Archive of Our Own ^beta

It starts with a movie night. 

Scar and Cub have had this routine since their college days, back when they were dorm mates. Every Tuesday they’d sit down on the couch and watch a movie—either something random or something chosen by one of them. They’d cycle through those three options every week on a rotation, although it was subject to change depending on the mood at times. Nevertheless, it was something they did all four years they shared a dorm without fail. So it was only natural that they would continue to keep up with it after going out into the adult world. 

Working real jobs makes it a bit more challenging at times; especially when one of them is an actor and superhero while the other is a scientist plus an agent and technical support for said superhero. But they make it work. Movie nights turned into time not just to watch a movie together, but a night of relaxation. 

In the early days of Scar’s career, he often found himself with some kind of alcoholic beverage in hand. He’d be hunched over Cub’s kitchen table as he broke over the slow death of a career that didn’t even have the chance to properly start. Cub would sit with him and listen, reason for him to keep trying because he knew acting was something Scar lived and breathed. Sometimes they swapped roles, with Cub frustrated over a moot point in research or a project, completely stuck on what to do next. And while Scar didn’t have the scientific brain that Cub had, he tried to help however he could. 

Naturally, their movie nights continued to evolve with them. 

And honestly? They’re probably what helped keep Scar sane after his… accident. They were a saving grace, a sanctuary from the chaos, a light in the incredibly dark period of Scar’s life. He had survived what otherwise would’ve been a fatal accident thanks to the intervention of a doctor. But it left him with more scars than just the physical kind. His life had been thrown into complete upheaval, laced with turmoil and pain and fear as Scar found himself changed in more ways than one. 

It isn’t a pretty story, not by any means. And Cub was privy to many of Scar’s breakdowns over it—the late night panicked calls, the pain, the frustration, the horror as he realized what was happening. The… helplessness. All of it was worse than Scar’s anxiety about getting a callback. 

Cub and their movie nights kept him afloat. Their movie nights became a disguise for the birth of Hotguy right at the start, and now, well, they’re a break. 

Between being Scar Goodtimes, Hotguy, and Ariana Griande’s personal bodyguard, it’s to have a second to breathe. 

Well… unless it’s a night like tonight. 

Scar and Cub haven’t even gotten to a movie yet, too wrapped up standing around in Scar’s kitchen with a bunch of papers everywhere. Cub’s laptop is open on the counter nearby as the sound of typing fills the air around them, acting as white noise. As for Scar himself, he stands in front of his table, arms crossed over his chest and brows tightly knit. A gentle frown, one born of concentration, dances along his lips. After a moment or two, Scar lets his arms drop with a loud and defeated groan. 

“I feel like my eyes are going blurry from how long I’ve been staring at these papers,” he complains, scrubbing at his face with an exhausted hand. “I’m gonna need glasses at this point!” Cheekily, he looks over at Cub. “Hey Cubby, can I have your glasses?” 

Not even looking up at him, Cub snorts. “Yeah, sure,” he says before pulling his glasses off and holding them out to Scar. 

Scar takes them and puts the thin frames on, his world going from crystal clear to fuzzy and hard to see. He looks down at the papers, trying to read them as if the glasses will provide him with new insights. Unfortunately, all he gets are blurred words. He tries to squint, only for his head to protest with a sharp ache. “Ow! Okay, okay—no squinting with glasses, got it.” He cringes as he pulls them off, rubbing at his eyes. “Geez, how the heck do you see anything in those, Cub?” 

“It’s my prescription,” is all Cub offers as he takes his glasses back. “I wouldn’t recommend wearing glasses with lenses that aren’t made with your eyes in mind.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” Scar waves him off as he falls back into his chair. “I feel like I haven’t been able to find anything to crack this one.” He grabs one of the papers, a news article from the art show detailing the attack. BigB is one thorough guy, Scar has to hand it to him. “The NHO was the only company big enough to sell tech like this, but they’ve been out of the picture for years now.” Once more, his brows furrow in confusion. “Who else could’ve taken up the mantle?” 

Beside him, Cub’s typing comes to a halt as he pauses. “If they’re not coming from within the city, then the next logical step would be a company outside,” he hums. “Take a look at this.” He nudges the laptop over to Scar, who sits up in his seat, leaning forward. “There are only two other companies near the city that would be able to sell tech in the way NHO did.” 

“The Create Factory and Octagon…” Scar reads from the screen, lips tilting in a contemplative frown. “Octagon… that sounds familiar.” 

Cub taps on his mousepad, bringing up two different articles. He gestures to one of the articles, where an image of a very familiar man greets them. “Octagon is a medical technology company,” he begins, and the words leave Scar stiffening. “They make use of advanced tech to treat diseases and injuries that most normal hospitals can’t.” When he looks over at Scar, there’s sympathy in his gaze. “Doc owns it.” 

Biting the inside of his cheek, clenching a fist, a wave of conflicting emotions wash over Scar as he stares at Doc’s image. His dark green hair is slicked back, pristine white lab coat sitting on his shoulders, green scrubs underneath. His eyes are kind, if a bit tired. Scar doesn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. Doc is the man that single-handedly both saved and ruined his life (accidentally, unintentionally) in one fell swoop. There’s a lot for Scar to be grateful for when it comes to Doc—but there’s also a lot for him to be angry over. He lets out a deep, tired sigh. “Doc wouldn’t be selling illegal weapons to people,” he says, lips only curling further at the ends. “He doesn’t set out to intentionally hurt people.” 

“Someone in his company might be,” Cub returns. “According to this article, some tech has been going missing for the past seven months. It could be an employee of his that’s stealing the technology and selling it to the highest bidder.” 

With a quiet hum, Scar crosses his arms. “Seven months? That’s quite a long time frame…” 

Cub nods in agreement, “Seems it wasn’t clocked until recently. But records show from their warehouse that products and parts have been missing for as long as seven months.” 

“It’s worth checking out,” Scar says. He glances at Cub, “And before you say it, yes I’ll be fine. It was years ago now! I know Doc was only trying to help—I don’t hate the man.” 

“I wasn’t going to say anything.”

“Can’t fool me, Cubby, I know you.” Scar waves him off. “Now, what about this Create Factory business? What’re we looking at with them?” 

Tapping the mousepad, Cub brings the second article into focus. “There isn’t much to go off of with them. From what I could find online, they started as a small business that nearly went bankrupt before getting support from a certain company.” He looks at Scar dryly, “I’ll give you one guess as to who that was.” 

Scar narrows his eyes some as he stares at the screen. “The NHO?” 

“Right,” Cub confirms. “Apparently, the son of the previous CEO, Vintage Beef, took over the company after his father was sent to jail,” he begins as he pulls up a third article. The main image is of a bearded man with black hair and blue eyes, dressed in a nicely ironed red suit. “He was determined to turn the company around and improve its reputation after what his father did.”

“And… looks like he did that through funding other companies.” Scar lifts a brow. “Seems like a decent idea to me.”

“Certainly a good PR move,” Cub snorts. “It’s… suspicious how quickly the Create Factory was able to pull itself out of bankruptcy and become the lucrative business they are now.” He turns his laptop back to himself, the light from the screen reflecting off his glasses. “NHO’s reputation nosedived after you exposed the previous CEO, so even with funding they couldn’t have recommended or offered clients. There’s no way they would’ve been able to recover that fast. Not when they’re an appliance company.”

“Unless they’re getting money from a side gig…” Scar trails off, trying to wrap it all together in his head. The Create Factory and the Octagon are both equally suspicious, one with missing tech and another with a rapid rise to success. They’ll need to be looked into further, but it feels nice to have some proper leads. He exhales as he lets his arms drop. “All of this thinking makes my brain hurt,” he complains, whining. “But this is a good step forward,” he mumbles, “though I might have to take some time off to go investigate.”

Cub shuts his laptop with an amused huff, “You? Take time off? Are pigs flying in the sky?” He’s more teasing than anything.

Scar rolls his eyes in return as he stands up from his chair, walking over to the living room. “Yeah, yeah, impossible to believe, I know,” he returns, good natured in reply. Just as he crosses over to the couch, there’s a buzz from his pocket. If Cub calls him out on how quickly he pulls out his phone, he’ll deny it, but Scar is eager to look. He can feel Cub’s eyes on him as he holds his phone up, tapping on the screen. Hope bubbles up in his chest, expanding and taking up space in the gaps of his ribs. It’s like a balloon filling with air in his chest as he looks at the reason for such notification—

—only for that balloon to lose air, zooming around his ribs as it deflates. All Scar finds is a text from Skizz, asking him to come in a bit earlier tomorrow. His shoulders sag as slight disappointment floods him, and he lets out a quiet breath. 

From the table, Cub speaks up, “Will you just text her already? You’ve been staring at your phone like a sad puppy all night.”

“No I haven’t!” Scar exclaims, looking back at him. Sure he was hoping that Ariana might’ve been the one to text him… maybe a cute picture of her cats, or an update on something, anything. But he hasn’t been sadly looking at his phone! He’s been very focused, in the zone even. “Besides, she said she was busy tonight.”

“Dude… you’re hopeless,” Cub mutters, shaking his head. 

Scar’s eyes widen as his mouth drops, a scandalized expression settling over his face. “Youuuu! You take that back mister!” He waggles a finger at him. 

Unbothered by Scar’s dastardly finger waggling, Cub merely lifts a brow. “Only when you decide to do something about it.” 

“You say that like it’s easy,” Scar grumbles, falling dramatically back onto his couch. One of his arms flop over the back, hand hanging in the air. “I don’t even know where to begin with her.” 

“I don’t know… you could finally tell her how you feel? Tell her everything you’ve told me.” 

Instantly does Scar shoot up, looking at Cub from over the couch with wide eyes. He almost looks as if he’s been told the world is ending. “Have you had a drink or something?” he gapes. “You’re supposed to give me good advice, not advice that’s like telling me to jump out the window!” 

Cub stares at him. “The way your brain works sometimes is so interesting,” he comments before shaking his head. “What’s the worst that could possibly happen if you tell her? Really.” 

“She could think I’m creepy!” Scar answers, ready for such a follow up from Cub. He’s only prepared because he’s spent many sleepless nights asking himself that same question. “She could also think I’m lame, or worse—in love with her!” 

“Scar, you are in love with her, that’s the point of telling her,” Cub begins, walking over to him. He looks unimpressed yet amused all at once. “You’ve told me before that you want to bring her to parks and hold her hand while grocery shopping. That is kind of lame,” he sighs. “You’ve been her bodyguard for five months. If she still thinks you’re cool I’d be surprised. No offense man.” 

Scar frowns at him, dropping back down onto the couch cushion. “I’m plenty cool, thank you very much! I act, and I paint things, and I watch movies with pizza and Jellie. That’s cool,” he makes an attempt at defending himself as Cub joins him on the couch. 

“Lame.” Cub shrugs. 

“Cuuub,” Scar whines in return, said man making himself comfortable on the cushion beside him. His face scrunches with confusion. “Hang on, why are you suddenly in favor of me telling Ari anyway? Weren’t you all,” he coughs, straightening up and doing his best impression of Cub’s voice, “Scar you shouldn’t mix feelings and business, you’ll cloud your judgement’ or something? Why the change of heart?”

The question draws a hum from Cub. “So you’ll stop pining over her like a teenage boy,” he explains, and upon receiving Scar’s betrayed look, he chuckles. “I’m joking. I think she’s good for you… ever since you became her bodyguard you’ve looked livelier, and more yourself. It’ll still keep everything complicated, but if she makes you happy then who am I to stop you?” 

“Oh…” Scar trails off, emotions tugging on his heart. He feels it swell. 

“So, maybe it’d be better for you to tell her. Your job might feel less difficult then,” his friend finishes, and it leaves Scar to frown slightly. 

He wishes he could tell Ari. Really, he does. More than anything. But there’s just so many obstacles, so many reasons why he shouldn’t. “I can’t tell her even if I wanted to,” Scar sighs, gaze dropping to his hands for a moment. “There’s the whole secret identity thing, and the whole thing’ll just look bad!” he exclaims. “It’ll seem like I was lying about my intentions for becoming her bodyguard! I didn’t do it to confess or date her.” Looking at Cub, his gaze softens some. “I don’t want her to think I’m like the others who look at her and objectify her.”

Cub falls silent for a moment, just watching him. There’s an indecipherable gleam to his eyes, barely hidden behind his glasses. Scar meets his gaze, focusing on him as Cub lets out a small breath. “Scar, you’re one of the most caring people I’ve ever met. I don’t think there’s even the slightest possibility that she’ll think you were lying,” he argues. 

“But my identity,” Scar continues to refute, tone growing somber. “She’d only know one side of me, Cub. She’d only know Hotguy, not Scar. I’d never be able to drop the act and let her see everything. She’d be dating a mask… not me. I can’t do that to her… I’d never have time, I’d be lying to her constantly, I’d have to hide a whole second life from her just to keep her safe. That’s not fair.” 

“Don’t you think she’d understand better than anyone?” Cub offers, tilting his head. “She’s been in the limelight for years, I think Miss Griande would know a thing or two about a mask.” 

And isn’t that something Scar has asked himself over and over? He’s drawn the same conclusion every time. 

“It’s just—it’s not an option Cub,” Scar says, a finality and firmness to the timbre of his voice. “She doesn’t feel the same way, anyways. The only thing I can do is move on.” He follows it with a shake of his head, as if to clear the somber air swirling around them. He plasters a smile on his face next, “Man, this really brought down the mood huh? I think this calls for a movie.” 

When Cub looks at him again, his brows are slightly furrowed, the slightest hint of commiseration sitting in the depths of his eyes. He looks as if he wants to argue further, not wanting to change the topics just yet. He’s been around Scar long enough that he knows when the change in masks has been made, or when there’s a silent plea to drop it. Thinking better of pressing Scar further, he relents. “Sure… a movie sounds good.” 

As Scar grabs the remote and begins their search for a movie, he can only hope that Ari’s night is going better. 

A frustrated groan rips through the walls of Grian’s bedroom. A very, very frustrated groan. It almost borders on a scream, actually. 

Music sounds from her speaker covers the noise slightly, some random playlist she found online. Sad love songs. She’s listening to sad love songs. What the hell has Hotguy done to her? Bittersweet lyrics on top of sweeter melodies fill the air of her room, sitting over her ears like gloves. As for Grian herself, she’s burying her face rather aggressively into her pillow, squeezing it like a stress ball. She makes another frustrated noise before sighing and lifting her head up. 

Her original goal tonight was to do a bit of self care, clean some things in her room, cuddle her cats, pour hours of gameplay and energy into whichever Legend of Zelda game she found first. Only one of those things has happened, and Grian has found herself utterly regretting even putting it on the list. 

Everything was fine until Grian cleaned her desk up, finding that stupid hoodie. She still hasn’t given it back to Hotguy yet (and not that she’ll admit it, but she doesn’t think she even will at this point). The minute she laid eyes on the hoodie, she was doomed. She tried to ignore it first, moving on to playing a game as she planned. Except… her thoughts kept straying back to Hotguy—how was he doing? Is he out on patrol right now? Tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough. At some point, it became impossible to focus on the game, and after Link died for the seventh time, she gave up. 

Which leads to now… Grian sitting in bed while wearing said hoodie, and shoving a pillow into her face. 

“How do people do this?” she whines, huffing. She's always found romantic love a bit intimidating, even when she was younger. While other girls her age were playing house or ‘marrying’ boys on the playground, Grian was lost in music. That kind of love has always felt more like a concept, a theory. She could pluck the sound of love on the strings of her guitar, could weave the themes of it into the keys of her piano. Romantic love was something to use, something abstract. It was an idea she pulled on when it came to music. She just… never saw herself experiencing it full force some day. 

And after One and Watcher Records, well, Grian had completely shut herself off to it. It was safer. It kept her from allowing anyone else to break her. 

But she never anticipated Hotguy. 

Hotguy, who she couldn’t stand at first. Hotguy, whose smile is a little crooked but still so bright, especially when his eyes crinkle. Hotguy, who held her like she was precious and swore to keep her family safe. Hotguy, who willingly took the blame of her distance as hatred, believing himself to have been at fault rather than her. Hotguy, who worried over her while she was sick and stayed by her side when she asked. 

He so effortlessly broke through the walls she built to protect herself. Yet instead of tearing those walls down, he’s carefully set aside each brick, talking her through it the entire time. Gentle hands reached out, being even gentler with their grasp. They held every brick gingerly as he set them down, wearing her down with safety and promise. He pulled her from her thoughts, encouraged her however he could. Hotguy is her lighthouse, her beacon through the fog, leading her to warmth. His light is steady, reassuring. Sure, he’s clumsy and a bit unserious at times, but he looks at her so earnestly. He sees her, not what everyone else wants to see. And that means more to her than he’ll ever know. There’s an understanding between them that she doesn’t have with anyone else. 

So really, falling for him was probably inevitable. 

Hotguy is just… he’s unlike anyone she’s met, he’s irreplaceable to her. Grian cares about him so much, it’s almost scary. He’s become such a big piece of her life that she can’t imagine him not being in it. He was a blind spot Grian didn’t realize was there until it shined right in her eyes. And she’s fallen for him. Hard. 

Hell, she’s caught herself with the urge to doodle their initials and draw hearts around them in her notebook. Talk about embarrassing! 

Just thinking about it has Grian blushing, burying her face into her pillow again. 

Hotguy occupies her thoughts more often than she’d like. It’s not all that hard, considering how intertwined their lives are. She thinks about his smile, about his dumb jokes, about how kind he is. She thinks about how close they’ve been, how good he is to her. She worries about him. She thinks of him when she sees ice cream and sandwiches. She daydreams about being domestic with him. She wants to touch him. She wants, she wants, she wants. Grian wants him. It’s horrible. She’d like a refund please. 

Grian’s never been this in love before, she doesn’t know what to do with herself. How to handle it. 

(And to think… she wrote him off as someone who wanted to get her into bed at first. She couldn’t have been more wrong.) 

Sighing quietly, Grian glances over at her phone. It’s something she’s been doing all evening, feeling an urge to text him. She told him she was busy! And of course Hotguy wouldn’t text her because he’s sweet, and thoughtful, and respects her space. But ugh she’s going crazy over here! How is she meant to get anything done if she keeps thinking about her bodyguard? 

Grian’s biting her pillow before she catches herself, ready to slam her head into the wall or rip her hair out. 

“Okay, no.” She shakes her head. She tosses both her pillow and phone aside (although not before pausing the music). “Grian, we are not doing this.” She’s not going to wallow in this complicated web of emotions. She’s going to do something productive, something she always does when her feelings get too big. 

Pushing herself up from her bed, she walks over to her desk, plopping down in the chair. Her songwriting notebook stares right at her, and Grian stares back. The cover of the notebook is almost mocking, as if saying I knew you’d come to me, despite being an inanimate object. She huffs at it before flipping it open, turning to a blank page. She grabs a pencil from the little organizer she has, and for a moment just stares at the paper. Truthfully… she has no clue where to start. 

There’s so many different emotions running rampant in her head and her heart, it’s almost overwhelming. How does she put all of her feelings for Hotguy down into a single song, a three minute track? It feels impossible, like she’ll never have enough words to describe Hotguy and how much she cares about him. One song just wouldn’t be sufficient. Grian groans, dropping her head into her hand before shaking her head. Maybe she’s taking the wrong approach here. Instead of focusing on everything she’s feeling, perhaps it’d be better to just… focus on whatever she’s feeling right now, at this very moment. 

Grian leans back in her chair with a quiet hum. She lets her eyes close as she crosses her arms, thinking. When she really focuses on it, the first emotion that comes to mind is restlessness. She’s restless. It originates from the part of her that wants to see Hotguy, that wants to text him about everything and nothing. Just to connect with him. It’s the part of her that can’t wait to talk to him even if he makes her tongue tied. 

She scoffs at how pathetic she is, in disbelief. “How do you do this to me, Hotguy,” Grian grumbles as she drops her arms. She goes back to staring at her notebook, thinking. And as she stares at the blank page, her thoughts circle back to Hotguy’s habit of making her fumble. “Tongue tied, huh?” Her brows furrow as an idea begins to shape in her mind. A melody sits on her tongue, piecing itself together note by note. Grian hums it, tapping her pencil to an unknown beat. And as it starts to take on a form, right from her restless love, she laughs in confused awe. 

Two hours go by before Grian has something she’s happy with on the page. She leans back to read over the first draft of her lyrics, and she nods to herself. Turning in her chair, Grian looks back to her bed. Or more specifically, the floor next to her bed, where her phone landed earlier. Getting up, Grian grabs it and turns it on, still disappointed when she doesn’t see any texts from Hotguy. Her finger hovers over her messages app for a minute, before she’s quickly shaking her head and going to her call list. 

When she finds the number she’s looking for, she taps it and listens to her phone ring. 

“What?” 

Grian snorts, falling back into her chair. “Hello to you too, Joel. What lovely weather we’re having.” 

She can practically feel the eye roll he gives her. “I was watching a movie with Lizzie, what do you want G?” 

“It’ll be quick Mr. Grumpy pants. I know we’re starting our joint sessions with Ren tomorrow but… any chance we can sneak into the recording booth a little bit earlier? I’ve got a song I just finished up.” 

Joel makes a noise. “Grian. Do you know what a break is? Just curious.” 

“Of course I do.” She rolls her eyes. “I wasn’t planning on writing anything but inspiration struck.” 

She hears him sigh, leaving Grian to picture him pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fine, fine. We can at least look at it tomorrow. No promises on anything else. How does that sound?”

Grian grins at the confirmation, “Sounds like nonsense to me.”