furnace

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1

Grian knows he’s not going to be able to pull off this heist without help, but none of the Resistance are free that day, and it can’t be postponed, so he’ll just have to recruit someone new. He would usually avoid this at all costs, but desperate times call for desperate measures. 

The plan is this: find someone shoplifting from Tesco and ask them if they want to help him rob a bank. It’s not going… especially well. Mostly because- holy cow did that guy just walk out confident as heck with a whole roast chicken? Grian– no, Mother Spore, come on man pull it together– Mother Spore follows him out.

He’s tall– taller than Grian– and he has a large scar over one of his eyes. He’s shirtless, and his muscles are huge, holy moly. This guy could probably toss Grian around like a beach ball . Taking a deep breath he grabs the guy’s sleeve, pulling him around into an alley.

“Psst!” he whispers, pointedly not looking at the man’s handsome face. “I saw you take that chicken. You want a job that ah…. Pays a little better? You know the bank on 32nd street? 1100 hours the night after tomorrow.” Gosh, why does he talk like this as Mother Spore. Why is this the persona he’s established for himself? 

The man blinks once, and then smirks and oh goodness, Grian looks away from his face. “Well, I’d love to take you up on that, Ma’am, but unfortunately I have an obligation then. Maybe another time? It’d be an honor to work with you, Mother Spore, but the first job certainly would be on my own terms.”

 

Oh goodness. Ohhh goodness. What is wrong with Grian and what is wrong with this man and– and Grian needs to sit down. Grian needs to take a breather. Forget this, he’ll do the heist himself, he needs to go home.

 

2

The heist is not going well!! Why Grian thought he could pull this off alone– well, actually, no, he knows why he made this decision but he is regretting it!!!  

“Well, well, well,” he hears, and oh boy that’s Mr. Goodtimes. “It seems my intel was correct. 1100 hours, bank on 32nd. It’s good to see you, Mother Spore, how’re you doing?” He’s in his stupid costume: monocle, purple suit jacket, the works. And yet he makes it work so well. Too well for Grian’s well-being, oh jeeze. 

“How did you know I’d be here?” he asks, but it comes out more like a statement than a question, his voice changer making it sound so echoey as to be almost inhuman.

Mr. Goodtimes grins, and it’s somehow… familiar. “A little birdie told me.” He looks like he wants to eat Grian alive, and it somehow makes his legs jelly.

Shoot . This is the man from before isn’t it. What the heck is– . Okay. Okay!!!! This is fine, this is- this is totally okay. Grian needs to retreat and gather more intel. 

 

3

If there’s one thing Grian has learned in all his years of knowing Mumbo, it’s that the best way to learn exactly what’s wrong with someone fast is to be their therapist. This is the nugget of truth in the core of his current plan. The plan, of course, is simple: he’s going to march right up to the HEP offices in full Mother Spore regalia, hand Mr. Goodtimes a business card with a phone number for free therapy, but the phone number will be his own cell phone. There is no way this plan can fail. 

Grian takes a deep, calming breath. He counts down from ten and prepares to have the interaction he is inevitably about to have. Swallowing heavily, he steels himself and raises his hand to rap at the door, but it opens before he has the chance.

And there he is: Mr. Goodtimes. Looming over Grian with a smile like he expected him and is rather pleased to see his prediction come true; Grian represses a sigh at the realization that his glare is not sharp enough to come across as a glare. He does not think any curse words at all. He silently presses his thumb to his first and middle fingers. 

Goodtimes huffs something that might be a laugh, and squints at Mother Spore the way Grian himself might look at Mumbo after the other said something particularly sentimental. 

“What’s up, Spore?” He asks. 

“I- um. You need serious help, here.” he shoves the business card at him. 

Goodtimes raises an eyebrow, amused. “Free therapy?”

“Yeah!” Grian says, a little too forcefully, a little too defensive, “It’s the woman my friend goes to and clearly you need it, so. Therapy. Get some.”

A heartbeat passes quick in Grian’s chest, and then Goodtimes fully bends over with the force of his laugh. “HA! Well, you got me there I guess.” He takes the card, and Grian’s heart stops when their gloved hands touch. Goodtimes smiles again, soft and open, and says, “I appreciate you thinking of me, whatever brought this on. It was very kind of you to come all this way and risk capture, especially if this is a therapist you know is good. Thank you!”

Grian smiles, laughs a bit himself– it’s contagious, it seems– and relaxes, a bit. “Um, anyway, that’s all. Goodbye!” He makes a break for it before he has the chance to say anything he’ll regret.

 

4

Grian is maskless and shirtless in the backrooms of the Mycelium Caverns when he hears Mr. Goodtimes himself call out, “Hey, Mother Spore? You here?” 

Oh goodness, oh triplesticks sundae, oh dear oh shoot biscuits. Grian frantically pulls on the Mother Spore costume and stumbles out into the main area. Jeeze.

“UM. Hi? What in the heavens are you doing here?” SHOOT SHOOT SHOOT 

Goodtimes smirks like the cat the canary. “I wanted to see why the woman your friend goes to sounded so much like a man.”

Grian blanks. “What- ah- what do you mean?”

Goodtimes glances around the room– at the clothes scattered across the floor, at Ren’s switch he left behind after the last game night– and then his gaze settles on Mother Spore. He smiles, gentle and open, and Grian can’t help but wonder if it isn’t some form of compensation. An exchange of vulnerability. 

“I tracked the signal of the phone number you gave me. I didn’t expect the woman your friend goes to to be…. Well, you. But I can’t say I’m disappointed! You’re certainly prettier than whatever I expected.” He winks.

Oh boy.

 

5

When Mother Spore waltzes into the Mycelium Resistance Headquarters (as he does) the last thing he expects is to see Mr. Goodtimes himself, leader of the HEP, who Grian is very very normal about, trapped in the cell. 

“Well, well, well. What do we have here?” He says, and the feeling of winning settles like a stone in his stomach. 

“You all seem to have captured me,” Goodtimes says lightly, but Grian can smell the anxiety sitting heavy on his shoulders. 

“So we have. I don’t know though, I’ve enjoyed our little… encounters. I hardly think figuring out what makes you tick will be as fun with you in a little cell.”

“In fairness, Mother Spore, I really don’t think you were able to figure out as much about me,” he looks Grian up and down and Grian’s hearth jumps in his chest, “as I was about you.”

Grian unlocks the cell. “Go home, Goodtimes. Have fun.” WHY DID HE SAY THAT. WHY.

The smile that blooms slow and easy across Goodtimes’s face makes the whole thing worth it, honestly. 

 

+1

Mother Spore jumps out of an alley and pulls Goodtimes into it. He refuses to consider the circular nature of his acquaintanceship with the guy. 

“Listen,”  he hisses, “Let’s start over, yeah? Hi, I’m Grian, doyouwanttogooutwithme.”

“What.” Goodtimes says. “Sure! I’m Scar. Repeat that last thing? I have an audio processing disorder.”

“Um. Okay, so the thing is that, of course, the Mycelium Resistance– you may have heard of us?- we work so well together because we’re a polycule. And I got voted out until I asked you out because Kakashi says I’m not allowed to have any bitches until I have you.”

Goodtimes- no, Scar- blinks once. “Like Among Us?”

Grian sighs. “Yeah. It was GOAT’s idea. It’s his world, honestly, we’re all just living in it. Anyway we are moving in a more vigilante justice direction, we got bored of villainy and we can still send our message as vigilantes.”

“What actually is your message? And that’s good to hear, I’d love to go out with you in that case. Are you free Saturday?”
“Ummm, yeah I think so? I’ll just make Mumbo cover for me if I’m not. Our message is about the principle.”

“Mumbo?”

“Jumbo.”

“Well!” Scar says, kissing the back of Grian’s hand, “I’ll be eagerly awaiting my chance to meet the rest of the polycule, but in the meantime. Fuck it, I guess. We ball.”