited a beat to give Grian a chance to pull his hand away before he linked their fingers together. Always double checking. Just in case.

“I didn’t ask what you should do.” Mumbo murmured, lightly squeezing Grian’s hand. “I asked you what you wanted.”

Grian squeezed back. “You’re… safe.”

“I am.” Mumbo confirmed. “But that doesn’t mean you have to go.”

When another minute passed with Grian still standing, looking away, seemingly tethered to his spot only by his fingers intertwined with Mumbo’s, Mumbo gently tugged Grian to face him. Once more face-to-face, Mumbo again reached out to cup Grian’s cheek, touch light yet still so present to Grian.

“My Watcher,” Mumbo started, and even if there were a dozen listening bugs in the room Grian couldn’t imagine anyone other than him being able to hear his words in that exact moment, “what do you want?”

“To stay. To make sure you’re safe, my Keeper.” In any other circumstance, with any other person, Grian might have been ashamed at how fast he gave in to admitting that particular truth, in the way he had let it show there was anything wrong at all. Weakness was dangerous, after all. You didn’t need a past like Grian’s to have that one figured out.

But this was Mumbo. Mumbo, the most dangerous person Grian knew. Mumbo, the only person who had never been and never would be a threat to him.

Mumbo who he allowed to lightly tug him down onto the couch with him, still cupping his cheek even as Grian let himself slump forward, his forehead coming to rest against Mumbo’s.

“Then you’ll stay.” Mumbo told him, like it was the simplest thing in the world.

And right then, in the dark living room of a house originally built for normal people with normal lives and normal fears, Grian huddled close enough to Mumbo he could feel his breath as it tickled his chin, somehow, it was.

All things considered, Grian wasn’t too surprised he had slept in.

Normally, he was an early riser, with or without an alarm clock on hand. The more hours of the day he spent being at the ready for something to go wrong meant more hours of the day that had a better chance of everything going right.

But the night before had been… taxing, to say the least. The whole day had been. Even if he had managed to fall asleep at home, he likely would’ve slept in at least a little bit.

Judging by how much sunlight was streaming in through the gaps of Mumbo’s curtains, Grian was guessing he had gone somewhat past ‘a little bit’ of sleeping in. Falling asleep with Mumbo tended to have that effect on him.

Taking a lazy account of his surroundings, Grian realized he was no longer the one resting on the edge of the couch. Instead, Mumbo had taken over that position, leaving his own back vulnerable while Grian was more safely tucked between him and the couch.

There wasn’t enough space on the couch for that to have occurred naturally, Grian knew. At some point in the night or early morning Mumbo must have woken up and shifted them around himself, as if he was the right-hand, as if he was the one who had broken into Grian’s house unable to sleep without knowing for a fact that the other was safe and alive.

Also not very surprising.

Regardless of his being up earlier, Mumbo was asleep now, one arm draped loosely over Grian’s side and their faces still close. His bedhead had only gotten worse, and Grian found himself still too tired to not run his fingers through it, as if that would fix it at all.

Although, Grian reflected as Mumbo leaned into the action, sleepily smiling even before he blinked his eyes open, he didn’t think he’d done it because he was tired. He didn’t feel particularly tired. No, no this was something softer. Safer.

“Good morning.” Mumbo said quietly, the edges of his words slurred with the remnants of sleep. “How are you feeling?”

“Better.” Grian answered truthfully. In the light of day, with everything where it had been left the night before, and Mumbo healthy and breathing against him, it was much easier to believe the idea that no one was stalking them or waiting to spring from the shadows. “I’m sorry for last night. Thought I’d be fine.”

“I already told you you don’t have to apologize.” Mumbo reminded him, idly brushing his hand up and down Grian’s back. “If anything, I’m the one who should be saying sorry. I knew what yesterday was for you, I shouldn’t have left you alone.”

“‘For me’? Mumbo, you’re the one who nearly died then, it’s hardly-” Grian realized his error a second too late, chest tightening at his own blunt statement of the facts. His hand in Mumbo’s hair went still as he focused instead on trying to get another full breath in, pressing his eyes shut as he desperately tried to block out the memories of Mumbo, injured, bloody, dying on his doorstep.

Mumbo’s hand on his back pulled away, gone for barely a second before Grian felt it coming to take his own. Mumbo guided Grian’s hand out of his hair, pulling it up under the hem of his shirt instead so that he could rest Grian’s hand directly over Mumbo’s heart.

Grian immediately pressed his hand against the spot, likely a bit harder than he should have. The difference in the feel of the scarred skin from the rest had become less distinct as time went on, but Grian would always be able to feel it, could trace out the shape by memory alone. At times, there was no comfort to be found for Grian in the scars, the rough skin only a cruel reminder of his failure to keep Mumbo safe when he was most needed.

But right then, there was only relief to be found in the feeling of healed skin, dry and warm, the beat of the heart right beneath strong and stable and alive.

“It wasn’t a good day for either of us,” Mumbo said in what might have been the largest understatement of all time, “but we got through it. I’m alive. I’m okay. We’re okay.”

“We’re okay.” Grian echoed, eyes still closed as he gave himself a few minutes to just breathe. Mumbo didn’t try to rush him, leaving his hand layered over Grian’s as he began to lightly press kisses against the top of Grian’s head, each motion a soft reminder that he was here, that he was okay, that Grian hadn’t failed him.

By the time Grian opened his eyes, his head had become somewhat tucked beneath Mumbo’s, chin against his shoulder. It was the perfect position in which to return Mumbo’s affections, trailing a few kisses down his neck for no good reason other than the fact that he could.

“Good now?” Mumbo asked, sounding amused, likely already knowing the answer to his own question.

“Yeah.” Grian replied anyway, reluctantly pulling back so that he could see Mumbo’s face once more.

“Good.” Mumbo leaned in as if to kiss Grian’s cheek. Before he could, Grian tilted his head, catching Mumbo’s lips with his own and returning the kiss instead.

“Doing even better than good, it seems.” Mumbo teased when he pulled away a minute later, laughing when Grian’s only response was to try and kiss him again. “You know we have things to get to eventually?”

“I doubt they’re that important.”

“Oh, no, they’re just silly things like eating, going to work.”

Grian frowned. “Well they’re not nearly as fun.”

“No, I suppose not.” Mumbo attempted to sit up, huffing another laugh when Grian tugged him back down. “Listen, if it means you’ll actually let me get up, you can make lunch whatever you want. And I’m sure we can find something to do at the Crystal. It’s not exactly a boring office job, after all. But we do have to get up.”

Grian sat up then, Mumbo rolling his eyes at what he likely saw as some sort of unfair double standard on who was allowed to sit up. “You want me to make lunch?”

“Yes.”

“But yesterday-”

“-was a long time ago.” Mumbo finished for him, using Grian’s momentary distraction to both sit up and successfully kiss his cheek. “I trust you, Grian, with everything. No matter what day of the year it is.”

“...You really are a sap.” Grian said after a pause a bit too long to make his words entirely believable. “But alright, I’ll make lunch. Even though your kitchen is a special type of crime scene. And I still don’t want to go in to work.”

“Good thing you have experience with that sort of thing, then.” Mumbo joked, looking up while he stretched his arms over his head. “Regarding work, we could always see if Scar would want to come over.”

Grian raised an eyebrow. “What exactly do I get out of your boyfriend coming over?”

“I know how you two like to banter.” Mumbo stated. “Besides, it might help having someone to chat with who doesn’t know about yesterday, don’t you think?”

“I suppose so.” Grian conceded before sighing. “But you know how he is about… us. If I’m standing so much as an inch closer to you he’ll have something witty to say about it.”

Mumbo glanced over at Grian with a smirk. “Well then, we’ll just have to get it all out during lunch, won’t we?”

Grian returned his sly smile. “Oh, we must.”

Mumbo’s smile widened at the reply, letting his arms drop back down so that he could rest his hands on Grian’s hips, turning to better face him as Grian cupped Mumbo’s cheek and pulled him closer.

And for a brief moment, it was almost like they were normal, boring, taxes-paying people.

Safe people.

Happy people.

#hermitcraft #grian #mumbo jumbo #grumbo #m.y funky words #bloody fruits au #sorry this is a bit later than promised i forgot i had a vet appointment to get to #anyways! wow those traumatized gays sure can refuse to admit they're gay for each other

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