Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Grian hates this family.

Well, that’s hyperbolic. He wouldn’t have chosen them as brothers or pay more than his share of the rent if he hated them. But, after spending the duration of a three hour drive listening to Joel and Jimmy bicker about nothing; whine about Grian being stingy with buying snacks and flick the radio station incessantly back and forth between bubblegum pop and screamo metal — Grian is about ready to abandon them on the side of the road.

Joel refuses to put his seatbelt on, 'cause Bad Boys don’t care about car safety', meaning Jimmy also didn’t put his seatbelt on (peer pressure, you know how it is)— so now they’re risking one of Jimmy’s limited regenerations and Joel’s only god-forsaken life— so Grian can’t even bloody speed. And let the record show, if Jimmy dies in a car crash, Grian’s not going all the way back up north to pick him up from the bloody fireplace.

So yeah, three hours in, Grian’s a little testy.

Joel’s got the window rolled down, his head stuck out in the breeze like he’s in some coming of age road-trip film. He’s singing along off-key to girlypop vocals that are straining to be intelligible from their tinny car radio. Grian really needs to get this old clunker re-serviced or maybe entirely replaced. Maybe on his next paycheck? They do have a fair amount in savings. He adds it to his mental to-do list. Jimmy’s reclining across the entire row of backseats, but is blessedly quiet for once, happily occupied with his Switch. The only noises from the back are contextless SFX interspersed with Jimmy’s giggles, which honestly, compared to the soundtrack of the rest of this drive, is almost heavenly.

Grian's not sure how long they've still got left before they reach 'the Forest', the little pocket of reality the Clockers call home. Its location relative to the human world shifts every time it opens up passage for visitors, which, sure, maybe that's good for keeping humans out — or in, depending on your fancy — but it makes it a pretty sub-optimal place to host a party. Like, yeah, very spooky, Cleo, how monstrous of you! Next time provide an address that can be put in the bloody GPS.

They've been driving rather aimlessly up and down random country roads for a while. It's the same mind-numbing task every year: they get given an approximate entry-point region in each applicable country, within the range of about two square miles; and then finding an exact fissure is just menial trial and error, driving along every road in the area and seeing what happens. This doesn't seem to take as long for anyone else, or at least they don't relate when Grian gripes about it. Maybe it's some sort of innate connection they have to magic and the parallel planes and it gives them ultrasonic-y detection of the boundary between worlds or something. Everyone else (bar Mumbo, obviously) does spend far more time engrossed in monster stuff than they do, so it'd make sense if their hypothetical ultrasonic detection skills were rusty. But like, it's not their fault that renting a human flat and working boring human jobs is about the only viable lifestyle nowadays. He's not even sure humans can really get by as monster hunters anymore, what with how low-key it's all gotten.

Grian sighs, that's gotta be at least twenty roads tried now.

“Are we there yet?” Jimmy sing-songs from the backseat. Grian’s gonna kill him.

“No, Jimmy. We’re not there yet. That’s not how this works.” He replies.

“Couldn’t you like, call someone and have them pick us up?”

“No, we can’t, because then it’d just be four of us blindly driving around in a car, instead of three.”

“Bet you anything the Clockers have a more consistent method of finding their house." Joel says, voice slightly lost to the wind as he refuses to turn back into the car, "How are they getting groceries if they have to do this every blummin’ time?”

“You really think that lot go to the supermarket? They probably have skeleton gardeners growing everything they need in their backyard.” Grian scoffs.

“They’re all undead, aren’t they?" Jimmy asks, "Do they even need to eat?” That gives Grian pause, he’s definitely seen Scar eat. And Bdubs too. He’d never really thought to ask.

“Don’t zombies have to eat brains? So, at least one of them must be eating something.” Joel asks.

“Yeah, well— Either way you’re not exactly buying human brains at Sainsbury's.” Grian groans.

Road thirty: no unsettling feeling of dread setting in, no fog, no nothing.

“Maybe you’ve got the area wrong, maybe it’s some other place this time. It might just be worth a call anyway.” Jimmy’s put the switch down now, so apparently he’s not letting this go.

“Do you need the toilet or something?" Joel laughs, "There’s no one around, mate. You can pee in a bush.”

“Ew!!! Gross! What am I, some kind of dog?”

"Oi! Hey now, what's that supposed to mean?" Joel turns to glare at Jimmy. His wolf ears twitch, unmasked due to his flagrant disregard for personal safety, and unwavering belief he can pretend to be a furry if asked.

“It means exactly what it sounds like, Joel. Some of us don’t pee in bushes.” Jimmy crosses his arms, face all smug. Joel growls, baring his teeth and narrowing his pupils.

Grian knows this song and dance, Jimmy’s just winding him up. Jimmy loves to rile up a werewolf like he's never seen a dog hunt a bird. Albeit dogs don't frequently hunt phoenixes, but neither creature is usually humanoid either, so the analogy is as good as they're gonna get. But anyway, functionally, Grian's required role in this conversation is over, so he tunes them out and just focuses back on the road.

Clutch. Gearstick. Forwards. Hit end of road. Clutch. Gearstick. Reverse Gear. Turn. Clutch. Gearstick. Forwards. Try next road. Void, if anyone else comes up behind them, he'll look like the worst navigator in the world.

There hasn’t been another car for a while though, which is usually a good sign.

Maybe he should call Scar, but the thought is mortifying so he quickly rejects it. He and Scar have a strict alternating call policy, and he had to call him a month ago to confirm the details of the party, so he’s not calling him again until he gets a call in return.

As if contemplating a Clocker was some kind of magic key, the temperature around them sharply drops, goosebumps spreading across Grian's flesh. A low fog begins to unfurl out below their wheels; the ambient chatter of birdsong, rustling leaves and engine hushes to a whisper.

All the telltale signs of an infraction point, he can't help but let out a cheer.

The visibility all around them fades: first the edges of the treeline and rolling fields go fuzzy, their forms evading focus, the world smearing into impressionist paint strokes. Then the environment drains of colour, dulling down to muddy greys, subtle and slow, the transition going unobserved, like the changing of seasons. Invisible until the moment you look outside in winter and discover the warmth has already long left.

The fog builds up in wave after wave, until there is nothing visible outside their windows but a thick rolling miasma.

Basic road safety advises: in low visibility you should slow down, cautious of unseen obstacles looming out of the fog. But Grian has no patience for this pageantry and slams down on the gas pedal. They tear through the mist at full acceleration. Jimmy yelps, the inertia throwing him into the back of the front seats. He swears something on impact, but Grian's too caught up in the speed to care.

The wind from the open window buffets against his hair, searing against his skin. He can’t help but whoop excitedly as the speedometer ticks up. The adrenaline of a fast drive, a feeling insofar withheld from him, monopolising every atom of his being. His hands grip white-knuckled against the steering wheel, all the built-up tension and stress coalesced into those few muscles. The mist before them remains impenetrable, but the feeling of the tires as they grind against the dirt below is irresistibly concrete. God, he loves this.

His back muscles beg for release, to free his wings from their confines under his skin, and he lets them, leaning forwards to make space between him and the seat. It's always a strain, aching muscles atrophied from being bound too long, but his wings burst out from his back like they'd never been gone, sliding out through the holes in his jacket. He splays them out to their full width. He feels the wind filter through each feather.

Joel swears as they push up against him, and Jimmy scoffs, but Grian can hear him fiddling with the hatch in the roof, so that he can do the same.

They're at an infraction point between the two worlds, no point hiding anymore. There's nothing quite like the relief of finally dropping a mask.

Jimmy’s worked out the latch and is hollering at the top of his lungs. Laughing freely as he faces off the full force of the winds around them. Joel reaches over, past the wing blocking him, and turns the volume dial up on the radio.

Full volume. Full speed. Full force. An overwhelming cacophony of sensations.

“OH MY GOODNESS— Grian! Slow Down!” Grian almost doesn’t hear Jimmy over the clusterfuck everything around them but he hits the brakes hard. The car peels out of the fog in a rush. Clarity returning to their vision all at once as they hurtle down the Clockers’ driveway. Screeching to a halt mere moments before they would have hit the man standing in the road.

“Christ, Mumbo, way to stand in the road.” Joel recovers first.

In front of them, shaking like a foal on its first legs, clutching a suitcase to his chest, stands Mumbo Killsalot Jumbo: friend of the family and notably the only human at this gathering. All in all, someone you don’t particularly want to hit with a car.

“Guh— Hnrgh” Mumbo makes unintelligible noises as he struggles to recover his bearings, “Gosh, well, you can’t very well expect me to anticipate a car shooting down the road at that speed with no warning.” He flails an arm at their car.

“No warning? You call this no warning??” Joel gestures erratically at the still blasting radio.

Mumbo flounders but argues back all the same. Grian needs to take a moment. Tune it all out and focus on himself. He takes a deep steadying breath, then sighs, switching the car into park and getting out. He’s not strong enough to resist slamming the car door as he exits.

“Sorry, Mumbo— I didn’t realise the fog blocked sound.” He shamelessly interrupts whatever point they were arguing. He rubs a hand awkwardly against his neck, avoiding eye contact.

“Yeah, we weren’t exactly aiming for stealth.” Joel switches off the radio with some finality, tone suddenly more sheepish.

“I— You shouldn’t be driving like that even if you don’t think there’s going to be anyone in the road! That can’t have been under the legal speed limit!” Mumbo splutters.

“Speed Limit, Schpeed Limit. Bad Boys don’t care about government limits!” Joel repeats it like a mantra.

“Also, we’re not in human society anymore!" Jimmy pipes up, "There ain’t no speed limit unless Cleo says so!” He shimmies himself out of the roof of the car with a beat of his wings. Joel leaves the car by more conventional means.

“Fellas, no. This is on me— it’s fine.” Grian interrupts again. He glances up at Mumbo’s face, taking in his still-harrowed expression before darting his eyes away. “I’m really sorry Mumbo. I was expecting us to break through much further out in the woods, but you're right, I should have been more careful.”

Mumbo huffs. “It’s fine— it’s not as though I would have died or anything so serious. Scar set me up with a totem of undying a good while back.” He fiddles with his collar and pulls out a small totem attached to a string around his neck. “But it was a shock and you lads shouldn’t be driving around like that all willy-nilly”

Grian suddenly stills.

“Scar gave you a…” His eyes widen as he stares at the trinket, “What did you say you were doing out here again?”

“Erm— Well, I didn’t actually get the chance to say, but Scar told me my room was ready and that I could pick up my suitcase from my—”

“Oh, that bastard!” Grian doesn’t give him the chance to finish the thought. He whirls around, raring to storm off towards the manor and give that absolute dickhead a piece of his mind. Who does he think he is? But he’s quickly restrained. Joel grabs him by the collar of his jacket and lifts him up in the air with one outstretched arm.

“Oi, park the car properly, you numpty.” Joel says dryly.

Grian flails in his grasp, scrambling for escape.

He parks the car properly.

Car parked, bearings retrieved and initial emotional outburst stymied by many a comforting pat and “there, there” from Mumbo, Grian takes stock of their surroundings. As per previous whining, they’re much closer to the manor than the mist would usually bring them. Usually Cleo’s one for a bit of drama and intrigue. As is expected of a person who chooses to reside in the middle of a dark mysterious forest really, it would probably be a bit weirder if she was minimalist and mundane. She enjoys the posturing of having guests engage with the full performance of the forest. Having them drive up in the cold and dark, losing their sense of direction as they travel along paths and past trees that shift and alter when you turn away. All leading up to the slow reveal of the approaching manor house. Guess she, or someone else, felt they were already late enough and decided to plonk them down right in front of the manor without any bells or whistles.

The driveway doesn’t quite reach up to the manor, practicality once more being barely a consideration here, leaving the full view of its majesty still obscured by some tree cover and leaving them with more of a trek to reach it. They help Mumbo with his luggage, spreading the load between the four of them and listening with mixed attention to his rambles about his gardening troubles. They round the last obstacle to see the building in its full glory. Similar, yet still different to how Grian remembers it the previous year.

The manor is a love letter to asymmetry, disorientingly over-balanced on one side with the imposing form of the eponymous clocktower. Its structure towers over the treeline and surrounding fog, utilising materials and an architectural style, if you can call it that, that contrasts harshly to the rest of the building. The clocktower came first, you see, and from there the rest of the manor was simply extension after extension. The clocktower marks the central point of these ever-shifting woods, possibly even the source point. The clocktower has simply been here all along, a monolith of unknown origin. The Clockers maintain it — that’s their duty as Clock-Watchers — but they did not create it. That fact had always unsettled Grian, even when Scar had first excitedly explained it all those years ago. The unknowable control of it all. Its incessant, unyielding ticking.

The overall architecture implies gothic influence, but never really manages to commit, forming a mishmash of styles from centuries of labour. Towering oaken doors lodge into the main extension of the building, a central block jutting out from the rest of its bulk. An ornate glass window graces the foremost gable, expanding out into a slate-rooved overhang covering the entryway below, forming something of a porch.

The manor is embedded into the surrounding scenery as if it itself was a natural formation that grew into being. Its brickwork melds into the flora around it, surrounding trees entwined in its structure, twisting around its form like they were borne into being together. Branches grasping it, claiming it as their own.

As they crest the slope, Grian eyes the most peculiar new addition. A large, gnarled pine, far too old to have grown to full maturity in just one year, bursts through the porch. It carves a clean hole through the overhang above, ivy and moss spreading from their intersection, a smooth gradient between nature and construction. Its trunk extends up and up, wrapping around the outstretched central block. Some of the ivy extends so far as to hang down from the canopy, a density that could almost be charming if not for the incongruity of it all.

The tree’s mangled roots flow out over part of the stairs leading up to the doorway, piercing through the stonework into the ground below. The roots take up so much space they have to hop over some to climb the stairs themselves. As they pass it by, Mumbo can’t help but stop to stare in awe at it, running his hands over its bark, a look of pure wonder on his face. Grian can’t get away faster.

He goes up to the doors, and unable to use his hands, pushes up against them with his back. It takes more than a comfortable amount of force, but they do give way, creaking open in a slow reveal of frankly overstated grandeur. The Clocker’s entrance hall is admittedly rather elaborate: large, imposing, classically art nouveau. A massive staircase spills out at the centre, dominating the surroundings, crested at their peak with another eponymous grandfather clock. There is a wide range of eponymous clocks to choose from really, the Clocker Manor is not exactly short on timepieces. The most striking feature of the entrance hall demonstrates this rather succinctly: a beautiful, glass chandelier twinkles up above them. It's a custom design, glasswork formed entirely of shattered clockfaces, fully formed hourglasses dangling from its arms. A commitment to their iconography and cause. Tick. Tock.

Mumbo hastily gathers up his luggage and absconds up the stairs with a quick thank you, leaving Grian newly empty-handed and alone (relatively) to face the horrors of social interaction, how dare he. The remaining guests are milling about at the base of the stairwell, helping themselves to a spread of canapés and champagne laid out on a table to the side. They're all familiar faces, mutual acquaintances and friends of Cleo’s, all generally of a decent level of esteem as far as monster echelons go. The event is a rather exclusive gig, with only close friends of the family invited. Their lot are lucky to be invited, Grian and the ‘Bad Boys’, a name they’ve picked up, aren’t exactly high society. But, well…

Grian glances through the crowd. Sure enough, there he is, with a smirk on his face and a frankly inappropriately salacious look in his eyes as he catches Grian’s gaze. Eldest son of the Clocker family, Scar Goodtimes Clocker, eminent scoundrel and on and off again romantic entanglement of yours truly. The exact current configuration is up for debate. Scar appears to be aiming for on, and Grian supposes since he’s shown up, he’s not exactly discouraging this interpretation.

Scar’s dressed rather nicely, if informal. His hair is out, currently at a long enough length to comfortably brush his shoulders. He’s dressed in a blue and yellow striped shirt — top two buttons unbuttoned as per usual — and a pair of high-waisted flared trousers. Both pieces strike a strong silhouette, making him immediately distinct, even at a distance. Scar winks, clearly noting Grian’s eyes exploring his outfit, before turning back to where he’s talking to some skeleton staff. Man, this is going to be such a pain.

Joel rests an arm on Grian’s shoulder and leans over to murmur in his ear.

“Getting an eyeful of your boyfriend over there, are you? Tell him thanks for the invite, yeah?” He says, tone laced with humour.

“Shove off.” Grian shrugs him off, only for Joel to use the momentum to throw an arm around his back and pull him into a half-hug.

“I’m just saying, awful gracious of him, isn’t it? Us lot, at a fancy event like this? Mum’d never blummin’ have imagined.”

“Yeah, Grian, I’m sure you’re feeling real appreciative of the guy right now, aren’t you?” Jimmy comes up on his other side, wiggling his eyebrows, “My boyfriend could never get me connections like that!”

“Tango’s literally over there. You can see him! We know everyone here!” Grian glares at him. Jimmy leans past him and shoots Tango a quick wave, who smiles brightly in return.

“He’s not her Lady of the Manor’s son though, is he?” Joel intonates Cleo’s formal title with an insultingly sing-song tone, “Do you reckon he’s gonna get special family privileges at the dinner, Jimmy? Extra courses? Seat at the high table?”

“We’re not married, Joel. Besides, we’re not even dating at the moment.”

Both Joel and Jimmy level him with matching unconvinced looks.

“Yeah, yeah, you two and your ‘No, no, we’re not actually dating right now, we promise.’” Joel pitches his voice mockingly high in impersonation, “Like I won’t catch you both violently grinding against each other in a cupboard in a couple hours.”

Grian wrinkles his nose up in disgust, “Joel, get over it, that was one time.”

“And that camping trip where you were ‘on break’, yet every afternoon you were napping curled up with one another?” Jimmy chimes in.

“Friends can cuddle.”

“All I’m saying, is whenever you guys are 'off' it’s blindingly obvious you’re still dating. You’re just really weird about it.” Joel pats him patronisingly, “Come on! When’s the last time either of you actually saw anyone else.”

Grian wracks his brain.

“B and I spent that one summer together.”

“Oh yeah?" Joel laughs, "You sent each other cookies in the mail and traded baking tips. How serious.”

“Weren’t you staying in the Clockers’ summer cottage half the time that summer as well?” Jimmy smirks, “Get up to anything like that with Bigb?”

Grian grumbles, and decides not to deign that with a response and instead focus his attention on literally anything else.

He glances around the gathered guests. Her Lady of the Manor and their husband aren’t present — presumably making preparations elsewhere for the dinner itself. Usually Cleo’s parties are just a big meal, copious alcohol and then hanging out for the remainder of the weekend, but she’s mixing it up with some sort of party game this year. Grian’s not sure of the mechanics of it really, it’s all been rather hush-hush. Everyone received private invitations: giving them a role, a brief description of a character, their relationship to a couple other characters and instructions to dress accordingly. It’s some big old LARP as far as Grian can tell. Cleo is into that sort of thing. Well, it’s probably as good as any entertainment for a deathday celebration — and at the very least the characters are pretty clearly derived from each individual person, so she wasn’t expecting that much on the roleplay front.

He twiddles the character card he has stashed in his coat pocket.

Grian’s not put that much effort into his costume. He’s wearing his usual red jumper and leather jacket, but layered a classic beige trench coat over the ensemble and place a deerstalker hat atop his head to finish the look. He’s balanced the sunglasses on top of the hat too, even a costume can't separate the bad boys from their eyewear. The whole thing is probably giving celebrity undercover from the paparazzi more than detective, but they can thank him for bloody trying, alright?

Most of the other guests have put more effort into their appearance than him. Lizzie in particular is draped in layers and layers of fabric, a long skirt swishing down to her toes as she sways and gestures emphatically in conversation. The bright colours and reflective jewellery go nicely with the translucent shimmering of her faerie wings, the dangling glass crystals refracting out her wings' glow into a cascade of colour. Most of the blokes are just in some manner of suit, much like Jimmy and Joel beside him — both in suits under their jackets, having been assigned maid and business man respectively. Scott and Skizz’s looks are a little more out there? Ren’s as well to be fair. But still, lots of boring suits hanging about, stinking up the place. The consequences of the failure of imagination in men's fashion on society.

He scopes out his conversation options for immediate rescue from his brothers. Impulse, Skizz and Tango are lounging close to the serving table: Impulse leaning back and heartily laughing at something Skizz says, Skizz looking like he’s two drinks in and feeling the effects already. Tango keeps sneaking glances at Jimmy out of the corner of his eye like a lovestruck teen. Grian can’t talk to them, Jimmy would just follow him and he has no desire to deal with that tooth-rotting relationship more than he already has to. Bigb and Pearl are standing by the staircase, deep in the trenches of some philosophical quandary, rambling back and forth at length with each other. No, Grian’s can't intrude on that. That's serious business. Scott, Martyn and Ren are… nope, veto, Grian’s just not getting into the middle of that probably-polycule. Bdubs and Scar are sorting out stuff with the skeletons... so that only leaves where Gem and Lizzie have cornered the recently returned Mumbo.

Grian sighs, that means Joel will be tagging along, but it will have to do.

He makes his way quickly over to the serving table, with a brief nod in the TIS direction when Skizz calls out with a jubilant greeting. He grabs a champagne flute and a couple of nibbles before weaselling his way over to where Lizzie, Gem and Mumbo are chatting.

“Hey Mumbo, long time no see.” Grian says as he pushes into the circle.

“Hello Grian, fancy seeing you here, buddy.” He chuckles.

“Griaaaaaaan!!! It feels like it’s been ages, how are you holding up?” Gem walks over to him and pulls him into a one-armed hug. “Gosh, we need to sort out plans to go on a fishing trip again!”

“Yeah, we must have last seen each other, what?” He pauses to think, “At Ren’s show’s opening night 6 months ago?” Wow, had that been a disaster. He deftly avoids the question of how he is, “Wow, you two sure have gone all out with the costumes. You look great!”

Gem’s ginger curls are plaited down the side of her head, plait interlaced with a green ribbon that curls up to the top of her antlers. Settled between the horns is an ornate silver circlet. She’s wearing long fingerless gloves that go up to her biceps and a deep green overcoat that spills out into a lighter green drape covering her hind legs. Grian doesn’t know a lot about centaur fashion but she definitely looks stunning.

“Thank you! It’s maybe a bit too fantasy for the vibe. But, y'know — the invitation wasn’t specific on worldbuilding or anything so I thought I could improvise.” She shrugs.

“You guys sure could have tried a little harder though.” Lizzie teases. “Feels like you could have taken the chance to mix it up a bit more from the leather jacket look.”

Grian shrugs, “We had, what, a week to sort this out? I don’t have much on hand that fits the theme.”

“Ooooo, got any role spoilers for us?” Gem needles.

“Is the hat not enough of a spoiler for you?”

“Erm…” Lizzie puts a hand to her chin in mock-contemplation, “You some kind of bootleg Sherlock?”

“Well— I’m— I’m a detective, yeah.” Grian frowns.

“Ohhhh. Whoops.” Lizzie doesn’t look or sound guilty. Grian laughs at her dry tone. Bootleg Sherlock is good enough, it's in the ballpark at least.

He feels a slap on the back, as Joel scoots in behind him, “Pardon me, coming through. Hello Grian, just having a look where you’d run off to.” Joel says, “Oh, hi Gem, hi Lizzie! How’s it going?” He has a bashful, awkward look on his face. Grian rolls his eyes, yeah, very subtle Joel.

Joel has, to put it politely, been into Lizzie for a while. She absolutely returns the sentiment but they’ve been in the back and forth too long and she’s having too much fun to do anything productive about it, so the vibe is just this, all the time. Exhausting.

The group of them converse happily, but after a socially acceptable duration of chatting, Grian excuses himself. Nominally to grab some more canapés but mostly to catch a bit of a breather on his own. He leans up against the wall by the front door, away from the direction most people are looking, and covered by the slight obscurity of the shadow of a pillar. Unfortunately, it doesn’t take long before he feels as Scar settles next to him, his senses well attuned to the specifics of his presence.

“I don’t appreciate your little prank earlier.” Grian doesn’t turn to him but tries to communicate a glare in his side-eye.

Scar just chuckles, “Oh, you noticed that? What am I saying of course you did, detective.” He purrs out the title like he’s trying out a new pet name, “I knew he’d be fine, what’s a little fear of death between friends?”

“Mortals aren’t as comfortable with that sort of thing. You know that.” Grian tightens his grip on his glass, “Hell, most monsters don’t even come back.”

“Hell, huh...” Scar hums, “I forget how much time you spend around humans. You really pick up a lot of their sayings.”

“Scar.” Grian turns to face him. “Stop avoiding the topic.”

“Aw, but winding you up is what it takes to get you to look at me, Birdie. You’ve got to consider the incentives like that!”

“Scar. I’m serious.”

Scar sighs, “Look, lah dee dah. It’s not so bad being undead — honestly, it’d do some of you a lot of good to die and come back. If you die on Clocker grounds it’s soooo easy to resurrect you." He waves a hand emphatically as he draws out the syllable, "Even if he didn’t have a totem of undying, we could’ve gotten to Mumbo and had him back right as rain if you’d splatted him. He wouldn’t even be a zombie, the corpse would be that fresh!” Scar levels Grian with a stare, “Plus, if you got better coping mechanisms, this wouldn’t be an issue anyway.” He takes a sip of his champagne, eye contact unbreaking.

“You did all that to complain about me speeding? Seriously?” Grian splutters.

“It was also a very funny mental image, don’t get me wrong.” Scar chuckles, thinking on it fondly, “Mumbo’s a freak, he’s fine almost dying. You’re the one hung up on this. Because you’re hung up on everything, all the time. You need to loosen up.” Scar pouts. “It’s Mom’s deathday, you can’t be like this on Mom’s deathday.”

Grian turns away, focusing instead on the wine swilling in his glass. His grip is so tight he can see his tendons straining.

“I’m fine, Scar.”

“Yeah, you’re so fine. That’s why I’ve not heard from you in a month. You only do that when you’re fine.”

Grian’s hands tighten somehow further. He glares at his glass as if it can make him disappear to anywhere else.

Scar sighs, “It’s lovely to see you, G. I didn’t want to start a fight.” He brushes his knuckles against the free hand hanging at Grian’s side. Grian freezes. Then exhales. He returns the gesture gently. A slight smile graces Scar’s features, he sees it out the corner of his eye, “Well, Mom’s got some stuff she needs me to sort out before dinner can start properly. Just wanted to drop in and say hi.” Scar says, voice a practised chipper mask. Grian gives a slight nod that he’s not even sure Scar sees. Before he knows it, Scar’s pushed off the wall and rejoined the crowd.

The rest of the mingling passes in a blur.

A skeleton shuffles out from behind a curtain, wobbling on uneven, necromancy-addled legs, and rings a bell rapidly. As its sound reverberates around the great hall, the acoustics heighten every audible vibration, swiftly drawing all attention towards its origin. From a pair of doors leading to some deep vacuous void, Cleo and Etho emerge onto the top of the stair. From silhouette alone, Cleo’s costume is already a sight to behold. She strides out confidently, legs encased in a boundless mass of bouffant skirt. Layers of dark tulle and linen, all a deep greenish-black with splashes of blood red — elaborate floral embellishments decorating every inch of fabric. It hangs off their shoulder, exposing the rotted flesh of their neckline. Their hair is up in a high ponytail — thick, bright ginger curls cascading down to frame their face, strands weaved with black roses and spider lilies. There’s no denying her presence is breathtaking, sweeping through the room, the lion in control of their pride. Etho’s also dressed fine. He’s in a suit. It’s passable.

Ren wolf-whistles from somewhere in the crowd.

“My, Cleo, when you said to dress up you really meant it.” He calls out.

“Well Ren, I can’t very well be upstaged at my own deathday now, can I?” She chuckles, “Well you lot, what are you all waiting for? Come on up here.”

At her declaration the guests begin filtering up, most pausing briefly to say some kind words to the hosts and compliment Cleo’s costume. Grian slips through the crowd to rejoin his brothers. They approach as a collective and deliver their own platitudes. Joel grins at Etho, who’s eyes crinkle up lightly in response. Which is the equivalent of a broad hug and excited shouts from the Silent Consort, so it’s pretty successful. Joel and Etho have a thing. That’s about as much detail anyone has on that whole situation, even them. They’re beginning to head off to the dining room when Cleo stops him.

“Actually, Grian, could I have a moment please?” Cleo levels him with a piercing stare, but doesn’t reach out to touch him. He looks to the side at the boys. They’re both smirking and wiggling their eyebrows intensively. God damn it. “It’ll only be a second.” She continues. That’s not what he’s worried about but sure.

Grian shrugs and acquiesces, hanging back and watching as everyone else trails out of the room. Until it’s just him, her Lady of the Manor and her consort. Not a stressful situation at all. He attempts a smile.

“So. What is it you wanted to talk about?”

“Just that…” Cleo contemplates their next words carefully, somewhat unusual for them, “If at any point you want to drop out of the activities tonight and take some time to yourself. Please do just talk to one of us.”

Grian bristles. “I mean, sure. If I get injured or something I won’t just keep playing, yeah.”

The corner of Cleo’s mouth twitches down, “Grian, you’re bright. You know what I meant. Scar’s mentioned—”

“Your lady, I appreciate your concern for the wellbeing of your guests. But if that’s all you wanted to say, I’ll be excusing myself to rejoin my brothers.” Grian replies, tone clipped.

“You’ve not been polite one day in your life." She scoffs, "Don’t use that tone with me.”

“But that’s the honour your owed isn’t it, your ladyship?” He sneers.

Cleo's expression twitches further, suppressing some instinctual reaction and presumably harsher words, “This is exhausting. We’re friends. Call me by my name.” Her tone is souring. Good.

“Or you’ll do what?”

“Don’t. Test me. Grian.”

“Wow, do you throw your reputation around like this with all your friends?” Grian prods, unable to help himself.

“Grian! I don't—” Cleo begins, face curled into something nasty, but Etho sticks an arm out between the two of them. Thrown off by the sudden movement, Grian accidentally meets Etho’s eyes. They look at him in complete cold serenity, unphased. He can't help the brush of discomfort he feels as he takes them in.

“Now, now. We’re all friends here! We’ve said what we wanted to say.” Etho’s tone is as airy as ever, “The offer’s open, Grian. No pressure to take us up on it.”

Cleo takes a breath, steadying herself, “Yes. Quite. Have a good meal, Grian. I forget how similar we are sometimes.”

Grian nods, refusing to interpret that, and silently excuses himself, hopefully leaving at a pace that doesn’t seem too cowardly.

He wanders through the hallways like a lost puppy, now reasonably delayed behind the rest of the crowd. Cleo and Etho don’t follow. Hopefully Joel and Jimmy have left him a space, but it's unlikely. They’ll take any chance to be annoying.

After some slight meandering, the layout of this place must change every time he comes here, he can't have this little of a sense of direction, he enters the dining hall. Most people are already seated. Scanning the table, the chair at the head is empty, clearly intended for Cleo, alongside one of the seats next to it, implying it is also intended for family. The only other gap is… Grian sighs. Well, at least Joel did leave space for him. Along one side there is a spare seat, right in between Joel and Scar. Joy. Scar shoots him a wave, a blinding smile on his face. Grian walks over.

“I’m surprised you saved me a seat and didn’t decide to just watch me suffer, Joel.” He grumbles.

“Oh, don’t worry. That was the plan. Unfortunately, the place-mats are named.” He gestures at the folded nameplate that is sure enough sitting in front of him. “That’s why Jimmy’s all the way over there.” He waves a hand towards the other end of the table, where Jimmy is enthusiastically chatting to Impulse beside him.

“Oh, huh.” Grian turns to Scar, slightly suspicious. Scar’s looking at him with far too soft of a look in his eyes, “Is this something to do with the game then?”

Scar blinks a couple of times, breaking out of his reverie and processing his words, “Oh, what? Ohhh, the game, oh yes. Of course! Probably. It seems likely, doesn’t it?” He smiles.

Grian slides into his seat, “Yeah, cause you had nothing to do with setting this all up. There’s no way you’d know.” Grian rolls his eyes.

“Exactly, Grian. We’re all equal players in this little thing. Well, except Mom and Bdubs. They did most of the set-up, so I think they’re aware of the ins and outs.”

“Hey, Hey, hold up! Why does Bdubs get to have more information? That’s so unfair!” Joel complains.

“Well, I haven’t been thaaaaat involved in planning,” He smirks at Grian, who flushes a tad at the callout, “But I think it’s the sort of game that needs one or two people in a more referee-type role. So Bdubs took up that mantle.”

“It needs a referee? Are there points? Can you win?” Grian perks up, competitive instinct activated. Scar bursts into warm laughter.

“Of course that’d be your first thought, birdie.” He laces a hand gently through Grian’s hair, a brief touch that doesn’t linger too long. Joel still gags behind Grian. “Can’t a game just be for fun between friends?”

“Yeah, it can be. But it can also have winners.” Grian pouts.

“If there are points… you wanna team up Grian?" Joel scratches his chin in mock contemplation as he scopes the room, "I reckon we could take out most people here.”

Before Grian can respond, Scar makes a whining noise next to him. “I think you’ll find Grian’s already got a teammate.”

Grian blinks owlishly at him. He’s not against teaming up with Scar, obviously, but he hadn’t been there for whenever this was established.

Scar blinks back and pouts. “My role is as your sidekick, Grian, come on! I’m your Robin!” He pulls out his card and shows it to Grian.

His hand obscures the rest of the description.

“Huh, my card doesn’t mention you.” Grian blinks.

“What?!” Scar flicks his card around and gives it a read-over, eyes frantically scanning the text, a slightly panicked look slowly dawning in his expression, “Oh… Oh. Ah it—” He chuckles awkwardly. “Erm, it maybe uh, perhaps, seems like I maybe wasn’t supposed to tell you that yet.” His face is rather red now, as he glances between Grian and Joel.

“Aw, you wanted to team with me that bad? You couldn’t wait to tell me?” Grian can’t help but tease. Scar’s eyes sharpen, clearly intending to rise to the bait, if he ever got the chance.

“God, you two aren’t gonna be able to solve anything! They really nerfed the investigation team by putting you together.” Joel interrupts, leaning back and balancing on the back-legs his chair, staring into the middle distance away from the pair of them, “All you’re gonna do is distract each other.”

“Wanna bet?” Grian swirls around, successfully aggravated.

“That you two will distract each other enough to not follow clues? Sure.”

“Cool.” Grian holds out his hand to shake on it. Joel grasps his hand and shakes firmly.

“So what? You’re making a bet, but not betting anything? Boring.” Scar says, a put out look on his face.

“It’s a bet on Grian’s dignity, isn’t it?”

“My what now?”

“You can’t take his dignity from him. What will he have left after that?” Scar gasps.

“Can we actually do that?” Joel’s eyes twinkle with something dangerous. “Can we bind abstract concepts to a bet?”

“Oh, absolutely. Deals are powerful things. You’d need a demon adjudicating though and unfortunately there aren’t any attending tonight.” Scar replies.

“Are ghosts not able to call up a couple demons? Phone a friend? Death and the Nether have gotta be connected right?” Joel whines.

Scar’s face twists. Grian has to step in, kicking Joel under the table, “Come on, Joel. Way to make us look even more uninformed than we already do.” He levels him a glare to stop talking.

Joel at least manages to look a little sheepish, “Hey, you can’t exactly borrow books in the library on this stuff.” He grumbles. Scar merely hums in response and the conversation lulls into a stiff, awkward silence.

After a few seconds however, Grian feels the telltale chill of a spectral hand against his neck. He shivers at the contact, as the unseen limb strokes up over his nape to card lightly through his hair before moving away. He darts a glance in Scar’s direction— the man carefully not looking at him. Not able to give any kind of similarly subtle signal, Grian is left with only the cover of the table. He nudges his foot against Scar’s outstretched leg lightly. Scar’s face flickers with a slight smile. The spectral hand almost immediately returns, eagerly carding through his hair once more before dragging along the side of his face to cradle his cheek. Grian resists the urge to lean into it, carefully schooling his facial features into practised stoicism. The hand rests for a moment, lightly stroking its thumb against his skin, before drifting further down to his chin. Despite his concentration, Grian can’t mask a squeak when the thumb presses against his lips — a light enough press, but with enough pressure to indicate intent. Scar chuckles quietly next to him and Joel shoots him an unimpressed look, chockfull of assumptions and judgement, despite the interaction's complete invisibility.

Embarrassed, Grian leans forwards, purposefully passing through the location the hand would be with his motion and forcing it back into a completely non-corporeal form. Scar pouts at him when he glances over but he pointedly ignores him. He forgot the golden rule, don’t indulge Scar. If only his indulgences weren’t all so tempting. At least with that display, the original social faux-pas awkwardness is gone and replaced with a new, far more common for Joel, third-wheel awkwardness. Which is a more comfortable position for everyone involved.

It takes some time for her Lady of the Manor and their consort to arrive at the meal themselves, no more than 20 minutes give or take. Of course, they don’t enter through the main door, god forbid there isn’t something dramatic happening at every given opportunity. Instead, a panel making up the back-wall of the room clunks loudly and slides up, revealing a hidden inset doorway, and that, not anywhere else blindingly sensible, is where Cleo and Etho enter the room. Grian was already aware of the interconnected set of secret passages connecting rooms in the house, but surely those should be used in case of emergency, not just for the aesthetic. Though, the aesthetic sure has been committed to. Their entrance is accompanied by a subtly haunting melody, lofty strings and a shallow choir chorus billowing out from the newly exposed hallway— carried by errant spirits in the breeze. Etho walks Cleo by the hand up to the head of the table and gives a deep bow as she goes to sit, before sitting down next to her, opposite Bdubs himself. A soft ripple of quiet clapping unspools across the table. Once Cleo is seated, Ren rises and clears his throat.

“Her Lady of the Manor, Cleo.” He winks, “It is on this, the eve of your 50th deathday, that we, your closest friends and companions gather here today. To celebrate the, may I emphasise, magnificent unlife you have lead—” Scar gives Grian a look and rolls his eyes.

“Laying it on a bit thick.” He stage-whispers.

“Ahem.” The murmur of low laughter only escalates, “As I was saying, you’ve done a lot of great things in your time, my good lady. And those deserve to be honoured and celebrated!”

“Hear, hear!” Martyn calls out, holding up his champagne flute. A chorus of cheers from the more rambunctious members in attendance follow suit.

“So, I’d like to lead a toast, to the continued successful ventures of yourself and all the Clocker family. To you, your husband, your sons and the clock that shall forever keep ticking.” He raises his glass.

“Oh, I’m included?” Scar chuckles quietly, elbows leaning casually on the table but raising his glass anyway.

Grian fiddles with the hem of his jumper with one hand but raises his glass with the other. Around him, everyone raises their glasses as well, cheering, hollering and complimenting the esteemed host. He carefully avoids meeting anyone’s eyes.

“Well, thank you, Ren. That was… a lot. But I suppose that should’ve been what I expected when I let you give a speech.” Cleo chuckles.

“I kept it within your 100 word limit, my lady. Best you can ask for really.”

“Barely.” She scoffs.

“Hey, I’m a man with a lot of words to say. And you’re someone that deserves them.”

She rolls her eyes, “Okay, sit down, you little shit. Let everyone get on with their dinner.” Ren chuckles but relents, sitting down to some muted jibes and cheers.

Once Ren is seated, skeletons start peeling out from behind the head of the table, carrying with them plates holding starters. Loud chatter builds up from all across the table, the pretences of formality left entirely in the dressing of the meal rather than any expectations on behaviour. People yell across the table; there's a notable moment of Lizzie and Ren breaking out into impromptu song; Joel stands up to try and start a fight with Scott across the table.

Grian makes cautious chatter with those around him, easing into things as it goes along. If he can trick his brain into ignoring the room they’re in, the clothes he’s wearing and the unerring, unending ticking, this is basically just like any other time hanging out with his friends. Pretty much. He fidgets with the food on his plate.

They’re just about done with the main course when it happens. The atmosphere has warmed a lot, a comfortable back and forth established between Grian and his neighbours. He and Joel are lightly bickering with one another about something banal, when all at once the lights along the walls shut off. It happens in a moment, a short fizzle of a redstone fuse blowing out and then darkness. The tables remain lit by a series of candles, so the blaze of candlelight remains dancing across the faces of the stunned attendants, but the far reaches of the room are lost to the unknowable dark. The gossip and chatter mutes down to a low rumble, people giggling, awkward and uncomfortable. Etho pushes himself up out of his seat.

He clears his throat, “I’ll just go and have a quick look at the breaker. It’s probably just a little technical fault.” There’s a murmur of agreement across the table. Conversation continues lightly, picking up some of its lost steam. Grian glances at Scar, but he seems distracted, eyes focused on the door his father left through, a slight crease in his brow.

Jimmy says something mild-mannered about clearing the air and rises. He walks over to the door with a weirdly stilted gait, both too hurried yet purposefully slow. He pulls on the handle. The doors burst open with a wild force, slamming against the walls on either side with an impact that rattles the crockery and everything else not nailed down. Jimmy stumbles back with a yelp. A harsh gust of wind follows the doors’ motion. In one burst, with almost practised synchronicity, the flames on each candle flicker out.

They’re plunged into darkness.

“The fuck—” Grian can hear Joel to his left before the veritable explosion of noise and motion around him.

A bone-chilling shriek (Jimmy?). The clattering of chairs. Grian feels someone push up behind him. There’s arguing back and forth. Someone suggests where they can find a match. Someone suggests finding Etho. Clinking of plates, a symphony. Grian blinks his eyes as if they’ll adjust, but there’s not a shred of light to be found in the enclosed room.

A click, a thud, a sickening squelch.

An Impact. A Shattering.

It feels loud. Even in the commotion all around it feels loud. It feels important. Something that can’t be ignored.

Time feels like wading through molasses. Grian feels himself turn to the origin of the sound. As if he’ll see something. He feels like he knows, he can smell it, almost taste it. It—

With a flicker, like an old conventional bulb adjusting to returning voltage, the wall lights come back on.

People are standing, almost no one is where they were from before the lights went out. But Grian’s attention is laser-focused on the scene at the end of the table.

It’s a mess. Glass and ceramic shards lay shattered, interspersed and inseparable together in mottled covering over the table cloth. Wine leaking out, likely staining the linen. Cleo lays thrown forward, face down first into the remains of her plate. Dark, oozing black ichor bubbles up from her back. In wave after wave, running down the sides of her beautiful dress and styled hair. In her hand she grips a knife. In her back stands a crossbow bolt. Sheathed into her heart. She groans. Her grip on the knife shaking before beginning to loosen.

And then she stops.