1. as above, so below by @birrdies

Hermit’s Hollow was a quiet town where you learned to ignore whisperings of nonsense and the dull, persistent feeling of being watched before you learned to ride a bike. To call it pedestrian would be a great disservice to all the terrible oddities occupying it— folks and legends alike. Not that Grian believed any of them, of course. Or; There's something wrong in Hermit's Hollow. There's something wrong with Grian. Neither of these are a surprise to him.

Forgive Grian for not keeping track of the time. Centuries and seconds all feel the same when it's been so long since anything has happened on the little planet Grian calls home—until a being that calls himself Scar lands. He's too loud, and too bright, and too much of everything. Unfortunately, Scar is the single most interesting thing Grian has laid eyes upon in a long time. Forgive Grian for wanting more. or: Grian and Scar, strangers in space, and then some.

“Well - if nothing's broken, you didn't chip any teeth or anything, then I guess it's all good, right?" (It is not all good. It has lost everything. It has unbecome itself and now it has nothing, not even the wings on its back, not even the Sight in its core.) "Yes." Or: in which Grian has Fallen, but somebody is there to pick him up again. And again, and again, and again, every time he cannot find his way.

Somehow, in the chaos that is the apocalypse— former human beings rising from the dead and whatnot— Scar has managed to find his way into the Compound, a makeshift gated community of survivors from all around the world, led by a man they call Grian. By some grace of God (or, more accurately, his own silver tongue) Scar has quickly climbed his way up the ranks, and has found himself in the position of their leader’s right hand man. The unfortunate thing, though, is that Scar’s pretty sure he doesn’t deserve it. Because Scar is still himself— clumsy, forgetful, reckless— but for some reason, Grian hasn’t sent him away yet, hasn’t replaced him with someone better, and a nagging voice in the back of Scar’s mind has one question: why? Or: Scar gets injured, Grian fixes him up, and they finally talk about their feelings.

Scar's there, standing, a cheeky, ever so slightly bashful grin on her face. It's almost a smirk, her classic slightly off-kilter upturned smile that frequently makes a cosy home on the tanned lines of her face. She makes a door opening gesture with her arms, a silly, dramatic thing that involves far too much motion for the small amount it realistically communicates. Can I come out? I'll leave you alone if you really want. Grian doesn't know what she really wants. In there it's warmth and joy and noise and people and the fear that all this is transient and bound to crumble in her careless hands. Out here it's cold and lonely and unchanging stillness and safety. Devil you know better than the devil you don't. Moth burning up in the neon radiation it trusts more than anything else. Icarus inside, Icarus outside. (in which a substantial New Year's kiss is shared at midnight, but feelings are best left unspoken)

It has been 3 years since Detective Grian caught and apprehended the ‘Goodtimes Killer’, almost dying in the process. When the serial killer escapes prison, Grian is once again thrown back into a game of cat and mouse to catch him. Only this time, the killer has a new obsession with the detective that may prove detrimental to the case and his life.

When Grian has trouble with a build, his solution is to just work harder. Unfortunately, this can lead to him neglecting pesky things like basic self care, including the preening of his wings. Enter Scar, who agrees to lend a hand with the terraforming on Grian's base - if he agrees to clean his wings first. And to stop him from sneaking off and working instead, Scar insists on watching him the whole time. This puts Grian, master of deflection and ignoring his feelings, in a rather tricky situation.

Literally any one of Grian’s friends would be a better soulmate than Scar, and Grian is going to prove this scientifically. Grian’s already felt it, a pinprick in his thumb. He’s familiar—he’s so painfully, unforgettably familiar—with the way Scar sees something and is already reaching out to touch it before he’s asked questions like 'what is this' and 'is it bad news' and 'is it going to hurt me, Scar, and by extension the unwilling bystander my physical sensations are now linked to'. Scar just immediately reaches out.

As a necromancer, the last thing Scar expected when he dug up a coffin to raise someone from the dead and con them out of their valuables, was for the resident to already be alive. It only gets more confusing from there. Or, hey what the fuck is up with Grian

Grian and Scar drift back to each other throughout every season of the Life series. Except drifting makes it sound like it’s an accident, like it’s not purposeful. Like it’s not love. Like it’s not fate. or: hearts embroidered in clothes, puppy love laughter, three seasons of mountains, and a big fuck you to the universe or or: desert duo’s history throughout the life smp

Scar looked at him with interest. “You’ve been living here, all by yourself, for five years? I think I’d go crazy." “Well, can’t promise I haven’t,” Grian said, shamefaced. After all, minutes earlier, he’d tapped into ancient magic to scream at a total stranger. Likely not a total stranger, actually… he mused, remembering the matching rings. There was an obvious question they raised. It was much too weighty to ask. “Do you think we knew each other?” he asked instead. “During the months we both lost, I mean.” Scar leaned back, thinking for a moment. “I mean, we must have at least met, right? If I knew your name, and you’ve got a ring I enchanted.” Grian startled slightly. He hadn’t really had time to process the implications of the name, on top of everything else. “You used my real name,” he said quietly. “Not many people even knew that one.” Or: Famed wizard Scar finds himself wandering in an unfamiliar land with no memory of how he got there. Grian, the dutiful Watcher, finds himself staring at a reflection he doesn't quite recognize, haunted by a sense of unease. Together, they must figure out what happened and what connects them to each other.

Things! It's Scar's Magical Emporium for Lost Things. - Grian (Scar runs a shop for lost objects. Grian is the unfortunate soul who keeps appearing in the store.)

On a technical level, the rite he’s performing is paltry compared to what he executed all those heady months back– chalk-powder in concentric circles, a matchbook, the potential for flame. Simple. Too simple; any of his old professors (Academy-trained, tried, and true) would have failed him for presenting such a stripped summoning spell. But half the magic lies in intent– with enough bull-headed, scrabbling belief, you can claw anything into a shape of your choosing. Grian had taught him that. One breath. Two. No room for doubt– no room for second chances. Scar strikes the match and, with a deft flick of his hand, tosses it into the chalk-powder.

"My assistant," announced Scar Goodtimes, newly-promoted Head Archivist of the Peacock's-Eye Institute, to nobody in particular except maybe the paused audio recording software on his laptop, or perhaps the small pile of tape recorders his predecessor'd left piled on a shelf in the corner, or arguably the little peacock-feather eye logo that dotted the office as haphazardly as it did the entire Institute, "is weird." (In which Scar is Grian's Archivist, and Grian is Scar's assistant.)

“Poultry Man, I’m gonna have to ask you to step back,” Scar said, and Grian went still. “Or, y’know, I guess I’m telling you? Definitely telling you, this is an order– step away from the Voidsong. Remove your digits from his person now, please, or I am going to have to explode you and explain that to Pearl and she will never give me extra concert tickets ever again.” Scar had his bow drawn, an arrow pointed in Grian’s direction. He was close enough that it would tear through Grian’s host body like paper, though the explosives in Scar’s quiver would’ve been more effective, and he was tense around the eyes, a wobbling downturn to his mouth. His voice had trembled, emotion leaking through like before he’d gone professional. Grian knew how those feelings tasted from the inside. He knew those hands, that vascular system, how Scar’s smooth voice felt as it vibrated out of his throat, as his tongue shaped the words– and that was what drew him back from Voidsong, even if it really would’ve been wiser to keep himself intertwined, because he knew that terror, too. Incredibly well. Way too well, as a matter of fact.