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“It is far too late for this,” Grian grouses, yawning against his will. The only one paying any real attention to him is Scar, who is nodding along in sympathy as he fiddles with one of his sound sensors. “How are we supposed to hunt any ghost if we can’t even stay awake?”
“Very good question,” Scar agrees sagely, and Grian huffs. He seems more genuinely frustrated than usual, but it’s Grian. He’s just like that sometimes.
“Usually I’d be in bed at this time, you know. All snuggled up and cozy.” Grian adjusts the high collar of his sweater and sniffs. “You’re ruining my sleep schedule by dragging me along.”
“Aww, did G miss his bedtime?” Skizz teases, turning his flashlight on and off testingly. Grian turns a deathly blank glare on him, and Skizz laughs it off, completely unbothered. “Aw, you know I’m joking, bud. It’s late, I know, but we gotta do this job, G.”
Grian exhales in a sharp puff, shoving his glasses up on his nose, and Skizz glances at him, then to Scar. The look he shares with Scar seems to communicate, wow, someone’s in a bit of a mood today.
“I could just stay in the van. Then you’d be sorry,” Grian states defiantly.
Impulse hums, not even glancing up at Grian from where he’s bent over the old computer that they kept in the van, focused on accessing the house’s cameras. “You do that half the time anyways, G.”
“Yeah, well—“ Grian seems to fumble for his words. “I won’t look for orbs. Or tell you if there’s a hunt.”
“You would tell us if there was a hunt,” Impulse disagrees easily, knowing that his words are the truth. “No matter how upset you are with us, you don’t want us to get hurt.”
Grian huffs, but he doesn’t deny it, and Impulse feels the corner of his mouth quirk up as he straightens and adjusts the radio in his ear.
“Plus, I’d have to pay to replace the revival patches,” Grian grumbles.
“Plus you’d have to pay to replace the revival patches,” Impulse confirms. He flicks a thermometer on and off to make sure it works, then hands it to Grian.
“Stupid Americans,” Grian scoffs. “I bet they wouldn’t make us pay for revivals in Britain.” But there’s no bite to it, and he seems to be settling down. He glances at the thermometer. “Good, it’s in Celsius.”
Scar glances up, confused. “Hasn’t it always been in Celsius?”
“Yes, it’s always been in Celsius, Scar,” Impulse sighs. “Grian, are you taking spirit box?”
“Mmm…” Grian bites his lip and scans the rest of the equipment that hangs on the wall. When none of them catch his interest, he sighs, long and exaggerated. “Yeah, sure.”
“Great. Skizz?”
“Breaker first, then I’ll do temp,” Skizz informs him, thanking Grian distractedly as the man tosses the thermometer to him. “You’re designated photographer, right?”
Impulse nods, already hefting his camera. “We’ll split up to find the breaker, then I can do EMF. Scar—“
He turns his attention to Scar, only to find the man holding as many motion and sound sensors as he could. They’re piled in his arms, and Scar yelps as one tumbles out of his grasp and falls to the floor with a devastating crack that makes Impulse wince.
Well, that’s one sensor down.
He raises a tired eyebrow at Scar, and Scar grins sheepishly. “They’re useful!” he insists, and Impulse only shakes his head.
“At least take in some salt as well,” he sighs. Scar snaps into a salute, and Impulse can’t help but laugh. “You’re paying for that, by the way.”
“What?” Scar looked appalled, but there’s a small hint of tension behind his eyes. He exchanged a nervous glance with Grian, then puts on a brilliantly bright smile, so bright that Impulse is sure he misinterpreted his previous expression. “Oh, Impulse, I can’t actually do that. I’m broke.”
“Scar—“ Impulse cuts off with a fond, slightly exasperated laugh. “Scar, don’t you always say that you’ve got the most money out of all of us, bud?” He doesn’t know if that’s actually true, but Scar says it so often, and with such confidence, that Impulse has never bothered to doubt it.
“Yes, yes, but!” And here, Scar scoots closer, eyes wide and earnest. “I’m saving up, Impulse. I’m gonna get to a hundred thousand. Then I’ll buy out the whole shop, you’ll see!”
Skizz laughs and tosses Scar a container of salt, which Scar fumbles and nearly drops. “Yeah, of course, Scarface. We would never doubt you!”
Scar nods solemnly. “I take my promises very seriously, Skizz.”
Impulse can list at least five times right off the bat that Scar has not taken his promises seriously, but that isn’t important. What’s important is starting this job, so they could get home and go to bed as soon as possible.
He palms the keys that they were given by Xisuma when he gave them the job and clears his throat loudly. And—he’s got to hand it to his team. Despite how loud and goofy they could often be, despite how often Grian would complain about the overnight nature of their job, as soon as Impulse needed their attention, they’d give it, fully and completely.
“All right, game plan.” Impulse sets his camera down and rubs his hands together. “Skizz and I look for breaker, everyone goes around looking for any activity, me on EMF and Skizz on thermometer. If you find a room, shout it out on the radio—“
“Test, test,” Skizz calls through the radio, interrupting Impulse. At Impulse’s pointed look, he shrugs. “Had to make sure we were hooked up.
Impulse sighs. “Right. Grian?”
“Ready.”
“Scar?”
“Ready.”
“Okay, can everyone hear me?” Impulse glances around between the members of his team, and once he confirms they’re all nodding, he nods back. “Okay. Where was I?"
“If you find the room…?” Skizz prompts.
“If you find the room, shout it out on the radio. If you see something special—that includes cursed items, interactions, fingies, anything—let me know so I can take a picture. And we’ll—"
“We’ll go from there,” Grian finishes easily. “We always do.”
Impulse nods. “We always do.”
— / — / —
“Breaker’s on!” Skizz calls through the radio. “It’s in the garage.”
“Awesome, thanks, Skizz.”
Grian taps on his ear piece, waiting for the radio to crackle before he speaks. “Hey, Impulse, you got the camera on hand?”
The response is instantaneous. “You know it. Did you find something?”
Grian stares down at the complete, twisting spine that sits just in front of his feet. He nudges it with a toe, then grimaces. “You could say that.”
“Where do you need me?”
“Bathroom.”
“On my way.”
Grian sees no reason why Impulse would need him for anything else, so he exits the bathroom in search of the ghost room. His spirit box has no way to search the rooms, not like the thermometer or the EMF detector, so he resolves to glancing around each and every room for ghost interactions. Doors swinging open or shut, picture frames tipping off the edge of desks, anything moving when it shouldn’t be.
The master bedroom, where Grian is now, seems mostly peaceful. There’s a strange tension in the room, but it’s no different from any other haunted place.
Still, the room seems wrong. He hates this place, hates that he has to be here right now. There’s a weight on his chest, heavy with the feel of the room, that constricts his lungs and makes his breaths shallow and painful.
It doesn’t matter. It can’t matter, not now. What matters now is finding the ghost room so they can leave.
As it turns out, though, he doesn’t have to search any longer. From somewhere in the house, on the upper floor with Grian, there’s a muffled scream, and Grian nearly drops the spirit box. He’s frozen. No. Please, no, not Scar.
“Scar?” Skizz shouts from the lower floor, completely forgoing the radio. “Scar, bud, are you okay?”
“Scar, come in, are you okay?” Impulse asks sharply, his voice filtering roughly through the radio. A heartbeat of horrible, awful silence, and then—
The radio crackles. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” Scar tells them breathlessly over the radio. Grian doesn’t even realize that he had been holding his breath until he releases it, desperate and dizzy with relief. He has to lean against the wall, sliding down it to the floor as Scar continues speaking.
“I think I found the ghost room. I saw something in the corner.” A slightly hysterical laugh, high pitched and loud through the radio’s static. Grian winces—Scar must’ve been really spooked. “Thought it was a hunt, to be honest. I think it was just an event, but, you know. It was there. Also, I nearly got hit by a flying book. But! I was warned about it by my motion sensor, which just really goes to show how important—“
“Scar.”
“—they are, because if it wasn’t there, I might have—“
“Scar!” Scar lapses into silence, his radio crackling and then dying out as Impulse repeats his name. “Scar, which room?”Grian can imagine the man, his eyebrows draw together and his forehead wrinkled in concern for Scar.
“Right!” A long, shaky exhale through the radio. “Uh, upstairs bedroom? Far right. The door is open.”
So Scar is close to Grian—right across the hall, almost. Ignoring the promises from Skizz and Impulse that they were on their way, he struggles to his feet and darts out of the master bedroom to meet Scar in the other bedroom.
He nearly collides with the man as Scar exits the ghost room in a flurry of waving hands and vaguely panicked noises. “Oh!” Grian grabs Scar’s shoulders to steady them both and to make Scar look at him.
His friend’s face is pale, and his eyes are wide. He jolts violently as Grian grips onto his shoulders.
“Ah, Grian!” Scar chuckles, nervous and wild. He rubs at his throat almost unconsciously. “Good to see you here. When you enter, just watch out for any flying books—especially the ones that are aiming for your head. We do not want another concussion.”
Grian winces remembering the last concussion they had to deal with while on the job. It had been Scar’s, just as this one nearly was, and the man had been out of commission for weeks. Impulse had sternly, though not unkindly, forbidden him from ghost hunting until his headaches were completely gone.
(It was far better from the first time Scar had gotten a concussion, with his and Scar’s old organization. At least with Skizz and Impulse, they didn’t have to work through it.)
But that doesn’t matter. Not now.
“I’ll be careful, buddy,” Grian assures Scar, patting his shoulders twice. He detaches himself from Scar, then tosses his spirit box into the air before catching it. “We ready?”
“Hold on,” Skizz insists, having sprinted up the stairs to reach Scar. He’s now rounding the corner, wielding his thermometer as he always is. “I’ll make sure it’s the right room first. Just in case.”
As much as Skizz makes excuses, Grian knows that Skizz’s intention in entering first is to protect the rest of them from any flying projectiles, or, worse, another event.
He hates to admit that he’s slightly grateful.
Still, he waits with bated breath as Skizz creeps into the bedroom, eyes roaming for anything strange or out of place or dangerous. He freezes, about three steps past the doorway, and Grian’s heart stop.
It starts again when Skizz calls out, “all good here! This is definitely the room, though. We’ve got three degrees.”
Impulse, who has just come up the stairs, breathes a relieved sigh. “Good. Now we can start moving equipment in, conducting investigations, all that good stuff.”
Grian nods. “You want me to do spirit box in there?”
From within the room, Skizz calls, “Yeah, come on in, G, coast is clear.”
But Grian hesitates.
Briefly, he makes intentional eye contact with Impulse, who cocks his head to the side in confusion. Grian nods in Scar’s general direction—Scar is now twisting his hands around anxiously in front of him, motion and sound sensors all but forgotten—and Impulse’s eyes widen in realization. He nods back to Grian, and Grian relaxes slightly, knowing that Scar would be taken care of.
He trusts Impulse, after all, no matter how hard it can be at times to trust anyone at all besides Scar.
“Coming in,” he informs Skizz, and he enters the ghost room with his spirit box held firmly in his hand.
— / — / —
When Impulse approaches Scar, it’s slowly, not giving him any reason to be startled. He makes sure to stay within Scar’s line of sight to avoid further spooking him.
Still, when Scar catches sight of Impulse, he jolts away. Quickly, he adjusts the collar of his shirt to protect his neck more. He tries to hide it with one of his signature grins, but Impulse has known Scar for long enough by now, and his heart pangs.
When Scar and Grian first met Skizz and Impulse, almost half a year ago now, they had been young and scared and all too afraid of both Impulse and Skizz. After training with them for two months, they officially joined Impulse and Skizz in a group that they called GIGS, and they began to learn much more about the terror that gripped the younger two. In fact it had been that fear that had kept them from introducing Scar and Grian to their coworkers so far. Impulse took care of communication—the only one Scar and Grian had to know was their boss, Xisuma. And they only had to interact with him a few times, although, they didn’t seem to mind him too much. Still, the interaction with authority figures like their boss was something that made both Scar and Grian uncomfortable, as Impulse had noticed over time.
Unconventional? Perhaps, but Xisuma had adopted many a traumatized kid into the little family they called Hermitcraft Paranormal Investigations. He was more than ready to agree to the term that he wouldn’t be communicating much, if at all, with the other members of GIGS.
The organization that Scar and Grian had worked for before joining Hermitcraft—and, more importantly, before joining GIGS—had been absolutely abusive, never providing them with the proper equipment and training to keep them safe during such a dangerous job and punishing them when things went wrong. Truthfully, Impulse’s guess was that the organization wanted to exploit their skills and force them into submission. Although, from the things that the two have said, he wouldn’t be surprised if there was something more sinister behind everything.
In that time, the two had become almost scarily reliant on each other. They wouldn’t tell Skizz or Impulse if they got injured somehow, and any deaths at the beginning were catastrophic.
Impulse still shudders when he remembers the first time Scar died since joining their group. He’d only realized it had happened when Grian had arrived at the van, Scar’s body in his arms and a horrifyingly dull expression on his face, before sitting down with him and not allowing anyone near. “They’ll only pay us if I have his body,” Grian had informed Impulse listlessly when the man had asked, mildly panicked, what he was doing. That was also how Impulse learned that their organization didn’t allow revivals on the job—only when they returned to HQ would they be allowed to get revived. If they both died, they would get picked up by their supervisors in the morning.
Impulse had immediately shown him the wonders of instant revivals; it wouldn’t wake someone up until they were away from the ghost house, since there was too much haunted energy there for hunters to be able to recover immediately, but it was far better than being at the mercy of their organization. Grian had cried when Scar had woken up. They’d taken a week off of work after that for them to all recover.
Their first day back, Grian had died to an unfortunate mistake—he’d forgotten to turn off his light during a hunt—and Skizz had found Scar cradling Grian’s body, eyes blown wide in panic. It had taken ages to calm him down, especially when Scar wouldn’t let anyone close to Grian, and Impulse knows that Scar is still taken back to that day whenever Grian dies. To be truthful with himself, Impulse is, too, sometimes. Taken back to that terrified man in front of him, begging him to “please, please bring him back, he’ll do better next time, he’s sorry, I swear, he’s sorry.” One hour and a hysterical conversation later, Impulse and Skizz had another reason to want to kill Scar and Grian’s old supervisors.
They had apparently withheld revivals from Scar and Grian whenever they made a mistake. Grian had confessed, with a hoarse voice and bags under his eyes as he wrapped an arm around Scar in constant reassurance, that the longest Grian had been dead was a week. Impulse may have thrown up later that night, when Scar and Grian had retreated to their hotel rooms and only Skizz was there as his roommate and best friend rather than his work colleague to see his distress.
Things had gotten better, since those horrible, painful days. Scar had relaxed around them. Grian had started to greet them with smiles that, though wary, were genuine. Both of them had grown less afraid as they learned that even when they fell, even when they died, someone would always be there to pick them up. The first time Scar died and Grian wasn’t transported back to worse times, the first time Grian had died and Scar had let Skizz pick his body up and carry it to the van, Impulse had cried. Shamelessly, though Scar and Grian had both been incredibly embarrassed.
Yes, things had gotten better. But they weren’t, perhaps would never be, perfect. And sometimes, when either one of the two were particularly spooked, the defensive instincts would return in full force. Right now, Impulse can see them bubbling to the surface in Scar, through the tension in his shoulders and the fear in his eyes. Even through Impulse’s worry, though, he tries to smile gently at Scar.
“Hey, bud,” he says softly. From the ghost room, he can hear Grian turn on the spirit box, the thick static filtering through the door as the device flips through stations. “How’re you feeling?”
It’s a genuinely important question—if Scar says he’s not okay, then Impulse will take them all home, job forgotten—and Impulse waits as Scar forms a genuine answer. It takes a few seconds before he has the right words, but he moistens his lips and tries for one of his signature grins.
“Oh, you know.” Scar waves a hand aimlessly. “I’ll be okay. Startled, is all!”
Impulse hums, still scanning Scar’s face for any hint of a lie. “Yeah, I get that.” From what he can tell, Scar would be fine if he stayed in the house. He’d manage to calm himself down; he’d done it a million times before.
However.
When Impulse and Skizz had officially welcomed Scar and Grian to the team, they’d promised that they’d look out for them. That did and always would include making sure that they didn’t push themselves—and, moreover, that they never felt the need to.
So when Scar continues talking about their next steps (something about lining the halls with sensors), Impulse stops him with a gesture. “Actually, Scar, I think we’re going to set up a camera and search for orbs now that we have the right room. Would you mind heading to the van and getting the computer set up so we can keep an eye out? I’ll be out in a minute or so.”
Scar visibly relaxes, and Impulse knows that he made the right choice. “Right-o, Dad, I’ll get on that!”
Impulse laughs, though Scar trusting him enough to give him such a title (even as a joke) makes him want to cry. “I’ll meet you there in a few. While you get set up, I’ll make sure that those two goofs—“ he juts his thumb towards the ghost room. “—don’t start messing around while they’re s’posed to be doing stuff.”
As if on cue, Grian belts through the spirit box, “WHERE ARE YOOOOOU?”
Through his radio, Skizz returns with a very off-key, “AND I’M SO SOOOORRY!”
Impulse sighs, loud and long, but Scar is giggling, and that’s what matters.
Impulse glances over at Scar, entirely too fond. “Ready to head out to the van?” he checks. “We can look at the computer, let Grian and Skizz know if we see anything.”
Scar nods determinedly, suddenly far less distant. “Yes, sir!” He quiets, growing more serious. “Also. Uh.” Impulse cocks his head to show that he’s listening, and Scar flushes slightly. “Just…ask Skizz to make sure Grian stays safe, please?”
Impulse loves these two kids that they accepted into their team, far too much for his own good. “Of course,” he promises, and Scar finally relaxes.
— / — / —
“Where are you? Are you here? Are you friendly? Do you speak French?” Grian recites detachedly, raising his voice to be heard over the flipping channels of the spirit box.
Skizz eyes the man worriedly. Now that Scar and Impulse are in the van and there’s no need to distract Scar by singing silly songs, it’s clear that Grian’s mind is elsewhere. If Skizz had to guess, his first instinct would be in the van, with Scar. They’ve always been so close to each other. Even before Skizz had learned exactly what had forged their relationship and welded them together, he had been able to tell that they shared a powerful bond.
So if Skizz is concerned about how Scar is doing (and he is), then Grian must be as well, and probably to a far greater extent. And if Impulse asked him to keep an eye on Grian, there must be a reason for it.
His suspicions are proven when Grian gives up on getting spirit box far quicker than usual; normally, he’ll mess around for a bit, maybe ask some questions in the minimal French he knows. This time, Grian pockets the spirit box and calls dully through the radio, “not spirit box.”
Then, he takes a shaky breath and looks around the room, seeming completely lost and aimless. Untethered, almost, without Scar right by his side. Scared to be separated from his best friend, his partner in crime. His everything.
Skizz purses his lips. Truthfully, he’s not sure if it’s a good idea for Scar and Grian to be on the job today, not when they’re both so on edge. He knows that Impulse had convinced Scar to head to the van with him. Unfortunately, Grian is often too stubborn for that to work.
Still, it’s worth a try. Skizz moves towards Grian and places a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Hey, G-sharp—“
It’s not as surprising as Skizz wishes it was when Grian flinches at his touch. He may have even been expecting it.
It doesn’t keep him from wincing and stepping back, giving Grian a few precious extra feet of space. “Sorry,” he apologizes instantly, but Grian only shakes his head.
“It’s fine.”
It’s not, but Skizz lets it go. “You wanna head back to the van, buddy? You know that Scar doesn’t always catch the ghost orbs when they’re there.”
It’s a joke—spoken in a teasing tone, with a smile on his face—but it’s the wrong thing to say. “He knows what he’s doing,” Grian snaps, suddenly aggressive. His shoulders are tense, and his jaw is locked. Skizz notes the way his hands twitch at his sides and takes another step back.
“I know, G,” Skizz tries, but Grian isn’t listening.
“He—he knows what he’s doing, he’s good at this, I swear. He’s useful, I promise, he’s useful.” Grian’s voice strains in his desperation to get his point across. “Don’t fire him, please, he’ll do better. I swear, he’ll do better.”
“G, G!” Skizz exclaims, alarmed. “I—no one’s firing Scar. No one’s firing either of you. It was a stupid, insensitive joke, and I shouldn’t have made it. I’m sorry. Neither of you are going anywhere.” Then he rethinks. “Or—you can, if you want, we’re not keeping you captive or anything. Like, if you really want to leave, we’d never stop you, but—“ Shut up, Skizz, that’s not helping. Grian only looks more panicked, and Skizz yelps. “Okay, bottom line is that no one’s getting fired. If there were any problems like that—and there aren’t—we would talk about them. Together. As a team.”
Grian still looks horribly unsure, and Skizz lets himself soften. “Aw, bud,” he whispers gently. “What’s going on? You and Scar both seem…off, today. What’s up?”
And Grian’s face splits into devastation.
For a moment he wobbles, unsteady. It’s only a heartbeat before he pitches forward, stumbling towards Skizz, and Skizz takes Grian in his arms with no hesitation. Grian buries his face in Skizz’s shoulder, shaking with silent sobs, and all Skizz can do is hold him.
Grian’s never been too tactile—not while Skizz has known him, at least. He’s heard Scar’s murmurs of brighter days when Grian wouldn’t leave his side, always touching, always clinging to anyone nearby, but after their first organization, everything had changed. So Skizz has never seen this side of Grian.
He’s determined to make sure that it changes nothing. He holds Grian tightly, as naturally as he would hold any of his friends or his coworkers or the paperwork girl that filled in sometimes and that the group had started to grow close with, Gem. There’s no difference, after all—they’re all part of his family.
“It’s been two years,” Grian confesses hoarsely, his voice muffled by Skizz’s shirt. Skizz blinks.
“…two years?” He doesn’t ask the question he wants to ask. Grian answers it anyways.
“Since we had our first ever job.” Since everything started to go wrong, is what Grian doesn’t say, but Skizz knows him well enough to be able to hear it in his voice.
And Skizz knows, has been told under the cover of darkness and with the cushioning of blankets and hot cocoa, about Grian and Scar’s first ever job.
It was with their old organization, of course, since that was their introduction to the paranormal field. From what Skizz had heard, the two had never been more excited for a new job.
That excitement had dissipated when Scar had quickly died to a furious demon, and, not long after, Grian as well. They’d been forced to stay there as specters for what felt like years but must have been days until their supervisors came and retrieved them.
It was a punishment, Grian had whispered, devastated. They had known that the two were dead. They had waited to revive them purposefully. And now, there is a permanent stain of watercolor bruises on their throats that transports them back to that day. Painless, perhaps, in the way that imprints of deaths tend to be, but a constant reminder nonetheless.
And as Skizz’s hand ghosts over the back of Grian’s neck, Grian shivers violently and hunches his shoulders as if to protect himself. It’s only a brief moment before he forces his shoulders back down, as if he realized that there is nothing to be afraid of with Skizz.
“I’m so scared for him,” Grian croaks, and Skizz’s heart aches. “What if—what if he dies, and I die, and no one brings us back.”
“Xisuma wouldn’t let that happen,” Skizz tells him firmly, then reconsiders when Grian flinches at their boss’ name. Okay, not the right move. “We wouldn’t let that happen. Impulse and I. We would drag you back to the land of the living even if we had to wrangle a Mimic for ya.”
Grian giggles wetly, but it’s still barely genuine, barely there at all. “But—what if—if Xisuma stops you? You can’t—he’s the boss. He’s in charge. You can’t disobey—“
“In that case? Impulse and I would disobey him in a heartbeat,” Skizz informs him bluntly. Grian shudders, and Skizz holds him tighter. Xisuma, while being the boss, isn’t really in charge of them. He really doesn’t give them any actual orders. But Grian needs to know that they’d break every rule in the book to protect him.. “Gem would, too—you remember Gem? She’s helped us out a couple of times, and she would kill to protect any of us, you know how she is.”
“Gemini Thaye,” Grian confirms, slumping against Skizz’s chest. As his panic drains, his adrenaline does, too, and he closes his eyes as he rests his head on Skizz’s collarbone. Skizz exhales, fond and worried, and rubs his back gently.
“You’ve had a hell of a day, G-sharp,” he sighs, and Grian hums and nods into Skizz’s shirt. “I wish you’d have told us what was going on.”
“Sorry,” Grian mumbles, and Skizz shakes his head.
“Don’t be. We’re here for you.”
It’s multiple more minutes before Grian finds the strength to pull away from Skizz. Even then, he sways and blinks tiredly. Skizz chuckles, soft, and pulls Grian against his side. “I’ve gotcha, buddy.” Then, careful not to jostle Grian with too much movement, he presses his finger to his earpiece. “Hey, I think it’s time we head out.”
That gets Grian awake.
“What?” Grian straightens, looks right at Skizz, betrayed. He fumbles for his own earpiece and calls through the radio, “No, no, we can’t leave, we need to find the ghost still, don’t we?”
Skizz winces. He should’ve expected this. “It’s fine, G,” he assures Grian softly. “We can always come back another time. We’ll give them a discount or something—“
“No.” And Grian sounds on the verge of tears, now. Skizz can see them shining in his eyes behind the lenses of his glasses. “We—we can’t, we won’t get paid, we need the money, Skizz, please—“
“No, we don’t,” Skizz swears fiercely, holding Grian close to him even as the man trembles. “If you don’t have enough, Imp and I will cover you all the way. But it won’t matter, because Xisuma is gonna pay us anyways.”
Grian chokes on a sob. He shakes his head wildly. “Skizz—“
“Actually, we’re all good,” Impulse informs them both, and Skizz wants to cry in relief. He should’ve known; Impulse would never make him do this alone. “I was watching the board—we got Twinteractions. We can leave.”
Skizz looks expectantly at Grian, grateful for Impulse’s backup. “G?”
“But—” Grian doesn’t seem sure, and he squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head. “But the pictures. We don’t have the pictures—“
Skizz waves off his protests. “Grian, those don’t matter. They’re just—extra. They don’t matter.”
“Grian?” Scar’s voice cracks as he calls Grian’s name over the radio, and Grian exhales a shaky sob. “It’s time to leave now. We can leave.”
“I—“ Grian sounds endlessly exhausted, a weariness that is bone-deep. “Okay,” he whispers at last. “Let’s go home.”
— / — / —
“You didn’t see any Twinteractions, did you.”
It’s not a question, and Impulse can tell immediately that Skizz already knows the truth. Still, he shakes his head with a wry smile as if it’s something that needs answered.
Skizz hums, and Impulse waits breathlessly to see what his reaction will be. Skizz doesn’t get mad easily, but he also hates having to lie to people he cares about. He’d explained to Impulse once that it just doesn’t feel right; he’d rather them know the truth and then deal with the consequences.
This time was different, though, and Impulse can tell though the way Skizz sighs and turns to him that Skizz knows it, too.
“I don’t like it,” are the first words out of his mouth. Impulse nods. He had expected that.
“But….” Skizz rubs at his forehead and blows out a long breath. “He wouldn’t have left,” he admits, and Impulse dips his chin in solemn agreement.
Grian is, even after everything he’s been through, stubborn. The stubbornness had been buried for a while under his old supervisors, but it had begun to return in full force as soon as he joined GIGS, when he was no longer in danger.
(And, despite everything, Impulse almost appreciates the gentle reminder that Grian considers them safe.)
“We’ll have to go back at some point,” Impulse says aloud, though he knows that Skizz is already aware of this. “Not with them.”
Skizz cracks a real smile at this. “Just you and me, then? Like old times?”
Impulse grins back at him. “Or we could bring back the TIES crew—or recruit Gem for a day. But these guys need some time off.”
“For sure.”
Impulse glances over to where Scar and Grian are talking, only to make direct eye contact with Grian. He smiles gently at Grian, and the man flushes, then ducks his head and looks away as if he was never watching them at all. Impulse’s smile widens.
All too quickly, it dies. How had he not noticed? They’d both been acting so different. It had taken a conversation in the van with Scar to even realize that something bigger was going on—something he should’ve seen.
But Skizz knows him all too well, and he elbows Impulse in the side. “Cut it out, Dipple Dop,” he warns gently, and Impulse bows his head, embarrassed at being caught. “It’s not your fault any more than it’s my fault.”
But it is Impulse’s fault. When Impulse had been assigned as the team leader by Xisuma, all those months ago when they formed a team with more than just him and Skizz, he’d made a promise (to Scar and Grian, to Xisuma, to himself—does it matter?) that he would keep the others safe.
Being the leader had never meant that he would be ‘in charge,’ or that he could order the others around. It had only ever meant that it was his responsibility to make sure that everyone was healthy, physically and otherwise, at the end of the day. And he’d failed them. He’d failed his team.
He hadn’t seen the signs. He’d ended up hurting them. This was Impulse’s fault.
“Quit it, Impulse,” Skizz says sharply, and he grabs Impulse’s wrist and turns to face him fully. “There’s no point in wallowing. It’s not going to help anyone, least of all Scar or Grian.”
“I’m supposed to be the leader, Skizz,” Impulse whispers, and he’s horrified to feel his eyes burning as his vision blurs. He blinks harshly and tries to turn away, but Skizz holds him in place. “I’m supposed to be the leader, and I failed them.”
“You’re right,” Skizz says bluntly, and Impulse shudders violently. But Skizz continues before he can get lost in a spiral of his own failure. “You’re the leader, Impulse.” Skizz’s grip on his wrist tightens, not enough to hurt, but enough to keep him grounded. “So lead.”
“What if I mess up?” Impulse breathes, because mistakes in this case will hurt the people he cares about, and he can’t do that to them.
“You might,” Skizz states easily. “But no one will hold it against you. And I’ve got your back the whole way, Dop. Always.”
Impulse inhales.
He thinks about Scar and Grian. He thinks about how he can help them, what he can do for them. He thinks about Skizz, who is still holding onto him and supporting him through it all. He forms a plan, something he can do, a way he can help.
He exhales.
“Okay,” he breathes, and Skizz’s eyes light up. “Let’s figure this out.”
— / — / —
Scar is holding Grian’s hand.
Both of them had gotten used to staying apart, after everything. It was easier that way; if their supervisors had seen how close they actually were, punishments would’ve been worse. It had been drilled into their heads: no attachments. Attachments only led to pain.
But on days like these, Scar knows that they both need the physical reassurance of someone beside them. If Grian would let him, he’d drag them both into somewhere secluded, quiet. An escape from the world where they could hold each other and everything would be fine. But—
Scar knows Grian. He knows Grian. And ever since they left their old organization, Grian has recoiled from the slightest touch.
Except for from Scar. Except for on days like these. Days like these, Grian clings as tightly as he’s willing when every touch is cause for a punishment. And Scar would love to pull him closer, to protect Grian like Grian’s always protected him.
But Scar isn’t going to push Grian any further than he’s willing to go. So instead, he holds Grian’s hand as Grian trembles.
“Breathe, G,” he murmurs. “I’m fine.”
It’s true. The event had terrified him (more than it had any right to after being a paranormal investigator for so long), but spending some time in the van with Impulse had calmed his nerves. As much as he hates having a serious conversations, he has to admit that it helped. Plus, now Impulse knows the problem and can help fix it! Impulse always knows exactly how to help, after all.
“I know you are,” Grian croaks. Scar can tell that his words are true, so he stays silent. Grian knows that he’s okay, even if he can’t convince himself to believe it yet.
Grian clears his throat, and Scar glances at him. “Uh—“ Grian seems to be struggling for words. Scar waits patiently—they have all the time in the world, after all. “Impulse didn’t—see anything on the board. Did he?”
Grian sounds terribly unsure of himself. He has no reason to be. Scar had been watching the board intensely, hoping to be at least somewhat useful. There were no Twinteractions. There was nothing of note at all.
Scar shakes his head wordlessly in response to Grian’s words, and Grian exhales, long and weary. He tips his head to the side and rests it against Scar’s shoulder. Scar rests his own on Grian’s head. They stand there, wholly exhausted, but not as afraid as they were.
(If Scar notices that Grian’s cold fingers are lingering over where his pulse thrums on his wrist, he doesn’t mention it.)
“I’m tired of being afraid,” Grian breathes suddenly, almost startling Scar with the intensity. Scar straightens, faces Grian directly.
“Yeah?”
Grian nods, emphatic. “I hate letting them have a hold on me. I hate letting them control me, even when they’re not here. I hate it. I’m done.”
“You’re—done?” For a moment, Scar can’t breathe. Grian’s done? Done with ghost hunting, done with him?
“Done with letting them scare me,” Grian clarifies. “Or—with letting that fear control me. I don’t want to live my life afraid that one day, I’ll turn around and they’ll be there."
“It’ll take time,” Scar warns Grian. Because, if nothing else is true, then at least that is. Rome wasn’t built in a day. They couldn’t heal in an instant. It would take time.
Grian wilts, and Scar almost regrets that he said anything at all. “I know,” Grian says, quieter. “But—it’s worth a shot, right? It’s worth trying?”
“Always,” Scar vows. He will always stand by Grian’s side. Grian had been hurt more by their former organization, as much as he has never wanted to admit it. So if Grian is ready to heal, ready to try, then Scar will stand by him. “And you’re not alone in it, either.“
“I know,” Grian agrees softly, and it means everything to Scar when Grian smiles weakly at him. “I have you.”
“You have me,” Scar confirms, nodding. He hears Impulse and Skizz murmuring quietly from across the room and lets himself smile. “And Skizz and Impulse, too.”
Grian presses his lips together, and for a moment, Scar thinks he’s going to disagree. But he steals a look at Impulse and Skizz.
As if Impulse could sense Grian’s eyes on him, he turns and makes eye contact with Grian. His lips quirk into a smile, and Grian yelps softly and quickly ducks his head to hide his reddening face.
Scar can’t help it; he laughs. And from the way Grian looks at him—surprised, affronted, slightly fond—before releasing a soft giggle of his own, Scar can tell that they both know that they’ll be okay.
They have all the help they’ll need, after all.