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frozenjokes · 14 days ago

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typical mumbo jumbo anxiety attack (everyone else is making it worse)

“So I— Uh, yeah. It’s been weird lately. Really weird. Really extremely weird. I mean— with Cub in space— I guess he’s in space now?— it’s been a little less weird. But by less I mean like not significantly less, just not having the one guy that hates me around makes my life a smidgen less stressful. I suppose.”

Gem rested her cheek on her fist, red curls bouncing at the tilt of her head. “You.. You know, whenever I think you can’t get weirder, I also think ‘that’s not a restriction I should put on someone who can see ghosts,’ and then you prove me right. Every time. This takes the cake though. How can they replace guardian angels? Has mine ever changed?”

“I wouldn’t know.” Mumbo glanced reflexively at Gem’s guardian angel, Gem herself whipping around in the same direction, and Mumbo shielded himself from the angel’s fiery glare. “Your angel already doesn’t like me, no more about them. Pretend they don’t exist.”

“I am not going to do that.”

“You could lie to save face at least.”

Gem waved him off, “Psh, what’re they gonna do? Smite you?”

“At this point, I really don’t know and I especially don’t want to find out.” Mumbo’s anxiety broiled under the heat of the angel’s fury, and he covered his face with his hands to hide from it. “Please change the subject.”

Their small, local coffee shop was bustling, enough people hurrying in and out to provide alright cover for an objectively insane conversation, not that Mumbo cared if there were eavesdroppers. None of the anything that had happened to him in the past week even made sense to him, so an outsider looking in was doomed. Mumbo heard Gem take a sip of her tea, most definitely enjoying watching him squirm, but with Grian in Mumbo’s ear, it was hard to focus on the imminent throttling he would suffer from every guardian angel in the room.

“Mumbo, is that guy bothering you? Want me to take care of them?” Grian gnashed its teeth. “I’ll make it quick.”

The angel must have known Grian was not a threat in whatever cursed state Skizz had put it in, because Grian did not poof out of thin air, remaining instead to contribute to Mumbo’s mounting headache.

“Are your ghosts as committed to secrecy as the angels? Can I talk to them?” Gem asked, and Mumbo didn’t know what else he was expecting. Maybe he wanted this? He just needed someone else to know how crazy things were.

“YES!” Grian howled, and Mumbo covered his ears over the noise.

“Grian will talk to you.”

“The demon?” Gem’s expression twisted in one of mild displeasure, before she shrugged, apparently having changed her mind about caring. “Alright, what’s hell like?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Grian spat, to which Mumbo relayed the message with much less enthusiasm and Gem groaned, throwing her head back.

“This guy sucks, can I talk to any of the other ones?”

“I’m your only option, bitch!”

Mumbo ignored it, closing his eyes. “Cleo is on the other side of the shop, and they probably wouldn’t help you anyway. Scar is.. still stuck on the step outside.”

“I thought you said his wheelchair molded to the shape of your car’s backseat once he realized you were going somewhere without him, how is he stuck on a stair?”

“I can’t answer these questions.”

“Fine, I guess I won’t talk to your ghosts then.”

“What!?” Grian screeched, and Mumbo tried to tell it to lower the volume before being screamed over, “What do you mean!?”

“Grian is upset you don’t want to talk to it.”

Gem said something, but Mumbo didn’t hear it over Grian, “Who are you calling it?”

“I—“ Mumbo blanched, embarrassed. Apparently his uncanny ability to guess strangers’ pronouns had failed him this time. “I’m sorry, I guess I never.. What are your pronouns, then?”

“Oh, I don’t care. Whatever is fine.”

Mumbo closed his eyes. Took a breath. Gem filled the silence.

“What are their pronouns?”

“It— They don’t care.”

“Don’t use they, they is annoying,” Grian cut in, floating obnoxiously over Mumbo’s head on their— its stomach, and kicking its legs.

“Anything but they/them,” Mumbo corrected, physically feeling himself age.

“Well you can tell Grian I don’t care to talk to anyone difficult, and if he’s going to be difficult, I’m not interested.”

“Tell your friend she’s a cunt.”

Mumbo closed his eyes. “I’m not going to say that.”

“FINE! Hell is fine, it’s so fine, it smells and I hate that. Death smell is fine every once and a while, but gods would it kill them to air the place out every once and a while? It’s gross.”

“Hell is fine but it smells,” Mumbo translated, and Gem nodded.

“That makes sense.”

…

Mumbo was exhausted, exhausted, all of the time. There was no room for grief in a house like this, the noise like static anger on Mumbo’s thin skin, so much noise, pulling, pulling, so many big feelings to manage on top of his own.

Even his room didn't feel safe, even when Cub wasn’t here, even when the spirits generally respected his wishes to be alone in here, there was just that lingering sense of dread, the feeling of being watched.

Life felt tainted, somehow.

His affirmations, his tool to manage his self-esteem and anxiety, weren’t private. His house was not his own. Angels did not care about him, not the new one or the general powers that be— religion had been comforting before, and now the thought stung like venom boiling his blood. His old guardian was.. not who Mumbo thought he was.

Talking to Gem was worse than saying nothing at all, not when Mumbo couldn’t speak freely in fear of the eyes boring into his back. Grian wouldn’t have been a problem, but Scar, Scar who crumbled at a whiff of rejection, who was terrified of being left behind, left alone.

Mumbo wanted to understand. Wanted to be empathetic. He just had no more spoons to give.

“Hey.”

Mumbo just about jumped out of his skin at the voice, Cleo’s voice, thick and monotone in their eternal dissatisfaction. Their head was poking through the closed window, frown plastered seemingly permanently to their face.

“You— No one is allowed in here. This— This is my room, and I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” Mumbo was a little disconcerted that Cleo wanted his attention after a week of silence, but that didn’t change the fact that this was HIS space, and by god he intended to keep it that way.

“I don’t care. Come on, let’s get out of here.” Cleo stepped all the way inside, then turned around to fiddle with the lock on his window, grumbling. “What, is this thing like 1000 years old?” Seeing her fingers keep slipping in and out of the physical plane spurred Mumbo to help despite his irritation.

“I don’t appreciate you disrespecting my— Why do you want to open my window actually?”

“Don’t need the rest of the house on our tails.”

“You— Cleo, I can not jump out the second story of my home. I have bones that break.”

“And I have wings. You’ll be fine.”

“Do you intend to carry me out? You can’t even open the lock on my window!”

“You’re less than 1000 years old, so it should be fine.” Cleo heaved the window the rest of the way open, and before Mumbo had the sense to run, Cleo’s shockingly solid arms were around his stomach, the only thing keeping Mumbo quiet being the wind stolen from his lungs as Cleo threw them both out the window.

Mumbo’s fears were confirmed when Cleo !!dropped him!!!! but at the very least he wasn’t too far from the ground, throwing out his arms and legs like a cat in any effort to break his fall. He still managed to faceplant into the grass, conveniently muffling his scream until Cleo could peel him off the ground with a hand glued to his mouth.

“Damn you’re heavier than you look. I guess it doesn’t matter if a small gust of wind would blow you over if you’re 6’4. Be quiet, or they’ll hear us.”

Mumbo didn’t have much of a choice, though Cleo could only keep her grip on the physical world for a few moments before Mumbo was falling through her. With some struggle, Mumbo was herded to his car. Cleo phased through the passenger side door without hesitation, and it took a long moment of staring blankly before they realized he could not do the same.

“Come on?”

“I don’t have my car keys, Cleo. The door is locked.”

Cleo’s lip curled, Mumbo’s existence in the physical realm becoming a point of extreme inconvenience. “I’ll go get them. Where are they?”

“Well— In the key bowl, but where are we even going in the first place? Why are we sneaking out?”

“We’re going to the store.”

Mumbo stalled, brow furrowing. “The store..? What store? What am I buying?”

“I don’t know, the store!” Cleo threw up their hands, sliding back out of the vehicle. “I’ll get your keys.”

“You’d better get my wallet too.. I guess.. That’ll be in the kitchen.”

“Noted.” Cleo left without another word, returning much longer than it should’ve taken to retrieve those two things, but Cleo’s grip on the physical plane wasn’t exactly rock solid, so that made some sense. Maybe that much time hadn’t even passed, but just waiting out here in the open begging to be spotted by Grian or Scar or god-forbid Cub was spiking his anxiety. Silently, Cleo handed over Mumbo’s things and they both got in the car. Mumbo inched out of his driveway, having no idea where they were going.

“So.. the store?”

“The— Yeah. The store.” Cleo returned his question curtly, though Mumbo sensed their frustration was not with him. “Like how you guys have book stores and medicine stores and food stores, I want to go somewhere that has. Stuff. The Stuff Store.”

“That’s.. not the most specific thing in the world. What kind of stuff do you want?”

“Stuff that goes in a room.”

“Furniture..?”

Cleo pursed their lips. “Maybe. I don’t know. Your guest room already has furniture, it’s just bare. Cub needs.. he needs his home back, right?”

“I— Cub? Since when were we talking about Cub?”

“Did I not say so?” Cleo asked, looking exceptionally like she did not care, “Listen, you’re already a wreck as it is, if Cub comes back your sanity may as well be down the shitter, so you need some kind of contingency plan, right?” Cleo leaned back in her chair, eyes closed. “And beyond that, the only way to heal from idiots is to get away from them. This outing will be doubly productive.”

Mumbo squinted. “You’re being awfully nice to me.”

“If my assignment kills himself they might ship me off to someone else, and I haven’t decided if that would be a good or a bad thing yet. But this isn’t about you.”

“It’s not about me, is it?” Mumbo huffed, voice pressed flat as all the regard he’d afforded to her was crushed out of him.”

“I think Cub has had a rough go, that’s all. And I don’t expect you to want to look out for him, you have enough on your plate, but.. I dunno. Someone ought to. He lost a lot. From what I’ve heard, humans are famously poor at dealing with it. Maybe a room will help.”

Mumbo tried and spectacularly failed at stifling his own bitterness. She was his guardian angel, wasn’t she, and she cared more about the spirit who most actively sought to make his life more miserable than Mumbo himself. Of course Cleo wasn’t asking Mumbo to care, just to financially support their caring.

He missed Skizz. He fucking— he missed Skizz so fucking much.

Mumbo struggled not to choke over the lump in his throat. “I thought we agreed. Not to talk. Or be around each other at all. I thought you were going to stay out of the way.”

Cleo was quiet. Mumbo wondered if she even knew how close he was to tears, or if she even cared.

“I needed you.”

Mumbo hadn’t been going anywhere in particular, but now he practically swerved into the nearest parking lot, hardly braked before yanking his car into park so he could slam his head into the steering wheel and sob. How fucking pathetic. How long would things be this way, the grief, the ghosts rubbing salt in every single one of his raw, blistered wounds. He hadn’t gone a day without something like this, a cry that built for hours or simply came on out of nowhere. He was a fucking wreck. He took off work when he couldn’t bring himself to go, and that just made everything feel worse, he tried to take care of himself, and came out of every attempt more exhausted than before.

Of course Cub had lost a lot, at least Mumbo had his life regardless of the pennies it was worth.

He really thought it had been getting better. He was past this. Life had felt more certain, comfortable, and then the rug had been wrenched so hard from underneath him that every reliable, predictable thing had been stripped away. Skizz. His one constant. The one person who unshakeably, would always be there. Who would always care.

Skizz was a murderer, or something worse. Skizz was gone. There was no one looking out for him anymore.

Mumbo wanted to love Scar. Mumbo wanted to hold him, be on his side, wholly, without hesitation. Mumbo was on Scar’s side. And in the same breath, Mumbo wished he’d never come home. He found it near impossible to look Scar in the eyes. What a repulsive person Mumbo was. Revolting. Selfish.

Cleo was not there when Mumbo peeled his forehead off the steering wheel. He didn’t know what else to do. He went to the store. A chain, one that had furniture and knickknacks and all sorts of things that might make someone feel home.

Cub had died. Been murdered. Forced to watch his home be stripped and sold. Imprisoned.

Bile rose in Mumbo’s throat. He still hated him. Still felt— jealous. Jealous, and a little bit nauseous.

“I think he likes space.”

Mumbo didn’t know when Cleo had materialized behind him. He didn’t care. No, that wasn’t true. He did care, and quite a lot, but the cement in his throat and his stomach hardened, keeping his spite firmly in his esophagus. He said nothing.

Mumbo bought him bedsheets and pillows. A clock for the bedside table, a NASA themed calendar, a desk lamp, and a small mirror to hang on the wall. He stopped by an antique store and found a little globe; something for Cub to look at, he supposed.

He brought it all home. Couldn’t bring himself to get out of the car. Cleo sat beside him, motionless in the passenger seat.

“I’m sorry.” Meaningless. Mumbo did not believe them. “I didn’t want to make it worse.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he mumbled. He did not leave his seat. Neither did Cleo. They stayed there, silent, even as the sky started to darken. It hurt Mumbo’s head. Time was passing, moving around him. He should get up. Go inside. He did not.

“I met someone. A while ago. I met someone who changed my mind.”

Mumbo said nothing. He wasn’t certain he could even speak anymore.

“His name was Joe. Is, I guess. He’s still out there. Living, undead. A ghost. He was murdered, too.” Cleo stopped, brow furrowing, eyes shifting like she was looking for purchase somewhere she’d never find it. “I failed him. He wanted to die. To— not exist anymore. To not go to heaven, just, stop. I was going to help him, and it’s not like I didn’t.. it wasn’t that I went back on my word, we just.. put it off.”

Mumbo heard the long, unsteady breath she drew. He’d never heard her breathe before.

“He would read to me. Human books he thought I ought to know. We would go to bookstores and I’d steal them for him, one at a time, and we’d go back to our place we’d found and just.. read. I held the pages for him. He didn’t mind when I asked questions. Most of the time he’d give me answers I didn’t even ask for, rambling on in tangents that never seemed to end, and I kind of just wanted him to go back to reading, but.. I don’t know. I didn’t even get to say goodbye. And now he’s probably still out there because I wouldn’t pull the trigger, alone and waiting to die.”

Cleo closed their eyes. “When I can’t blame myself anymore, I blame you. I think of you like I used to think of humanity. Bland. Unworth my time. I know it’s not fair. I just find it easier to like you when you’re dead.”

Mumbo’s lip trembled. He didn’t fight the torrent. No use wrestling tidal waves.

“I’m sorry you got me. I’m sorry for.. whoever you lost. It seems like he.. did his job.”

#hermitcraft #hermitfic #hermitcraft fic #mumbo jumbo #geminitay #zombiecleo #cubfan135 #grian #gtws #goodtimeswithscar

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