Bringing a Chicken to a Knife Fight

by Hypno_Cat

Summary:

“He's good for you,” Ren says suddenly, and Mumbo raises an eyebrow.

“What, Poultry-Man?”

“No,” Ren clarifies, waving one hand as if to dispel the thought. “Grian.”

Mumbo lets out a breath through his nose. The bracelet is doubled over itself, and he rolls it between two fingers. “I thought we had been over this, Ren, we’re not -”

“Not dating, I hear ya,” he finishes, and gives Mumbo a wolfish smile. (It feels a little wane, though maybe that’s his imagination.) “But you could be.”

Notes:

CW's for mentions of injury, mugging, explosions, insomnia, and mentions of violence.

Mumbo is spooning coffee grounds into the percolator - a silver coffee pot, which he swears has it out for him on a daily basis - when the bells above the door jingle. Their bright, high-pitched sound is a bit abrasive on a good day, really, but it is at least attention-catching.

 

“I’ll be with you in a moment!” he calls, settling the lid onto the percolator gingerly and allowing it to rest on its hot plate. He brushes his hands against his apron, straightening his back as he turns from the small nook to the register. 

 

A blonde man is standing at the counter, staring at the menu overhead. Mumbo takes a moment to take him in - he’s got wide, dark eyes, and looks around Mumbo’s own age. There’s a bandaid against his cheek, something pale and pasty-looking. He’s wearing a red sweater that looks like it came from L.L. Bean, or somewhere equally upper-middle.

 

He also has heavy eyebags underneath his eyes, the skin dark enough to look like bruises - but it’s rude to stare, and so Mumbo carefully fixes his gaze at the bridge of the man’s nose, and says, “Hello! Welcome to the Hermit’s Bistro!”

 

The man startles, just a little, glancing down from the vinyl menu to meet Mumbo’s gaze. “Er - hi,” he says, a little awkwardly. “Could I get - uh, a medium black coffee, and -” he glances at the baking rack. “A cookie?”

 

“Sure,” Mumbo says easily, tone thick with his customer-service voice. “What type of cookie?”

 

That seems like more of a question than the man was planning on, as simple as it is - or maybe he just forgot. “Er - chocolate chip?” he says, voice lilting like it’s a question. Mumbo nods, tapping the simple order. 

 

“That’ll be three pounds, mate,” he says, and the man fiddles with his wallet for a moment, before pulling out a fiver. “Can I get a name?”

 

“Grian,” the man says. He passes over the money and Mumbo accepts it, doling out the change from the register alongside a receipt. 

 

He heads for the coffeemaker - pouring a disposable travel mug out as easily as he breathes. He stops half an inch from the brim, and slaps a lid on top, making sure it’s sealed on all sides. Mumbo grabs a cookie, too, with a waxpaper square, snagging one out of the heated display case. It’s a signature from Ren, who used to bake in his free time until he brought some goods for the staff room, and got convinced - rightfully - by Xisuma to become their resident baker. 

 

“Grian,” he calls, even though it’s just him at the counter. The man shuffles forward a bit, glancing up from where he was scrutinizing his sweater sleeve. “Good choice,” Mumbo comments, passing the items over the countertop. (It is . There’s a reason Ren was practically made into their baker from a single cookie - and it’s not just that Xisuma is a good boss.)

 

Grian’s face does a funny sort of half-smile, a bit pleased, and takes the items. “Er, thank you,” he says, and stands there for a beat, before seeming to kickstart into motion. “Um - have a lovely day!” he calls awkwardly and hurries to the exit. 

 

Ultimately, not the weirdest interaction of the day, really. Poor guy probably just has anxiety, or is tired, or any other excuse. 

 

Mumbo doesn’t dwell on it - doesn’t think for another moment about the man in the red sweater. Instead, absently, he grabs at the percolator’s handle - and nearly bites his tongue in an attempt to hold back a swear when skin hits hot metal. “Pants,” he says in a hissed sort of tone, bringing the scalded fingertips to his lips while he glares at the innocent-looking coffee-maker. 

 

Percolator, twenty-three. Mumbo, two. 

 

Great.

The second time they meet, it’s a bit of a busier day - Monday, to be exact, which is almost always occupied with people who are dreading going to work, and those who had forgotten to set their alarms. Nine-to-fivers, just trying their best to get a little coffee in before they have to go back to whatever their job entails.

 

Mumbo is on barista duty again, while Cleo mans the other counter, and Ren alternates between bussing tables and making sure they’ve got enough baked goods stocked up. 

 

It’s good, really - he likes his co-workers, and while there’s a bit of tension in his back, the two are colorful enough to distract. 

 

This time, when Grian steps forward in Mumbo’s line, he’s a bit more forward. Still jittery, looking like the crowd is getting to him - which is fair. But he steps forward, and says, “A green tea and blueberry muffin to go, please.” 

 

Mumbo spares him a smile, barely takes in his red jumper - a different one, this time, with grey patches on the elbows that look elegantly stitched on - and says, “Grian, right?” He nods. “That’ll be three pounds and fifty pence.”

 

It’s barely more than a thought, this time - they’re busy, and Mumbo is even quicker with this order - but the order passes hands, and as Grian stumbles through a quick goodbye, Mumbo notes to himself that the man might become another regular. 

 

And then Cleo is leaning over her counter, glaring daggers at a man who looks like he’s off of the cover of the latest Vogue and snarling a threat, and he has to hurry over in case she needs a witness. (Not like Xisuma would care, really, but it’s the principle of the thing.)

The third time, Grian doesn’t come by during rush hour. The doorbell rings, very literally, at three in the afternoon, and Mumbo glances up from where he’s wiping down a coffee machine. “Hello,” he calls. “What can I get you?”

 

The customer glances away from the display case, giving Mumbo a small, hesitant smile. “Well fella,” he says, pausing as he glances over the options again. He speaks a bit slowly. “I’ll take a large cuppa coffee, and - a chocolate cupcake, for here.”

 

“Please,” Mumbo says lightly, “Fella was my father; you can just call me Mumbo.” It’s a stupid joke, but Grian snorts, something genuine and harsh and - well, that’s certainly an ego boost. “Coming right up, that’ll be three pounds and forty pence.” 

 

Grian nods, fumbling with his wallet, and Mumbo politely averts his eyes while the man searches, coins clinking against one another. The money is placed on the countertop - even change, once again - and Mumbo sorts it into the cash register, before fetching the food and drinks. 

 

The Hermit Cafe’s dine-in cups are a fair bit nicer than their to-go dishware. Xisuma, like most of them, has a bit of an eye for aesthetics - as evidenced by the decor of the cafe itself, from the hanging plants and local artwork to the geometric shapes that line the walls in a pleasing sort of manner. 

 

Mumbo… isn’t exactly the best with aesthetics, maybe, but he knows that it looks good - and this is evidenced by their dishware, too. Most of the items are ceramic pieces, commissioned by the local artists - and then again, some are brought in for personal use, like Ren’s “Just What the Doctor(77) Prescribed” with a blurry image of the local vigilante - which was… an odd choice, but it’s not like Mumbo could question it - or Cleo’s coffee cup, with a little stick man sticking out of the middle of the cup that made Mumbo nervous he would break it every time he was on dish duty. 

 

He selects a cup and matching plate with a blue inlay to accent speckled grey, and fills it close to the brim - setting the drink aside for a moment to pull out the muffin from the display, and places it in the middle of the plate. 

 

“Here you go mate,” Mumbo says as he passes them over, and Grian accepts them happily, thanking him and settling down near the window to enjoy himself. 

 

More customers come in, and Mumbo is distracted for the rest of the visit.

And, well, Grian is ultimately just a customer - but he’s a nice one. He seems chronically exhausted, but he’s just - nice. Polite, if not a little awkward. He’s rapidly becoming a regular, and Mumbo can’t say he minds at all.

The fifth time Grian comes in is a morning that is neither slow nor busy, but instead, very comfortably middle. Xisuma is due to come in on shift in an hour, and Mumbo’s been feeling good - energetic. He’s got the television on in the corner, turned just low enough that it’s not a bother, with slow-passing captions scrolling by at the bottom with a few minute's delay. 

 

He’s just handed over an order of a small coffee and a danish - part of Ren’s experimentation the previous night that had turned out quite well - to a woman wearing a bright magenta jacket. She turns away, cradling the drink, and behind her -

 

“Hello Grian!” Mumbo says cheerfully, idly taking stock of the man. He’s wearing a red sweater - this time with white string beaded along it, creating thin, dotted stripes - and a heavy-looking backpack slung over one shoulder. The circles underneath his eyes are darker than usual, and he looks exhausted. 

 

Despite this, the man gives Mumbo a small smile in return. “Hullo Mumbo,” he returns, and blinks hard, like he’s trying to clear his vision. “A large black coffee to go, please.”

 

“Sure thing.” Mumbo tells him his total while grabbing a large cardboard cup, stepping away to fill it. 

 

As he pulls off the percolator from its position, careful to mind its metal handle, he tunes in to the news chatter. 

 

“It’s hit the two month anniversary since beloved hero The Watcher has gone missing. Authorities are still searching for any sign of them. However, the police department hasn’t released any information of further progress since last month, when they found the hero’s mask abandoned in a dumpster. Further investigation has proved that it is indeed the real mask, though insiders tell us it had been stripped of any DNA, likely washed in bleach. There has been talk from governors to broaden the search, including-”

 

Mumbo caps the coffee, and after a moment of hesitation, grabs a chocolate chip cookie as well. He places both on the counter, softly clearing his throat when Grian seems transfixed by the news broadcast. The man startles, wide-eyed. 

 

“Sorry,” he apologises, and takes the drink offered - hand hesitating at the cookie. “I didn’t order anything else?” he says, voice tilted with doubt. Like if Mumbo told him otherwise, he might just believe it. 

 

“No,” he says gently and pushes it towards him. “Consider it on the house, mate. And try to get some sleep, yeah?”

 

Grian blinks at him, before giving a rather tired smile. “Thank you,” he says softly, and takes the treat. “I’ll try to.”

 

The news plays him out.

 

“The Watcher is a person with large, white wings, who can create objects with a purple energy. These items cannot leave contact with them - instead, returning to a plasma-like energy. There are no further identifying details about them at this time. If you meet anyone matching this description, the police’s anonymous tip line is-”

The eleventh time Grian comes by-

 

“No,” Ren says loudly. “Obviously the most attractive Super is Bob-”

 

Mumbo laughs at him, in his face. Well, not quite literally - Ren’s filling the coffee pot with water, while Mumbo leans on the countertop he’s supposed to be wiping down. It’s a close enough thing, though. “You’re joking , really? He doesn’t even have a cool name -”

 

“Like any super does.”

 

“The Watcher is pretty cool,” Mumbo offers. 

 

“The Watcher is MIA, and anyways, that’s more creepy than cool.”

 

“I dunno, I think if you save the entire world from being overtaken by a villain, that has to give you some sort of bonus points-”

 

“You just like The Watcher because you’re gay, dude, the robes were a bit much.”

 

Mumbo splutters, and throws his rag at Ren, who barely dodges it, laughing. “That’s not true!” he says loudly, voice going up an octave. “Just because I can appreciate a good sense of style-”

 

“Oh, I’m sure you were appreciating their style ,” Ren says, grinning. “X, back me up here!”

 

Xisuma, from behind the counter - crouched in front of the ice bucket while he cleans it out - hums. “I’m staying out of that ,” he says, and Mumbo grins.

“Thank you! It is perfectly normal to admire-”

 

“Oh, admiring, are we?” Ren says in a singsong voice, and Mumbo flips him off. 

 

“We both know that’s not what I meant, come on.”

 

Xisuma leans back, stretching back a little from his crouched position - and makes eye contact with Mumbo through his visor. “I will say, the lady doth protest too much.” 

 

Mumbo groans dramatically, throwing his head back, while Ren barks out a laugh. “I knew you were on my side!”

 

“One day I’m going to go on my villain arc, and you both are going to regret this -”

 

“Excuse me?” A voice calls from just behind Mumbo, and he startles, jumping away, voice pitching up at the end of his sentence into a not-quite shriek. He spins around, only to come face-to-face with -

 

“Oh, Grian,” he says, physically deflating. The man’s got his signatures on - hefty eyebags, a red jumper that is somehow different again to the ones he’s worn before - but this time, there’s a welcome addition - a teasing smile, something that tilts up at the corners so severely that it looks like it’s taut, and that pulls up over his teeth. 

 

“Scare you, did I?” the man asks, sounding very pleased. 

 

“Not at all,” he lies through his teeth, and his co-workers cackle behind him. “What can I do for you?”

 

Grian hums, falling beside him, already shuffling through his wallet. “Cuppa medium green tea to go?”

 

“Sure thing, that’ll be a pound,” Mumbo tells him, and Grian hands the amount off wordlessly. Mumbo side-steps Xisuma - still crouched in front of the floor - to get towards the hot water. He pulls down a jar of tea bags as well, ripping one packet open and tossing it into a cup.

 

“Grian, was it?” Ren asks from behind him, and Mumbo shoots him a glance over his shoulder. He knows that tone. He must nod, because Ren continues. “So, what Super do you think is attractive? There is a right answer.”

 

Xisuma sighs good-naturedly while Grian splutters. “I, er - don't- I’m not very tuned into the whole er, super-thing. I couldn’t say.”

 

Ren humas Mumbo fills the cup, heat radiating out from the cardboard into his fingers. “Boring,” he declares. 

 

“Don't listen to him, Grian,” Mumbo tells the man, pressing a lid down as he moves to the counter. “If you give him an inch, he’ll just tease you about the one time you mentioned The Watcher was kind of hot, until you either die or kill him. ” The last words are said pointedly.

 

Grian’s face is rapidly pinkening, but Mumbo doesn't have much time to dwell on it.  “Like you could,” Ren says, clapping Mumbo’s shoulder as he passes, fresh bag of coffee filters in hand.

 

“Oh go on then,” Mumbo replies, rolling his eyes. “I’m proper scared of you, I am, between the Bee-Gees music and the whole hippie thing.”

 

“Oh sure, the hippie thing. Don’t let him fool you, Grian,” Ren advises. “Mumbo learned guitar just so he could play Wonderwall -”

 

“For the meme .”

 

“You seemed awfully proud for just a meme,” Xisuma replies behind the counter, and Mumbo moves to retort-

 

But there’s a laugh to his side, and when Mumbo glances over rapidly, he finds that Grian is failing to stifle a giggle, eyes crinkled with mirth, and Mumbo’s brain short-circuts. 

 

“I’ll have to hear that sometime,” he says, voice brighter than it’s ever been, and he smiles something full and warm at Mumbo. “Thanks for the drink, Mumbo.”

 

“Er - absolutely mate, any time-” he stumbles over his words, and Grian’s smile widens a little more, like sunbeams peeking out from behind the clouds - and then he’s calling out a goodbye over his shoulder, leaving with the bell tinkling behind him.

 

Mumbo stares at the vacant spot for a moment, startling only when a gloved hand lands on his shoulder. 

 

“That the beau, then?” Xisuma asks, painfully genuine, and Ren cackles behind them as Mumbo unfreezes to stammer out a denial.

 

He loves his job, his co-workers, but sometimes he really hates them.

The weekend comes and goes quietly, once work is out for the next few days. 

 

Mumbo submits five assignments and only has a minor breakdown over one when his attempt at creating simple wireless messaging results in the modules repeating the same phrase back at one another on loop. (Which is a win, really. He had managed to solve it after only an hour of pacing and a good ten minutes of lying on his floor, questioning his choices up to this point.)

 

All in all, it’s good . It’s great, even, because he’s been balancing work and school well, and he’s been doing really well in his engineering classes. Sunday rolls around, and he manages to get ahead of his caseload by a few days - sending off a minor quiz and replying to a discussion forum over breakfast - and he feels good . 

 

The day passes by languidly. Mumbo fidgets with mini redstone figures (he’s almost nailed a beautiful 3x3 piston door, f he could just work out the opening sequence) and eats day-old bakery treats. He watches Youtube over the meal - there’s this guy called ilmango who happens to be an engineering genius, and he’s just released a video on high-speed transportation. 

 

It turns out to be fascinating, if far above Mumbo’s comprehension.

 

Mumbo washes the dishes, and does a pile of laundry he’d meant to get to a few days ago. (Note to self: Automatic hamper to washing machine device? Would need sticky pistons, and maybe a conveyor belt, if he doesn’t want to lose the security deposit.)

 

By the time it starts to get dark out, Mumbo opens his fridge - pondering its contents.

 

It’s… kind of pathetic. Some old broccoli, take-out he’d never gotten to, condiments, a half-eaten package of salami -

 

He checks his pantry instead, and frowns. There’s bread, and ramen, and half a jar of peanut butter - but nothing sounds good .

 

He closes the cabinet with a sigh. He could order take-out, or - or, he could go shopping, and get a nice thing of pasta, and get some groceries for the rest of the week while he’s at it. Surely the shops aren’t too busy, given the late time.

 

It’s more tempting than pizza, at least, and Mumbo grabs a thin coat, slipping on his shoes and stepping out. 

 

The sun is low in the sky, bleeding red and purple. Street lamps are starting to light, and people are wandering home - more cars are parked along the streets than driving in them. 

 

The shop is a short walk from Mumbo’s house, a stout convenience store with a light-up Open sign hanging from one window, slowly cycling flashing lights.

 

Mumbo heads in. The building is lit brightly, shelves high with goods. The flooring is tiled, and he can feel the differences in shapes as he walks - the wheel of his cart squeaking just often enough to be annoying. 

 

He goes… maybe a little overzealous with shopping. 

 

It amounts to three large, weighty reusable bags hanging off of his arms, pinching slightly, as he walks out - with enough groceries to last him well into next week. It’s absolutely exorbitant - but he had come on an empty stomach, and besides Xisuma paid them well enough to splurge a little. 

 

(How he got that money was a question no one really asked, despite the cafe being run quite cheaply. He’s a good boss, and a kind one, and no one really pays mind past that. Their business is their business.)

 

(Rumors of his relation to the rather large villain EX are just that. Rumors.)

 

His pockets are significantly lighter, now, but Mumbo pays it no mind - simply adjusts the bag in his right hand a bit, searching for a relief that isn’t forthcoming, as he passes by an alleyway. Maybe he shouldn’t have bagged the milk, because it does weigh quite heavily-

 

There’s a tight grip on his shoulder, and before Mumbo can do more than let out a squeaked protest, another wraps around his mouth. Instinctually, the bags in his hands drop - there’s a tink of metal, solid thumps as precious groceries land heavily, falling out of the plastic bag that holds them.

 

“Quiet,” a rough voice orders, and Mumbo’s heart leaps into his throat. Oh, fuck. “There’s no need for anyone to get hurt, here, is there?”

 

He shakes his head against the hand, and there’s a hum behind him. 

 

“Good.” The hand around his shoulder tightens painfully, and Mumbo nearly bites his tongue. “You seem like a pretty dapper fella, yeah? I’d imagine you’re pretty flush. ” The hand leaves his shoulder, though the one around his mouth digs in painfully, nails digging into flesh. After a moment, he can feel movement in one jacket pocket.

 

And Mumbo freezes, because he’s not hapless - but any self-defense he truly knows is, well, explosions and machines and play-fighting with Iskall. 

 

Mumbo isn’t exactly a ‘square up’ guy. (Ren had teasingly called him a ‘nerd of a twink’, when Mumbo had stayed past his shift to experiment with redstone on the table near the window). 

 

But he has friends who care for him, who have fostered his love of experimenting in the same breath as they have sent him stupid videos at three AM that half-heartedly explained self defense, with the message “lol, knowing you, you could probably use it” . Which, rude. (He still watched them.)

 

The mugger’s hand leaves his right pocket, going for his left, and Mumbo recalls watching the video over day-old popcorn, if only so he could reply about how condescending the whole thing was. It was a shit video, but it was still something , and Mumbo recalls it now. His jacket pulls away, slightly, and he twists harshly, elbow rearing back. 

 

Nails scrape over his cheek in search of purchase, and his elbow meets its target, if evidenced by the grunt his assailant lets out. Something warm is trickling down his face, and he pulls away, turning to face the mugger. 

 

The guy is only an inch or so taller than he is, though more stockily built. He’s wearing dark clothes - like that isn’t suspicious against the bleach-white walls of the buildings surrounding them - and he’s standing up again, glaring at Mumbo.

 

He does the sensible thing.

 

He screams . 

 

He screams, and he grabs a jar of jam from where it had rolled to a rest beside him, and he shuffles towards the exit of the alleyway he had been dragged into as he throws the jar - and, well, he’s never had a very good throwing arm, because it hits the guy’s stomach and clatters to the ground, and the mugger snarls.

 

And Mumbo thinks fuck , because surely this is the sticking point, and Ren’s going to wake up tomorrow to the news that his spoon of a co-worker got himself killed just because he wanted to treat himself to some pasta, and Xisuma is going to have to find a new person to work his shifts, and -

 

There’s a crack like a whip overhead, and as the mugger advances - 

 

Thump . There’s a figure dropping onto him heavily, taking his head in their hands. The mugger crumples to the ground, overtaken by a blur of brown and grey.

 

A beat. 

 

The body doesn’t move, and all Mumbo can do is stare, wide-eyed, between the mugger, listless on the ground - though still, thankfully, breathing - and the - superhero? Vigilante? Villain? - who saved him.

 

They wear a long, brown coat, and some sort of latex-looking white hood that is tailored close to their head, along with a trilby hat that is what- glued on top of that? 

 

Alongside the headwear, they have wings, covered mostly by some sort of grey fabric - but from the few feathers that peek out, they seem to be white. 

 

That's not the most striking thing though. The - super, the super, they look away from the mugger to him, and they're wearing a chicken mask of all things, with an honest-to-god beak and beady black eyes. 

 

“Are you alright?” the guy in the chicken costume asks, in a gruff voice. 

 

Mumbo blinks. Opens his mouth, skin pulling a bit where blood slowly dries. “What the fuck, ” he manages, and the chicken mask slowly blinks at him like a bloody animatronic or something. “Going for a knock-off Batman? A little Five Nights at Frank’s?” he asks, a smidge hysterically, and this isn't the right line of questioning, surely, but there's a rumbling laugh out of the mask that sounds like it wants to pitch up. 

 

“It's a work in progress,” the man in the chicken mask says. “I'm Poultry-man.” 

 

“Mumbo,” Mumbo replies faintly, because this is his life now, and - Poultry-man nods.

 

“Mumbo,” the - something - repeats, testing the name. “It's nice to meet you. Are you injured anywhere else?”

 

Like a marionette pulled by a string, Mumbo absently lifts his right hand, sleeve slipping down to show his wrist. Poultry-man hisses sympathetically at the sight, leaning in, and Mumbo only pulls back slightly - but he doesn’t go to touch him. 

 

“That’s pretty bad,” he says. “Can you move it back and forth? Like - yeah, that, brilliant.” There’s a beat of silence, beady plastic eyes staring intently at Mumbo’s wrist, before the - hero, vigilante, whatever - nods. “Good,” he says. “There isn’t any noise, I think you managed to pass on a sprain or worse - unless that changes, it should just bruise up in a few hours.” 

 

Mumbo nods, and pulls the injured limb to himself. Poultry-man steps back. 

 

“Er,” Mumbo starts, and his foot shuffles absentmindedly. “I’m - not really sure what happens now-”

 

“Right!” Poultry-man says, and his covered wings puff up behind him, the sound of feathers on canvas sounding out in the alleyway. 

 

Mumbo stares a bit at the limbs - they’re not like, one of a kind, but they are rare, and it’s odd to see the wings shift, even half-hidden. 

 

“Well - you have a phone on you, right?” Mumbo nods. “Alright. Call the police, and if you feel comfortable, I’d ask you to stick around and talk to them.”

 

Mumbo nods again, numbly, palming his phone and glancing up at the signs to either side of the road. He’s near a street corner, between Madison and Clifford.

 

Slowly, he types out 999 on the phone - looking at the vigilante again. Poultry-man is leaning on the alley wall, staring at the passed out mugger- until he suddenly looks up, meeting Mumbo’s gaze, and after a moment, his large, plastic eyes slowly blink at Mumbo. 

 

(It should be creepy, but it’s just - oddly reassuring.)

 

He hits enter, bringing the phone up to his ear.

 

“Emergency, which service?”

 

“Hi,” Mumbo says, and his throat feels dry and his cheek stings, and the vigilante is still there, staring, leaning relaxedly against the wall. “I er - I just got mugged? Uh, police, please.”

 

There’s a confirmation in his ear, and the voice of one dispatcher being replaced by another, and the night slowly bleeds away. He explains where he is, what happened - when he mentions a vigilante, the dispatcher only seems marginally interested, asking if they’re still there.

 

Mumbo says no.

 

And he doesn’t know what answer Poultry-man was expecting, if he even knew it would come up - but it feels like the right thing. 

 

He stays on the phone with the dispatcher while a police unit makes its way there, and Poultry-man stays with him until his head tilts to one side - and Mumbo falls silent as the vigilante gives him a thumbs up, wings spread. There’s a rustle of fabric, and Mumbo only has the time to wonder if the covers hinder flight any, before the man is gone.

 

He stares at the left-behind mugger. The dispatcher in his ear chatters meaningless assurances.

 

A minute later, the police arrive. 

 

They take Mumbo’s account, and his phone number, and they give him an alcohol wipe and a few bandaids to pepper on his face. 

 

They ask about the vigilante. (They don’t seem very impressed with the answer that it was a man, in a chicken costume, who seemed kind enough.)

 

And it’s - a lot. Mumbo’s groceries are scattered along the alleyway, and his mugger’s prone form is hauled into the back of the cruiser, and he’s told that he’ll be contacted when there’s a development on the case.

 

They offer to drive him home. Mumbo takes one look at the cramped car, and the groceries spilling on the sidewalk, and up the road, where only blocks away, he lives.

 

He says no.

 

And then he’s alone.

 

He’s alone, and his face stings, and the cheap bandaids pull on his cheek, and Mumbo numbly bends down to gather his groceries. The milk is fine, the bread hardy - but the apples are bruised, and his jar of jam is shattered in a spot, sluggishly bleeding out fruit preserves on the concrete.

 

The bag of oranges, Mumbo discovers, is split open, and he almost just leaves the lot to rot.

 

But as he takes in a deep, shuddering breath, there’s a soft thump of boots hitting pavement - and when Mumbo looks up, only half startled, he’ll swear later, he vigilante from earlier is there, hands held up placatingly. 

 

“Howdy,” Poultry-man says, contrasting sharply with the gravelly, British accent. “Can I help you carry that home?”

 

“Sure,” Mumbo says, and the word might be a bit frail around the edges, but the man in the chicken costume simply crouches beside him.

 

(And it’s - human, in that disconcerting way, like how one would bite into a lemon expecting sour, only to receive savory, or something. Poultry-man crouches beside him, vulnerable as he picks up pasta boxes and cans, and he had saved Mumbo only twenty or so minutes ago, and now he’s just - a guy.)

 

After a moment, Mumbo follows him. His fingers fret over a hole in his new bag of flour, where the powder is leaking from, and he tucks a bag of cilantro in the crook of his elbow.

 

“Bad news,” Poultry-man says, and the word is said like he truly believes it. Mumbo looks over. “The eggs got smashed, it seems.”

 

He stares at it a moment. (Great, there goes his breakfast plans.) Mumbo, after a moment, speaks. “Is it just me who finds that extra tragic because of the whole chicken thing?”

 

Poultry-man barks out a laugh, something true and surprised, and he tosses the ruined carton into the dumpster nearby. 

When the vigilante offers to walk Mumbo home, he accepts - whether it’s from shock, or something that he doesn’t feel like delving into, he doesn’t know. 

 

(Poultry-man feels… familiar. Safe. And that’s stupid, and Mumbo’s going to get himself killed one of these days, but the vigilante takes him to his door, and despite Mumbo not being a great conversation partner, wishes him a good night.)

The next morning, Mumbo opens his door to find a new carton of eggs on his doorstep.

 

And he’s in pain, a bit, and he feels like he could sleep for weeks, and he stares at the box without a note, and it’s almost enough to make him smile.

 

He almost calls in. Xisuma would understand - the man’s a bit goofy, but he also cares about them, and if Mumbo told him ‘hey, I’m a bit shellshocked because some two-bit mugger was stupid enough to shake down a college student’, he would probably try to give him a whole week off. 

 

But he wakes up at seven, and he can barely focus on his morning podcast as he goes through the motions of making breakfast (the eggs he had found tasting a bit ashen, though they’re the nice brand, the one he buys only on occasions where he wants to indulge) and so he drags himself onto the tram and off again, and finds himself walking into the bistro a few minutes before his shift. 

 

Ren takes one glance at him as the bell chimes overhead, looks back to the coffee he’s brewing for a moment, before taking a much more frantic double-take.

 

“Oh, geeze MJ,” he says through sucked teeth, pulling his apron off and winding around the bar to greet him. “What, did you get into a fight with a street cat or something?”

 

Mumbo chews at the inside of his cheek and glances over himself. “Not quite,” he says.

 

“You’ve got a-” Ren cuts off, gesturing to his own face. “A scratch, right there, man.”

 

“Right,” Mumbo says, and it must be faint because his co-worker reaches out slowly, and when he doesn’t move away, takes his - uninjured, thankfully - wrist in one hand and gently tugs.

“Come on,” he says, tone softer than usual. 

 

Mumbo allows himself to be led to a booth, and Ren disappears for a moment - leaning over the countertop to grab at the water on boil, slipping a tea bag into a mug before reappearing. 

 

“Give that a moment to steep,” he instructs, and Mumbo nods. 

 

He wraps his hands gratefully around the mug, and it’s probably too hot but he can’t bring himself to mind, at the moment. 

 

“What’s going on, MJ?” Ren asks worriedly, leaning his hip into the side of the booth opposite, and Mumbo grimaces. 

 

“I, er -” he clears his throat. His fingertips drum against the mug, blunted nails making dull thunking noises against ceramic. “I got mugged?” His voice lilts up a bit, at the end, like the statement is more question than not. “And saved by that one vigilante, uh, the bird guy.”

 

Ren blinks at him for a moment. “I have - so many questions,” he heads off with, but begins with a simple, caring one. “First off, my dude, why are you here ? I’d think you’d want - a little time, you know X’ wouldn’t have a problem.”

 

Mumbo looks down at his tea, a bit abashed. “I - didn’t want to be alone,” he says finally, and his friend softens. (It’s the truth, he thinks.)

 

“Alright,” Ren says softly, and then, “alright. I’m not gonna send you home, but you have to take it slow, yeah?”

 

It should probably be all the cause more to send him home when Mumbo simply nods in agreement, rather than try to argue. But for his credit, Ren simply eyes him up and down, and sighs.

 

“I’m walking you home as well,” he says.

 

“Alright,” Mumbo agrees, and the frown on Ren’s face may be heavy, but the hand that rests on his hair comfortingly is gentle nonetheless. 

 

He finishes his tea in only a few minutes, and thinks it might have been black - or maybe ginger tumeric. Or. Or maybe chocolate mint. 

 

(He checks the label discreetly, the paper dangling off to the side of the mug carelessly. It’s hibiscus rose and chamomile. It’s probably not a good sign that he can barely recall its flavor on his tongue.)

 

Ren, when Mumbo approaches, sighs again - but tosses him his apron anyways, a red thing that’s just light enough that it doesn’t wash him out. He ties it around his waist, the weight familiar against his neck. 

 

Mumbo doesn’t mind the eyes on his back, when the first customers trickle in. He plasters on a smile, and keeps his voice bright and cheery as he greets customers, and it’s -

 

It’s not staying at home, fingers ghosting over the bruises on his wrists, so it’s a net positive, really. He’s been in customer service long enough that he’s pretty sure he could plaster on a welcoming persona after everything else has crumbled around him, and - that’s probably not a good thing, really - but this is easy. Simple. It’s like slipping on a coat and having it hide the poor workmanship of the clothing underneath.

 

Between customers, he tries to think of engineering problems. (He’s trying to tire himself out. Maybe then, he can collapse on his couch at the end of the day, and have enough exhaustion laden in his bones that he can play a podcast and fall asleep, instead of having to confront that between Madison and Clifford, he could have died.)

 

Ren doesn’t seem too keen on that idea, unfortunately. At eleven, during a small lull between customers, he presses Mumbo gently away, and tells him that, “Hey, I’ve been trying to nail the consistency of my pumpkin pie - can you taste test?”, forcing him to take a five-minute break eating pie, while the somewhat older man runs the counter. 

 

The next time, a little after noon, he tells Mumbo to take a longer lunch than usual. He slips him ten pounds, and tells him to go to the nearby fish and chips place, and get enough for them both. Which- well, it's not Mumbo's first place to eat, but the greasy food is… nice, and when he tags out with Ren on lunch shifts, the man groans appreciatively at the smell of takeout. 

 

A little after two, after a customer who had been snippy in the face of Mumbo’s unwavering false-cheer, he sighs and says, “Dude, if you don’t take a proper break, I’m going to wrestle you into a booth and make sure you don’t leave it until it’s closing time.”

 

Mumbo knows too well that Ren would follow up on that promise, and so he sighs and gives the man a wan smile, and grabs a muffin and tea. It feels overindulgent, but the crease between Ren’s eyebrows eases slightly, and his ears lift a little, so Mumbo allows himself this.

 

He also allows himself to doomscroll on Twitter, because he’s never been one to sit still, and if he doesn’t have something to occupy his brain - well. Twitter, for its many flaws, is obscenely good at keeping one’s attention. 

 

He scrolls past a repost of some Reddit thread or another, and some person he’d followed on a whim a few weeks ago is talking about whatever latest celebrity gossip there is. There’s a thread on The Watcher’s disappearance that looks interesting, if not incredibly long - and he saves that one with some half-hearted promise to himself that he’ll check it later. 

 

Mumbo’s just scrolled past a muted video of a cat proudly carrying a sock to its owner, when there’s a shape in his periphery, and someone asks, “Is this seat taken?”

 

He decidedly does not startle. The hand held to his chest in a dramatic fashion is absolutely satirical. 

 

“Oh my word !” he exclaims breathlessly, head jerking up - and, oh. 

 

It’s Grian. The man is grinning at him impishly, and he’s wearing another red sweater - how many of those does the man have?  

 

The dark circles underneath his eyes are a bit more pink-tinged around the edges, today, and it’s probably not a good thing but it does look nice- “Hi,” Mumbo manages in a mildly shaken voice, forcibly derailing that train of thought, and Grian’s smile turns a bit warmer.

 

“Hi,” he replies, and gestures with a hand, which is holding a cup of coffee. “Would you mind if I sat?”

 

“Oh!” Mumbo says despite it all, and hurriedly pulls his minor mess out of the way - his muffin, half-eaten, is pulled out from the middle of the table closer to his chest, and his coffee is scooped up. “Absolutely mate, go right ahead.” 

 

Grian slides into the booth not-quite gracefully, setting his coffee down with one hand - and Mumbo glances over it idly, notes that it’s plain black, and grimaces in sympathy. He must be planning for a long day, then. 

 

The man also sets a cookie - a macaroon, not the French kind, but the coconut one - onto the counter, and finally, he swings a satchel Mumbo hadn’t noticed to his side. The flap isn’t latched, and he can just glimpse the title of it, “Introduction to Sociology,” against an obnoxious cover that only college textbooks can manage.

 

He files that away, with the simple note of ‘interesting’.

 

He’s got - it’s not a mental conspiracy board, really , but a stack of little facts about Grian in one pile, off in a corner of his mind, and it grows every so often, piecing together like that one book he’d heard about once. Cain’s Skull or something, where the reader has to sort out pages to figure out the murder mystery.

 

Except, Grian isn’t a murder mystery. (Mumbo hopes, at least, because that would be - something.) He’s just… a guy, who has been slowly coming out of his shell, who dislikes coffee but will drink it when he’s planning for a busy day. A regular, who has been coming in twice a week for a few months. Who seems more content drinking herbal teas, but orders green more often. 

 

Who apparently is studying sociology, and man, if Mumbo doesn’t want to learn all he can about that. 

 

Grian is normal and fascinating and pretty , and Mumbo doesn’t know what to do with that.

 

Or - not that last part, he tells himself sternly, and glances up only to meet Grian’s amused gaze. 

 

(Definitely that last part. His eyes, up close and without the pretext of having to memorize an order and give proper customer service, are a very nice shade of brown, and he’s got - he’s got freckles. How did Mumbo never notice that?)

 

“Sociology?” he asks as casually as he can, and Grian’s nods, taking a sip of coffee. 

 

“Yeah! I’m er, well - I used to be a full-time college student, but it was too much for me, so now I’m part-timing it. Some personal things came up before the start of this semester, so I’m just taking the one class this time around.” He shrugs his left shoulder, pulling the bag up with the gesture.

 

Mumbo hums understandingly. “I’m part-time as well,” he offers. “It’s just cheaper for me, and- well.” He stops himself there. “I’m majoring in Engineering.”

 

Grian’s eyebrows raise. “Really?” he asks, leaning forward a little in his seat. It’s encouraging.

 

“Yeah,” Mumbo says, a hint of pride in his voice, and it feels like something inside his chest has been set out next to a heater to slowly thaw. “I’ve always been fascinated by redstone, and the likes - ever since I was a kid. The amount of power it has is just - fascinating, really.”

 

“I don’t know much more than that we use it for major mechanics,” Grian admits. “Tell me about it?”

 

That thing inside his chest thaws that little bit more, and Mumbo brushes his quarter of a muffin (in its wrapper) to the side, so that he has room on the tabletop to gesture and illustrate with his hands. 

 

“Well,” he begins, “redstone has a fascinating half-life. While it’s volatile usually, the trade-off is that if powered, it can take ages for it to power off - if, of course, the source of the power can sustain it. Pure redstone, however, can last for years if compacted correctly. That’s how we get flying machines, for example, because they’re built on a circuit that recognizes its own presence, and with every movement it makes, it flips a switch that…”

 

Mumbo rambles on for minutes - at one point, he slows self-consciously, but Grian only nibbles on his macaroon and asks how observers detect movement, and, well, that’s a whole other thing that is too fascinating to be left alone. 

 

He doesn’t stop until Grian’s phone rings. They both startle, Mumbo nearly biting his tongue while the man across from him lets out an undignified squawk, jolting backwards as a cheery song plays from his knapsack. 

 

‘You better work (work), work all day… Hear there’s a party on the weekend-’

 

Grian’s face flushes a few shades, and he fumbles with the pocket, tossing Mumbo an apologetic glance. “Sorry,” he mouthes and swipes at the screen, bringing his phone to his ear. “Scar, what do you want?” he asks, and the tone is - annoyed, discernibly so, even though Mumbo doesn’t think he’s ever heard the man sound like it before. He listens for a beat, and the dusting of pink that had crept along his ears and cheeks fades - a sore loss - and in its place his face is rapidly paling. “I’ll be there in a few,” he promises, and nods to himself. 

 

With the type of energy that comes from needing to do something, but not being able to do so just yet, Grian fumbles with the latch of his backpack, zipping the middle pocket up with his free hand. 

 

He hums again, and Mumbo tries not to be so terribly obvious about watching him. “Bye,” he says, and pulls the phone from his ear. Mumbo gets a glimpse of a lockscreen - which is a picture of a pigeon holding a sandwich smugly, while a disembodied hand flips it off - before it’s tucked into a pocket as well. “Sorry,” he says, grimacing. “Work stuff.” 

 

“No worries,” Mumbo says, and waves him off. “It’s obviously important -”

 

“It is,” Grian agrees, and it would be rude if he didn’t immediately follow up with, “But I really enjoyed this, Mumbo, and I can’t say I understand redstone any better, but - it’s interesting. ”

 

Mumbo’s ears feel warm, like they’ve been cupped by fire-heated hands after being out in the snow. “Totally man,” he says a little dazed, “I mean - it was good to properly sit down and talk with you - I hope we get the chance to again.” And maybe that’s a little presumptuous, but Grian brightens.

 

“I was gonna say the same thing,” he says, grinning. “See you, Mister Jumbo.”

 

“See you later,” Mumbo says, and watches the man leave. 

 

The bell tinkles above the door, and he’s never hated the sound more. 

 

He’s brought down to earth by Ren saying something loudly at the counter, and - oh. Oh. He’s been on the job , and - he glances up at the wall, and nearly pales at the clock that reads that it’s three P.M. 

 

They’d talked for an hour . 

 

He hurriedly sweeps up the clutter they’d left - Grian had left his empty coffee cup out of urgency, and of course, there’s the baked goods wrappers, and shit . He dumps the garbage into a can, and hurriedly grabs his apron. 

 

The customer receives their coffee, leaving for the corner table, and Mumbo immediately is on Ren. 

 

“I’m so sorry-”

 

The man waves him off. “Don’t be, I was hoping he might stick around for the full two hours. Admin knows you could use the break, dude.” 

 

Mumbo grimaces. “But still, I left you on your own.”

 

Ren has the uncanny ability to raise a single eyebrow. “The horror,” he says flatly. “My shell-shocked co-worker left me alone during one of the slowest hours of the day to talk to a cute guy.” 

 

“I - he’s not - oi !”

 

Mumbo’s protests seem to have the opposite effect. The other eyebrow raises to meet its counterpart. “What? You could use the socialization, a date certainly isn’t-”

 

“It wasn’t a date!” He protests loudly - too loud, in fact. A few customers glance up.

 

“Sure, man.” Ren says, in a tone that spells out just how much he doesn’t believe him. “Whatever you say.” 

 

“Thank you,” Mumbo says haughtily, and grabs at the rag they use to wipe down tables. “So glad we agree.”

 

The last hour of his shift is spent slowly, on Ren’s insistence. Mumbo does his best to help close up, but the dog-hybrid is surprisingly convincing when he wants to be. Scary, more like, because as much as the man is Pumpkin-Pie and all things sweet, he’s also got just enough of a mean streak that Mumbo knows if he threatens something, he’ll follow through. 

 

Mostly, he cleans. Washes dishes, until he rolls his shoulders in a half-stretch a few too many times, and then he’s pushed off to go pack up the pastries left over. They usually get split up between whoever’s on shift, since there’s not many left usually - this time, there’s half a dozen cookies and a baker’s dozen muffins and cupcakes, and he splits them evenly into two tupperware boxes, before changing out the wax paper beneath. 

 

He sweeps, afterwards, once the last customers have left and the sign has been flipped to ‘closed’. Ren busses the tables, and they play a rather tired game of trying to be just barely out of one another’s ways while still being annoyingly close. 

 

By the time they finish closing out, it’s half-past four, and Ren gets the lights while Mumbo gets the door, locking it behind them both. The keys jangle beneath his fingers, and he pockets them as he moves to meet Ren. 

 

“Want to walk?” he asks, and the man quirks an eyebrow up. 

 

“ Geeze ,” he says loudly, ears pinning back and hand coming up to rest at his heart. “Well that’s presumptive, Mumbo, asking a dog hybrid if he wants to walk-”

 

“We can always go on the tram!”

 

“No, no, I’ll walk!”

 

Mumbo laughs at him, and Ren grins at the sound, ears coming back to a neutral stance as they start down the sidewalk.

 

It’s a warm afternoon. They’re coming into summer, now, so the sun is still high in the sky - angled just low enough that whenever they turn too far west, it shines into their eyes. The sunlight illuminates the tall buildings surrounding them, bright on their white walls and curving around pillars. At the pedestrian crossing, the light flickers green with a beep, and they move forward. 

 

It’s good, Mumbo tells himself. He got mugged on the other side of town, further away from the bright buildings, and under the guise of night. 

 

He just - usually he makes this walk. It’s good for him, and even with the city air feeling a bit stale in his lungs, it’s still refreshing . 

 

It doesn’t stop him from fidgeting, toying with a curled bracelet that is usually kept in his pocket - it’s spiraled like an old phone cord, and he winds it around his finger and back again. 

 

When Ren speaks, it’s a good few minutes after they’ve left. “So,” he says, the word drawn out slightly. “A mugging?”

 

Mumbo makes a face. He winds the cord around his finger again, pulling gently on the coils. It stretches beneath his fingers, taut. “Yeah,” he says finally with a breath. “Yeah, I - I was out late, and I guess I hadn’t kept as vigilant as I should have, and -” he exhales, gestures with his left hand up at his face absently. “Well.”

 

“You said uh - Poultry-Man saved you, yeah?”

 

“Is that really what he calls himself?” Mumbo asks, and before Ren can answer - “Yeah, I suppose so. I think he could tell I wasn’t exactly having a party, because he visited after the cops left, made sure I got home safe.”

 

“Good,” Ren says, and when Mumbo looks to him, the man is looking away. His ears are at an angle, like you’d expect from a dog whose owner is moments away from discovering a great mess. 

 

He wonders if he should ask. Decides it might feel invasive to his co-worker - his friend - and that if he wants to talk about it, Ren is a grown man. (He should be allowed to wear his heart on his sleeve.)

 

“He's good for you,” Ren says suddenly, and Mumbo raises an eyebrow.

 

“What, Poultry-Man?”

 

“No,” Ren clarifies, waving one hand as if to dispel the thought. “Grian.”

 

Mumbo lets out a breath through his nose. The bracelet is doubled over itself, and he rolls it between two fingers. “I thought we had been over this, Ren, we’re not -”

 

“Not dating, I hear ya,” he finishes, and gives Mumbo a wolfish smile. (It feels a little wan, though maybe that’s his imagination.) “But you could be.”

 

“Sure,” he finally gives. “Just like I could theoretically build a flying machine.”

 

Ren gives him a long look, reproaching. But he stays quiet, and knocks their shoulders together in a friendly sort of way at the next crossing. “You didn’t see how he looked at you,” he says gently. “I just don’t want to see you sabotaging something before it even has a chance to grow, just because you can’t see it, dude.”

 

And, well. That’s a bit harder to be sour at. “Thank you, Ren,” he says finally. “I think for today though, I just want to go lay down and sleep the rest of the day away.”

Over the next few days, Mumbo takes it easy. 

 

Partly because he woke the following morning feeling sore and emotionally exhausted, and partly because he had woken to a concerned text from Xisuma, gently telling Mumbo that while he wouldn’t stop him from clocking in, Ren had made it rather clear that something was up, and that taking breaks was important for mental health; followed shortly by another message, stating that Cleo would be covering for him today, regardless.

 

Mumbo, bleary eyed, sends a thumbs-up emoji, followed two hours later - once he’s fully woken up, with a slightly longer text, thanking Xisuma and asking for a few days off.

 

The response is succinct. Literally take off a month if you need, mumbo. You know you have a place here.

 

Mumbo smiles, and breathes, setting his phone down. He tries to relax, after that. The break should be good, really, he can catch up on course-work, maybe make progress on his piston door. 

 

Or, well. That’s the intention, anyway.

 

Mumbo’s not the most tuned-in person he knows when it comes to superheroes and the like. He knows The Watcher - because of course he does, the hero is more recognizable than some of the kings in England’s history. The whole world knows about The Watcher, from their feat in defeating Endra - a villain who was, for once, just as much of a threat to the entire world as she claimed to be - to their disappearance only two days later.

 

He also recognizes Poultry-man, for obvious reasons, and knows vaguely of Bob and Doctor’77, two vigilantes who’ve been on the scene for years now, because Ren quite likes them - but that’s about it. If you asked him who the local heroes were, or even worse, which vigilantes were haunting his neighborhood, you’d get nothing.

 

But that’s enough information that when he tunes into the news station while he makes lunch - a simple sandwich that consists of lunch meats, lettuce, and mayonnaise - he nearly drops his butter knife. 

 

A person sits at a desk, their back straight, and face carefully neutral. Their dress shirt is ironed, and they hold information cards in front of them, while a red splash-screen blares Breaking News in a scrolling formation, the words repeating themselves over and over again. 

 

“Breaking news, ” they say, the words spilling out from his television’s speakers. “Authorities have a new lead on the case pertaining to The Watcher, a renowned hero who went missing only days before they were to be Honorarily Knighted by the Queen, due to their work in stopping terrorist Endra before she could enact what has been dubbed ‘The Doomsday Plan’. They’re warning citizens to stay away from known Vigilante Poultry-man -”

 

Mumbo’s hand stills, knife hovering over where he’s spreading mayonnaise. What?

 

“- who is easily identifiable by his chicken mask and brown trench coat.” A grainy image of the vigilante flicks onto the upper left hand of the screen. It’s poorly lit, at an awkward angle - like the picture taker was feet below the vigilante. “ If you see Poultry-man, call your local authorities and leave an anonymous tip at their help line. He’s said to be a dangerous individual, who may attack on sight. A discussion of a city-mandated curfew is in effect, but no decisions have yet been made.”

 

There’s more, after that, but Mumbo tunes it out. 

 

Poultry-man, a suspect for - what, The Watcher’s death? Disappearance? Him?

 

Mumbo thinks back to their interactions. The vigilante was a lot of things - kind of goofy, sure, and perhaps a bit too into the theatrics of it all - but. He didn’t seem like the kind of guy who would have taken down The Watcher, of all people - or. 

 

Or maybe he was?

 

It - it kind of ruins his Tuesday, which is an awful sentiment to think when he’s not in the midst of the drama, but - Poultry-man saved his life . 

 

Is Poultry-man a murderer? A kidnapper? Has he pulled some sort of elaborate con, weaved a web of lies that Mumbo was unfortunate enough to stumble into?

 

(Or, is he the kind, goofy guy that had waited with him for the cops, that had checked in on him after, had left eggs at his doorstep? Is he - what, framed?)

 

Mumbo should be enjoying his time off. Should be taking it easy, at least, because the scrape on his face is still healing, the bruises along his wrists just barely faded, still yellow in the right light. 

 

Distraction offers itself in the form of a ringing phone - Mumbo jolting as a wind-chime ringtone suddenly blares loudly from his coffee table, cellphone screen lit up. Unknown Caller , it reads.

 

He holds it, for a moment, listening to the default ringtone, as it plays out. Stares at the dim screen, the green button that shines. He could let it go to voicemail. It’s probably just someone from his college, or a scam caller, or -

 

He slides the button, holding the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

 

“Hi -” A voice says, a little breathless. “Is this Mumbo?”

 

He blinks rapidly - he knows that voice. “Grian?” Mumbo asks, in lieu of an answer. “I - what? How do you have my number?” Not that he terribly minds , but it’s the principle of the thing. 

 

The man on the other end does a light, nervous giggle, and there’s the sound of a door closing in the background, the sound of music - grainy and distant, like it is being picked up from a room over. “Well, er, funny thing - I came in today, and you weren’t there, but Ren was, and he volunteered your number?”

 

“Oh.” 

 

There’s a small pause, before Grian sighs. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t have called really, this is-”

 

“No!” Mumbo says, and it must be too loud, because Grian falls silent like a jar clattering to the ground, abrupt and stilted. “I - I should thank him, honestly mate. I’m not complaining, just - surprised. I’ve enjoyed talking to you.”

 

“Oh,” Grian says in turn, and his voice solidifies into something a measure more confident. “Well, I - let’s do something about it then, yeah? What would you say to going out, sometime?” 

 

And oh , Mumbo isn’t a hundred percent of the implications there, but either way, he’s pretty sure he’s going to have to thank Ren after this. 

 

“I’d love to,” he says warmly, eyes flicking to the calendar hanging on the front door that he’d gotten in an attempt to remember events better. It’s… still posted to February, featuring a picture of a black lab wearing a snow cap, and he flips up the pages, settling on May. There’s nothing written, nothing that he can remember, and he’s out of work for the week, anyways… “I have a pretty free week, honestly?” he offers, and Grian’s reply sounds warm, a smile coming through the tinny speakers. 

 

“I think I’ll be a bit busy for most of this week,” he says apologetically. “But -” the word hesitates, as he deliberates. “I can be free Friday night.”

 

Mumbo’s own smile threatens to overtake his lips, and he shakes his free hand out, in an attempt not to jump in place, or do anything similarly outward. Grian is a good guy, with pretty eyes and a wit that is revealing itself with every visit. (Mumbo wants to learn more.) “Sounds good,” he says, and the excited tone manifests in his voice as something that’s tilted up half an octave, and rounded around its edges. “How would seven be, then?”

 

“Sounds brilliant,” Grian agrees. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

 

They talk for a few more minutes. Mumbo asks Grian how his sociology class is going, and the man goes on a tangent about deviance theory that he only half-understands. 

 

They’re interrupted by a door opening, on Grian’s side, and he falls quiet. “One second, Mumbo,” he says softly, and the phone is held away. There’s muffled conversation, for a moment, before Grian sighs audibly, and says a muffled “Alright.” The person he’s talking to seems to take that as a good answer, as the door clicks again - loud in the room - and there’s a shuffling as Grian picks up his phone. “I’ve gotta go,” he says finally, and it sounds like he truly mourns that fact. “But - Mumbo, stay safe, alright? Keep to your apartment.”

 

Mumbo blinks, eyes flicking sideways like he can give Grian a surprised look. “I will.” Maybe it’s… general advice. (It didn’t sound it.) Or maybe, Grian just - saw the news, as well. Probably that.

 

“Good,” is the relieved response. “I’ll see you Friday.”

 

Despite himself, Mumbo smiles. “See you Friday,” he echoes.

 

And then the phone hangs up, playing a doot doot doot to tell him that there’s no one there, and he exhales- but his smile doesn’t fade, something small and fond.

The next two days are - a lot of things. 

 

Boring, in some ways. He gets his school work done, and watches Youtube videos with half-interest, and changes the bandaids on his cheek - the scratches still not wholly healed, though they’ve scabbed over.

 

In other ways… it has its moments.

 

Grian texts him, now, which is something Mumbo never really imagined until he’s sent a picture of the man, a pigeon held contentedly to his chest. Grian is grinning in the photo, wearing, for once, not a red sweater but an undershirt that’s unfairly tight, and cargo pants - the type you’d see on parkour enthusiasts, or something, with more pockets than plain fabric.

 

(He tries not to stare too long. Who knew Grian’s arms were actually defined ?)

 

Below, it’s captioned ‘found a pesky bird :D’ . Mumbo snorts, a little bewildered, and replies with the ‘simp emoji’ (dubbed by Ren, of course) and a ‘aww, cute’ .

 

Grian replies, half an hour later, with ‘hey, the bird looks nice as well!’ and Mumbo laughs and feels his face flush in one. 

 

He sends, in turn, photographs of his redstone projects - and a video of his piston door, which opens in sequence. Grian sends photographs of mini-buildings - not so much like legoes, but instead sculptures of houses and statues, and one grandiose castle that looks like it’s barely the size of a head.

 

They’re gorgeous - so well crafted that they could be sold in a fair, or a gallery - and Mumbo only appreciates them more when Grian reveals that they’re his . That he built them.

 

(Grian keeps surprising him, over and over again.)

 

Not… everything is their flirting, however. 

 

Mumbo keeps his eyes peeled on the news, as he goes through the days. It plays as he makes chef’s salad for lunch, as he pours thin lines of redstone over stone. 

 

It’s all based on the Watcher, it seems - on the headhunt for the Poultry-man. Wednesday, a fight with Poultry-man and Clockwork, a hero Mumbo is only vaguely aware of who can apparently create mini-bubbles, where time around its subjects slows. 

 

It is, for lack of a better word, brutal. Poultry-man mainly uses his flight and speed to his advantage, which means that when he’s trapped into a bubble, he struggles like an insect in honey. His wings flap desperately, trying to get him lift, while Clockwork circles around him. Poultry-man’s hands flare out in an aborted motion, like he’s trying to thrust a spear - but there is no such thing, and Mumbo has to watch in horrified fascination as the news camera’s zoom into the fight shakily. 

 

In the end, Poultry-man escapes - his wing manages to leave the confines of the small time-bubble that shimmers silver and gold against his outfit, and the limb smacks Clockwork hard enough that he loses focus. The bubbles burst as if they are nothing more complicated than dish soap and water. Poultry-man lands a punch, pulling back and hesitating as his hands again ghost over his pockets, in search of a weapon that doesn’t seem to be there. 

 

He comes up with nothing, and Clockwork deals him in turn a solid punch across the jaw that sends the vigilante tumbling over the rooftop, wings flaring out - and he retreats, flying away, out of view. 

 

The newscaster sounds disappointed, when the camera pulls back to him. Says, in the sort of tone that would deliver news of a celebrity’s death, that unfortunately the Hero did not manage to capture the suspect.

 

Mumbo feels a bit sick, and not even Grian’s text - a simple “hi” - can make him feel better. He goes to bed feeling conflicted.

On Thursday, it only seems to get worse. The morning news is filled with discussions of who the vigilante may be, filled with testimony that he is cruel and cold and a hazard to society. (It doesn’t match the vigilante who picked Mumbo’s groceries off of the pavement with him.) Twitter threads about the situation crop up - and well, Twitter is a wholly negative place, but they’re filled with tweet after tweet of conspiracy theories and threads about the situation and it’s - weird, alright?

 

Mumbo has to turn off the television to eat lunch. Grian hasn’t even texted, which - shouldn’t feel as sore as it does, but it’s one less distraction Mumbo has. (It feels a bit pathetic.)

 

Most of the afternoon is spent fidgeting with redstone circuits, though often, his hands wander - sometimes, to turn on his phone, in case there’s a development. Sometimes, to ghost his fingers over the scrapes on his cheek - which he had finally deemed were scabbed over enough to get some fresh air. 

 

The sting usually brings him back, after a moment, and he glares at the project at hand like it will do something. 

 

It’s not exactly an easy thing. Actually, it’s part of his final for engineering - they’re supposed to build a robot, using theory learned in-class. Most of his classmates had shared plans on making roomba-like things, or drones.

 

Mumbo, instead, has a house. A little, basic house that is barely the size of his head, the type of thing you would expect the average person to make if you had given them a thin sheet wood and glue - just, with legs. 

 

Really, it’s more complex than that - technically, it’s a flying machine, utilising slime blocks and the power of redstone to propel itself (though that drains the power of redstone faster) - but he knows he can do it, because he’s been fascinated by flying machines for years . The theory should be as easy as sleeping, for him. 

 

He catches himself glancing at his blank screen again, and groans, stilling himself as he leans forward, staring hard at the project, like it will be enough to will him to focus. In front of him is a leg in its beginning stages. It had once been further along than that, but one of the observers was malfunctioning, and he had to strip the thing down to its barest bones. 

 

He powers it again, and the leg moves along the table again for a few paces, before a piston loops over, pulsing its slime back and forth uselessly. 

 

Again .

 

Mumbo breathes deeply through his nose, and pries the blocks of slime away from its piston. Alright, then. The observer surely has to be around here, at least, and then he can-

 

As he pulls an observer off with his thumb nail, the tiny, complex circuit pulses again, and the part resting against his skin gives a low, warning buzz, before a powerful shock of electricity is emitted. 

 

“Pants,” he hisses loudly into the room, dropping the entire machine as he drags his reddening thumb to his mouth, glaring at the guilty component. “That was rude, ” he tells it bitterly, and the observer blinks once more, before laying dormant on the ground. 

 

Mumbo sighs, closing his eyes against the sting of the redstone-burn. It’s not the worst he’s had, by a long shot - when he was sixteen and stupid, he had once found an old television and torn it apart. He hadn’t known to be cautious with exposed redstone, then - only that it was shiny and expensive and useful - and the burn mark along the fingers of his left hand is still present today, pink and faintly raised. 

 

It’s a warning to take a break - one he’s learned to heed well. 

 

He instead brings his palms to his eyes, pressing gently until when he blinks, he sees stars.

 

He shouldn’t be this emotionally invested. It’s, by all senses, daft - he’s talked to the vigilante once .

 

Mumbo glances at his phone again. No text messages. No news reports. 

 

It’s not like he can do anything. He can’t exactly build some - fighting machine, or turret. Those take time, and material. And patience, which he’s running out of, anyways.

 

He’s just… a civilian. Just someone who is doomed to sit in his apartment and watch, and wonder, and not know .

 

It’s not like he can do anything, he tells himself, and he stands from his desk - a plastic fold out table, with an office chair Xisuma had given him. Mumbo pulls his jacket off of its hook, and slips it on. 

 

He repeats the sentiment as he hesitates, before grabbing a whistle he hasn’t used since when he bought it to take on a camping trip with Iskall, once. (He blows into it experimentally, and the thing lets out a reedy, high-pitched whine. It tastes of dust, and Mumbo grimaces, and takes a detour to rinse it off.)

 

It’s not like he can do anything, he tells himself once again, as he leaves the building - the words a thin pleading to gain some sensibility, now, rather than any sentiment that weighs sourly in his chest. 

 

He’s going to find some bloody answers. 

Finding answers consists of traipsing around dark alleyways, vaguely aware that it is one thing to go grocery shopping at night, and another thing entirely to willingly go looking for trouble.

 

Poultry-man probably isn’t even out - he’s probably more sensible than Mumbo is. Maybe he took one look at the news, and decided to just hang out at home in his civilian persona, or whatever. There’s only so much detectives can do against a guy in a costume. If the vigilante was smart, he wouldn’t be out. 

 

Mumbo’s hand brushes over the whistle underneath his shirt, letting the boxy shape soothe over his fingertips through the fabric.

 

He persists. Mumbo almost starts calling for the vigilante by name, but as daft as he’s being, that feels - worse. The difference between dumb and truly stupid, even if it might be more effective. (He did, after all, only come when Mumbo had screamed.) 

 

His eyes roam over rooftops and scrutinize the dark sky, searching for the form of a man in a chicken costume. 

 

There’s nothing. 

 

The world seems too quiet, really. No sirens, no drunken arguments or loud conversations. Windows are still lit up in their buildings, but the street is deserted. (Possibly, more people took the idea of a hinted curfew seriously than he did. Smart.)

 

It’s just him, stalking through the streets, looking for something.

 

He almost breaks, almost considers actually calling out, when there’s a boom down the street, a loud, shattering noise, like a box of glasses tossed out of a window - but multiplied by the dozen, so loud that it makes him flinch despite the distance. 

 

Fweep, fweep, fweep , an alarm sings, and a couple blocks down, he can see an outline of gold light, illuminating a curling smoke.

 

Mumbo -

 

He’s not stupid, he’ll tell Ren, much later, over drinks and laughter and revelations. 

 

He’s not sensible, either, and with only a staggering hesitation, bouncing from foot to foot like his body is arguing for him to go back, trying to tell him that it’s not too late, Mumbo takes off towards the source. 

 

As he grows closer, the true nature of the destruction comes into view. A large, towering building, with marks where windows were once bricked up and a colorful sign advertising a bank that has seen better days, comes into view. It’s an older building, with red bricks and white pillars, and a few windows that had been installed sometime in the last decade.

 

And it’s burning . A hole is blown into one side, gaping to show the first floor, and a bit of the now-sagging second. 

 

Mumbo, feeling like one of those two-bit movie characters you see in films put on to do nothing but laugh at, takes cover behind a building. The only thing that pokes out is the top of his cellphone, switched to camera mode - and he’s not recording, not yet, but he uses the camera to give him a safe view, zooming in with two fingers, while his other hand traps it to the building, brick digging into his fingertips. 

 

He leans in far too close to the screen, having to shift the phone somewhat to get a good angle at the carnage. There’s fire, golden against the stark white of the streetlights. It licks up the walls inside the building - hard to see in the dark, the image grainy. He zooms in further. Rubble litters the ground, some of it blurring into little circles of color. There’s a desk, a red, flashing light on one wall that is probably linked to the alarm - still going fweep, fweep, fweep -

Mumbo, staring so intently at the scene, nearly drops his phone when something moves, the plastic case on the device scratching against clay and sand in a way that will leave it rough. The feed dips, and Mumbo bites back a swear, steadying the phone again. 

 

There’s two figures in the hole, now. A man in a bright red suit - obviously some kind of super, though Mumbo is kicking himself for not gossiping with Ren more about the local heroes and villains and the like. He’s got a vest, something thick and militaristic, with yellow highlights.

 

The other is - Poultry-man, looking like he’d be better fitted for a children's crime novella than fighting. He’s framed by the hole, its light casting shadow onto him. The figure is a guy in a trenchcoat, with a trilby square on his head - and it would be an intimidating shape, if it weren’t for the chicken face that pokes out, the beak pointing out, and the comb poking out just a bit before the hat. 

 

They’re - not fighting, physically, at least. Poultry-man is gesturing widely, arms waving, while red-guy has his arms crossed. There’s conversation - loud, but not quite shouting - that Mumbo can faintly pick up, but even if distance wasn’t a factor, the noise is drowned out by the alarm.

 

(He almost sighs. Of course, Poultry-man couldn’t just… be home. Be a guy.)

 

(He doesn’t like the fact that it isn’t a surprise. He hardly knows the vigilante.)

 

There’s a scream - pitched loud enough that it cuts through the other noise - and the two in the opening flinch, Poultry-man’s covered wings flaring, while… the red guy, he raises his head. Poultry-man runs back into the building, and Mumbo startles when, as the red guy follows, the yellow that he assumed must have been fire warping weirdly - is actually flames that seem to be situated quite comfortably on his hands, licking up on his suit without burning the fabric.

 

It would be smart to take his leave, here. But - he’s curious, a bit, and concerned, and -

 

Mumbo watches the feed from his camera for half a minute longer, before he sighs and clicks it off. 

 

He sidles out from his hiding place, eyeing up the buildings between him and the explosion site. The fire hasn’t seemed to catch - while it licks at the drywall of the inside of the building, and curls smoke and flames out of its windows, it doesn’t affect the bricks much - the only thing that has managed to really burn, outside, is the bank’s poster, which curls into blackened plastic and bubbles pathetically.

 

Mumbo, decidedly, is not a spy. And it is not so much that he stealthily sneaks down the street, so much as he meanders, dipping behind buildings and pillars whenever he can, until there’s only a single building between him and the site. 

 

Hiding in a thin alleyway - only about as wide as a garbage can - Mumbo slides into his camera app again, past the lockscreen of a group photo he had taken with a few friends, when he had competed (and won) in a local robot-building competition.

 

This location is… a little less unobscured than the last, and not for the least because he had crossed the street to be nearer to the building. There’s a pillar covering half of the view - but it’s still enough to see inside.

 

The first thing Mumbo notices is that Poultry-man is still in the bottom room, just further in. He’s crouched over a prone body, wings tight against his back. 

 

Beside him is red guy, also looking down at the body. He’s poking it with one boot, red visor reflecting the flames that sluggishly lick at the walls. His lower face is uncovered, and Mumbo can just see a few pixels moving.

 

Poultry-man, meanwhile, is attempting to lift the body - which, Mumbo realizes, is covered in yet another super-suit, because there weren’t enough in the mix already, apparently. This one is wearing something black and yellow, though it’s hard to tell as the much larger body dangles limply in the vigilante’s arms. 

 

Red guy moves, arms held out, and this time when he speaks, Mumbo can hear it. “... you’re going to hurt him, idiot-”

 

“Well maybe if you weren’t so busy blowing up a bank -” A second voice says, oddly gruff, and Mumbo recognizes it as Poultry-man’s. “Your partner wouldn’t be in this situation!”

 

“We’re the Boomers! It’s what we do!”

 

Poultry-man lets out something low, that sounds like it could be a swear. “All villains are the same-”

 

“Like you have much room to talk, feathers-”

 

“You’re all just a bunch of idiots!” 

 

While the two bicker, their - friend, maybe, red guy’s partner - slowly dips out of Poultry-man’s arms. Red guy grabs at his arm, and Mumbo feels glued to his spot -

 

And then there’s a creaking noise, like metal bent to its limits (something he is well and truly familiar with) and motion, in the upper corner of the screen.

 

Unbothered, the two - supers - chatter on, while with growing dread and a shaking video feed, Mumbo realizes that the floor above them, already sunken somewhat, is bending, dust falling down into the ruined bottom floor, and sparking as it makes contact with open flames.

 

They’re going to die. All three of them, because this country is protected by bloody idiots - and he’s certainly not much better, in that department, but - but.

 

Mumbo is running out of his hiding spot before he can think better of it. (If later asked, he would have acted differently with more time, Mumbo will sigh and say no, but he would have certainly not had the foolhardiness that adrenaline brings.)

 

He rounds the corner, phone hanging loosely in his one hand while the other feels around his neck, searching for a cheap, polyester cord. He finds it, and brings the whistle up to his lips, blowing as harshly as he can on the plastic thing. 

 

It lets out a piercing whistle, and the two morons in the building startle - Poultry-man’s wings flaring out. “Oi!” he shouts loudly at them. “The bloody roof’s ‘bout to collapse!”

 

Thankfully, something about that type of threat certainly seems to put the kick into someone. Poultry-man jolts, while red-guy swears, and they grab onto the unconscious villain-vigilante-hero- whatever , the chicken vigilante taking his arms while the other grabs for his legs. 

 

They barrel out of the hole in the wall, and it creaks ominously above. Mumbo meets them halfway, as the thing screeches out a final protest - and they all wince away from the thud.

 

There’s a beat of silence. They three - the fourth, decidedly still unconscious, though at least now Mumbo can see that he’s breathing - look at one another wide-eyed. A sort of telepathic ‘ are you seeing this? ’ thing, though red guy's eyes are some sort of digital display, and to be fair, Poultry-man always looks wide-eyed.

 

“Well,” the red guy says after a beat, awkwardly. “ That happened. I’m just gonna… go over there, and see if I can get Esve to wake up.” He takes a step back, and Poultry-man has the courtesy to pass over Esve’s arms, which red-guy takes with a little frown, adjusting so the person is hauled over his shoulder, like Ren likes to carry bags of sugar. Esve is still a bit bulkier, but Red guy seems better able to handle him than Poultry-man is, and they watch as he slumps the guy a few paces away, against a non-burning building wall.

 

Hm. Well, indeed.

 

Mumbo glances up at Poultry-man, who is still staring in the general vicinity of the two. (Probably, anyway. Those plastic eyes are the definition of “lights on, no one home”.)

 

“So,” Mumbo says, and then regrets it. Surely the vigilante’s periphery is pretty awful, he could have probably snuck away without him noticing. (Though, Poultry-man knows where he lives - which, like, if he did kill The Watcher, probably isn’t that good.) “Um.”

 

Poultry-man stares at him, which is quite disconcerting. The chicken mask is rather uncanny-valley, really. “Why,” he says slowly, “are you here? Surely there’s a curfew in place.”

 

Mumbo shuffles on his feet, taking a step back. “I mean, I was just taking a stroll really-”

 

“A stroll.”

 

“Well, I mean -” he hesitates, stares at the forehead of the chicken mask. What use is there for silicone feathers on a vigilante mask ? “You know, there was er - a rumor, and I wanted to… figure something out, I guess. Which may have included running towards an explosion.”

 

“Are you an idiot? ” Poultry-man hisses out, and Mumbo frowns. “You’re the only civilian here, you could have gotten hurt-”

 

“Are you an idiot?” He asks back, and the mask stares at him, unblinking. “You’ve got a headhunt on your name, mate, what on earth are you doing out?” Never mind that this is what he counted on, what he - suspected, maybe. “Surely there aren't other super’s or whatever that could get to this? I’m pretty sure Doctor 77 patrols around here, you could just call him up and tell him-”

 

Poultry-man lets out an offended squawk. “It’s my job , Mumbo,” he hisses, and - oh. Hey. Poultry-man remembered his name, that’s neat. 

 

“Really?” Mumbo challenges, anyways. “What, you get paid for this? Got dental in the gig of being a vigilante? Nice job security, mate, enough to risk your hide with both the law and criminals in one night?”

 

“ Yes- ” the vigilante says, the word pitching up offendedly, before pausing. “I - no,” he finally says, and the words are gruff and lost and apparently that was the wrong button to push. “I’m in a group,” he says finally, waving his hand around. “The Alley-Cats, it’s a thing. A commune, almost. We take care of eachother.”

 

The sentence is said - weirdly. Said faintly, like Poultry-man is a room away. (Maybe, mentally, he is.) 

 

“Okay,” Mumbo says, finally. “We can talk about bloody - the Alley Cats, really - later. Just -” He stammers, flicking his gaze to where red-guy is crouched over Esve. “Don’t you need to take care of those two, if this is your job ? This isn’t really the time for this - this , is it.”

 

He gestures towards the other two villains - villains? - and Poultry-man does this little blink blink with his weird, large plastic eyes. 

 

Mumbo wonders if they’re connected to his real expressions, or if they’re - attached to a pulley system, or something. Does Poultry-man have to consciously emote?

 

The vigilante stares, for a moment, before shaking his head. “No,” he says finally, “I made sure they weren’t hurting any civilians, and anyway there’s bound to be heroes here soon-”

 

Almost like magic, a police siren blares blocks down. Poultry-man doesn’t seem surprised. 

 

“Come on,” Poultry-man says, and his voice has an anxious lilt to it. “We need to get out of here, I’ve done enough to distract the villains and I’m not exactly on good terms with the uh, fuzz . Worm Man would be alright - honestly, he’d probably be the best to deal with Tek - but the rest… it’s not a good lot.” 

 

The vigilante sounds too sure of that for someone Mumbo is pretty sure only popped up on the scene a few months ago. There are a lot of questions Mumbo should probably ask. 

 

“Worm Man?” He repeats instead, and his voice sounds a little distant. “What is it with you lot - Poultry-man, Worm Man, what’s next, Spider-man?”

 

Poultry-man lets out a laugh, and it’s high-strung and not all there - which, mood - and Mumbo - 

 

His mind feels carefully blank, like that sound alone has wiped him out completely. 

 

(It’s a good sound. He wants to hear it over and over again, a record on repeat until it’s stained into his brain. He doesn’t think he’d get tired of hearing it, that way. The sound is just a little manic, hitching around the corners, and it’s terribly fitting.)

 

“Come on,” the vigilante says again, and holds his hands out like a suitor might offer a dance. “Can I fly us out?”

 

Mumbo takes the offer. Maybe he shouldn’t, because there’s something here, and he doesn’t just mean that about the fact that the vigilante is just leaving what he’s pretty sure is villains who blew up a bank for fun. The vigilante is a suspect for a murder, a disappearance, and while Mumbo doesn’t quite believe that - he doesn’t know what to believe.

 

Their hands interlock anyways.

 

Poultry-man’s hands are smaller than his own, even covered by tailored leather gloves. But they’re strong - his own hands are pockmarked by burn scars from redstone, and there’s calluses on his fingertips from working with metal and rubber and there’s a scar across his thumb from an accident at the bistro and -

 

He wonders what Poultry-man’s hands look like. Are they scarred? (Do they have blood staining their cuticles?)

 

(This is shock, right?)

 

“I - they’ll be -” okay isn’t the right word, maybe, but Mumbo glances over to the two probably-villains.

 

“They’ll be alright,” Poultry-man says, and it’s stupid but something about the deep, fake voice, is soothing. It makes him believe the words.

 

And then gently, the hands wind up his arms, only for Poultry-man to pull him into an embrace. “Hold on,” is muttered into his ear, and the body he is pressed unfairly close to tenses. Mumbo feels his ears warming.

 

Mumbo tightens his own hold, as Poultry-man lifts off the ground, wind beating against them both as his wings lift them both up - which is, well, an experience.

 

They’re pressed so closely together, that he can feel muscles move underneath Poultry-man’s shirt, in time with his wings flexing. Mumbo holds his breath. 

 

It’s always been obvious that the vigilante is a bit shorter than him - but never more so than now. They’re chest to chest, but Mumbo’s legs dangle underneath the two somewhat awkwardly. 

 

It’s… a bit like a piggyback ride, honestly, if instead the rider was hanging for dear life off of the carrier’s front, and they’re both grown men, and perhaps it is nothing at all like a piggyback ride. 

 

The arms around him tighten a bit more, and it’s pinching and uncomfortable and wow , what kind of exercise do vigilantes go through that Poultry-man’s arms are like that . Especially since he’s, well. Kind of wiry, would be the kind way to think about it. A twink would be the less polite, but no less accurate, alternative.

 

If he was less fixated on the fact that he’s being flown away from a crime scene by a vigilante who is the fixation of a manhunt, Mumbo might be more affixed on the fact that he can carry his whole body weight, because, well. Hm.

 

Ren would laugh, if he saw him now. And call him gay, probably, which is both fair and incredibly rude of mental-Ren.

 

They fly over streets and rooftops, and the sound of police sirens blares in the distance. 

 

Poultry-man hisses something that Mumbo can’t make out after only a minute or two, and their altitude dips a little. “We’ll have to land,” he says louder, over the wind, and the words are strained.

 

Mumbo nods into his shoulder, feeling a bit silly, and after a moment, they dip further, until they fly low over an apartment building’s rooftop. 

 

It’s the tallest of the buildings surrounding the area, and Poultry-man lands with a hissed breath as his feet hit the surface somewhat roughly. Mumbo’s own find their way underneath him shortly after. He stands straight, moving away from the vigilante a bit too quickly, and the man lets him, hanging his head and breathing hard. 

 

He looks smaller, here. His white wings have seen better days - they’re muddy, and hang low on his back. Poultry-man is bent over, hands on his knees, and his chicken mask doesn’t look like it’s cartoonishly intimidating, nor does his trenchcoat look like a - something.

 

He just.

 

He looks like a guy, with giant wings, who just flew them out of a crime scene. Who has saved Mumbo - twice now.

 

“Poultry-man,” Mumbo calls, and his face does something twisted, akin to a grimace. The vigilante looks up, after a beat, and it’s - a little hard, still, to take the guy with a mask that has a beak , but he manages to still look tired . “Rough night?” he asks wryly, and the man laughs, something tired and a little hysterical. (It sounds familiar, the way his voice clips around the edges, but Mumbo doesn’t have the time to think of why .) 

 

“You could say that,” the vigilante says in that overly-gruff voice, though the effect is somewhat ruined by the levity in his voice. Poultry-man straightens, glances around the rooftop they’ve found themselves on. It’s mostly concrete and a few exhaust fans, but there’s a small area in one corner, with a few chairs set up around a lantern, like someone had seen one of those pretty rooftop gardens, but didn’t have much more than a lawn chair to contribute to the dream. “They’ll probably be distracted for a bit,” he says, and moves towards the setup. “If you don’t mind, we should probably stay low for a while.”

 

Mumbo raises an eyebrow as the vigilante sits heavily, angled so that his wings dangle over the side of the chair. The added limbs make the cheap furniture look tiny in comparison, even though the vigilante in question is fairly short.

 

He, after a beat, follows suit, sitting gingerly in the chair opposite Poultry-man. Its plastic weave creaks discomfitingly at him. “So,” he says awkwardly. “Speaking of man-hunts-”

 

Poultry-man throws his head back into a groan, mask tipping just the barest amount, and it’s both a bit nonplussing, and kind of funny, in a way where it feels like the scene would be more befit a - slumber party, or something. “Don’t remind me,” he groans, voice coming an octave or two above his usual gruff tone, and Mumbo’s lips quirk up despite himself.

 

This is serious, though, and he leans forward. “Look, mate,” he says awkwardly. “I don’t really believe that you’re the one to kill The Watcher, but - can you at least explain what’s going on?” Can you at least prove that you hadn’t , are the unspoken words, and they both know it.

 

Poultry-man’s head stays tipped back, for a moment. “It’s a bit hard to prove a negative,” he says finally, and he sounds - tired. He sounds like he could use a good nap, a good cup of coffee. “Look, Mumbo, I -” his voice catches, and Poultry-man looks down, stares at him. His wide, black eyes are unblinking, and Mumbo tries his best to match the gaze, even though it’s quite disconcerting.

 

There’s a breath. It is not the void, not a silent moment, per-say - the sirens in the distance blare, and people are talking on the streets. There’s shouts and panicked screams, and the sound of confusion that has permeated England thickly tonight. But the tension between them, as Poultry-man stares him down, feels like it. Feels silent and void-like and thick. A bowl, deciding if it should tip or not. A rope, considering dropping its load; considering fraying down to the last little strand, and snapping.

 

“I trust you,” Poultry-man says finally, and it’s breathed in that light voice that Mumbo thinks might be his true one; one that feels familiar, though he has no face come to mind. The three words are said like a revelation. They sink into his own lungs like helium, even though Mumbo does not know the true weight. 

 

He cannot even begin to imagine it, until Poultry-man’s gloved fingers lift up to his collarbone - one hand finding hold on the shiny white material, while the other seeks out a zipper Mumbo doesn’t realize is there until there’s a zipping sound. 

 

Mumbo makes a protest as the white material lifts, revealing a pale throat. “You don’t-” he begins to say, but it’s too late.

 

The entire head piece comes off as one, hat flopping sadly as soon as the support of the head is out from underneath it. And then, it lowers.

 

Mumbo feels frozen in time, heart in his throat, as he stares back at the man in front of him. A man with strawberry blond hair, mussed up in places due to an unprecedented amount of helmet-hair. He’s got brown eyes and freckles, and heavy eyebags.

 

“Grian?” Mumbo breathes, and it shouldn’t be true - but the man gives him a weak smile, something that seems weary around the edges - reminiscent of tea poorly steeped, of cookies gone cold.

 

“Surprise?” the man offers, and it is not in that gravelly voice, but the one that Mumbo has come to expect. The word is shaky around the edges, his wings tensed up and unnaturally smoothed behind him. Ready for the worst, Mumbo assumes. “I think we’re a day early, here, mixed up our Thursdays and Fridays.”

 

“Oh my word,” Mumbo says faintly. His eyes don’t leave Grian’s own. “I - hi,” he says faintly, and the smile becomes that little bit more true. 

 

“Hi,” Grian replies. “I suppose I’ve got a lot to explain-”

 

“I mean, it’s your life -” Mumbo tries to interrupt, and Grian waves his words away. 

 

“I - I didn’t kill The Watcher,” Grian says, and his tone of voice makes Mumbo shut up. “Or, well, not in the way people think. Technically I’m associated but - it’s me .”

 

Mumbo doesn’t know what that means. Doesn’t allow his brain to connect the dots. 

 

Not until Grian, grimacing, slowly holds out his hands between them, palms in the air. 

 

Purple.

 

He cradles his hands out like one would cup underneath running water, and slowly, purple energy pools in them, something shining and shimmering and electric . It makes Mumbo’s arm hair stand on end, and slowly, he reaches out. Grian pulls back for a moment, and Mumbo jerks back himself - but then, the man holds it back out again. An offering.

 

Transfixed, Mumbo touches the pool of sparking purple. 

 

It’s like - magic. Like carbonation, a bathbomb, an energy drink if it were some sort of - plasma, maybe? Like poprocks. The purple sparks against Mumbo’s skin, but it’s not painful, and he’s grinning dopily. The energy bubbles after a moment, and beneath his fingers, it shifts into a simple rose - purple, in all ways, from stem to petal. It’s solid underneath his gentle touch. 

 

After a moment, it fades - the purple sparks along Mumbo’s skin, but after some invisible signal, it pours back into Grian’s own, sinking into the skin. 

 

“It’s me,” Grian says again, softly, and Mumbo glances up at him. “I’m - I was The Watcher.”

 

The revelation sinks between them like the magic did, something heavy, shaped in a way Mumbo cannot begin to fathom the edges of. 

 

Right.

 

Grian looks anxious, hands pulled back into his lap. Mumbo stares at him and he looks pale and tired, worse than he’s ever been. His lips are not as pink as they usually are and there is a scrape against his cheek that is bloodied, slowly-blooming bruises against his jawline.

 

Right . 

 

Grian, the part-time college student with chronic bags under his eyes and a sense of humor that feels like a fire, is - was - the Watcher. And now he’s Poultry-Man, which is objectively a much lamer name, and - and - and Mumbo has befriended the very same hero who made international news, who’s been missing for weeks now. Who saved him twice, now. Who is being hunted for killing his alter ego, apparently.

 

“If I go from vigilante to villain, I’ve been saving the Jingler as an option,” Grian says suddenly, and his words are said with a nervous sort of ramble. The man looks… small, before him, in a way that doesn’t have to deal with height. He fidgets anxiously with the sleeve on his sweater.

 

“Why,” Mumbo says, and his mouth is suddenly a bit drier. There are so many things he should be asking, like ‘what happened’ and ‘how is the guy who dunks muffin into his tea and laughs like the sun the same person as the guy who took down a supervillain single-handedly’. Instead, he licks his lips, opens his mouth, and continues, “Why do the options only get worse? What, if you become a supervillain, you’re going to call yourself- The Blob ?”

 

“I was thinking more along the lines of The Entity.”

 

“That’s another cool one!” Mumbo sounds only half as exasperated as he thinks he should be. “What, do you only get the good names if there’s super affixed to your title?”

 

Grian laughs at him, and it is a little cut off and stunted, but it is still a good laugh. 

 

They sit in the quiet (or rather, as quiet as it can be, in a city that has just had explosions go off in its midst) for a while. Mumbo watches his companion, tries to reconcile the man who had saved the world with the same one who smiled around cups of coffee, who laughed with his co-workers. (Who Ren has said was good for him.)

 

“I don’t -” Mumbo starts, the words stopping themselves before he can even speak his piece. He tries again. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to tell me everything, yeah? It’s your history, and I believe you, mate, but-”

 

“Why?” Grian finishes, and Mumbo nods. Grian’s wings shift again, but they’re stretching this time, from tip to - well, whatever the joint between wing and skin is. Mumbo is an engineer, not a biologist. “I - well, it’s a long story. But I can give you a run-down, I guess.”

 

“No pressure, mate,” Mumbo tells him, and Grian’s eyes soften at him.

 

“I - the basics are this. I was in a training program with a few other teenagers, when I was fifteen. I had been selected originally because of a mutation that gave me wings, and eventually, I was eyed for a Hero position.”

 

Grian looks away, staring at something over the horizon that Mumbo cannot see. His fingers tighten slightly, over the chair arms - knuckles lightening even in the dimness of the rooftop.

 

“It - I thought that was it,” he says softly. “And then the division handling my case told me they had a unique opportunity for me. And I was stupid enough to take it.”

 

Mumbo… doesn’t like where this is going. He leans forward, a little.

 

“They uh - well. They gave me my object manipulation, I suppose, and a way to hide my wings - and the cost was, I was their puppet, in a way. A special little project -” and that, Grian spits with vitriol, eyes flashing and wings ruffling, not unlike a frightened cat’s posture. “I left.” He ends simply, and shrugs. “Four years as the top hero gives you a lot of connection opportunities, Mumbo.”

 

He doesn’t want to ask about that. Grian looks back, and Mumbo offers his hand between them - flat in the open space, a mimicry of when Grian had held out his purple .

 

After a moment, Grian takes off his glove, and a thin hand slots into Mumbo’s own. It’s warm, a little sweaty from the leather. (There is no blood on his fingertips. There’s a scar, one that goes down the middle of his palm, and his hands are calloused - especially the two forefingers, an archer’s mark.)

 

(The hand is soft, and warm, and their fingers intertwine perfectly together.)

 

“I’m sorry,” Mumbo says painfully genuinely - the type that aches like pure honey against the teeth. Grian’s face crumples a little, and the hand in his own squeezes. “I’m glad you’re out of that.”

 

“... I am too.”

 

They sit like that for a while. Hands between them, stretched out lightly over the space between them both. And it should be awkward, but the crease between Grian’s brows slowly lessens, shoulders slowly relaxing to his sides. The wings are an odd thing, still, but they rest against him easily. 

 

Mumbo’s lungs feel - settled. He feels settled, like this is perfectly normal, like he hasn’t had two life-threatening experiences in the last week. 

 

(It feels right.)

 

“You know -” Grian says eventually, pausing. “Thank you,” he says finally. “This all is - probably a bit odd, I don’t mean to break… whatever unspoken rule there is on the trust between baristas and customers.”

 

Mumbo chuckles. And he doesn’t pull back, and Grian is watching him, but he doesn’t pull back either.

 

“To be honest,” Mumbo says slowly, and he catches Grian’s gaze. “I don’t think we’ve been too typical?”

 

And maybe that’s - bold, or assumptive, but there’s a tilt to Grian’s lips, a twinkle in his eyes.

 

“I suppose not.”

 

There’s a beat, and then, Mumbo slowly grins. “So when you said you weren’t that tuned into any Supers-” 

 

Grian glares, and leans forwards, their hands disentangling, and he reaches forward to cradle Mumbo’s face. “Shut up,” he says without heat.

 

Mumbo looks at him wide-eyed. It feels like his heart has leapt into his throat, and a cat has caught his tongue. (Or rather, a bird.) 

 

From here, he can see it all. Grian is close, closer than they’ve ever been - without a chicken mask in the way, anyways - and Mumbo drinks in his face. The freckles across his cheekbones are like paint specks, like stars in the sky, and they draw Mumbo’s eyes across his face. There’s dried blood against his cheek, purple lining his jaw in a way that will last for days on end. 

 

His eyelashes are dark and long, and their eyes meet, and Mumbo feels like his heart could burst.

 

“Just how not-typical do you think we are?” Grian asks softly, and it’s - it’s a proposal, but his hands are gentle against Mumbo’s face, and his eyes are gauging. He’s closed quite a bit of the gap, but - it’s in Mumbo’s hands.

 

Mumbo feels like the chill of the night has been sapped out of the air, thinks his cheeks might be red even in the dim light - but he speaks softly. “We could find out,” he offers, leaning in infinitesimally. And Grian grins, pulling him down all the way - their lips colliding. 

 

Grian’s lips, Mumbo finds, are soft. 

 

They're soft, and kind of sweet, and the kiss feels like - it feels like the aftermath of an adrenaline crash, when you're safe and relaxed. 

 

His hands wind around Mumbo’s face, fingers gently dragging against skin, and Mumbo winds his own loosely around the man’s waist. A thumb traces along his cheekbone, and it feels like laying in the sun languidly, like opening your windows for the first time after months of winter. 

 

It is, to be frank, quite an effective strategy.

 

Mumbo pulls back after a moment to breathe, and when Grian’s eyes open he looks up at him, meeting his own with a smile. 

 

“As much as I like this,” Mumbo says, a little breathless, and Grian hums, “could we perhaps find somewhere a bit more romantic than a dingy rooftop?” 

 

Grian blinks, surprised, and then laughs warmly, before dragging Mumbo down for another kiss.

Notes:

if i have to think about this au for five more minutes I will not make it <3
I hope y'all enjoy! Now back to my regularly scheduled programming.