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Most of all Grian wished that whatever idiot had the bright idea to invent time travel had done so a week or two later. Obviously, he would rather they had never tried at all, but you have to be reasonable with your expectations, so he was willing to settle for just a little more time.
It sounded nice, of course.
Time travel - How wondrous.
Why not give it a try? Why wouldn’t the governments of the world sink a bit of money into a project led by an eccentric that had made a sufficiently large discovery in the area of temporal physics to prove that controlled jumps through time might be possible? Why not play god with the laws of physics?
The first jump had happened exactly three days before Scar and Grian’s wedding day. Across the world cars crashed, planes fell from the sky, hands slipped. The last fleeting seconds of a lifetime spent staring at the ‘0’ burning its way onto its owner's wrist.
Grian had been folding napkins on his lunch break, Scar had been at the florist tending to a last-minute emergency.
Grian had collapsed onto the desk, hitting his head and in the process knocking himself so far out he was sparred the worst of it. Next thing he knew he was slumped over his desk with a bloody nose, the half-folded napkin he had dropped lying on the floor, his left hand hanging limply next to it with the number ‘41’ newly branded onto his wrist.
The knowledge of what it meant had burnt itself into his mind alongside the timer on his wrist: Forty-one years left to live.
Even at the time, he wished he had thought of something more sensible first, but all he could really think of was what a wasted opportunity it would be to die at age 68.
His second thought, of course, had been to talk to Scar.
Fourteen missed calls later his then-fiancé had stepped in the door, out of breath and pale as death.
“I was driving,” Grian could only recall the words for how distant Scar had sounded when he spoke. “Do you have..?”
His slender fingers were shaking as they grasped at Grian’s sleeve.
That had hurt too, clumsy movements pulling on the raw burn wound. Grian nodded, nonetheless. The pain didn’t matter, not when Scar sighed with relief and kissed Grian’s palm as if it were the most valuable thing in the world.
In those few seconds, Grian had assumed Scar had feared a long life alone. It was only a moment later, when Scar had offered a teary smile and turned his own hand, Grian had recognised it as an entirely different sort of relief.
The number ‘7’ stood out in mockingly bright red on Scar’s tanned skin. It must have hurt when Grian gripped his arm and turned it in search of another digit, his nails digging in when he realised there wasn’t one.
“If you look at it on the bright side-” Grian recognised Scar's tone as deflection rather than humour. “You’re going to make a very handsome widower, and I hear dating in your thirties is a lot easier.”
Had they been given two years, Grian thought they might have travelled the world. They could have run so fast that it wouldn’t have hit him until Scar was actually gone. Instead, they proceeded as planned, living in the hollowed-out shell of the life they should have had.
Grian and Scar had been supposed to cry from happiness on their wedding day, not because some madman had made them aware the life they had planned together was not going to happen, had maybe even sealed this fate for them.
In some ways they were lucky. With a guaranteed forty-one years on Grian’s timer, they could get a mortgage, get out of the shitty one-bedroom rental on the bad side of town and into a moderately decent two-bedroom. It had a garden and everything - Scar’s idea - and the most well-maintained lawn on the street, thank you very much. Scar designed buildings and Grian worked on his PhD. On the weekends they took art classes together.
They had all the hallmarks of the perfect life.
Too bad it was never supposed to last.
One year turned to two, turned to five, and suddenly people were starting to smile just a little too brightly at them, from their neighbours to the cashiers in the supermarket. Scar was never one to cover up, and with his frequent hand gestures always drawing the eye to his wrist, it was impossible not to notice his number. But as long as Scar was happy, Grian was too. No, that was a lie. As long as Scar was happy, Grian could cope. As long as his last two years were meaningful, Grian could ignore the dark unknown that awaited him for thirty-odd years beyond.
There was only one notable exception, one thing Grian was loath to indulge Scar in...
“Ah, that would be Mumbo,” Scar said from the kitchen, the chimes of the doorbell dying down. “Will you get that?”
Grian sighed, leaving the plates on the half-set table. He knew it was nothing but sheer pettiness leading him to meander to the door as slowly as he could while still calling it walking, but could not bring himself to feel bad.
“Grian, mate, lovely to see you,” Mumbo greeted. He was far taller than any sensible person had the right to be, fidgeting with the buttons of his far too well-cut suit, smiling that deceptively innocent-looking smile that haunted Grian’s mind. “Didn’t see you on the train today.”
“I biked,” Grian muttered, reluctantly stepping aside to let Mumbo snake his way through the narrow hallway. He observed the other man take off his shoes, making sure not to miss a single movement.
“Oh, good idea. I should probably get into that,” Mumbo laughed. - that stupid little giggle which echoed in Grian’s ears whenever Mumbo wasn’t around.
“In here,” Scar beckoned from the kitchen “I’m making peach cobbler for dessert.”
“Your mother’s recipe?” Mumbo’s face lit up and he walked right into the kitchen as if he had any right to make himself at home like that.
Grian bit his tongue. Scar liked Mumbo. Mumbo was Scar’s guest, and, apparently one of his oldest friends. An old friend Grian had only met last year, who had moved across the globe and changed his name, before ‘coincidentally’ running into Scar on his regular coffee run. Sure, that sounded likely.
“Now, Mumbo, do you think there is any other cobbler I would even consider offering a guest in my house, let alone my best friend?”
Grian untensed, his blood boiling a little less at the sight of his husband, whose smile was wide, his eyes alight with excitement.
Scar was happy, Grian reminded himself. And if there was ever any danger of that changing he was here to make sure no one - especially not Mumbo - would change that.
“Can I help with anything? Set the table, perhaps?” Mumbo offered, looking at Grian with those wide eyes of his.
Grian opened his mouth to reply, but before he could think of a polite way of telling Mumbo that he absolutely wasn’t allowed to go snooping through the cupboards, Scar interrupted him with a wave of the wooden spoon in his hand.
“Absolutely not. You look like you haven’t slept at all since you were last over -” two days ago, his visits were getting far too frequent, Grian thought “- sit down, have a drink. Grian was already working on it, anyway.”
“If you’re certain,” Mumbo said meekly, playing the part perfectly as always.
This thought stuck with Grian while he continued to set up for their Friday night dinner for three.
Nervous Mumbo, who would never hurt a fly, whose past was murkier than the downtown river, who only really started to show up regularly once he learned that Scar only had three - now two - years left to live.
Scar was blinded by their past friendship, or perhaps he simply didn’t want to see how easy he had made it for Mumbo to exploit him.
It was a question of why. The way Mumbo had uprooted his whole life, had changed his name from the one Scar knew him under as a child even, reeked of trouble.
A crash from the kitchen made him jump, cutlery scattering on the table, abandoned as Grian raced to see what had happened, if Scar was okay.
“I’m so sorry, Scar,” Grian heard from the kitchen, hand clenched hard on the door handle as he yanked the door open to see-
Mumbo was on the floor, clutching his hand to his chest, the sad remains of a glass and the water it had contained, scattered on the tiles in front of him. There was blood on his hand, Grian realised with a start.
“None of that,” Scar chided gently. “We have a first aid kit in the bathroom. Go and get that cleaned and get a band-aid, I’ll clean up.”
Mumbo looked up, looking like a kicked puppy when he saw Grian.
“I’m sorry if I scared you, Gri,” he said, picking himself up and retreating to help himself to a plaster just as Scar had suggested.
Scar didn’t move until the stairs had stopped creaking, careful not to cut himself like Mumbo had done.
“I’m worried about him, G,” Scar sighed. “He hasn’t told you what’s bothering him, has he?”
“Not a word, no.”
He went into the cupboard to get a rag, kneeling on the floor next to Scar.
“His hands were shaking too much for him to hold the glass.”
Scar’s tone was heartbreaking, there was no other word for it. How could Grian not worry he would be hurt when he cared so deeply for Mumbo?
“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Grian tried to comfort him.
Scar sighed as he stood up, throwing the remnants of their glass out.
“We’ll keep an eye on him,” he added, cursing himself for it already. Mumbo practically lived here at this point. At least it seemed to assuage some of the tension in Scar’s posture.
“Keep an eye on who?” The door creaked open and Grian jumped, having completely missed the other's return from the bathroom.
“A cat,” Scar responded immediately, the lie slipping seamlessly from his tongue, “It has been showing up on our porch every day the past week, I’m starting to worry it doesn’t have a home to go back to.”
“Odd, I don’t recall seeing a cat any of the times I’ve been here this week,” Mumbo said.
Yes, odd indeed, given he had been here three times already…
“No? He was just here. Anyway, how is that hand of yours? Better?”
Thankfully not immediately suspicious, Mumbo nodded.
“Your first aid kit could use some work, though. It’s badly stocked.”
“Next time we are at the shops,” Scar agreed. “For now, dinner. G, did you get the table?”
“Sure,” he said, watching how the Mumbo puttered about on Scar’s trail.
Scar carried most of the conversation over dinner, ranting about a big project and the company asking him to come in at 6.30 this morning to go over all of it for the hundredth time before the lead architect on the project took it to the town hall for review.
For his part, Grian did listen, though a portion of his attention remained fixed on Mumbo, who appeared to be hanging off of Scar’s every word.
It was in moments like this that Grian could almost convince himself Mumbo did care after all. As always the illusion was broken, his suspicion rekindled, when Scar prompted Mumbo to talk about their shared past and Mumbo barely had anything to add. Instead, he asked about Grian’s work, foregoing the usual ornithology bird jokes to actually inquire about Grian’s research - to get him talking and deflect attention away from his own intentions, no doubt.
After dessert they moved to the living room, it having been decided that TV and some quiet time was all any of them could muster on this dull Friday night. Grian found his usual spot on the couch, Scar’s head settling his lap not a moment later.
“Hello, you.”
Grian ran his hand through Scar’s hair as he spoke, finding peace in how his husband sighed and leaned into the touch.
“Hello, handsome,” Scar purred, closing his eyes and nuzzling against Grian. “You’ve been quiet tonight. Something on your mind?”
“You,” Grian said, opting for the truth - part of it, anyway.
“Aren’t you a charmer?” Scar sounded confident as ever, but the flush of his cheeks betrayed him. Goodness, but Grian loved this man.
“Mumbo, you good over there?” Scar asked, his words sweetened by the fact that he was still studying Grian’s face with obvious intent in his eyes.
Grian tore his eyes away from the love of his life to look at Mumbo. He was in his usual chair - the fact that he had one of those entirely disagreeable to Grian - watching the two of them.
What was he thinking, Grian wondered? He could almost convince himself the spark of care in Mumbo’s eyes was genuine…
And of course, he wanted it to be. For Scar. And Mumbo… Mumbo might care on some level, but there were still too many things about him that weren’t adding up, too much of the time between him and Scar losing touch and them meeting again that Mumbo refused to talk about.
Mumbo hummed in response, leaning back in the chair and turning to look at whatever was on the tv. He did look exhausted, Scar was right about that much. Then again, the dark circles under Mumbo’s eyes were permanently cemented as the most prominent feature of his face in Grian’s mind.
His eyes trailed back to Scar, whose eyes were still trained on his face.
“You’re going to fall asleep like this,” Grian warned him.
“I won’t,” Scar promised. “Your leg isn’t nearly a good enough pillow for that.”
“Well, I’ve never!” Grian protested, flicking Scar’s arm, immediately petting the spot before he started to complain. “I don’t know if I want you lying in my lap if you’re going to be like that about it.”
Grian’s own laughter formed a harmony with Mumbo’s when Scar whined loudly in complaint.
“Don’t make me move, I’ll behave.”
“Now that would be a heel turn,” Mumbo chimed in.
This too, Grian could not help but snort at.
They made minimal small talk after that. As predicted, Scar was out like a light not ten minutes later, hugging Grian’s left forearm to his chest.
Grian, for his part, watched Mumbo, ever vigilant for signs of ill intent. Other than the occasional glance in their direction he was either remarkably absorbed in the telenovela Scar had insisted they must watch, or he was so far off in his own world that he completely failed to realise Grian was staring directly at him.
“Mumbo?”
He sat up with a start, blinking frantically, almost as if he had forgotten to do so for quite some time.
“Sorry, did you say something?”
“Just your name.” Grian kept his voice soft. “Can I turn off the tv? I don’t want it to wake Scar.”
Mumbo stretched, eyes running over Scar’s prone form before he nodded.
For several long minutes, the only sound in the room was Scar’s even breathing. Now certain Mumbo was off somewhere in his own world, Grian could not help but think of what Scar had said in the kitchen. Mumbo’s hands weren’t shaking now, instead clutching the armrests of the chair as if they were a lifeline.
Something was wrong, and regardless of whether he liked Mumbo or not, Grian certainly did not enjoy seeing someone in pain.
“Mumbo?” He ventured. “Are you okay? You seem a little off tonight.”
Mumbo’s movements were sluggish, his head turning towards Grian.
“Not really.” A moment passed before Mumbo visibly realised he had said that out loud. “Just… work stuff, you know? I’ve hit a bit of a dead end.” he hastened to add.
His occupation was another thing Mumbo was eternally vague about. He was self-employed, his field somewhere in the realm of the sciences - though not biology, like Grian himself - and that was about the extent of Grian’s knowledge.
So naturally, Grian could not help but ask:
“Is it something you want to talk about?”
Mumbo ran his hands over his face.
“It’s nothing exciting. Not like you and Scar. Mostly just equations that refuse to add up.”
That was all Mumbo was going to give away? ‘Equations’? That could make him anything from an astrophysicist to a chemistry teacher!
Before he could probe further, however, Mumbo continued to add:
“I know I’ve been crowding you two as of late, that you need time to yourselves too, but if I’m being honest I don’t think I would stay sane without the two of you. So thank you for that”
Something ugly made itself known in Grian’s chest.
“I didn’t realise you felt that way,” he admitted. He swallowed, his heart no less heavy for it.
Mumbo’s smile stood out by how, for once, it reached his eyes.
“Grian, the two of you are my best mates, there’s no one I would rather spend time with.”
There was no avoiding it. He had to acknowledge the feeling as what it was now - guilt. Here he was trying to pry information from Mumbo, and meanwhile, Mumbo was apparently stressed to the point of relying on a man that only reluctantly accepted his presence for emotional support.
Someone with ill intent would play on his feelings this way, the rational part of his mind reminded him. Another part, meanwhile, began to wonder if he might, possibly, have got it all wrong. This was rubbish either way, Grian decided.
Wedging a cushion under Scar’s head in his place, Grian wriggled out from under his sleeping husband.
“What’s-” Mumbo started. “Oh.”
The way Mumbo melted into the hug Grian was offering seemed to support the latter hypothesis, irrefutable but for the possibility of Mumbo being a master actor.
“You’ve never hugged me before,” Mumbo informed him.
“I haven’t?” The unspoken lie that he had not known this already tasted bitter on his tongue. “You could have asked if you wanted one.”
“I didn’t want to presume. I was starting to think they might be a Scar-exclusive premium.”
(Heavens, Grian hoped Mumbo really was pretending, or the shame would follow him to the end of his days.)
His traitorous mouth spoke before he could think to stop it.
“You’re always welcome here, you know. Especially if things are this bad. Scar and I don’t mind… in fact, he would exile me to the couch for weeks if I didn’t tell you to stay the night. You’re in no condition to walk home.”
Mumbo looked at him for several moments before nodding.
“Well, I wouldn’t want to cause issues in your marriage.”
The joke was not too funny, but the way Mumbo’s seemed to light up when Grian laughed made it impossible not to carry on doing so a little longer. Oh, bother, all of this was making Grian’s head spin.
“You go ahead and get the spare bedroom, I’ll wake Scar and get him to bed,” he said.
Mumbo rose to his feet, looming over Grian. He paused, opening his arms in silent request.
Their second hug was no less emotionally awkward, but at least physically it was less so, on account of both of them standing this time.
“Thank you,” Mumbo sighed. “Goodnight, Grian.”
“Night, Mumbo.”
Grian remained in place as he watched the other retreat, listening for the patter of his footsteps and the creaking of the door.
Scar woke far easier than expected, eyelashes fluttering as he opened his eyes.
“What did I say?” Grian teased. “You did fall asleep.”
“Nonsense… What’s that British word of yours? Bish-, something?”
“Pish posh,” he supplied “Is what you might say if I weren’t entirely correct.”
Scar waved his hand, letting the momentum carry it to Grian’s upper arm. He used it to leverage himself close enough to kiss Grian.
It should have been lovely, Grian thought. In a lot of ways it was. Yet part of his mind remained preoccupied with Mumbo, with the confusing feelings that surrounded him, and the hug the two of them had shared.
“Something the matter?” Scar’s fingertips trailed over Grian’s biceps as he spoke.
Grian was quick to smile at him. “Well, seeing as I didn’t have an impromptu nap, I’m feeling a little tired.”
“We can’t have that,” Scar tutted, offering him a hand up. “Let me take you to bed… No, not like that.”
Grian snorted. “I was about to say - Mumbo is still here. I told him to stay the night.”
Once inside the confines of their bedroom, he added: “You were right, you know. He is struggling with some work thing right now. I think it has him really worked up.”
Getting ready for bed was a well-rehearsed dance for them. Scar brushed his teeth while Grian undressed, and a moment later Grian would ignore the urge to poke at Scar’s midriff when he put on a sleeping shirt that had most definitely been Grian’s to start with.
“Well, as long as it's only that...” Scar was sitting in bed at this point. “Grain, can we talk? About Mumbo. I’ve been thinking about something.”
Grian sat down at their vanity, making eye contact with Scar through the mirror before he began brushing out the knots in his hair.
“Sure.”
“Now, this is just starting the conversation, this isn’t a yes or no question. How would you feel about inviting Mumbo to join our relationship?”
The brush tore harshly through a particularly stubborn knot, absolving the problem by tearing a significant amount of hairs off Grian’s head.
“What?!”
Scar brought a finger to his mouth to shush him, gentle rather than chiding. “Alright, that definitely wasn’t the reaction I expected. We have talked about the possibility of dating other people before and you were open to that. Did that change or is it Mumbo you’re objecting to?”
Grian set the hairbrush down and rose from the vanity, joining Scar on the soft bed. A warm hand found him, fingers lacing with his.
“This is just a little out of the blue,” he said, wanting to stick with the truth. “I didn’t know you felt that way about him.”
“I’m not sure that I do just yet, but I think I could do so very easily. I already love him as a friend, there’s definitely attraction on the physical side, and lately, I think there’s been a spark of something else too. I was hoping things would get better for him and we could approach him about it then, but... Well, no time like the present, is there? Until a moment ago I was sure you felt similarly, but now I’m less certain.”
Grian closed his eyes and leaned back against the headboard. The reminder of Scar’s impending death made his heart clench as always, but for the sake of both himself and Scar, he put that aside in favour of focusing on the matter at hand.
“He confuses me, Scar, and I don’t like being confused.” He did his best to keep any malice from his tone as he continued: “He’s hiding a lot of things from us.”
“He is,” Scar agreed. “And if he is interested there are questions I would ask him to answer before our relationship moves any further, just like I’m sure he would have questions for us. But the way I see it he’s handsome, smart, funny, we both care about him… And maybe it works, maybe it doesn’t, but at least we’ll have tried.”
Grian bit his lip.
“You’ll be cross with me for this,” he warned. “I’m not worried for me. I know you don’t want to think about the timer, but…”
“I’m thinking about it,” Scar revealed. “That’s why I don’t want to wait. I like him and I think this will work, and I don’t want to sit there at the end of my life grieving over lost time. I know you worry about me, but I worry about you too, G. And I don’t want you to do this for my sake, but there’s a long time left on your timer, and I certainly would feel better knowing you won’t spend it all alone.”
Grian blinked at him, trying to process the new information.
“I-” he tried, clamming up when no more words found their way into his mouth.
“That was too much,” Scar realised. “I’m sorry. You’ve been approaching this with an open mind, hearing me out, and now I need to give you time to process.”
His hand settled on Grian’s thigh, squeezing it gently.
“I love you.”
Grian nodded, resting his head on Scar’s shoulder.
“I love you… and, now, don’t think I mean this in a bad way, but you certainly know how to keep a man on his toes.”
Scar’s shoulder bopped underneath Grian’s head as he laughed, sending a cascade of hair into his face. He huffed and waved it away.
“Well, you know what they say about keeping the spark alive- Wait, did you hear that?”
Scar could only be referring to the thud that had just come from the guest room.
“I did,” Grian confirmed, sitting up.
Most likely Mumbo had just knocked something over. That nightstand had always been wobbly, hence its exile from the master bedroom. Grian almost hoped it had broken, if only for the excuse to replace it.
Mumbo would be upset if it had, though. Grian could vividly imagine his clouded eyes and the obvious attempt at a brave face he would wear. With a startling realisation, it occurred to Grian that really did not want that to happen again.
“I’ll just go see what happened,” he volunteered. “You’re already in bed.”
Scar’s cheek was soft beneath Grian’s lips, gifting his husband a parting kiss before as he meandered to the guest room.
“Mumbo?” he called. “Can I come in?”
The sound of something dragging across the carpet was all but obscured by the house creaking under the strain of the wind.
If this was the moment it turned out Mumbo was indeed trying to rob them or something equally sinister Grian was going to be incredibly cross with the universe for spring irony of that magnitude on his on a dull and grey Friday evening.
“Mumbo?” he tried again.
He strained his ear. Was Mumbo… whispering to himself? Now that was just odd - possibly even cause for concern.
“I’m coming in,” he warned, turning the doorknob. “Look, if you broke something it really isn’t a problem, we can always repla- Mumbo!”
The sound of the noise became immediately obvious. A lamp had toppled, fallen off the dresser when a body had collided with it at high speed. Mumbo’s body, to be specific.
“Mumbo,” he repeated, rushing forward.
For one blessed moment, he thought Mumbo had only fallen.
Then his hand landed on Mumbo’s upturned back and come back sticky and red. Obscured by the long shadows of the night, camouflaged by the dark suit Mumbo wore, the bloodstain had not been obvious, but now it was all Grian could focus on.
Grian wondered faintly when Mumbo had had the time to change his clothes, a thought that was left to dissipate when Mumbo gasped and writhed in a futile attempt at shaking Grian’s hand off.
“Easy.” He tried to sound as soothing as possible, looking around for what might have hurt Mumbo so badly in the first place.
“Sorry,” Mumbo managed, managing to push himself into an upright position. “I panicked and I didn’t know where else to go.”
It had to be blood loss, Grian thought. Why else would Mumbo look so much worse than he had not fifteen minutes ago? Paler, thinner, the bags under his eyes far more prominent… had he been in such dire need of a haircut earlier? Odd how Grian had missed that.
“What happened?” Grian asked, tugging Mumbo towards the bed so he could sit down.
You should not move a person that has been stabbed if at all avoidable, a part of Grian’s mind, dormant since his misspent youth, chided. He shut it up by pointing out that there wasn’t even anything Mumbo could have stabbed himself this badly on in the room, so obviously he must have moved here from somewhere else himself, and that ship had sailed long before Grian stepped in to help Mumbo get more comfortable.
“I didn’t know he had a gun,” Mumbo told him, as if that made any sense.
A chill ran down Grian’s spine. Surely if there was someone in the house he would have passed them on the way, right?
“SCAR,” he called over his shoulder. He could only hope his husband heard him.
“I’m so sorry,” Mumbo told him, grasping at Grian’s fingers with his own shaking hands. “I didn’t mean for it to be like this, please, you have to believe me. I only meant to leave for a moment, you weren’t even supposed to notice I had been gone.”
Grian would be surprised if Mumbo was not in shock already, but instinct kicked in anyway.
“Mumbo, look at me,” he requested. Those grey eyes did not meet his, though Mumbo was clearly looking at his face. “I am going to call an ambulance. In a moment Scar will be here and he will help me help you while we wait for it to arrive, okay?”
Mumbo’s gaze was sharpened steel as it fixed on his. “No ambulance. No hospital.”
“What? Mumbo, you need to see a doctor or you might bleed out! This is serious.”
“No hospital,” he repeated. His left shoulder continued to slump as though an invisible weight had been tied to it, making his attempt at sitting up straight a futile one. “Grian, you have to promise. No hospital. They would tear me limb from limb.”
Grian’s mind protested the notion, but rationally he knew that now was not the time for arguing.
…How bad could the trouble Mumbo was outrunning be? And what did it mean for him and Scar, with the mounting evidence that perhaps Grian cared far more for Mumbo than he had believed up until tonight?
“I need to see the wound,” he ordered, instincts from a previous life he preferred not to think about setting in. Judging by the bloodstains on both sides of Mumbo’s shoulder the bullet must have gone all the way through. Small mercies. “I’m going to remove your shirt.”
“Do you have to?” Mumbo whined, his face screwing up in pain as he tried to cover himself.
Grian grasped his wrist, firmly but gently putting Mumbo’s hand on the bed. “Now really isn’t the time to get self-conscious. If we aren’t going to the hospital, I’m going to need to clean and bandage your wound. I’ve done it before, long ago. Do you trust me?”
Mumbo shivered, harbingering the whine that left his parted lips.
“If I were in a little less pain I would ask you to explain that, but yes, I do.”
Time was of the essence, but nonetheless, Grian took a moment to squeeze Mumbo’s good hand.
“Later. And on that same occasion, you might also tell us who shot you, and how in the world you managed to get in and out of the house so quickly without us hearing from the bedroom.”
Grian’s bloodied fingers painted blooming poppies on Mumbo’s white shirt in place of the buttons he was undoing. The skin beneath was clammy and cold, Mumbo’s heart beating hard enough that Grian could feel it reverberating through his whole body.
He could not help but glance down for reassurance. He could not think of a single time he had seen Mumbo out of his suit, and Grian was more aware than ever that he had no idea how many years the world had awarded Mumbo to live.
What he saw was enough to derail Grian’s brain entirely, overriding his engrained knowledge of first aid. He was certain he had Mumbo’s left wrist in his grasp, and yet there was the skin, unmarred and pristine.
“Why don’t you have a timer?” Grian’s voice sounded distant, his eyes remaining fixed on the blank spot where it should have been.
“I’m sorry,” Mumbo whispered as if that was any sort of answer.
Grian had met and heard of people without a left wrist for the timer to go on, but usually, it could be found on the second closest place on their bodies. Their forearm, chest, shoulder... not that it mattered since Mumbo obviously had a left hand.
Was this why Mumbo feared for his life? Had he somehow not been branded by the cataclysmic consequences of one person’s playing god? Was he worried that he would be taken away for study if anyone found out?
A thought intruded on Grian’s mind. Every human being alive on that day had been branded, every person born since had already had one when they entered the world. So for someone to not have a timer… well that would imply they had been somewhere else when humanity was branded.
Somewhen else?
“Mumbo, what have you done?” Grian’s voice was barely above a whisper, all of the odd-sized puzzle pieces finally forming up to make a picture, one that made his lung seize with panic.
The bane of all humanity sat wide-eyed on the guest bed.
Grian reached for him, only for Mumbo to flinch back, dripping blood all over the pristine white sheets.
“Sit still,” Grian told him, the words sounding far harsher than he had intended. “You’ll make it worse.”
“I couldn’t tell you,” Mumbo pleaded. “Look at this… they’re hunting me, Grian, that’s how they want me dead. My presence is enough to put you in danger, so if the two of you had known-”
The door opened with a click, making Grian jump in place. One moment he was facing Mumbo, the next he had whirled around, grabbing the nearest item - a vase - as a weapon.
The sight of Scar in the door made him drop his stance.
“Wow there, G, it’s just-” Scar cut himself off when he saw the man Grian was shielding. “What happened to Mumbo?!”
“Scar, it’s him,” Grian despaired, entirely unsure who he should be defending from whom. “He’s the guy with the time machine.”
Scar snorted.
“Grian, don’t be silly, Mumbo would have told us something like that.”
The silence that followed could only have stretched for a moment, yet it felt like an eon. Grian watched Scar’s face twist in horror as Mumbo’s lack of immediate protest confirmed Grian’s claims.
“Oh.”
Realising his husband would need a moment to process, Grian knelt on the bed, taking care not to move too fast. The mattress springs creaked under his knees.
“I’m not going to hurt you, okay?” he tried to keep the whirlpool of emotions in his gut from spilling into his words. “But we’re going to expect some answers from you once you are better, okay?”
Mumbo’s eyes darted wildly between the two of them. With a tired nod, he sagged back against the headboard, dropping his guard.
“I trust you.”
Mumbo’s voice wavered too much, his breathing far too erratic. They had to act fast, Grian could tell.
“We can’t take him to the hospital.” Mumbo had been right about that much. His odds were far better here, where the only two people that would have to see his unmarked wrist wanted him to survive. “Scar, will you get the first aid kit?”
“Right,” Scar agreed, immediately spurred into motion. Something about his tone made Grian suspect he too was recalling Mumbo’s comment earlier tonight about the woefully lacking state of said medical supplies. “I’ll only be a moment.”
“Hurry,” Grian cautioned nonetheless, bundling up Mumbo’s shirt and pressing it against the bullet wound to staunch the bleeding.
Mumbo groaned, resting his head on Grian’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” he said for what must be the hundredth time. “It was never supposed to be this way. I’ve been trying to fix it, and I know I shouldn’t have gotten you involved, I just couldn’t help it. You’re both so kind to me, far kinder than I deserve.”
“Mumbo, don’t be such a spoon,” Grian chided. “You… you’re too smart for that. You’re the inventor of the time machine, you have to be too smart for that.”
It was odd. On multiple levels Grian still disliked Mumbo, and yet he hated the idea of the man speaking down to himself like this.
Mumbo whined, his shoulder tensing up under Grian’s grip and making blood seep through the folded fabric of the shirt.
“Don’t call me that, please.”
“Okay.” Agreeing seemed to be his best bet here. “How did you get shot anyway? It can’t have been in here, so-” Realisation set in, Mumbo’s earlier comment about only being gone a moment echoing in his ears. “… Did you use it again?”
“Have been for years.” It was no confession, but rather a statement of fact. Mumbo fumbled for his pocket with his uninjured arm, pulling out a silver box no larger than a matchbox, turning it in his hand for Grian to see its smooth surface.
“I swore it off after the first journey. And I tried to set it right without using the machine, I did. It was a decade before I realised I hadn’t aged a day since my first trip, another before I almost got caught for the first time and had to use it again. And when nothing happened the second time, or the third, or the fifth, or the tenth… After that I began to perfect it. Made it more portable, more user-friendly. I’ve only been using it to stretch our time together, lately, though.”
Grian had so many questions, the most prominent of which was this: How long had Mumbo been alone?
“I can’t die,” Mumbo begged him. “Not until I’ve set it all right.”
He was going to, though, Grian realised. He had lost far too much blood already, his panic doing nothing to help.
A hand landed on his shoulder. Grian did not look away from his ailing… whatever Mumbo was to him at this point. Acquaintance? Friend? Patient? Would-be-lover?
“Grian, I need you to come with me for a moment.” Fury scratched at Grian’s insides. Why did Scar sound so calm? With everything that had happened in the last few minutes, how could he be? “Trust me, Grian.”
He turned in one slow motion, still holding Mumbo in his arms, ready to protect him.
“Where is the first aid kit?”
“In a moment,” Scar assured. “Just come with me.”
Grian looked back at Mumbo, whose eyes were wide, nostril flaring with every shaking breath.
“A moment,” Grian told him gently, laying him down on the bed and placing his hand on top of the blood-soaked shirt. “Don’t let go of that.”
Mumbo looked at him with equal parts fear and trust in his eyes, nodding as Scar’s warm hands pulled Grian away, a steady guide that tugged him back to their bedroom.
Scar closed the door behind them.
“Wha-” A thump and a surprised yelp that was distinctly Mumbo’s cut him off. “Scar, he’s going to die if we don’t do something immediately.”
“You’re right,” Scar agreed, turning outside to face Grian. It was only now he realised Scar was no longer in his sleepwear, but rather in an orange and blue get-up Grian had never seen before in his life. The expression on his face was a little to the left of any Grian knew what to call. “Which is why I had to get you out of there so you can save him.”
Grian’s breath caught, his eyes roaming Scar’s form. The outfit was far from the only thing changed. His hair was longer, his form stronger, and… was that an engagement ring next to his wedding ring?
Grian could think of only one explanation.
“We are going to use the time machine?!” he squawked, for lack of anything better. Oh, this evening just kept getting better…
Scar took his hand again, pulling him towards their en suite.
“Oh, we are going to do more than that,” he promised, abandoning turning on the water and letting it wash over Grian’s bloodstained fingers until the water ran clear.
“I’m in the next room over,” Grian said, helpfully. How did his own future self look? What technology did he have that could save Mumbo at this point?
“Astute as ever, lovely,” Scar praised. “Let’s get you changed into some clothes that have a little less blood on them, okay?”
“Mumbo-” he tried, when Scar’s finger landed his lips cut him off.
“Mumbo will be fine. Trust me, I would not have left him if I didn’t trust you to take care of him.”
“He was going into shock,” Grian protested.
Scar raised an eyebrow at him. “And how would you have talked him down? You, who just realised your preoccupation with his motivation was a misplaced attempt at ignoring your feelings for him?”
“I am not- Scar! That is not true!”
Scar turned his head. “Whoops,” he mussed. “I think I should have realised you had some help with that realisation a little sooner, actually.”
Grian was halfway through mentally preparing his retort when the implications caught up to him.
“We do this a lot, then? Mess around with our own past?”
Scar rolled his eyes. “If I were half as bad for it as you make me out to be I would tell you right now that we know with absolute certainty that meeting your own future self will have no world-ending consequences whatsoever.”
Grian’s head ached. Messing with time travel was one thing, but doing so without even understanding what they were doing?
“What?! Scar!”
“Oh.” Scar’s face fell. “Oh, I swear, if I am the one that planted that paranoia in your head… Do you know how many times I’ve had to hear you lecture me about interfering with our own timelines? A Lot, Grian! And now you’re telling me it’s all my own fault? Oh, cruel ironies.”
The substance was as far from anything that could be considered normal as it could get, but the wrapping of Scar lamenting the consequences of his own actions - and in doing so telling Grian to stop fussing so much over him - was so familiar Grian’s world stopped spinning for the first time since he had found Mumbo with a bullet hole in his shoulder.
For lack of anything better to do, he flopped onto the bed, sprawling on top of the bedspread and studying the pattern of the uneven paint job in the ceiling while he tried to wrap his mind around it all.
A moment later the bed dipped next to him and a hand settled on his knee.
“I am downstairs with Mumbo right now,” Scar started. “Future Mumbo, I mean. And let me tell you, I was half convinced I was going mad - and he did a much better job of this than I have been doing.”
“You’re doing just fine,” Grian replied automatically.
The hand trailed up his leg and settled on his hip as Scar lay down next to him. His brown hair lay like delicate ribbons around his face as he turned his piercing green eyes on Grian.
“I have been married to you for far too long for you to be able to lie to me, love.”
Somewhere from the middle of the queue of problems Grian was mentally trying to work through, one cut ahead at Scar’s beckoning.
“How long has it been for you?” he dared to ask. If Mumbo had stopped ageing when he travelled in time, did that mean Scar..?
Long fingers grasped his, guiding them to hold Scar’s left forearm.
Grian pulled it closer, squinting as he tried to catch the faded silver scars in the light. He looked up at Scar, at the wide smile on his face and all the love in the world in his gaze.
“A lot more than two years,” Scar promised. “In fact-” he trailed a finger over the scar on Grian’s own wrist, sending a shiver down his spine. “-More time than you were owed as well… Looking pretty good for a guy in his eighties, aren’t I?”
Grian wondered how you were supposed to respond to a statement like that. Well, could you blame the human mind for stuttering in response to affronts to physics it should never have been faced with?
“I need to talk to Scar,” Grian announced, having decided this was far too much to deal with alone. ‘Our future selves showed up with our prospective boyfriend in tow. Oh, and you aren't dying after all, isn't that wonderful’ had to be the sort of thing you really ought to talk to your husband about...
“Right here,” Scar - the future one - said. “Look, I’m a little fuzzy on the details at this point, but I know that eventually you come and join us downstairs. So if I promise to let you pass and let you go downstairs eventually, can you at least stay here long enough to give yourself room to work? For Mumbo’s sake.”
Mumbo, who was dying. Mumbo, who could not possibly be dead because he was also downstairs talking to Scar, something that must be true or the Scar who was up here would not have told Grian so, thus enabling Grian to one day save Mumbo.
“This is giving me a headache,” he complained. “Fine, fine I promise.”
Scar smiled at him. “Wonderful. Relax, then. I can’t tell you a lot, but I think you will like the parts I can tell you about.”
Should he really be doing this, Grian wondered?
Oh, who was he kidding, there was no way he did not take in every bit of information Scar had to offer.
“So, us and Mumbo, huh?” he asked. Perhaps not the most pressing of questions, but certainly the most normal, making it the only place he could think to start. “Bit much of you to spring it on me like that, and then show up fifty-odd years older and married to the guy.”
Scar laughed, apparently judging it too loud by how he clasped his hand over his own mouth.
“Not married to him yet, getting that man to take a break long enough to plan a wedding is task enough for both of us,” he revealed. “Once you stop thinking he’s out to steal our barely-existent savings, or whatever it was you were scared of, you realise he’s not so bad after all. In about a month or so you’ll be head-over-heels for him, blushing and stuttering your way through asking him to explain temporal mechanics to you.”
Grian could feel the warmth in his own cheeks, though Scar’s - somewhere between smug and adoring - would have been plenty of evidence to tell him he was already flushing bright red.
“I don’t think you should be telling me, that,” he pointed out, poking Scar’s side.
“Ah, Gri!” Scar protested, squirming away. It was such a Scar thing to do Grian could almost pretend this was a normal evening. “Well, you don’t know if I’m telling the truth, do you? Maybe it isn’t forbidden future knowledge. I could just be teasing you.”
Grian rolled his eyes at him. “Oh, I pity those two, they must have their hands full with you. You love getting to be this cryptic, don’t you?”
Scar winked. “Just one of the many perks of the job… I would have thought you would be much more interested in my illicit knowledge of the future, by the way.”
“Oh, I am,” Grian nudged him. “I am just doing future me a favour by keeping you in line. But please, go ahead, tell me what you can.”
Scar’s smile widened.
“Well, let’s start at the beginning, why don’t we? Tomorrow Mumbo is going to wake up, and you and I are going to have our work cut out for us convincing him to bring us on board his team - that his team should consist of more than just him, cooped up in a lab and only venturing out when the isolation gets too much for him to see straight.
“He won’t tell you this, so I will - he has been doing this alone for decades at this point, and I’m not going to lie to you, he is a little bit of a mess, G - Getting shot is just the start of it. But boy, oh boy, is it worth it.” Scar paused, stroking Grian’s cheekbone with the back of his hand. “Grian, we are going to see so many places, so many times we would never have been able to go to, and we get to do it together, just the three of us.”
As always, Scar’s voice soothed Grian’s unease.
"Do you promise?"
"Promise," Scar agreed. The words ‘A lot more than two years’ echoed in Grian's ears.
After a moment's hesitation, he asked:
“Tell me about it?”
“Oh well,” Scar started. “Where to start… Oh, I know! My favourite place. So there is this diner on a mountainside in the 22nd century, and-”
Grian settled back, thinking of himself, of Scar, of Mumbo, of all three of them. Terrified and alone, united and stronger for it. His head hurt, but Scar’s hand was warm in his, and somewhere along the way, his mind spinning with the possibilities of the future (and the past, and the present). The adventure of a lifetime - of several lifetimes, perhaps - lay before him as uncharted waters.
Grian relaxed, letting Scar's words wash over him. For the first time in five years, he had hope for the future…