Shattered

by Vivid_Comet

Summary:

Impulse is, admittedly, not sure that he’s prepared for this.

Or, Grian and Scar are invited over to Skizz and Impulse’s house for dinner, about halfway through their training with the older investigators. Things go downhill quicker than anyone is prepared for.

Grian and Scar visit Skizz and Impulse’s house for the first time, and we learn the origin of that special travel mug.

Notes:

WAIT!!
Before you read: this is a part of a series! Technically, this is a prequel, so you COULD read this before the others, but I do think that the others provide some really helpful context for the dynamics/situation in this au!!! this one occurs within the two months of training that scar and grian had with skizz and impulse before officially joining GIGGS (or, at that point, it was just GIGS :D)

as always, not RPF! this one does get a bit heavy at parts, so heed the warnings!! the watchers really messed scar and grian up :(

Warnings: anxiety, financial issues (struggling to afford food + skipping meals because of this), expecting punishment, referenced/mentioned past trauma, panic attacks, accidental self harm, minor injury, blood, passing out, threats, begging, dissociation

Impulse is, admittedly, not sure that he’s prepared for this. 

He paces between the kitchen and the dining room, checking everything. The tablecloth is smoothed over and set with plates and utensils. The food is hot and sitting on the stovetop, the chairs are set up around the dining table—the one where they set up more formal meals, not the table that he and Skizz eat at. The table is set, not for two, like when he and Skizz eat dinner together, but four. 

It’s been a long time since they’ve had four at the table. The last ones were Tango and Etho, when they all still lived together. Impulse smiles remembering it—those were good times, and he thinks back on them with a sort of fond nostalgia. His smile drops when he remembers why he’s so on edge. 

Impulse’s fingers twitch. He reaches to turn a fork just slightly to the left where it had been pointing too far in the opposite direction.

He feels Skizz’s hand on top of his.

Sheepishly, Impulse glances up and meets Skizz’s knowing eyes. “You need to chill,” he advises, and Impulse exhales. “Either that, or get a couple drinks in ya, because all of this—” he gestures at the tablecloth that Impulse had been obsessively smoothing, the chairs he kept touching, the fork that he had been about to adjust. “Is driving me insane. And it’s going to drive you insane, too.”

“Sorry,” Impulse sighs, and Skizz shakes his head.

“Don’t be. I get it.”

Scar and Grian have finally agreed to Impulse and Skizz’s invitation for dinner at their house. They’re set to arrive at six, which is in—Impulse checks his watch quickly before Skizz can notice and confiscate it—twelve minutes. Twelve minutes until they make a huge leap in trust with their two newest teammates.

This particular invitation was extended yesterday, after weeks of being turned down. They were sitting at Hermitcraft HQ, early in the morning, before anyone else had arrived. They do their work overnight, since that’s when ghosts are most active, but it also means that they tend to arrive back at the facility either very late at night or very early in the morning. 

They make do, and besides, they all signed up for it, didn’t they?

Impulse had been lounging in the armchair, with Skizz sprawled out on the couch, yawning. Scar and Grian were still standing, awkward, as if they were waiting for permission to sit. And Impulse knows that this is a result of their old organization—he’s heard the whispers, the mumbled excuses that betray too much of their past. He wishes he could protect them from it. He knows that he can’t. 

He happened to overhear them, muttering to each other. Scar sounded distressed. Grian sounded resigned. Both of them sounded worried.

Impulse’s ears had perked up. Nothing had gone wrong during the investigation—in fact, it was one of their best investigations together, yet, with both Scar and Grian pitching in ideas and adding to the conversation. So there shouldn’t be a reason for the two of them to sound so…concerned.

Of course, Impulse had listened. He had to make sure that they were okay.

“…won’t have enough for tomorrow,” he remembers hearing Scar whisper. “What will we do?”

He had heard Grian sigh. “We can ration it out tonight?” Grian had offered quietly.

“But we already rationed it.”

He remembers hearing Grian exhale, long and weary. “I know,” he admits. “Look, as soon as…” He glances around, leans in, lowers his voice and whispers something before continuing, “I’ll go get groceries. Promise.”

“Okay.” Scar had gone quiet. “We’ll have enough for the cats?” he had voiced.

“We’ll have enough for the cats,” Grian had confirmed, and Scar had released a long, relieved breath. “But…I think we’ll have to skip dinner tomorrow. We just…don’t have enough food, and we can’t get more yet.”

That’s when Impulse had interjected. He wasn’t completely sure what had been going on, to be honest, but he couldn’t just stand by and listen to the two newest members of their little team discuss how they wouldn’t be able to eat tomorrow night. 

“Come to our house.”

It was sudden, and it stopped Scar and Grian in their tracks. Impulse was almost surprised that he said it at all. Skizz had looked just as caught off guard, sitting up ramrod straight on the couch instantly.

But neither of them were more shocked than Scar and Grian. Scar had physically jolted, hands fluttering anxiously in the air, and Grian’s head whipped towards Impulse. His face was pale, and his eyes were wide. He looked scared, unsure, uneasy.

Hopeful.

Scar is the first to speak, breathless, with something in his tone that’s akin to fear. “I…what?”

Impulse swallowed. For a moment, he was convinced he made a mistake. Skizz’s eyes were on him, and Impulse couldn’t tell if the look is meant to be cautionary or encouraging. He had decided that he didn’t care.

“Come to our house,” he repeated. “For dinner. Tomorrow.” As his eyes glance between the two young men, he sees how they both look like they’re going to be sick. That’s what had made Impulse go back over what he said, and realize the fatal flaw in his words. 

“Or—you don’t have to!” he had stumbled to correct himself. “You don’t have to, not at all. If it makes you uncomfortable. It’s not an—an order.” He’d choked over the word. God, he hoped they didn’t think he was ordering them. He didn’t know if he could handle it if they did.

Scar and Grian exchanged glances, and Impulse felt like he’s going to throw up. But then Grian filled in, “We know,” and Impulse slumped in relief. 

“Okay. Good. I’m—yeah. That’s good, I’m glad.” Clumsy. Stop talking, you’re making them even more nervous.   

Grian had taken a shaky breath. He’d exchanged a look with Scar—something heavy and loaded with some amalgamation of emotions that Impulse couldn’t define if he tried. His eyes had slowly moved over to Skizz, then to Impulse, looking at them with a sharp, analytical eye. Impulse had gotten the uncanny feeling that Grian was performing an impromptu risk assessment. 

And finally, finally, Grian had murmured, “okay.” 

Impulse had been so rattled by the agreement that he forgot to tell them a time to arrive. He had only realized when he was in the car with Skizz on the way home, buzzing with excitement, and he and Skizz had quickly discussed when they wanted Scar and Grian to show up before shooting their younger coworkers a short text.

It had seemed surreal, that they’d finally agreed to come over for dinner. It feels even more surreal now that the time had almost come.

Impulse checks his watch again. Four minutes and thirty three second until 6:00. Less than five minutes.

“Oh, no, you don’t.” Impulse blinks up at Skizz, who is standing in front of him with his hands on his hips. He holds one hand out, palm up. “Watch.”

Impulse chuckles nervously, covering the watch on his wrist with one hand. “Watch what?”

Skizz’s eyebrow lifts, skeptical, and he snaps his fingers twice. “C’mon. Give me the watch,” he insists.

Impulse exhales, long and weary. He takes his watch off his wrist and drops it into Skizz’s waiting palm. Skizz tucks it into his pocket instantly, and Impulse represses a sigh. It’s fine. His phone is in his pocket, if he needs to check the time.

Skizz clears his throat, and Impulse glances back at him. Skizz raises his eyebrows. “Phone.” 

Absolutely not. “Skizz,” Impulse groans, and Skizz shakes his head.

“Nope. If you’re gonna torture yourself checking the time, I’m gonna take your phone. I warned you. Either sit down and chill, or grab a beer, because you’re going to worry yourself to death if you keep doing this.”

Impulse grimaces. “I dunno if alcohol right before two traumatized people come over for dinner is the best idea,” he informs Skizz. If he’s going to make Scar and Grian comfortable, he has to be fully in control of himself. No alcohol at all.

“You’re right,” Skizz agrees. “Which means….” He reaches over and grabs a chair from where it’s positioned at the table, swinging it towards Impulse. He nods towards the seat. “Sit down.” 

Impulse exhales. “Skizz….”

“I know, I know!” Skizz waves his hand in the air. “You’re restless and anxious and all that. But, buddy, you’re gonna drive yourself insane.”

He pauses. Impulse dips his head. Skizz is right, and they both know it.

“So,” Skizz continues. “Here’s what’s gonna happen. You’re going to sit, and I’m going to get you a nice cold glass of water. And then we’re both going to calm down until Scar and Grian get here.”

Impulse huffs and crosses his arms as Skizz turns to do just that. This is completely unfair; Skizz is just as anxious as he is. He’s just expressing it by focusing on making sure that Impulse is okay, rather than obsessively adjusting the plates and forks and chairs and checking the food and making sure that the tablecloth is straight and—

Okay, so maybe Impulse has a problem.

Skizz returns with a glass of water and a pointed expression on his face. He nods towards the chair. Begrudgingly, Impulse lowers himself into the seat and accepts the glass from Skizz’s hands. 

He slumps back in the chair, and lifts the glass to his lips. He hasn’t even taken a sip when the doorbell rings.

Instantly, Impulse shoots up out of his seat, leaving the water forgotten on the table beside him. “Coming!” he shouts to the two young men that he knows are waiting outside, and he hurries to the front door.

Skizz sighs from behind him, long-suffering, but moves the glass just far away from the edge of the table that it won’t be knocked off, and then follows Impulse to the door.

Impulse fumbles with the doorknob, shaky with adrenaline, and he swears under his breath as his sweat-slick hands slip on the smooth metal. He finally gets a grip on it, and he wrenches the door open, breathless.

Scar and Grian stand there, on the front porch, looking entirely anxious and nervous. Grian is in front of Scar, holding a bottle of wine cradled in his arms—cheap, but far too expensive for a man who was just talking about being unable to afford dinner. He’s wearing a nice pair of dress pants, and a wrinkled button-up shirt. His glasses are perched on his nose, and he pushes them up closer to his face as he swallows.

Scar is peeking over Grian’s shoulder. He’s leaning heavily on his cane, relying more on it than on his legs. He’s dressed similarly to Grian, with the dress pants and the shirt. The only difference is that where Grian’s shirt is dark red, almost burgundy, Scar’s is a deep blue. 

“Hi,” Grian greets Impulse (and Skizz, who is right behind him). He holds up the bottle of wine. “Uh—we brought—”

Impulse beams. “That was very kind of you, thank you both.” Some sort of tension in Grian’s face eases as Impulse reaches out to accept the wine into his hands. “Come in, come in, make yourselves at home!”

Grian smiles tightly then begins to step into the house. He hesitates, though, and casts a glance back at Scar, who is gritting his teeth and trying to mold his face into a pained smile. Grian’s eyes flicker to Skizz and Impulse for a moment, but he offers his arm to Scar, forcefully avoiding eye contact with the men in front of him. 

Scar dips his head, eyes focused intently on his feet, but he reaches out with a trembling hand to grip Grian’s arm like a vice, relying on it nearly as heavily as his cane. Maybe more. Grian doesn’t waver under the extra pressure—just adjusts how he’s standing so he can maintain the position better. 

For a moment, they all just stand there. Impulse shifts awkwardly from one foot to the other the doorway. Skizz’s eyes flicker between Scar’s pale and taut face and Grian’s tense shoulders. Grian and Scar exchange an unreadable glance. 

And then Grian tips his head towards the door, and Scar nods. He takes one hesitant step towards the door, and Grian moves with him fluidly, like they’re an extension of each other. Impulse moves out of their path, and they slowly make their way inside, Scar leaning more on Grian than on his cane, and Grian wordlessly supporting him. 

Skizz clears his throat. “Uh—here, let me take you to the table,” he offers, but when he waves his hand in the direction of the dining area, he lets it get just a hair too close to Scar and Grian, and they flinch back in tandem. Skizz winces, dropping his hand back to his side. He opens his mouth to apologize, but Grian is already blowing past it. 

Grian gives Skizz a weak smile, as if he didn’t just think that Skizz was about to hurt him. About to hit him. “Thank you.”  

Skizz swallows. “Yeah. Uh—this way.” He jerks his head towards the table, back through the hallway, and, after glancing at each other one last time, Grian nods, and he and Scar begin to follow Skizz deeper into the house. 

Skizz clears his throat. “Well, uh, there’s the bathroom, if either of you need it. Kitchen is here, dining room is over this way….” He walks them down the hallway, glancing back at them periodically to check that they’re still following. Although, Impulse suspects that it’s more to check that neither of them need any help. Scar is still relying heavily on Grian, and even though Grian seems to be handling it with the grace of someone who’s done this a million times before, Impulse keeps looking over to make sure that they’re okay. 

They enter the dining room, where the table is set for four. Skizz stands back and coughs. “Uh,  here we are! We’ve got dinner on the stove, if you guys just want to sit, and we can bring it out to the table in a few minutes…er, do either of you have any allergies? Anything you prefer to avoid?” 

Grian shakes his head. “No allergies,” he responds. He looks like he wants to say more, but he swallows it back. Impulse furrows his eyebrows, concerned, but doesn’t push. 

“Awesome, good,” Skizz sighs. “We, uh—it’s nothing special. Just some chicken alfredo—just like my mom used to make for me!” He beams, and Scar’s lips quirk up. Impulse considers it a win. 

“And me,” Impulse adds to Skizz’s story, grinning. “I used to come over to your house after band rehearsal, and she’d have chicken alfredo on the stove. It was always my favorite part of the day.” 

Grian and Scar both smile thinly. It’s small, timid, but it’s a win, and Impulse takes it as such. 

They’re still standing there awkwardly, shifting from one foot to the other, staring at each other in silence. Scar’s face is tight, and he’s struggling to not lean entirely on Grian, so Impulse clears his throat and pulls out a chair. 

“Uh, why don’t you guys take a seat?” he offers, gesturing to the chair. Scar and Grian glance at each other, and, without a word, Grian helps Scar into the chair with an easy, smooth movement. As soon as Scar sinks into the chair, his shoulders loosen, and he releases a soft breath. Impulse had known that he was having a rough time, but it becomes so much more obvious now that Scar is no longer standing. Impulse hadn’t realized just how pale Scar was until he sat down and the color flooded back into his face, and a pit of guilt forms in his stomach. He should’ve offered Scar a seat, earlier. 

Grian wrings his hands. He doesn’t sit down, yet. “Can I help, at all?” he offers, and Impulse can see the tension lining his face. “In the kitchen, or…whatever? Is everything ready, or do you need a hand…?” 

Skizz blinks, surprised. “Oh! Oh, no, don’t worry about it, really. We’ve got it all covered, no worries at all! You just take a seat, we’ll take care of ya.” He grins at Grian, and it’s supposed to be reassuring, but Grian flinches back before nodding. 

“Okay. Okay.” And he sits down in the seat beside Scar, collapsing into it as if his legs aren’t functioning well. As if his knees have turned to gelatin and gone weak beneath him. And Scar reaches out to him and they tangle their fingers together, clutching onto each other tightly. 

Impulse breathes, then manages a smile. “Okay! Food will be out in a minute!” He turns towards the kitchen with Skizz, leaving Scar and Grian sitting at the table by themselves to give them a chance to get their bearings. And, not for the first time, Impulse wonders if they’ve bitten off more than they can chew. 

— / — / —

Grian is holding Scar’s hand, tight enough to bruise. Scar is doing the same in return. Neither of them comment on it or try to loosen their grips. 

They’re in Skizz and Impulse’s house. At their table. Waiting to eat dinner with them. And, without even looking at Scar, Grian knows exactly what both of them are thinking: this is dangerous. This could get us hurt. 

There’s nothing they can do about it. They’re here, now. And, if nothing else, at least they get a meal out of it. No matter what happens, they’ll leave with full stomachs. They have to. Grian doesn’t know what they’d do if not.  

The decision to accept the dinner invitation? It had been spur of the moment, no time to consider the options. The most discussion he’d had the chance to have with Scar was a brief glance—and sure, that was enough. But only because it had to be. Only because Grian had then turned his eyes on Skizz and Impulse, searching for the ulterior motive. Hunting for the malice that he knew, he knew would be hidden in their kind smiles, their earnest faces, their hands that were so, so gentle, because no one’s hands are that gentle. 

He just…he had to accept the invitation. He and Scar have been so hungry, and even after being hired at Hermitcraft, they haven’t built up enough savings to eat consistently. Especially with their three cats, because they have to make Jellie and Pearl and Maui their priorities. It’s better than it was, back with—back with them, but Grian is still all too familiar with the feeling of an empty stomach. And when Impulse came along, offering them a free homemade meal, he couldn’t bring himself to pass it up. 

Maybe that’s selfish. Maybe he cares more about his comfort than about Scar’s safety. But Scar seemed willing, as well, and nothing’s gone wrong yet….

Still. Grian can’t let himself believe that this could possibly be a good thing, in the end. Something will go wrong. Someone will get hurt. 

(Someone always gets hurt.)  

But—but things seem fine. Impulse brings out the food and sets it in the middle of the table, and Skizz calls from the kitchen to ask what they want to drink—Grian takes the liberty of requesting water for both of them, since he’s not sure Scar is in a state to be making any decisions, right now—and things seem fine. Grian’s chest is tight, true, and he can hear Scar’s labored breathing from beside him, but Grian has been searching, and he can’t find any danger. 

Maybe that scares him more than anything. Maybe it would be better if something was there to be afraid of, because then he wouldn’t have to spend the entire night knowing that something is going to go wrong. Because something always goes wrong. Impulse will get mad, or Skizz will get aggressive, or Grian will mess something up as he always does and they’ll hurt Scar in retaliation.

Scar squeezes his hand and doesn’t release the pressure. Grian exhales sharply; he hadn’t realized how uneven his breaths had become. 

He did everything he could think of to make sure nothing goes wrong. He didn’t have time to iron his own shirt (he’d been too focused on coaxing Scar out of the bathroom, slowly convincing him that being late would make it all so much worse), but he ironed Scar’s, so at least any anger would be focused on Grian. He researched what to do when you’re invited to dinner, and he bought the nicest bottle of wine he could find without throwing himself and Scar into bankruptcy. He drove them around in circles to make sure he wasn’t too early nor, God forbid, late. He even offered to help in the kitchen—though, Skizz declined, so maybe he did it wrong? 

He has to stay aware, then. He might have to pay the price for that later, and he’ll have to make sure that Scar isn’t around when that happens. 

“Okay, so turns out—“ Grian starts, jolting violently when Skizz’s voice comes from behind him, too loud and too close. Skizz winces, then speaks softer, shuffling away from Grian to give him some space. “Turns out that there’s not enough room on the table, because Impulse refuses to shuffle some stuff around to make the food fit, so we’ll just have it on the counter, if that’s okay?” 

Grian knows, instantly, that it’s not okay. Scar’s already struggling, today, and getting up and down to carry his plate around won’t help, especially since he won’t want to use the cane that Skizz and Impulse gave him, if he can avoid it. Of course, Grian would get his food for him, but Scar won’t want that, either. Not when they aren’t alone. 

He can tell that Scar is thinking the same thing, from the way his jaw tightens and he breathes shakily, but he manages a smile and nods. “Yes, that’s fine,” he agrees softly. It’s the first thing that he’s said since they arrived at Skizz and Impulse’s house, and it’s just a pitch too high, and subdued. Grian’s chest hurts with concern and with fear. 

He can’t disagree, though, and he and Scar are both painfully aware of that fact. So Grian smiles thinly and parrots, “that’s fine.” He knows it’s the right answer when Skizz beams at him and Scar, eyes bright. 

Impulse comes out holding a tray of food, and Grian can smell it from the table. His breath stutters, and the ache in his stomach returns in full force from where it had been hidden, while he was here. Yesterday, when Impulse invited him and Scar over for dinner, Grian had barely been able to focus for how hungry he was. He knew that Scar had been in the same position. And now—now that there’s a hot meal right in front of him, he can’t keep a soft, desperate sound from escaping his lips. 

Impulse’s eyes flicker to him, and Grian freezes. Scar whips around to stare at Grian, eyes wide, terrified. Grian can’t breathe. 

But Impulse just smiles at him and sets the tray down on the counter. “Dinner is served,” he jokes, and Grian exhales shakily. “Bon appetit.” 

Okay. Whether Impulse didn’t notice or didn’t care, he seems to be in the clear. For now, at least, and as long as Impulse and Skizz don’t punish him while Scar is around, he’ll endure whatever they decide to do to him. He’ll be fine. 

Grian gets up first, plate in his hands. He can barely feel his fingers; they feel numb, almost staticky, and he’s sure that he’s shaking visibly. Neither Impulse nor Skizz comment. They just move out of his way easily, giving him a path to the food on the counter. 

Grian hesitates. He glances between Skizz and Impulse, conflicted—should he let them go, first? It’s only polite, isn’t it? But no, no, they seem to want him to go first, for whatever reason. They’re waiting for him to go. He has to move. If he doesn’t move, they’ll get impatient, and they’ll be upset, and—

“Thank you,” Grian responds politely to Impulse’s words. He casts a quick look behind him, to where Scar is still sitting at the table. He’s holding his plate in his hands, and Grian can see that his knuckles are white. He hasn’t even moved to try to stand, yet. 

Grian would move to his side, and support him, but Scar is already grappling with anxiety, and any show of vulnerability in front of Skizz and Impulse would be too much. He helped Scar through the door and to the chair, earlier, and even that was nearly too much for Scar to handle. Scar nearly fell apart, just from that. 

So he just loads up his plate with food—not too much, never too much, he can’t risk being seen as greedy or ungrateful—and tries to ignore the lump in his throat and the tightness in his lungs as Scar stands up behind him, teeth gritted, unsteady. He can hear the sharp intake of breath as Scar’s weight settles onto his legs, and he has to resist the urge to spin around and help his best friend. 

Slowly, slowly, Scar makes his way to the counter, hand lingering against the wall of the table or anything he can use as support. His plate is in his other hand, which is shaking enough that Grian worries distantly that Scar is going to drop it.

He moves back towards his seat, always keeping an eye on Scar, just in case. He sits down, sets his plate in front of him, but he doesn’t start eating. Not yet. Not until Scar is beside him, safe. 

Impulse and Skizz haven’t gotten their food yet; they’re waiting for Scar, who is taking too long. His hands are shaking as he tries to pile food onto his plate, and though he doesn’t take much—he barely takes anything, and Grian is sure that his anxiety is making him nauseous—he seems to be struggling to carry even that. Grian can barely breathe as Scar balances his plate carefully, holds it as securely as he’s able, and starts the trek back to the table. 

For a moment, it looks like they made it. Scar looks triumphant. Grian feels nothing but relieved. But then Scar’s hands spasm, and Grian can only watch as his fingers his grip on the plate slips.

The plate drops to the floor and shatters. 

Grian doesn’t hesitate. 

Scar is already on the ground, crumpled in on himself, eyes wide and panicked and breathing far too quickly and still not at all. In an instant, Grian is out of his seat and at Scar’s side—no, not at his side, in front of him, between him and where Skizz and Impulse are standing, shielding him, protecting him from the consequences that are sure to come. 

Scar is in no state to defend himself, so that responsibility falls onto Grian. He needs to take the blame, bear the punishment, no matter what it is in the end. He bares his teeth, feeling all too much like a wild animal.

He doesn’t have time to get Scar to safety. Trying to reason with them is futile. He could beg for mercy, offer himself up in place of Scar, but Skizz and Impulse have already moved towards them, eyes wide, hands outstretched to—to—

“Don’t come any closer!” Grian screams, and he makes himself as big as possible to hide Scar behind him. His effort proves to be almost completely useless—Scar is decidedly taller than him, and even drawn to his fullest span, he can’t completely conceal Scar’s trembling body from the Watchers. He can’t protect Scar from the Watchers. 

The Watchers? 

Not the Watchers. Not the Watchers. But maybe just as bad—

“We won’t!” Skizz tries to convince him, but Grian doesn’t believe him. He can hear the deception in Skizz’s tone—or maybe that’s just the ringing in his ears. “We won’t, we wont come any closer.”

“We’re not going to hurt you, Grian,” Impulse swears, and it nearly works—Grian is nearly tricked—but no, no, that’s not how this goes. That’s never been how this goes. With the Watchers, Grian would be punished for Scar’s wrongdoings, and that was fine. It was better, for both of them, but who’s to say it will be the same, here? Maybe they won’t hurt Grian—but they’ll hurt Scar. And Grian cannot let them hurt Scar.

“Grian, please, just try to breathe—just in and out—” Skizz coaches with something desperate in his voice. Grian isn’t listening. He’s shaking, eyes flickering between Impulse and Skizz, muscles coiled and body tense. 

“Oh my God,” Impulse breathes. He sounds almost horrified, but Grian doesn’t understand why. “This is about a plate.”

At this, both Grian and Scar flinch in tandem, something sharp and violent enough to make Skizz and Impulse gasp. The plate. The plate. 

How did he forget about the plate? 

“We’ll clean it!” Grian wheezes, lunging forward, hands already reaching for the jagged shards of ceramic. They slice through his palm, exposing slivers of red across the pale skin. He doesn’t even wince at the pain; it barely registers. “I’ll clean it up, I swear, I’m sorry! He’s sorry, we’re so sorry! He didn’t mean to, I swear, he really didn’t—“

“Grian—G, you’re hurting yourself, please—” Skizz sounds close to tears. He reaches out—for Grian’s hands?—but Grian recoils backwards as if he’s been slapped. Skizz retracts his hand, and now, Grian thinks he can see a tear slip down Skizz’s cheek.

He shakes his head, cradling the broken pieces of the plate in his hands. The blood between his fingers is making his hands slippery, and he has to hold the pieces tighter so they don’t fall and break and make everything even worse.

“I’ll fix it,” he swears, trying desperately to find any way to protect Scar. “I’ll—I’ll buy a new one. We’ll pay you, we’ll fix it, we’ll clean it all up, just—please, please, don’t—”

“Grian,” Impulse interrupts him, tears streaming down his face. “You don’t have to—” Impulse chokes on his words. “Please, Grian, you’re hurt. You’re hurting yourself, please.”

“Grian, stop,” Skizz demands, and every muscle in Grian’s body freezes.

His grip on the ceramic shards in his hands tightens until they bite into his palm even more, and he stops breathing. It’s as if the demand has triggered something in his brain, something that the Watchers planted there with the intent to make him obey. Even if he wanted to move—which he does, please, he needs to protect Scar—he couldn’t. The feeling is similar to when he’s revived and has to deal with a state of paralysis; he knows he should be able to move. There’s nothing physically preventing him from moving, but it’s as if there’s a mental block. Subconsciously, his fear of punishment outweighs all else. And that terrifies him.

Skizz doesn’t seem to realize this, though. His shoulders slump in relief, and he sighs. “Good,” he breathes, even as Grian trembles  and his vision blurs with the lack of air in his lungs. “Good, just—just stay like that, for now. Just calm down for a moment.”

Impulse shifts uneasily. “Skizz….”

“How’re you feeling, homie-buddy?” Skizz shifts closer to Grian, reaching out hesitantly to touch his hand, and Grian can’t pull away. Because if he pulls away, he’ll be punished. He’ll be hurt. 

(Selfish, his mind accuses. Weak. He should be protecting Scar, but here he is, entirely immobile, barely conscious.) 

“Skizz, I think—” Impulse tries again, but Skizz is too focused on Grian, right now.

“Just try to breathe.” Skizz’s words are kind, but Grian knows the truth. He knows the truth. These aren’t requests, and they aren’t suggestions. They’re—

“Skizz!” Impulse finally says loud enough to get Skizz’s attention, and Grian flinches at the sudden outburst. “Skizz, he thinks it’s an order.”

Skizz looks over at Impulse, eyebrows drawn together as if he doesn’t understand what he’s doing. “What—”

“You’re ordering him, Skizz,” Impulse emphasizes, and Skizz’s face drops into horror. “You have to tell him that—that—”

“Oh—oh my God,” Skizz whispers. He stares at Grian—pale, swaying, but completely still—like he’s never seen him before. He looks close to tears. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” Impulse reassures him, quietly, but his eyes flicker to Grian, and Grian tenses. “But…he doesn’t.” 

“I didn’t realize,” Skizz pleads, and Impulse takes his hand, squeezing it tightly. 

“I know,” he repeats. 

“Grian.” Grian flinches when Skizz addresses him. “Grian, you—you can stop. You don’t have to—that wasn’t an order. You can relax, it’s okay, really. You can relax.” 

Grian can’t relax. Of course he can’t relax; Scar has gone unnaturally quiet behind him, and Grian has no idea whether he’s too tired to speak, or whether he’s passed out, or whether he’s just too scared—but it doesn’t matter. Grian can’t relax, because Scar still needs his help. 

He can breathe, though. He can move. Skizz has told him that he doesn’t have to stay entirely still, anymore. And that means he can protect Scar, more effectively.

(It doesn’t mean he won’t be punished for it, of course.)

Grian shifts, breathing shallowly, but at least he’s breathing. He’s hyperaware of every slight movement; the way that Impulse’s eyes tighten when they flicker down to Grian’s hand, the way that Skizz wrings his hands. Some part of him expects one of them to lunge at him and finally get it over with.

It can’t possibly be that easy, though. Skizz and Impulse—they want to draw this out. They must, because they exchange a glance that looks devastated (even though it’s not, because it can’t be), and Skizz exhales harshly. Even that makes Grian flinch away, and Skizz winces.

“It’s okay,” Skizz soothes, and Grian hates this. He wishes that Skizz would stop being so gentle, so soft, because it’s going to make everything so much worse when the punishment finally comes. “G-sharp, buddy, if you let us by, we can help Scar—”

Skizz keeps talking, but Grian’s vision goes white and his ears ring and he doesn’t feel himself move but he must, because all of a sudden he’s on his feet and his face is contorted in something dangerous and Skizz and Impulse are a few steps further from him and Scar than they were.

“Don’t touch him,” Grian snarls, and he realizes distantly that he’s holding a shard of ceramic in his hand, wielding it like a weapon even as it cuts into his palm and opens up a gash in his skin. He doesn’t bother looking down at it; he knows it will heal. He knows that it’s too shallow to scar from the lack of any significant pain. Only a dull burn that streaks down his skin.

“Grian.” Impulse’s voice is shaking almost imperceptibly, and he sounds more serious than Grian has ever heard him. His hands are lifted as if in surrender and to ward Grian away. “Grian, put that down.”

And Grian can’t ignore such a direct order.

The ceramic shard slips from his hand and falls to the ground, cracking down the center and splitting in two. It’s stained red, just like Grian’s hands. The combination of the crimson streaks in his peripheral vision and the metallic smell that Grian has grown too familiar with makes him nauseous, and he sways, dizzy. His head is spinning, and his hand is bleeding, and Scar is behind him on the ground and Grian—Grian doesn’t know what to do, anymore. 

He’s tried everything he can think of. He’s tried so hard to make sure that Skizz and Impulse can’t hurt Scar. He’s pleaded for mercy, and he’s tried to reason, and he’s tried to defend Scar, but none of it works. None of it ended up mattering. Grian failed. 

His knees give beneath him. 

Grian hits the ground before Skizz and Impulse can do anything but gasp and jolt forwards. He doubles over, curling in on himself, wraps his arms around his stomach, and sobs. His throat is raw, and his voice is hoarse as he begs them, “Punish me, instead. Please.” It’s a last resort; Grian is in no state to physically defend Scar, but maybe he can convince the Watchers—Skizz and Impulse—to hurt him instead of Scar. 

Skizz is crying, tears streaming down his face. “We’re not going to punish you,” he whispers, breathing unevenly. “Grian, we’re not—we’re not going to—”

Grian shakes his head. He can’t believe that Skizz is telling the truth. He can’t. “Please, please—it’s my fault, I was the one who agreed to come to dinner tonight, and I was the one who convinced him, and—it’s my fault.” Mentally, he’s pleading with them to just go with it. To just acquiesce and forget about the crumpled form that’s hidden by Grian’s trembling body. 

“No one’s getting punished,” Impulse breathes. He crouches in front of Grian, and Grian cringes away, shaking violently. “Grian. Grian, can you look at me?” 

(Some part of Grian’s mind, the rational part that has been overwhelmed by panic, takes note of the careful phrasing. Impulse isn’t commanding him. This isn’t an order.)

Grian looks up, eyes swollen, vision blurry. He meets Impulse’s gaze. 

“There you are, buddy,” Impulse whispers. He gives Grian a soft, devastated smile. “Are you back with us? Even just a little bit?”

Grian’s breaths are labored, and his lungs are burning, and he doesn’t understand. 

“Okay,” Impulse murmurs. “Okay, that’s okay, bud. You’re doing so well. I’m so proud of you.” He looks over his shoulder. “Skizz, can you see if Scar—”

“He’s out,” Skizz confirms quietly. “That—that can’t be a comfortable position.”

Grian knows it’s not, without even glancing behind him. Scar is going to wake up in so much pain, especially when today was already so hard for him. Grian will have to sleep on the couch, tonight; it’s difficult for Scar to share a bed on days like these. Though, he might protest when he sees the results of Grian’s punishment. 

“Okay,” Impulse breathes. “Then—I’ll try to figure this out, quickly.”

Slowly, slowly, Impulse twists his hand so his palm is facing up, fingers relaxed, and he lets it rest near Grian. Not too close—just close enough that Grian could take it, if he wanted to.

Grian stares at Impulse’s hand with blurry vision. He doesn’t move.

“Whenever you’re ready, Grian,” Impulse promises. “We’ll wait til you’re ready. And once you are, we’ll get you cleaned up, and you can change into something more comfortable, and we’ll take it easy. Okay? No punishments. No one is getting hurt.”

“Why?” Grian sobs. His words are choked, and desperate. “We broke the plate, and I got everything all bloody, and I’m—I’m—”

What is he doing? Why is he trying to convince them to punish him when they’ve chosen to grant them mercy? He should just drop it, leave it alone, grovel at their feet for their kindness—

Except, this means that they’ll have every right to punish them later, or to lord it over their heads. Grian and Scar will never be able to relax, again. They’ll never be safe again. 

“You did nothing wrong, buddy.” Impulse’s voice is steady, and endlessly soft. His hand doesn’t move from where it’s sitting right in front of Grian. “You and Scar—neither of you are getting punished, because neither of you did anything wrong. This was an accident. You will never, never be punished for an accident, here. I promise.” 

“Not now, maybe,” Grian whispers, and every word feels like a stab in the chest. “But—but eventually. You’ll change your mind, eventually. They always do.” 

“Never,” Impulse vows. “We will never change our minds with this. And—and we’re not perfect, G. Far from it. But I swear to you, we will do everything in our power to keep you and Scar safe and happy here, with us. I swear.” 

Something is set down in front of Grian with a soft thunk, and Grian blinks. It’s a travel mug, gleaming and silver. It’s entirely unmarked and entirely new, save for a thin scratch that stretches down the length of the mug. A sweet smell swirls through the air—warm and chocolatey. 

“Whenever you’re ready,” Skizz murmurs to him. Grian hadn’t even realized that he’d disappeared for a few minutes until he returned. “That’s for you, G. But take your time.” 

Scar is unconscious behind him. His hand is bleeding, and the smell and sight of it is making him dizzy. He’s run out of options—he’s run out of options, and there’s a warm mug in front of him, and a warm hand waiting for him to take it, and Grian can’t wait anymore. 

He takes Impulse’s hand, and Impulse’s expression dissolves into a relieved smile. “Thank you,” he whispers. Gently—giving Grian time to pull away, if he needs to—he tugs Grian in closer. Grian melts into his arms, curls his arms around Impulse’s back, and shatters. 

— / — / — 

Scar is sitting on the couch. 

He’s changed out of his formal clothes into something softer—a pair of sweatpants that Impulse lent him, and one of Skizz’s sweatshirts. Both are far too big for him. Scar doesn’t care. He doesn’t have the energy. 

Grian is next to him, shoulder and knee pressed against Scar’s, dressed similarly. In heavily bandaged hands, he cradles a silver travel mug, about a quarter of the way empty, and already colder than it was. He stares into it vacantly like it’s going to reveal the secrets of the world, like it’s going to explain everything that he needs to know. It doesn’t, of course. It’s just a travel mug. 

The cane that Skizz and Impulse gave Scar is leaning up against the couch beside him. He doesn’t touch it—doesn’t even look at it. He just clasps his hands in his lap, stares at his intertwined fingers, and leans into Grian’s side. Grian reciprocates, and even now, even with everything, it gives Scar some small amount of comfort. 

When Scar woke up, he’d still been in his dress clothes. Maybe that was unimportant; maybe the first thing he should’ve noticed was how he was curled up on a couch that didn’t belong to him, or how Skizz and Impulse were talking in soft voices to Grian, or how Grian himself was sitting at the end of the couch by Scar’s feet. But it wasn’t. Instead, the first thing his mind registered was his clothing; stuffy, stiff, uncomfortable. It was the first thing that tipped him off to something being wrong, because Grian has never let him fall asleep in dress clothes before, even on the most exhausting days when Scar can barely make it to bed before collapsing. When asked, Grian has always said that he doesn’t want the clothes to get wrinkled or damaged, but Scar knows better. He knows that Grian just hates the idea of anyone having to sleep in something that he considers to be a sensory nightmare. Scar gets it, really, but it was how he knew that something was different from usual. 

Skizz was the one to explain things to him, when he finally gathered the strength within himself to sit up and look around the room. He explained what happened, just in case Scar didn’t remember—waving him off when he tried to desperately apologize—while Impulse sat with Grian. Even as Impulse talked, Grian was completely silent, and Scar could tell without more than a glance that Grian’s voice had disappeared sometime between the moment Scar passed out and now. 

It was at this point that Skizz disappeared, just for a few minutes, to retrieve some clean, soft clothing for Scar to change into. He’d been hesitant, of course; he’s already inconvenienced them so much, tonight. More than that, even. He broke their plate, and ruined their meal, and then panicked and then passed out on the floor and—

He agrees, eventually. Skizz doesn’t let up, and Scar doesn’t have the energy to care. If he ends up getting punished—or, worse, if they end up owing Skizz and Impulse—then he’ll have to deal with it when the time comes. He can’t handle it, right now. 

It takes quite a bit of maneuvering and more time than he’d like to admit to shimmy out of his clothes and into the clean sweats. He has to rely on the cane at times, and it’s not easy, but at least it’s not entirely unfamiliar (even if it hurts, it hurts so bad, it’s so bad that Scar can barely breathe—). At one point, Skizz asks if there’s any way he can help, and Scar can’t help but tense, adrenaline rocketing through his mind. He calls back a polite response, though, and Skizz leaves him alone. 

Skizz takes the dress clothes from him, when he’s done changing. As Skizz hangs it up, right next to where Grian’s has been hung, Scar makes his way slowly over to the couch, leaning heavily on the cane and gritting his teeth against the ache in his muscles. Grian’s eyes flicker up to him, and he gives Scar the barest bones of a smile, more of a skeleton than anything tangible. It’s more than Scar had expected, honestly, so he takes it for everything that it’s worth. 

And now—

Now. 

Now Scar huddles up against Grian on the couch. He feels almost dizzy, like the world is falling away around him. And Skizz, and Impulse—they’re watching, quiet and motionless, as if anything they do or say will shatter…something. Maybe the tentative stillness that’s settled over them, or maybe Scar and Grian themselves. 

Grian is still staring distantly into the travel mug. He’s breathing shallowly, shoulders barely rising with each inhale, and Scar can tell that he’s further away than Impulse and Skizz have realized. 

Good. If Impulse and Skizz don’t know, then Scar wants to keep it that way. 

He has to subtly try to bring Grian back, though, so he lifts a heavy, aching hand and curls his fingers around Grian’s wrist. Grian barely moves at the touch, but his eyes flicker away from the mug and towards Scar, so Scar counts it as a win. 

Impulse shifts, just barely, but Scar is hyperaware of every small movement, and he tenses, eyes wide. Grian is lost, still—lost in his head, lost to the beating of his heart in his ears—but Scar knows that even in this state, he notices Impulse’s movement, and Scar can feel Grian’s pulse quicken under his fingertips. Grian is unaware of himself, maybe, but he’s aware of just about everything else. 

“Guys?” Impulse’s voice is quiet, but it’s horribly harsh in the silence, and Scar flinches. His grip on Grian’s wrist tightens, and Grian looks up, breathing shallowly. His hand is trembling.

Impulse winces. “Sorry. But—I just want to check in. On how you guys are feeling.” 

Scar blinks slowly. He leans into Grian’s side. “We’re fine,” he recites, and it feels like reading from a script. He knows what to do, here; paste a smile on his face (it’s weak, but it’s there), and deflect any questions, and always defer to the supervisor. Always. 

Impulse purses his lips, and Skizz grimaces. “Uh, Scar, buddy, I’m not totally sure I believe that.” 

“We appreciate your concern,” Scar manages. He’s almost impressed at how neutral he’s kept his voice. “We’re fine.” 

Impulse and Skizz still don’t seem convinced. In fact, the look of disbelief on Impulse’s face is almost laughable, and Scar huffs. He tilts his head back, resting it against the couch cushions. Grian tracks his movements with his eyes, watching closely even as his eyes remain foggy.

“You’re not,” Impulse states bluntly in response to Scar. Scar flinches. Grian presses against him, just a bit more, and Scar hates the fact that it’s comforting. He hates the fact that he needs it, in front of Skizz and Impulse. “And that’s—Scar, that’s okay, okay? It’s fine. But—I need you to not pretend that everything’s fine, okay? Please.” 

“Really, Impulse?” a hoarse voice comes from Scar’s side. Grian finally lifts his head, and though his voice is barely more than a whisper—Scar guesses that he wasn’t yet ready to speak, but is pushing himself to do so regardless—he doesn’t falter. “You’re hitting us with the ‘it’s okay to not be okay’?” 

Impulse winces. “Yeah, that’s—that’s not very helpful, I know. But it’s true, okay? And it’s better than pretending, isn’t it?” 

“Depends,” Scar can’t stop himself from mumbling. “Are you going to, uh…correct our behavior?” The word is sour on his tongue. He knows what he’s really asking, and Grian does too. He tenses instantly, cringing into Scar, because this is it. This is the moment they learn if Skizz and Impulse are going to punish them. This is the moment they learn if Hermitcraft is no better than the Watchers. 

Skizz blinks at Scar. “Uh—correct what? Like, what is there to correct?” A beat passes. “Do you want us to correct something? We can correct, uh….” He glances to Impulse, whose eyes are wide with horror. Scar can tell that although Skizz hasn’t yet caught on, Impulse realized what Scar meant the moment he asked. “We could correct….” He huffs. “Look, I don’t know—”

“Skizz,” Impulse hisses harshly, and Skizz goes quiet. He stares at Impulse, confused, but Impulse just turns to Scar. “You are not going to be punished,” he says firmly. “Neither of you. There’s nothing to correct in your behavior, because you did nothing wrong. Understood?” 

“Understood,” Scar whispers. It’s flimsy, and he can’t say that he entirely believes it, but Impulse looks satisfied. 

“We don’t have to talk about this today,” Impulse promises them. Scar can’t deny the relief that bolts through him, and Grian slumps, releasing a long breath. “But we do have to talk about it at some point, okay? Preferably soon, because this—what happened today needs to be addressed, so we can try to keep it from happening again.” 

“I want to make it clear,” Skizz adds, smoothly picking up where Impulse left off now that he’s recovered from the horror that had flashed in his eyes. “If it does happen again, you will not be in trouble. Okay? No one will be upset. We just know that it was a rough day, and we want to prevent it as much as possible. Doesn’t mean you’ll be in trouble if it happens again. We clear?” 

“We’re clear,” Grian agrees weakly. Scar knows that Grian doesn’t actually think that Skizz is telling the truth, and Scar doesn’t, either. Skizz gives them a thumbs up, though, and it’s so sweet and so cheesy and Scar can’t stop himself from smiling, albeit faintly. 

“Thank you, Skizz,” Impulse says. “No one’s upset with you. We just want to try to find ways to make this a one-time thing, if possible. If it’s not possible? Fine. We’ll figure out ways to help. But….” For the first time, Impulse hesitates. “Does…does that all make sense?” 

“Yes,” Scar responds quickly. 

“No,” Grian admits, and it’s the first show of true vulnerability and honesty that Scar has heard from him all day. “Maybe. I don’t know.” 

“That’s okay,” Skizz tells him softly. “We have time.” 

Scar doesn’t know if he believes that it’s true. He wishes he could—wishes that he could agree with what Skizz is saying, wishes he could trust the thought that they’ll be able to find a place, here—but he just can’t bring himself to believe it. He can’t. He doesn’t know what he’d do if he did and then Skizz and Impulse betrayed that. He’s not ready to let himself trust them. 

But maybe someday. 

Scar can imagine a future where he and Grian visit this house for dinner once a week, as a tradition. A future where they believe Skizz and Impulse when they swear that they aren’t upset. A future where they can trust their coworkers implicitly. 

(A future where Hermitcraft becomes a home.)

The future hasn’t arrived, yet. Maybe it’s not even close. Maybe it’s nothing more than a wild dream, influenced by his desperation to find somewhere safe after escaping the Watchers. But for the first time in ages, Scar has hope that that dream could become reality. And that’s more than he’s been able to say in a long, long time. 

For now, though, all Scar can hear is the sound of the plate shattering on the ground, and he bites down on his tongue hard enough to taste blood. He doesn’t say anything in response to Skizz, but he does nod—once, short and jerky—and that seems to be enough for now. 

It’s going to have to be enough. Scar can’t handle anything more. Not yet. 

Not yet, but maybe someday. 

Notes:

I'm pretty sure this is the first time we really truly get an idea of what was going on with scar and grian before they joined GIGS, right? we got some of it in First Impressions, but I think this one really zoomed in on just how bad it was. scar and grian are...severely traumatized, tbh, and when skizz and impulse saw this happen, they couldn't help but think they made a mistake taking these kids in - they were worried they wouldn't be able to help scar and grian :( thankfully, they kept going, and we got GIGGS eventually!!

anyways, it's fun to get the origin story of the travel mug out there!!! it really does end up becoming important to them as a family <3 (also notice the similarities between how impulse treated grian in this when he was panicking, and how he treated grian in To Reap What You Sow in the last chapter :D notice how both times, he offers a hand!)

thank you guys so so much for reading!!! feel free to leave a comment or visit me on Tumblr (vividcomet), I'm always more than willing to answer any questions/comments you might have!!! :D hope you enjoyed, thanks for stopping by, and I hope you all have a lovely day/night :)

- Vivid_Comet (Viv) <3

Edit: thanks to the lovely @unshedtearsblog on tumblr (DyslexicDragon on ao3), we have fanart of the travel mug after a whole lot of time with GIGGS!!!! there will be a fic eventually that explains some of these, but for now, here's what it looks like :) thank you so much, Za, you're incredible!!!!! <333

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 8 of To Be Haunted (GIGGS Phasmo AU)