Hiya folks! Got another Grim Fandango fic for you. This one was originally a drabble (working on a drabble collection that's... still unfinished), but then I realized I wanted waaay more than 100 words to explore this concept.
Title comes from a line of dialogue that occurs when you use the "pick up" command on Salvador: "He can go up on our shoulders after he wins the war."
None of them felt like sleeping.
One would have thought that after the night's events, they would have been exhausted. By all means, they should have been—they'd traveled all day and well into the night, arrived at Nuevo Marrow, and immediately set to work taking out Hector LeMans and retrieving the tickets. By the time they entered their hotel room, it was nearing dawn. Yet even faced with the sight of clean beds—old and worn out as they were—they felt no strong desire to rest.
And so they stood there—two souls and a demon—awkwardly looking about the two-bed hotel room.
Glottis was the first to break the silence.
"Uh... anyone mind if I use the shower?"
None of them had had that luxury in well over a year, and Manny was suddenly keenly aware of the amount of pollen clinging to his robes, shoes, and hands.
The thought brought a sharp pain to the left side of his ribcage.
But he glanced at Meche, who met his gaze, and waved his friend off. "Go ahead, carnal," he said, and Glottis squeezed into the bathroom.
The room was quiet other than the muffled sound of running water. Neither of them even looked at the beds; all Manny could see was the grotesque green shades of the meadow; the dim fluorescent lighting of the greenhouse; the bright, mocking blues of flowers worming their way through his chest.
"I don't think you need to keep wearing those stilts," Meche said with a nervous laugh.
Manny shook his head as the hotel room came back into view. "Right…" he mumbled, setting the briefcase down. He shrugged off his robes and slipped out of his stilts with practiced ease—perhaps too practiced. It wasn't until he heard Meche chuckling that he realized he'd tried to hang his robes on a hook that was not there and was fumbling to shut a locker door that didn't exist.
Both the robes and stilts were now in a pile on the floor, and they could stay there for all he cared.
...When had his legs started aching? Or his head, for that matter?
Sleeping still didn't feel right, but Manny very suddenly felt like he had to sit down before his legs gave out. He eased himself onto the edge of one of the beds, hissing at the combination of pain and relief the action brought to his tired limbs. So maybe running around in his reaper outfit for half the night hadn't been the greatest idea, but he was never one who could resist making himself look stylish, even when he was doing the dirty job of taking out Hector.
And dressing as the Grim Reaper seemed pretty appropriate for that.
The thought made him smile briefly until he remembered the last sight he'd glimpsed past greenhouse doors. If he'd still had a stomach, it would have been flipping at the memory.
"Are you all right?"
When had Meche sat next to him? He searched through his stolen coat, fumbling for his lighter and a cigarette and fighting to rid his mind of the image of Hector's girth literally exploding with plant matter.
The snow grinder was unceremoniously tossed into the pile with his robes and stilts, his folded scythe was set to his side, and he found himself staring blankly at an empty cigarette box.
Off to his left, Meche shuffled through her own pockets before producing a cigarette. He took it with mumbled thanks, and it wasn't until he tried lighting the thing that he realized how much he was shaking. But he finally managed it, taking a long drag and holding it in for a moment before exhaling slowly.
"You've been awfully quiet since we left the LSA headquarters," Meche said.
Manny gave a snort. "Not much else to say," he said, immediately disliking how soft his voice had gone. "Besides, having to tell the LSA that Hector isn't the only one pushing up daisies didn't exactly raise anyone's spirits."
Meche looked downward, frowning in sympathy. "Poor Salvador… and Eva, for that matter."
Those were two other things he'd love to forget, but knew he wouldn't anytime soon—the sight of Salvador's twisted, headless body behind the greenhouse, and the look on Eva's face when he told her what had happened.
He'd never seen her cry before.
Manny felt a pang in his chest, and it wasn't just from sympathy.
"I've been the bearer of bad news ever since I set foot in the Underworld, Meche." He took another drag, exhaling it through his nasal cavity. "I'd like to be done with it."
"You—" Meche faltered.
"...will probably be back to my old job in a few weeks." He shrugged helplessly. "Whenever the news about Hector settles." Another cheering thought—going back to his old job, like the past four years hadn't happened. It wasn't like he could go back to his club, or to the SS Lola. He couldn't even hop back onto the rocket gondola that the demon mechanics back at the temple had built—if it hadn't fallen apart, he probably could have reached the end of the line before the train did.
"Perhaps they'll make an exception?" Meche smiled weakly. "You've done so much for everyone, I can't imagine they'd…"
"After letting that piece of lard get to the point of running half the Underworld?" His voice rose in anger. "After sitting back and allowing countless innocent souls to get shipped around like slaves? After failing to check if the Number Nine tickets had been used after they issued them? You think the higher ups are going to care enough about the guy who worked for four years to fix this mess and nearly—?!"
He caught himself, pretending to choke on the cigarette smoke.
"Sorry for trying to keep a shred of positivity," Meche growled, and Manny winced.
"...Sorry," he wheezed. "It's been a long night."
"It has," she admitted, softening.
The room felt quieter, in spite of the sounds of pigeons fluttering and cooing outside the window. It was already morning, and neither of them had slept in over twenty four hours.
After stamping out his cigarette into the carpet (the ashtray was too far away), Manny felt Meche's arm around his shoulders, and wordlessly leaned into her. But she pulled away, and he looked at her in confusion.
She was looking at his chest, and hesitantly picked something off the front of it.
Something small and blue caught his eye.
Terror seizing him, he scrambled to get away, only succeeding in knocking himself off the bed. He wasn't sure if his chest hurt even more now or if he was just imagining it, and he didn't care, only wanting to put as much distance between himself and that tiny piece of a plant as possible.
Meche looked from him, to the petal in her hand, to the left breast of his jacket.
...There was a hole there, wasn't there.
"Y-you… you were shot?"
"WHAT?!"
Manny wasn't sure if it was him, Meche, or both of them that had yelped when the bathroom door BANGED against the wall. Glottis's massive head, wrapped in a towel, reared out of the doorway, reminding them both that their conversation hadn't been entirely private. It might have been a humorous sight if it weren't for the fact that Glottis's eyes were wide, his lips pulled back in a horrified grimace. "Y-you didn't tell us you were sprouted, Manny!" he cried.
Now that the shock was wearing off, Manny found himself heaving a sigh. "No one asked," he growled, as Glottis squeezed himself back into the room. "And keep it down, won't you, mano? We don't want to wake up the whole building!"
"L-look, I'm sorry, but—Manny, you were shot?!" Glottis was by his side now, looking from him to the hole where the flower had sprouted. Manny had to fight the urge to just throw off the jacket, but of course there was a hole in the shirt under that too, and likely a hole in his ribcage for that matter.
"Glottis is right," Meche said, reaching down to help Manny back onto the bed. Glottis nearly sat down next to him before thinking better of it. "Why didn't you tell us before, Manny?"
"Not that much of a surprise, is it?" Manny's voice was strained; he looked at neither of them, staring tiredly at the floor. "Not with everything else that happened."
"I'd say it's a surprise, since you're still standin' here," Glottis said, gesturing at him. "Er, sitting, anyway."
"Shouldn't we get you to a doctor?" Meche reached toward his jacket, and he pulled away, tugging the coat more tightly around himself.
"I'm fine."
Yes, he was fine, even as the pain still gnawed at his broken ribs. He was fine, as visions flashed in his mind of Sal and Lola and the crew of his ship bursting into flowers, feeling all the agony he'd felt and more. He was fine, as the guilt that he was entirely responsible for Salvador's death ate at his marrow.
"...No offense, Manny, but I'm really not sure you are."
"Well what do you want me to do about it, menso?!" Manny spat, snapping his head up to glare at Glottis. The part of his mind that would have stopped a comment like that had long since shut down, even when he registered the dumb shock on Glottis's face. "You think I can bring those people back? You think I can tear those flowers out of Salvador's skull?" Belatedly he realized they'd only been taking about his broken ribs, but he didn't know how make himself shut up at this point. "Was my getting sprouted in the first place not enough for you? What were you doing when I was facing Hector, anyway, having a joy ride in the Bone Wagon? I never saw any backup over at the the mead—"
WHACK.
Oooh Meche could swing a punch.
"Is this how you always react when someone shows the least bit of concern for you?!" she cried.
He shook his head, opening and closing his aching jaw a few times. "Thanks for knocking some sense into me."
"Don't thank me," she said, then added when he turned to face her, "and don't apologize to me."
But now she wasn't looking at Manny, anyway—rather, her face softened as she looked over his shoulder. For a dumb moment he wondered what she was staring at when a loud, wet snort erupted somewhere off to the side of the bed.
Oh, Glottis...
The wet towel that had been wrapped around what little hair Glottis had was now being used as a makeshift handkerchief as the big demon sobbed into it. Dios mio, Manny hadn't heard him cry like that since they'd been fired from the DOD, and that had been years ago.
"Hey, hey, I'm sorry, carnal," Manny said gently, reaching out to give Glottis's shoulder a shaky pat. (Ugh, was he still shaking?) "You know I didn't mean any of that."
"W-we tried to find you again, M-Manny…!" Glottis wailed. "W-we looked all over t-town, but we kept runnin' into more b-birds, and H-Hector's goons…!"
Manny flinched—of course they would have still had trouble back in town. Of course he wasn't the only one who'd had a very long night. Why had he even yelled at Glottis to begin with? "I know, I know," he said in what he hoped was a soothing voice. "You did good there, buddy."
Glottis gave a loud sniffle. "Y-you're not mad at me…?"
"No." He could've made another excuse that he'd just come out of a horrible time, but it didn't hold much water when they'd all been in similar boats. "...I'm only really mad at me."
"Oh…!"
When Manny saw Glottis rise to his feet and stare at him, puffy-eyed, he knew what was coming. It was a shame he lacked the energy to do anything about it, but he probably deserved it anyway.
He could only tense up when Glottis lunged forward onto the bed and threw his arms around Manny, bursting into sobs anew. Aside from growling at having his ribcage crushed, he bit his metaphorical tongue, letting Glottis cry on him.
"I-I'm so glad Hector d-didn't get you!" he cried, continuing to wail and probably waking up half the building.
"You and me both," Manny grunted, pushing against Glottis's arm in a silent request for the demon to loosen his grip. Even in his distraught state, though, Glottis got the hint.
"It's all right, Glottis," Meche said, reaching out to pet the top of the demon's head, just like she had when he'd been deathly ill—what, had that not even been a day ago? "Everyone's safe now."
Yes… they were. Of those who had either avoided being sprouted or survived their sproutings, they were safe. They were safe, and they would all have their tickets soon.
...Well, most of them, anyway.
Manny looked over at Meche, who met his gaze. While one of her hands was still petting Glottis like some poor shelter dog, the other reached out to Manny, who took it in his own. He knew she was thinking the same thing he was—the same thoughts of trains, and tickets, and shoddy, former-supply-closet offices.
The mess with Hector and his stolen ticket scheme was over, but Manny didn't want this to be over. He didn't want to say goodbye to Meche or Glottis. He didn't want to have to be left alone in this world, and have to work his way from the ground up all over again. He didn't want to be left in an empty office with nothing but a handful of clients and constant memories of the past four years for company. He—
ZZZZZZHHHK.
Manny gave a start; Glottis's whimpers had very abruptly turned into snores.
Sighing, Meche slid closer to Manny, sitting against Glottis's side with him and linking hands again. She leaned into him, and he returned the gesture. By now Manny was starting to realize how exhausted he was, but he didn't know if he'd be able to sleep, with the horrible thoughts still circling his head.
Meche gave a quiet hum and reached up, her thumb brushing brushing away a drop of moisture from the edge of his eye socket.
...Oh.
Well, there was something that hadn't happened in a while.
It must not've been hard for her to guess the reason for that. "I'm here now," she said, and Manny wasn't quite so exhausted that he missed the slight waver in her voice, "so let's just focus on that for now, hm?"
The thoughts were still there—the knowledge that she would soon be leaving without him—but he tried. He focused on Glottis's breathing behind him, on the feeling of Meche's phalanges entwined with his, on the weight of her body leaning against his side.
Hector, Domino, and Olivia were gone… as were Salvador and many others.
But at least the three souls in the room had each other, if only for a little while.