Chapter Text
Slim adjusted the earbuds stuck in his acoustic meati and cranked up the music until it drowned out the noise below. He walked along the rooftop ledge, hands in his pockets and sucker in his mouth. Despite his casual demeanor, he was actually keeping a careful eyelight on the rioters below and on his brother. Razz was busy organizing his guardsmen, trying to restore order to the marketplace. Later, they would have to determine what spark had set off the powder keg this time, but for now, they were plenty occupied just trying to keep the damage to a minimum. At least the fires were metaphorical. For now, at least.
He twirled the sucker over his conjured tongue, looking out over the streets and the rooftops. Trying to make sense of the chaos. His brow-bones furrowed as he saw a flash of orange and the glint of cyan magic before losing track of it in the gathered crowd. Taking a knee, making himself as small a target as possible, he called out, “CAPTAIN!” It hurt to yell, but he couldn’t be heard over the racket otherwise. “REBELS!”
Razz didn’t even look up at him, just continued to issue orders. Slim knew he’d heard, though; the guard swithed tactics immediately. No longer were they beating rioters back with shields and clubs. They’d summoned magic weapons now, sharpened with killing intent. Dust joined the blood already wetting the street. If Slim had any remorse for the loss of life, he pushed it back. Remorse could only be indulged after the killing was done. He didn’t move to assist, though. His magic was good for short, fast bursts, but he couldn’t sustain it the way his brother could, so he held off until—
There. Alphys had finally made her appearance, twin cyan swords clutched in either hand. She used one sword to point at Razz, and she started speaking. Slim couldn’t hear her over the music—a fast, harsh techno fresh from Napsttaton’s newest album—but he could imagine that she was giving some rousing speech about freedom and justice and blah blah blah. He raised a hand to summon a purple-eyed gaster blaster, using it to ram into her side. Hard. As Alphys toppled, the gaster blaster continued forward to snatch up one of her rebels—or a rioter; he couldn’t really be sure which members of the crowd were actual rebels and which were just civilians caught up in the rebel-incited riot—and he flung them against a wall.
None of his attacks would do much more than annoy the monsters below. All of them had plenty of LV for his KR to feed off of, but their HP was too high for the effect to be anything but negligible. So it was his job to sow fear and chaos, harrying and distracting them so that the hard-hitters could swoop in and clean up. Gaster might have felt that his first experiment was an abject failure, but he didn’t believe in waste either. He’d developed a fighting style and some artificial magics that suited Slim’s—limited—strengths and complemented Razz’ style. He’d designed them to fight as a team, and Queen Toriel had encouraged them to make use of those talents. Slim was grateful for that small mercy, at least. Razz might have left him behind long ago otherwise, but so long as Slim remained useful, he was allowed to stay close.
Something hit his blaster—a Tsunderplane’s bomb or maybe a Vulkin’s bolt—and it dissipated with a screech. With a flick of his fingers, violet bones rose up from the street, impaling several monsters so the guardsmen could sweep forward and knock down their HP while they were incapacitated. Despite the music echoing through his skull, he could still hear the screaming. Mouth dry, he turned up the volume. (It was stupid, cutting off his hearing. Anyone could sneak up behind him like this, rooftop or no, and being unable to withstand the screaming was undoubtedly a weakness. Razz would be disgusted with him, if he ever found out.)
His control started to waver and the bone constructs dissipated into smoke. His fingers were shaking now; he needed a moment to rebuild his stamina. Ducking away from the edge of the building, he took a breath—and took a shortcut to another rooftop. (Words. Words that hurt to hear. Like nails on the inside of his skull. Spoken in a language that should never be spoken. MOvE, P1; KeeP mOVing. YoUR hP aNd DF aRE tOO LoW tO WiTHstAnd A dIRecT hiT.) Creeping forward, he peeked over the rooftop’s edge, looking for Razz.
As always, he was easy to find—just look for the center of the action, and Razz would either be close by or in the heart of it. His soul clenched, seeing his brother slashing and hacking at a group of monsters with a bone sword. Blood, magma, and oil spilled from the injured monsters’ wounds as they first tried to engage, then began to retreat when they realized they couldn’t withstand the Guard Captain’s blows. There was no escape for them, though. Razz was relentless when he’d locked on to a target.
Swallowing, Slim waited. Checking their HP. Checking. Checking—now! He lifted a hand and summoned bones, dusting the monsters before his brother could. Razz’s LV was already at 10. He didn’t need to gain any more. (As much as Slim liked and admired Red, he was appalled that Red had allowed his brother to reach LV 13. Even if Edge carried his LV well, he was courting madness nevertheless, and Slim had long ago promised himself that he would never lose his brother to his LV. He’d lost more than enough of him already.)
Razz charged into the gap created by his opponents’ deaths. Guardsmen filled in behind him, beating at the rioters. The enemy’s front line was getting crushed—literally. They tried to retreat, but their own ranks had closed against them, and they were caught between the guards’ offensive magic and their own side’s defensive magic. Alphys could cry ‘freedom’ and ‘justice’ all she wanted, but she led her rebellion just as ruthlessly as she’d led the Guard, and she was more than willing to sacrifice a few pawns if she thought it would benefit her later.
She’d never been the kind to lead from the rear, though, and she’d caught sight of Razz ripping through her men. Slim fit the sucker between his teeth and bit down, causing a shard of sugar to split away. His breathing grew deep and even, his soul seeming to pulse in time with the music. He flexed his fingers and readied himself.
The two of them pushed toward each other, cutting down any enemies that stood in their way or pushing aside any allies. When she was close enough, Alphys dove toward Razz, swords at the ready. Razz ducked and dodged; as much as he hated being called short, he was more than happy to take advantage of the fact that his slight build made him a smaller target. He swept out with his own bone sword and managed to cut her across the thighs. Alphys gave no indicate that she’d even noticed.
Slim suddenly ducked back, soul pounding as the building’s ledge exploded in a cloud of magic and rock dust. Stupid. He’d gotten so fixated on Razz that he’d allowed himself to get distracted, and someone had noticed him. Thankfully, a quick shortcut later, and his attacker had lost track of him. Unfortunately, he’d also lost track of Razz. With a huff, he summoned a pair of gaster blasters and sent them out into the fray, shooting at Alphys’ rearguard. Her rebels stood strong, but the civilian rioters fled under the onslaught. Disgust welled up when he realized just how many civilians she’d managed to rope into this, relying on their LV and fighting instincts to use them as impromptu soldiers.
Now that the field was clearer, guards swept in to strike down the remaining rebels. Slim flexed his fingers, and his blasters separated to harry the enemy, snapping at extended limbs and head-butting rebel monsters to knock them off balance. No one fell to the blasters’ attacks alone, but multiple monsters succumbed to attacks from the guard while they were distracted by the blasters’ antics.
He scanned the battlefield below—hard to believe that a mere two hours ago, it had been a bustling marketplace—searching for Razz and Alphys. When he found them, his soul tightened. fuck. Neither of them was doing well, but as he watched, it became obvious that Alphys was winning the fight. The smaller skeleton and the former Guard Captain knew each other so well—knew the other’s fighting style, their strengths and weaknesses. While Razz was adept at avoiding or countering Alphys’ unbridled, sometimes inelegant, forcefulness, ultimately, her greater experience was proving to be the critical factor in this fight. Razz was starting to lag; his usual grace was almost entirely absent from his strikes and dodges, and his neat, precise attacks were starting to go wild.
Then, Razz’ expression went fierce, his mouth pulled into a snarl as he suddenly lunged forward, sweeping out with his bone-sword and infusing it with enough killing intent to cut straight through Alphys’ wrist. Blood wept from the wound and the severed hand turned to dust before it could hit the ground. It was a devastating blow, but Razz had opened himself up when he lashed out, banking on Alphys being too distracted by the sudden pain and the loss of her hand to counterattack.
That was a mistake. He was too close for her to attack with the blade, so she dissipated the sword and instead gathered bright cyan magic around her remaining hand. Then she hooked Razz around his neck with her stump and drove her fist into his ribcage. Again. And again. And—
Slim appeared a few feet from them, relying on the element of surprise to give him the drop on Alphys. He shot several small bone constructs at her face and remaining eye, causing her to startle and fall back. Before she could recover, he swept forward and caught Razz around the middle, erecting a bone picket to ward her off. Already, guards were approaching, weapons drawn. Clutching her maimed arm to her chest, Alphys took a step back, scanning the battlefield. Anger twisted her features, but she yelled something—probably for her soldiers to retreat. Then she turned tail and ran.
Razz tried to push away from Slim, tried to follow her, but Slim covertly tugged the earbuds out of his earholes and said, voice soft and hoarse from disuse, “captain, you’re hurt.”
Razz stared after her and the retreating rebels, breathing hard. He had to be repressing his pain, but he did wince when he glanced down and saw the marrow and spent magic dripping from beneath his armor. Shoving Slim away, he turned to his soldiers and snarled, “Well? Hunt them down you mangy dogs!” If any of them bristled at the slur—the Hotland unit had no actual dogs amongst their number—then they hid it well, and they set out after the rebels immediately. At their backs, Razz screamed, “IF YOU DON’T RETURN WITH THEIR DUST, THEN I’LL BE TAKING YOURS!” An empty threat, but it would encourage them. Many of them had served under Alphys, and there was some concern that they might have mixed loyalties.
As soon as they were out of sight, Razz started to sag. This close, Slim could see that his brother was trembling. He waited, though, eyelights focused on the ground and head slightly bowed, until Razz ordered, his voice strained, “New Home. Now.” Only then did he put a hand on his brother’s shoulder and teleport them to the Judgment Hall. Light filtered through the stained glass, giving the whole place a blood-red ambience designed to intimidate. Razz stumbled forward, then dropped to one knee. Slim reached for him, but his hand was batted away.
So he waited, soul heavy and head bowed. Razz made a brief attempt to stand up and continue on, but he slipped on the spent magic puddled beneath him. Laid out on the floor, his hand clenched in frustration. Still, he didn’t ask for help, and Slim wasn’t foolish enough to approach. Until the small hand relaxed, and he could tell that his brother was unconscious. Then he bent and carefully gathered Razz into his arms. Marching forward, he set out for the queen’s lab. She called it her ‘kitchen’, but Slim recognized a laboratory when he saw it. He might have teleported directly there, if the queen wouldn’t have punished him for it.
The guards halted him at the door, and one of them knocked loudly. A few minutes later, a cold voice bid them to enter. Inside, the air was cool and smelled of chlorophyll and pollen, the light just on the wrong side of too bright. Queen Toriel stood at the counter, busy distilling one poison or another from the plants she grew in her garden. She turned marginally to regard them, then sneered when she saw the magic and marrow dripping onto her clean floors. “Put him on the table,” she said, then went back to her project. Her experiment was time-sensitive; Gaster’s experiments could wait for her to finish.
Slim obediently laid Razz on the worktable, keeping his gaze down so that the queen couldn’t catch sight of the hatred in his eyelights. Finally, she turned to them and surveyed Razz. With a quick flick of her claws, she cut through the leather straps holding Razz’ armor on, then discarded the metal plate. Slim closed his sockets and swallowed, again biting down on the sucker. Sugar crunched between his teeth, and he absently started to chew on the stick. The thick matrix of magic over Razz’s ribcage cast a faint purple light over the whole room. It would have been pretty, if it didn’t make Slim feel so sick.
Leaning down, Queen Toriel said, clinically, “Cracked sternum. Shattered ribs. He’ll be useless to me for nearly a week.” Standing straight, she eyed Slim and asked, “Is the traitorous bitch at least dead?” He shook his head. Sneering, she turned away and began rummaging through a cabinet. Without look at him, she ordered, “Summon his soul, dog.”
Slim froze, his own soul starting to crackle with anxiety. It was a unique ability of his—one of the artificial magics that Gaster had hoped might make him more useful in combat. Unfortunately, it was only effective against unguarded monsters. Not particularly helpful in combat—and in most everyday situations, considering how closed-off most Fell monsters were. (He hadn’t tried it on any of the monsters of the Tale-verses. It seemed…cruel. Even if he didn’t actually intend to hurt them.) Unconscious or sleeping monsters, however, were susceptible. He eyed Razz, his bones trembling. Slim didn’t want to obey, but he knew it would only be worse for him—and for Razz—if he tried to refuse.
With a shaking hand, he summoned Razz’ soul just as Queen Toriel turned back to them. He turned away a little. It felt…wrong. Looking at his brother’s soul without his consent. Still, he kept watch out of the corner of his socket, keeping an eyelight on the queen. A huge clawed hand swept out and caught his brother’s soul, while the other hand poured a clear liquid over it. Slim stuffed his hands into his pockets, so that the queen wouldn’t see that he’d clenched them into fists. He had no idea what the substance was, but he couldn’t stop her. He was powerless. Completely. Helpless.
Eyelights out and gaze focused on the floor, he nonetheless saw Razz suddenly jerk awake, gasping and panting in pain. Toriel kept hold of his soul, squeezing it between her fingers. “M-my queen,” he said, voice strained by pain. He didn’t seem nervous, though. Even now, after everything, he adored—worshiped—the pitiless monarch. Slim, sickened, popped a fresh sucker into his mouth, needing something to bite down on now that the other was spent. He shoved his fists back into his pockets, but there was no way he could hide his shaking. Hopefully, the queen would think he was scared, not enraged.
“Captain,” she said, one hand on his mandible while the other still held his soul. “Tell me. Did you allow the traitor to go free?” One claw dug into Razz’ soul. “I know you two were once close.”
“N-no, my queen!” he said, shaking his head frantically. The pain made his voice unsteady and his bones were starting to rattle. “I-I woul-would never b-betray you like that,” he said, panting.
Queen Toriel stared down at him for a few moments longer, cold and implacable. Then she bent a little, tracing a thumb over his jaw. “You once called her ‘friend’, Sans. That was a mistake. Allowing people to get that close only means you’ve given them the chance to stab you in the back.”
“I-I know, my queen,” he choked out, sockets closed as he tried to ride out the pain. “I know.”
Withdrawing, she studied him, studied his soul, and then released it. “I believe you. The stimulant should wear off in an hour. Do not repress your pain while you’re awake. Consider it a sign of my immense disappointment. You are my best warrior, Sans; I expect you to be able to take down an overgrown lizard.” She speared Slim with her gaze. “Take him to his quarters. I’ll send a healer to bandage his injuries when I find it convenient.”
He bowed and picked up his brother, grateful that Razz didn’t fight him. This time, he teleported directly to the Captain’s Quarters. They had their own home in Snowdin, but Razz spent so much time in New Home that it was convenient for him to keep his own set of rooms in the castle. Before he could lay Razz on the bed, though, Razz started to struggle and push him away. Thankfully, the bed was right there, so Slim was able to at least get him onto it before he lost control of the smaller monster. Razz used one arm to support himself as he tried to maneuver into a comfortable position. “I,” Razz said, voice ragged. “I bet you’re—“ He groaned and crushed the coverlet between his clenched phalanges. “—enjoying this, aren’t you, dog?”
(A small bundle of bones. Too small to speak properly yet. Unable to say ‘Papyrus’. Unable, even, to say ‘Papy’. “P-puppy!” It became an endearment, seldom spoken as they grew older but treasured nonetheless. A name called upon in times of distress, when comfort and shelter was most direly needed. Neither of them could know that it would one day be twisted into an insult.)
Slim flinched at the harsh words and at the glare from his brother. “no, captain,” he said, looking at the ground. Stars, why would Razz even think such a thing?
His brother grabbed the closest thing at hand—which happened to be a pillow—and flung it at his brother, sneering when Slim allowed it to harmlessly strike his chest. “Liar!” he hissed. He bent at the waist, panting when the pain started to get to him. Slim hung back, looking at his feet though he kept an eyelight on Razz from the edge of his vision. He wanted nothing more than to approach, to offer any kind of comfort he could, but Razz was radiating /MENACE/RAGE/HATRED/SPITE/. If Slim tried to get close, then Razz would only eject him from the room entirely. And Slim was determined to at least be here for his brother, even if Razz only wanted someone to take his frustrations out on.
So Slim took a seat and popped one earbud back into his acoustic meatus, though he turned down the music so he wouldn’t have any trouble hearing if Razz called for him. (Razz would never call for him. Razz hadn’t asked for his help since they were adolescents. Since Toriel got her claws in him.) Otherwise, there was nothing he to be done. He could only wait for the palace healer and endure his brother’s occasional whines.
A couple days later, Slim sat on the floor beside Razz’ desk, one leg pulled up against his chest and the other extended. He had one hand tucked into his jacket flap, claws pressing into his sternum. Irritated by his ‘infernal crunching’, Razz had forbidden him from eating any of his suckers. His persistent pain and the paperwork in front of him—his least favorite part of his job—had already put Razz in a particularly foul mood, so Slim was trying his best to be as unobtrusive as possible, least Razz should eject him from the room entirely. Insomuch as Razz would allow, Slim was providing assistance, mainly by taking dictation. (Sometimes, it amused him to consider what Gaster’s reaction would have been, if he could have learned that one of his oh-so prized weapons would spend a good chunk of his life playing secretary. Gaster would have been appalled, and Slim was more than happy to do it for that reason alone.)
Razz grumbled under his breath and shifted on the chair, uncomfortable and no doubt pained by his half-healed injuries. He should be in bed resting, and the suggestion to at least take a break hovered on the tip of Slim’ metaphorical tongue. He bit down on a phalange to hold it in, knowing that Razz would only push himself further if Slim suggested that he could benefit from a break. Or bed rest. That’s what he really needed. Glancing at him, Razz snapped, “Get your filthy fingers out of your filthy mouth.” Under his breath, almost absently, he muttered, “Disgusting.” Still shaking his head, he flipped through Greater Dog’s most recent report, trying to decipher his chicken-scratch (dog-scratch?). “Can you make any sense of this?” Razz demanded, shoving the papers under Slim’ nasal aperture. Brow-bones furrowed, Slim studied the forms. It was difficult, but—
He nodded. Razz stared down at him and, somehow, seemed to take this as further proof of Slim’ uselessness. “Of course,” he said dryly, “It would take a dog to understand.” The slur itself had long ago lost its sting, but the venom in his brother’s voice caused Papyrs to sink his claws deeper into his sternum. Huffing, Razz grabbed a pink sheet from a tab on his desk and stapled it to the top of Greater Dog’s papers. Passing the whole packet down to Slim and without ever actually looking at him, Razz ordered, “Write a message to Greater; if he can’t manage to write a legible report, then I’m going to find someone who can to lead the Canine Unit. Got it?” Slim nodded and started to fill out the pink sheet for the official reprimand. Later, he’d make a note for GD’s personnel file.
Before he could finish writing, though, his phone rang. Razz looked down at him. “Who could possibly be calling you?” Slim shrugged, then glanced at his phone. Brow-bones raised, he spun the phone around so Razz could read the screen ID. His brother actually startled a bit, then he set the reports down and turned to fully face his brother. Leaning back and propping his chin on his fist, he observed wryly, “I wasn’t aware you and gutter-trash were so close.” Slim shook his head and shrugged, just as baffled as Razz. “Well? Answer it, dog—where are you manners? Look at the wall, though. No reason to give him any extraneous information.”
Not stupid enough to disobey a direct order, Slim fixed his gaze on the wall ahead of him and flipped open the phone. “Slim?” Edge asked, “This is your number, right?” Slim nodded slowly, taking advantage of the fact that Edge actually would be able to see his response. “Good,” Edge said, and Slim cocked his head slightly, noting the faintest trace of strain in Edge’s voice. He’d never seen Edge anything other than perfectly in control and put together—even when he was angry, he always seemed like he was holding himself in check. “I can’t find Red,” he said, “I was hoping.” Edge took a breath. “I hoped he might have sought you out. We had a small disagreement, and I know he sometimes….” Edge fell silent, and Slim realized that he’d automatically gotten to his feet, soul pounding in fear. “He’s not there, is he?” The question was merely a formality.
“no,” Slim said, “have you checked with rus or paps? he…he likes the papyrus-es.” His voice had gone softer as he spoke, just as he grew more self-conscious with each word. He ducked his head and pulled his hood over his skull, needing the security.
“Neither of them have seen him. He’s nowhere in either of the Tale-verses. We’ve checked.”
Scraping a claw across his sternum, Slim said, “he’s fell; he can handle himself.” Later, he would wonder who ‘we’ was exactly, but for now, it didn’t matter.
“Yes. When he’s not being stupid,” Edge agreed, but he left the sentence hanging. It was obvious what he thought of his brother’s current activities. “Promise you’ll call me, if he shows up.” Slim didn’t say anything, and Edge sighed deeply. “You don’t need to protect him from me. Yes, I’ll be angry with him later, but right now, I just need to know that he’s okay. That’s all.” There was the faintest note of desperation in his voice, causing Slim’s soul to squeeze.
Finally, he said, “promise.”
“Thank you.” For a moment, Slim had the insane urge to offer his help. He was a teleporter, and he was familiar enough with Underfell. He could help. He could be useful. He could— But he held his silence, and Edge didn’t ask. Because, when it came down to it, neither of them could trust the other. So Edge simply hung up, and Slim tucked his phone back into his pocket, his soul crackling with worry over Red.
Razz looked him up and down, and Slim tried not to squirm under his scrutiny. Digging his claws into his sternum, he was fairly certain that he failed at that. “So, dog, what did gutter-trash want?”
Slim stared at the ground between his feet, shifting uneasily. “he. he was looking for red.”
Briefly, Razz’s sockets widened, then he scoffed and turned back to the paperwork. “And here I thought that there might actually be one papyrus that was good for something. Honestly, I’m disappointed.” Slim took in his posture, noting with mounting concern that Razz’s fingers were clenched tightly around the pen in his hand and his shoulders were tense. He started shuffling through his papers, agitated. “What a fool,” he spat, disgust clear in his voice. Then he turned back suddenly, spearing Slim with the intensity of his gaze. “He was actually concerned about that lazy sack of—“ He clenched his mouth, censoring himself. Such language was uncouth and unrefined, and Razz did not often stoop to such.
To Slim’s surprise, Razz actually seemed to expect a response, so Slim shrugged. This only stoked Razz’s fury. He stood, slamming his hand onto the desktop. “I’m in no mood for your little act, dog! That was a yes or no question, and you very well know the answer! So, which is it? Yes? Or no?”
Wishing that his jacket might grow teeth and swallow him up, Slim ducked his head and said, “yes.”
Razz sneered. “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?” He shook his head, then started to pace. Slim stifled a whine, knowing that his brother’s ribs had to be hurting him. But Razz, despite the pinched expression on his face, was making an effort to conceal his pain. “You’re all useless,” he snarled under his breath. Slim shrank away, but his brother wasn’t even looking at him anymore. Slim may as well have been a lamp for all the attention Razz paid him. “Sentimental. Emotional. Weak. Gutter-trash just hides it better than the rest of you. Worse, you all try to drag us down with you!” Now Razz turned to regard him, eyelights blazing. “And you’re the worst of all!” he snapped, marching up to Slim. “No matter how hard I try to drive you off, you just keep coming back. Like a big. Dumb. Dog.”
Breathing hard, he pointed to the door. “Out.”
Slim, shaking, nonetheless said, “captain, please—“
“Get. Out. Before I finally decide you’re worth the EXP after all.”
Though it hurt his soul to leave Razz in such a state, he was obviously only upsetting his brother. He teleported away, allowing instinct to guide him. Seeing where his blind shortcut had taken him, he smiled a little. Popping one earbud into his acoustic meatus, he pushed open the door, causing the bells to chime. Razz wouldn’t be happy he’d come here, but Slim didn’t want to be alone right now. His soul ached, ready to reach out to someone—anyone—for comfort. Ordinarily, he might have called Red, just to listen to him talk—Red was usually happy to complain about Edge or gossip about the other universes, and best of all, he never seemed put out that Slim wasn’t all that keen to talk himself—but Red was not available, and that too made his soul buzz unsteadily. He paused in the entryway to send Red a text, asking if he was okay, then he looked up and surveyed the bar.
This early in the day, Muffet’s was nearly deserted. Once the artificial daylight dimmed to simulate nighttime, it would begin to fill, though. Muffet’s was one of the few places in the Underground that actually qualified as a ‘safe zone’, and monsters were eager to take advantage. In a few hours, the Guard Dogs would co-opt the table in the corner for their weekly poker game—paying Muffet a percentage of the pot for the privilege, of course. Other monsters would file in to rent one of the rooms above for an hour or two. And if they knew the right words to whisper to the right person, they could arrange to have another monster waiting in the room for them as well. Others would come simply for food and drink…and maybe a baggie of something a little stronger.
Right now, though, Slim was the only customer present. Industrious spiders spun webs in the rafters, dangling place settings and menus overhead. Spiderlings, the spiders’ larger cousins, were busy wiping down the tables and mopping the floors. Seeing him, one of the spiderlings scuttled from the room while a small spider dropped from the ceiling to set out a napkin and a menu at his usual place at the bar. Tapping his fingers to the music in his skull, Slim slid onto the stool and laid his head atop his crossed arms. Soon enough, the spiderling returned with Muffet in tow.
Seeing her, he returned her quiet smile. She leaned on the bar across from him and trailed a hand over his cheekbone. He couldn’t help but notice that the pink bow around her throat was striking against her violet skin and the black dress she wore hugged her curves perfectly. As she studied him, though, her smile faded and a worry-line appeared above her nose and between her primary eyes. Cupping his face in her hands, she cocked her head to one side, searching his eyelights. He flinched a little, dropping his gaze.
She laid her hand flat on the bar in front of him, demanding his attention. His shoulders pulled in, but he didn’t look up at her. Sighing, she turned her hand over, like an offering. Trembling in an uncomfortable mix of trepidation and desire, he accepted her hand, and she guided him around the bar, leading him into the back, past the kitchen and into her private rooms. Only when she locked the door did he allow himself to curl inward completely, trying to make himself as small as possible.
He felt like he was being crushed. By his brother’s disgust and displeasure. By his own hatred for the queen. By the memory of blood and dust painting the streets. By his worry for Red. It was too much. He couldn’t handle it, and—
Muffet caught his face between her hands and tilted his head down so she could kiss him. Gently. (Too gently.) She pulled back, brushing her fingers over his cheekbone. He leaned into the touch, a small sigh escaping him. It was not a relieved sound, though, but one of pain. A sigh threatening to become a sob. She dragged a hand down his long torso, unzipping his jacket as she did so. Sweeping her hands over his shoulders and down his arms, she pushed the jacket off. Taking the earbuds out of his earholes, she set his music player and earbuds aside.
Shivering a little, he swallowed tightly, feeling exposed and vulnerable. Even as she leaned away to hang his coat on the back of the door, though, she squeezed his hand. Reminding him that he wasn’t alone here, that she was with him. It made him feel better, but he was still shaking. Bringing a skeletal hand up to her mouth, she pressed a kiss to his knuckles, lightly nipping at the joints. (Too lightly.)
If he allowed her, she’d drag this out, unwrapping him like a gift. (Heh. A gag gift, maybe.) So Slim shucked off his shirt and trousers without preamble, bare-boned but for his boxers. Suddenly, a dark look crossed Muffet’s face and she bared her fangs, touching the marks on his sternum. He almost laughed at her jealousy, then matched the marks to his own claws. Her eyes winked one at a time, then she blushed faintly, realizing her mistake. He smiled to show her that he wasn’t upset.
It took her a few seconds to regain her confidence, but soon enough she was pushing him back toward the bed, kissing him hungrily. Her claws raked over his ribs, and he hissed, but leaned into the pain. She trilled a little, pleased with his reaction, then she pushed him onto the bed. Obediently, he scooted up and watched her rummage through her nightstand. Soon enough, she produced a baggie and held it out to him. He eyed it and her, thinking. Too aware of the crushing weight on his chest and the tightness of his soul.
Sockets closed and throat tight, he made his decision. Reaching out with a shaking hand, he plucked two white pills from the baggie.
He popped them into his mouth and ground them between his teeth. The resulting bitterness was so strong it ached—at once acrid and electric, and seeming to crawl up the side of his face, deep in the bone. Muffet made a face and shook her head, rolling her eyes at his behavior. Grinning, he leaned forward, but she pushed him away—there would be no kisses for him now, not while his mouth tasted of crushed pills. Already, his soul was beginning to heat and his limbs started to feel limp and loose.
She pressed him down, so he was lying on his back, and she climbed up until she was straddling his chest. Grabbing his music player, she set it to the side and pushed the earbuds into his acoustic meati. She pressed play, turning up the volume until he made a gesture with his hand. Music pounded through his skull and he tilted his head back, the slow, heavy beat seeming to sync to his soul’s thrumming. It rolled through him like a physical force, and he lost himself to it briefly. He blinked a little in confusion when Muffet shook him to get his attention, only to have her press a hand over his sockets. Then he realized what she was asking and nodded.
Her weight lifted off him as she leaned over to retrieve the blindfold. His soul felt heavy, almost solid. He actually sat up a little to double check that it hadn’t manifested without his consent. Shaking her head, she pushed him back down and blindfolded him. She kissed his forehead, then grasped his hands and bound them above his head with spider silk, sticking them to the headboard. Blind and deaf to all but the music echoing through his bones, he might have felt isolated and alone, but Muffet draped her body over his. He sank into the sensations, lost himself to the touch of claw and fang on bone.
She fitted her mouth over his bottommost rib and bit down, causing his body to jerk. She started to pull back, but he shook his head. She hesitated, so he said, “more.” A claw ran over the injured bone, almost like an apology. Then she left him for a moment. Only then did his soul start to pulse nervously, terrified of being left alone. She returned a moment later, though. The drugs kept his body pliant and loose—and that was the only reason he didn’t buck her off when he felt the touch of naked flame on his bare bones. He couldn’t hear himself, but he knew he had to have whimpered or whined as she trailed the flame slowly over his sternum. Her free hands started to caress his pelvis and iliac crests, creating a confusing mix of sensations that should have caused him to jerk beneath her. The drugs were doing their job, though; he couldn’t fight her, even instinctively.
His poor soul was in turmoil: magic agitated by the drugs, aroused by the hand on his pelvic inlet, and panicked by the fire trailing over his ribcage. The confusion was what he wanted, though. What he needed. As long as his mind was focused on the pain, on the too-loud pulse of music, and the sensation of a body atop his own, he wasn’t thinking about the screams of the rebels or the blood and ichor and dust staining the streets. He wasn’t thinking about his brother’s shattered ribcage or the queen’s clinical observation—(“He’ll be useless to me for nearly a week.”)—or the hatred and anger in his brother’s eyelights. (“GET OUT!”) Or the honest worry in Edge’s voice. He wasn’t. He wasn’t.
Sockets clenched shut behind the blindfold, he said, again, “more.” This time, she didn’t listen. Her limits were more rigid than his own, and later, perhaps, when he was nursing the burn marks on his ribs and pelvis, he would be appreciative of that. But for now, he wished that she wasn’t quite so strong-willed. He could still hear his brother’s orders to leave, could still see the violet glow of the matrix covering his shattered ribcage.
The effect of the drugs was growing stronger, though, and even though the combination of pleasure and pain couldn’t wash away the thoughts entirely, the drugs made it more difficult to care. Everything began to feel abstract. Disconnected. Disjointed. Heh. Disjointed. He started to laugh, and Muffet crawled up his body to tangle her tongue with his, sinking her fangs into his conjured magic. Mana wept from the wounds, and she drank it down.
A disjointed skeleton. Heh. Yep—it sure as fuck felt like he was falling apart. At least he had someone he trusted to put him back together again, though.
Razz spent a long time staring at the door after his brother was gone. His cheekbones weren’t damp. They weren’t. That sort of weakness was beneath him. And his soul certainly didn’t feel like it was going to shatter at any moment. No. No, it didn’t.
This was the way things had to be. Papyrus made him weak, and he could not afford to be weak.
This was the way things had to be. This was—
He crumpled to the ground and cradled his skull in his hands, barring the door with bone constructs so no one could walk in and see him like this.