#pialm

The gunshot cut through his dream with a horrific eruption of noise, shattering the tableaux and turning the soaring hope in Scar’s chest back to a sinking dread. 

For a brief moment, Scar thought that maybe Doc had missed – he saw no explosion of blood, no pink mist to curdle the night air. 

But then the horse began to collapse. 

Time seemed impossibly slow, as if to draw out the horror of the act. Its legs buckled, the entire mass of the creature seeming to almost fall apart as it tipped forward. Scar stared in shock as this behemoth – so infallible just a moment ago – was torn down by nothing more than a tiny piece of metal.

“GRIAN!” he shouted, the name ripped out of his throat. He lurched forward, as if to try and catch him, but it was useless. 

Grian tipped forward, the momentum of the collapse turning into an unavoidable avalanche. As the horse fell, so did he. 

Scar was convinced that he was about to be crushed, but as he watched, Grian suddenly sprang forward – drawing from some unseen well of strength, he managed to leap off the horse as it fell.

What he didn’t manage was a proper landing.

He hit the ground hard, and Scar could see him tense up as pain wracked his body – more than that, he could feel the echo of it shiver through his limbs, just the faintest, involuntary wisp of something that would’ve no doubt destroyed him. 

He wanted nothing more than to crawl over to Grian, to hold him as the pain subsided, to shield him from the danger they were now embroiled in. But that wouldn’t save anyone. 

He would have to trust Grian. 

“Grian!” he shouted again. “Behind you! There’s a sw–!”

He was cut off by a sudden explosion of pain as something smashed into the back of his skull. 

For a horrible moment, he thought he had been shot. The pain was certainly some of the worst he had ever felt, envied only by some of the more gruesome treatments of his youth. He was left sprawled on the ground, vision spotted with darkness as he could do nothing but groan helplessly. 

And then something heavy pushed down on his back, forcing out all his air in a pathetic wheeze. His hands scrabbled against the ground as he fruitlessly fought for his next breath. 

Doc. Doc was stepping on him. Not that the knowledge did him much good.

He craned his head, eyes casting towards Grian; his heart soared as he realized that Grian was now standing, the long, slender blade of Scar’s cane pointed triumphantly towards Doc. 

But… something was wrong. Even with his terrible angle, Scar could tell that Grian was unsteady on his feet. The grip on the sword was loose, and he looked like he could drop it at any moment.

There weren’t any obvious signs of injury, but he had hit the ground pretty damn hard – not to mention his disheveled appearance even before his fall. He could only pray that whatever was wrong wasn’t critical. 

“That was cruel of you.” Grian rasped. Despite everything, Scar felt a wonderful surge of joy at the sound of his voice. Void – it felt like it had been ages and just minutes ago, all at once. What a wonderful, strange sensation. 

“What’s that sweet little Cambrian saying of yours? ‘All’s fair in love and war’?” Doc ground his heel into Scar’s back. Scar couldn’t help the broken sob that was ripped pathetically out of his throat. 

“Not him.” Grian cocked his head. “The horse. You should’ve shot to kill.” 

Scar glanced to where the horse lay prone on the ground. Now that he looked, he could see the labored rise and fall of its torso, the twitches of its legs as it struggled fruitlessly to get up. The desperate, ugly spasms of life, clinging to the horse’s flesh with an unmatched desperation.  

“I’ll keep that in mind.” There was a click from behind him. Scar’s blood turned to ice. 

“If you kill him, there’s nothing stopping me from tearing you to shreds.” Grian’s voice was low, an unidentifiable emotion turning his voice low and ragged.

“Nothing but this.” Doc laughed. Scar had a feeling he knew exactly what Doc was referencing. “Unfortunately for you, your… betrothed seems to have brought a sword to a gunfight.” 

The sword! He needed to tell Grian about the sword, but he was pinned tight enough to make his ribs ache. There was no way that he would be able to shout loudly enough that Grian would hear – at least not without tipping off Doc well beforehand. 

Instead, he gritted his teeth; he needed to push past the pain, the lack of oxygen, and concentrate. His head throbbed horribly, seeming to protest the very idea. Void, he probably had a concussion – he hoped he would be able to do this. 

Ignoring the way darkness spotted his vision, Scar stared directly at Grian. Trigger on the handle. Trigger on the handle. Trigger on the handle. He even tried to picture it as best he could, the slender hair of metal, hidden away by the intricately crafted swirls of the cane’s head. Impossible to find, unless you knew what to look for. 

If Grian heard any of his thoughts, felt any glimmer of the bond, he didn’t show it. “You wouldn’t dare. You need me alive.” 

“Maybe. But I’m under no obligation to follow your advice. It’ll be hard to ‘tear me to shreds’ with a bullet in your leg.” 

Grian bared his teeth in an animalistic snarl, the effect amplified by his glinting mask. “I wouldn’t be so sure of that.” 

But Scar could feel the uncertain warble of the threat, the little cracks in Grian’s façade. He wasn’t sure either. 

He had to tell Grian about the sword – it was the only way he could see them getting out of this. So why wasn’t it working? Why couldn’t he seem to awaken the bond that had opened for him so many times before?

He was running out of time. Not only was Doc likely to make his move any second, he could feel himself begin to lose the fight for consciousness. Every moment that passed was agonizing, head splitting like overripe fruit with every desperate thought. 

He tried again, concentrating on his chosen phrase, chanting it over and over like a prayer. 

And still nothing. 

“We could avoid all of this, you know.” Doc’s voice was somehow as casual as ever. “Drop the sword. Hand yourself over. Everyone lives.”

“If you think I would just give myself up like that, then you might as well just kill me now. I’d sooner rip out my own throat then let you take me again.” 

“And what about Scar? Will you rip out his throat too?” 

Grian seemed to freeze at the words. For the first time, his eyes flickered down, meeting Scar’s gaze. 

He couldn’t feel the bond, but he could still discern Grian’s emotions in that look. His hesitation. His… concern.

No. No, no, no. Grian couldn’t give himself up. Not after the way Scar had fought, had given up everything for his freedom. 

Scar’s face contorted in pain, eyes finally beginning to water as something broke. Not bones – not anything physical. Something deeper within him. 

Save yourself. I love you.

There was a sudden rush of emotions, momentarily drowning out his pain – an overwhelming flood, different feelings churning together in a wonderful confusion. Joy, fear, relief, love. A hurricane to match the man these feelings belonged to. 

Grian straightened, dark eyes steeling with new resolve as he turned his gaze back to Doc. Scar could feel his movements now, every shift echoed across his skin. The grip on his sword tightened. 

“Well?” Doc prompted. “Whose throat are you ripping out?”

“Yours.” Grian snarled, and pulled the trigger.

There was a brief hum of power before a magnificent explosion of light. The sword crackled with energy, brilliant gold arcs of electricity leaping from the shivering blade, effortlessly slicing through the thick deluge of red light and turning the night into a perfect facsimile of breaking dawn.

Grian didn’t even have to move – it was as if the electricity had a mind of its own, snaking through the air and biting its target with deadly accuracy. 

Scar squeezed his eyes shut at the moment of impact, but that did nothing to drown out the wet gasp of shock, the wonderful, terrible feeling of relief as a weight was lifted off him and he could finally breathe . 

And he did just that. Breathe. In and out; eyes still stubbornly shut, fists balled tight enough that he felt them tremble. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

There was a sudden pressure underneath his armpits, and his eyes flew open in a panic – who was grabbing him? Who was here now? Who would be –

Grian’s dark gaze met his. 

He was sitting Scar up, carefully maneuvering him to avoid jostling his head too much. Scar’s temple throbbed, as if a reminder. 

“You okay?” Grian asked. His voice was low, but not with the threatening growl he had been using with Doc. Just low. Rough with exertion, maybe. Or relief. 

Scar opened his mouth to respond, and instantly burst into tears. 

Grian startled a little, but still allowed Scar to bury his face into his jacket. The fine fabric barely muffled Scar’s incoherent sobs, unabashedly loud and completely uncontrolled. He hadn’t cried this hard since… damn, probably since his father’s funeral. But he couldn’t help it. He was entirely overwhelmed with raw emotion. 

There was a soft brush of fingers against the nape of his neck. A touch so tender that it only served to further send Scar spiraling into the vortex of his own emotions. It was scary how much he loved this man. Scary how much he had just given up for him. Scarier how he almost hadn’t done it at all. 

Scar wasn’t sure how long he spent like that, collapsed in Grian’s arms, soothed by the delicate pressure against his neck, but it felt like an eternity – and still not long enough.

“Scar.” Grian’s voice was soft, but he still somehow managed to hear him over his own sobs. “I don’t want to, uh, rush you, but we should go. Doc isn’t dead yet.”  

Scar sniffled, finally managing to pull himself away from Grian and scrubbing furiously at his eyes. “He, um… he shouldn’t be. Dead, I mean. The charge shouldn’t be enough to kill anyone.” 

When he pulled his forearm away, Grian’s gaze seemed a little watery too. Grian quickly looked away, glancing at the prone form of Doc. 

“Are you sure?” Grian asked. “He’s not… he’s not well.” 

Scar followed his gaze. It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the new darkness, the red light of Doc’s eye thoroughly extinguished. Once they did, however, it was clear that Doc’s breaths were irregular. His chest barely moved with each breath in, and each inhale came too fast, almost seeming to overlap with each other. 

“Should we leave him like this?” Grian asked quietly.

Scar glanced over at him, brow furrowing with surprise. “I figured you off all people would want him dead.” 

Grian licked his lips. “I… nevermind. Let’s just – let’s just get out of here.” 

Before Scar could press him further, Grian leaned over, firmly grasping Scar underneath the arms and hoisting him to his feet. Scar’s head throbbed in protest, all thoughts of continuing the conversation immediately dying away. 

Grian pressed something into his hands, and he instantly recognized it from the familiar whorls – his cane. He planted it firmly against the ground, attempting to steady the inherent imbalance of relying so heavily on someone so much shorter than him. Even still, he was barely able to keep pace as they started walking back towards the manor. 

They had only made it a few steps before Grian suddenly froze, throwing off Scar’s rhythm and nearly sending him straight back to the ground. “Wait.”

“Huh?” Scar managed. “What is it?”

“I need to… ugh.” Grian crouched down, effectively depositing Scar back on the ground. “I need to take care of something. Just, close your eyes for a second. And cover your ears.”

Scar did no such thing. Instead he watched as Grian hurried back to the prone form of Doc, easily wrenching the gun from his limp hands. Had he… changed his mind? Was he about to kill Doc? 

But Grian quickly moved away, instead striding with long steps towards where the horse was still on the ground, forelegs kicking uselessly against the ground. 

Oh. 

Scar finally looked away, though it did little to ease the nervous churning of his gut. 

It was… it was just a horse. He wasn’t sure why the prospect of its sudden death was so disturbing to him, but… 

For the second time that night, a shot rang out. Scar flinched at the sound. His breathing was heavy. 

And then he was being scooped up again as if nothing had happened, save for the fact that Grian’s grip was now one-handed – in his other, he held the glinting pistol.  

What a strange man; sparing his enemies and killing his allies. 

They once more started towards the house, which, of course, took them past the now-still horse.

Scar tried to look away, but some terrible magnetism drew him in – his gaze was drawn, unwilling, towards the horse’s head. Its eye had been completely destroyed, the once-seeing organ burst open and turned into useless mush. Its mane, pristine just minutes before, was now matted with blood, ribbons and flowers turning black in the darkness of the night.

And then they were past it. Scar did his best to drive it from his mind, but the image lingered, a terrible echo of memory. 

“I’m sorry,” Scar mumbled to Grian, though he wasn’t quite sure what he was apologizing for. 

“It’s okay.” Grian finally reassured once they had achieved some semblance of a rhythm. “You’re not that heavy, and whatever they gave me has pretty much worn off by now.” 

“Gave you?”

“Yeah. I think one of the people Doc hired slipped something into my drink. Morphine, probably. You’d think that they’d have learned by now that the stuff barely works on me.” 

Scar’s eyes lolled towards Grian, and he gazed up at the man, following the soft curve of his jaw. It was amazing how much Grian’s presence seemed to soothe him, despite everything. “Why’s it that you’re pretty much immune to morphine, but you can’t even handle a beer?”

Grian’s skin darkened with a flush. “How about you concentrate on walking, hm? I wouldn’t want you to have a little accident. ” 

Scar laughed, which in turn made his head pound even worse, so he quickly followed Grian’s advice. 

It felt like ages before they reached the threshold, even though it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes. Scar wanted nothing more than to crawl back into bed and sleep this whole night off, but he knew that there had to be mercenaries swarming the place. He and Grian were absolutely still in danger. 

“We hafta leave.” He managed. “Gotta get somewhere safe. Doc’s people are probably still around.”

“You mean like this guy?”  

Scar managed to drag his gaze upward, and came face-to-face with the startled-looking guard who was standing in front of the backyard entrance.

“How much did Doc pay you to let him pass, hm?” Grian snarled.

“Um.” The guard managed, eloquently.

“Shut the fuck up; it was a rhetorical question. Get out of my sight before I rip your damn head off.” 

The guard took his warning to heart, scurrying off without another word. 

It was nice not being the one subject to that indomitable wrath for once. Scar allowed himself a small, private smile. 

They hurried towards the grand ballroom, the din growing louder with each step. The noise made Scar’s headache practically erupt with pain, and he had to fight to not just collapse. For the second time in as many minutes, tears streamed down his face, blurring his vision and turning it into a kaleidoscope of light and color. 

Even still, when they stepped into the grand ballroom, Scar could tell that it had descended into total chaos. 

There was no sea of corpses like Scar had so grimly pictured, but people were certainly panicked. The music had stopped, replaced with a roar of fearful energy – some people were pushing towards the exit, long skirts trampled underfoot with a reckless abandon. Those that weren’t actively trying to leave seemed to be huddling towards the side of the room, anxiously chattering with each other.

“There’s an exit through the kitchen.” Scar said, fighting to keep his voice low and still be heard over the din. “We should use that instead of the main entrance.” 

“But the crowd offers protection.” Grian pointed out. “It’ll be harder to single us out with that many people.” 

“I don’t think I’ll be able to make it through, though.”

Grian hummed. “... Okay. Let’s go quickly, then.”

Unfortunately for them, even sticking to the side of the ballroom, their pace was pretty damn slow. Scar certainly wasn’t moving any faster, and Grian seemed reticent to just… hoist him over his shoulder as he was doubtless capable of doing. 

One thing that ironically helped was the gun. Most people didn’t seem to notice them at all, but those that did were clearly alarmed by the large pistol held in Grian’s hand. Grian never raised it in threat, but its presence changed the very air around them; people backed away, the whites of their eyes flashing with panic even behind their masks. 

Even still, they weren’t fast enough to slip through the ballroom without being recognized. 

“Scar?” a voice called, and Scar swore under his breath. “SCAR! Where have you– what on earth!” 

That last sentence was less of a question and more of an expletive – and it was pretty damn close to them. Clearly this was an unavoidable encounter. Scar finally looked up, eyes immediately landing on the source.

Mumbo was standing in front of them, though he appeared to have frozen in shock. With his long, lanky limbs and potato sack still squarely on his head, Scar thought he looked rather like a scarecrow. “You’re… what’s going on?”

“Oh, good.” Grian said. “You have a turn with him. We’ll move faster if he doesn’t have to lean down so much.” 

Before Mumbo or Scar could question what he meant, Grian moved forward, unloading Scar onto Mumbo with an inelegant shove. Mumbo nearly buckled under the sudden weight, though managed to catch himself before they both collapsed to the ground. 

“C’mon, then.” Grian gestured forward. “We’re headed to the kitchen, and you’re helping.” 

Mumbo glanced down at Scar, who met his gaze with a confused shrug. 

“What’s happening right now?” Mumbo asked. “Why are we going to the kitchen?” 

“Walk and talk!” Grian shouted over his shoulder, starting a brisk pace towards the kitchen. 

The new pair hurried to follow. Scar could admit that having Mumbo hold him did make moving a lot easier, even if Mumbo wasn’t as steady on his feet as Grian was. 

“We’re leaving.” Scar replied after a few moments. “Through the side exit.”

“I… yeah, okay, sure. But why? Where are you going? And what has been happening?” 

“Um…” Scar didn’t have the mental capacity to come up with a good lie right now – he barely had the ability to talk. “What do you mean?”

“What do I–! Scar. First you never come meet with me after we were supposed to be looking for Grian–” Oops. Scar had completely forgotten. “– then you make just about the strangest speech I’ve ever heard from you. Before I can ask you any questions, you disappear completely, and while I’m looking for you, someone rides through the ballroom on a damn horse – someone who I’m just now realizing was your husband – and then there are gunshots outside? And now you come in looking awful, and – Scar, is that blood?” 

“Huh? Where?” 

“On your collar! You’re – it’s dripping down the back of your head!” 

“Doc must’ve been wearing steel-toed boots when he kicked you.” Grian called behind him. 

“Doc? You mean… you mean that Doc? What is he doing here? Why did he kick you?”

“Uh.” Scar replied. 

“It’s mob stuff.” Grian said, rather nonchalantly. 

“Mob… oh, void.” Mumbo swallowed audibly. “There’s not going to be, like, a shootout in the ballroom or something, right?”

Scar hummed. “Probably not. Doc said he would prefer to keep his affairs clean, so…” 

“Doc. I still can’t believe Doc is involved in… whatever is going on.”

“You have no idea.” Grian chuckled.

By now, they had made it past the ballroom and were making their way down the hallway leading to the kitchen. Scar had definitely been this way before, but it still felt alien to him; it was rather dark, and the walls were unusually bare compared to the rest of the house. A servant-bot rolled by, carrying a stack of dirty plates. The action felt strangely… normal. As if the past few minutes hadn’t happened at all. 

Grian pushed open the door to the kitchen, and Scar had to shield his eyes from the sudden onslaught of light. The kitchen was magnificently large, having been designed for large events just like this one. It was also impossibly loud. Servant-bots bustled around, cleaning, cooking, arranging neat platters of apéritifs and appetizers. It was overwhelming to say the least. 

“Where’s the exit?” Grian asked, almost having to shout over the commotion.

“Uh, it should be near the back! We just have to make our way through!” Scar replied. 

It was definitely easier said than done. The servant-bots almost seemed pre-programmed in their motions – they zipped around the kitchen, barely seeming to acknowledge the group’s presence at all. The air itself sizzled with heat, oil and fat hissing on hot stovetops, soups bubbling away with a low broil; there was even the occasional jet of fire. 

Scar made a mental note to double-check the fire prevention measures. 

There was a low, familiar beep, and Scar glanced down to see Grumbot staring right back at him, holding a pan of what appeared to be seared fish. Grumbot cocked his head cutely – he didn’t need to print out a question for Scar to understand what he was asking. 

“We’re, uh, just headed out for a bit.” Scar reassured. “We’ll be back soon, okay?” 

Grumbot beeped with concern. 

“I promise.” Scar almost tried to hold out a pinky, but his hands were very much occupied. Also, Grumbot didn’t have pinkies, so it was rather a moot point. 

“C’mon, Scar.” Grian called.

“Coming!” Scar called, giving one last lopsided grin to Grumbot before pushing on. 

It was actually a little harder to find the exit than Scar would’ve thought, especially since Scar took them on an accidental detour down the dry storage area, but they eventually made it to what Scar reasonably assumed would be the exit. 

Grian pushed open the door cautiously, peering around before gesturing for Scar and Mumbo to follow. Stepping outside was an immediate relief – the night air was wonderfully cool against Scar’s face, and he could feel his headache subside slightly. 

The kitchen exit was relatively far from the main one, though the main promenade was still clearly visible. There were many people gathered outside, though Scar noticed that most weren’t rushing quite as much – most seemed to have stopped and were now milling around in confusion. 

“Where are, uh. Where are we going, exactly?” Mumbo asked, voice wavering a bit.

“Away from here.” Grian replied curtly, though he glanced back at Scar.

Scar swallowed. “Well… we could always go back to the beach house. If you would be alright with that, I mean.” 

“I think it’s too close to here. And they might know about it.” 

“If you guys need a place to crash, you could always come to my flat.” Mumbo offered. 

Scar frowned. “Mumbo… you probably shouldn’t get involved. I know we were kind of dragging you out here in the first place, but this is really serious stuff we’re getting into. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Scar, please. I know it’s dangerous – you literally just said this had to do with the mob. But you’re also my friend, and I want to help.” 

“I think Scar’s right.” Grian folded his arms. “I appreciate the offer, but I don’t know if we could keep you safe.” 

“I don’t think anything could keep you safe once you get on Doc’s bad side.”

They all froze. None of them had spoken.

“Get behind me.” Grian snarled, raising his pistol with a flick of his wrist. “It’s his dog.”

Mumbo stumbled back, and Scar had to fight to not lose his balance as they turned to see who had spoken. 

There was a man leaning against the manor wall, barely visible in the dim light. His posture was painfully casual – arms crossed, head lolling back as though he was just joining a conversation. 

But Scar could see something else. An underlying tension; a poise as though he were preparing to spring forward. 

And then he shifted his head. The silvery teeth of his mask caught the ambient light, glittering across his face. 

The thing was, even if he did find someone he liked, he wasn’t sure that would solve the issue. It didn’t stem from lack of connection. He had plenty of people in his life – part of what had got him his empire was his ability to connect with someone, see what made them tick. No, he struggled with something… else. Something he couldn’t quite articulate.

When Scar looked in the mirror, his eyes met a stranger’s. He knew that he was Scar, of course. He just… wasn’t sure who exactly Scar was. All the different sides of him – his amicability, his silver tongue, his ruthlessness – they didn’t fit together quite right. He could see the cracks in the mirror even when there were none.

So that was the problem – an unspeakable question with an unknowable answer. But that was alright with Scar. Most things worked out for him eventually. He would just have to be patient.

_-🌙-_

The night that Scar first met his answer was a miserable one. The sky had been blotted out with heavy clouds, pregnant with their promise of a coming storm. The wind was already whipping through the tall buildings, strong enough to rattle the windows and cause debris to dance through the streets.

Scar sighed, shifting in his carriage seat. He hated weather like this. Wind always caused the sockets of the metal exoskeleton around his legs to sink, making it harder to move around. Also, he just didn’t like being cold.

He wouldn’t have agreed to come at all if this meeting weren’t so important.

The light from the gas streetlamps flickered across his hands as the carriage moved quickly through the empty streets. If Scar were being honest, he was actually somewhat nervous.

Doc had an…  unusual reputation. Virtually unknown to the general public, he was a mogul in the manufacturing industry. He was constantly spearheading new technology, achieving feats previously thought to be impossible.

But there was another side to him. Scar had heard rumors about some of his “hobbies”. Mad experiments, world-destroying machines, tears in the fabric of the universe itself – anything dreamed of in science fiction, Doc had probably tried.

Normally this kind of person had “liability” written all over them, but when he had received a telegram from Doc calling him here, there was no way he could refuse. After all, if he had learned anything from having Cub as a partner, it helped to have a mad scientist on the payroll.

The carriage slowed to a stop. Scar peered out the window – it had taken him to what looked to be an abandoned apartment complex. It was only a few stories tall, with a crumbling brick façade. Most of the windows were boarded up, and those that weren’t looked dark and dusty.

Almost more concerning was the fact that he hadn’t seen a single pedestrian in the past ten minutes or so. If their meeting went very, very sideways, he wasn’t sure there would be anyone around to help.

“Are you sure this is the right place?” He asked his carriage. It jingled in response. He let out a dramatic sigh. Leave it to the hermit to pick a location like this, he supposed. “Alright carriage, open up.”

At his words, the door slid open, a small metal staircase unfurling to the street below. As soon as he stepped outside, the cold winds buffeted his form, cutting right through his silk suit. He grimaced – if he had known the meeting was going to be in a broken-down building, he would have worn something warmer.

As he approached the front doors, the carriage once again jingled as it peeled off to find somewhere safe to park. Scar almost wished he had asked it to stay, but he supposed if he was in a position where he needed to make a quick getaway, it was already too late.

Not that he would ever be caught unprepared. He gripped his cane a little bit tighter.

The doors before him were surprisingly solid considering the state of the building. Hesitating for just a moment, Scar steeled himself and rapped his knuckles against the dark wood.

He jumped at the sound of whirring metal, nearly stumbling backwards. Flicking his eyes around frantically for a sign of a trap, his gaze finally settled back on the door. A small panel had slid open, revealing what appeared to be a glass hand scanner. Ah. So this place wasn’t as abandoned as it looked.

Scar reached out, tentatively placing his palm against the cool glass. He had barely touched it when a low chime resounded, and the door swung open.

Scar resolved to think about how Doc had gotten his handprint later.

As soon as he crossed the threshold, the door shut behind him. Scar barely had a chance to contemplate how ominous that was before the room lit up in a blaze of electric glory.

He let out a low whistle, ambling into the room to get a better look at the architecture. It certainly was beautiful. The floor was made of deepslate, patterns etched into the stone at regular intervals. Chandeliers above him illuminated the room in a blue-tinted glow, casting dancing lights through the room. A soft cyan carpet cut through the center of the room, leading to the back wall, where a glass elevator sat with its doors open. An invitation to enter, he presumed.

Best of all, it was very warm. Scar was glad he went with the silk suit after all.

He entered the elevator, and after another low chime, it began to descend. Strangely, the elevator didn’t have any lights, so when it passed beyond the threshold of the floor, the tiny space was completely enshrouded with darkness.

Just as his eyes started to adjust, Scar was once again blinded, but this time with the sudden appearance of light. After blinking the stars out of his eyes, Scar let out a gasp. Beyond the doors, he could see something spectacular – a gigantic machine was laid out before him, the complexity of its design leaving him baffled as to what its purpose could possibly be. It had no casing, so Scar could see the byzantine twining of wires and cogs, gleaming sharply in the electric light.

If Cub was here, he might’ve been able to identify it, but Doc had asked for him specifically. All Scar could do was marvel.

After passing by it, the elevator seemed to speed up, descending further into the earth. Soon another floor passed, and another; as far as Scar could tell, each floor was like the first. Giant machines stored in underground warehouses, their purpose and design a mystery to Scar. If Doc wanted to show off, Scar supposed he had succeeded.

After a concerningly long period, the elevator finally began to slow once again, coming to a stop with the same low chime. The glass doors slid open, and after a pause, yet another set of doors opened as well, letting the same electric blue light spill into the hall. Scar took a deep breath, put on his best smile, and strode in.

The first thing he noticed was that there were two people in the room.

One he immediately recognized as Doc. He had never met the man before or even seen pictures, but he had heard enough – the cybernetic eye and arm glinting sharply in the low light was a dead giveaway. He was wearing a fine suit and lounging resplendently on a soft-looking couch, appraising Scar with a wide grin.

The other person? Scar wasn’t sure. He had figured Doc was more of a lone-wolf type of guy, so seeing someone else here was disconcerting. Scar supposed he could be a servant or assistant, but… he didn’t look like one.

He was perched awkwardly in a chair at the far end of the room, like he didn’t know how to sit. He was dressed in finery, dark blue suit tailored nicely to his form. And yet, Scar could see he had carelessly kicked off his dress shoes. His hair, too, was wild – so wild that it seemed someone had tried to slick it down but had been thwarted, leaving the dusty blond fringe to stick up in comical spikes.

Despite his disheveled appearance, what Scar found most entrancing was his gaze. Even from across the room, Scar could see how dark his eyes were. It was the kind of dark that pulled you in. The kind of dark that made you feel like you were drowning if you looked too long.

“Scar!” Doc called, snapping him out of his contemplation. “I’m glad you made it. Please, have a seat.”

Doc gestured grandly to a loveseat in front of him. The room was laid out in a lounge style, comfortable-looking chairs surrounding a low coffee table. An interesting choice.

Scar smiled, graciously settling into the offered seat. He kept a hand resting on his cane.

“Doc, I presume?”

“Of course!” He chuckled, mostly to himself. “I’m glad to have met you. But oh, before business – coffee, tea?”

“I think I’ll have to pass. Too much caffeine this late… I’ll be up for hours.”

Doc nodded serendipitously. He leaned over to pour himself a cup of coffee, not bothering to add any cream or sugar before taking a deep swig.

Scar cleared his throat. “Y’know Doc, if you had wanted to meet with me, I do have a secretary. I’m sure I could’ve made accommodations in my schedule for someone of your… reputation.”

“Ah, Scar, but I felt like our meeting was special!” Doc set down the cup, and Scar could see a glimmer of excitement in his face that hadn’t been there before. “You see, I’m not the only one with a reputation.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. If you don’t mind me getting right to it, I’d be happy to explain. See, ConCorp is very… ah, what’s the saying – has many pies?” Doc waved his hand dismissively. “It’s involved in many things. Lots of influence. Lots of money. And that is due in large part to Cub’s genius. But Scar… you’ve always been someone who can see the big picture. You’re willing to do what needs to be done. And I feel as though you, personally, are willing to invest in projects that most might see as too… strange.”

“Strange how?”

Doc’s smile grew even wider. “Tell me Scar, do you believe in fairy tales?”

The room was silent for a long moment. The figure in the back shifted, the slight rustle of fabric almost deafening.

Scar finally broke the quiet with a chuckle. “Fairy tales? Like… nursery rhymes? Did you find the goose that laid the golden egg?”

“Not quite.” Doc took a sip of his coffee, and Scar began to wonder if this whole thing was some kind of elaborate prank. “I have a vested interest in collecting… unusual things. Things that might change how we see the world. See reality.

“Conspiracy theories, legends, fairy tales – I’ve investigated a great deal of them. Most seem completely fake, and people have even tried to scam me before.” Doc flashed him a sharp grin. “Tried. But sometimes, these stories will have a grain of truth to them. And Scar, I have found things that you would not believe.”

Doc leaned forward, and Scar found himself mirroring the movement. “I’ve seen things that indicate the existence of other dimensions. Of creatures that were thought impossible, but have simply been lost to time. Or even creatures that are just… good at hiding.”

Scar sat back in his seat, eyes once again turning to the mysterious figure in the corner. His dark eyes glittered in the low light, and Scar was reminded of the night sky reflected on the ocean waves.

For the first time, Doc followed his gaze, turning to look back at the figure. “Very perceptive. Grian, would you like to introduce yourself?”

The figure – Grian – didn’t react at all. Doc seemed unfazed, just letting out a low chuckle.

“Grian is one of my… assets. Quite a valuable one, I might add. It’s not every day that I manage to find an anomaly alive.”

“Anomaly?” Scar parroted, unable to tear his eyes away from Grian. He wondered if he could understand them.

“It’s what I call anything that doesn’t fit our current understanding of the world. They’re quite varied in nature, you see. Most are just things – objects that defy physics, broken pieces of ancient contraptions. But sometimes I get a live one. And luckily for us, Grian is not only alive, he’s young and healthy. There’s a lot we could learn from him.”

At that, Scar finally looked away from Grian. The excited gleam in Doc’s eyes had turned to something almost mad. “We?”

“Yes, Scar, we. This is why I called you here. This is why I wanted you!” Doc gestured wildly, knocking over his cup of coffee. The dark liquid splattered across the glass table, some of it spilling onto the cyan carpet. Doc didn’t seem to notice. “I know this kind of thing is… unpleasant business. Live experiments are not, ah, popular. But I know that you are willing to do whatever it takes to turn a profit.

“I will not pretend that money is my main motive. But I truly believe that with your backing, Scar, we will be able to discover great things, things that are eons ahead of the competition.” Doc grinned. “Perhaps even things that you can use in that little war of yours. I’m sure both ‘clients’ would pay royally to get a piece of what we could create.”

Scar held up his hand, and Doc quieted. “That’s a lot of big promises,” he said coolly, “but you still haven’t even told me what you’ve found. Not really.”

Doc nodded almost absently, and Scar could tell his mind was still racing with possibilities. “I’ve found many things, Scar, and I will tell you about all of them in due time. But if you’re wondering about Grian…” he chuckled. “Scar, do you know what selkies are?”

Scar cocked his head. “Sockies?”

“No, no, sel-kies. They are…” he paused for a moment, considering. “They are shapeshifters, from the water. Seal folk, they are sometimes called.”

“Seals?” Scar asked, amused. “Aw, those little fluffy guys?” He glanced over at Grian, who met his stare unwaveringly. He didn’t seem very seal-like.

“Ah, yes, I suppose. Selkies can transform into seals by donning a sealskin, and transform back by taking it off. They have some sort of… innate connection to the skin. They can’t be too far from it for long, or it begins to get uncomfortable. I’m assuming that’s why Grian here is in such a disagreeable mood.”

Now that Doc had brought it up, Scar could see sweat beading at Grian’s forehead, and the cloth of the chair was pulled taut under his fingers. His expression, though, remained steely.

Doc steepled his fingers. “I’m hoping to find out what makes him tick, but I’m not sure I have the kind of… facility that I would need. Which is where you would come in.”

Scar exhaled slowly. “So, you want money.” Despite the strangeness of the proposition, this is where most of his business meetings led in the end.

“Well, yes.” Doc coughed awkwardly. “And believe me, I know how this must sound. So I wanted to give you something in return.”

“Oh?” Scar asked, curiosity piqued. “And what would that be?”

“Besides a split of whatever profits we make – and we can negotiate the exact percentages later, I am very open – I wanted you to have a… personal investment in this project. To let you know that I am serious, and that my evidence is legitimate.” Doc leaned in. “I want to give you Grian.”

“What?” Scar exclaimed, reeling back. Doc’s expression didn’t waver.

“I want to give you my best asset. I know you usually want collateral with major deals like this, so I think it’s a perfect arrangement. You take Grian, you run whatever tests you want so that you see this project is real, and then we can begin construction on the facility. I would ask you to please keep him alive and as uninjured as you can – I am serious about him being my best asset, and I would hate to lose him before I got a chance to study him properly.”

Scar looked over at Grian. He didn’t seem frightened, though it was hard to read his unmoving expression. If Scar had to guess, he would’ve said Grian looked resigned, as though his life being bartered away was something he had already given in to.

He bit his lip. It was true that Scar was no stranger to live experiments. ConCorp had to work very hard to keep their live weapons testing under wraps so they wouldn’t come under public scrutiny. Hosting experiments on humans, however, was not something that Scar had considered before. Well… not seriously considered, anyway.

Although… if what Doc was saying was true, Grian wasn’t actually a human, was he? He was a creature, some kind of mystical being. This could truly be a once in a lifetime opportunity.

“I will wait as long as it takes, Scar.” Doc said slowly. “You can answer a day or a year from now. But I feel that you already know what you want. You just need to take that first step.”

Scar stared into Grian’s dark eyes. For once, he was barely even thinking about the money. He could be looking at a legitimately magical creature. His heart was thundering in a way he hadn’t felt for a long time.

Workers milled throughout the ballroom, taking a small break now that they had finished installing all of the decorations. Sitting among them was Bdubs, who was scribbling something in a notebook – no doubt keeping track of labor time and cost. 

He was glad that Bdubs had agreed to show up at all; they hadn’t exactly resolved their earlier tiff, and Scar was worried that he would’ve run off to Cub for some excuse to not come. He hadn’t been spared a couple of withering glances from the man, however.

“I’m just not sure.” Scar finally said, and he could see Xisuma’s shoulders slump in defeat. “It’s okay, but… there’s something missing.”

“Well… what would you want to add?” Xisuma asked weakly. 

“I’m not sure.” Scar hummed. “Perhaps a change to the lighting?”

“Lighting? Like making it blue?”

“No, no, not blue. The light should be like… like sunshine through water. Gold filtered through teal, with all the irregular ripples that the ocean makes.” 

Xisuma wrung his hands nervously. “With all due respect, Mr. Scar, I’m not sure how we would do that? We don’t… really have any time to set up other electric lights, which would double our budget anyway. And I’m not sure how we would accomplish your vision of, um… yellow and blue? Without flooding the ballroom, I mean.”

Scar snapped his fingers. “X, you’re a genius.” 

Xisuma stared at him, eyes trepidatiously wide behind his thick-rimmed glasses. “I… I am?” 

“Yes!” Scar exclaimed. “Rather than installing new lights, let's just change the properties of the lights we already have.” He gestured grandly out to the floor. “I think the best way to make the effect I want is to install a reflecting pool in the middle of the floor.”

With those words, the entire congregation of people paused – he could see eyes turning to him, faces painted in disbelief. Even still, he resolutely continued to gaze at Xisuma, who was just staring at him, wide-eyed.

Eventually, X steepled his fingers, pressing them against his lips hard enough that the skin turned white. 

“Mr. Scar.” He breathed in sharply. “I’m not sure… I’m not sure that idea will work either.”

“And why not?”

“Well, for starters… if we don’t have time to install extra lights, we absolutely don’t have time to, uh, rip out sections of your floor to install an indoor pool.”

“Oh, no, no, there’ll be no ripping out anything.” Scar laughed, tapping his foot against the beautiful hardwood. “I was thinking of a temporary pool placed on top of the floor.”

“And… where are we getting this structure? What’ll it be made of? How’re we pumping water into it?” 

“We could always use concrete.” Scar suggested. “It sets very quickly, doesn’t it?”

“Not ‘the party is tomorrow’ quick!” Xisuma spluttered.

“Well, then let’s use premade slabs.”

“But it has to be watertight, doesn’t it? I don’t think that’ll work with slabs.” 

Scar shrugged. “There are binding agents you can use. Listen, I’m not asking you to make something that will last hundreds of years, I’m asking for something that will last 48, 72 hours. It’s definitely doable.”

“SCAR!” a voice shouted, loud enough that it sounded like they were inches from his ear.

Scar startled, whirling around to face the speaker. He was met with a very unimpressed-looking Bdubs.

“Scar.” he repeated, this time at a much more reasonable decibel. “You are being completely insane right now.”

Scar folded his arms petulantly. “I’m just trying to make sure this party is perfect.”

“It’s already beautiful. You don’t have to keep futzing like this – honestly, no one does themed parties like you. Literally no one. This is already way over the top, and you have nothing else to live up to.”

At his words, Scar gazed more measuredly at the decorations. He could admit that it had turned out rather well. The walls were covered in layers of silk, arranged in a gradient from pale turquoise at the top to a deep, rich indigo blue. The long refreshment tabletops were made of prismarine and glass, giving them a delicate look. Most impressive of all, however, was the stage itself. Xisuma had somehow managed to acquire a large hand-painted screen to sit behind the stage, showcasing a beautiful scene of roiling waves. 

And yet Scar still felt restless. He wanted – no, needed to continue picking at it. He wasn’t quite sure what was missing, but there was surely some little piece that needed to slot into place, something that would ease the anxious thrumming of his heart.

Bdubs clicked his tongue in annoyance. “Seriously, Scar. There’s nothing else to be done. Just go relax, okay? Take the rest of the day off, spend some time with your husband.”

Scar’s stomach lurched at the mention of Grian, anxiety morphing into something far more painful.

They hadn’t spoken since that night at the beach house – it was hard when Grian seemed to scurry from the slightest indication of Scar’s presence. It was as if the clock had been turned back for the two of them in the worst possible way. The dancing, the talks, their swim – it felt like none of it had ever happened, leaving Scar with a horrible, hollow feeling. 

No. He could not run into the arms of his husband; he barely felt like he could call the man his husband at all. 

He didn’t want to think about it right now. He couldn’t think about it. Scar stiffened his shoulders, willing the anxiety to flush from his body, leaving behind cold determination. “Bdubs. This is my party. I want it to be perfect, because whatever happens here will reflect on me. Not you.”

Bdubs scowled, lips curling in disgust as he appraised Scar. “It isn’t.”

“Excuse me?” 

“It isn’t your party, Scar. It’s Xisuma’s. You’re not head of HEP anymore, remember? You gave that up.” 

Xisuma seemed to shrink at the mention of his name, but Scar could see a slight bob of his head as he nodded along to Bdubs’ words. “It… it is a HEP gala, Mr. Scar.” he said, voice carefully neutral. It only served to irritate him more – he wasn’t some child throwing a temper tantrum, dammit. “You’ve been a great help here, but our team can take it from here. I promise.”

“And what would HEP be without me, hm?” Scar snapped. “That’s a rhetorical question, by the way. It wouldn’t exist. And none of you sorry lot would be half as well off as you are right now if I wasn’t bankrolling everything.”

“Well, maybe HEP could be an actual charity rather than a vanity project.” Bdubs retorted, stepping closer to Scar. His brown eyes blazed with fury, and Scar could see his knuckles going pale where he held onto his log book with a fervor. 

Scar scoffed. “Oh, you’d know plenty about that, hm? Considering you’re a charity case yourself.”

There was a moment of horrible silence. Scar’s blood sung with the pyrrhic joy of weaponized fury, the words feeling sharp and wonderful in his mouth.

Bdubs took a deep breath. “Fuck you, Scar. Just… fuck you.”

There was a sudden movement, and for a second, Scar was convinced that Bdubs was about to hit him. But instead, there was just a jolt against his chest as Bdubs shoved the notebook against him. Scar instinctively reached up, grasping it in his hands. The leather was worn and soft against his fingertips.

“I quit.” Bdubs snarled. “I don’t need you or your filthy fucking money. Good luck with your all-important party, you prick.”

Bdubs’ shoes squeaked as he whirled on his heels, striding towards the exit with a determination. 

Scar wanted to call out, get the last word in – responses bubbled in his mind, threats of blacklisting or even just petty insults. But it seemed stuck in his throat, somehow. 

The leather was worn and soft against his fingertips.

And then Bdubs was gone, leaving Scar in the silence. 

He realized, distantly, that he was shivering – rage? Sadness? He wasn’t sure. He just shoved his hands into his suit pockets to disguise the movement, eyes trained on where Bdubs had last been.

“Do… do you want us to install that pool?” Xisuma asked from somewhere behind him. 

“Do what you want.” Scar muttered, managing to tear his eyes away from the empty space. X looked more taken aback than anything, though Scar could sense a nervousness about him. 

He didn’t… he didn’t like it. Didn’t like the feeling of someone being afraid of him.

“I’m going to my study.” he managed. “If you need something… I don’t know. Figure it out. You’re a smart man.”

Void. He needed a drink. Maybe three. 

The ballroom was very different in the dark.

The curtains had been thrown open to allow a trickle of paltry moonlight in, but the vast voids in the confined space were largely unlit, left purely to the imagination. Gone were the sparkling, unnatural statues of sea life, of fake kelp hanging limply in the air. Now all that was left was empty bliss. 

Scar decided he liked it better like this.

He leaned back, taking another swig of whiskey straight from the bottle. He had long since abandoned a glass – such pretenses felt rather pointless. 

He didn’t even taste the expensive liquor as he swallowed. Just felt the fire it brought rushing through him, cutting through the horrible numbness. 

He went to take another swig, but found that the bottle had run dry – nothing but a few measly drops remained.

“Shit.” Scar muttered, placing the now-empty glass on the floor of the stage where he sat. He couldn’t quite recall if the bottle had been open before today.

There was a soft beeping from beside him. Scar turned hazy eyes towards Grumbot, who was standing just below him, on the main floor of the ballroom. The glow of his lightbulb eyes left long ribbons of glow across the surface of Scar’s vision.

“Sorry, buddy.” He slurred. “F’ swearing, I mean. Though… you probably don’t care, huh?”

Grumbot beeped again, this time alongside a whirr of mechanics as he printed out an answer.

Scar waved his hand. “Oh man… ‘m not gonna be able to read that. No way. No way.” He chuckled. Grumbot beeped again, sounding significantly more offended. 

He almost reached for the bottle again before remembering that there was nothing left. Instead, he dropped his head into his hands. 

“Shit.” he repeated. That was right. No more alcohol. Unless he wanted to go back to his study.

Now that wasn’t a bad idea. 

“Help me up.” he commanded Grumbot. It tilted it’s head, making an inquisitive noise.

Despite his request, Scar decided to start moving on his own – he messily slid off the stage, legs wobbling dangerously as his feet hit the ground. The only reason he stayed upright was thanks to the braces, which automatically locked at the sudden fall risk. 

“Nice, nice.” Scar muttered under his breath, managing to steady himself using both his cane and the top of Grumbot’s head. 

“To the study!” He declared, wishing that he could gesture grandly. He had the mental image of himself in privateer clothes, perched on the deck of a magnificent ship, blue ocean roiling before him. He laughed again. 

Their journey to the study seemed to last an eternity and no time at all – most of Scar’s mindpower was dedicated to remembering how to walk without completely keeling over. Grumbot at least was good company. He listened to Scar’s drunken rambles with minimal accusatory beeps. 

When they finally made it to the door of the study, Scar raised his fist to knock before he realized what he was doing. He chuckled at his own antics before pushing it open. 

“Grumbot! Lights please!” He practically shouted. When Grumbot didn’t move, he snapped his fingers. “That’s right – I never installed any overhead electrics in here, did I? How silly. Guess we’ll just have to resort to gas like ple-pleb-plee – like. Like poor people.”

That one didn’t feel so good in his mouth. He frowned, but didn’t allow his mind to linger on the uncomfortable phrase. 

He stumbled forward in the dark, finally managing to make it to his desk. He fiddled for a moment with the knobs on his lamp before it caught with a click, dim orange glow filling the space. 

Suddenly feeling exhausted, Scar collapsed into his fine leather chair, eyes lingering on the flame of the lamp. It was beautiful. What a beautiful thing. Mankind capturing the wildest element of them all and taming it inside a little glass bottle. Just to have a little extra light in the darkness. 

It also hurt his eyes to stare directly at it, so he stopped. Instead, he began rummaging through his desk drawers, looking for his bottle opener. 

It was an absolute mess, filled to the brim with random bits of paper, bottles of ink, scribbled notes, even uncashed checks. Scar groaned in frustration – he really needed to get better about organizing his messes. One thing was clear, though; the opener was not in here.

He began patting himself down – perhaps he had left it in one of his pockets? Knowing him, it was certainly possible.

His fingers brushed against something sitting heavy in his suit pocket, disturbing the fine silk with its presence. Without thinking about it, he pulled the offending object out, a joyous victory singing in his veins.

Oh. It was… it wasn’t his bottle opener.

Scar stared at the little black notebook. The leather was worn and soft against his fingertips.

Almost unconsciously, he opened it, eyes roving over the tiny script. Bdubs’ handwriting was hard to read on the best of days, but he managed to catch little pieces – orders for crates upon crates of silk, the finest catering available in Cardiff, precious prismarine mined from the deep sea. He started flipping backwards through the book, seeing the contents change. Party supplies turned to things like industrial steel, dirigible frames, TNT. He flipped faster now. Gunpowder. Bullet casings. Rifle stocks. Artillery shells. War, war, war, war–

And then the handwriting changed.

Scar froze, staring at the page. He – he recognized that handwriting. So different from Bdubs’ messy scrawl. 

It was a neat, tiny cursive. The kind of script that was usually impossible for Scar to read, but every loop, every curve, was as familiar to Scar as the lines of his own hand. 

“Brass gear, half centimeter. 300.” he breathed, reading it aloud as he flipped backwards through the pages, much slower now. “Ivory clockface, four centimeters. Five. Copper wire, six meters. For Scar.” 

He dropped the book. He hadn’t even realized his hands were shaking. 

He wrapped his hands around himself, breath coming in heavy pants. It was his father’s notebook. He hadn’t even known that Bdubs had kept it.  

His vision blurred, and it took him a moment to realize that hot tears were welling in his eyes, threatening to spill over. He pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes, but it was no use – something inside him broke, a sob tearing free from his throat. 

What the fuck was wrong with him? Pushing away one of the truest, closest friends he had – a person who could’ve almost been like a brother to him. But he had fucked that up too. 

When he had left for university to pursue a degree in architecture, his father had finally accepted that he wasn’t going to follow the family business of clock-making. So he had naturally gotten himself a new apprentice – one loud-mouthed, rough-edged man by the name of Bdubs.

Scar hadn’t exactly liked him at first. After all, even if he had committed to not committing to the family craft, he couldn’t help but feel as though he were being replaced. It hadn’t helped that he and Bdubs were almost the exact same age – he would’ve figured that his father would’ve picked someone younger, with a more malleable mind. But no. There was some fierce spark of determination in him that had drawn Scar’s father in, some spark that Scar seemingly lacked. 

Most of Scar’s university breaks were spent bickering with Bdubs, the pair of them subsequently getting chewed out by his father for daring to distract his most loyal apprentice. Void, it had grated on Scar – this stranger in his home, acting like the true son.  

But once his father had passed, it had all felt so… pointless. Especially seeing how uninterested Bdubs was in his father’s meager inheritance. He hadn’t been there to steal – just to learn.

In their own ways, they had both loved him, and so they both mourned him. 

So once Scar had hit gold with ConCorp, he quietly offered Bdubs a fund to open his own clockmaking shop. He had flat-out refused. Even bringing up the memory of his father hadn’t been enough to convince him. The only thing he would accept was working for the money. 

Scar let a low, pathetic wail. Void. He had accused Bdubs of being a charity case, despite practically forcing money onto him. He had never once asked – only taken what was offered.

Filled with a sudden fervor, Scar lunged forward, practically ripping the phone off of its receiver. Despite his inebriated state, he had no problem dialing Bdubs.

The ringing tone was practically deafening, but he nevertheless kept it pressed against his ear, straining to hear the telltale click.

It never came. The line simply went dead. 

Undeterred, he dialed again. It once more rang, then went dead. 

Over and over he tried, each dial getting more desperate, every baited breath harder to hold, his heart plunging in his chest –

And then there was a click.

Scar opened his mouth, then froze. What had he wanted to say? What could he say? He hadn’t even considered it, just knew that he needed to talk to him–

“Scar.” Bdubs’ voice was flat, malice clear even through the tinny speaker. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“Um.” Scar licked his lips. “No?”

Bdubs scoffed. “For the love of– no. Whatever you want me to deal with, no. Find someone else to do it. Goodbye.”

“Wait!” Scar yelped, lunging forward in his seat. “I’m not calling about that. I mean, I kind of am, but not to– you don’t have to come back. That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what do you want?”

Scar swallowed. “I want to say sorry. For being a shithead.”  

“Scar… Are you drunk?”

“No! A little. A lot.” Scar admitted. “But I – I promise I mean it.”

There was a long silence. Scar held his breath, blood roaring in his ears. 

Bdubs heaved a long sigh, the sound crackling through the phone. “Fine. Was that it, or…?”

“I really am sorry.” Scar bit his lip. “For how I acted today. I really fucked up with Grian, and… you reminded me of that. But I still shouldn’t have taken it out on you. All of the things I said – it was all dogshit. Said it ‘cause I was mad and just wanted to lash out. I hope you don’t think that I would… that I actually think of you that way.” 

Bdubs remained silent. Scar, meanwhile, couldn’t seem to stop the words now – they tumbled out of him, raw with honesty and emotion. “And I’m sorry for this past month too. The way I’ve been giving you the cold shoulder, I mean. You were just trying to help me, and I just… shut you out. And you deserve better than that.”

“Damn right I do.” Bdubs muttered. 

There was a pause. Bdubs cleared his throat. “Anything else?”

“Oh, uh… you can have my dad’s notebook back. I’ll um, ship it to you. If you don’t want to ever see me again.”

“Nether.” Bdubs huffed. “No need to be so dramatic. It’s not like you killed my dog.”

“You have a dog?”

“No, that’s not what I – whatever. Look, Scar…” Bdubs sighed. “I kinda blew up at you too. So while you definitely owed me an apology, I also… could have handled that better. So take that as you will.”

Scar perked up. “So… do you want to come back?”

“Well, I’m not doing any more party planning. And you owe me a big raise. And a check for emotional damages.”

“Sure, sure, anything!”

Bdubs chuckled. “That’s how I know you’re drunk. But whatever, I’ll still take it.” 

“Do you still want to come for the party tomorrow?” 

“Today.” Bdubs corrected. “And someone needs to babysit you through your hangover.” 

His hangover… shit. Scar hadn’t even considered that before drinking. He hadn’t considered much before drinking, actually. 

“Thank you.” he mumbled. “Sorry I’m such a disaster.”

“You’re not 20 anymore, Scar. You need to be more careful.” Bdubs sighed. 

There was a long stretch of silence. Scar stared blankly at the receiver of the phone, metal glimmering in the lamplight.

“By the way…” Bdubs eventually said. “Are you, uh, okay?”

“Yeah, ‘m just gonna try to sleep this off.”

“No, not that. Are you okay, uh, mentally? You’ve been pretty… I don’t know. You’ve been off.”

“You don’t have to try and comfort me.” Scar hung his head. “It’s not your responsibility.”

“For the love of the void, Scar, I’m your friend . I’m just trying to make sure you’re not about to, I don’t know… do something stupid.”

Scar rested his chin against his hand. “I’m… I don’t know. I’m just having a hard time, I guess.”

“Is it about Grian?” Bdubs prompted. “You said that’s what upset you earlier. 

Scar exhaled. “We… me and Grian. We had, uh, we had sex.”

“Okay…”

When Scar didn’t say anything else, Bdubs made a noise that was indecipherable through the staticy speakers. “What? Was it that bad?”

“No, no… I mean, at least not on my end. It was amazing. It’s just… I don’t know. He freaked out afterwards.”

“Freaked out how?” 

“He seemed really upset, and he practically ran out of the room. And we haven’t talked since.” 

“As in, he’s avoiding you, or you’re too chickenshit to have a real conversation?”

Scar was silent for a moment. “Both, I guess.”

Bdubs sighed heavily. “Okay. Clearly there’s some context I’m missing, since you haven’t actually talked to me in weeks . Were you two actually together beforehand? Like, together in a not just marriage-for-convenience kind of way?”

“No.”

“And this wasn’t you getting together?”

“No, he made it pretty clear this was a no-feelings attached deal.” 

“Well… it could be a lot of things, honestly. He could’ve felt like he wasn’t ready for that kind of intimacy. Or maybe he does have feelings for you, and that spooked him. It’s kind of impossible to say without asking him, you know?”

Scar drummed his fingers against his desk. “Well, sure… but I’m worried. I’m worried it’s something else. Something worse.” 

“Like what?”

Scar swallowed thickly, preparing to confront the thoughts he had been desperately repressing for the past week. “What if he felt obligated, somehow? What if he didn’t really want it?”

“What makes you think that could be the case?”

Scar’s mouth felt dry. He couldn’t properly explain – couldn’t explain the way that the bond lit up his body and mind like a thundercloud full of lightning, the draw that Grian had even now, the way that the man seemed to occupy his every waking thought, the fact that the magnetism of the bond was undeniable in every sense of the word. How could he possibly explain that he was terrified that Grian hadn’t wanted him at all, that he was just compelled through the magic that had forcibly entwined them? 

“It’s just – our marriage.” He finally managed weakly. “What if he… what if he felt compelled by that… that bond.” 

Bdubs snorted derisively. “He really does not seem like the kind of person to care about traditions like that, Scar. You’re doing the terrible thing you always do, which is overthink everything, and then those thoughts choke out everything else. Every one else, for that matter.”

“You don’t know him like I do.” Scar argued. “There are other factors at play.”

“Like?”

“Well… There are the cultural differences.”

He could practically hear Bdubs’ eyeroll. “Like you know anything about Solvan marriage customs. Or anything about Solvan culture, for that matter.”

Scar was silent for a moment. “I know their wedding dance.”

“Well, that’s just lovely. But don’t you think if there was some kind of ‘I have to have sex with my spouse because of such-and-such' tradition, you two would’ve done it ages ago? Or he would’ve brought it up, like, ever?”

“But–”

“No buts! You can come up with a trillion worst-case scenarios, but you have literally no way of knowing what’s true or not if you don’t ask.” 

Scar worried the edge of his suit jacket, the fine fabric distorting under his persistent fingertips. “He’s been avoiding me.”

“And were you planning on hiding him away for the masquerade?” Bdubs tsked. “You’re going to get an opportunity. Just… take him to the side during the dance. Be honest for once in your life and just ask. ”

When Scar didn’t respond, Bdubs let out another sigh. “Listen. What’s the worst that will happen? The conversation goes poorly, and then… what? You two continue avoiding each other? I don’t think things will get much worse. Nether, if he really does hate you now for some reason, just send him back to Solhav.” 

Scar inhaled sharply. He could send Grian away, couldn’t he? Call up Cub, Zedaph, even Doc, and simply get rid of the problem that way.

And yet he didn’t want to. Because even if there was the slightest glimmer of hope that Grian didn’t hate him, he would want to see that through.

He wasn’t ready to give up on that yet.

Not to mention, whatever paltry affections Grian might hold for him would be doubtless dashed as soon as he consigned him to his fate. Regardless of Scar’s promise of eventual freedom, he was sure that as soon as Grian was once more locked away, he would remember why he had such vehement hatred for the man when they had first met.

And… the idea was painful. More so than the idea of Grian hating him, even. Scar was finding it increasingly hard to wrap his mind around the idea of sending Grian back. Back to that hell he had been trapped in for six months. 

“Alright, alright, forget that last part. It was mostly a joke, anyhow.” Bdubs interrupted his brooding. “Listen. Go get some sleep, okay? Have one of your little servant-bots take you to bed. Void knows you’re gonna need that energy. Tomorrow, you can write me a big, fat paycheck, and then think about what you’re gonna say to him. Capiche?”

“M’kay.” Scar muttered. Or he could fall asleep right here. That sounded pretty good too.

“Goodnight. Oh, and Scar?”

“Mmh?”

“If you ever interrupt my beauty sleep again, I will actually kill you.”

With that proclamation, the line went dead.

Scar didn’t even bother putting the phone back on its hook, instead just dropping it on the desk. It buzzed slightly as he rested his forehead against the wood, its cool surface pleasant against his flushed skin.