Work Text:
Mob should’ve been at the office half an hour ago.
Rain comes down in thick sheets outside. Reigen assumes the kid is trapped indoors somewhere. He’ll scold Mob tomorrow for missing out on the afternoon appointment with a client who is as wealthy as she is haunted. It’s only Dimple’s reluctant assistance that stops Reigen from being eaten by the many toothed entity that slinks out of the woman’s antique broach. Dimple temporarily scares the thing off, while Reigen ‘sacrifices’ the broach in a ritual that involves a lot of made up words and the business end of a hammer.
He’s ushering the woman out the door with an easy smile when Mob finally arrives for work, slumped between Kageyama and Hanazawa. Dimple zooms around their heads. “What have you done now, kid?”
The client gasps at the waterlogged teenagers. Flecks of blood are smattered over them. Mob’s head lolls, and his legs drag wetly along the carpet.
“Should I call the police?” she asks.
The teenagers are already laying Mob down on the couch. Reigen guides the woman out the door with a plastic smile.
“Those kids have nothing to worry about; they’re safe in my hands. I’ll make sure nothing touches any of them again.”
This is the type of lie Reigen hates the most; the kind he wishes were true. The woman fishes a handful of notes from her purse, and passes them over.
“So those boys don’t have to pay for your services,” she says, and vanishes down the narrow corridor before he can tell her he’d never make the teenagers in his office pay for his help. Not that he would tell her.
He pockets the hefty stack and locks the office door. Inside, the two teenagers hover over Mob. They radiate a threatening kind of protectiveness, shackled to Mob’s side.
Reigen ignores them both. He shucks up his slacks, kneels by the couch, and runs a hand over Mob’s forehead. The damp fringe clumps beneath his palm.
Kageyama scoffs. “He doesn’t have a fever. You think I didn’t check?”
Reigen slaps Mob on the cheek—once, twice, a third time to be sure. Mob stirs with a throaty murmur, a bare puff of air on the inside of Reigen’s wrists, and peeks up at him, his eyes a starless shine of black. All pupil, no recognition.
Without looking away from Mob’s eyes, he says, “Alright, everyone needs to back up.”
Kageyama starts to argue, but Hanazawa snags him by his uniform collar and hauls him back a few paces.
“Ritsu,” Mob mumbles. His mouth drips. It’s not salvia, it’s not rain water; it’s a psychedelic mash of symbols, a viscous, otherworldly paste that seeps over Mob’s tongue, crawls over his teeth and lips and chin and settles on Reigen’s couch.
Reigen uses a rolled up magazine to wipe it off. The mash of colours eats at the paper.
“I’m fine,” Kageyama tells Mob.
Reigen spreads his hands. “See? He’s fine. Busy taking up space in my office. How are you doing, Mob? You don’t look so hot.”
Mob’s hand flops over his head. His fingers are bloody, but not bleeding. Mob says, “Empty.”
Reigen risks a glance back at the teenagers. Hanazawa is picking dried blood off of his chin. A gash on his check has coagulated.
“We were investing something,” Hanazawa says, vague enough to twist Reigen’s stomach. It’s a familiar feeling. These kids, always getting themselves too deep. “It got the jump on me. Kageyama tried to help, but he wasn’t powerful enough.”
“You weren’t powerful enough either,” Kageyama snipes. He’s not as cut up as Hanazawa, but there’s a nasty bruise forming along his jaw.
“… It got the jump on me,” Hanazawa says. His mouth twists, concern and fond awe warring for space. “But Mob took care of us.”
“He lost control. It was…”
“Awesome,” Hanazawa finishes. Kageyama shoots him a dark look.
“Empty, huh?” Reigen says, turning back to Mob. His eyes have cleared a little. His pupils are smaller. He doesn’t look entirely like a normal boy, but he’s getting there. “You’re just out of gas. You’ll be better with some rest.”
He snaps his fingers at the kids. Kageyama looks personally offended at that, so Reigen does it again and points at his desk. “There should be some snacks in those draws.”
Hanazawa is the one to rifle through the desk draws. “Nothing but wrappers and old newspapers.”
“… Or I’ve eaten all of the snacks. Right. Okay.” He separates the pile of money his client pushed at him, and hands some to Kageyama. The brat still looks offended, but takes it. “Go get some stuff from the convenience store a few blocks down. Orange juice, chocolate, that kind of stuff. Maybe a sandwich.”
“I’m not—” Kageyama begins.
“Bring back skimpy magazines,” Dimple says, shepherding the kids out of the office. “That’ll cheer him up.”
“We’re middle schoolers,” Kageyama says. Hanazawa cackles, and Kageyama whirls on him. “Middle schoolers.”
Dimple shuts the door on the bickering kids and floats back to Mob. He bobs there, solemn now that Kageyama and Hanazawa are out of sight.
“Should we have sent those kids to the store when they looked like they’d just been beat up and dumped in the river?”
Reigen considers this. “Probably not, but they can be a little smothering, sometimes. I didn't want them crowding Mob.”
Mob’s arms shake as he levers himself onto his elbows. His eyelids droop. More viscous, multi-coloured paste drools over his lips. Reigen has the irrational urge to push Mob back down and order him to nap.
“Christ,” Dimple says. Reigen inclines his head in agreement.
Mob sways upright until he’s sitting slumped over his knees. “Master Reigen. I did it again.”
“I know, kid.”
“I destroyed a lot of bushland. I could’ve…” Mob chokes a little. “I could’ve hurt someone.”
Reigen uses a handkerchief to wipe at the damp rainbow smeared over Mob’s chin. It feels metallic and hot through the fabric, like an overheated car engine. “You didn’t, though.”
“Ritsu and that little groupie are fine,” says Dimple. “Worried about you, but fine.”
“It’s happening more and more. It’s dangerous.” Mob curls further over his knees, damp fringe hanging in a sticky clump. “Master Reigen… Am I a bad person?”
Reigen settles a hand on Mob’s knee. Mob’s eyes flick to him. There’s static there, shrinking pupils, a faltering soul regaining control, but it’s Mob. It’s just Mob.
“Do you trust me? Am I a good person, Mob?”
“Yes,” Mob says without hesitation.
“Would I take on someone bad and dangerous as my student?”
“No.”
“The fact that you want to control yourself and that you’re scared of hurting people proves that you’re not bad. You want other people to be okay. Do bad people care if others get hurt?”
Mob slumps, but not to hide to his face—he sinks towards Reigen, a plant growing towards the sun. Reigen puts his hands on the back of Mob’s exposed neck. The boy is cold. Too cold.
“No,” Mob whispers.
“The people at Claw were bad psychics. They tried to hurt us. You’re not like that.”
“Today…”
“Today you were scared for Kageyama and Hanazawa, right?”
“They got hurt. Teru’s face was bleeding.” Mob peeks up beneath his unbrushed fringe, as though he can find his friends in the empty office. “Are they…?”
“Fine, remember?” Dimple says. “They’re pests, but they’re made of strong stuff.”
Dimple and Reigen share a look. Maybe next time they should patch up the hurt teenagers before ushering them out onto the pouring rain. Because they knew—even as the thought made Reigen taste bile and the familiar burn of helplessness, a constant aftertaste in his mouth these days—that there would be a next time.
Mob climbs to his feet. He’s not entirely recovered, his body moving as though its underwater, but he makes for the door. It’s easy for Reigen to catch Mob, kitten-weak and dizzy, by the collar and spin him back around.
“Ritsu,” Mob says. “Teru.”
“They’ll be back.”
Mob stares at Reigen’s tie. He presses his hand against it. Reigen doesn’t think the kid even realises he’s doing it.
“Maybe…” Mob begins.
“They trust you, too.” Mob looks up at Reigen. It’s overwhelming being around Mob sometimes; not because of the kid’s power, but because of how much trust he has in Reigen. He’s the adult here. He can’t fuck this up. “Mob.”
“Master Reigen.”
“You’re a good person. And I trust you, too.”
Dimple makes faces at him over Mob’s head. For a disembodied spirit, he does a good job of pretending to retch into a rubbish bin.
The hand on Reigen’s tie clenches into a fist, a handhold, and then Mob is falling forward, burying his face in Reigen’s chest.
Dimple isn’t fake-retching anymore. He rolls his eyes and waves a dismissive hand at Mob and then the window: Going to check up on the other brats. Reigen nods, and presses a hand to the back of Mob’s damp head.
Dimple disappears. Mob chokes quietly, a little wetly, and warmth spreads over Reigen’s suit jacket, right over his sternum. He bets the multi-coloured spirit paste has eaten through his jacket. It sizzles faintly on his bare skin.
Reiegn doesn’t shove Mob away.
“You’re a good person,” Reigen says again, quieter this time. He wraps his arms around Mob. He’s not a touchy person, but this seems to be what Mob needs. He’ll be whatever this kid needs him to be, do anything to keep him safe and sane and back inside his head.
By the time Dimple returns with a drenched Hanazawa and Kageyama, a plastic bag full of flavoured milk swinging between them, Mob is asleep on the couch and Reigen is typing on his laptop in a nearby chair.
“Softie,” Dimple heckles.
“I have no idea what you’re taking about,” Reigen says, and stands up to shake Mob awake.