Chapter 1: Table of Contents
Summary:
Now with a table of contents for folks who want to jump around to specific stories and to help with navigation.
Certainly not to hint at future stories. Nope. Nothing shady here.
Chapter Text
- Table of Contents
You are here. Congratulations!
Tags: Gratuitous abuse of spacing lines.
- It’s 4AM And I'm Awake Again
Addison has been having a hard time sleeping lately. When she can’t sleep, she thinks. This time, Dust is here too.
Tags: Established relationship, implied polyamorous relationship, allusions to past abuse, domestic abuse (of a background character), allusions to a past relationship and breakup, implied murder.
- Chicken Soup For The Sick
Getting the flu sucks, but at least Killer and Horror are around to… help?
Tags: Character illness (flu).
- Smile, Everything’s Just Okay
Addison’s only just getting to know Dust when Cross starts to scope her out. One day he comes to her with a little bit more on his mind.
Tags: Discussion of accidents in the bedroom and the fallout of a lack of communication, hints of past trauma, mention of a past mental breakdown.
- Bad Snacks and “Study Sessions”
The hardest part of any game is the character creation.
Tags: Minor allusion to past familial abuse.
- The Shadows Left Behind
Nightmare’s abilities are useful beyond terrorizing the multiverse. He’s good at chasing away night terrors too.
Tags: Nightmares (literal and figurative), recollections and discussions of past abuse, bad coping mechanisms.
- Cover, Let Simmer
When Addison agreed to provide a safe house, this wasn’t what she had in mind. Horror probably thinks the same.
Tags: References to starvation, and death by starvation, very brief mention of a character being unable to care for living things.
- Good Days Start With The Best Intentions
It’s just an average day at the castle, and the boys are asked to go on an average mission.
Tags: Pre-Reader/Addison, mainly domestic Bad Sans Poly. References to murder, offscreen destruction, drinking.
- The Friends You Can Be Bored With
An accident at work has Addison realizing a few things about the skeletons that have been coming around with increasing frequency.
Tags: Character injury (burn), hospitals.
- When a Branch Dies And You Can’t Prune It
Now that Cross is home safe, Nightmare has an overdue conversation with Error about a request made long ago.
Tags: Pre Addison/Reader, Bad Sans Poly with a focus on Crossmare, psychological trauma and recovery, past emotional manipulation.
- Table for Five at the End of the World
There’s no better date than one with good food and good company, watching the colours bleed as a universe crumbles to nothing.
Tags: Panicked crowds, implied murder, the destruction of a universe.
- The Gentle Season
Addison is new to the poly, so she and Cross enjoy a quiet date at a local fall festival. It doesn’t go according to plan.
Tags: Depiction of a panic attack, aftermath of a panic attack, discussion of the fallout of a bad breakup.
- The Selfish Choice
Sometimes, relationships are defined by the selfish choices we make. Dust knows this all too well.
Tags: Mild LV flareup. - Rocky-Road and Stardust
Abandoning all expectations when Killer suggests what should be a simple outing is always warranted.
Tags: Talking about sex, sexual intercourse (implied and in the background), discussion of orientation and preferences. - Those Unsaid Things
Addison should have known that the events at the fall festival would have ramifications as she finds herself face to face with a visitor she’s really not happy to see.
Tags: Arguments & shouting at a late hour; panic attacks; brief allusion to past familial abuse; past breakup angst. - Special Delivery
Nobody is ever really sure what they’re going to get when deliveries are made.
Tags: Nothing really to worry about here! If there’s anything I’m overlooking, please let me know! - The Days We Feel Small
The weight of a mask is too heavy some days, but Addison doesn’t have to be alone to pick up the pieces of herself.
Tags:Post panic attack, or more like post-post panic attack. The day after a panic attack. Discussion of complicated emotions and a reminder that people are allowed to feel the ugly ones. Brief mention of past familial abuse. - When the Sunshine Chases the Shadows Away
Everyone needs a break from the routines of life, and what better way to relax than with a trip to a secluded beach!
Tags: Panic attack, existential horror, and a single mention of a deceased pet by a minor character (don’t worry, Trixy and Cheeseburger are fine). - The Eyes in the Mirror That Aren’t Me
All Cross wants to do is be left alone with his thoughts, but Dust reminds him there are better ways to handle his trauma. Meanwhile, Nightmare and Error have another chat.
Tags: Post panic attack, discussion of disassociation and a dissociative episode, past trauma, references to two major characters nearly dying. - Shift, Select & Delete
Error and Addison’s first impression of one another did not go very well, understandably.
Tags: Injury (bleeding cuts), near death experience. Or death experience. Can argue for both, really. - Cracking the Cage
On a day when she feels stuck in a holding pattern, Dust decides to surprise Addison with an impulse visit to Nightmare's famed library.
Chapter tags: Past familial abuse (flashbacks, references to going hungry, property destruction), discussion of the possibility of a dead body.
- A Story Heard X Times Before
Addison’s having a busy day at work. Cross shows up looking a little messed up and a lot more miserable.
Chapter Tags: dick jokes, a character briefly worried that another has cut wrists (nothing to worry about there, I promise). A bad dream and a bad omen. - A Favour in Kind (Part One)
A favour is an act of kindness above the norm. To whom you are being kind to… is a matter of perspective.
Chapter Tags: Cyber surveillance and borderline stalking behaviour. Surprisingly not from the squad. - A Favour in Kind (Part Two)
Cutting ties is hard when the other party holds the scissors. Nightmare gives Addison a machete and Dust gives someone else a piece of his mind.
Chapter Tags: More cyber stalking behaviour. Jokes about murder, death threats, flashbacks to past murders, mental breakdown. - No Such Thing as a Dull Moment
When the castle is quiet, Nightmare has suspicions that shenanigans are afoot. He's not wrong.
Chapter Tags: Stupid internet challenges. Do not attempt any of these! You are not magical skeletons, you will hurt yourself, or worse! - Lost & Found
Pre-Addison. After a frantic search across the multiverse for their missing partner, the gang discover Cross in The White Void, and Nightmare uncovers a new facet of his brother’s power.
Chapter Tags: Near-death condition, reference to torture, disassociation, panic attack and sensory-overload.
A Valentine’s Delight
Many are surprised to learn that Killer is the most romantic of the bunch. A Valentine’s Day special.
Chapter Tags: Talk of sex, sexual innuendo and implied sex (off screen). Otherwise it's just all fluff.- A Forgotten Dream
Being stuck in stone for 500 years has a way of discombobulating someone like nothing else. Dream tries to find his footing, and finds something else in the Doodlesphere instead.
Or does he?
Chapter Tags: Episodes of minor dissociation, implied poisoning (past), crawling through tight spaces, implications of off screen dismemberment and character death. - Rage is a Doing Word
Stretch finds himself taking part in an uncomfortable conversation in the middle of the night, as you do. Meanwhile, Killer has an interesting idea in mind for a date. One that Addison might need more than she thinks.
Chapter Tags: A lot of introspection and description of past familial abuse (physical, not sexual), breaking things with blunt objects. THIS IS A VERY HEAVY CHAPTER IN THE SECOND HALF -
The Multiverse Lesson
Addison has a request that only Nightmare’s library can fulfill, and Nightmare takes the opportunity to teach her a lesson or three about the Multiverse.
Chapter Tags: Paranoia, existential questions, Nightmare gets a little scary towards the end. - The Consequences of Being Fine
Directly after the events of “Smile, Everything’s Just Okay”, Cross tries to take Addison’s advice and have a talk with Killer. It goes well.
Chapter Tags: Rough housing, panic attacks, ptsd, discussion of sexual acts/kinks and the consequences of a breakdown in communication during the act, the after effects of trauma. - The Scales and The Sword
For Dust, the best kind of evening is chilling in the company of someone he cares about, especially when he’s just come back down from an LV spike. Too bad for him and Addison that someone else decided to call in the big guns.
Chapter Tags: Post LV spike, talk of past murder, home invasion, violence, panic attack. - The Bonds We Break, The Bonds We Make
After Addison’s not-so-wonderful encounter with Error, Nightmare suggests a visit to Sci is in order, to ensure there’s no lingering damage after all that’s happened. But the scan uncovers more than anyone expected, and reveals an answer that’s just as puzzling to the question it belongs to.
Chapter Tags: Eldritch on eldritch fighting, discussions of medical exams and discomfort with them, allusions to past trauma.
- The Talk, Where Nothing Is Said (Part One)
Addison decides to finally take matters into her own hands and confront her ex’s family over their repeated intrusions in her life, once and for all. It doesn’t go as planned.
Chapter Tags: Emotional manipulation, gaslighting, past familial abuse, mentions of physical assault (in the past, spoken about in the chapter, and the individual in question is fine) - The Talk, Where A Lot Is Said (Part Two)
A surprise invite leads to a long overdue chat between the two women at the center of everything. In which no skeleton Monsters appear, but there is much talk about skeleton Monsters.
Chapter Tags: The author is a goddamn tease.
- The Talk, Where Everything Is Said (Part Three)
Nightmare enters the chat.
Chapter Tags: Physical violence resulting in injuries and broken objects, mentions of broken bones, threats of death, threats in general, mention of character death (off-screen and temporary), lots of petty arguing, copious amount of italics. - Creative Process Blues
Sometimes the strive for perfection leaves one blind to everything else. Ink ruminates over his latest work, unsure of why he’s not satisfied with it.
Chapter Tags: Suspicion of gaslighting, self-induced mental harm and depressive episode, vomiting, dissociative moment, hand injury from broken glass
- Two-Thirds of the Fire Triangle
Heat. Fuel. Oxygen. They’ve got their own method of knocking a fire out. When Addison’s sparks, Killer’s the one to help her burn it out.
Chapter Tags: Mentioned previous injuries (burns, bleeding wounds), privacy invasion and public scorn, fantasies of murder, trespassing, heights, shouting and arguing, self-punishing behaviour, falling from a great height momentarily.
Chapter 2: It’s 4AM And I'm Awake Again
Summary:
Addison has been having a hard time sleeping lately. When she can’t sleep, she thinks. This time, Dust is here too.
Chapter Tags: Established relationship, implied polyamorous relationship, allusions to past abuse, domestic abuse (of a background character), allusions to a past relationship and breakup, implied murder.
Chapter Text
It isn’t the shouting match that wakes you, it’s the pounding your downstairs neighboor’s door is taking. Hard bangs loud enough that you wake with a start thinking someone is at the door to your apartment, only to foggily realize it’s from the unit downstairs.
Again.
It’s the third time this week alone.
They only moved in a few months ago.
You hear sleepy grumbling next to you. You’re not surprised he’s awake, but you are surprised he’s still here. Surprised he hasn’t called it quits and left you for sleep in the quiet seclusion of the castle instead. Maybe he’s trying to figure out what’s going on, it’s the first time one of his sleepovers has coincided with one of these screaming matches. It’s the first time he’s hearing what’s been keeping you from sleeping well recently.
Your brows furrow. You think it’s maybe 3, 4 in the morning? If the wife relents and lets her husband in like she did the night before, then this should be over in about ten minutes. But if she stays strong, refusing to unlock the door, then he’s proven before that he could scream well into the waking hours, until she’s forced to make a choice between opening the door for the kids to go to school, or keeping everyone inside until building management calls the cops again.
It never sticks, he’s always back by the next evening, his name is on the lease after all. And she’s too terrified to press charges. A few well-meaning people and Monsters in the building have tried to file charges on her behalf, but without her testimony it always falls apart and the husband has a few more outlets for his rage. You’ve seen him once, after the very first night where you swore you thought he’d murdered her and went to report it to the superintendent. He couldn't have known what you were going to do, but he stood outside the office and glared at you all the same, that intense look that froze you in your tracks as it reminded you too much of your father.
You never found yourself able to lodge that complaint.
You feel a hand on your upper arm; long skeletal phalanges skim across your skin and grip your shoulder, then give a tug. You oblige and roll over, finding yourself pulled tight to his side, your head coming to rest on his chest and his hand now running slowly up and down the arch of your spine. You open your eyes. In the darkness of your bedroom the only light is coming from his sockets, his eyelights manifested as narrow slits and casting the room in a dull red and blue mis-matched glow.
There’s a loud bang, and you swear the door has to be off its hinges at this point. Evidently not, because the husband continues to scream and pound, hurling all manner of disgusting names at his wife who’s all but stopped responding by now.
When you lived with your ex, almost two years ago now, shouting matches were a common enough occurrence at his house. Given the amount of… “strong” personalities, it was bound to happen. It never escalated to this degree, calmer heads would usually intervene and break it up long before that point. But you were never allowed to get involved, it wasn’t any of your business. You weren’t part of the family, not really; you didn’t know their struggles or the demons they dealt with.
All you could do when another argument flared up was quietly flee to an empty corner of the house and try your hardest not to think about the blood relatives you’d fled on the opposite side of the country.
They all knew your demons, but they never let you know theirs. Not even your ex.
The husband threatens a messy murder.
They’re supposed to be soulmates.
Maybe that’s why no one helps anymore, because nothing is more important in this world than soulmates, and to get between someone and their soulmate is taboo. No one can understand the bond shared between two souls that beat with the same rhythm, you’re being silly, you just don’t understand because you haven’t found your soulmate yet…
Five years and countless affirmations of love tossed out to the gutter the moment he admitted he’d found his soulmate and ghosted you ever since. And you’re supposed to be happy for him. You’re selfish for wanting him back.
Dust moves his hand behind your head and abruptly pulls you up until your face is buried in the juncture of his neck. He covers your exposed ear and presses his teeth against the crown of your head, mouthing quiet words he’s forcing you to hear over the chaos downstairs. You push your face further into the bare bones of his neck, your eyes squeezed shut against the world.
He doesn’t wear the scarf to bed anymore, not since you started sleeping together, keeping it on the nightstand instead, the only article of clothing he bothers to fold. You managed to work him out of his hoodie eventually too, but only because you gifted him a pyjama set that had a hood of its own. You think you can count on one hand the amount of times you’ve seen his bare skull.
His other hand finds yours, and he pries it loose from the grip you had on his shirt, sliding his hand into yours and letting you squeeze it instead. For a long while all you know is his whispers and his hold, the rest of the world moving on in its pace without your awareness. Eventually Dust removes his hand from the side of your head, and goes back to tracing the line of your spine.
You hear nothing but silence from downstairs.
You let out the breath you’ve been holding, and the tension in your shoulders finally starts to leak away at his touch, enough that you're able to drift off to a light sleep listening to the hum of his soul.
It’s the last night the husband wakes the whole building up.
A week later the police show up to question witnesses on his sudden disappearance. They take statements, set up a tip line, but nothing ever comes of it.
And if Dust shows up to dinner one night a little prouder and with extra EXP… well, it’s not like you could tell a Monster’s stats anyways. And you’ve long since learned not to ask.
A neighbour gives you all of the relevant gossip months later, about how the wife quietly moved out with the children, after the bruises in the shape of fists had all but faded; about how she’d stayed with a work friend before eventually flying out of the country to be with her family again.
The type of journey you know well. You wish her luck.
The day after the cops show up Nightmare pays you the rare unannounced visit, with coffee and donuts, and tells you that the gang had a meeting and came to an agreement.
He asks if you would consider moving in with them.
Chapter 3: Chicken Soup For The Sick
Summary:
Getting the flu sucks, but at least Killer and Horror are around to… help?
Chapter Tags: Character illness (flu). That’s it. It’s pretty much fluff.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
You’re not sure how you managed to get home.
Blaming the fever you woke with on the ill-advised decision of going to work doesn’t really cut it. The truth is you’d rather work sick than miss a shift and risk your rent. But after two hours of fumbling at the drink bar trying to foam milk properly, then fumbling at the cash trying to find the button for a medium coffee, your manager kicked you off the floor and demanded you go home. Her tone brokered no arguments, she couldn’t afford the liability of you having a medical emergency in her cafe.
By the time you managed to drag your feet through the door, your journey along public transit was lost to the haze of the growing fever. You stumbled forward, tripping twice over Trixy who thought weaving through your disoriented steps was some kind of game, and fell forward onto your couch.
You haven’t moved in hours.
Days? Weeks?
It’s too cold but you can’t get up to grab a blanket because your muscles are screaming and your joints feel like they’re on fire so you lie shivering under your jacket but it’s too hot and you keep trying to kick away a blanket you don’t have while you sweat all over the cushions and...
The door swings open with vigor, the handle bouncing back after hitting the wall.
“yo, what gives? we go all the way to your place for some smoothies, and you leave early?”
You want to argue he doesn’t drink smoothies. You think you manage to get the words out, some of the words at least, but with the pounding in your ears it sounds like incomprehensible mumbling.
There’s no answer from him anyways, and for a few moments you think you imagined he was here at all. Then you feel a skeletal hand rudely pressed against your face, but you don’t have the energy to swat him away.
“fuck addy, you’re hot, and not in the fun way.”
You’re not fun, you try to respond but between the fog and the pain the words don’t seem to form. Then the hand disappears for a moment, and you’re suddenly reminded that you’re actually quite cold and his hand was searingly warm and you kind of want it back now. Your jacket is pulled off and the shivering increases. You whine in complaint.
The warmth returns when a proper blanket is draped over you, tucked between you and the cushions and pulled up to your chin. There’s a pulling at your legs, and you finally open your eyes enough to see Killer pulling off the shoes you had neglected to remove earlier.
“...You’re not fun,” you finally manage to mumble.
Killer laughs as he drops your shoes on the floor. “wow, took ya a whole five minutes for that stellar comeback. amazing. i guess human brains do fry when they’re runnin’ a fever.”
You feel like you should be offended, how dare he come into your apartment that he has keys for and insult your banter. But that takes up energy, and between the fever and the relief of laying cozy under the blanket whatever reserves you had left is rapidly draining.
A clatter of dishes draws your attention over Killer’s shoulder to your kitchen corner, where you can barely make out the shape of someone rummaging through your cupboards. “horror’s gonna make some soup, ain’t ‘cha horror?” Killer offers, and Horror pulls his head out and grins crookedly at you before going back to pull out the biggest pot you own, the one that only ever comes out when you’re cooking for more than two people.
Killer walks back around the couch. You know he’s looking at you, but his empty eye sockets make it hard to tell what exactly he’s looking at, and you’re very off your game today anyways. He lays something wonderfully cold on your forehead, and a groan of relief slips out as you close your eyes.
“go to sleep sicko. i’ll wake ya when the soup’s ready.”
It’s not a hard order to follow at all...
… But you find it very unfair that the very moment you fall asleep you’re being woken with something poking at your cheek.
Maybe it’s not the same moment, the lighting from the window’s different, and your head actually feels a little less foggy than it was before. The weight that was resting on your forehead before is gone. On your coffee table you see a limp bag of frozen beans that you think came from the very back of your freezer.
Killer is bent over you, holding a bowl in one hand and continuously poking you with the end of a spoon with the other. “wakey wakey,” he chimes, with his cheery grin that would be considered menacing by many, especially with the black streaks left from his constantly leaking empty sockets. You would consider it menacing, but you’re sick, and any survival instinct goes out the window when you’re sick.
Besides, you know better.
Turns out, you’re still not quite able to sit up properly, and you have to haul yourself up arm over arm using the back of the couch until you could convincingly be called “sitting”. Probably slouching. More like about to fall over really. Whatever strength your nap gave you has just been used up, and you can’t even swing your legs over the edge to sit properly.
Killer just laughs. “holy shit you should’a seen the face you just made, i can’t tell if it’s because you’re tired or because you just let one rip.”
“Ha ha,” you retort with no enthusiasm. You spend a moment trying to remember where you’d put away that dinner tray, but Killer startles you by sliding into the empty spot behind you, pressing up against your back and wrapping his arms around your body to bring the soup and spoon right in front of you.
And now both of you are sitting sideways on the couch like assholes.
While the bowl is one of your larger ones, it’s only half filled with chicken soup, and you’re thankful for that because despite not eating anything you don’t really have much of an appetite. Killer rests his chin on your shoulder as he stirs the soup slowly; it’s mostly broth with hunks of chicken and a few chopped veggies… although you don’t remember buying celery or carrots recently.
“brought some... from the garden. there’s more in your fridge. for later.”
Horror ambles over from the kitchen and collapses into your armchair, immediately setting it to recline back as far as it’s able to go. He balances a plate on his chest, on which lies a sandwich that has almost every kind of vegetable, deli meat and topping you probably had in your fridge. He takes a large bite that squelches audibly. It looks and sounds delicious.
Trixy wanders over from wherever she’s been all day and jumps onto Horror’s lap with no hesitation. As the calico settles into a small little loaf, Horror pulls his phone out from his pocket and starts thumbing along the screen.
A belated thought comes to mind, that you haven’t actually looked at your phone since getting up this morning. Another belated thought reminds you and Horror and Killer never really visit your work to begin with; Horror hates the way people stare at him and Killer’s never comfortable around the amount of humans that usually visit the cafe. You wonder, if you were to look at your phone now, how many missed notifications you’d have demanding your attention. From work. From your partners.
(And even in your fever-addled brain, that’s still weird to think about. So new. Your partners.)
Killer spoons some broth and a chuck of carrot and brings it up to your face, “okay, open up for the choo-choo train.”
“Dude, I can feed myself.”
“yeah right, with your noodle arms? not a chance, i’m not cleaning up your mess when you drop the bowl. ‘sides, horror’d be very upset if you spill his soup everywhere, ain’t that right horror?”
Horror looks up from his phone and gives you the angriest snarl he can manage with half a tomato slice stuck on his lower canine. The cat loaf just continues to purr like a boat engine, unmoved.
You sigh in defeat, and let Killer start to feed you, a spoonful at a time.
The soup is delicious; you never had any reason to doubt it would be.
It’s a slow process though, and it takes you longer than you’d assume to be ready for the next spoonful. Killer asks Horror to find something good to watch on tv, and eventually Family Feud is agreed on. While it’s mortifying to literally have to be spoon fed by someone else, he’s careful and slow, never trying to offer you another bite before you’re ready and surprisingly good at timing the next spoonful. Too bad he decides to entertain you with his own brand of commentary.
Name a kind of bear. “there’s the mama bear and the papa bear and the wee lil’ baby bear.”
Name something people are afraid of. “the boss. me. barney. trees. cows. long words. cross’ socks.”
What is something you squeeze? “i can make something fun to squeeze,” he snickers in your ear, shifting his legs for good measure.
It takes over an hour, and you kind of want to gag Killer with the spoon by then, but you do manage to finish the soup, and by the end you’re able to work your arms enough to feed yourself at least. He still has to hold the bowl for you.
As you drop the spoon into the empty bowl, Horror sidles over to grab it. He carries it, the plate and the cat tucked under his arm to the kitchen. The soft warmth sitting in your belly feels good against the chill (as does the skeleton still at your back), but you’re ready for a nap again. Killer puts his hand on your forehead again, and the temperature difference isn’t nearly as dramatic as it was before. He must be satisfied, because he falls back on the couch, and pulls you back down with him. Arms still wrapped around you, he tucks you in the space between him and the back of the couch, leaving you very immobile but also very cozy and more immediately ready for that nap.
Killer grabs a discarded Switch controller from the coffee table as Horror comes back to rest on the armchair and places the cat back in her former position on his lap. He slowly cards his long through the thick fluff along her back. She hasn’t stopped purring this whole time, and stretches a paw, yawns then curls up into a ball. You think you should do the same.
Resting your head on Killer’s shoulder, your eyes are understandably drawn to the glow of his exposed soul, the red target floating out an inch from his body. It’s stable, hardly flickering, the most stable you’ve seen it in the time you’ve known him. As Killer loads up Mario Kart, you watch his soul, humming with hidden intensity, but not quite a circle now that you’re looking at it. Between the angle and your exhaustion it’s hard to tell, but you think there’s a part at the bottom that pinches in and upwards, just slightly.
You’re not sure what it means, but you think it’s important.
Your eyes drift shut before long. You hear Horror mumble that the others are coming by in the evening to check in, and Killer suggests making it a sleepover. They’ve done it many times already, and your apartment never feels large enough for you, a cat and the five skeletons.
You wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Thanks,” you manage to whisper before giving up the fight against sleep.
Killer waits until he’s sure you’re out before whispering “always” against the crown of your head.
Notes:
Each “chapter” isn’t going to necessarily take place in order, the stories jump all around the timeline. Some will be about events that happen at a very specific point. Others, like this one, are a little more floaty and free where they fall in the grand scheme of things.
Chapter 4: Smile, Everything’s Just Okay
Summary:
Addison’s only just getting to know Dust when Cross starts to scope her out. One day he comes to her with a little bit more on his mind.
Chapter Tags: Discussion of accidents in the bedroom and the fallout of a lack of communication, hints of past trauma, mention of a past mental breakdown.
Chapter Text
Kros.
It never, ever, ceases to amaze you how badly the guy at the till can bungle spelling the simplest names.
You look up from the cup at the patron it belongs to. The skeleton isn’t hard to miss; despite being in Ebott the cafe you work at doesn’t really get a lot of Monsters. But for once his heavy jacket isn’t what sets him apart thanks to the early February snowstorm that swept through yesterday. And he’s left the cape and most of the accompanying straps at home, which is good because there isn’t an anime convention in town this weekend to blame it on.
But Cross still is the very definition of monochromatic, save for the single red eyelight and dull red scar under said eyelight. Black and white, the contrast is what sets him apart from the rest of the world with the white blindingly bleached and the black the deepest shade that laundry detergent companies only dream of.
Cross stands directly in front of you, the espresso bar your only barrier, and stares at you with an intensity that’s probably making everyone else uncomfortable. You’d be uncomfortable too, but then again Dust has been over for dinner twice at your place and you’ve lived to tell the tale. Instead, you wordlessly quirk your brow and turn the cup to face him. His eyelights pivot down to it, and all it takes is a second for him to read the “creative-interpretation” of his name and purple to erupt across his cheekbones.
“Whhhhyyyyy?” he whines, ducking his head into the fluff of his white collar, which only makes the blush stand out more.
You chuckle, and go back to making the drinks on your line while he stomps over to the end of the bar to wait like a petulant child.
“One grande extra shot marble cafe mocca, extra mocha and chocolate drizzle for Kros,” you announce loudly while placing the drink down in front of him. “Or is it ‘Kroose’? ‘Kross’?”
“Shut up,” he grumbles, snatching the drink the moment it leaves your hand.
“Oh come on, lighten up, it happens to everyone.” You lean in closer. “Last week he spelt ‘Alex’ as ‘a-l-e-a-k-s’,” you whisper conspiratorially.
Cross snorts as he takes a long swing that’s probably more whipped cream than anything. “What time do you get off work?” he asks, wiping his teeth on his sleeve.
You don’t believe for a second that he happened to come visit you at work without knowing exactly when you would be getting off. You’ve had enough nosy noses (or lack thereof) keeping track of your every move that it always sets off some kind of bullshit alarm you’ve developed. “Five minutes,” you answer, moving over to finish the last of the drinks on the line.
Cross nods, as if he’s double-checking your answer against his mental notes. “Alright, I'll be waiting outside when you’re done.” He takes another swing of his latte and marches out the door without giving you a chance to ask why.
Looks like you’ll be hanging out with Cross this afternoon.
He’s the third of the quote, unquote “gang” that you’ve met so far, but he’s definitely the most… normal? No, not the right word. Talkative? Extroverted? No, definitely not. He’s the least hostile towards humans, at least compared to Dust and Nightmare (who you’ve only met once). You’ve only heard of Horror and Killer, but you can’t imagine them coming to visit you anytime soon, given what you’ve heard of them.
The last five minutes go by fairly quickly, and you’re able to clock out before long. Grabbing a hot chocolate to go, you bundle up and exit the cafe to join Cross outside.
“Why’s it pink?” Cross asks as soon as you walk through the doors. You give him a quizzical look, and he points to his cup’s cardboard sleeve, bright pink and adorned with hearts and flowy cursive scrawl.
“We ran out of sleeves and had to break out the new ones early,” you answer, picking at the edge of your own. “It’s Valentine’s Day next week,” you add, quietly.
As if you could forget.
You want to though.
The skeleton grunts, but predictably he offers nothing more to the conversation, so you ask “So, what did you want to do today?”
He shrugs. “Nothing, really. Wherever you want to go is fine with me,” is his complete non-answer. You continue to look at him curiously, but fine, it’s not like you have anywhere to be and you can work with aimless wandering.
The two of you start to walk down the sidewalk, keeping an unhurried pace as you move around other groups of walkers. It’s amazing how much Cross’ presence parts the people around you, though you have a bitter thought that some of it is because he’s a Monster walking down Main street. A six-foot tall Monster built like a quarterback, but a Monster none-the-less.
This is Ebott. This was supposed to be a better city.
You walk past little shops, with window displays infected with hearts and declarations of love, and deals that are sure to make your soulmate drunk with passion. The word ‘soulmate’ appears on almost every window.
You hate it. You were able to ignore it for the most part while working, but whatever mental blinders you had put on earlier have clearly fallen off, leaving the “S” word highlighted loud and proud, flashy and neon.
It’s been 4 months since the breakup.
4 months since your ex proposed to you, then told you he’d found his soulmate.
4 months since you were pushed out of the house and left on your own.
4 months since the drunken binge that introduced you to Dust.
And this is the start of the world’s saddest pity pop song.
“You guys really take this kind of stuff seriously, huh?” Cross blurts suddenly. His skull pivots at every display, taking each in entirely as you walk past before zeroing in on another. He glances periodically at couples walking hand in hand, before deliberately looking away.
Maybe it’s time to get off Main street.
“Yeah, we go a bit overboard. You should see Christmas.” You tug on his sleeve to pull him down a sidestreet. “Come on, there’s a nice park down the road here.”
It’s a little park, a small square of land that the city had kept developers away from for the “greenspace” value. It’s not big enough to have more than a few clusters of skinny trees here and there, and a few benches along the unnecessarily winding footpath. But there’s a public ice rink on the far side, and some seating along the barrier for spectators. Today some college kids have set up nets at both ends for hockey, although you know if you came back later the games would be replaced with couples skating lazy circles for a romantic evening.
You lead Cross to the empty seats. The players pay no mind to their acquired audience. As a non-sports enthusiast, you quietly and probably very poorly explain the rules of hockey as best you can. Cross offers nothing but the occasional grunt or hum of acknowledgement, but he’s watching the players with interest and he’s sipping on his drink regularly again, so you count it as a win.
One of the teams - indistinguishable from the other since no one is wearing a uniform - scores a goal and the players cheer. “I think Killer’s mad at me,” Cross says, very conversationally.
He’s never offered a discussion topic before. “...How so?” you ask.
“He normally, you know...” You don’t know, having never met Killer, and Cross realizes that quickly. “He never shuts up, ever. But, lately he’s been quiet. Around me.” Cross pulls at his scarf with his free hand, fiddling with the edge.
You don’t know much about the relationship the gang has with each other... other than there is some kind of relationship. Dust’s never been forthcoming, even on his chatterbox days, and you don’t think it’s right for you to push for the dirty details. It’s none of your business. “Why would he be mad at you?” you ask, helping the conversation that Cross seems to want to have.
The question causes his schooled expression to finally betray his distress. “I don’t know!” he laments. “I don’t know what I would have done… no one tells me when I ask, and… I have to fix it… I… it’s not...” Cross stammers into silence, ducking his skull into his hood and looking away. Then he takes a deep breath, like the weight of everything ever rests squarely on his shoulders. “...We were being intimate last week, and everything was ok then. It was good, even if… even if he did something that I wasn't… that wasn’t as good. I didn’t say anything, and he found out.”
Well, that sounds like a problem worth a discussion. “Why didn’t you say anything?” you ask.
He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and rubs his hands over his skull. “Because I didn’t want to ruin things,” Cross admits quietly. If the way Cross marched around or stood straight at attention while waiting for a coffee didn’t tell you he was a soldier, his tendency to ‘grin and bear it’ definitely would. And that’s an understandable way to make a mistake. You’ve certainly put up with things that you should have probably put your foot down on, just to keep the peace.
He hated you for months, you could never hang out at your ex’s house without his brother radiating hostility towards you. You had tried everything you could think of to try and make peace before you broke down one day and asked him what it would take for him to at least tolerate you, for the sake of his brother and your growing relationship. And he actually laughed and said ‘FUCKING FINALLY, I THOUGHT YOU’D NEVER ASK’.
None of that matters now, does it?
“When I first met them,” Cross continues, “When Nightmare pulled me from my timeline… I thought I owed it to them, you know? Then I met Dream and… and he thought that Nightmare was manipulating me, that I wasn’t given a choice and… I believed him for a bit. I thought that Dream was right, so when Dream offered me a place to go, I left. And it was ok for a while, but…it wasn’t, not really.”
You’re not proud, but for a moment, you can’t help the flash of anger you feel towards Cross, the impulse to jump up and rage at him on behalf of his spurned partners. How dare you, you want to shout, they trusted you, they loved you and you left them the minute someone else came into the picture?! And then you thought it was okay to go crawling back when things weren’t perfect like you thought?
But instead, you take a long deep breath, hopefully unnoticed by the skeleton next to you, and you shift your focus to the hockey players instead. They’ve stopped their game to argue over some rule violation or something.
The situations are similar, but no, not really, and not in a way that vilifies Cross the way it might your ex. You know nothing of Dream except that he’s Nightmare’s brother, but you’ve met Nightmare once, and you do have to admit that had you not known better, if you weren’t incredibly sensitive to the machinations of a controlling relationship, you might think Nightmare was manipulative too.
Had you not seen firsthand when Nightmare came to your apartment after you panic-called the first number on Dust’s phone when the latter was having a breakdown in your bathroom and needed help to walk him back from the ledge he was leaning over…
Besides, screaming at Cross isn’t going to put the shattered pieces of your relationship back together. No matter how you might wish, your ex’s soulmate isn’t going to be revealed as a cackling harpy, your ex isn’t going to come back begging for forgiveness. You aren’t going to be vindicated, and who are you looking for vindication from anyways?
Cross sighs, breaking the spell of silence that had blanketed the both of you. “I don’t know what you know about Dream, but… he's so positive it’s infectious. It gets in your skull, pushes everything else out. And… and…” Cross pauses. After a full minute of silence you start to wonder if he’s ever going to resume. He’s not looking at you, he’s intensely not looking at you, instead staring boreholes into his empty cup, a phalange slowly tracing one of the heart shapes in the pattern printed on the sleeve.
You give Cross some privacy, and turn your attention back to the game, just to give yourself something to look at. You don’t really follow any of the activity, you just pick a player or two to watch; that’s what people do when they watch spots, right? What’s left of your drink has gone cold, there’s a bit of a breeze picking up that rattles the bare branches of the nearby trees. Your butt’s going cold and numb on the bench. Still, you sit.
Maybe you hope your presence at his side is a small comfort for a lonely soul, because maybe his presence is the same for you. Your apartment is still just as empty and cold as the day you moved in.
“...Stuff happened,” he finally says, very quietly. “I was an idiot. They took me back anyways. Acted like I didn’t just fuck everything up.” Cross strikes you as the kind of skeleton to hide behind a mask, and right now that mask is cracking under the pressure of… whatever happened in the past that is probably more complicated than he’s letting on.
You’re no therapist, no counselor. You hardly consider yourself the sort of person others ask for relationship advice, especially not now. But the problem Cross is having is not the one he thinks it is; it’s the one that hides in the implications, the things that Cross is talking around. It lies in the dynamics of the group - or at the very least of Killer and Cross - and where Cross sees himself falling within that dynamic after something happened to upset it once before.
Cross is afraid.
You wonder if Cross even feels like he should be forgiven, or that he should have to ‘grin and bear it’ again, even when he’s hurting because he’s trying to… atone or punish himself? Does he realize that he might have already been forgiven for what he still beats himself up for? Is he telling you all this - you, who went through something that could be similar but not really when you think about it - because he’s hoping someone like you would forgive him? Or condemn him, and prove some of his insecure feelings right?
Truth be told, you don’t even know how much Dust told him of what happened. You don’t know if he sees any of the parallels you do, or if he’s just talking to you because Dust talks to you.
And that’s the answer at the end of the day, isn’t it?
“I think that you should talk to Killer, regardless of what happened that night,” you offer. “I think Killer might be more upset that you didn’t think you could talk to him. I think that’s what he’s actually mad about, not that you didn’t tell him you had preferences in the bedroom.”
“But what can I say?” Cross asks, dismayed. “I said nothing because I thought it would screw things up. But now Killer’s mad anyways, and I just… I always screw up.”
“Try the truth?” He’s ready to argue, you can tell by how quickly he opens his mouth to respond, but you don’t want to give him that chance, otherwise you’re going to go in circles. So you quickly interrupt--
A sudden chorus of cheers and shouts. You jump. Cross tenses. The players on the ice skate around and congratulate each other with whoops and fist bumps.
You relax almost instantly, but Cross remains rigid for a while yet. Leaning forward as if ready to leap off the bench for whatever action is called for, Cross is starting to remind you less of a soldier and more of someone suffering from PTSD. “…It’s really that easy?”
“Well, no. No, it’s not.” If it was, your ex would have told you about running into his soulmate months before what actually went down. “But there’s a popular saying, that the right thing is never the easy thing. Sometimes that’s actually true.”
A bus ticket in your back pocket and fifty bucks to your name, your backpack with just a change of clothes is your only companion as you wait at the station for the bus to take you away from the only place you’d ever known.
The players disperse from the ice, collecting their bags and heavy coats left discarded in a pile on the side. They talk loudly of plans for dinner, with each other, with partners, and a promise for another meet up next week. They leave the park as one group, going down the path you and Cross had entered from, none of them giving either of you a second glance as they pass.
As soon as they leave, Cross stands. “Ok,” is all he says. He looks down at you. “I’ll walk you home.”
Abrupt and to the point, you guess that was that for your afternoon together. You quickly rise from the bench, shaking the cold out of your legs, and you and Cross fall into step in the direction of your apartment. It’s actually a long walk, you tend to rely on buses to get to and from work, but Cross doesn’t seem the type to enjoy public transit, and as you considered before it’s not like you have anything better to do anyways. The exercise would be good for you.
And just like the walk before, Cross is silent the whole way.
It’s dark enough for the street lights to switch on by the time you arrive at your building. Cross actually surprises you by accompanying you all the way up the elevator and to the door of your 6th floor unit.
“Well, this is me,” you announce, searching your pocket for your keys.
Cross nods. “Ok. See you around.” He turns around abruptly and starts down the hall the way you came before you can even get a ‘goodbye’ in. He walks past the elevator, opting for the stairs, and he’s about to leave you standing alone in the hall, alone in your apartment, alone, alone, it’s not fair, why do you have to be left alone--
“Hey.” Your nerve vanishes as soon as he turns around to look at you. It’s hard to say ‘it was nice hanging out with you, can we try to be friends?’ when you still feel robbed ( cheated! ) from losing the ones you had before. “If you ever need to vent, or... you know. I’m here,” is what you settle for. It’s close enough.
Cross staying silent for a long while doesn’t sting. It doesn’t, you adamantly convince yourself. Because you’re starting to cling to anyone who’s distracting you from feeling like shit these days, and that’s the last thing you want to do. “You know, before I was trying to figure out why Dust likes hanging out with you.”
Ouch. You snort reflexively, despite taking that in the negative way. It’s not everyday someone asks ‘why do people even hang out with you’ right to your face.
“Sorry, I know I’m probably the world’s dullest person. Truth be told, I don’t even think Dust likes me all that much.” Likes raiding your fridge and leaving the empty milk carton on the shelf maybe, but actually liking you? ‘Friend’ liking you? You’re a human, a sad sack human, he probably only visits for a laugh.
“Wait, what? No!” Cross stammers, that purple blush making a reappearance across his cheekbones. “That’s not what I… sorry. I mean I get now why Dust… He likes you. Likes hanging out with you, I mean… You’re a good listener anyways, and...”
Oh. Well, that’s… nice to hear. Maybe you should help Cross remove the foot from his mouth though, the poor guy is floundering trying to recover. “Well, you know. I figure I have an advantage over the rest of you. I actually have ears.”
This time Cross snorts with the shadow of a smirk gracing his skull. You’ve only seen Cross a few times, but you think this is the first time he’s smiled. Sort of. A mini smile at least. He waves, less of a wave and more of a salute, but it’s something better than the awkwardness before. Then he turns and disappears through the door to the stairwell, back to who knows where the gang calls home.
A chill breeze smacks you in the face as you step through your door. You forgot to close the window this morning. You slam down the window and pull the heavy drapes shut. The fabric is frigid. You expect your couch will be too. Your fault for forgetting.
There’s some frozen dinners still laying around your small freezer. You pull one out and throw it in the microwave without even looking at the packaging. They all have the same cooking instructions anyways. You change into the heaviest set of pj’s you own and sit on a blanket on the couch, and even through the blanket the chill creeps up your rear. The couch isn’t all that comfortable on a good day, but it was scored off a sidewalk curb, and you paid a coworker with a large van to transport it when you moved in.
You still need to save up for a bed frame, your mattress is still just laying on the floor in the bedroom. You found a cheap tv thankfully, but it’s precariously balanced on empty milk crates you “borrowed” from work. You were never going to trust an affordable apartment that came with it’s own furniture, but if this apartment came without any appliances either you think you would have screamed.
All you end up doing for the evening is mindlessly scroll through social media while you listen to the microwave hum and count down to completion. It’s the same thing you did last night.
And it’s the same thing you’ll do tomorrow.
Chapter 5: Bad Snacks and “Study Sessions”
Summary:
The hardest part of any game is the character creation.
Chapter Tags: Minor allusion to past familial abuse.
I had a different story planned for this week, but it needs a little more time to bake in the oven, so I moved this one up in the queue.
Have a flash forward to some future domestic fun with these knuckle-skulls.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
It’s early afternoon, or what passes for it in the world of eternal gloom that contains Nightmare’s castle.
The dining room table has been cleared of place settings and cloth in favour of scattered bowls of candies, chips and other unhealthy finger snacks and carbonated drinks, pencils and pens that have been procured from everywhere but mainly Nightmare’s office, and dice, so many dice; enough dice to fill one of those tables you’d find at carnivals filled with the pretty rocks that every kid compulsively stuck their hand in heedless of germs, in some unspoken communion.
One bowl is only empty for less than twenty seconds before a family pack of peanut M&M’s is ripped open and dumped in. You grab a handful and are about to shove them lovingly into your mouth when Cross suddenly exclaims “Wait, so no one’s picking cleric?”
There's a rather lengthy pause of silence at the table. "Uh, I wasn't planning on it," you answer, then continue as you were with M&M devouring.
"nope," is Dust's short and to the point answer.
"… maybe…?" Horror answers with enough hesitation that you realize he's probably forgotten what clerics even do.
“do i look like i wanna play the fuckin' healbot?” Killer quips.
Cross rolls his mismatched eyelights. “Oh of course not… Why do I get the feeling this is going to go poorly?” he grumbles and pulls the players’ handbook back towards him to flip through the classes section again.
“why don’t you play the white mage, criss-cross?” Killer chimes, leaning over and resting his skull on Cross’ shoulder. “so you can save me when i get in trouble.” He blinks his sockets rapidly, batting eyelashes he doesn’t have like Betty Boop.
“you'll have your work cut out for you, he’s going to throw himself at everything,” Dust points out. He's yet to actually look up when responding to someone else, instead glued to his phone, tapping through rules and spell interactions, occasionally jotting down some random calculations on a scrap piece of paper by his elbow.
“Aren’t you playing a rogue?” you ask, and across from you Killer gives you the double finger gun and a wink as an answer. You look at Cross. “You're right, we’re doomed.”
“It’s fine,” he sighs. “If I’m brought down I’m taking Killer down with me.”
“ohh, lover’s pact, i like it.” Cross tries to roll Killer off his shoulder but Killer can be the consistency of velcro when he wants to be, and remains firmly attached.
You never asked for it, but this day is for you.
It started as an unrelated conversation a month ago about the kind of trouble you would get into in high school. Actual trouble, capital “T”, not the stuff that your parents disapproved of because your father would rather keep you locked in the house for the rest of your life. Dust told you about the time he released a homemade stink bomb just as his teacher sat down on his hidden whoopie cushion, and you brought up the time you were given a week's worth of detention for being caught in the school library when it was almost midnight and you set off the school’s alarm going to the water fountain.
"wow, what a nerd," he teased with a smirk, "no wonder you and nightmare geek out over his books."
"That’s not what we were doing!” you protested, and lightly smacked his hand away with the back of your mixing spoon before he could steal too much of the cookie batter. It was pumpkin and chocolate chunk, to send back to the castle with Dust when he would inevitably be called back. “I mean, yes, we were doing nerdy things. We were playing D&D and lost track of time."
Dust licked some of the batter that clung to the back of his hand, his smirk quickly replaced with a general look of curiosity. "wait, really?"
And that was when you explained how a group of classmates started to invite you to their gaming sessions, stereotypically disguised as "study sessions". What wasn't stereotypical was how patient they were with teaching you the mechanics and the rules, and how they focused more on having fun than winning anything.
Truth be told, if you thought about it now, you wondered if they were trying to help you in their own way, keeping you from going home for as long as possible.
Too bad your father found out what those after school study sessions were really about.
Your ex’s housemates tried the game once. It was before the two of you started going steady and it had apparently devolved into literal fighting, with tables, chairs and really anything not nailed down being flipped before they called it quits. It left enough of a bad taste in everyone’s mouth that when you had suggested it as a fun bonding activity everyone vetoed you. Your ex had never really been that enthusiastic about it anyways, so it was a one-and-done suggestion, never brought up again.
So you were very surprised the next time Dust came over unannounced and dropped a bunch of the 5th edition books on your lap, telling you to start preparing for a one shot with the gang the next weekend you slept over. And here you were, still surprised, sitting between Dust and Horror around a table stocked with so many things you’ll enjoy eating but regret later, with no less than three copies of each rule and expansion book scattered between the group.
And the dice, can’t ignore the literal mountain of dice. They’re all shiny, colourful, and unused. The books are crisp and in mint condition. You wonder if a hobby shop raid was somehow involved in preparation for this weekend.
You do have to admit, Nightmare’s castle definitely had the ambience for a good ‘ole session of dungeons and dragons.
It’s easier now, to be at the castle. It was always easier when you were surrounded by the others, but now you could actually sleep soundly through the “night” without the carousel of night terrors and bad memories and the feeling of crushing claustrophobia. Now you could actually walk down the halls by yourself when you had to visit the bathroom that had been very quickly constructed when Nightmare realized humans needed a thing called a “toilet”.
“...what’s the difference between the fighter and, uh, barbarian again?” Horror asks.
“fighter kills things, barbarians kill things better. don’t pick fighter,” Killer answers, crossing his legs and bracing the sole of his sneaker against the edge of the table, pushing himself back far enough until only the back two legs of his chair are on the ground.
“pick whatever you want to play as, don’t let him metagame you h,” Dust chides.
“says the skeleton playing a wizard.”
Dust flips a practised middle finger at Killer without looking up from his notes. “nope, guess again asshole.”
Horror rumbles a little under his breath as he slowly flips through the class pages for the fourth time. His eye darts across the page, his focus skittering to find something to latch on to. His grip on pencil number three is tight enough to make you think he’s about to break this one too, and add it to the graveyard of broken pencils tossed at the end of the table. This one hasn’t even been chewed on yet.
You place your hand on Horror’s fist, small and light in comparison but still successful in pulling his attention away from the book and towards you. You offer him some M&M’s - and by some you mean the whole bowl - which he promptly takes a massive handful of and throws into his mouth like… well, like candy. The red glow of his eye brightens a bit from the small sugar boost.
“What do you think you’ll have the most fun playing as Horror?” you ask patiently. “That’s all that’s important at the end of the day, whatever you think you’ll have fun doing.”
“hmmmm,” Horror whines. “i want… help. i just wanna be helpful.” Horror brings the pencil to his sharp teeth and starts to chew on the end. If he bites it at the right angles you think he’d be able to sharpen that end of the pencil too. “don’t wanna pick something wrong,” he mumbles around the wood.
(Killer takes a breath, but his words are muffled from Cross’ hand suddenly clapping over his mouth.)
“you’re always helpful h.”
“Yeah, it’s not a test, there’s no wrong answer. Whatever you pick is going to be a good choice.”
Horror doesn’t look very convinced with your efforts. He mindlessly grabs another massive handful of candy and throws them in his mouth, this time actually slowly down enough to chew through the candy shell to reach the chocolate and peanuts. The bowl is now three quarters empty.
Cheeseburger makes a sudden appearance hopping up onto the table, no longer content with wandering around between the legs of everyone sitting down. Cross only half-heartedly makes a shooing motion as the slim tortie - who very much knows he’s not supposed to be on the table but this is what you get with Killer as the primary caretaker - paws over and promptly plants his butt onto Killer’s character sheet. Killer immediately abandons his cool guy posture in favour of cooing and scritching and skull-bumping his cat. Cross sighs, but the quiet fondness on his face suggests he’s either going to start petting the cat too, or Killer. 50-50 odds on that one.
“… what’s, what’s the one with the animals?” Horror asks. “the one… they transform into animals?”
“Druid!” you answer, and flip Horror’s book over to the relevant page. “That’s a druid. They’re really neat.” You point to the leveling chart. “We’re starting at level fifteen so you get a bunch of cool stuff.” You reach over to pluck out some six-sided dice from the pile for Horror to roll stats with.
“you could turn into a literal bear h.”
“hmmmm, i could turn into a tiger,” Horror muses.
“oh my god i’d be in heaven,” Killer chuckles as Cheeseburger rubs against his chin. “my character’s obsessed with cats, i’ve just decided.”
“Really playing against type there...”
“Nightmare literally homebrewed a skeleton player race for you guys,” you remark. “None of you are playing against type.”
“and what are you playing as, dimples?” Dust asks, lightly elbowing you in the side. “i thought you rolled up a human earlier.”
“‘m so glad… i don’t have’ta think of a race. this’s stressful enough already. i need a nap.”
“No, I figured I’d play a Kenku and repeat everything Killer says so you can listen to him in stereo.” Killer throws his skull back and cackles loudly, Cross groans and plants his face firmly into his hands, Dust sighs like he’s actually disappointed.
It takes the better part of the next hour and another bag of M&M’s before everyone’s character sheet is completed. Pencils are only just laid down and the words “Now what?” are hardly out of Cross’ mouth with the lightning in the room dims. A chill breeze rushes through the air, brief and sudden. A speck of darkness appears on the far wall, then spreads outwards, a hole of black nothingness and wispy tendrils of void.
Nightmare's tentacles appear before he does, spread out as if holding the edges of the portal open. Then the dark skeleton himself appears, stepping through as the void closes up behind him and the lights return to normal. He carries a thick leather bound book, dressed dramatically in robes like a LARPer at a ren faire, and he steps up to the head of the table, where his DM screen has already been set up. He places the book down behind it, and looks up at all of you in turn with a gaze as intense as the turquoise of his eyelight.
His sinister grin promises either an afternoon of fun, or a total party kill by the end of it.
Probably both.
Notes:
Everyone gives Killer shit for metagaming, but Dust is the one literally min-maxing at the table.
And in case anyone cares, the final party composition looked like this…
Addison: Twilight Domain Cleric
Dust: Divine Soul Sorcerer/Hexblade Warlock
Horror: Circle of the Moon Druid
Killer: Arcane Trickster Rogue/College of Swords Bard
Cross: Oath of Glory Paladin
Chapter 6: The Shadows Left Behind
Summary:
Nightmare’s abilities are useful beyond terrorizing the multiverse. He’s good at chasing away night terrors too.
Chapter Tags: Nightmares (literal and figurative), recollections and discussions of past abuse, bad coping mechanisms.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The distance between you and the closet door stretches forever.
You are on the floor, hiding in the back, behind clothes and boxes and anything you can pile up between you. You are ten. You are twelve. You are seventeen. You are thirty.
A shadow paces back and forth on the other side of the door. Steel toe boots thump against the hardwood floor. The light between the crack at the bottom vanishes with every pass.
He is looking for you.
If you keep quiet, you will keep hidden. That you got sent home from school early will remain a secret. The failed math test will remain undiscovered at the bottom of the trash bin. The concerned phone call to child services will save -- tattle-take, tattle-tale, the belt for those who tattle -- you are not what he wanted, your mother wishes you would just -- a bruise the size of your grandmother’s hand taught you where your father learned it from --
The footsteps stop.
The handle rattles.
You hold your breath.
The door creaks open.
Bright light beyond and you cower from --
A woman.
There is a woman down on her knees. She is crying. She is you. She is not you. She has your face. No, not your face. Everything is blurry around her. She is fading to dust. She is crying.
Broken branches, twisted, gnarled and dead, scattered around her.
Behind her is a tree. A colossal tree. The trunk is a wall that stretches end to end across the horizon. You look up to see the top and the branches spider upwards and outwards forever, growing constantly, beyond your sight, beyond infinity, growing breathing a living network with no end consuming the space in the empty void until there is nothing there is everything the tree is everything --
There’s an apple in your hand.
It’s ebony black, a void that reflects no light, the line of its curve sharp against the blur of everything else.
You tremble with full body recognition that this is a dream. The scene before you drains to nothing like melted wax as inky blackness spreads from the corners of your vision. It’s cold. Then warm. Many limbs embrace you from behind, wrap around you securely and you float up and…
Open your eyes.
It’s dark. Your eyes adjust to the gloom slowly. Everything tingles as your mind is still stuck in that moment between waking and dreaming, where the shapes in the shadows are still a little too real. It takes a while to reorient yourself in the present, and the room seems to get brighter as you do. You’re laying on a plush bed, a cool breeze is gently blowing through the window and across your skin. The room is quiet, except for a gentle rumbling behind you, a heavy warmth blanketing you from behind. And in front…
Nightmare leans over you, his eyelight brightening the moment he sees that you’re awake and casting a turquoise haze over his bedroom.
“Are you alright?” he asks in a bare whisper.
It takes a moment for the words to sink in, and… oh shoot, did you wake him? What time is it even? “Yeah,” you mumble, rubbing your eye with the heel of your palm. “Yeah, I’m fine, sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
Now you recognize the tentacle, chilled and soft, nearly invisible as it inches along your arm in a massaging motion while Nightmare’s hand is busy caressing your cheek. Of course, those are not his legs currently tangled with yours. Large and boney, those would belong to Horror, sleeping soundly behind you, body curled around yours and clutching onto your waist like a child with their stuffed animal. The even pace of his snoring assures you that he hasn’t been woken up at least. Just Nightmare.
“Do you wish to discuss it?”
To be honest, there’s not much to discuss. Any memory of the dream trickled away with the fog of reawakening, leaving you with little more than a feeling of melancholy. “Not really,” you sigh. “I don’t even remember it anymore, sorry.”
“You continue to apologize for things that are beyond your control.”
It’s not the first time he’s pointed it out. You’re supposed to be trying to make it the last. You give a very half-hearted shrug. “Blame my upbringing for fostering a guilty conscience, I guess.”
There’s a point where Nightmare’s stare becomes too piercing and you glance away from the weight of it, wishing there was something else to draw your focus. There’s a small stray thread along the seam of the pillow case. You want to pull at it. You choose to roll it between your fingers instead, winding and unwinding the braided cotton until Nightmare takes your hand in his.
His hands are boney in a different way than the rest of the boys. It’s more pliable, soft with a harder mass underneath like the consistency of not quite dried out playdough. The ever-present “goop” that makes him famous across the multiverse hides a more familiar skeleton Monster shape underneath, although he has admitted to being something other than a Monster.
“... Must have been a bad one to get your attention,” you mumble.
“You were in a lot of distress,” Nightmare admits.
“Hmm, probably something with my family then.” You yawn, and rub the side of your face against the pillow like a cat. Sometimes you wish you were one. Life seems easier.
Life is easier with the ability to ignore things that hurt, the lingering scars that might do better with treatment. But treatment means ripping the scabs off and dealing with the angony. The concept of ‘long-term’ doesn’t exist when a life is conditioned to live moment-by-moment for fear of the misstep that wounds.
You don’t need to be an empath to sense his disappointment with your flippancy, the very quiet exhale of disapproval is enough. “It had devolved into an unintelligible mess by the time I intervened,” he explains. “… But the traces were there, I’ll spare you the details if you don’t wish to hear them.”
You still wonder about that, how much of a dream Nightmare can see when he chooses to enter one. He promised that he would respect your boundaries, that he would never pry. There are exceptions to the rules, however, when he can taste the negativity in the air as it wafts from one of his slumbering lovers. He refuses to let anyone under his care suffer from his namesake, not when he can interfere.
A black apple would appear in your hand, he explained, after the two of you had gotten to know one another better. After he decided you were someone worth keeping a careful eye on. Someone he could trust around himself and those he loved. When the apple appears, you would recognize his sign instantly, and make it easier for him to wake you gently.
You joked that it was kind of like Inception. He didn’t understand the reference. You forced everyone to watch it at the next movie night.
A heated debate over the top spinning or falling still pops up occasionally to this day.
Nightmare shifts closer, so that he could have you curl up with your head on his chest without disturbing Horror. After all, the guys discovered long before you met any of them that trying to pull anything or anyone from a sleeping Horror’s grip was foolhardy at best.
“You’ve been having a lot of those dreams lately,” Nightmare remarks quietly, as easily as someone pointing out rain falling from the sky.
Maybe he’s expecting you to recall some kind of trigger, to some event or conversation that would cause your subconscious to conjure twisted memories while you sleep. Maybe he wants to connect the dots to what happened at the Fall Festival. But that was months ago, this might have started more recently. Besides, that had nothing to do with your family anyways.
It’s true you haven’t been sleeping well the past couple of weeks, but you hadn’t considered a recurring nightmare to be the cause. It’s rare enough when you remember your dreams in the first place, good or bad, and if these are slipping through the cracks as you come back to consciousness then maybe that’s what’s fueling your disregard for them. You’ve just been more tired lately, that’s all.
It’s not about ignoring hurt, it’s hiding it, denying it when pointed out by others.
There’s a part of you that wishes he wouldn’t care so much, that guilty conscience demanding that you ignore that outstretched hand in penance, to carry on with half-scabbed wounds by yourself until you lash out like an injured animal.
And there’s another part of you that knows he’s speaking from experience.
Nightmare tuts quietly with your lack of response. He tilts his skull down to whisper in your ear.
“You need only say the word, and I’ll ensure every moment of his remaining life is spent in agony.” From one abused individual to another, it’s a promise you know he would keep, an oath of blood and lack thereof that only needs a single word from you to make it true.
Some days the offer is harder to answer than the others. Some days it’s hard to think about morals and vengeance and right and wrong. Some days a shadow that lingers in a small corner of your mind tempts you to say ‘yes’; an anger that simmers with want, an ‘eye for an eye’, kept from boiling over by boxing it away and ignoring it like ignoring the hurt and the pain and the scars.
It’s not sustainable, and Pandora's box wears away more and more each day.
You still say the same thing you’ve always said.
“No.”
When he first asked, he looked disappointed with your answer. Now when he asks you know it’s more from a compulsive habit, as a barometer for the state of your mental well-being. It’s not disappointment that crosses his features, but relief and a sense of acceptance now.
He can reach out his hand, but he can’t make you take it until you’re ready.
He knows this too.
The day you say ‘yes’ is a day he knows to worry about you.
You hear the nightstand drawer slide open and shut, and one of Nightmare’s tentacles deposits a book into his hand. The same tentacle also turns on the nearby lamp, but keeps it dimmed to the lowest setting. Nightmare thumbs through the pages. “Do you have a preference for where I start?”
You shrug lightly. “Not really. Start where you left off last, it’s okay,” you mumble and let your eyes fall shut.
“Very well.” The pages rustle as he navigates to his bookmark, and after a brief pause, Nightmare begins to read. You weren’t around for the beginning of the book - and you wonder who chose a book about women with names like Lotty and Lady Caroline trapiazing whimsically around an Italian mansion in the first place - but that’s okay, you just like listening to the rolling depth of Nightmare’s voice as he reads.
You doubt you’ll be able to fall back asleep, and he knows that, but between his timbre and Horror’s continuous rumble you’re able to pleasantly doze through the rest of the night without nary a night terror to interrupt you.
Notes:
Don’t mind me, just sowing some seeds here.
Chapter 7: Cover, Let Simmer
Summary:
When Addison agreed to provide a safe house, this wasn’t what she had in mind. Horror probably thinks the same.
Chapter Tags: References to starvation, and death by starvation, very brief mention of a character being unable to care for living things.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
You think you can count on one hand the number of times Nightmare has visited your apartment. In fact, you’re pretty sure you’d only need three fingers.
You’d only need one for the number of times Horror has been left alone with you.
It’s not that he hasn’t been over; by this point every member of the “gang” has decided that your place is an acceptable enough hangout. The human company might even be alright too. It’s just that Horror has only ever come with Dust, and once with Cross, and usually with a platweble sense of wild discomfort and an air of ‘I didn’t choose to come here they made me’.
This is no different… except Nightmare and Dust won’t be staying.
“I trust that I gave you ample time to stock up for Horror’s visit?” Nightmare asks.
You nod. Though you would like to argue that an hour was not really enough time to run to the value mart for the amount of food Horror’s known for eating. But there’s a convenience store just around the corner in case you need to make an emergency run for extra snacks or something.
This isn’t exactly what you had in mind when you agreed to Nightmare’s request that the boys use your apartment as a safe space to lie low if a mission went bad. Nightmare explained why your universe was ideal when he made the request, something about how soulmate universes tend to be naturally more ‘feel good’ and ‘positive’ and tend to be overlooked by… ‘their enemies’.
Ha. More ‘feel good’ your ass.
“Very well.” Nightmare nods, more to himself, as if he was evaluating the promptness and confidence of your answer. Nightmare then steps closer to Horror, who’s sitting neatly on your couch but still taking up nearly all of it. Dust is leaning against the back, elbows resting on the tops of the cushions, his skull very close to Horror’s. Dust’s eyelights dart towards you briefly, but he otherwise makes no move of acknowledging your presence.
As Nightmare stands in front of Horror, you can see that it’s the only way the latter actually loses a height contest with the Guardian of Negativity. Horror keeps his hands folded loosely on his lap, the red eye staring forward into the middle distance and not looking at anyone else.
This is like a custody drop off or something, and every bit as awkward.
“Horror.” The eye, his eye, swivels up. You’ve seen many skeleton eyelights over the years, but nothing that doesn’t look like it belongs in either the ‘eye’ or ‘eyelight’ category quite like Horror’s does. It unnerves you watching it move around without the rest of his face even so much as twitching, like it has a mind of its own. “You are safe. Your brother is safe. Remember that.”
Horror doesn’t respond. Dust rests a hand on Horror’s shoulder. You see one of Nightmare’s tentacles is wrapping around Horror’s left arm and wrist. When it nudges against his hand, Horror suddenly clenches on it.
Like a puppet with strings suddenly cut, Horror’s shoulders sag. “‘kay,” is all he says, and he sounds exhausted from even that one word.
“We won’t be long. We can have a movie night this evening, if you wish.”
“lots of popcorn,” Dust adds, speaking softly near Horror’s acoustic meatus. “maybe chilli dogs if you want.”
“‘kay.”
Nightmare stares into the eye for a moment, before pulling the tentacle away. With only a small sideways glance towards you, Nightmare steps back and disappears through a void of darkness he conjures behind him. Dust leans in and nuzzles against the side of Horror’s skull and mutters a quiet “see ya later h,” then steps around the couch to follow Nightmare through the portal. He looks at you finally before stepping through, and shrugs, as if to say ‘no big deal’, or something like that anyways. Then he’s gone, and the void collapses to a speck, then vanishes completely between one blink and the next. The room instantly feels about five degrees warmer.
Trixy emerges from under the couch and hops onto the coffee table to inspect the skeleton left sitting in her nap spot. Horror just stares silently at her, before cautiously stretching out a finger for her to sniff. She does, and then sweetly rubs the side of her face against it, probably thinking to mark him as ‘her’ property. He starts to scratch under her chin, as if he had been waiting for her permission.
He only started coming around after you had adopted her, but you wonder how much experience with cats - or pets in general - Horror had before Killer brought home Cheeseburger.
Your phone vibrates in your pocket. The screen flashes with a single message. From Nightmare.
*If he starts to pull at his empty socket, text me immediately.
You glance back up at Horror, now running his claws though Trixy’s fluffy fur. Then you look back down at the message.
This is not helping the custody arrangement feeling.
“So!” you say loudly, slipping your phone back into your pocket. Horror turns to look at you blankly. You know the easy route to improve Horror’s mood is food, but you have something else prepared that you hope he’ll like just as much. “I have a surprise for you.”
Horror tilts his skull in curiosity, just like Trixy does when she sees you reaching for the cupboard with her food. It’s completely second nature to avoid looking at the hole in his skull, you’ve had years of practice after all. You step over to your window sill to pick up a large red tin can, once full of kidney beans but now home to a pile of dirt and a vibrant leafy green basil plant. You present it to Horror. “Ta-da!”
He regards the plant for a moment. Then his mouth splits into a wide and very toothy grin. “hehehe, good job.” He gently takes a leaf in between his fingers. “lookin’ much better now.”
You can’t help but beam with his praise. “Yeah, like it’s not at death’s door anymore,” you affirm. Three weeks ago the plant wasn't long for this world, despite your best efforts and frantic googling. Soon to be another dead thing to throw on the pile of things you can’t take care of, and you knew he wanted kids and-- You quickly quash that thought like a bug, fold it up and shove it into a dark crevasse in your mind where it’s easy to ignore. You pull the plant closer to your chest and carefully pinch one of the largest leaves between your thumb and pointer finger. It’s smooth and glossy and oh-so green. “Um... your advice really helped. Thanks,” you add quietly.
If Horror picks up on the slight pause, he pays it no mind. “s’no problem. plants can be tricky… ‘trixy’ i guess, heh.” His shoulders roll with more chuckling as he glances back at the calico trying to reclaim his attention.
Maybe he’s okay, if he’s actually making puns?
Trixy flops over looking for tummy rubs, which of course Horror obliges. You watch them for a moment. “So I was planning on using some of this to make sauce for lasagna sometime this week… Do you want to make some now instead? Or do you have a different preference?”
Horror’s eye brightens, from something like a dull maroon to a bright cherry red. As you expected, food and Horror go together like fish and water. “yeah. lasagna’s good… meat sauce?”
You smirk. “Meat sauce.”
“hehehe, good,” he says as he slowly rises from the couch, and leads the way to your kitchen corner ahead of you. “‘cause it’s be very upset if there’s no meat,” he adds, and the way he looks at you with narrowed sockets and a grin of sharp teeth gives you the impression that it’s supposed to be at least a little intimidating.
Truth be told Killer is more intimidating… though Horror comes above Dust… Cross is below everyone… oh god, are you ranking these skeletons now?
You fail to wilt under the weight of his look, and pull out the recently-purchased package of ground beef from the fridge. “Ta-da. Meat.” You put the pack on the counter to free up your hands and go scouring around for a suitable pot. “Do you want to do the cooking while I do the prep? Or the other way around?”
Horror looks around, taking stock of the pitiful amount of counter space between the stove and the sink that has now been taken up by the meat package. He flips on the tap and starts to wash his hands. “i’ll cook,” he says simply, “gotta keep my hands busy… ‘else i’ll start takin’ it out on myself.”
You pause with the pot in hand, biting your bottom lip, then placing it on the only burner that actually heats up properly. “So you know Nightmare asked me to keep an eye on you?”
Horror nods. He towels his planages dry with a regular kitchen towel that looks like a small washcloth in his hands. Then he rips through the plastic packaging to free the meat. “no one knew, ‘fore we got there, what kind of universe it was… i don’t do well… in places where folk starved. worse where there’s no one left…” He takes a moment to look at your cupboards, and then amazingly opens the one with the exact sized bowl he needs. He dumps the meat into the bowl. “‘m better now, but not great… and cookin’ helps me focus.” Horror plunges his sharp phlanages into the meat and starts to break it up. “can’t leave me alone either… pasta salt ‘n pepper?”
You grab the shakers, then pause, then groan. Horror starts to chuckle. “Half points,” you sigh, “we’re not even cooking the lasagna yet.”
“hehehe, ‘kay,” Horror giggles. “… i’ll have’ta ketchup on my sauce puns, then.”
You groan with all the weight of the world on your shoulders while Horror laughs harder. “Your salt and pepper, sir,” you announce with dramatic annoyance, hoping you aren’t setting him up for another low-hanging pun.
Horror’s still stuck with a decaying giggle-fit, so he just gestures for you to start pouring the spices in. He mixes everything in with the one hand while you pour, until he signals that it’s enough. “… gotta season the meat too,” he explains, “else it tastes weird. onion ‘n garlic next.”
He directs you in chopping the appropriate amounts, resting your small cutting boards on an unused burner because counter space is a luxury you can’t afford. You dump the veggies into the now warmed pot, and Horror quickly follows up with the meat. It immediately begins sizzling and he gently shoves you aside to take the chef’s helm in front of the pot.
You had a saved recipe on your phone to follow, but you defer to whatever he’s got in mind instead. He doesn’t chat much as he works on the sauce, at least not in the way of conversation. If he moved with an unsteadiness before, it’s all but imperceptible now; there isn’t a tremble in sight as he uses a wooden spoon to gently break apart the meat and release the fat fluids. He asks for ingredients when needed, two dollops of tomato paste and a can and a half of crushed tomatoes. He asks for spices that you go hunting around through your drawer spice bags for. Maybe you should get containers for those at some point. It’s been over half a year of living alone, you’re an adult, you should get spice shakers now.
Finally, the creme de resistance, the whole reason you picked this meal, and the single thing you can be proud of, Horror asks you to chop up enough of your fresh basil leaves to make a quarter cup, and toss it into the bubbling sauce. He turns it down low to a simmer, and places the lid on top. “should let it cook slow… it’ll taste better when it’s done,” he says. But his voice is suddenly a lot quieter, suddenly unsure and lacking the confidence of the person making puns earlier.
You glance at the digital display on the stove. “... Sure. We’ll probably have to start the noodles earlier, all the other burners take a while to heat up and cook anything.” Horror nods, but offers nothing in response. He remains standing in front of the stove, arms hanging loosely at his side. Mindful of what Nightmare said earlier, you glance down at his hands.
His fingers twitch and curl, looking for something latch on to.
You immediately dive into another drawer, pulling out a family pack of potato chips and tearing it open. The foil pop grabs Horror’s attention, his head swivels to you as you hold out the bag. “Sorry, it’s only plain. They only had the smaller size of the other flavours.” Horror stares at you with that engorged eye-but-not-eye-light, then grabs the bag and immediately digs in.
“What kind of stuff do you grow? In your garden, I mean?”
Horror scoops out a clawful of chips and tosses them into his mouth. “... food, vegetables… got some peppers and zucchini. tomatoes.” Horror chews with audible crunches between his words. “... started growin’ some flowers too. cross likes to sit and look at them… used to sketch them too, but, uh… that’ll take awhile, i think, to come back.”
The implication that Horror started growing something that doesn’t have any use other than being pretty, just for someone that he cares about is there, unspoken but loud and clear all the same. A morose feeling settles in your chest. You push through it. “Did you start gardening when you moved in with Nightmare, uh, wherever you guys live?”
Horror quirks the brow bone above his eye. “castle. it’s a castle.” You do the worst job ever in stifling a snort behind your fist, because of course the king of all things gloomy in the multiverse lives in a castle like fucking Dracula. “and no, soil wasn’t good, where i’m from. picked it up… uh, elsewhere. my bro’s better, but he lives on a farm.”
He holds out the bag of chips in offering. You grab a handful, nowhere near as big as his own. He ambles back over to the couch while you munch through one chip at a time, and sits down with enough weight to make the cushions hiss with escaped air. You pull over a spare folding chair, and sit straddling it backwards.
There’s a long stretch of quiet between the two of you. The window’s closed, there’s only the sounds of the A/C humming to keep the summer heat away; only the sounds of the sauce bubbling in the stainless steel pot and vibrating against the element coil; only the sounds of crunching potato chips.
“... dust can’t sit still, ‘less he’s workin’ on somethin’,” Horror muses. He lifts the bag and pours the crumbs into his mouth. Nothing spills to the floor, not even the smallest piece. He crushes the bag into a ball, foil whining as it crumples. “killer won’t stop moving. cross’s always trainin’... i never was one for goin’ fast, even before this,” he gestures to the hole in his skull. “... gardenin’ is about the right speed for me. and it keeps my hands… productive. cookin’ too. nothin’ needs to go fast.”
He rolls the bag-ball slowly between his palms. You opt against asking if he wants to throw it out. “… Except, you know, fast food.”
Horror barks out a laugh, startling Trixy from her nap on the coffee table. She glares at him with narrowed slits before yawning wide and curling back into a little ball of floof. It’s the kind of laugh that only comes out when he feels safe, free, closer to the skeleton he once was, maybe. Or that’s the impression you get anyway.
“hehehe, should’a thought of that one,” Horror chuckles.
“I have my moments.” You rest your forearms against the back of your chair. “Wanna watch something? Those searches I did trying to save the plant put some weird videos in my recommended feed.” Horror’s eye darts towards the stove, then focuses back on you. You shrug. “Until you tell me it’s time to start cooking the noodles. It’s my day off, I’ve got nothing else I’m planning on doing this afternoon. I have snacks and we’re going to have an awesome dinner later.”
Horror grins; it’s not menacing or scheming. It’s happy.
The lasagna takes the better part of two hours to actually come together. It probably could have been finished sooner, but the videos distracted you, and neither of you were really in any rush in the first place. It’s hot and oozing, rich and flavorful when you bite into the first forkful. Horror’s slice dwarfs your own, as to be expected really. He insists on leaving you the rest, for leftovers and lunches, or ‘emergencies’.
The next time he comes over, he brings a pot of soil, with a small twin-leaved sprout poking through the dirt. A bell pepper, he explains, a seed from one he grew, because he thinks you’ve graduated to gardening level two. You place it on the sill, a proper clay pot next to your tin can and the basil plant thriving under the rays of sunlight.
Notes:
I just want to say thank you all for the kudos! I appreciate each and every one. Thank you to everyone who left a comment as well. Short or long, I love them all!
Chapter 8: Good Days Start With The Best Intentions
Summary:
It’s just an average day at the castle, and the boys are asked to go on an average mission.
Chapter Tags: Pre-Reader/Addison, so mainly Bad Sans Poly, just the boys being domestic with each other. References to murder, offscreen destruction, drinking. As you do when dealing with Nightmare’s gang.
Chapter Text
“taste.”
Dust sluggishly lifts his skull from his arms, his eyelights flickering to life in his sockets. There’s a fork held in front of his face, with a precariously balanced bit of scrambled eggs on top. Dust wastes no time leaning forward and chomping on the fork, chewing once before swallowing th eggs. They’re soft and creamy and fucking delightful, the perfect breakfast for Dust’s version of early-ass o’clock. Which is still pretty much noon.
“it’s good,” Dust offers.
Horror nods, satisfied but like he had still expected something to be wrong. “… think i used too much butter?”
“no such thing.”
“hmm, true.” Horror ambles back to the stove on the other side of the kitchen, where he has the rest of the heaping pile of eggs ready for the finishing touches and seasoning per portion.
Dust rests his skull back on his forearms. His hood slides forward and blocks out most of his view of the room. He decides to keep one socket unobscured and watching Horror, moving back and forth between the stove and the counter where he’s got several plates set up. The apron Killer got for him last Gyftmas - the one lovingly modified to say ‘kiss the cook, kill the competition’ - is fraying away in the corner from the larger skeleton constantly wiping down his claws while cooking. He’s piling links of breakfast sausage fresh from the cast-iron on top of the eggs, then drowning it all with a rich homemade gravy. The tip of a maroon tongue is visible as Horror measures out the portions, because the fucker has the audacity to use some magic to summon his tongue just to bite on it while he’s working.
It’s too cute.
“lookin’ good h,” Dust calls. He winks when Horror glances sideways at him, but the effect is lost when only one of Dust’s eyelights is visible. He gets the response he wants regardless, a rich shade of blood red magic spreading across Horror’s cheek bones as the latter goes back to his task.
They both know that ‘h’ doesn’t stand for ‘Horror’ after all. It stands for ‘handsome’.
“… love ya too, pickle,” Horror mumbles, just loudly enough for Dust to hear.
Horror’s one-up game is admittedly weak, but damn if it still doesn’t hit Dust right in the soul, and he has to hide the rest of his face in his arms so he doesn’t light the whole damn room up with his blush. He hates having such a high magic reserve sometimes, when he lights up like a fucking Gyftmas tree the instant someone says anything nice to him.
Dust hears Horror shuffle over, and sets something down on the table in front of him. Once his blush is under control, Dust lifts his skull to see a plate full of gravy-slathered goodness and a mug of freshly brewed coffee, three cream and three sugar. Dust pushes his hood up with a sharp inhale through his nasal aperture. Horror must have whipped up some kind of pork gravy to go with the sausages, because it smells divine. The first thing he does however, is drag over the mug and let the smell of the drip coffee smack him in the face.
Today is a good day.
He’s actually had a couple of good days in a row, but today he can look back and recognize that fact. He hasn’t heard the voice of Not-Papyrus in almost a week, let alone any of the other voices of Monsters (he killed) he knew. Sometimes, if Dust catches his reflection at oblique angles, he thinks he sees a flash of wispy red that just as quickly disappears from view. But the spectral vision of his not-brother hasn’t plagued his waking and sleeping hours, and Dust hasn’t had a string of days like this in a long while.
Not since… the worry, the stress, the search across the multiverse… the urge for vengeance and to take back what was THEIRS.
So, yeah, it’s a good day.
Dust feels more than hears someone stepping through the doorway into the kitchen. What was that saying? The one about hair standing up or something? Well, he doesn’t have hair, he has LV, but he only feels a small ‘tangle’ of it before it settles back down in recognition.
And that’s the real proof that it’s a good day, isn’t it? Especially if he’s making bad puns, if only to himself.
Horror brings over another plate the moment Nightmare walks in. Dust can see the way his tentacles trail limply behind; less viscous than usual, no sign of twitching or agitation. Guess it’s a good day for Nightmare too. The master of all things miserable b-lines for the coffee pot and pours what’s probably his third cup of the day into the mug he carried in with him. He’s taken it black for as long as Dust has known him, but he prefers pressure brewed versus drip.
Which reminds Dust that he really needs to see about fixing the espresso machine and reversing some of Killer’s… modifications.
“Good morning Dust,” Nightmare says simply after sipping his coffee and taking his place in front of the plate Horror set out for him. He looks up at Horror, standing pateintly at his side. “Thank you Horror, this smells delicious.”
Horror grins, preening under the praise he deserves. Then his eye shifts over to the other three plates, one very obviously for him, but the other two… “do, do ya think cross’ll come down for food today?”
Dust pretends he’s not just as invested in the answer to the question by shoving a fork full of egg in his mouth. Some of the gravy drips down his chin, and he wipes it off with his sleeve, adding yet another stain to the garment.
No one’s fooled by his nonchalance, and he knows it. But they let him sit in the safety of his lie.
“Cross seems to be feeling better today,” Nightmare responds, and he’s far more reserved with eating the eggs, taking very polite bites like a civilized Monster. “He was in the training room last I checked.”
And because the multiverse has a sense of humor, a loud bang reverberates through the stones of the castle walls above their skulls. Dust and Horror both quickly tilt their skulls back and stare at the ceiling. There’s several more pops, like firecrackers going off. There’s some muffled yelling, and the distinct hum of a magic blaster charging.
“Killer is with him,” Nightmare adds conversationally. He hasn’t even looked up from his food.
Dust stares at the ceiling, sockets squinting. As if he could spontaneously develop x-ray vision. He wishes. “are they fighting or fucking?”
“Yes,” is all Nightmare responds with, because he thinks he’s funny.
He is funny. And he knows it as he tries to hide his smirk behind a sip of coffee. He’s got that dry sense of straight-man humour that contrasts well with a group of skeletons that like fart jokes.
Horror makes a noise, not quite a hum and not quite a whine, then grabs all three plates and carries them with the grace of a waiter out of the kitchen, because whatever they’re doing, they’ll probably need a pick-me-up after. That, and Horror probably wants to watch.
Dust sighs, and goes back to mopping up the gravy with a piece of sausage. He and Nightmare don’t really do chit-chat, but that’s alright. He feels a tentacle slither up and curl around his waist, not pulling or squeezing, but present. There. Grounding. That’s all Dust needs. The two sit in quiet company and enjoy the breakfast - ehh, probably lunch at this point - that was lovingly made for them.
Today is a good day.
***
Today is not a good day.
There’s a benefit to having missions in another universe’s version of The Underground; for the most part, everything is consistent in it’s placement. The Ruins of Home are just beyond the doors at the far end of Snowdin, the Lab isn’t very far from the boundary of Waterfall and Hotland, etcetera etcetera. So when Dust takes an instinctual shortcut into Waterfall, near where his old sentry station would be, he’s relieved but not all that surprised to end up in a Waterfall that’s mostly familiar. Gearson’s little cave-shop is boarded up and long abandoned by the looks of the moss that’s grown over the wood, but it’ll make the perfect place to wait for Nightmare’s signal.
Dust takes a quick peek through the boards to make sure he doesn’t shortcut into a piece of furniture or something, but all that’s left lying around are a couple of barrels, tipped over and empty, and the desk Gearson liked to lean against (and hide behind). He shortcuts through into the dark space with a hiss. He doesn’t bother trying to find something to light - the less light the better - he just silently moves as fast as he can to the deepest and darkest part of the cave and rests with his back against the wall.
And waits.
And tries to ignore the whispers of the phantom in his acoustic meatus asking why he ran away, he should have stayed, think of all he could gain if he stayed behind AND JUST KILLED THEM ALL.
Dust lets out a sharp breath between gritted teeth. His knuckles glow with a dull charge, growing in intensity every passing moment. The colour’s slipped all the way into burning, angry red. Dust shoves his hands in his pockets so he doesn’t have to look at them.
COWARD.
This is all Error’s fault.
This was supposed to be a simple spy run. In and out, maybe cause a little chaos among the locals, and be home before Horror had to start making dinner.
Nothing’s ever simple though, is it?
Error had shown up, suddenly and already screeching as he usually does when he’s in a mood. And boy was he in a mood. His physical form flickered like static on a tv as he raved in broken letters at Nightmare about… something. Dust has a tendency to tune Error’s dial-up voice out whenever he comes and makes some vague assertion that Nightmare has to do something for him. It’s always ‘destroy this’ or ‘destroy that’ with him.
But this time Error was insistent that Nightmare had to investigate something. He wanted Nightmare to personally come with them to see… ah, fuck, what was it again.
YOU’RE THE WORST AT PAYING ATTENTION.
It was a universe, a universe that Error hadn’t even looked at before he felt it crumble under the weight of something… no, Error made a big deal about it being ‘some-when’… whatever the fuck that means.
It’s not Dust’s job to care, really. This kind of stuff makes his skull hurt when he tries to work it out.
Regardless, Nightmare sent them all out to investigate dutifully. Between himself, Killer and Horror, the three of them are so practised and comfortable with how each one works, they move like a well-oiled machine. It should have been a piece of cake to pop in, look for this ‘damage’ that had Error’s shorts in a twist, and report back.
The damage wasn’t hard to find. It took out half the damn mountain.
They could look up and see the sky from where they landed in Snowdin, bright blue sky, with chunks of rocks the size of small hills floating in midair like gravity had just decided to call it quits. It reminded Dust of one of those space universes - ‘Outer’, as Nightmare categorized them. Except this wasn’t one of those universes, this was a plain ole’ Earth-bound Mt. Ebott with it’s plain ole’ Earth-bound Underground.
The next surprise was how empty this version of The Underground was. At first Dust assumed that this was a post-surface timeline, but the manner in which everything had been vacated… ‘evacuated’ fit better. Doors locked, windows boarded up, items left behind from their owners only taking the barest essentials. Maybe the local human had come by instead, swinging their tiny little knife with their tiny little hands and carving a swath of destruction Monsters fled from.
But the air lacked the heavy smell of dust that would linger from such a killing spree.
There was nothing. Absolutely nothing.
They didn’t have long to puzzle over that when the third surprise showed up.
If Error had felt the reverberations of something taking out half of Mt. Ebott across the multiverse, then of fucking course Ink would too.
And of course he would come with his whole posse.
And Dust is loath to say it, but even though it would be three-on-three, without Nightmare none of them would be able to hold off Dream for very long.
They had to retreat.
LIKE A COWARD!
Dust runs the tips of his fingers along the side of the phone in his pocket. They did what they always do: send a message to Nightmare and then split up, finding a dark corner to hide in. Nightmare could sense them across the multiverse if he focused hard enough, but for accurate positioning their phones had been modified with tracking that tied right back to his. All they had to do was wait, and he would find them.
It’s curious, wouldn’t Dream have similar powers? As far as he knows, Ink is the only teleporter of the group. Did Nightmare get it from all the apples?
But Dream’s powers have been growing lately, bolstered by a creation spree that had Ink hopping around and painting whole worlds that were already drowning in happiness and cheer, bright sunshine and laughter that fills the soul and pushes everything else out—
Dust starts to giggle.
Then claps a hand hard over his mouth.
Oh no.
Dust grimaces, as hard as he can. He extinguishes his eyelights, ducks back as far as he can in the dark, and for once he lets Not-Papyrus’ voice fill his skull and stoke his bloodlust and he tries so hard to focus on that. His jaw hurts from how hard he’s locking his teeth together, fighting the urge to make a sound.
A hazy golden glow appears on the other side of the boards.
Not-Papyrus wants him to go out there and fight them, WOULDN’T THAT BE FUN, THINK OF THE EXP… but Dust knows better. Alone, even just against Dream, it would be suicidal. But the phantom voice is better than the saccharine feeling trying to force him to relax, don’t you want to be happy, smile, come out and be among friends—
The boards bend inwards, then crack and fall under the pressure with a snap that echoes through the cave. The wood lies in splinters, outer edges stained with black ink and smouldering like charcoal.
And the radiance floods inside.
Dust fights the flinch, defiant. It’s like suddenly walking from pitch blackness into bright sunlight without any of the warmth. It lights up every nook, cranny and gloomy corner. Dream stands just at the entrance, blocking Dust’s only obvious means of escape. He has his bow out, arrow nocked and ready to loose in Dust’s direction at the first sign of aggression. It’s hard to tell with the amount of fucking light Dream’s wings are giving off - and Dust swears that they’re brighter than the last time he saw Nightmare’s twin - but Ink stands a little ways behind, brush clutched in both hands and ready to swing again.
Dust lets out a shaky breath. His LV wants a fight he’s not ready for.
A chilled tendril creeps up his leg.
And he smiles.
The words “Where’s Cross?” aren’t fully out of Dream’s mouth when Dust is suddenly pulled downwards and swallowed by a pool of darkness. He proudly flips Dream the bird on the way down before everything disappears from view.
Dust floats for only a moment in an empty void that is both like and unlike the void he shortcuts through before he’s dropped unceremoniously back onto solid ground, scraping his kneecaps when he lands on the concrete. From the vacuum of silence, Dust is bombarded with the sounds of talking, laughter, cars driving on the road and honking at one another, the hum of streetlights and wires that hang between poles. Dust finds himself in a narrow alley between two samey-looking brick wall buildings, behind a trash bin, and when he looks up he can see a dark sky dotted sporadically with tiny points of light, of stars, actual stars.
Fuck, he could look up at stars all night.
YOU’RE NOT THAT MONSTER ANYMORE.
No, but sometimes he wants to pretend.
Regardless of the universe, post-surface timelines always made for the best hiding place. There’s way more ambient happiness that hangs around, enough to hide the presence of anyone seeking temporary shelter from Dream. Pre-surface timelines are too limited, and The Underground is always the first place the Stars tend to check out when they go galavanting across the multiverse.
Dust pushes himself up and to his feet, brushing off his shorts like it matters and adjusting his hood. He would be the only one in this universe; Nightmare would be dumping Killer and Horror elsewhere, because three separate knuckle-skulls attract less attention than three knuckle-skulls together. All there was to do is lie low and wait, until it’s safe enough for Nightmare to travel and pick them all up the old fashioned way.
It used to be Cross who came to pick everyone up; his unique manner of travel attracts even less attention, but… Dust would rather carve his soul up before he let Dream get his hands on Cross again.
WHY DON’T YOU TAKE THAT ANGER AND CARVE SOMETHING ELSE UP INSTEAD? CAN’T YOU FEEL IT, ALL THESE HUMAN SOULS WALKING ABOUT WITHOUT A CARE…
The unfortunate thing, as Dust is so helpfully reminded of when Not-Papyrus pipes up, is that his LV is still aggravated, and it’s not going to settle on its own, regardless of how long Dust stands around looking at stars. And a murder spree would go against the whole idea of trying to keep a low profile. As much as it would be fun.
Maybe Dust should just stay in the alley until he’s picked up?
NO!
Right. Too boring.
Making the barest attempt to brush away some of the dust that perpetually covers his clothing, Dust eventually stumbles out of the alley and onto the sidewalk. It’s not super late, by the looks of it. Shops are still lit up with bright signs and window displays, and there are a fair amount of people walking around, aimlessly or with purpose. They wear heavier coats, wooly hats, carry warm drinks in branded cups. There’s a very light layer of frost that covers the red and orange leaves still hanging on the trees, and based on some of the decorations hanging on nearly every store sign, Dust would hazard that it’s almost Halloween in this universe.
The fact that no one has given the skeleton Monster that suddenly emerged from a dark alley a second glance tells him that Monsters are either very well established in this universe, or he’s pretty close to Mt. Ebott. Maybe even both.
But there aren’t any Monsters actually out and about, and that gives Dust pause. It’ll work out in his favour he supposes; humans can’t tell that he’s covered in Monster dust, so there’s one less thing to worry about. But if nobody cares about the presence of a Monster, then why aren’t there any around?
Dust doesn’t like it.
YOU SHOULD DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT.
Dust keeps his hands in his pockets as he starts wandering in a direction. Humans don’t steer clear of him as much as he keeps his distance from them, and he does his best to try and keep his twitching under control. He’s aware of how high his shoulders have risen, the way the tips of his fingers dig into the bones in his palms past the point of hurting.
He needs to do something soon, he’s maybe one human looking at him wrong away from snapping and causing havoc, Not-Papyrus is starting to make some decent suggestions—
He walks past a bar.
… Well, that’ll do.
A quick peek through the window reveals a decently lit space filled with humans watching some kind of game on a bunch of tv screens. More importantly, Dust doesn’t see a fire elemental tending the bar and serving drinks. Just another human.
Perfect.
Dust pushes open the door and walks in, heading straight for the bar with the confidence of a regular. Humans cheer and laugh around him, banging on their tables as somebody apparently scored something, threw or hit some kind of ball into some kind of net. It’s all the same when you break it down. But nobody pays him any mind, and that’s all Dust cares about.
There’s only one other human sitting at the bar, minding their own business on the far end and turned away from all of the screens. Dust hops on a stool, keeping a careful distance, and signals for the bartender to bring him over a bourbon on the rocks. Oh, sweet, this place serves free salted peanuts for snacks. He’ll just help himself…
I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU…
The other way to handle an LV flareup - at least, the other way that works for Dust - is to get drunk. Hammered. Not-quite wasted, because he’s in a universe he’s not familiar with, but as close to it while retaining most of his cognitive thinking. It takes a lot to get him that drunk though; Dust surprisingly has one of the highest alcohol tolerances out of the group.
Nightmare has the highest, then Dust. Cross can hold his own, but once he reaches his limit he spirals quickly and is a very emotional drunk. Killer is more of a lightweight than he thinks he is, and Horror falls asleep just looking at a stiff drink.
“… Alright, don’t you think you’ve had enough?”
Dust bristles on instinct, but the bartender isn’t addressing him. He forces out a calming breath, and takes a sip of his drink.
“I don’t drive and I’m calling a cab after. Happy? Just leave me alone.”
Dust glances at the human sitting at the far end of the bar. They hold an empty beer bottle in one hand, fingering the label and peeling the corners off. The bartender leans over them, arms crossed and staring down like a disapproving parent.
The human has something weird going on with their face; it’s red and puffy, almost swollen around the eyes.
Oh, wait, that’s what humans look like when they’re crying and pleading for their lives.
“That’s nice, but I’m saying that’s enough. Whatever you’re crying about isn’t worth hurting yourself over. I’m not getting you another drink, I’m getting you some water and your bill.”
The human scoffs, though the defiance loses its punch when they sniffle. “You’ll happily serve a guy with a beard and a six pack until they’re stumbling out on all fours, but the minute I ask for a third beer suddenly you’re all concerned about safety.”
“There are people who’ll try and take advantage of you.”
“And I bet you only care because if something happens it makes you look bad.”
Dust grabs another handful of peanuts and starts munching on them like popcorn. The smaller human may be a teary mess that gives Killer a run for his gold, but they look like they’re about to hop the bar and sock the bartender on the chin and serve themself. Coming here was a good idea; this is way more entertaining that Dust could have hoped for. Oh yeah, his LV should settle just nicely.
Maybe he was watching too hard, or maybe that saying about humans and their hair standing up to alert them to danger is true, because the human suddenly breaks their staring contest with the bartender, and glances his way.
Dust may not be able to tell human genders apart at a glance… may not even be the same Monster before he made the choice to (murder) free his Underground from the RESETS… but Dust is still very good at reading expressions. And as their face flickers through several in quick succession, there are two that grab Dust’s attention.
The first, something he absolutely does not expect… is recognition.
Then it contorts to anger.
And then the human schools their expression to something like mild annoyance, like they had just bitten on a lemon, and they quickly turn away to fiddle with the beer label.
“And what are you lookin’ at?” you grumble.
Dust can’t help but grin, equal parts delightful and sinister. Yup, the evening just got more interesting.
Chapter 9: The Friends You Can Be Bored With
Summary:
An accident at work has Addison realizing a few things about the skeletons that have been coming around with increasing frequency.
Chapter Tags: Character Injury (burn), hospitals, skeletons ripping a hole in the fabric of reality to travel, characters being smacked in the face with Feelings(TM).
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
This is what you get for trying to do a nice thing.
A trip to the hospital.
An elderly couple had come in for mid-morning tea and hot sandwiches, and wanted to sit outside on the patio to enjoy the nice weather. You, being the nice person that you are, recommended that they go sit, and that you would bring their order over once it was ready. You set everything out on the ceramic plates used for people eating in, and carried the order towards the door. The couple could see you through the windows from where they sat outside, and they beamed with warm smiles as they watched you come closer.
You never even made it to the door.
Because the woman who came barreling out of the bathroom like a tornado blowing apart a barn was not watching you, and instead slammed into your back and you stumbled forward. You dropped the plates, shattering on impact and leaving a mess of sandwiches all over the floor. You dropped the mugs.
You dropped the tea, and the majority spilled all over your left hand.
The pain was sharp and immediate, as was your scream. Clutching your hand and wrapping your apron around it did nothing to stop the pain seeping down through your skin and the muscles underneath.
And the woman didn’t so much as give you a backwards glance as she stormed out of the cafe and disappeared past the shocked faces of the couple you were trying to serve.
“You’re going to apply this stuff pretty liberally, okay? And don’t try to tough it out, take painkillers if you need it.” You’re handed a large tube of ointment, some kind of gel antibiotic with a chemical name twenty letters too long, and freshly prescribed by an ER doctor who probably spent all of five minutes with you before leaving to deal with actual emergencies. The nurse pays no mind to your embarrassment, just as she paid no mind to your instance that it wasn’t really an emergency when she first saw your hand.
You’re lucky, you suppose, that she’s both a nurse and a regular and just happened to be coming in for a latte just as you were at the tail end of your shift, having struggled through the rest of it with a throbbing hand haphazardly wrapped with whatever gauze was left in the first aid kit. She took one look at your face, and then the hand, and immediately escorted you to Ebott General once you clocked out.
The dressing is more thorough now, if tight. It’s hard to curl your fingers towards your palm, but she’s not wrong about the pain lingering. What was her name again… you see it on the cup every day, sometimes twice a day? Meg… Mel. Melanie.
“If you start running a fever, you come right back here, understand?” Melanie explains as she walks you back to the main reception. You never actually knew that she was an ER nurse, the way she brought you in and triaged you with the staff for immediate assessment reminds you of a drill sergeant, and you wonder how high up the chain she is.
“And you should really report the accident. That’s a deep enough burn that it’s going to scar a little, it should have been looked at right away. The drinks shouldn’t be that hot.”
“It’s an industrial water heater,” you answer meekly, knowing that you’re offering both an explanation and an excuse. “Head office mandates it across the chain so… it’s not really going anywhere. They’ll just say I wasn’t following the safety guidelines.” You would get a write up with cause, your manager would get a write up - even though she would support you if she knew what happened on her day off - and eventually head office would find a reason to get rid of you. You can’t afford being fired, just like you can’t really afford a repeat visit to the hospital if you do come down with a fever. You’re lucky the barebones insurance that comes with your job is going to cover most of this visit.
Melanie purses her lips, clearly not happy with your answer. Then she hears her name being called on the intercom. “… I mean what I said about the pain, don’t just put up with it.” It doesn’t take a mind reader to know she’s not really talking about the pain. She claps you on the shoulder and leaves you standing by the receptionist, ready to go over your bill.
All the while, your hand hurts like it’s trapped in a vice.
Popping a painkiller or two is starting to sound like a good idea by the time you get home.
***
“… what the fuck happened to your hand?” is literally the first thing that comes out of Dust’s mouth.
“Well hello to you too,” you greet, trying to maintain your grip on a wriggling Trixy while you let Dust into the apartment, because she refuses to acknowledge the rule that the world beyond the door is off-limits. It’s been three months, she absolutely knows by now, but the calico’s being a stubborn teen cat who flaunts the rules.
Dust’s sockets narrow, but he doesn’t say anything as he saunters into your apartment. Behind him, Horror ducks into view, looking sheepish as always. You’re still not exactly sure why Dust started bringing him along, but hey, what’s one more murderous skeleton in your life. “Hi Horror,” you greet.
Unfortunately your friendliness doesn’t do much to dissipate Horror’s nervous aura, he mumbles a quiet “‘lo,” and wanders over to sit where he usually sits when he visits, taking up three quarters of your couch.
You let Trixy down, who immediately decides to rub up against Dust’s legs. Dust is still staring at your hand. “so what happened?” He keeps his hands in his pockets and gestures to the cat, who’s now batting at his shoelaces. “did she do it?”
“No,” you sigh. Figures he’s not going to drop it. “I burned my hand at work.”
“… burned?” Horror repeats. The empty socket always droops like he’s half asleep, but the other is wide, red eye bright with a narrow slit. “... like, with fire?”
You shake your head. You start rummaging through the cupboards for snacks you’ve been stocking on a regular basis. Ever since skeleton visits became a regular thing. “Just hot water. Really hot water. A customer knocked into me while I was carrying tea, and it spilled all over my hand.” Score! You pull out a bag of salted pretzels and another of popcorn. There’s no need for bowls, you just bring the bags to the living area. “It’s still tender,” you continue, “so it’s all wrapped up to protect it.” It also still hurts like a bitch, but you’re not going to say that.
You never did take a painkiller.
Dust has stolen the last quarter of the couch, so you drag over a chair for yourself and hand them the snacks. Horror immediately goes for the pretzels, which pleases you. “So, what’s new with you guys?”
Dust shrugs. After a moment, he fishes his phone out of his pocket and starts fiddling around with it. It’s a habit that sometimes pops up with him, that he needs to be looking at something else or keeping his hands busy while holding a conversation. “nothing’ much. boss had somethin’ to take care of, so we’re all kind’a bored.”
Bored murderous skeletons sounds like a recipe for disaster. Maybe you should be content with the impression that all Horror and Dust want to do is loaf on your couch? “I’d hate to see what you guys get up to when you’re bored,” you remark, then you notice Horror is looking at the window sill, which is notably empty since the last time he was over. “... I moved it to the bedroom.” Horror turns to you when he realizes you were talking to him. “The plant. I moved it to the bedroom window. You said it needed more light, and that window gets more at this time of year.” You shrug. “It’s kind of looking greener, so I think it’s working.”
Horror blinks. “... oh, that’s good.” Horror relaxes back into the couch. He hooks a pretzel with his claw, twirls it around for a moment, then tosses it into his mouth. “keep waterin’ it… like i told ya. it’ll bounce back. basil’s resilient.”
“Maybe,” you mumble. You’re not optimistic because your track record with plants - or living things in general - isn’t exactly… lively. But you’ll keep at it, Horror wants you to try, so… you’ll try.
Dust is still messing around on his phone, and with Horror watching you while eating pretzels, you’re starting to feel like they are expecting you to provide some kind of entertainment. What do you even have to offer? “So… did you have something you wanted to do? Or did you just want to be bored here instead of back home?” Horror shrugs, and Dust is his usual unhelpful self. “... I mean, I can put on a movie or—”
It’s not loud but it’s sudden, a shrill ring of metal grinding against metal, and you leap from your chair.
The air - space - literally contorts around a point in front of your door, where the tip of something hot red and sharp pokes through from nothing. It moves downwards and the sound shrieks, and cuts a hole through literal space once it hits the floor. The hole opens to white, just bright white that drains colour and distorts the room around the border like fractals and spirals... and from the hole emerges Cross, holding the large glowing red blade that’s apparently capable of splitting reality, with Killer hot on his heels like he didn’t just stroll through a physics impossibility. Once they step through, the hole seals itself, as if nothing had happened.
“hi,” Horror greets, completely unfazed.
You, on the other hand, are very fazed. “... That’s how you teleport?!” you nearly shout. “I thought you just shortcut like the rest of them!”
The blade in his hand crumbles into glowing blocks and disappears, and Cross rubs the back of his skull. “I can! I mean, I can do that too, but… Uhh, well, that’s different.. This’s more like—”
“this is how criss-cross jumps universes.” Killer grabs a chair and pulls it over to the rest of the group like he owns the place. He hops on the seat and kicks his feet up on the arm of the sofa, next to Horror’s elbow. “so what’s shakin’ bacon?” Cross is more polite about grabbing a chair for himself, pulling it over to sit next to Killer.
And everyone, except Dust, is looking at you.
If you weren’t suspicious before, you are now. Dust and Horror are one thing, but Cross and especially Killer? You’re looking at a bunch of scheming skeletons, not bored ones. “Alright, y’all are bad liars, what’s going on?”
Killer slaps a hand over his chest, just under his red target soul that’s surprisingly solid and uniform today. “aww, i’m hurt! wounded! what happened to being co-parents? after all that time we spent takin’ care of cats and gettin’ to know one another, you—”
“Dust texted us,” Cross answers, straight and to the point and with way less dramatics. You’re so happy Cross actually tells you things.
As soon as the truth slips out, Dust shoves his phone in his hoodie pocket, pulls his knees up and yanks his hood down over his sockets with the speed of a sprinter. You swear you see his cheekbones light with a very bright lilac glow. “you’re not supposed to tell her cross!”
“Why not?” asks the skeleton in a way that suggests he knows exactly why not and is playing stupid.
“Why would he…?” Your eyes go wide and you wheel on Dust fully. “You asked them to come because I burned my hand?” Dust tries to pull his hood further down, but alas, there isn’t enough hood, and glow bleeds through the fabric anyways. Horror starts giggling. “Dust! It’s not a big deal! It hurts but it’s not like I’m dying or anything!”
“yeah and you don’t have a history of downplaying things! you just admitted that it hurts!” Dust counters, more to the hands covering his face than to you. “just shut up and do the thing already cross!”
Cross rolls his eyelights, though his exasperated smirk disappears when he looks at you. He sheepishly ducks his skull into the floof along his collar. “Uh, yeah, sure… um, can I see your hand?”
You quirk your brow, but Killer interjects before you can say anything. “only if you want to cross,” he murmurs, quiet but loud enough for you to hear it. It’s hard to tell with his lack of eyelights, but he’s looking right at you and not Cross when he says it. “no one’s makin’ you do anything.”
Cross nods, and turns to Killer. “It’s okay. I want to.” Killer’s posture relaxes a fraction, and the look that comes across his face suggests he expected Cross to say as much, he just had to be sure. Cross gestures for you to come closer. “Can I see your hand?” he asks again, more confidently.
Still wary, but maybe a touch less than before, you pull your chair closer to Cross and hold out your injured hand. You tense when he starts to unwrap the bandage, but keep your mouth shut as it peels away from the skin. The burn aches something fierce as soon as open air hits it, and you bite down on your lip. It looks redder and puffier even compared to a few hours ago at the hospital. Cross places two fingers on it, and for a moment you think he’s going to press down on it so you brace for more pain… then there’s a soft green glow, and the skin tingles with a cool sensation.
You let out a breath. “Healing magic,” you remark. Of course, what else would he have been doing? Are you that conditioned to expecting pain? It’s been a while since you were on the receiving end of such magic, but it’s just like what you remember, the feeling of skeletal fingers so very lightly running along your skin, almost ticklish and teasing, tingling with a warmth before rapidly chilling to a calming cool. “I didn’t know you could heal, Cross.”
“he’s the only one,” Horror explains. He passes the nearly finished bag of pretzels to Killer, who obliges with a handful shoved messily into his mouth. Horror opens the bag of popcorn that Dust’s been ignoring. “the rest of us got too much lv… and i don’t got much spare magic anyways…”
Cross just shrugs, focused on his task. “It was useful… back in my universe.” It’s weird, only the left, white eyelight glows while he works. The red one just looks like it always does, only moderately bright. You still wonder if it has anything to do with the red scar directly under it. “It’s not going to be perfect though, humans don’t heal well with magic, sorry.”
You’re aware of the limitations; human souls can’t really process magic all that well, they absorb more for less results. But you appreciate this all the same. It already feels way better than before. “That’s alright. I… thank you, for, uh… this. Doing this. Caring. Uh.”
Why does this have you at a loss for words?
Is it because the last ones to show you kindness were only your friends because of your relationship with your ex?
Is it because you’ve spent almost nine months alone after they all took his side?
But you haven’t really been alone, have you?
While Cross works, you glance over at Dust, who’s still very acquainted with the inside of his hood. The glow’s died down though. “Thank you too,” you say loud enough for Dust to know that you’re talking to him, “… For calling them.” For caring.
Dust mutters something inaudible, might have been a ‘you’re welcome’, maybe not. Whatever it was, Horror clearly heard it, and he pats the top of Dust’s skull placatingly.
“… actually, you think you can up the brightness a bit dust-bunny? it’s getting a bit dark in here.”
“shut up,” Dust grumbles, and of course that’s perfectly enunciated for everyone to hear.
Killer snickers, and you can’t help but giggle a bit yourself. Horror chuckles, and continues to rub the top of Dust’s skull. “… t’s okay pickle, nice to know you care so much.” Dust groans, and Horror turns to Killer. “… think i can make it brighter… like those lamps you tap?”
“stop!”
Killer and Horror both throw their skulls back and laugh as Dust springs up and fumes at both of them. You’re full on giggling, and even Cross is fighting to keep his composure. And when war breaks out and pretzels and popcorn starts to fly between three skeletons running around your apartment, the two of you nearly lose it. It’ll be a mess you’ll have to clean up later, but you have no doubt at least one of them will help you before they leave.
Maybe they’re staying because of your hand. Or maybe they’re staying because they are actually bored. It doesn’t really matter, they’re here because they want to be, goofing off and messing around like they probably would be doing back home. They’ve been visiting, over and over, spending time with you, because they want to.
It’s been a long while since you’ve felt this way, but you’re alright with the company, riding out the rest of the afternoon among friends.
Notes:
Happy Sixth Anniversary Undertale! Thank you for not only inspiring stories, but for inspiring me to actually post them publicly for the first time.
Chapter 10: When a Branch Dies And You Can’t Prune It
Summary:
Pre Addison/Reader. Now that Cross is home safe, Nightmare has an overdue conversation with Error about a request made long ago.
Chapter Tags: Bad Sans Poly with a focus on Crossmare, psychological trauma and recovery, past emotional manipulation, Error being his usual abrasive self, Nightmare being his usual angry self.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Souls are complex things.
Human. Monster.
It doesn’t matter.
There are few things Nightmare has learned over the centuries of his life more fundamental than the idea that souls are fiercely individual and incredibly complex. No two are ever the same.
He’s holding one now.
Cross’ soul floats meekly in Nightmare’s cupped hands, glowing lightly in the dark of Nightmare’s bedroom. Solid enough to have mass, but ghostly and softly fluid with its shape. A tentacle hovers carefully over the surface, twitching and moving along the line where the glow is the brightest between the two halves of the heart shape.
Checking.
Assessing.
The white half, the Monster half, is bleeding through into the red once again, like ink bleeds on wet paper; the Monster and rightful owner of the soul finally starting to assert subconscious dominance over the phantom parasitic human that hitched a ride instead of dying like they should have. Under Nightmare’s influence, the spectral voice has fallen silent once again, and will hopefully stay that way until Cross regains full control over his own soul. He had been making headway with that before, his original soul growing more and more healthy each passing day.
But then Dream undid all of Cross’ hard work.
And the part that frustrates Nightmare to no end is that he did it unknowingly.
Foolish. Stupid. Naive.
Nightmare changes his focus, looking deep into the soul to the core of what makes Cross Cross. His evaluation reveals no further blocks preventing the soul from processing emotions. Cross’ upbringing conditioned him to subconsciously build his own wobbly walls to keep everything inside and hidden behind a facade, but those walls would tumble at the first sign of stress. Dream’s artificial blocks were more thorough and solid, sealing every natural escape like a dam and letting nothing leak out, positive or negative. Such is the power of a Guardian after all.
After days of meticulous work undoing all of what Dream had done, Cross’ emotions are free to flow naturally once again, but Nightmare knows the psychological damage of being rendered down to nothing but a doll for an extended period of time will linger for a while yet. And what Ink did to him afterwards made it worse.
Ignorant. Selfish.
The soul quivers, just subtly. Nightmare steels himself with a breath. He has to control his own emotions, lest it bleed through into Cross’ soul while a connection is maintained. It’s becoming harder as time goes on, the more he looks the more he witnesses Cross’ turmoil. Even in sleep, his mind pays him no mercy and assaults him with feelings of guilt, fear and self-loathing, and there’s nothing Nightmare wants to do more than blast those feelings away, angry that they’re so prominent in Cross’ soul in the first place. There’s only a single thread of positivity, a recognition, a word echoed over and over in the depths of the soul that despite everything else, Cross is now safely back in Nightmare’s care.
Home.
With a sigh, Nightmare pulls the tentacle away and guides the soul back into its owner’s chest, sleeping not soundly but exhaustedly next to him. Cross’s slack face betrays little change when his soul disappearers back into his chest, a slight flinch at the loss of the mental bond, but Nightmare doesn’t need a bond to feel how Cross’ fear of abandonment immediately starts to increase. He doesn’t wait long enough to hear Cross whimper; he gathers the skeleton in his arms and whispers “Hush, I have you” to the top of his skull. He is not a small skeleton - taller than Killer and Dust, and just shy of Nightmare himself - but stripped of the belts and layers of his usual uniform down to the simple shirt and shorts that Dust found for him, Nightmare marvels at how slight Cross looks.
It’s been two weeks since the rescue, and if Nightmare had to put a number on it, he would say that Cross has been asleep for eighty percent of it, only waking for food and drink at Horror’s prompting. He’s been silent for almost all of it. And the few moments he wasn’t… tears and sobs and repeated strings of begging not to be left alone again.
Quickly and silently, Nightmare carries him out of the room. Cross’ fingers unconsciously find purchase in the fabric of Nightmare’s sweater, and Nightmare swallows down a sudden lump of emotions. He places a light kiss to the top of the sleeping skeleton’s skull. Behind him his tentacles to roil with a spike of anger towards Dream.
Impulsive. Tactless.
Dangerous.
Nightmare brings Cross to the living room, where a semi-permanent den of blankets, pillows and all things soft and comfortable had been erected after Cross’s return. The television plays reruns of some black and white era human sitcom with nearly muted sound, washing the room with a pale white haze. Folded up amongst the blankets are Dust and Killer, the former completely out and snoring softly in sleep, the latter restless with light dozing. Horror has both of their skulls resting on his lap while he reclines against the front of the couch no one is sitting on. His eye swivels in Nightmare’s direction as he approaches, before falling on to Cross, and a sadness comes across Horror’s features.
It’s silent between them as Nightmare places Cross down amongst the pile of skeletons. Killer immediately wakes from his doze and wraps around him, tucking him snugly between himself and Dust. Horror sees to it that the blankets are covering all of them, and starts to gently rub the crown of Cross’ skull to settle him further into the rest he still so desperately needs. Horror looks up at Nightmare with a look suggesting he wants the Guardian of Negativity to join them.
“Soon,” he whispers. He needs to reign in his own emotions before joining them, lest he smother the room with a haze of fury. And regardless, he has another matter to settle. “I won’t be gone long. Watch over them.”
Horror nods, not that he really needs the command; Nightmare doesn’t expect him to do anything else but keep a vigilant eye over the others. Now, when Cross recovers, far into the future.
Always.
Nightmare fights against his selfish desire to stay and leaves the room. He has someone to see about a matter that only makes Nightmare angrier the more he thinks about it. His quarry probably knows they’re due for a chat, and if Nightmare had to guess, he would be found not in his usual domain, but in the place of Nightmare’s ire. He wastes no time reaching out to the void, creating a portal of infinite darkness and stepping through…
...into the bright white light…
Of nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
A white barren land of nothing, a space one could walk endlessly feeling the full weight of nothing and what once was. Nightmare is over five hundred years old, and has been travelling the multiverse for over half of that, but stepping into such a dead universe still fills him with a sense of dread so primal it overrides the incessant whispers of the corruption for a moment. The feeling of being watched by many eyes and minds unseen beyond whatever boundary holds this plane of existence together… This is a place that shouldn’t be, yet here it is.
The White Void.
Not to be confused with the layer of reality that Error refers to as the Anti-Void, this was once a full - living - universe rendered to literally nothing, but the magnitude of that loss remains omnipresent. Places like this never survive much longer, but…
… but it has not yet been destroyed, as should have been its ultimate fate.
Speaking of…
Nightmare finds his target standing starkly against the emptiness. The vibrantly colourful skeleton is looking up, although in a place such as this up and down are merely a matter of perspective. His body fizzles regularly, distorting his shape with transparent blocks and words that repeat “ERROR” over and over, irritation perhaps from being in such an unnatural place. At his feet are specks and pools of purple tears and blood that were shed long ago but will never dry or fade away in a place with no tether to time.
It makes Nightmare angry.
Angrier.
Furious.
“I told you to destroy this place!” Nightmare snarls and stalks towards Error. His tentacles lash wildly against whatever serves as ground in this space as Nightmare fights the urge to throttle the one he considers (a friend) an ally.
Error, with all his self-smugness, turns slowly and regards the Guardian with a plain look of boredom. “y0u d-don’t tEll m3 what-t-t-t t0 do-o,” the Destroyer in-skeleton-shape spits back. There’s a haze to his voice, like static coming from a missing signal.
Nightmare fumes, his hands curling into fists. He is a Guardian, corrupted with a power far older and incomprehensible, but Error - once mortal, now transformed - is a being interwoven into the very fabric of reality. Nightmare may stand tall enough to loom over the Destroyer, but he can’t tell Error what to do any more than he could tell a star to stop shining.
It still infuriates him that Error hasn’t done the one thing Nightmare has asked in centuries of knowing one another.
He wishes this place wasn’t so empty, so he could have something to throw at Error’s blue-streaked skull.
“i t4ke it-t yo-0u FOund-d-d y0ur pup-p-py?” Error asks mockingly, knowing that all he’s doing is making Nightmare angrier.
It’s working. “Ink threw him in here!” Nightmare roars. “They know he can’t travel from this place! He was trapped here for a week!” He paces like a predator, and then points an accusing finger, and a tentacle or three at Error. There is no reaction. “Dream sealed up all sense of autonomy and then Ink abandoned him here! Something he wouldn’t have been able to do if you had done what I asked and destroyed this place when we found it!”
When Nightmare was called to this grave by a wail of despair so strong it was felt across the multiverse…
Error brow quirks, yellow eyelights glowing sharply. “dr3am d1d-d-d what? th4t doe-e-sn’t souND l-l-like y0ur br0ther-er-er.”
Referring to Dream as Nightmare’s brother is, again, done to rile up the latter, but Nightmare inhales sharply and stomps away. He can’t afford to fall for this over and over, it solves nothing. “Dream cowers at the first sign of anything negative. He’d rather cover it up and pretend it doesn’t exist.” Because only the wrong lessons from their mother stuck with Dream as they grew older. Or Nightmare’s belief is right, and their mother was just as naive about the nature of consciousness. “Cross suffers from anxiety attacks. Dream doesn’t understand how to handle someone stubbing their toe, let alone Cross’ unique issues. He probably thought he was helping, without realizing the damage he was doing.”
It had to have happened very early on, leaving Cross appearing like a soulless creature on the outside for months, while every emotion boiled within like a pressure cooker under the lid of Dream’s blocks. It’s no surprise something snapped, a small crack that allowed Cross to become a threat against Dream, only for Ink to retaliate in kind after Dream sealed him up tight once again. Nightmare is committed to the painstaking process of reversing the damage those two did to Cross’ soul, even if it takes years. Cross is his, and Nightmare would himself drown in the corruption again before letting anyone hurt what was his.
You let him get hurt in the first place.
Error rolls his eyelights nearly into his skull. “d0n’t g3t m-m-mad a-a-@ ME th3n, y0u’re th-the on3 wh0 let y0ur br0ther kick y0ur d-d-dog.”
Nightmare spins around. His tentacles whip forward and impale the nothing Error had been standing on a moment before. Error blips back into existence two feet over looking unimpressed with Nightmare’s tantrum. The Destroyer turns and spreads his arms before the emptiness. “i c4n’t destroy-roy-roy this ANYw4ys.”
Nightmare inhales sharply through gritted teeth, his chest heaving with anger. Skeleton Monsters don’t need to breathe but find they do so to steady their emotions, and Nightmare’s physiology follows the same rules. He pulls his tentacles back but keeps them poised in warning. “Explain,” he demands.
Error shoves his hands in the pockets of his hoodie, the mess of black and red and blue fabric stitched together chaotically. “i jus-s-st c4n’t alr1gHT,” Error grumbles, and Nightmare finally detects the first sign of anything that’s not smugness or boredom out of the normally unreadable skeleton.
“Why not?” Nightmare presses like pressing down on a bruise.
Error stiffens and the ‘ERROR’ boxes flicker wildly across his body. He whirls on Nightmare. “b3cause i c4n’t!” Error screeches. “b3cause it wi-wi-will coll4pse ALL th3 other-r-r 1’s!” His body pulses like he’s a moment away from popping out of existence.
That is… not the answer he was expecting, certainly not one he was wanting to hear. Error’s frustration at not being able to carry out his title is protrusive, and Nightmare feeds on the feeling for a moment. He takes a step back, forcing his shoulders to relax, and the tentacles to drop down to his sides. “... I didn’t realize this was a lode point.”
“IT sh0uldn’t b3!” Error throws up his hands and paces away, but unlike Nightmare not calming himself down in the slightest. “th-his 1s a c0py! a c0py of-f-f a c0py! noTHING sh0uld h4ve gro-grown fr0m this-is!” he raves. He gestures wildly to things unseen, swiping at the very code of the universe that’s invisible to everyone but him. “ther3 ar-r-re DOzens of 0ther univer-er-erses th4t caME fr0m this-is sp3cific 1! i taKE this-is 1 out-t…”
Error lowers his arms. The voice that comes out is devoid of static, and so close to the skeleton he once was. “... it’ll tak-k-ke out the whole bra-bra-branch.”
A chill trails down Nightmare’s spine. He ignores it, and ignores the instinct to read Error’s statements more closely, instead taking the words for what they are. He and Error rarely talk about their understanding of the structure of reality. There’s things that he knows that he shouldn’t know; that he has learned over the years through stubborn study and a refusal to just accept things as they are. He knows there’s secrets Error keeps from him, either to be a thorn in his side or to save him from the dangers of such knowledge.
And then there are the things they refuse to talk about, not here, certainly not in such places outside their respective domains.
Because who knows what might be listening.
Nightmare eye catches the spots of colour on the ground, the splashes of purple that will never go away. He wants to clean them, wipe them up and leave this place a true void. “Cross believed he could save his world,” Nightmare admits. Not that he expects Error to care about a hope that was nothing more than a fool’s errand. Nightmare told him as much when Cross first came to the castle, but... “Dream convinced him that he could help, that I was lying and that he could ‘make everything better’, or whatever impetuous nonsense Dream came up with in the moment.” And Cross, idealistic and hopeful and good, who was already so used to lies, believed him. And Dream took him away.
A lie is still a lie, even if the speaker believes it to their core.
Error laughs. His voice carries a weird distortion that doubles the laughter like an echo. “n0t a chan-chan-ch4nce! the-re’s-s n0thing to r3sTORE.”
Nightmare knows this, and has known this from the beginning. He doesn’t shy away from the topic, but he has never gone out of his way to force Cross to acknowledge the realities of the White Void. It’s a bitter pill to swallow, not being able to go home, one with a variant for himself and each of his boys. Nightmare accepted the loss of his home long ago. As has Dust. And Killer. And Horror. But each in their own time. One day, Cross will be strong enough to accept the death of his world. But today it only serves as a trigger for another breakdown. “Can we seal off this place?” Nightmare asks. “To prevent this from happening again?”
Error scoffs, and wanders a few steps away. He starts to pace, swinging his arms forward and back, then his hands start clawing at the sides of his black skull. Then he goes back to swinging them around. Nightmare waits, forcing himself to remain patient. Error’s fidgeting is his most obvious tell of deep thinking after all.
“... i c0uld gr4ft it TO th3 anti-ti-ti-voID,” Error finally mutters. He plucks a few blue threads from the tips of his fingers and tosses them upwards, where they seem to grasp onto something solid and hook on. Error tests the hold by tugging on them a few times, then hops into the rope seat of the hanging chair he just created. He then pulls more strings from the blue streaks streaming down from his sockets, and Nightmare watches as he begins to finger knit with them.
It’s one of Error’s guilty pleasures, a hobby that produces items that always seem to find their way stuffing the castle’s stockings at Gyftmas, much to Error’s eternal denial. What Error is knitting now isn’t destined to be a sock or a hat or a scarf however. Error is weaving a complex code that will eventually encompass the whole of the White Void and pull it under his influence. “... it’d k3-ep the SQUid fr0m find-ding th3 r0ute HEre… give him-m-m a m0nth ANd h3’ll probab-ably f0rget thIS pl4ce entir-tire-ly.”
“He didn’t forget before when it benefitted him,” Nightmare counters, though with far less hostility than before. This isn’t the solution he wanted, but it’ll have to do. Satisfied that Error’s actually doing something this time, Nightmare turns and summons a portal back to the castle. He’s been away long enough, he needs to go back, to check on his partners, join their den, to keep them safe…
“nightm4re.” Nightmare looks back. Error is still focused on his knitting, but his brow bones are furrowed in concern. “dre4m is get-t-t-ting str0nger.”
Nightmare frowns. “I know.” It’s hard to miss, hard to ignore when Dream appears one day on the field of battle with feathery angelic wings he never had before. “… Ink is leading him to new universes brimming with happiness.”
Error shakes his skull. “sqUID’s g0t noth-ing-ing t0 do WIth it-t,” he argues, and Nightmare knows.
He and Dream were never able to feed from emotions… before. When they were still brothers. They were powerful empaths, bordering on psychic, but they only became capable of the full spectrum of their powers from consuming the apples. Dream only consumed one, and Nightmare all but one.
This is more than ‘one apple’ stronger.
Error’s previous words tickle in his mind with an implication he’s long suspected but never sought out to prove.
Because it frightens him.
Before Nightmare can tumble fully down that train of thought, something hard bounces off the back of his skull. He twists around to glare at Error, still knitting his code that’s nearly four feet long already. “n3xt tiME y0u ne3d to v-v-vent, EAt s0me-me-thing. y0u’re 4nnoying-ng wh3n y0u’re hanGRY.”
Down by Nightmare’s feet is a large bar of chocolate, pristine like it’s fresh from the store shelf. Nightmare doesn’t usually eat chocolate, especially not milk chocolate. Error knows this, so… this probably isn’t for him.
Nightmare bends down to pick up the chocolate, placing it in his pocket. “Thank you,” he says, in acceptance of Error’s brand of non-apology.
“wh4tevER-R,” the Destroyer says, with a tone that implies he’s done with Nightmare’s presence.
So Nightmare takes his leave, stepping through the portal back home, back to blanket fort den and his partners, where everyone is still in soft slumber as he left them. In the privacy of the castle, Nightmare crawls into the spot beside Horror, curling around him and letting the larger skeleton’s skull rest comfortably on his shoulder. He lets his tentacles roam over all of them, finding empty spaces and places to hold on.
There’s a subtle red haze. Nightmare looks down to see Cross’ sockets open, eyelights manifested and looking directly up at him. His expression is plain, but his eyelights are brighter than before. Cross slowly turns the hand that was clinging on to Dust’s hood, palm up and fingers spread. Nightmare wastes no time reaching down and interlocking their phalanges together. His grip is tight. Cross’ sockets close, and he nestles back down to sleep with a quiet sigh. Nightmare doesn’t let go.
Nightmare will hold on as long as Cross needs him to, and long past that, clinging tightly to those he cares about and who belong to him. Now and always.
Notes:
You ever have, like, a plan? You ever have something derail that plan so utterly, it kicks the whole train to a completely different track?
I wasn’t anticipating writing this story for weeks, months probably. It was so far down the queue, and the story I was going to post this week just needed a fresh edit. But then one thing led to another and five hours later this came out instead, so enjoy. Pizza time will have to come next week.
Anyways…
I have a tumblr if people want to chat, same user id. I’m not super active but I’m around.
Chapter 11: Table for Five at the End of the World
Summary:
There’s no better date than one with good food and good company, watching the colours bleed as a universe crumbles to nothing.
Chapter Tags: Panicked crowds, implied murder, the destruction of a universe, pizza. Someone asks for Hawaiian.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
“knifeman” (17) Unread Messages
knifeman: hey
knifeman: hey
knifeman: hey
knifeman: hey
knifeman: hey
knifeman: addy
knifeman: hey
knifeman: aaddddddddddddddyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy
knifeman: hey
knifeman: hey
knifeman: hey
knifeman: addy
knifeman: adds
knifeman: addition
knifeman: dam
knifeman: autocorrect
knifeman: hey
what is it killer? :You
knifeman: wat u doin
knifeman: :)
sigh :You
i’m rolling my eyes right now :You
knifeman: good
knifeman: hman eyes need the xersize
killer :You
knifeman: wat u eatin
knifeman: cause we got
knifeman: smt gooooooooodddd
You glance up from your phone at the frozen meal you were about to throw into the microwave. The frozen steak is grey and sad, the mashed potatoes will taste like cardboard mixed with that stuff movie theatres call “butter”, and the beans… best not to think about them.
nothing special :You
why? :You
knifeman: come
knifeman: !
knifeman: hang wit us
knifeman: eat good food
knifeman: date wit us ;)
what are you eating? :You
knifeman: surprise
knifeman: :)
i am suspicious :You
knifeman: sendin cross
knifeman: to get u
knifeman: dress warm
i am very suspicious :You
why do i have to dress warm? :You
its like 80 degrees outside :You
knifeman: :)
killer? :You
??? :You
The SHRIINNG of Cross’ sword making a clean cut in space behind you only raises more questions. You are so incredibly suspicious.
You turn to see Cross step through the hole he so neatly created, the distortion that’s neither 2-D or 3-D, too wrong of a dimension to exist and makes the small hairs on your body stand on end. He doesn’t close the hole or disperse the sword. “Hey,” he greets, and you try very hard to ignore the way his voice echoes weirdly in the air.
“Hi,” you reply. Suspicions be damned, you’re always happy to see any of your bone-headed boyfriends. Bonefriends? “So… how worried should I be about this?”
“None! None worried! Not worried, I mean... sorry. It’s not… well it’s only a little dangerous…” Cross tapers off and your eyes narrow. He rubs the back of his skull with his free hand. The red eyelight shines with a weird light trail that won’t go away until he disperses the sword. “... It’s really good pizza…”
Your sigh is long and exasperated. “... I love pizza,” you admit, and fuck if pizza didn’t sound way better than the dinner you were going to have anyways. Sighing again, just to get it off your chest, you gesture to your clothes. “Do I have to dress up? I just got off work and I really don’t have the energy to change right now.”
Cross shakes his skull quickly. “No, no! You’re fine. I mean you’re great! You’re lovely! I… uh…”
While it never fails to amuse you how tongue tied Cross could get when flustered, you take pity on him. You throw the frozen meal back in the freezer for another lazy day, and grab your coat as per Killer’s cryptic instructions. Stepping up to Cross while doing up the zipper, you lean up on the tips of your toes to kiss him gently on his cheek bone. “Hi,” you say again, filled with sincerity, trying so hard to ignore the literal gaping hole in reality right next to you.
It’s not hard. Cross has a cute face.
It’s even cuter when his cheek bones erupt with his vibrant purple blush and he grins. His are some of your favourites, when they’re easy-going and cheerful, without the weight of worry over making a mistake or the anxiety of past trauma. When you realize you’re looking at the genuine Cross, and how privileged you are to be one of the few to see it.
His free arm snakes around your waist to pull you closer, and he lets you tug on his collar for another kiss properly on the mouth. “Hi,” he repeats, softly and just for you and your toes nearly curl from the warmth. “How was work?”
“Uhhhhggg, a bag of milk leaked and no one noticed for hours. I had to clean out the whole fridge. Missed most of my lunch break. My feet hurt.”
“Then let’s get you fed.” Cross turns you towards the hole that hums with a low frequency pulse that usually makes Trixy hide under the bed and your sinuses hurt. As neat as his mode of travel might be on paper, you have to admit you much prefer a regular shortcut. Less disorienting. The difference is you actually have to walk through this white tunnel of nothing. “Keep hold of my hand, okay? Keep walking and don’t let go.”
You don’t need to be told twice, and Cross leads you into the tunnel
- that violates every sense of physical self there is sound and no sound you are moving and not moving your mouth tastes of colours and fractions -
and you step onto grey asphalt.
The chill hits you immediately and you bend over, closing your eyes and sucking in a few frigid breaths to try to chase the vertigo away. Your ears still ring with shrill screaming, and your nose doesn’t know if you’re smelling grilled cheese or car exhaust. You hear Cross dismiss his sword and close the rift, and feel him stand closer to your side, wrapping his arm across your upper back. “Shit, sorry,” you pant, “I don’t think, I’ll ever get used to--”
Cross abruptly pulls you to his side. You stumble while he holds you upright as a man sprints past you, screaming at the top of his lungs. You turn to see where he came from and...
Oh, that isn’t your ears ringing. That’s actual screaming. A lot of it.
You’re both standing in the middle of a street lined with short, squat buildings running along each side, and packed with cars. Some abandoned, some not, some crashed into each other, the road is jammed bumper to bumper and the sounds of horns and car alarms and screams fill the air. You hear glass shattering in the distance. There are people running around, adults carrying children, teens leaping over obstacles running away from…
A car skids and crashes headlong into a utility pole about a block away from you. The pole tips and falls against a brick building, taking out some of the stonework on the way down. The wires pull taught and then snap. They fall to the ground with a shower of sparks. The car’s engine starts to smoke, first in whisps, then in heavy black plumes that rise upwards and upwards towards…
The sky is every colour.
There’s no hyperbole. It’s every colour, colours it can be and colours it can’t, colours that streak and flow but don’t mix or blend, like oil slick against water. It’s like paint, thin paint that runs down a canvas like a river flows to a point on the horizon, or water slipping away down a drain. It’s strangely beautiful, vibrant and wrong at the same time.
“... W-What…” You look up at Cross. “... What… what?”
Yeah that sums that up.
“It’s just Error,” Cross explains like that answers anything. When you look at him like he’s just uttered the understatement of the millennium, he realizes you need more context. “This, uh, this universe is being destroyed. Nightmare wanted to feed off the negativity before it’s all gone.”
Oh that explains everything. “… So you guys are just having pizza... at the literal end of the world?”
Cross shrugs. “It’s good pizza.”
He pulls you across the street, his grip on your hand secure as you both dodge the panicking people fleeing away from something you very much understand they can’t actually flee from.
You feel like… well, you should be feeling something like sandness, right? Pity? Not taking in your surroundings like watching a nature documentary? Wondering what the sky looks like once it’s all drained away? Wondering what starts going next, air? Gravity? Do things just start to crumble to a fine dust lost to the winds of the multiverse? Do the colours get used to make the next one?
You’re kind of broken, aren’t you?
Cross pulls you to a storefront that surprisingly still has lights on, the sign overhead bright and identifying this place as Domenico’s Family Pizzeria. You can’t get a good look inside, chairs and tables have been piled against the front window like some kind of barricade. Cross opens the door, and ushers you inside and away from the chaos.
“ciao bella signora e faccia scontrosa! welcome to our fine establishment!”
From behind the hostess stand, Killer greets the two of you, arms spread wide. There’s a rose taped to the front of his hoodie, thorny stem and all. He’s managed to procure a chef’s hat from somewhere, and you’re ninety percent sure the splatter stains are just marinara sauce.
What you thought earlier still holds true; you still get a warm tingling feeling everytime you see one of your partners. Even more so when you can see how Killer’s exposed soul spins in a lazy irregular shape, closer to a Monster’s inverted heart.
Though this isn’t exactly the most wholesome of settings.
“Hey Killer,” you say walking up to the podium and leaning forward to give him a kiss, which he beats you to anyways, and lingers with something a little more than chaste. You pull back playfully before he can launch a whole make-out session. “You guys taking a break from wreaking havoc or something?”
Killer rests his skull on his hand, leaning against the stand with a smirk. “union mandated lunch break. a murderer’s gotta eat too, ya know? so, can i get you a table?”
“Lead the way.” Killer skips around the stand and loops his arm around yours, guiding you into the restaurant your boys seem to have claimed for themselves.
It turns out, there is only one table, a large round one closer to the back of the dining area, with plates and platters of various slices of pizza set out on the table cloth. The rest of the room is empty, all the tables and chairs shoved to and piled in front of the window. White linen tablecloths and napkins and silverware lie in heaps of disarray all over the floor, some hanging from the light fixtures.
There are five chairs set around the table, and only Dust is sitting down at the moment, enjoying a slice of what looks like meat lovers' pizza. The room is devoid of anything else aside from that, dust and bodies alike, and for that you’re very thankful.
Horror enters from what’s probably the kitchen, carrying a stack of cardboard carry out boxes towards the table. “hey cookie,” he says as gets close enough, leaning down far enough to nuzzle against your forehead, a soft rumble to his voice. “glad you could come.”
“Why wouldn’t I? I was promised pizza.” Cross pulls out a chair for you next to Dust. You hang your coat off the back of it and settle in. Killer hops into the seat on your other side, and Cross goes back to his spot between Killer and Horror’s chair.
“hey dimples,” Dust mumbles, teeth stained with sauce, and you oblige him when he leans forward with some more soft face nuzzles. “how was your day?”
“Mmm, better now.” You thumb away some of the sauce that Dust (probably purposely) left behind on your cheek. “So is the mess in here from you guys, or from… you know,” you gesture to the window, “that?”
Dust shrugs. “little bit of column a, little bit of column b. stay out of the back room by the way.”
“Can I get to the bathroom without going through the back room?”
“you know it.”
“Then we’re good.” Killer pops the cork off a large bottle of red wine, sending it shooting off to the far side of the room where it bounces off the wall. He pours out a generous glass for you. You watch Horror pack away slices that everyone seems to be done with. Once he has a box full and sealed up, he taps it with his phone and it vanishes into the pocket dimension of his phone’s inventory. “Leftovers?”
Horror nods. He picks out a slice of buffalo style and sets it on Cross’ newly empty plate, and the monochrome soilder wastes no time chowing down. “already had my fill. no use in letting this stuff... go to waste. though, i guess it’s not really goin’ bad… just, goin’.”
“he’s already had like three whole pizzas,” Killer points out. “so what’ll ya have addy?”
“Gimme the weird stuff.” You scan around the table to see what’s still set out. Pepperoni, vegetarian, hmmm. “What’s the point in having pizza in a different universe if it just has the same toppings?”
“here, this one’s seafood,” Horror offers, pulling out a generous quarter slice from one of the boxes that does look to have a whole lobster tail on it. “it’s got shrimp, lobster... garlic… calamari.”
“teeennntacles,” Killer teases.
“yes, we know, you have a hentai fetish,” Dust grumbles.
“takes one to know one, dust bunny.”
Horror plates the slice and sets it in front of you. There are indeed little curled tentacles melted into cheese. “Thank you Horror.” You’re pretty sure seafood pizza is a thing in your universe, but Ebott is landlocked with the closest port in a city almost five hours away by car, so it’s not like you see good fresh seafood that often anyways. You’re mid-western born anyways, any seafood is exotic to you. “So,” you say loudly, picking up the slice, “speaking of he who likes ramming his tentacles up your asses, where’s Nightmare?”
You manage to say it enough nonchalance that both Dust and Cross choke on their food and Killer starts hollering.
Horror hums with disapproval. “hmmm, no kinks at the dinner table.”
“Sorry, I couldn’t help it.”
Cross manages to cough enough to dislodge the food and swallow. He clears his non-throat loudly. “…He’s probably where Error is right now,” Cross answers, and has to cough some more. “Ehem… that’s where the negativity will be the strongest. It’ll be a while before he gets close to here.”
“glitchy-boy likes to start at the edge of a universe and work his way in,” Killer explains once his laughter subsides. He takes a bite out of his margherita pizza, the cheese is nearly molten enough to slip off the sides. It amuses you to no end that he’s still wearing the hat. “likes to leave earth for last like it’s some kind of dessert,” he continues with his mouth full, “but don’t you worry your skin off, we’ll be outta here before it gets real dangerous.”
“Oh, I’m not worried. I mean, I trust you guys with my life after all.” You expect the soft blushes from Cross and Dust, but then Horror’s rumble kicks up a notch to what is unmistakably a pur, and even Killer’s cheekbones have a very light dusting of red appear. Score, critical hit to all four of them, and you take a triumphant bite of pizza.
You aren’t sure what you’re expecting, maybe for the whole thing to taste overwhelmingly fishy and slimy, but this isn’t. It’s perfectly salty with that seafood umami savouriness, and lightly sweet from the sauce. And the crust is amazing, crisp and balanced between too thick and too thin.
Okay, this is good pizza.
“Oh my god.” Your words are muffled by the food in your mouth, but you think you get the point across.
“see, told ya it’d be good food.”
Two more slices and the whole glass of wine later, you officially tap out. Horror packs away a box just for you to take home with at least one slice of every kind of pizza left on the table. Not that there’s much, the boys manage to polish away most of it. You’re not sure if them being high-lv Monsters, or skeleton Monsters have anything to do with the amount of food they can consume in a single sitting.
Killer is sprawled back against his chair, arms hanging limply and his neck laying on the backrest. Dust rests on the table, with his skull cushioned by his arms, not sleeping but not really fully present either. Horror is dozing, his skull tilted forward against his chest. Cross rests his elbow on the table, hand supporting his skull as he runs a finger slowly around the rim of his empty wine glass. You’re reclining back with your legs spread far out under the stable.
A siren starts wailing outside. Somewhere between the first two slices you had completely forgotten about this universe’s impending doom. There’s a part of you who wonders what your boys do when they come across something new or interesting. Travelling to a whole host of different universes, they have to have found something worth remembering. Worth taking a photo of, or pocketing a souvenir. What about new knowledge? Discoveries?
You know that this is apparently the way the multiverse functions, the old making way for the new, but it feels like such a shame to let some things disappear forever. Is there a Domenico’s Family Pizzeria in another universe, or is this the only one forever? If so, shouldn’t someone try to find the recipes for this amazing pizza?
“Why is this universe being destroyed anyways?”
“who knows,” Dust grunts. “error destroyed a universe because someone looked at him funny once. don’t think he even knows why he picks some of ‘em.”
“There’s an instinct he follows. And Nightmare said it was because this universe started fragementing on its own,” Cross helpfully answers. “Error’s just speeding up the process. Monsters haven’t even made it above ground here yet.” Cross’ sockets narrow, and he mutters “Am I the only one who pays attention to the meetings?”
“Man, people must really have freaked out when you guys showed up then.” You picture the restaurant, filled with workers and diners, slightly alarmed and wondering what was happening outside. And then like the four horsemen appearing for an appropriate apocalypse, four skeletons walk in and cause chaos. And then discover that the food here is pretty good, and they need a lunch break anyways.
“it was so much fun,” Killer hums in a sing-song voice. “bet boss could feel the terror all the way from where he is.”
“What. Are. You. Doing?!”
Speak the devil’s nickname, and he shall appear.
Cross shoots up straight like he had a stick shoved up his spine, and Horror snorts and blinks awake. Dust lifts his skull up and you look over your shoulder.
Nightmare stands in the doorway, an imposing figure of anger as his tentacles flick and whip about in agitation. The goop covering his body looks more viscous than usual, and is a darker shade of black than the normal ebony colour, which makes his teal eyelight blaze in contrast that much more.
Looks like he had a good meal.
You raise your hand and wave. “Hi!” you call out fearlessly.
Nightmare does not wave back. “Addison, dear. What are you doing here?”
“I was invited for pizza.”
Nightmare’s eyelight narrows, and looks at Cross, Horror and Dust in turn before settling on Killer, who hasn’t reacted at all to Nightmare’s appearance. Then Nightmare stalks forward, stopping just behind your chair. He rests a hand on your shoulder, and you hope that the current viscosity of his goop doesn’t stain your shirt too much. “I can only assume these morons told you how dangerous it is to stay here?” he asks tersely.
“They did,” you affirm, but then add “… afterwards.”
“it’s fiiiiinnnnnnneeeee.” Killer pushes himself back up to sit properly. He flips out a pocket knife from his sleeve and starts to twirl it between his planages. “come on boss, you know we wouldn’t let anything happen to her. you act like we’re not ‘crust-worthy’.”
“yeah boss,” Dust agrees with the most shit-eating of grins. “you know we ‘a-dough’ our little human.”
“And guarding this place has been a ‘pizza’ cake,” Cross adds, trying so hard to keep a straight face.
“i think, you ‘knead’ to relax… and have a slice of pizza,” Horror points out, quick on the draw.
You watch as Nightmare’s tentacles slap against the floor while his face remains impressively impassive. He looks down at you, and all you can offer is a small smile. As an apology. The twitch at the corner of his frown tells you he knows what’s coming.
“These puns are very ‘cheesy’.”
The boys break into giggles and snickers, someone starts banging on the table and chanting “one of us, one of us”. Nightmare looks so, so disappointed, probably with whoever invented punnery.
“Idiots. All of you,” Nightmare complains in the most affectionate way possible while he’s stuffed with a dying universe’ misery. A tentacle shoots out to bring a chair over from the barricade at the front, and he takes a seat between you and Killer. And as if to prove himself the most divisive, contrary being in the multiverse, he gestures for someone to hand him a plate.
“Someone bring me a slice of Hawaiian, would you?”
Diabolical.
Notes:
… So does it still count as light-hearted fluff if it’s set in a dying universe?
Also, don’t worry, Horror’s taking all that pizza home to reverse engineer the recipes.
Chapter 12: The Gentle Season
Summary:
Addison is new to the poly, so she and Cross enjoy a quiet date at a local fall festival. It doesn’t go according to plan.
Chapter Tags: Depiction of a panic attack, aftermath of a panic attack, discussion of the fallout of a bad breakup. Time does not heal all wounds.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
It’s the smallest thing that always sparks excitement. The first sign of yellow spotting on an otherwise green leaf. The slow but steady daily drop in average temperature. As shorts get traded for pants, t-shirts for long sleeves, as more colours start to paint the trees - vibrant yellow, rusty orange, then bright red - before the leaves fall to carpet the ground… as coats get pulled out of closets and menu boards change to reflect new pumpkin-related items… you can’t help how unreasonably happy you feel about all of it.
It’s fall.
It’s your favourite season.
With your favourite clothes and your favourite drinks and your favourite weather.
Unfortunately, this year there’s a dark mark in the form of a certain… miserable one year anniversary close to this time of year that you’re refusing to give attention to. You’re not going to let it ruin the fall for you. You’re not going to let it take away this joy too.
“There isn't going to be a petting zoo here, is there?”
Besides, there’s also that weirdly happy anniversary coming up as well. Because meeting Dust lead to one thing after another, and now one year later you have five very new boyfriends.
(Although you suppose you’re new to them, they were a poly long before you came along.)
Cross is staring across the street at the gate, a big iron archway at the entrance to the park that’s been decorated with colourful fake leaves for the fall months. A man wearing a volunteer vest leads a goat on a leash through the gate and into the park itself, where there’s already a sizable crowd of people checking out the rather modest festival.
You shake your head. “There’s probably not going to be anything bigger than that. Like, it’s probably some chickens, maybe a miniature pony, but that’s it. The park’s not really big enough for larger animals.” Certainly not of the bovine variety. Not when the park is surrounded by office buildings and businesses; it’s mainly enjoyed by workers and condo dwellers, not exactly the demographic who would enjoy an actual farm-inspired petting zoo.
There probably is a petting zoo at the larger festival that’s also happening this weekend, since that one is more traditional and rural, geared towards families and those that live in the suburbs and outskirts of Ebott. It’s set up at the base of the mountain, and its location alone is reason enough for you to avoid it.
Too many familiar faces.
You push the button to signal for your right of way at the crosswalk. “Tell you what, if you see something you don’t like, or something that makes you uncomfortable, we leave.”
Cross blinks, and turns his skull to you. “What? Why? You wanted to come,” he argues.
“I want to spend time with you, we don’t have to do anything special for me to enjoy it. It’s way more important to me that you’re having a good time too.”
The signal changes, giving you the go-ahead, but while others enter the crosswalk neither you nor Cross move. “It’s fine, I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.”
Cross’ reassurance is not reassuring and you’re prepared for it, having been taught Killer’s patented “are-you-kidding-me-you-numskull” look. It involves a little bit of pouting, a little bit of tilting your head just right, and a fatal dose of imploring eyes that causes Cross to fold like a flimsy stack of cards with a slump of his shoulders.
“Fiiinnnneee,” he sighs. “If I see something I don’t like, I won’t try to brush it off and pretend that everything’s okay. I won’t blame myself if we have to leave.”
You smile, and hit the crosswalk button again because you missed the walk cycle. “Thank you. That’s the assurance I needed to hear.”
“Killer’s a tattle-tale,” Cross mutters, but there’s no real heat behind it.
“Hey, I’m part of the group now. Got the novelty pin and everything.”
Cross is silent for a moment, then he slowly slides his arm around yours, hooking you together and pulling you closer. “Yeah you are,” he says softly, and he’s got that crooked smile that you’re starting to see more and more lately. It gives you a giddy feeling in your chest. “Let’s go have a good time then.” The light turns green, and arm in arm you cross the street and join other people entering the park.
As an inner city park, Southside Park is not very large, but event organizers have clearly tried to make the most of the available space. Colourful tents and tables have been erected all along the paved path for merchants, games and food. Fairy lights have been strung up overhead between lamp posts, although at this time of day they aren’t really necessary. There are pumpkins everywhere, some carved, some not, in a variety of shapes and sizes. A sign by the entrance invites guests to take their favourite pumpkin home for free - one per household, of course. There’s another sign advertising a pumpkin carving contest due to start sometime within the next hour, and you’re totally going to sign the two of you up for it.
The first thing you come across that grabs your attention however, is a tent serving hot chocolate with real cocoa and homemade marshmallows. You not so subtly encourage Cross to indulge himself, which is admittedly not that hard because it’s chocolate, and you learn that Cross is surprisingly restrained when it comes to marshmallow toppings. “Why would I want to completely cover up the chocolate?” he asks rhetorically. You just shrug with your drink capped with a mountain of fluffy marshmallows, but ultimately it’s so worth it to see the way his eyelights dilate when he takes the first sip.
He must think it’s really good, because after that he takes more of an initiative checking out things that grab his interest.
You find a booth staffed by a land-squid Monster, with all manner of tentacle-knitted wool apparel in dozens of colours and sizes covering the table. The wool is soft and almost deceptively silky to the touch, and has you wondering how much work went into the material to get it this pleasant to feel.
“Oh, you know,” they say, waving a red tentacle flippantly in the air, their voice blubbery and very wet. “Magic.”
You and Cross try to pick out something for all of the guys: a large touque with pumpkins on it that would fit Horror’s skull, a pair of open finger mittens with bats on them for Killer. Cross picks out a long purple scarf for Nightmare (and you don’t draw attention to the matching one he picks out for himself), while you find a blue hat with a red pom-pom that you’re going to make Dust wear.
There’s a part of you that’s still disappointed everyone couldn’t join you, but you understand their reasons. Dust is alright hanging around outside your apartment, but crowds make him antsy. Horror hates the way everyone tends to gawk at him, whether it’s because of his size or the hole in his skull. Killer gets that treatment too, with his exposed misshapen soul and the way his sockets constantly leak black tar, and while he may play it off with self-deprecation it pisses him off more than anything and tends to lead to a downward spiral later.
And Nightmare is Nightmare.
You want to figure out something for everyone to do, maybe there’s a universe that would be less hostile for the boys, and you could go check out a carnival or something.
For now though, you’re on a date with Cross and there’s a candy apple tent to your right.
“We need to try those too,” you suggest, watching the workers dip apples into melted chocolate, then drizzle white chocolate over top of the hardened coating. “Maybe swing back and grab some for the others before we leave.”
Cross nods. “We’ll have to find something else for Night though, he hates apples.”
“Maybe they do fruit other than apples, we can ask. But there’s lots of other things if they don’t, there’s usually homemade sweets with stuff like toffee and caramel.” You turn to look at some of the other tents with food. “I think I see peanut--”
You freeze.
The world freezes.
Standing in line at another booth is one of your regulars, the nurse who comes almost every afternoon, the one who took you to the hospital when you burned your hand. She doesn’t see you, because she’s talking to someone else, but she’s holding onto to the hand of--
… patchwork red jacket, always wearing shorts even in cold weather…
… ivory skull with a crack nearly splitting his left socket, a different story about how he got it every time you asked…
… light-glistened golden tooth set in a jaw pulled into a snarl, sockets furrowed in fury and crimson eyelights burning boreholes into you…
Red.
Red.
Time does not move.
“... ain’t a good way ta say this…”
Your chest hurts. There’s a weight trying to push your lungs down into your stomach. A sharp jab like a thumb pressing into the centre of your chest trying to poke through. You gasp around the lump in your throat, blood pounding in your ears.
“... ya can’t understand what i’m feelin’, yer not a…”
The edges of the world blur and darken, leaving only the fire of his stare that burns your heart to blisters and boils and charcoal before he too fades to a watery mess of colours, of yellows and oranges and red, Red, RED.
“... ‘m sorry…”
He left you crying on a park bench. The sky wept as you did, a cold shivering mess curled on yourself for hours. No one came to find you, and eventually you dragged yourself back to the house that immediately decided it could no longer be your home.
“...ison.”
“... MY TERMS ARE SIMPLE. KEEP THE REST OF US OUT OF THIS.”
“... y to brea…”
Tear-swollen eyes and a clogged nose couldn’t keep you from work, but one look from Grillby when you walked in the door let you know that you couldn’t expect to have a job there anymore, his offer for references as bitter as the taste in your throat as you swallow more cries and leave for the final time.
“...ount your breaths…”
“One.”
One.
Even the pillows in the motel room smell of bleach, there’s a drunk man next door yelling at the television and you can’t lay your head down anywhere and there’s no closet to hide in.
“Two.”
Two.
Alone day after day and no one calls to see if you’re okay.
Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven.
You were together five years.
Eight.
He said he loved you.
Nine.
“Ten.”
The world remains dark until you realize you have your eyes closed. Opening them reveals Cross, all up close and personal and eyelights blown wide with worry. His grip on your shoulder is tight but not painful, his other hand holds yours to his chest, and you realize that he’s actually breathing, slowly and steadily.
“That’s it, okay. Just a little slower, we can count again if you need to.”
“… I-” You try to follow his instructions, try to match your breaths to his deliberate ones, but your chest hurts like something is sitting on it and your head pounds behind your swollen eyes. The hand in his trembles violently, jittery as the air that moves in and out of your lungs.
“Take your time. It’s okay. You’re alright.”
“… I… Th-that was…” The words trip up over the lump in your throat, jamming like traffic. You’re cold. You’re cold and shaking and don’t know if you’re imagining rain hitting your head or if it’s started to rain on a day that was supposed to be sunny and bright.
“Red.” As soon as his name slips out, the pressure breaks and you crumple into yourself, bending forward and prevented from falling to the ground by Cross pulling you into a tight embrace. There’s an immediate flood of tears that soak into the front of his coat and you cling to him and wail like the breakup was only yesterday.
Does he do this too? Does he cry over the loss of what you had together? Does he have moments where he freezes and can’t help reliving that day over and over?
No, of course not. He has his soulmate. You just don’t get it, you could never compare. No matter how much you loved him, some higher power decided what you offered wasn’t enough. That you weren’t enough.
That you’ll never be enough.
And… her. His soulmate, Melanie. You wonder if you missed something, some clue that she was with Red, some innocuous comment that would have given it away. She’s always so nice when she comes to grab her lattes, she checked in after you a couple of times after the burn. Did she know? Has she been spying on you? Have they been talking about you, laughing over where you ended up in life?
“Shhhhh, it’s okay.” Cross shuffles the two of you over a little ways and gets you to sit down on something, staying pressed against you all the while. He doesn’t even try to pull away, because he doesn’t want to or because you refuse to let go of his jacket, you’re not sure which.
It hurts. It hurts with the sharp pain of a fresh wound, like time had marched on for everyone else in the world except you, and your mind uncontrollably cascades through memories of your time together. Bad ones make the tears flow quickly, good ones only make you cry harder. It doesn’t matter that it’s a year later, it doesn’t matter that you’ve moved on to another relationship, not when all it takes is a single glimpse of Red to drag you right back to that day.
And that’s not fair.
You cry brokenly into Cross’ jacket for what feels like ages, and not enough time at all. The tears eventually run dry, and all you’re doing is leaving snot all over the fabric like a disgusting slob, so you pull away to spare Cross. Just like all the other times you cried yourself raw, you’re exhausted, your whole body aches and feels heavy. You feel drained and squeezed dry, the sorrow melting down to a cold numbness and apathy.
And if the pattern holds, the numbness will only last so long though, before the bitter taste of anger replaces it, and you hate it. Hate it because this anger is not you, but this is the creature Red’s left you to become.
It’s just not fair.
A tickle along your leg has you glance down to see Trixy rubbing up against it with a pur. It’s only then that you look around and realize you’re not at the park anymore. You’re back at your apartment, sitting on your too-small couch.
“Took a shortcut when, uh, I realized what was happening.” Cross helps you pull off your jacket, and takes off his own and carries them towards your coat rack. You want to tell him to leave his coat in your laundry hamper, you’ll clean it for him, but Trixy decides to hop onto your lap and buts her head against your nose so that you could only pay attention to her.
And you remember why you were so drawn to her in the first place, that you decided to adopt her yourself. She purrs ceaselessly and almost pushes you to recline back against the cushions so that she can settle on your chest in a little loaf. You hug her close, and she just purrs harder.
Cross comes back over with a glass of cool water for you. You gulp down about half of it, desperate to get rid of the bitter dryness that tastes like you just threw up more than anything. Cross sits down next to you, and presses against your side. He takes the glass when you’re done so that you can hug Trixy unimpeded.
“… I’m sorry.” Your voice is raspy, your tongue thick and bloated in your mouth.
Cross shakes his skull.“Don’t be. You said it yourself. ‘You see something you don’t like, we leave.’”
You meant that more for him, but you suppose the rules would have to apply to you too. “Seeing my ex shouldn’t send me into a fucking panic attack,” you mutter, running your fingers through Trixy’s floof. You find a small knot by her tail, you’ll have to brush that out for her later. “… Am I ever going to get over this?”
You’re asking for answers more of yourself, but Cross is the one who responds after a moment. “… You were hurt, it takes time to heal from something like that.”
“It’s been a fucking year.”
“You can’t put a timeline on recovery.” And it’s the way he says it, how it sounds like he’s repeating something he’s heard over and over again, that has you look at him, that has you see the sad smile and the slightly far away look of Cross maybe reliving some memories of his own, things that he’s still healing from even today.
You wonder if Cross became good at supporting someone through a panic attack from being on the other side enough.
The far away look fades as Cross comes back to the present, but then it’s replaced with confusion as he tilts his skull. “Wait… you called him ‘Red’.”
“Well, yeah,” you say, wetly. You sniffle, and rub your nose with the cuff of your sleeve. You hate how gross crying makes you feel. “I can’t exactly call him ‘Sans’ when there’s another one running around the house with that name. Oh, wait, sorry,” you lift your hands up enough to make quotation marks, “‘they’re cousins’. They’d be upset if I’m not keeping up the charade.”
Cross’ brow lifts, then he pinches the bridge of his nasal aperture. “Oh, fuck, this is one of those universes…” he mutters.
“… Dust never told you?” That surprises you; you’d figure by now Dust would have at least mentioned that to the others. But another thing catches your attention. “… And what do you mean ‘one of those universes’?”
“Dust only said that your ex was another Sans, and that, uh, that’s why you weren’t even surprised by any of us.” Cross sighs like he’s tired after a long fight with a puzzle and he’s just slotted the last pieces into place.
“… And the universe thing?”
“There’s a lot of universes where a whole bunch of ‘Sans’ and ‘Papyrus’ end up trapped in the same universe together. It happens more than you think. It’s usually from some accident with a machine in-”
“In the basement,” you finish. Pieces to a puzzle you spent a long time trying to figure out have slipped into place for you too. The basement was always off limits to you, guarded by a locked door and then another door with an actual fucking card reader when the first door was left forgotten and unlocked.
You had had suspicions before, when you walked in on Sans napping on the couch and realizing he had the same snore as Red. When you couldn’t tell the difference between Papyrus’ and Crooks’ laughter when they got excited. When you overheard Black waxing about the good ole days in an Underground that clashes with all descriptions of the one you’re familiar with.
When Stretch, Edge and Blue were watching the news one day and were surprised to see that the ambassador they’re supposed to be familiar with is in their forties.
Meeting Dust just confirmed a lot of suspicions.
Cross leans back against the cushions, but keeps pressed against your side in a comforting way. “… They were the ones who kicked you out?”
“Yeah,” you admit quietly. You take a deep, stuttery breath to stop yourself from crying again, although you doubt you have the tears for another round. “Red only told them that he found his soulmate and that he was going to break up with me, like, the day before he actually did it. And then I had to move out, because it would make things awkward for everyone, while he went and hid… somewhere, I don’t know, her house maybe. No one…”
No one spoke to you, asked how you were feeling, if they could help, that they were sorry. They just… all went about their lives and avoided you, while you broke down almost hourly under the weight of just how fucked over you were. You had belongings, clothes, but no furniture. You had very little in the way of savings, and all of that would be eaten up in the process of getting back on your feet again. A high school diploma doesn’t get you much in the way of good paying jobs.
“... There’s twelve of them.”
“Hmm?”
“There’s twelve skeletons, uh, I guess six pairs of ‘Sans’ and ‘Papyrus’. If that matters, I don’t know.” Take another breath, take a sip of water when Cross offers you the glass. Listen to Trixy’s purs. “… Wine eventually offered help, but, uh, it came with a price tag. I wouldn’t have to pay him back money, or anything like that, but he set me up in a motel for a month, all expenses paid, and I had to stay away from everyone else.”
“That it? That’s the only help they gave you?” Cross asks. “They just, made you deal with it alone?”
You can only shrug apathetically in response. “… He said that Red put them all in a difficult position, and it wouldn’t be fair to drag the rest of them into the middle of it. Red’s always going to live at the house… ‘for reasons’, so I had to leave.”
And you did. And you stayed away. You walked out of your job at Grillby’s when you realized that they wouldn’t stop going there. You moved into the only affordable apartment you could find on short notice on the other end of the city, far away from the mountain and from anyone who interacted with the skeleton Monsters. You found a job in your corner of the city, and you only keep to your corner for recreation and necessities. You never travel, never leave, not even when things you need could be found cheaper elsewhere. Not even when there’s things happening, like a fall festival on the mountain with wagon rides and costume contests and live music and games and food and everything you loved about fall.
The park was in your corner, and…
Now you’re not allowed to enjoy even that.
You only realize you’re crying again when Cross cups your cheek and brushes the tears away with his thumb. Your eyes burn and your throat tightens with the need to cry but you lack the energy to do anything more than just sit there in silence, letting the tears you thought had dried out stream down.
You don’t react much when the door opens and the rest of the guys come in, with all kinds of take-out boxes and drinks and enough tubs of ice cream to fill a full-sized freezer that you don’t actually have. Cross sent them a message earlier about what happened, you think you hear him explain, but you let sound wash over you and don’t make any effort to sort any of it out.
They don’t make you talk. They crowd you on the couch and give you food and drink when you need it and let you cry until the tears dry again, and then cry some more later, as many times as it takes before you cry it all out. And while you can almost feel the same frigid air seeping through your clothes as you sat on a park bench crying in the rain a year ago…
You’re not alone this time.
Notes:
I’m over at @feallangilyvor on Tumblr if you guys want to ask me questions or send me theories on where you think this is going.
Spoilers, it’s going to drama.
Chapter 13: The Selfish Choice
Summary:
Sometimes, relationships are defined by the selfish choices we make. Dust knows this all too well.
Chapter Tags: Mild LV flareup. And FeelingsTM.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Today, you decide arbitrarily, is chore day.
The dark grey clouds that had already covered up the sky by the time you woke up in the morning have finally let loose the rain. It’s pouring, but in the way that’s not refreshing and enjoyable. It’s hot, muggy and miserable and your lack of car precludes you from anything that could have been done outside without getting soaked. And it’s your day off, so you decide that this is just going to be one of those days where you’re just going to wear some sweatpants and a tank top all day and probably fall asleep later without changing. You’re going to tackle some of those chores you’ve been putting off otherwise.
Let’s see, there’s a hamper of clothes that’s full to the brim, a bathroom that’s gotten kind of scummy, a floor that always has some errant pile of cat floof that should be swept and probably washed down now that you think about it…
There’s a lot to do.
Well, you’re energized by a cup of coffee and a bowl of cereal this morning. Maybe you should start with the laundry, since you have to take that downstairs to the laundry room, and if you wait too long it’ll get too crowded with people with the same idea as you. Yeah, take everything down, and then come back up later for-
There’s three quick knocks on the door.
Your building’s not really supervised by security, but a fob is still needed to get in, or buzzing up to a tenant. No one’s buzzed you, so this is either someone who’s looking for a different unit…
Or it’s one of the boneheads who laugh in the face of security systems.
In the time it takes you to walk the ten feet from where you were standing to the door, there’s another round of quick, impatient knocks. They thud like someone’s using their fist instead of their knuckles. A quick check out the peephole reveals a very familiar hood. A very familiar hood who then knocks on the door again.
“Dust?” you say in confusion, opening the door. Normally he gives you some kind of heads up that he’s coming. “You okay du…?”
The rest of the question dies on your tongue, answered simply by taking in his appearance.
Dust never stands up straight to his full height, but he’s especially hunched-over right now, with his hands shoved so far down his hoodie pockets they might as well be in another dimension. The lip of his hood hangs low over his skull, obscuring his sockets, but you can see the glow of his blue and red eyelights against the fabric, pulsing like a heartbeat. His mouth moves, like he’s muttering something so quiet you can’t hear a sound.
He’s not talking to you anyways.
You step aside and let dust in without a word. He brushes past you close enough to bump arms, not particularly hard or forcefully though. You think it’s his way of making contact without being in a good place to ask for it. Or in a good place to really take more than a shoulder bump right now. He heads for the couch and flops face down on it, grabbing one of the accent pillows and using it to cover his skull.
It’s a bad day then.
You make a point of shutting the door and locking it loud enough for him to hear, to give him some sense of security. Laundry will have to wait. You pull out your phone and pull up the number Nightmare gave you a while ago.
dust’s here :You
The typing bubble immediately pops up, as if his phone was already in his hands. Nightmare’s not really a fast texter otherwise.
boogeyman: How is he?
he’s crashed on the couch. non verbal :You
his eyelights seem weird :You
he knocked on the door at least :You
You wait for the absolute novel Nightmare must be writing.
boogeyman: He likely has a headache along with the LV flareup. He was on a particularly combat-heavy mission today. He usually seeks out creature comforts and noise, to help distract him from the things he doesn’t want to hear, but he still needs space.
i think i can find something that will work for him :You
i’ve got him :You
boogeyman: I know that you do. He sought you out for a reason.
You know that, and it gives you a… sort of funny feeling that surges in your chest with the want and need to care. It’s a feeling you recognize, but don’t want to draw attention to. Not right now.
boogeyman: Contact me immediately if it gets worse.
can do :You
You’ve been well prepared for the signs of a downward spiral that you need to look out for. This isn’t the worst you’ve seen from Dust, and certainly not the worst he’s capable of having, not from what both he and Nightmare have told you. If Dust wants to ride this out with you, who are you to deny him?
You want him to feel better.
You head for your bedroom closet, scrounging around for something comfortable with a hood. You find an old sweatshirt from sixish years ago. It’s a bit ratty, and has a hole in the left elbow from overwear, but it was your favourite hoodie back in the day, and you think it might help Dust today, if he wants it.
It is hot pink though. Oh well.
You pull out a pair of loose fitting shorts, not really long like his usual pair, but long enough you think. You and Dust are practically the same height. Snagging a pair of corded earbuds from the top of your dresser, you bring everything back to the living room, taking care to make deliberate heavy footfalls. You fold up the clothes and place them on the coffee table by Dust’s hidden skull. You pull your phone back out and jack the earbuds in. You scroll through your Spotify app and find a playlist filled with enough hours of songs from musicals and Disney movies. You then place your phone on top of the clothes pile.
“Dust?” you ask, not too loudly, but not really whispering either. You want to be heard above the voices in his head.
You watch his fingers clench on the pillow he’s still holding over his skull, the joints and knuckles flushed with the red glow of heated magic. One of his claws makes a small tear into the pillow, but you’re not that bothered, not really. They were cheap pillows to begin with.
“I’m leaving some clothes here for you, if you want me to wash your stuff later. I have to do laundry anyways. I’ve also got my phone set up with music if you want to zone out.” There’s still no response from him, but you don’t really expect any. “I’m just going to be doing chores, okay? If it’s too loud, or if you need me to leave, let me know. However you can. I’m listening.”
I’m here if you need me.
You wait a few moments, just in case, and then take a couple of steps back.
Then you head to your kitchen sink, to grab your cleaning supplies from the cupboard underneath, and head to the bathroom attached to your bedroom.
Everyone has their own ways of coping when things become ‘too much’. You remember that Red had been difficult to handle, in his own way. It was rare to witness that rough and tough facade crack, rarer still when you got wise to his trick of hiding away while he wrestled his emotions back under control. Red never wanted anyone to see him ‘weak’, least of all you. You caught him one night, unintentionally, and while it immediately broke your heart to see the one you loved hurting, he got mad. And he fled.
Fleeing from tough emotions seems to be Red’s thing, now that you think about it.
Whatever kind of bad day he was having, he wanted to walk down that road alone, and no matter how much it hurt you that he never wanted your help, you had to respect his wishes.
You hate how terrible it made you feel. How it made you feel like you were the worst partner ever because you couldn’t help, and simultaneously made you feel selfish and horrible because it shouldn’t be about your feelings, it should be about his.
You’ve kept a tight lid on those thoughts, even to this day. Like you’re going to offend someone by even thinking them.
This feels different.
You don’t really lose track of time cleaning the bathroom, you’re only just moderately aware of its passage. You scrub down the sink to remove soap scum and dried toothpaste lumps. Then you hit the tub, and then up the tiled walls before finishing with a good clean of the showerhead. It’s not perfect or pristine like in a magazine; the room still looks dated and in dire need of new fixtures from the current half of the century. But it looks better, and you’re pleased with that. Sometimes it’s hard to remember to be proud of yourself for the progress made, rather than beating yourself up for what wasn’t done.
That’s something Dust always reminds you to do, when he sees you struggling.
There’s a benefit to his level of apathy, that he just doesn’t care what the hypothetical ‘someone’ might think of him. It’s a trick that he’s been trying to teach you.
Returning to the main room to put away the cleaning products you no longer need, you’re delighted to see that while Dust is still facedown on your couch with the pillow over his head, he’s no longer clinging to it. His visible arm hangs limply off the side of the couch, hand curled on the floor. Your phone is still on the coffee table, but the cord of the earbuds stretches across and disappears under the pillow, presumably to the ear buds resting in his acoustic meatus.
Trixy has decided that Dust’s back is now a suitable spot for her to loaf, and she sits folded and content, a princess on a pillow, purring with half-closed eyes. Dust doesn’t seem all that bothered by the back weight, and you wonder if Cheeseburger does the same thing back at the castle. Like mother, like son you suppose.
He’s also changed into your clothes.
That’s… huh. Hmm.
It’s not the usual sort of attraction most other people might feel when looking at someone wearing their clothes, but there’s definitely a sense of possessiveness that’s being satisfied for you right now.
You probably shouldn’t be feeling this towards... a friend…
Oh, who are you kidding.
You grab your broom to start sweeping up the fur along the corners of the room. Dust coming here today, seeking you out when he’s having a bad day, trusting you, is pushing to the front all of those thoughts you’ve been having lately about where, maybe, this friendship is going. You don’t want to read too much into anything - you can’t afford to read too much into things and risk your heart breaking again - but Dust seems to enjoy your company as much as you’ve been enjoying his.
You look forward to the days when you get to see him, or any of the boys really. You look forward to talking with Horror about a new recipe you’re trying, or showing him how the pepper plant he gave you is about to produce its first ripe vegetable. You love it when Cross meets you at work and the two of you go for a walk in the nearby park. You can’t help but be entertained by Killer’s antics and bold declarations that he’s going to get you to do something more adventurous one of these days. And Nightmare, when he visits under the pretense of making sure his ‘safehouse’ is still up to snuff, brings tea and biscuits for the two of you to enjoy, and you just chat.
You’re under no illusions as to what they’ve done, and what they still do in Nightmare’s name. There’s no rose-coloured glasses here. But it’s their honesty about it, how forthcoming they’ve been about who they are and where they’ve come from that has you trying to pick apart the complicated set of emotions and morals that reminds you nothing in the universe is so starkly black and white.
You like being around them, and you think you’re well past the point of craving company to stave off loneliness. Maybe it’s because you’re just sweeping cat hair off the floor and into the bin and you’re thinking too much about this, but you’re starting to feel things that you recognize from long ago.
No, you know exactly what this is. You felt the same thing when you and Red first started going steady.
It scares you.
You like him. You like all of them. And isn’t that a strange thing to think about while Dust’s having a bad day on your couch.
Maybe it’s because you recognize the trust involved that he’s letting you see him on one of his bad days.
And he met you during one of yours.
So how does he feel about you?
But maybe you don’t have to do anything about it yet. Not today. Not on chore day. Not when your friend just needs someone he trusts close by. When he’s feeling better you’re going pull out the snacks you bought that you know he likes, and you’re going to order burgers for the two of you, or just some to go if he just wants to go home.
You do hope he stays though.
***
The deep voice of Mr. Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson belting out “You’re Welcome” is the first thing Dust registers when his mind returns from the murky clouds of his flareup. His body feels tingly, like he overslept by a lot and hasn’t moved in days. His skull throbs with the aftershocks of a headache just behind his sockets, but it’s a lot clearer than before and the voice of Not-Papyrus has faded away to silence for the time being.
This wasn’t a bad one, Dust doesn’t think. For one he’s not coming out of it still smelling the waft of dust everywhere, and his skull doesn’t trickle with marrow and mana from where he’s tried to claw the voices out himself. He’s actually quite comfy, relaxed where he’s lying on his front, where he can pick up on the very light scent of… almonds and melted chocolate?
The next song starts, and the cast of Hamilton sings ‘Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story’, Dust realizes that this is definitely not his music that he’s listening to. He tugs on the cord, and the ear buds pop out of his acoustic meatus. There’s a warm weight on his lower spine that’s sort of familiar, in the way that all cats sit the same, and honestly Cheeseburger does this enough that he’s not startled by it. He knocks the pillow off his skull, finally letting the light of the room hit his sockets and the muffled patter of the rain outside hitting the window.
Trixy decides that she’s had enough, he supposes, and lightly hops off his back and meanders away to some other perch to sit like a queen on. Dust pushes himself up, slapping a hand over his sockets and rubbing the drowsiness out of them. His stomach rumbles, which is always hilarious to him because he doesn’t have a stomach, and the sweet smell gets stronger the more he focuses on it. He pulls his hand away to look around.
You’re over by your oven, with your back to him, holding something in your arms. The motions you’re making reminds Dust of Horror when he’s cooking, mixing things together. There are bowls placed on every free surface you have available, and Dust can feel the subtle temperature shift as your oven heats up.
There’s a vague memory of your voice through the haze of disembodied voices, gentle and unafraid. He looks down to see that he’s taken the clothes you offered him and changed out of the dust-covered ones.
They’re still in his inventory. He’ll never, ever, make you wash the dust off his clothes, whether you offer to or not. He’ll never put that burden on you.
It shocks him how strongly he feels about that.
Dust watches you mix batter, and then dole out teaspoon sized chunks on a baking sheet, rolling the balls between your hands to make smoother cookies. You still haven’t noticed that he’s up, you’re just doing your own thing. The batter is tacky, and sticks to your fingers. When you wipe your hair away from your face, some batter sticks to your cheek, right where your dimples show when you smile wide when you see him.
Fuck.
When you turn to slide the tray into the oven, Dust shortcuts behind you. You’ve got at least another three bowls of batter on standby, and now he can see there’s a plate with maybe two dozen cookies baked and cooling.
When he felt it start, when he heard the whispers and felt his normal clarity decline into the haze of fury and accusations and memories that will never stop plaguing him, Dust didn’t choose his usual partners. He chose you, and at the time he didn’t know why. There’s a part of him that feels guilty that he bothered you with his bullshit, but if he leans too hard into that guilt, then it’s a one-way ticket to Not-Papyrus coming back. Besides, you don’t actually seem particularly bothered about it. Like, at all. You just… let him do his own thing.
You just let him be.
Dust takes a step forward, making enough of a noise to inform you of his presence. You shut the oven door and spin around. Unafraid. And then you smile, slightly crooked when your left cheek doesn’t rise as high as your right, which just draws more attention to your dimples.
Fuck fuck fuck.
“Hey,” you say, cheerfully. “How are you doing? Hungry? It’s past lunch.”
You’re not even the slightest bit worried that he’s still a danger to you. Because you know him. He let you know him. Because he cared enough about your wellbeing to teach you the signs to look out for. And you treat him like this is all normal. Not like he’s ‘Sans’, no, not even from the moment the two of you met. You treat him like Dust, and like being Dust is normal. Okay. Accepted.
Dust doesn’t answer, can’t answer, and he glances away at one of the bowls of batter. Your eyes track his eyelights.
“Oh, well, I was craving some cookies, and I thought you might want some. And if you’re taking them home, then I have to send some back for Horror.” You point to one of the bowls. “And there’s some double chocolate for Cross. And Killer should get his own batch so he doesn’t steal from yours. And I know Nightmare doesn’t like overly sweet things, so I’m tryin’ something more tarty for him.”
You’re making cookies. For all of them. On a whim.
Because Dust had a bad day.
He takes another step forward, into your space. You don’t even so much as flinch, or move away. He carefully watches the way your smile slips into something warm and fond, and he doubts you’re even aware of it. He stares into your eyes, so expressive on their own he can name every emotion that starts flickering through them.
Shyness. Trepidation.
Hope.
There’s a choice to be made, and it looks like he’s the one who has to make it. Never let it be known that Dust isn’t a selfish Monster. He is. Always has been, probably. Always made the selfish choice, just ask the dust of every Monster from his home. Killed them all because he couldn’t handle the RESETs anymore.
Made the selfish choice to try and move on with his life.
He makes the selfish choice now.
Dust leans forward to capture your lips in a kiss, and he’s thrilled when you tilt forward a bit to meet him. He’s never kissed a human before, while you’ve got experience kissing a skeleton Monster, but that’s okay. Dust is also a faster learner.
A very fast learner.
He’s not angling for anything hot and heavy, not right now. Now he’s content with exploring the sensations of soft lips on teeth, and figuring out that he likes it. He really likes it.
He’s in so much trouble.
He’s the one who eventually breaks the kiss, pulling back but resting his hands on the counter behind you to keep you in his space. He watches the way your cheeks bloom with colour, listening to the way your quiet breaths quicken just a hair.
“mine,” is all he says.
Your cheeks flush even more, and you let out a quiet huff of nervous laughter. “… Me or the cookies?” you ask teasingly, only with the smallest tone of timidness underneath. Something he’s going to have to chase away.
Dust tilts his skull with a smirk, and pretends to think about it. “mmm, both.”
You chuckle again. It’s a good sound, he wants to hear more of it. “… You might have a fight on your hands,” you say quietly.
Not as much as you’re afraid of. It just means Dust actually has to get off his ass and have a long overdue chat with the others. The results will probably surprise you.
Dust tilts his head forward, pressing his forehead against yours, seeing the way his eyelights light up your shy face. “good thing i’m good at fighting,” he mutters, an admission of truth and you have no idea how deep it goes. Dust holds on to the things he wants, with both hands, and good luck getting him to let go now.
The talk, logistics, whatever, it all can come later though. For now, Dust wants to stand close, pressed up against you, nuzzle into your face and maybe kiss you some more. He’ll eventually let you go back to baking, when he’ll wrap his arms around your waist and hover over your shoulder, and occasionally ‘help’ with taste testing, riding out the rest of the day with the sounds of rain and the pulse of his soul as it beats with something other than LV.
Notes:
How about some fluff to contrast last week’s angst?
@feallangilyvor on Tumblr.
Chapter 14: Rocky-Road and Stardust
Summary:
Abandoning all expectations when Killer suggests what should be a simple outing is always warranted.
Chapter Tags: Talking about sex, sexual intercourse (implied and in the background), discussion of orientation and preferences.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
It’s a rare day when Nightmare’s castle is peaceful.
Relatively.
It’s what counts for a sunny day in the realm. The eternal sky of deep dark midnight blue is cloudless, and the luminous orb that’s not a moon - but not really a sun either - lights the world with a pale white glow. A gentle breeze rustles the leaves of the forest that surrounds the castle, crinkling against the windows and brick like very light tickles.
It’s peaceful. Quiet.
Save for the theatrical moaning of dismay and frustration from one skeleton in particular.
“i can’t believe,” Killer starts, the perfect picture of dramatics when he stretches so far back on the couch his skull and upper torso disappear behind it, “i just can’t believe it. addy, who can’t even play a mario game…”
“It’s not like I was allowed to play games growing up,” you interject with deliberate monotone.
“can’t even play a mario game!” Killer continues, louder, resting the back of his right hand against his forehead like a properly scandalized maiden. “can’t even press one button to jump, that’s all you have to do! she can’t even play a mario…”
Killer springs forward, perching on the edge of the couch and gesturing at the tv screen, just as the boss melts to nothing and the words ‘PREY SLAUGHTERED’ display prominently on the screen.
“and yet she beats mother-fucking gascoigne on her first fucking try?!?!”
You shrug, not at all trying to conceal your smugness. You drop the controller on your lap and crack your knuckles for good measure. “Oh, was that supposed to be difficult?” you ask rhetorically with a very cheeky grin in the face of Killer’s pout. The whole reason he wanted you to play this was because of his struggles with it earlier, and Killer is someone who thrives off the frustrations of others.
His sockets narrow in the face of your overly-joyful smile… then he springs forward and wraps his arms around you and starts to nuzzle hard against your cheek. You feel the runny liquid from his sockets smear on your skin as you laugh hard and try to push away from the onslaught. “maybe you should try the next part like this, it ain’t too distracting, is it? naw, shouldn't be too hard.”
A very, very exasperated groan is heard from the otherside of the room. You both look over, where Dust sits. Or melts, really. He’s sunk so far into his chair he’s practically become one with it. The lower half of his face is buried in his red scarf, and his hood nearly covers all of the top half, leaving only a small strip of face where his nasal sockets are visible.
“sorry dust-bunny, we makin’ too much of a fuss for ya?” Killer teases, and Dust just huffs again in response. You can see how the joints in his hands, tightly dug into the arms of the chair, glow with a very saturated lilac, as does his kneecaps.
It’s not a LV flare up, you caught onto that quickly when you arrived at the castle. It only took you a little while longer before you figured out what had Dust’s shorts in a twist today, and it had a lot to do with the buildup of magic he woke with this morning. If Dust couldn’t expel it, it tended to accumulate and boil like a pressure cooker, making his body feel sore and achy and Dust a very grumpy boy as the mana tried to find release.
Sometimes it put pressure on more sensitive areas.
There’s waking up on the wrong side of the bed, and then there’s waking up on the horny side.
Alas, Horror is away for the week visiting his brother, Nightmare is out doing something or other with Error, and Cross is still out for one of his usual incredibly long runs in the forest. Which just left Killer as the only option to help with this particular problem, but for some reason Dust hasn’t asked and Killer hasn’t offered.
You’re pretty sure it has something to do with your presence.
You tap Killer’s cheek to get his attention. “If you want to go help peel the banana in his pocket,” you suggest, and Killer badly smothers a snicker at the innuendo. He quirks a brow and gives you a look, but you press on. “I’m serious, I don’t mind. I’ll just sit here and beat another ‘super hard’ boss for you in the meantime.” You wave the controller around to make your point.
“… please don’t say ‘hard’,” Dust pleads quietly.
Killer is saved from having to answer by Cross walking into the room, fresh off his run. He’s still in his jogging clothes, loose shorts and a black t-shirt, and has a towel around his neck that he’s using to wipe down the magic sweat on his skull.
In all your years knowing skeleton Monsters, you’ve come to understand that even the ones who are supposed to be ‘the same’ have varying body types. Dust is shorter than Killer by a couple of inches, Horror is taller and larger than everyone, etcetera, etcetera. Cross is tall and broad across the shoulders, and you can tell that if he bothered to manifest a torso over his ribcage, it would be lean, muscular and lacking the typical ‘Sans’ pudge.
“Hey,” he says, wiping around his sockets. He glances at the tv. “Oh, Addy, did you beat that boss for Killer?”
“shuddup criss-cross,” Killer mutters, and poutily blows a raspberry for good measure.
Cross rolls his eyelights. Then he catches sight of Dust, and tilts his skull inquisitively. You and Killer glance over. Dust’s eyelights now peek out from under the hood, the red and blue nearly smouldering with how intensely he’s staring at Cross.
You and Killer side-eye each other with smirks, and do your best to hold in the giggles.
“… Anyways, I’m going to go shower,” Cross announces loudly. He backs out of the room and into the hallway, giving Dust a bemused look all the while. And credit where credit is due, Dust keeps still for as long as he can.
Which is about thirty seconds.
Then he launches himself out of the chair with the speed of a shortcut and stalks out of the room after Cross.
“Go get ‘im!” you cheer.
“press him right up against the shower and make him scream!” Killer calls out. There’s a very faint “fuck you” heard in response, and Killer giggles. “no! you’re supposed to be fucking him!”
“Don’t worry, I think Dust has every intention to,” you remark between chuckles, and pick up the controller again to continue where you left off.
Killer puts a hand on your shoulder. You look at him, and just barely catch the slight serious frown before it’s replaced with a casual smirk more to Killer’s style. “we should do something,” he suggests, and after a pause, “let’s get some ice cream.”
The way he says it tells you that the ice cream is probably a lot further away than the kitchen, and probably involves going somewhere you shouldn’t be. So… “That sounds like a great idea. I’m game.”
Killer grin is full of mischief, and he leaps off the couch, pulling you up with him. You are not at all surprised when he doesn’t actually start to go anywhere. “we’re gonna take a shortcut,” he says in a completely non-suspicious manner.
There are a few modes of transportation across the multiverse that are available to those who have become ‘unhooked’ from their home universe. Nightmare explained it to you once, but you know he vastly oversimplified it.
Nightmare and Cross are capable of travelling to places directly, through created portals or rips between universes. It doesn’t have to be to a place they’ve been to before, they just need a rough idea of where they’re going. Nightmare can use his empathic abilities to pinpoint a location or person-slash-Monster, and Cross…
“… It’s math,” is what he once said with a sheepish look, refusing to elaborate further.
For Killer and Dust, they rely on ‘natural’ pathways that flow from universe to universe to funnel their shortcuts to their eventual location. It takes longer, with more jumps, and there has to be an established path, like a well-walked route through a forest that winds around roots and thick brush and hard to travel areas, eventually wearing down to something anyone can walk along with little difficulty. It’s how Killer and Dust are able to visit you without Cross or Nightmare’s help, and how Killer intends to take you to this promised ‘ice cream’.
He squeezes your hand, and pulls you closer into a tight embrace that’s not at all necessary for a shortcut, but Killer is nothing if not full of unnecessary flare. “hold tight,” he says with that typical Killer husky voice.
It’s jarring when your whole body feels pulled to the left…
… into the void that is cold and dark, lit only by the glow of his exposed soul hovering between the two of you…
… A blast of warm wind hits you like a smack where you appear in the air between a clear cloudless sky and the waves of a vast body of water periwinkle blue below, and you both fall…
… And land on pavement in the middle of a street crowded with Monsters and neon lights that streak across the skyline, flying vehicles zipping in all directions above your heads, no one pays you any mind as you shift…
… Onto the craggy side of an enormous mountain with rocks stained red that float when disturbed by your shoes skidding down the incline, just one mountain among many as far as the eye can see and three suns setting in the sky, you slide before you can take a breath…
… And come to a stop standing on grass in the dark, off-footed and kept from tipping over by Killer’s hold.
“and here we are!”
It’s not the most disorienting way you’ve travelled, but boy does it fuck with your sense of balance for a bit afterwards. You give your head a quick shake and rub the side of it to coax your inner ear back to normalcy. “So how many jumps does it take to get to my universe anyways?” you ask, blinking rapidly to adjust your eyes for the dark.
“like, eight from the castle. have’ta jump through a volcano for one, that one’s always fun.”
Feeling better oriented, you pull away from Killer and take in your surroundings. You should have expected that for something like ‘ice cream’, Killer wouldn’t just take you to the nearest Dairy Queen, but you’re surprised to find yourself in a dark cave. The grass under your shoes looks more purple than green, and they crackle with an odd dryness as you shift your weight. The walls have trails of glowing blue stones, your only source of light, and they rise up towards the ceiling, nearly thirty feet above your heads. The air is cold, stale, and it chills your lungs as you breathe in.
“Are we in the Underground?” you ask, rubbing your arms with your hands in a miniscule effort to keep the chill at bay. A long sleeved shirt and overalls was not the right outfit for this impromptu trip it seems.
Killer pulls off his hoodie and drapes it over your shoulders. You accept the offering and slide your arms in the sleeves. “sort of,” he answers, also taking the opportunity to rub his hands along your arms. He slips a hand into yours and starts to guide you towards a tunnel to your right. “this place only has one human prancin’ around, so you’ll have to keep outta sight. but it’s got the best ice cream ever.”
The tunnel looks similar to the cave, with stones lighting your way. You are able to see it open up a little ways down the path, where the ambient light seems brighter like a beacon. What’s strange is that you don’t hear anything other than your echoey steps, or soft crunching when you step on another patch of grass. How does grass grow in a cave in the first place? Magic? you know there are things that grow in your Underground that shouldn’t, so it’s not out of the realm of possibility.
“… we don’t make you uncomfortable, do we?”
A question straight out of left field, startling you with how suddenly he’s broken the silence, and with the question itself. “Huh?”
Killer shrugs. He keeps focused straight ahead, his grip on your hand tight. Your eyes catch sight of his soul, providing its own red light in the gloom and standing out against the black of his turtleneck. You see a light fuzz, or flicker along the edges. “before, with dust… i know you’re not into that stuff, and i’m a complete idiot that can’t help pushing things too far sometimes…”
Oh. Oh. You have to stop yourself from shaking your head in vexation; if this is bothering Killer enough for him to actually say something, then it should absolutely not be brushed off. “Killer, it doesn’t bother me. Really.” You tug on his hand a little, and he twists his skull to look at you properly. “My boyfriends have an active and healthy sex life. That’s great! I think it’s super cute how you all take care of each other. I’m really happy about that, honestly. I’m also really happy that, uh, well… with what I bring to the table, even if it’s not a lot-”
Killer stops walking, making you stop as well. “that’s a hundred percent bullshit,” Killer interrupts, mouth pulled down to a serious frown. “don’t ever think that you’re not as important as the rest of us. you’re ours too. whoever told you that you have’ta have sex to be in a relationship can go fuck themselves, and that includes the little voice in your head.” He taps your forehead for emphasis.
His heated defense of you from yourself is not unexpected, it reminds you a lot of Dust. But it does loosen something tight in your chest, something you feel like you always live with, and have to either justify or hide away.
In a culture as obsessed with sex and sexual attraction as yours, it’s hard to find someone who speaks the same language as you. Early on when you were newly independent, and you used several casual hookups to try and experiment and figure out if maybe you just hadn’t found the right… something, but it always ended with either nothing gained, or terrible feelings that made you loathe yourself afterwards.
You crave the same intimacy, you just wished it could come without the sex.
Maybe your soulmate is just like you others would say, offering their completely unwanted opinions on the matter. Or maybe your soulmate is the one that will make it work for you. And that idea creeps you out even more, to the point where you hope you never find them. You hate the idea that a soulmate might change you into someone you’re not, or that you’re somehow lesser without a soulmate.
For the longest time, you thought you were broken. You still do, on occasion, like those doubts never really went away. Sometimes you wonder if the abuse had made you this way. It was the popular theory in high school that was whispered between classmates about why you wouldn’t ‘put out’.
A small part of you knew what you were, even if you didn’t know there was a term for it.
“… i mean it, if we ever make you feel uncomfortable-”
“I’ll tell you, I promise.” The word is chosen carefully, you know how much weight a promise holds to Killer, and the boys as a whole. “I promise it didn’t bother me or make me uncomfortable earlier either. It usually doesn’t with you guys. I told you, it’s actually really endearing. And it’s kind of fun being the cheerleader, I guess.”
Killer is quiet for a moment, his gaze searching through your eyes. Then he looks away, and starts to lead you down the tunnel towards the exit again. “… sorry i’m such a mood killer,” he says with a laugh almost so bitter you can taste it.
Nope, you’re not going to let him go beating himself up for wanting to have this talk. You shift closer to him under your arms touch all the way down to your joined hands. “No, it’s one of those important relationship conversations we have to have, right? So, it’s like we moved to level two.” Killer snorts, and his hand squeezes yours. You tilt your head closer to the side of his skull and whisper “It’s like we beat the Father Gascoigne of conversations.” And Killer laughs in earnest.
The end of the tunnel is not that far away, and as you get closer you can see what looks like a night sky filled with specks of stars. But if this is the Underground, even another version of it, how can you see stars? “I guess this universe made it to the surface?” you reason, because that’s the only explanation you can think of.
Killer shakes his skull. “naw, not really. you’ll see when we get outside, this place is pretty awesome.”
“How so?” you ask, only to immediately take back the question as soon as you step out of the tunnel.
You’re not underground. Not at all.
The tunnel ends in open air, the grass-covered ground continuing a short ways before dropping off to a cliff that hangs in the vast expanse of space. It’s both dark and bright, everything lit only by clusters of stars that fill the sky - that fill space - billions upon billions of specks of white stars billions upon billions of miles away. More than can ever be seen from the surface of Earth. Behind it all is a nebula with hues of purples and reds and yellows, gasses and elements burning and churning in space until it looks like colourful clouds, or ink injected into water.
The rock you stand on is just one of several; there are floating rocks everywhere, some bigger, some smaller. All unmoving with no force of inertia to act on them in the vacuum, platforms with trees and buildings and bridges connecting them like something out of a science fiction painting. Orbs of light hang to light up manufactured paths, rivers of what looks like water flow and fall off the edges, spraying and freezing into ice that sparkles like stardust.
It’s awe-inspiring how big it all is, how small you feel. “It’s…” you don’t have the conscious thought to speak the rest of the sentence, just to stand there and look.
“pretty neat, huh?”
He doesn’t know, he can’t know how much it excites you to be here right now, how much it hurts to have a sudden want fill every part of your very being. You’re standing in a place that no one from your universe has ever been before. You’re looking at something no one else has seen. You can’t wrap your head around the fact that this exists. This is a place that exists and is real and you can experience it.
If this exists, what else is out there? Your world is so small, it’s borders so harsh and unmoving, all you can do is look out and wish for the chance to experience something more.
But you are. You’re here. And this is something the boys do on a daily basis. What else do they see? Where else do they discover?
You want more.
“Take me with you,” you whisper, still transfixed by everything around you, above you. You don’t even understand how much of a plea it is, how honest and desperate a request it is, it just slips out unguarded at a time when you can’t focus on much else.
Hands rest on your arms, Killer’s thumb stroking softly. He places his chin on your shoulder. “... you wanna see more?” he whispers back, “i think i can make that happen.”
You twist to look at him, quickly, maybe looking to see if he’s joking or offering in earnest. Killer’s sockets are wide with something like awe, but he’s looking right at you, like you’re the only thing here worth looking at. The black liquid spilling from his sockets is thinner, almost watery, and looks like it’s slowed to just a trickle.
“Really?” you ask, hopeful.
“promise.”
The surge of affection is what pushes your head forward to kiss him, but he’s already moving to meet you, the urge just as strong for him. Time loses all meaning as he presses against you, intent on keeping you locked with him until the need for a full breath of air overtakes your instincts, and you reluctantly break away with a gasp. Even without the need to breathe, Killer’s face looks remarkably kiss-swollen with hooded sockets.
“I guess I shouldn’t question how I’m able to breathe in the first place, right?” you ask, kind of breathless.
Killer chuckles. “magic,” he answers playfully, sounding a bit out of breath himself. He pulls away and takes a few steps back. “i’m gonna go grab us the ice cream, we can sit out here, it’s outta the way for most of the locals.”
When he steps far enough back, you catch sight of his soul again, and it nearly takes your breath away again. Because for a split moment, no more than a couple of seconds at most, you could have blinked and missed it…
It had been a brightly glowing inverted heart.
The shape snaps back to the usual target, and with the way Killer is looking at you, you’re not entirely sure he’s even aware of the change in the first place. You decide to not draw attention to it. “Sure, I’m looking forward to it.” Killer winks, and disappears into another shortcut, leaving you on the cliff to take in the view again.
You sit down on the grass, running your fingers through it. You understand why it feels dry now, but not dead, and why the ground underneath is more rocky and less like dirt. You tilt your head back up again, staring at the nebula, watching distant stars twinkle as they surge with energy. You’re tempted to poke your finger out and try to swirl the colours, make it look like cotton candy, or a lollipop swirl. You pull out your phone and snap a photo that in no way lives up to the real thing, but you want the reminder for days when you feel trapped within the constraints of your own life.
You wonder what it would take to get Killer’s soul to change again. Maybe hold the shape longer this time.
He comes back before long, ice cream cones in hand, and settles on the grass next to you. The ice cream is delicious, sweet but not overly-so, creamy like it was freshly churned with real flavours. It surprises you that it’s your favourite flavour; you’re not sure if you ever told Killer what it was. It leaves behind a frosty aftertaste, not unlike mint, and makes your breath visible in small puffs that sparkle with little stars. After a few licks, you both switch flavours for a bit, enjoying the treat while Killer points out a couple of stars he knows the names of.
You snap another photo of the two of you at some point, a selfie, right as Killer nuzzles against your cheek until you blush from more than the cool air. Another memory you want to keep.
Time is irrelevant and untrackable here, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.
Notes:
I have decided that while Addison sucks at even simple platformers, she is amazing at Soulsborne games. Sorry, that’s just the way it is.
And for the record, Dust absolutely cornered Cross, who was not at all surprised, and fucked him until they both passed out.
Chapter 15: Those Unsaid Things
Summary:
Addison should have known that the events at the fall festival would have ramifications as she finds herself face to face with a visitor she’s really not happy to see.
Chapter Tags: Arguments & shouting at a late hour; panic attacks; brief allusion to past familial abuse; past breakup angst
Let’s move this plot forward, shall we?
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
When he pulls into the long driveway at the end of an exhausting day at work, Edge knows that something is up. It’s the middle of the day on a weekend, yet the driveway is inexplicably full when it should have been empty.
And if someone decided to have a party, he’s going to have some strong words for the organizer for not notifying him beforehand.
As he pulls into his usual spot and parks the car, Edge takes a moment to scan over the other cars to see who might be home, and who might be missing. Papyrus, unsurprisingly, is not home, yet both Black and Wine are. Blue’s little car is also parked under the awning, next to Red’s showroom shiny new motorcycle. Melaine’s car is also parked in the spot recently designated as hers, which perplexes Edge; wasn’t Red taking her out for a date after her shift at the hospital?
Edge shuts off his engine and steps out of his convertible. The roof’s not retracted; with the weather turning cold, leaves have been falling from every tree in the area, and Edge would rather not have to clear out his interior on a daily basis. His boots click crisply along the path as he walks up to the front porch and approaches the door. He quickly straightens his uniform - not that anything was out of place, but it’s the bare minimum to check regularly - before pulling out his keys and opening the door.
And for the number of souls that appear to be home, the fact that Edge is met with a moderately quiet house is concerning. He expected chaos, but as it stands he can hear quiet murmuring from the kitchen, and the sound of the television in the other room set to a reasonable volume. This is a house thirteen call home.
This is a trap.
Edge removes his boots and places them neatly on the mat by the door, doing his best to ignore the sneakers and boots that aren’t set neatly. His tolerance is only so high, and he has another matter to get to the bottom of anyways. His first stop is the kitchen, where the quiet conversation continues.
Considering who’s party to the conversation, Edge is honestly surprised it isn’t louder.
Black is stomping around back and forth in the kitchen. Edge watches as he opens the cupboard with the cooking pots and dutch ovens, growls angrily at the contents, and perplexingly pulls out the toaster oven, kicking the cupboard shut with his foot. The toaster is then set on the counter where it had been missing from.
The counter is otherwise covered with various items, cookware, foods, condiments and cooking staples. At a glance, nothing appears to go together in any recipe Edge is aware of, which is even more perplexing because in the ten years since being pulled into this universe Black has become a decent cook. Almost as good as Edge himself. Which means he’s either reverted in his skills, or he’s decided to break out the old “VINEGAR BOMB BURRITO BONANZA” on purpose to punish someone.
“WHAT,” Edge barks, resting his hands on his pelvis, “IN STARS NAME ARE YOU MAKING AND HOW FAR DO I HAVE TO BE FOR THE BLAST RADIUS?”
“OH SHUT UP,” Black snaps, and otherwise ignores Edge as he pulls out the step ladder to reach the cupboards above the fridge.
A badly-muffled laugh off to the side pulls Edge’s attention. Stretch is sitting at the breakfast bar, snacking on a bag of chips that’s absolutely going to ruin his appetite for dinner. “don’t mind him, metallica,” he chuckles. “he’s taking issue with axe’s ‘organization’.”
“DON’T CALL ME THAT,” Edge snipes for the millionth time (and he knows it’ll be ignored for the millionth time), before Black takes a deep breath and spins around to launch into the expected tirade.
“THIS IS THE LAST TIME I LET AXE EVEN SET FOOT IN THIS KITCHEN! EVERYTHING IS IN THE WRONG PLACE! THE SUGAR IN THE SPICE DRAWER! THE MEASURING CUPS IN THE DRAWER WITH THE SPOONS!” Black stamps his foot on the ground, and even without the boots it makes a sharp click echo in the kitchen. “THE FLOUR WAS UP WITH THE CEREAL! WHICH WAS WITH THE CASSEROLE DISHES AND NOT IN THE PANTRY! HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO DO ANYTHING IN THIS SPACE?!”
Edge doesn’t take the bait of answering Black’s rhetorical question, and Black doesn’t wait for one anyways. He turns, yanks open the silverware drawer, and starts to re-sort the forks by size and pattern.
Edge has to admit, if he had been the one to discover the chaos his temper would have won out handily and the house would burn under the strength of his fury. Black taking it upon himself to fix, fuming furious but not seeking to murder the culprit, might be the better option.
Chaotic or not, however, this is not an emergency that warrants the amount of cars in the driveway. Edge turns to Stretch, trying to balance a chip on his lower jaw and flip it into his mouth like a buffoon. “ALRIGHT, SPILL IT. WHERE’S THE EMERGENCY?”
Stretch drops the chip, and then disgustingly picks it back up off the floor and eats it - and Edge does not shudder - while Black huffs.“I’D SAY GO ASK YOUR BROTHER, BUT WE ALL KNOW HIS TRACK RECORD WITH HONESTY,” he mutters. Edge stiffens, like he was shocked by an electrical current.
“’s not like there’s anything to hide with this,” Stretch argues. “seeing addison at the park isn’t really the issue here.” And Edge discovers he can freeze even harder.
Because there’s a name he’s been purposely trying not to think about over the past year.
Because he can’t afford to ruminate over regrets; what’s done is done, Red inexplicably - impossibly - found his soulmate in Melanie and no matter how poorly he handled the delicate matter of breaking up with his partner of five years, Edge was always going to have his brother’s back. Even if Red was an idiot and the rest of the house devolved to shouted arguments over the fairness of it all.
“WHAT. HAPPENED?” Edge asks, trying to keep his voice from rising.
Stretch glances over at Black, who just shakes his skull and continues with his sorting. Stretch looks back at Edge, and it’s jarring to see the normally smooth and unfazed skeleton looking so uncomfortable. “red took mel to some park by the hospital, and he saw addison… with another… you know.”
“NO, I DON’T KNOW, THAT’S WHY I’M ASKING YOU,” Edge counters, just a bit sharper than he intended. “ADDISON IS FULLY CAPABLE OF MOVING ON WITH HER LIFE. WHY DO WE CARE WHO SHE WAS WITH?”
If Red’s become a jealous lovesick fool with regrets now, he only has himself to blame.
Black slams the drawer shut and turns to Edge. “I DON’T GIVE A FLYING FUCK WHO SHE’S WITH NOW, EXCEPT THAT APPARENTLY SHE’S GONE AND FOUND HERSELF ANOTHER SKELETON!”
Black glares at Edge as if this is his fault, but Edge can only stare back in silence. There are so, so many concerning things with that statement, and Edge realizes that he need only go downstairs to locate more of his housemates. Perhaps frantically pouring over readouts and arguing over calculations, a near duplicate scene to events ten years ago...
But that’s impossible.
They’ve been told it’s impossible for several years. The unreplicatable machine broke apart under the strain, all internal components fried to charred bits of plastic and metal, and no amount of trial and error could put it back together again. How...
Was it impossible? “… THE MACHINE IS WORKING?” Edge asks, his voice quiet and haunted even to himself.
Would he even want to go back to the hell he once called home?
Stretch shakes his skull. “naw, but that’s the problem. red and mel left the park and came right back here. sans called everyone he could get a hold of to come home, and now everyone’s downstairs tryin’ to figure it out.” Stretch becomes his namesake and slides his legs further under the table as he slouches further into the chair. “the machine’s still in pieces, it’s got about as much use as a paper weight. how ever this skeleton got here, it wasn’t from that.”
How else can someone cross universes then, if not with the machine that bends reality over its metaphorical knees? The accident that brought them all here wasn't even intended to do that, just a fluke and a mistake on the part of Sans forgetting to carry a ‘one’ and pulling the lever. Did someone else replicate it?
He’s loath to admit even to himself, but Edge could never wrap his skull around physics and science, not like Red, certainly not like Sans. He instead rolls the conversation back in his mind, picking apart the words for every detail. He realizes another thing, and it causes his soul to sink. Because while Melaine, observant and clever as she is, figured out the ruse and convinced Sans himself to spill his non-existent guts about the truth months ago…
“... WE NEVER TOLD ADDISON THE TRUTH,” Edge states, keeping as neutral and measured as possible. The topic is still a sore spot to many in the house even a year later.
Stretch’s shoulders drop. He ducks his skull and shoves his hands in the pocket of his sweater. If Edge had to guess, he was probably fiddling with his lighter, his mood taking a downward plunge despite Edge’s attempt to not be judgemental in tone.
“so what’s this skeleton tellin’ her?” Stretch asks quietly.
“A LIE OBVIOUSLY, WHATEVER SERVES THEIR PURPOSE,” Black snarls. “IF RED IS TO BE BELIEVED, THIS SKELETON HAS AN LV OF FIFTEEN.”
Fifteen? Edge feels his fingers curl into fists, and it’s a fight to keep from shaking in fury. Fifteen. He has the highest LV out of the group, and it tops out at ten. LV is gained on an exponential scale, so to get to fifteen…
“WHOMEVER IT IS, THEY’RE OBVIOUSLY USING HER TO GET TO US,” Black reasons, slamming his fist in the palm of his hand. “WHY ELSE WOULD THIS NEW SKELETON BECOME AN ACQUAINTANCE OF THE ONE HUMAN IN EBOTT WHO KNOWS US? I TOLD YOU IT WAS A BAD IDEA TO CUT LOOSE A HUMAN THAT WE ALLOWED TO GET CLOSER TO US! SHE’S A LOOSE END THAT-”
“SHE’S BEING MANIPULATED AND THIS CAN’T CONTINUE,” Edge concludes, and his tone brokers no room for argument. “WE HAVE TO TALK TO HER.” They have to step in and intervene now, before someone gets hurt or their security is threatened. Before this has to get escalated up to Asgore himself.
Edge turns to leave, a plan already forming in his mind, arguments and counter arguments being considered. “what are you gonna do, stake out the park until she shows up again?” Stretch calls.
“WHY WOULD I WASTE MY TIME WITH THAT...” Edge shouts back from the hallway. “WHEN I CAN ASK THE SKELETON WHO STICKS HIS COCCYX IN EVERYONE'S BUSINESS?”
***
You hate closing shifts.
By the time you drag yourself home your body screams for the comfort of your mattress. But your stomach rolls with hunger and demand for a suitable meal. Shifts like these make you choose between trying to make something to eat while half asleep, or going to bed and trying to fall asleep while hungry.
And, as if that wasn’t enough, because of a schedule mix-up you’ve been roped into a morning shift tomorrow, which means even less time to sleep before you inevitably have to drag yourself out of bed and commute to work.
Uhhhgggg.
You hang up your coat and pull out your phone. Maybe you could bribe Dust somehow, get him to come over so he can shortcut you to work in the morning, just to net you a little bit more sleeping time. Actually, on second thought, Dust would fight to keep you trapped here to cuddle with all day, and you’d miss work anyways. Maybe Cross? He’s more… responsible, for lack of a better word. Maybe-
Someone knocks on your door.
You freeze. It’s almost midnight. The only ones who might even show up at this hour haven’t messaged you to let you know they were coming.
Maybe you should just ignore it.
But what if it’s an emergency?
You quietly open one of the drawers in the kitchen and pull out a pair of scissors. You slide your phone in your pocket, out of sight but accessible should you need it. Being so mindful of your footsteps, careful around all the spots on the floor that creak with weight, you tiptoe up to the door, keeping the scissors hidden behind your back. You feel like it takes ages when you finally approach the peephole, long enough to wonder if maybe the late-night knocker has left. They haven’t knocked again. Maybe someone came to your unit by mistake.
You stand on the tips of your toes and look through the peephole…
And you don’t want to open the door.
You absolutely do not want to open the door.
Surprise and dread are drowned out by anger almost immediately though, and in a moment fueled by emotion and less logical thought, you unlock the door and yank it open to stare down your visitor.
… Stare up. It’s not like Edge has shrunk in a year.
He stands there, soldier straight and even dressed in his embassy guard uniform like he’s just got off work. Or is expecting a fight and wants to look properly intimidating. For all his posture however, his jaw is set firm and tense, hands curled into fists at his sides, he looks about as uncomfortable standing there as you are angry at him for standing there. Here, now, of all times. Like he can just knock on your door and expect you to answer at midnight. Like it hasn’t been a year.
You want to slam the door in his face so badly. You’re not sure why you don’t.
“ADDISON,” he says simply. Like he was expecting you to eventually open the door, despite the hour.
Even if you weren’t tired and hungry, you’re in no mood to exchange pleasantries with him. You’re in no mood to be friendly. You’re angry, and you’re actually going to let yourself be angry for once, and not just shove it down where no one can see it. “What the fuck are you doing here Edge?” you ask sharply.
For his part, Edge doesn’t appear to bristle or snap back at your tone, which is surprisingly patient for him. “MY BROTHER SAW YOU AT THE PARK RECENTLY,” he states, and you’re the one who feels your spine tingle and straighten when you realize what this is about. “YOU WERE WITH SOMEONE ELSE.”
How dare he? How actually fucking dare he? Showing up after a year of no contact all because Red saw you at the park and what, now he wants to interrogate you? Like he has a say in who you choose to hang out with. Like he gets to control you? “That was two weeks ago Edge,” you hiss. “What does it matter to you? Last I checked you weren’t my keeper.”
“YOU WERE AT THE PARK,” Edge continues undeterred, “WITH ANOTHER SKELETON MONSTER. I DON’T KNOW WHAT THEY’VE TOLD YOU ABOUT HOW THEY’RE RELATED TO US-”
“His name is Cross but he used to be called ‘Sans’. He’s from another universe, just like you are. Just like every other skeleton Monster in Ebott that isn’t called ‘Sans’ and ‘Papyrus’.
Edge’s jaw snaps shut and he stares at you. You feel a sense of self-satisfied smugness that courses with a burst of adrenaline, and you push further. “For the record, the ‘cousins’ lie isn’t as convincing as you all think it is. Better think of something else before Red’s soulmate find’s out.”
“SHE ALREADY KNOWS,” Edge says quickly.
Your fire burns out as quickly as it arrived, and your shoulders drop. Edge, for his part, has enough empathy to briefly look like he regrets saying anything before the mask of neutrality slips back on.
Red never trusted you with that secret. None of them trusted you with it. All of the posturing about being part of the family was just that, posturing. Red’s soulmate gets to know though.
Because soulmates are truer.
“… WHOMEVER THIS ‘CROSS’ IS, HE DIDN’T ARRIVE BY THE SAME MEANS WE DID. RED’S CHECK FOUND THAT HE HAS AN LV OF FIFTEEN, AND THAT HAS US CONCERNED.”
“If Red’s so concerned he could come here himself,” you mutter. You drop your gaze to the floor, and you swallow the lump in your throat and blink away the prickles in your eyes. “And Cross’ LV isn’t even the highest.”
“NOT THE HIGHEST BY WHAT STANDARD? WHO ARE YOU COMPARING IT TO?” You feel Edge lean forward to loom over you, using his height to its fullest potential, like a…
Parent.
No.
No. No. No.
“WHO ELSE HAVE YOU BEEN ASSOCIATING WITH?”
“It’s none of your business!” you snap, tilting your head back up to glare at him. Your grip on the door tightens, you feel your nails start to dig through the paint and into the wood itself. You hate how he gets to stand perfectly still in anger while you have to breathe heavily like you’ve just been kicked in the chest just to keep everything under control.
“IT IS MY BUSINESS WHEN YOU MIGHT BE IN DANGER OF BEING HURT!” Where you’ve been trying to keep your voice down for the sake of your neighbours, Edge has no qualms and lets his voice rise and carry both ways down the hall.
“It didn’t seem to be your business when I got hurt a year ago!” you shout, unable to stop how your voice raises to match his. The prickling in your eyes turns into a steady burn, and you blink through the tears that have started to slip down your cheeks. “I was hurt when your brother lied to me for months and then dumped me like five years didn’t matter anymore!”
“MELAINE IS HIS SOULMATE. REGARDLESS OF HOW POORLY HE HANDLED IT, RED WOULDN’T HAVE BEEN ABLE TO KEEP UP HIS RELATIONSHIP WITH YOU. YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND-”
“No! I don’t understand! Because nobody bothered to help me understand! All you did was tell me how much I couldn’t understand before you all kicked me out and left me homeless!”
“WE WOULD HAVE HELPED YOU, BUT YOU DIDN’T WANT-”
“Didn’t want what? Help? I didn’t have anywhere to live and wasn’t welcome at my job anymore, and you think I didn’t want help? Nobody bothered to ask! Nobody bothered to even talk to me! You just all continued on your merry lives without anyone so much as sending me a text to see how I was doing! And now you think you can just show up out of nowhere and pretend you care because I’m hanging out with Monsters you don’t approve of?”
“DO NOT ACCUSE ME OF LYING!” Edge snarls, because you pushed the one button he has that still ignites his temper like gasoline thrown onto a fire. You’re not even sorry you did it.
“I’m not accusing you! I’m telling you!” you seeth. “Maybe you’ve lied to yourself so well you believe it’s the truth, but that’s not my problem!”
“YOU’RE NOT LISTENING TO ME!”
“You’re not listening to me! You don’t have the right to try and control my life! I don’t care what you think is going on or what you think of who I’ve chosen to date, it’s none of your fucking business!”
“WOULD YOU STOP-”
Your patience snaps. You slam the door in his face.You lock it and bolt it before he decides to try and force his way in. He starts pounding on the door, the chain rattling with the vibrations. You run on instinct to your bedroom and slam that door shut too. You push your dresser over to block it from opening. You slip into your closet and push yourself as far into the darkest corner you can.
Hide.
You can hear him shouting at you, even from here.
Stay quiet.
You curl up, arms folding around your knees and pulling your whole body tight into a little ball. You feel the scissors still clenched in your hand pinch and slice the skin between your thumb and index finger. Tears pour down and soak through your sleeves, but you don’t make a sound. Silent crying is an art you perfected from childhood, and it serves you here as you’re unable to stop the feelings of misery, betrayal, anger and fear from roiling in your chest and boiling to the surface.
All the while listening to Edge slam his fist on the door over and over until it eventually comes to a stop and silence fills the air outside of the closet.
He’s not your father, he’s not your father you try and tell yourself over and over to calm yourself down. But you can’t bring yourself to step back out, afraid that he’s going to be standing just outside with the belt-
The darkness shifts.
At first you think it’s a trick from the lack of light, imagining something shiting the slothes hanging from the rack. Then you see the turquoise eyelight appear, the glow washing over you like a balm, a signal for safety, and you’ve never been happier to see tentacles snaking out of the darkness towards you.
Nightmare holds out his hand to you. You reach forward and grab it.
He pulls you into his arms, sitting you on his lap as he envelops your whole body as best he can. He pulls the scissors out of your hand and tosses it somewhere at the other end of the closet. He holds your hands in his, pressing down on the cut to stop the blood flow. You shake and cry in his arms, miserable with a heartache that won’t go away, ashamed of your behaviour and reaction to a simple conversation.
An argument, a combative argument with someone who chose to corner you where you had no other place to flee to.
“Hush… hush… I have you,” he whispers gently, brushing the hair from your face and the tears from your cheeks.
And you believe him.
He rocks you in the safety of your closet, where you can break down to ruin until you’re able to build yourself back up again. You know he won’t open that door until you’re ready, until you’re strong enough to walk out on your own two feet. Until then he will be your rock, your last and strongest line of protection should something come through that door. The nightmare that would burn down worlds to punish those who have hurt those he cares about.
You’re one of them.
The line between the darkness of the real world and the subconscious blurs as you eventually fall asleep in his secure embrace.
Notes:
Sorry about the angst this week, I promise fluff and shenanigans next week!
@feallangilyvor on Tumblr
Chapter 16: Special Delivery
Summary:
Nobody is ever really sure what they’re going to get when deliveries are made.
Chapter Tags: Nothing really to worry about here! If there’s anything I’m overlooking, please let me know!
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Mornings have to start with coffee.
Maybe you’ve become addicted to it since working so many opening shifts at the cafe, but even on your day off - when Trixy decides she has to wake you up at the crack of dawn because she hasn’t been fed since the evening before and her bowl is empty and isn’t that tragic - you don’t feel like a person in the morning until you have your daily cup of coffee.
You definitely feel more like a zombie when you crawl back into bed for another hour or so after feeding the wailing cat.
It’s not that late by the time you properly get out of bed for the day, still in your pyjama sweats, and pour the boiling water into your mug already prepped with instant coffee and your fixings. It’s a cold day; there’s still frost from overnight decorating your window that hasn’t fully melted in the sunlight. It hasn’t snowed properly yet, but it’s only a matter of time you think. The building turned on the heat a few weeks ago, thankfully, so while the radiators aren’t super strong they do the trick for the moment.
You lean back against the kitchen counter with your mug clutched in both hands, letting the steam drift up and tickle your face. Are your boots still in okay condition this year? Last winter you put off replacing them, but with the amount of times the buses ran late or were cancelled due to weather you ended up trudging through more snow piles than you would have liked. Maybe this time you spend a little more on better quality boots-
Killer appears immediately in front of you.
“‘sup addy.”
You shriek and jump back, only to whack your hip on the counter. Your coffee nearly spills all over the front of his shirt as he leans in with his hands resting on the counter and trapping you in his space. He doesn’t even flinch at the near miss, while you do a poor job of trying to get your heart rate under control and keep your hands from shaking.
“Killer!” you shout. “What the hell?!” You rub the spot where your hip made contact with the counter’s edge. “A little warning next time? I could have spilled this on you!”
“aw, shame, i would’a had to strip then.” He winks a socket at you with a grin that could only be described as smarmy. There’s no acknowledgement of the very obvious target-shaped soul of his floating in the very narrow space between the two of you. You’re not sure what hot coffee could do to a soul if it made contact, and his nonchalance has you kind of annoyed.
“Why can’t you use the door like everyone else?” you grumble.
“somebody woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.”
“I haven’t had my coffee yet, and I nearly lost it because of you.”
“tch, so grumpy.” Killer places two fingers under your mug and gently pushes it closer to your face, trying to get you to drink it. “you’re just like night. all huffin’ and puffin’ like the resident cryptid until he gets at least one cup in him.”
You roll your eyes, but obliged him by taking a long sip of your coffee. When you pull the mug away, Killer moves in and nuzzles his forehead against yours. He pulls a hand away from the counter and gently massages the sore spot on your hip with his thumb. This is an apology, you’re pretty sure, for nearly scaring the shit out of you.
“got a surprise for you,” he mutters. “wanna see?”
Uh, fine. Guess he can be forgiven.
“If you say it’s your dick, I’m going to pour this coffee down your shorts,” you say flatly. He snickers while you keep a straight face. Even if you’re biting the inside of your lip.
“so much like night.”
“Fiiiinnnneee, what’s the surprise?”
His grin lights up to something more excited - and cute, but is maybe more suspicious than anything else - and pulls you by the elbow over to the opposite side of the room next to your front closet, angled so you can see the whole room, both living and kitchen sides. “‘kay, stay here and don’t move.”
He lets go of your arm before you can say anything and walks over to your couch. He kneels down with the side of his skull against the floor to peek underneath. “ah, figured you were under here, ya little stinker, come here.” Killer reaches out under the couch and carefully extracts a very confused Trixy. You can hear her nails scrape against the floor as she’s abducted from her nap spot and lifted into his arms. He cradles her as he stands up, trying to soothe her with vigorous petting. “you can’t be under there right now.”
“Why not?” you ask, bewildered, as Killer comes back to stand at your side.
He ignores your question entirely as he manages to fish his phone out of his pocket with one hand while holding on to Trixy, and starts to type something on the screen. He pockets the phone again after a while and then just stands there, looking at the rest of the room.
Where absolutely nothing is happening.
“... Killer what are we-”
The shrieking grind of metal is something you’re more or less used to by now, but it still makes you jump in surprise when there’s no prior warning.
… Wait.
You look around the room for the source, but no matter where you look you can’t see the tip of Cross’s sword anywhere. But you can hear it, clearly… though it’s a little lower, as if it were…
Under the couch.
You squat down and sure enough, you can see the tip of the sword poking up from the floor right under the couch, slicing a line longways as if Cross were only standing on the floor below and cutting upwards. You have a funny feeling that he’s not in the apartment below you however.
You do wonder if any of your neighbours can hear the racket that comes with Cross’ super fun portals.
As soon as the blade passes out from under the couch and comes to a certain point on the floor, it’s pulled downwards quickly, disappearing from view. The tear immediately opens and the couch succumbs to whatever gravity is inside the void space and falls through without a sound. The tear seals up as quickly as it opened once the couch disappears from view.
… Well, the living space feels far more roomy now, you suppose.
“… So… was the goal to steal my couch?” you deadpan, for lack of any other conceivable response. “Because if so, congrats. You’ve pulled off the heist of a century.”
Killer shrugs while the cat wriggles furiously in his grip, startled by the noise. “think of it as gettin’ an upgrade.”
When the red blade appears again, you’re not as shaken as before. This time it’s poking down from your ceiling, cutting a straight line in the space above where your couch had been. The noise has Trixy frantically trying to escape Killer’s grip as the sword slices away effortlessly, narrowly missing the light fixture. When the cut reaches a considerable length a new hole opens up in the ceiling…
And a completely different couch falls and lands on your floor with a loud bang, the legs smacking against the hardwood floor with so much force you startle and spring back behind Killer. Horror is lounging across the cushions like he’s Kate Winslet on the set of Titanic, and you’re honestly surprised nothing cracked or broke in the drop. Killer loses his struggle with the cat, and she launches herself to the floor and zooms into your bedroom, probably to hide under the dresser. But now Killer’s arms are free to gesture at the couch like a game show host.
“ta-da!” he cheers.
“ta-da!” Horror echoes, with jazz hands.
You place your hand on your chest. Yup, that’s a racing heart beat from having the shit scared out of you for the second time this morning. “You guys are going to be the death of me,” you mutter.
“aww, come on, ya need a little excitement in your life.” Killer rests an arm around your shoulders and pulls you closer to his side. “what, did you honestly expect us to carry that in ourselves?”
“i could’ve,” Horror offers with a hand raised like a student in class.
Probably with just one arm, you reckon. You give Horror a small smile despite your nerves. “I’m honestly surprised it didn’t break, given that you just fell through my ceiling.”
Horror grins. “it’s a good couch. ‘m a model… for reference.” Horror stretches himself out until he’s flat on his back, arms cocked behind his skull and resting against the arm of the couch, demonstrating that it’s long enough for even someone of his height to probably fall asleep on without feeling cramped and stiff in the morning. It’s certainly a nicer looking couch than yours; the material looks a lot softer, a rich royal blue with cushions that look plush yet supportive, and not like flat cardboard like what you’re used to.
Mind you, your couch was found at the end of someone’s driveway when you first moved into the apartment, so it’s not that high of a bar to jump over.
And with it nearly spanning the length of the living room space, and bumped up against the far wall just to get it to fit, your apartment feels so much more like the shoebox it is.
You move to more closely inspect the new furniture, but Killer’s arm keeps you securely in place at his side. “nuh-uh, not yet,” he chides.
And that’s the only warning you get before the tip of the sword appears through the ceiling again, in a different spot slightly to the left of where the couch ended up. It starts to cut another tear, a smaller one that only takes a moment before it opens up, and a recliner in matching blue falls down and slams to the ground. Dust sits on it, hands clenching the arms as if he didn’t have as fun of a ride on the way down as Horror did.
“okay, now it’s done,” Killer announces as he releases you.
It’s done he says, as if furniture and skeletons flying through the ceiling is a normal occurrence.
A new normal, maybe.
You can only hope that none of your neighbors are home right now, or else someone might be frantically calling the superintendent because of the noise. You may have to explain why it sounded like a bomb went off in your unit. ‘The delivery boys were clumsy bringing in my new furniture’ might not be a sufficient enough excuse.
Now that you’re free to actually look at the new acquisitions, you step up to the chair. It does look like it belongs to the same set as the couch, and is a proper recliner with a lever on the side. Dust helpfully demonstrates the feature by setting the whole thing back as far as it can go and wiggles down into the cushion, a lot more comfortable now than he was a moment ago plummeting through the portal.
“whad’ya think dimples?” Dust asks.
You’re not sure what to think, if you’re being honest with yourself. “I’m… They’re very nice, I’m just a little… confused, I think.” You run your hand down the arm of the chair, and it is very nice feeling fabric. Nice, and probably expensive, though you’re not sure if this was an actual purchase or an ‘acquisition’ from a recent mission. You’re also not sure if you’ve done anything to deserve something like this. “You look like you had a fun ride, by the way.”
Dust shrugs. “it’s not my favourite way to travel, but it’s the fastest.”
“i had fun,” Horror snickers. He slowly sits back up and shifts around on the cushion to make room on the couch again. He pats the spot next to him. “come. sit.”
You oblige, and are happy to discover that the couch is also as soft as it looks, but it just has you questioning yourself further. It’s not like your birthday is coming up or anything, and while you’ve been trying to save up for some actually decent furniture you haven’t really said anything about it to the boys. You can’t remember the last time someone just… gifted you something, just because.
You don’t think you’ve ever gotten that kind of treatment.
Horror wraps an arm across your shoulders like Killer had before, and tucks you into his side while Killer throws himself on your other side, rocking the couch a bit with his landing. You can see there’s enough space for at least one more, which is probably a good thing as Cross’ sword appears again, this time vertically along the wall. The sword reaches the floor and the tear opens, allowing Cross to finally step through and close it up behind him.
“Oh, sweet, I got the positions right!” The sword crumbles away with a shake of his hand, and he takes up the remaining space on the couch next to Killer, leaning back with a sigh.
“so, you still haven’t said what you think,” Dust points out. The way he looks at you, with slightly narrowed sockets and sharp eyelights, tells you he’s picked up on your insecurity.
“Well… I just…” You struggle to put into words exactly what you’re feeling; that you appreciate the gifts, but you don’t feel like you deserve them. That you're worthy of them in the first place.
Worthy of the gifts… or something else?
“there don’t gotta be a reason… to treat you nice. or anyone nice,” Horror explains, leaning in a bit as your shoulders sag and you draw into yourself, feeling your cheeks run hot and your heart start to pound from something other than panic. “you deserve… to have nice things. and ya don’t have to do anything for it… it’s not a reward.”
It’s not, it shouldn’t be, you know that. You just, never thought it could apply to you too, or should for that matter. You’ve always been the type to try and give as much as possible, even if it wasn’t much, feeling like it made up for any shortcomings you’re convinced you have. But when it comes to receiving, it’s hard not to look the gift horse in the mouth. To question, to try and figure out the balance of what’s now owed.
So that you don’t end up in debt again.
No matter how many times you promised yourself that you were finally going to buy the things you wanted, you couldn’t. Worried that those funds would be needed for something else. Worried that the worst would happen again and you had to start over. Again. Again and again. Never allowed to find that place you could call home.
Even when you thought you found it, it was ripped away from you.
“You’ve been having a rough couple of weeks, we wanted to help,” Cross adds softly.
“you don’t really treat yourself, so we’re doin’ it for you,” Dust points out.
“... Thank you.” You wonder if your voice is as quiet to them as it sounds to you, but you think if you speak any louder you won’t be able to hold back as many emotions as you’re feeling right now. You take a sip of your coffee, nearly forgotten and still in your hands, and a bit lukewarm now, but it does the trick of steadying yourself. “... Where did you send the other couch anyways?”
“the trash,” everyone says immediately and nearly in unison. The word ‘trash’ is said with such venom that you realize… none of them are actually talking about a garbage dump.
“weeeelllllll, we gotta make some modifications first.” Killer rests the sole of his sneaker on the edge of your coffee table, his knee bouncing with something like excitement, his grin the same kind of grin he gets when talking about a mission that went particularly to his liking.
“then it’s getting thrown out with the garbage,” Dust mutters darkly, his glee a similar level of manic.
… Well, good thing you made them promise not to do anything that would result in casualties.
“‘sides, now we got enough room for this,” Killer says as he pulls out his Switch from his phone inventory. “anyone fancy a game?”
“You just brought that over to get around the ‘no Mario Party’ rule Night made,” Cross accuses.
“what’s a’matter criss-cross, worried you’ll lose again?” Killer leaps off of the couch to plug the system into your tv. He fishes wires and cords out of his inventory and starts to fiddle around to get everything set up.
“I’m worried you’ll burn down half the apartment complex if you lose by bonus stars again.” Cross stands and stretches, his joints popping as his arms lift high towards the ceiling. He lets his arms fall back down with a sigh. “I’m going to go grab us some breakfast, everybody want the usual?”
He says it like it’s the easiest thing in the world, like he’s just going to take a stroll downstairs and around the corner like this is just another normal day for him.
And it is.
You’ve been struggling to figure out where you fit in all this, where your puzzle piece fits in their already completed collage. But maybe you’re too busy trying to examine the trees that you’re missing the forest. Maybe you don’t have to figure it all out, because they already have.
They brought you a couch because you needed a new one, and even if the old one was falling apart they knew you would have a hard time justifying the purchase to yourself. They brought you a bigger couch so that everyone could have more room, because this has become their space as much as yours.
The part that you’re having a hard time accepting is that as far as they’re concerned, you’re part of it too.
Maybe this didn’t become the new normal when you joined the poly. Not the teleporting furniture to replace the ones you had that were falling apart. Not the shenanigans and the unannounced visits on days when you feel particularly lonely.
Providing the things you need before you’re brave enough to admit to yourself that you need them in the first place.
Maybe this became the normal for you a lot earlier, and you just didn’t realize it.
And maybe it’s time to do them a favour and do something that’s hard for you right now.
“Sounds good. Thank you.” You say it like you’re responding to Cross’ question. But you mean it in so many more ways, and you think you can tell they understand that too. Cross nods and squeezes you on the shoulder. Horror’s hug becomes a little more cozy, Dust’s grin becomes a little more warm. Killer hands you a controller and slides into the space he vacated, sandwiching you that much more. They’ve been saying it all along, and it’s time you started listening.
You’re going to try and trust that they want you too.
***
“... AND SO I SAID TO MARLA, ‘MARLA, YOU ARE AN EXCEPTIONAL WOMAN OF MANY TALENTS BUT PERHAPS POTTERY IS NOT ONE OF THEM’ WHILE WE WAITED FOR THE FIRE DEPARTMENT TO PUT OUT THE BLAZE,” Crooks explains as he swipes through pictures on his phone. He leans forward to show one to Papyrus, sitting opposite him at the kitchen table. “SEE, THAT’S WHAT WAS LEFT OF THE POTTERY WHEEL THAT STARTED IT ALL. I’VE NEVER SEEN ANYTHING IGNITE WITH SUCH FEROCITY BEFORE, AND WE USED TO MAKE BONFIRES ON A REGULAR BASIS!”
If Papyrus recalls why Crooks and his brother used to make bonfires, he shows no sign of it as he inspects the photos on Crooks’ laughably small phone. Sans, on the other hand, obviously picks up on it, but Crooks is proud to see that his flinch has become so much less noticeable over the years, and Sans just focuses on eating his very late breakfast pancakes. Lunch pancakes.
Early dinner pancakes, if Crooks had to be specific.
“GOLLY,” Papyrus gasps, “AND ALL OF THAT STARTED FROM THE CLAY? NOT THE MOTOR?”
Crooks nods, slipping his phone back into the front pocket of his shirt. He peels the tape off the side of his skull to remove his reading glasses. “WHERE MARLA GOT THE IDEA THAT THE LIQUIDS IN THE FLAMMABLE MATERIAL CABINET WOULD WORK BETTER THAN WATER IS ANYONE’S GUESS. THE IMPORTANT THING IS THAT NO ONE WAS HURT, AND THE FIRE ONLY CAUSED ENOUGH STRUCTURAL DAMAGE TO DEMOLISH THE ROOM, NOT THE WHOLE BUILDING.”
“shame ‘bout your class being cancelled. between that and the weather shuttin’ down your garden, you won’t have anything to do now,” Sans muses. “you might end up being as lazy as me.”
“NO,” Crooks and Papyrus both answer in unison. A reminder that they are, in some ways, the still same person.
“aw, not even a little bit?”
“IT JUST MEANS I GET TO FIT MORE THINGS INTO MY ITINERARY! MAYBE SOMEONE WILL START AN ICE SCULPTING CLASS IN THE WINTER, OR… DOES ANYONE HEAR THAT?”
Because Crooks is sure that skeleton monsters can’t develop tinnitus, so that buzzing has to be coming from somewhere.
Papyrus looks around, but nothing obvious stands out in the kitchen. Sans even sits up straighter to try and listen in, his pancakes momentarily abandoned in the pool of ketchup and maple syrup. “kind’s sounds like cicadas outside,” he suggests.
That can’t be right. They aren’t due to see cicadas emerge in this part of the country for another two years, Crooks keeps a careful watch for any kind of insect that could threaten the young plants in his garden. But it does sound like an electrical hum, like an overhead wire buzzing in the heat of summer. Except it’s not hot and it’s not summer anymore, and the perks of being somewhat remote means they don’t have wires like that near the house anyways.
Just as suddenly as it started, the buzzing stops. For a split second, Crooks can see how Sans’ eyelights shrink a fraction, and his gaze is drawn downwards towards the basement…
The loud BANG and crash of metal that follows definitely comes from out front however.
Papyrus immediately springs up and bolts for the front door, Crooks following behind as quickly as his lanky limbs can take him. Papyrus whips open the door, and it’s immediately obvious what made the noise.
Red’s motorcycle lies on the driveway in pieces. Crooks can see the shattered mirrors off to the side, where they landed after popping off the handlebar and flying through the air. There’s a tire still rolling down the asphalt before it bounces off of Blue’s car and falls over, setting off the little two-door Hyundai’s alarm. The motorcycle’s engine is completely crushed and leaking oil all around the carnage. It hasn’t even made it past six months from the date of purchase, and now it lies in a mangled heap, inexplicably crushed by a small couch with fraying fabric.
Crooks doesn’t recognize the couch at all, nor can he figure out where the couch could have come from to crush Red’s bike like this. Did it fall from a plane overhead? Terrible luck to have landed exactly where it has then.
But speaking of Red…
“what th’ fuck!” screams the skeleton in question, pushing past Sans, Crooks and Papyrus to survey the damage. He stomps up to the wreck of his bike, making several noises of confusion, gesturing at the couch and his bike and looking back at them as if someone could explain how one ended up crushing the other. “whuh… wh… th’ fuckin’... wah…”
“hmmm, well… huh.” Sans tilts his skull up towards the sky as if he could catch the source of the flying couch.
“YOU’RE TRYING TO THINK OF A PUN, AREN’T YOU?” Papyrus asks, his tone revealing that he already knows the answer.
“... when pigs fly… when couches fly…” Sans mutters, then shrugs. “nah, i got nothin’.”
“WHAT’S GOING ON?” Blue appears from inside the house, stepping around Sans so he can witness the comotion first hand. “WHY IS THE ALARM... OH WOW… IS THAT A COUCH?”
“what the flying fu-”
One of the cushions bursts with a loud POP that echos like a thunder clap, throwing confetti high into the sky to rain down all over the driveway.
Red shortcuts back a few feet. Crooks flinches. Papyrus moves to stand in front of both him and Sans. Blue leaps forward with a blue bone attack summoned and ready to use.
A crude mechanical arm, shoddily fused and welded together, pokes out from the now exposed interior of the couch. There’s a sign taped to it, one of those cheap plastic signs you can find in the party section of dollar bin stores, with big bubble letters that read ‘CONGRATULATIONS! IT’S A BOY!’. Except the second line is crossed out, and an alternate line is painted on in bright red paint underneath, making the sign read:
‘CONGRATULATIONS! YOU’RE AN ASSHOLE!’
Amazing how that one little note adds enough context to figure everything out.
Crooks, Papyrus, Sans and Blue all share a knowing look, then shift their attention to Red, staring at the sign with a complicated expression. There’s a part of Crooks that still admits Red deserves this call out; for as much as he was put in a bad situation, randomly crossing paths with a soulmate - who by all rights shouldn’t exist - while in a committed relationship with someone else, how Red handled the events afterwards was less than great. Almost all of them agree on that, even if he’s been more or less forgiven.
There’s another part of Crooks, however, that sees this for what it is. The darker part from days he prefers to leave behind in the past.
A threat.
“I THINK,” Blue says slowly, dissipating his bone attack since there’s no actual danger at the moment, “I THINK WE SHOULD HAVE THAT FAMILY MEETING NOW.”
Yes, Crooks supposes, maybe it’s time that they do just that.
Notes:
ES-CA-LA-TION! CLAP! CLAP! CLAP-CLAP-CLAP.
@feallangilyvor on Tumblr
Chapter 17: The Days We Feel Small
Summary:
The weight of a mask is too heavy some days, but Addison doesn’t have to be alone to pick up the pieces of herself.
Chapter Tags: Post panic attack, or more like post-post panic attack. The day after a panic attack. Discussion of complicated emotions and a reminder that people are allowed to feel the ugly ones. Brief mention of past familial abuse.
For a bit of context, this takes place the morning after “Those Unsaid Things”, and only a few days before “Special Delivery”. There’s a timeline reading order pinned on my tumblr.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The first thing you recognize when you wake up is that your legs are stiff. You’re on your side, and you’ve got your legs curled almost up to your chest. Strange, you usually like to spread out like molasses and claim your territory of mattress.
The second thing you recognize is that you’re not actually laying on your mattress in the first place. Your mattress isn’t the best but it’s far softer than whatever you’re on now; the cushion feels thin, not plush, like it’s deflated from use and time.
Opening your eyes, you find yourself in your living room, on your couch and curled facing outwards towards the rest of the room. Bright sunlight pours in from outside between blinds that are half drawn. The light is too clear and too intense to be anything other than mid to late morning. You pull a hand out from under the blanket to rub your face, feeling the little bumps and ridges on your cheek from sleeping on the accent pillow.
Why on Earth would you have slept on your couch? It’s hardly long enough for two people to sit on it, let alone lay out on it overnight.
Then you remember…
Behind a closet door, huddled broken and raw, but safe in the confines of the darkness.
… That you were definitely not on your couch when you fell asleep last night.
It's about now that you hear the persistent and high-pitched meowing of someone asking to be fed off to the side.
“Why are you asking for more? You just ate twenty minutes ago.”
There’s another meow in response, long and drawn out.
“No, I’m not mistaken. I was the one who filled your bowl, remember?”
A short, clipped meow, and you can almost picture the pouting face.
“Nice try, but I very much doubt that Addison feeds you fifty times a day.”
You push yourself up enough to see Nightmare standing in your kitchen, arms crossed over his chest and in an intense staring match with Trixy, who’s sitting pretty on the floor and peering up with equal resolve. Her tail twitches at the same rate as Nightmare’s tentacles, and the two remain locked in their unspoken argument.
It’s not exactly the scene you expected to wake up to.
You sit up fully, untangling yourself from the blanket that had been folded around you like a tortilla around its fillings. You’re still wearing your clothes from the day before, and everything feels stiff and itchy. Your skin prickles and tingles as your nerves wake up, and you almost shudder with a sudden craving for a fresh shower. You stretch your arms out high, trying to work out the knot in your upper spine and roll your shoulders.
And yet, you are still so very tired.
Your movements unsurprisingly alert the other two, since one has heightened sensitivity to noise. And the other is a cat. Trixy prances to you with a happy chirp and buts up against your leg, probably hoping that she’ll be more successful in convincing you that she’s been starving since yesterday.
… Yesterday.
… Oh shit.
You toss off the blanket and hop up to your feet. Trixy startles and scurries under the couch. You pat down your pockets, only to find them empty. Phone? Phone, where did you put it? You dash to where you hung up your coat. Fuck, where did you leave your phone? “I, I have to get to work,” you say loudly, panic rising in the back of your throat.
“Addison-”
Right, Nightmare’s here. Well, he’ll understand. Just explain. “I have a morning shift.” Your words spill out in a rush as you scour through the pockets of your coat. No, not here. Think. Your wallet’s still in its pocket, and you know you took your phone out when Edge knocked on the door, so where did it go?
“Addison.”
Fuck, your manager’s probably been calling you, wondering where you were. You promised you would come in. You promised. You are so fired. you can’t lose this job, you’ve got bills to pay. This isn’t fair. Why does everything that’s even remotely related to your ex make you so discombobulated that you can’t even get through a fucking day without failing and-
A tentacle slithers in front of your face, your phone coiled securely by it.
“I spoke with your manager earlier,” Nightmare explains, while you take your phone back. He’s still standing by your kitchen sink, hands tucked into his pant pockets. “I explained that you were feeling unwell, and that you needed the day to rest.”
“... I… that… umm. She believed you?”
Nightmare shrugs. “It was a scheduling mistake that landed you the shift in the first place, it didn’t take much to convince her.” He pauses. “... I did have to explain that I wasn’t the ‘tall one that wears black and white’. She may wish to gossip with you the next time you see her, so I’m sorry for that.”
Well, that must have been an interesting conversation. An awkward conversation.
An interestingly awkward conversation.
You haven’t exactly kept your manager - or anyone at work really - in the loop about your new relationships. It’s not like you’re all that close with any of them, you think only your manager knows that you had gone through ‘a really bad break up’ before you started working there. And even then you kept details light.
It is probably getting harder to hide that something’s up though, with the frequency that Cross comes to visit you, and how obvious it is that he has eyelights only for you when he does. If any of the others decide to show up too, you might be in trouble.
What are they going to think when they find out he’s not your only boyfriend?
“I apologize for going through your phone for the contact information, I didn’t want to wake you.” He pauses again, and looks at you with a slight tilt of his skull. Nightmare’s always been unreadable, an enigma with a poker face that could bankrupt Vegas. You’re used to reading the expressions off a normal skeleton Monster’s face, but Nightmare… you’re not sure if it’s the goop that perpetually covers his body that throws you off, or if Nightmare is just that good at controlling every micro expression.
There’s a talent you wish you had.
After staying silent for a moment, he takes a measured step forward. The tentacles hover behind him, always moving about but hanging back. “Are you alright?” he asks carefully.
‘Yes’ almost slips out of your mouth automatically. You’re fine, of course you’re fine, why wouldn’t you be fine? Is this because of last night? It’s fine, it’s over now, you cried your eyes out and went to sleep. Time to put yourself back together and go on about your day. It’s fine.
So why are the words getting stuck in your throat?
“I… I guess I could use a change of clothes.” You know, because you’re not going to work anymore. They probably stink. You probably stink. You run your fingers through your hair, running into knots and the grit of oil build-up. “... Maybe a shower.”
Nightmare opens his mouth, but changes his mind on whatever he was going to say. He nods instead. “Do what you need to do. I can sort out breakfast.”
Breakfast, right. That’s probably a thing you should have. You watch him pull out his own phone, and for a moment you wonder if he’s going to order food with it. Does he order food, or does he rely on Horror’s cooking everyday? Can they get delivery in his realm? Is there a multiversal delivery service? Uber Eats that can cross universal boundaries? What would the delivery fees look like?
… Why are you stuck on this?
When you realize that he’s staring at you, his socket narrowed to a teal slit, you abruptly leave him in the kitchen and go to your bedroom. Should probably take that shower now. You pull out fresh clothes from your dresser; no work today means that you can dress however you like. Even if it feels a little cheap. This isn’t worth a day off. You’ve worked dead on your feet before. You’ve worked while mentally stuck a million miles away.
You’ve worked while shaking, raw, a thread’s width away from having a breakdown in the back room. Just pull yourself together, they’d say, as the pieces of you scatter and slip away.
Put your mask back on.
Leaving your phone on the dresser, you carry your chosen outfit to the bathroom, closing the door behind you. You set the clothes on the toilet seat and start the water for your shower, waiting for it to reach a decent temperature before turning the knob to switch the flow from the tub to the showerhead. You peel off your clothes, and it’s about now that you feel how every muscle pulls stiffly, and your movement slows to a sluggish crawl as you step over the rim of the tub and under the stream.
The first shiver is one of reflex; the water always feels colder than it should be against your bare skin. The water in this building never quite gets as hot as you would like, but it gets to an okay point. But even when it gets as hot as it will go, the jerky shivering doesn’t stop. You twitch and spasm as you stand under the water.
You wonder if Edge will show back up at some point now that he knows where you live. He’s never been one to back down and give up in defeat; a momentary retreat to regroup, sure, Edge has never been able to not look at things like some strategist, always in a war even during peacetime. He’s not going to leave this alone, not that it’s been brought to his attention and he obviously feels like he’s trying to help.
How dare you not want his help.
You tilt your head back, and let the water pound against your forehead along your hairline. How did he find you in the first place? No, wait, that’s a stupid question. You know exactly who either already had that information, or who knew the tricks and techniques to track you down. He made you fucking promise to stay away from everyone, so that they wouldn’t be unfairly dragged in the middle of the breakup but Wine apparently doesn’t have to follow the same rule.
Your fingers twitch and curl into tight fists. The tips of your nails dig little trenches into the skin of your palm. You bite down on your lip, gentle, then hard enough to cause a blister.
Edge had to have known how you would react if he pressed in just the wrong way. He knows , they all know that coming off too strong sets off memories of individuals better left in the past, that you can’t control those associations once they start.
But you knew that implying he was a liar - even if it’s true - pushes the wrong buttons for him, wounds his pride and his adherence to whatever code of honor he holds himself to. So who set off who last night? Who stopped trying to listen and got stuck in their own narrative?
Are you blaming yourself?
Yes.
You should probably put shampoo in your hair, shouldn’t you? That’s the whole point of a shower, getting clean. Or did you forget? You squirt a palmful of shampoo and slap it on top of your head, massaging your scalp with robotic ministrations, ignoring the way the rim of your eyes sting with exhaustion and something else you’re desperately trying to keep from bubbling out.
It probably takes you too long to finish in the shower. It’s not like there’s a clock hanging anywhere, and it’s amazing how much time slips away down the drain when you just stare vacantly at the wall in front of you. You’re disappointed, but not really surprised to discover that you still feel as stiff putting on your clothes as you did before you stepped under the showerhead. You rub your temples, pressing hard down to the bone like you’re trying to rub out a headache. The burn doesn’t fade away.
It never helps.
You sigh quietly, standing alone in your room for a floaty minute. You’re not going to lie, the bed is awfully tempting right now, but in a last desperate attempt to cling to something normal you shake your head and walk back into the living room. Nightmare said there would be breakfast, so you’re going to sit and eat breakfast. “Hey, so,” you start, but as Nightmare turns and looks at you…
There’s no judgement in his expression, you know that, but under the weight of his stare you want to whither and fold yourself away, at least until you can hide away the absolute mess of feelings you don’t want to deal with right now. You don’t want him to see you like this, you realize, not when the mask is starting to crack away and even the words ‘I’m fine’ tastes like the bitter lie it is.
But you can’t.
You want to deflect and shoo away his concern for you.
But you can’t.
You just want to keep the mask on and pretend for one more day.
But you can’t.
When you feel the first trickle of an escaped tear out from the corner of your eye, followed by another, and another, you shut your eyes.You dare them to try and leak out between the lids, and you stupidly are dismayed to realize that closing your eyes hasn’t stopped them at all, closing your eyes is worse because you’re back at your door while Edge looms over you telling you he disapproves-
Nightmare’s touch on your cheek is chilled, his stroke soft as his thumb brushes away the tears. You open your eyes and meet his gaze, and this time you can understand the look of sadness and sympathy, concern and a silent question.
For all that he knows his boys inside and out, knows exactly what to do and how to comfort on each of their bad days… this is his first time seeing you on one of yours, when you can’t ignore things anymore, when you feel like garbage and none of your usual coping mechanisms work. On days like this all you can do is lay in bed, sore for no reason, tired but unable to sleep, your mind running laps reliving painful memories until it just shuts off in self-defense.
On days like this you feel so very alone.
You wish you were brave enough to ask for company.
No words come, they never do, but you tilt your head forward, steeling yourself for a rejection you’re already convinced you’re going to get. You so fucking relived in stead when he understands the gesture and pulls you in for a tight hug, tucking your face in the juncture of his neck. Arms wrap around your body, and tentacles worm their way around you until there’s no denying the feeling of being held. You fold your fingers into the cloth of his coat, and it feels like pressing into bread dough.
“It’s so stupid,” you mutter, trying to apologize, justify, give excuses for, you’re not even sure anymore. The tears just flow quietly and get absorbed into the sludge covering his vertebrae.
“No, no it’s not,” Nightmare assures. His fingers comb through your hair, still wet from the shower. “Don’t try to bury your feelings. Just let them out.”
Easier said than done when you’ve spent a lifetime constructing those walls around the pain, to keep it locked in and away from view. To be honest out in the open, where someone else can see and judge…
But Nightmare’s not like that. You know that. You’re talking to the one being in the universe, the multiverse, who understands. All you have to do, is open your mouth, and say it…
“… He made me feel small,” you manage to spit out. The next sentence comes marginally easier. “He made me feel like a child, like… like I’m not allowed to, to make my own decisions.” You take a breath, a sharp inhale as everything starts to bubble up. “Like I can’t take care of myself, like I need his approval forever because I dated his brother, and-”
You grit your teeth when you choke on a sob, and your fingers twist in his coat so hard you may end up tearing it. There’s no stopping the word vomit now. “He reminded me of my father and I’m angry. I feel stupid and small and like I’m a whiney baby and I’m angry. He ignored me - they all ignored me before and I’m so angry! I hate being angry! I hate it! I can’t do anything with this!”
Your breath hitches on another sob, and you choke on your cries some more while Nightmare rubs your back. Your words come out faster and faster as your voice rises in pitch. “I don’t know what to do with this! I’m so fucking angry but I have to pretend I’m okay because I’m not allowed to get upset everytime I see the fucking word ‘soulmate’! I’m not allowed to be angry at Red because I have to be the better that that and I’m not allowed to be angry that my family made me a fucking broken person becuase I have to ‘rise about it’ and pull my bootstraps up and be a model survivor and I hate it! I hate it so much!”
It’s astounding how fast the flame burns out, how quickly you go from angry crying to just numb exhaustion. You think that if Nightmare wasn’t holding on to you tightly, you’d be on the floor in a miserable puddle of bonelessness. He sways lightly, rocking you like a tree limb shifting in the breeze.
“… I’m so tired of this,” you mumble. You’re not even sure if you’re talking anymore or just mouthing the words. “I’m just so tired. I just want to move on.”
“You will. There will come a day when this is all easier, that I promise you.” He keeps his skull tilted low, talking quietly against your temple. “Never worry about trying to keep up appearances. Not with us. Not with me. You’re safe with us.”
‘Safe’ is still such a foreign concept, and even now there’s a part of your mind that’s screaming about being too open, too vulnerable, that you need to pull everything back and keep it locked away under the lid. But you just… you just can’t today. You don’t have enough strength to keep things locked under that lid.
Maybe it was a good thing Nightmare called in sick for you.
“I hate feeling like this. It sucks.”
“I know. But it’s better that you work through this. It hurts more to keep everything locked away. Here, come.” Without disentangling from you too much, Nightmare walks you over to your couch and sits you down. He folds the blanket over your lap before taking a seat next to you. Between his bulk and the tentacles, and the general smallness of the couch, he’s almost wedged in the spot next to you. He keeps an arm around your shoulders, and his other hand holds on to yours.
The ambient light hurts now that you no longer have your eyes shut, but it could also be from crying yourself out again. You lean over to rest your head on his shoulder and close your eyes. You feel him lean his skull against the top of your head. “I don’t know how,” you say quietly.
When life throws you lemons, you shove the lemons so far into the fridge that you forget about them until they mold. All because you never learned how to make lemonade. An awful amount of people in your life have told you to ‘deal with it’, but no one actually wants to stick around to help you ‘deal with it’. No one wants to be around someone feeling those ugly emotions, society runs on people hiding them from view.
Nightmare makes a humming noise, rumbling against your head in an almost soothing way. This is the closest you’ve ever been with him, now that you think about it. “When I was younger,” he says quietly, “We were taught about good feelings, and bad feelings. Every feeling is important, but our mother told us that the job of good feelings was to make the bad ones go away.”
You hold your breath and listen, because you can’t remember a time when Nightmare told you anything about the time before he became what he is today. You’ve never heard him bring up a parent, and while you know who the other sibling in the spoken ‘us’ refers to… he’s not usually a subject Nightmare ever brings up himself.
“For so long, I believed her. I believed that my only job was to make sure the negativity in the universe didn’t get too strong, so that… so that the positivity could wash it all away. But it doesn’t solve anything. It doesn’t allow for complexity, doesn’t allow for the things that can’t be neatly sorted between two boxes. It doesn’t allow anyone to work through their negative feelings, to understand. To overcome, and come out stronger. I only came to understand that later… and by then it was too late.”
What it was too late for, Nightmare doesn’t elaborate. There’s a small spark of anger at the realization that their mother, intentionally or not, set up a situation where the brothers would always be against each other, and while Nightmare isn’t the picture of moral perfection, you think you understand where he’s coming from a bit better.
And you think you understand the things you’ve heard about Dream a bit better too.
“Family sucks,” is the simple conclusion you draw from it.
“They do,” Nightmare agrees. “I prefer to choose mine.” He thumbs over your knuckles and gives your hand a squeeze. “There are ways to manage your emotions, to express your feelings to not be consumed by them. Your upbringing never gave you the tools, but I can help you.” He pauses. “… It doesn’t involve murder.”
You snort. It’s wet sounding and weak, but it’s the first sign of laughter you’ve shown since yesterday. “I hope not… I think I’d make a terrible henchman. I can’t fight for shit.”
He taps on your chin, and lifts your head up enough for you to look into his eyelight. “You are stronger than you give yourself credit for. Do not let anyone convince you otherwise,” he says with enough conviction you’re reminded that he is something stronger than human or Monster, that he’s a Guardian, capital ‘G’, and you have no choice but to believe him. “… But no, I won’t put you in a position where you have to fight.”
The vibration between your sides startles you. Nightmare grumbles and pulls out his phone and checks something with a small scowl. Then he sighs and rolls his eyelight. “Of course,” he mutters.
“Is it the guys?”
“No, they’ve been out on a mission with limited contact. This is breakfast helpfully reminding me that it’s ready.”
You tilt your head in confusion, and your mind wanders back to the idea of Nightmare ordering take out when he opens a small portal of darkness next to the couch. It’s only big enough for a tentacle to slither in and disappear in the void for a moment, before coming back out carrying a tray with two carry out cups on it. The tray is placed on the coffee table while another tentacle disappears into the portal and pulls out a box of pastries. You lean around Nightmare to try and see where it’s all coming from, but you only manage to catch a brief glimpse of a silhouette of someone before the portal closes.
“There we are, breakfast is served.”
One of the tentacles pulls out a cup from the tray and hands it to you. It’s light blue, with a pale pink cardboard sleeve. You don’t recognize the logo on the cup, or on the top of the box, a stylized shape of a cat head with long whiskers behind a cup with steam rising. “Where is this from?” You pull the top off and take a sniff, picking up on the distinct scent of pumpkin spice.
“An associate. One of the few I trust with food after Horror. Here, take your pick.” He holds the open box for you, filled with donuts and danishes, croissants and cookies popping with colour. It’s probably a bad idea, but you just want to stuff your face with all of it right now. You settle on what looks like a raspberry cream cheese danish.
You pause before taking a bite when you notice Nightmare putting the box back on the table without picking something himself. “Aren’t you going to have any?”
“Hmm, oh, no. I’m alright with just coffee. This is all for you.” He picks up his own cup and takes a sip of what you’re pretty sure is just black coffee.
“No, come on, I can’t eat all of this. That’s very sweet of you, but you have to share with me… What?” You ask when Nightmare levels you with a look that he usually reserves for one of the boys when… oh, you just caught what you said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean the pun,” you say sheepishly. “I mean it’s sweet as in, not, you know… just take a damn pastry.”
Nightmare sighs. “I can never get away from puns, even the unintentional ones hound me,” he grumbles like the perfect straight-man, but you’re happy when he does pick up a buttery croissant from himself. “The boys would be proud of you for filling the void while they’re away.”
That’s nice, you never really feel particularly funny. You take a sip of your drink, and it’s delightfully light and frothy and just the right level of sweet for you right now. “Where are they? Are they going to be gone long?”
“They’re scouting a universe for me, nothing more serious than that. They should be finished soon.” Nightmare tilts his skull, and his eyelight pulses for a moment. Then he scowls again. “… And given that they appear to all be incredibly drunk right now, their mission better have been successful.” He sighs deeply, with a healthy mix of disappointment and exasperation. “I may have to go collect them at some point before they do something stupid.”
You frown. Nightmare’s got other things he needs to worry about. Like, a literal multiverse to balance the spectrum of emotions of. And he’s been wasting his time with you and your problems, so miniscule in comparison. “Look, if you need to go, I don’t-”
“No.” You turn and face the full weight of his stare. “Do not put yourself down. You are important and worthy of being cared for. I’m here because I wish to be, and I will be here for as long as you need me.”
Oh. Oh, he shouldn’t say something like that when you’re still feeling raw and unable to control any kind of emotion right now, when everything feels ten times stronger and more intense. You take a bite out of the danish, and it’s just as flakey and delicious as it looks. Can’t cry with your mouth full.
Nightmare gently pulls on your head until it lies back on his shoulder. He starts running his fingers through your hair again with gentle massaging. You know he can feel every surge and dip of your emotions, so he can probably understand why you don’t talk for the next while. He doesn’t pry for anything from you, and at some point he starts to tell you stories about other universes that he’s discovered over the past century. You listen, letting the words soothe and calm you, inspire good dreams and chase away the bad and give you the resolve to pull the scattered pieces of yourself back together again.
Notes:
You know how they say that authors don’t really write the story, the characters do? I had to rewrite this chapter three times because Addison just would not actually talk about her feelings.
Sigh.
@feallangilyvor on tumblr
Chapter 18: When the Sunshine Chases the Shadows Away
Summary:
Everyone needs a break from the routines of life, and what better way to relax than with a trip to a secluded beach!
Chapter Tags: Uhhh, how to tag for this one… panic attack, existential horror, and a single mention of a deceased pet by a minor character (don’t worry, Trixy and Cheeseburger are fine).
Hey everyone, sorry about the lack of update last week. Life sort of smacked me in the head and I had to take a little bit of extra time to sort that out. But all's good! And I return with a beach episode with our favourite gang! Everything's going to be great!
In case some of you missed it, I also took part in Kross Week last week, so if you happen to enjoy Cross and Killer be adorable loving goofballs, check it out over here!
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The strangest thing about the beach is that it lacks the chorus of squawks from seagulls.
Maybe it’s because there are no seagulls native to this beach, to this part of the world. Or maybe there are no seagulls period in this universe.
There are birds, but they look like birds of prey, and they fly alone in low circles over the water. Once in a while one of them would suddenly dive into the surf, and swoop back out with a wriggling fish in their claws, and cart it away to the nearby cliff face and be replaced by another hungry bird looking for a meal.
The cliffs are massive. Giant pillars of rock hundreds and hundreds of feet high, topped with a cap of green plants and mosses that spill over the sides. The pillars are more narrow towards the bottom, and stand at weird angles that give the impression that this was all underwater long ago before the waters receded, and maybe in another millenia those pillars will succumb to the erosion of the waves that crash on them constantly and crumble, taking all those bird nests, plants and ecosystems down with them.
The water is a deep rich blue, reflecting the near cloudless sky above. The waters are not quiet, but not chaotic and churning. The ocean is active, alive, and ebbs and flows on the sandy shores of the secluded beach, with sand bright orange almost like terracotta, fine and soft between your toes as your feet sink into it.
“canon-baaaaaallllllllll!”
The birds squawk and inelegantly flap out of the path of the plummeting skeleton who thought it would be a good idea to leap into the ocean from the top of one of the pillars.
Killer rockets down, closing the distance between himself and the water, but before anyone can discover what happens when a skeleton Monster hits a body of water while travelling at terminal speed his body is enveloped by a faint blue glow and he dramatically slows down, coming to a full stop hovering about five feet from the surface of the water.
“oh come on!” he shouts, dismayed. He twists in the air as best he can to level a glare at Dust standing way off on the shore. “fuckin’ party pooper!”
The only give away that Dust is using magic at all is the intense glow of his left eyelight under the brim of his cap. “we just got here, and you’re giving cross heart palpitations,” he counters, shouting back and sounding tired at the same time.
“he doesn’t have a heart!” Killer yells. He twists some more like a lone leaf stuck on a branch before giving up and hanging limply in the air. “i would’a been fine, it wasn’t gonna k-”
Killer cuts off as he’s suddenly released and drops with a yelp, landing with a large splash into the water below. Dust takes a moment to watch the spot where Killer submerged, then calmly makes his way back to where you, Horror, Nightmare and Cross had been setting up towels and coolers on a little ways up from the shoreline.
You tap on Cross’s arm. “Okay, you can look now. Dust caught him.”
Cross does not take his hands away from his sockets, where he’s been busy grinding the heel of his palms trying to render himself blind to the near-tragedy. “Maybe it’s better if I don’t. Everything’s so much better if I. Don’t. Look.”
“he’s gonna keep doing it, to get a reaction outta you,” Horror points out. He grabs one of the two massive umbrellas and slams the pole deep into the sand, where nothing short of a hurricane would knock it over. He releases the catch and the umbrella springs open, revealing a colourful pattern of swimming fishes.
“That’s why I’ll keep them closed forever. If I can’t see it, I can’t react to it.”
“You know that’s not going to work with Killer,” Nightmare points out. He’s already reclining on a lounge chair that he pulled in through one of his portals, tentacles spilling off the sides and completely at rest. He had dressed for the occasion, sort of. He is wearing a pair of shorts and a shirt that could possibly be Hawaiian style, but it’s hard to tell as everything became covered in a thin layer of goop shortly after he dressed. Looks like you’re doomed to never know if Nightmare actually owns a patterned shirt.
Cross sighs in resignation, pulling his hands away and blinking his eyelights back on. “Just let me pretend for a few minutes,” he mumbles.
Nightmare pulls out a book, one with a plain cover and a title in a language you don’t recognize, and calmly flips to the bookmark placed somewhere in the middle of it. “Suit yourself, but you won’t enjoy much in the way of relaxation, unless you want to take a page from my book and literally ignore him. Thank you Horror,” he adds, just as Horror rams the second umbrella deep into the sand to give Nightmare ample shade cover.
You lay out another blanket on the sand for later. The sun is high and searingly warm on your back, and you take a moment to stand and look out over the water. The inlet is rocky, but the waters aren’t violent, and calmly sway in and out over the sand. From this angle the water is deep blue and crystal clear. There’s a steady warm breeze that carries the taste of salt and the smell of something briny that tickles your nose. You can only assume that’s what people talk about when they say something “smells of the sea”, the closest thing you have to compare it to is the fishy smell of the seafood section at the grocery store.
Growing up in a landlocked state, you’ve never had the opportunity to visit a beach. It’s not like you went on many family outings growing up (and by that you mean ‘none at all’), and even now that you live in a state with a coastline, Ebott is about as far inland as you can get before you trip into the next state.
Ebott is also currently buried under twelve to fifteen feet of snow, you recall as the stark contrast between how warm it is now and how cold you were a day ago hits you.
A heavy snow squall had been forecast, one of the last before winter finally gave way to the warming temperatures of spring. When you woke up and saw that there was already four feet of snow on the ground, you braced yourself for a slog of a day. When the buses ran exceptionally late, if they showed up at all, and you arrived at work only to see that the pipes had all burst and the cafe had to remain closed until repairs could be done, you took it as an omen.
When the city finally lost power, just as you were in the elevator after making the trek back home, trapping you inside the freezing car for just over an hour, you just… didn’t want to deal with anything anymore.
The boys had luckily (so stupidly luckily, it was just happenstance) discovered your predicament, pulled you out of the elevator, and then packed you and Trixy up to stay at the castle while the city took whatever time it needed to dig themselves out from the storm of a century. And no, you weren’t allowed to argue.
And Nightmare decided to treat you with a trip to a secluded beach with the literal opposite weather available. Now, did they have to take you to a whole other universe for it? No, but that’s besides the point.
Dust steps up behind you, planting his feet in the sands next to yours, arms wrapping around your waist as he rests his chin on your shoulder. “still feelin’ guilty ‘bout not bein’ back home?”
You shrug. “A little, maybe.” Just a little nagging thought that you are a bit privileged for being able to leave on very short notice and not have to deal with the power outages, freezing temperatures, snow pileup and everything else that comes with a massive storm.
But thanks to a certain influence, there’s a competing thought that simply asks why you can’t enjoy something like this? Why wouldn't you be allowed to stay someplace better and not worry about things you have no control over anyways?
It’s getting a bit easier to listen to that thought instead.
“I don’t know how to swim,” you add, kind of generally because you otherwise have no idea what you do at a beach anyways.
Dust chuckles. “that’s alright, none of us do. ‘cept cross.”
“… Wait, how am I the only one who knows how to swim?” Cross asks, while lifting his shirt off and leaving just his long swim shorts. You feel Dust rumble in appreciation behind you, and you agree that Cross has a very nice chest of bones to ogle. There’s cracks and faded lines along his ribs and upper arms, old battle scars that didn’t benefit from healing magic’s touch. You notice right away that while Cross has lots of scars, he’s lacking the scar, the one that runs in a diagonal across Dust’s chest. The one you’re pretty sure Killer has as well, although you didn’t get a good look after he whipped his shirt off and shortcut to the cliff face to reenact Pocahontas.
“takes gravity magic… to keep you buoyant,” Horror says, walking up next to Cross and completely comfortable with his shirt off, a contrast to his usual sheepishness. Dust’s rumbling kicks up an audible notch. While Cross’ bones are thick, Horror’s are even more so, and littered with even more nicks and scars and a paler colour that gives the impression of something more weather-worn. He is also, you note, lacking the scar.
“you still have to do the motions, it’s still too much work.” Dust pulls away to adjust the brim of his cap, pulling on it like he would pull on his hood. He goes to try and stick his hands in his pockets, only to remember he’s not wearing his hoodie anymore, so he shoves his hands in the pockets of his swim shorts instead.
“Well, I’m going to go test the water. If I come running back out then you know it’s too cold.” You pull off your cover-up and discard it on the towel for later. There’s a moment where you stand there awkwardly, waiting for the realization that you are wearing a bathing suit to hit and the discomfort to follow, but it never does, because the comfort in wearing the set Nightmare got you is far outweighing the shame in not having much of a beach model body.
When the subject of the beach trip came up, you told them you didn’t know how to swim, that all you could really do was sit on the sand and soak up the rays. You didn’t even have a bathing suit. What you didn’t tell them was your inability to swim was only half the reason you never gave yourself the opportunity to visit the beach. Your mind was already cycling through excuses as to why you didn’t own a bathing suit, rehashing the same arguments that you had with Red ages ago when he tried to buy you sets that fit society’s image of “sexy” but hung on you in the wrong ways; you, a knobbed short twig that needed padding in multiple places just to look acceptably human-shaped.
Nightmare surprised you this morning with a two piece swim set not unlike a tankini; a beautiful navy and royal blue patterned thick-strapped top with scrunched sides that met the top of swim shorts that were long enough to not feel guilty about not having a Brazilian done, paired with the wonderfully light buttoned cover-up that came down just a little past the hem of the shorts. The whole thing had the profile of every comfortable outfit you’ve ever wanted to wear.
It doesn’t have padding to give you a bigger cup size or forced cleavage; it doesn’t have padding to give you a butt and make you feel like you were wearing a diaper. It doesn’t change you, it just fits.
You may have gone overboard peppering kisses all over Nightmare’s face. The bright flush of turquoise was worth it though.
“If you happen to find Killer out there, warn him about the riptides, and let him know that I will not be fishing him out if he ends up twenty thousand leagues under the sea.” And that’s how you know Nightmare is relaxed, especially when he has the audacity to quietly chuckle at his own reference.
The four of you roll eyes and eyelights, and then make your way to the water’s edge. The water smoothly rolls forward and tickles between your toes as you wade in, and it’s like stepping into a warmed bath, not too hot and not too cold. The further out you get, the more pleasant it feels, but when you get out far enough that the water reaches your waist you sort of stop, holding your balance upright against the push and pull of the water.
So, uh, now what?
Cross wades out a little further before he dives forward, arms and head first underneath the surface. After a moment, he surfaces, treading easily about fifteen feet away. “Careful over here!” he calls. “It drops off after this point!”
You wave your hand through the water, raking it with your fingers. Horror and Dust are similarly meandering in water, and you realize that unless they’ve taken trips like this before, neither of them have really stood out in the water like this before. “What does it feel like?” You ask. “Between your bones, I mean. Is it like when I poke a finger through your forearm?”
“mmm, it tickles,” Horror replies. While the water comes up about waist high on you and Dust, it’s only about mid thigh on Horror, just barely skimming the bottom of his swim trunks. “t’s like… sensitive and bein' smothered at the same time. bet if i dunked my head it’d feel weird.”
“Won’t that hurt you?”
“naw. makes my head feel heavy and foggy, but it doesn’t hurt…. t’s not gonna kill me or nothin’.” Horror looks over at Dust, who seems less inquisitive and more perturbed the longer he stands there. “what’s up pickle?”
“i don’t think i like it.” He crosses his arms across his chest. “it’s weird, like it feels like something’s constantly-” The water next to Dust explodes. Killer launches out towards him and wraps his arms around his body.
“chomp-chomp, mother fucker,” Killer snarks before momentum takes them both down into the water with another large splash, Dust’s cap left bobbing ominously on the surface.
“Oh no,” you say, with absolute flat inflection while Horror starts giggling. “Dust must have been taken by a killer shark, somebody get Martin Brody and tell him we need a bigger-” Your incredible movie reference is cut off with a yelp as someone yanks on your foot and knocks you off balance into the water.
You crash with a splash and submerge in a cloud of bubbles, but the water’s not deep so your ass hits the sandy bottom pretty quick. Water surges up your nose with an uncomfortable sting, and you quickly right your footing to stand back up, coming up sputtering once you break the surface.
“you fucker! you absolute asshole!” Dust yells, having also stood back up and scrambling to grab his cap and put it back over his skull. Off to the side, only Killer’s skull is visible above the surface, snickering, and he ducks back under the water as Dust launches a bone at where his skull had been a moment before, just as Cross rejoins the group.
“What’s going-OOFFFF” Cross grunts as Horror suddenly jumps on his back piggy-back style, which given their height difference makes for a comical sight, especially as Cross manages to stay upright, hooking his arms under Horror’s legs automatically to keep him stable.
“save, save m-me applesauce!” Horror wails, although his words lose all sense of urgency when he can’t stop giggling long enough to say everything in one go. “there’s a-a shark… hehehehe!”
Actually, maybe Horror’s got the right idea. You laugh, coughing a little as you try to clear out your nose, as you inelegantly wade over to Cross. “Save us Cross!” is the only warning you give him as you jump on his side, only giving him a second to quickly unhook an arm to wrap around you while you try to balance on his hip, your legs and Horror’s fighting for balance wrapped around Cross’ waist.
“Guys!” Cross pleads, struggling less with the weight and more just trying to stay upright with unbalanced loads. “Come on, why- NO not you too!” he shouts as Dust shortcuts to Cross’s other side, trying to mimic your position to best hold on.
“you heard ‘em, there’s a shark,” Dust explains, although with way less theatrics than you or Horror. “gotta save us soldier boy.”
“Why are you all like this?!”
His answer is nothing but a chorus of giggling between the three monkeys he’s holding up, so baffled that he doesn’t notice Killer crouching under the surface of the decently clear water. Not until Killer launches upwards and forwards, catching Cross on his front with enough force to topple the tower and knock all of you over with a peal of laughter and cries that Nightmare could probably hear from the shore, and triumphantly splash into the water.
***
You think all of you spent close to an hour in the water, though you kind of lost all sense of time when the splash wars started. There wasn’t much actual swimming achieved, except by Cross, and even then he was pestered by Killer relentlessly to ride around on his back. Eventually the five of you tredge back to the shore, drenched and surprisingly exhausted for what didn’t seem like a lot of physical activity.
“Did you all have fun?” Nightmare asks, hardly looking up from his book that he’s now near the end of. He only reacts with a startled noise when Killer walks over and throws himself all over Nightmare’s lap, laying his skull on Nightmare’s chest and letting his arms and legs spread out and hang off the sides of the chair. “Killer! You are soaking wet!”
“yup,” Killer agrees, popping the ‘p’. “that’s what usually happens when you visit a beach, ya get wet.”
Nightmare glares at the top of Killer’s skull, before he rolls his eyelight and adjusts his arm position so he could continue reading. “Evidently,” he grumbles.
You fall onto the blanket under the other umbrella you set out earlier, rolling over onto your back and laying your arm across your eyes. You feel someone fall onto the blanket on your left with a quiet grunt that sounds suspiciously like Dust. He shuffles close enough until your arms touch, and you interlock your fingers together.
“‘m gonna start makin’ some lunch,” you hear Horror say. “it’ll be ready in twenty… ish.”
“sounds good,” Dust sleepily mumbles, and between the body fatigue and the warm sun you agree with the sentiment that a nap might be in order.
You never really lose consciousness enough to lose the rocking sounds of the tide ebbing and flowing from the shore, the birds circling above in their hunt for fish, the quiet sizzle of something heating up on the griddle Horror brought to cook. But everything seems to exist in this peaceful bubble of timelessness, where nothing matters except the comfortable pleasure of the here and now, and you feel more relaxed than you’ve been in a long while. The warmth is a blanket, tucking you in and making you forget the stress of everything.
When you eventually pull yourself out of the daze, pulling your arm away and opening your eyes, the light is bright even under the protective shade of the umbrella. You turn your head to look at the others. Nightmare has his book held by a tentacle so he could have a hand free to gently stroke the top of Killer’s skull while the skeleton dozes on Nightmare’s chest. Horror is tending to the griddle where he’s buttering another slice of homemade bread for some grilled cheese sandwiches. You can see that he has it plugged into the portal battery he also packed away for this trip. Cross is sitting on the sand next to him, arms around his bent knees, resting his skull on Horror’s arm and although he’s technically awake, his eyelight are soft with fatigue.
“they’re cute.” You turn your head. Dust is still flat on his chest, skull pillowed with his right arm, one socket visible and his blue and red eyelight glowing as he watches the others past you. There's a genuine fondness to his look, and it warms your heart to see.
“They are,” you easily agree.
Dust makes a humming noise in consideration, and he smirks. “you’re cute.”
You laugh quietly. “So are you.” Dust’s cheekbones flush a slight lilac, but his smirk doesn’t go away. “I think you’re also sun drunk.”
“maybe… doesn't change anything.” You’re not sure who squeezes who’s hand first, you both seem to do it at the same time while you grin at each other like blushing teenagers. Maybe you both are a little sun drunk.
“lunch is ready!"
Horror’s announcement is successful at arousing everyone. Killer snorts awake, and sluggishly pushes himself up and off of Nightmare while you and Dust sit up, stretching your arms up and rolling your shoulders. Cross is setting up a large flat board he had stashed away in his inventory for everyone to sit around, and places drinks and plates out on the surface. The nice thing about Monster inventories is that it keeps temperatures consistent, so the drinks are as nice and cold as they were when they were pulled out of the fridge this morning.
Horror dishes out the oozing grilled cheese, each sandwich tailor made for the skeleton or human he hands it too. You, for example, have discovered a love for monterey jack cheese with diced tomatoes and crushed up tortilla chips. Killer’s get jalapenos slices melted in with nacho-style cheese and sriracha sauce. Dust is like the good old traditional cheddar that stretches when he pulls the triangle slices apart, and Cross has found that he likes something like a BLT with bacon and whole tomato slices. Nightmare is handed a sandwich with pickles, olives and sliced salami, and he’s a much neater eater than the rest of you practically inhaling the delicious sandwiches. Horror himself likes to experiment, and you can see he’s constructed something with white cheese and what looks like slices of roast beef or steak.
Remarkably, lunch proceeds in pleasant silence. There’s some chit chat here and there, but the mood is light, everyone appreciating the company of everyone else. There’s more smiles, genuine, and laughter, easy and free. It’s the most relaxed you've been, but it’s the most relaxed you’ve seen from them as well. Here, on this secluded beach, problems and past traumas seem so very far away… but is it the beach, or the company? Is it being surrounded by those you care about, and who care about you, feeling happiness at seeing them so at ease and probably vice versa?
When your partner is the Guardian of Negativity, and he laughs openly at Killer’s attempts to make Cross more and more flustered, so unguarded and safe, you recognize that there’s a part of you responsible for this. You’re a part of this, and you feel a warmth stronger than that of the sun shining down on all of you.
This can’t last forever. You know it, they all know it. But there’s no despondency over that, because while you all can’t stay on this beach forever, it's not like it’s going to be the last moment of unguarded happiness you all have.
If anything, you think you can look forward to many more to come.
You’re part of this now.
Once lunch finishes, you all opt to remain on the beach and lounge around. Killer decides to set himself up to see if bones can tan, and Dust has decided to go back to napping under the shade. You’re using his chest as a head rest as you pull out the notebook you picked up a couple of months ago from your canvas bag and flip to the next blank page. Nightmare looks up from his book as you pull out a pen and start writing. “You’ve been coming along with that,” he comments.
“Hmm, yeah,” you respond. It’s not one of those super fancy travel journals or anything, just a blank notebook with a dot grid and a plain cover, but you’re proud that you’ve been able to fill the first quarter of the books with pictures and scraps of doodles and thoughts about universes you’ve seen so far. “I’ve been thinking about it since I saw your map in the library.”
“Why are you keeping tabs on this universe anyways?” Cross asks, reclining back on the sand, arms folded behind his skull.
“I’m not, I only discovered it a month ago,” Nightmare explains. “I haven’t had a chance to uncover if anything sets this universe apart from others. It’s post-war, and Monsters are free on the surface, and that’s as much as I have been able to gather.”
You jot down “Monsters on Surface” into the notebook. “Is this close to Mt. Ebott at all, or are we really far away?’
“Far, although there is a tourist town half a mile north of here. I had assumed the seclusion of this beach would better serve our needs, rather than the crowded resort areas over there.”
Oh, hmmm. That gives you an idea. “I’m not going to lie, I kind of want to check out their souvenirs or something before we go. Maybe get a postcard if all the place names are different or messed up.”
“We could go now,” Cross offers, and he turns to look at Horror. “Want to join us, big guy?”
“mmm, sure… gotta stretch out my legs anyways.”
The three of you rise, and the boys pull their shirts back on. You slip on the cover-up and slide into the pair of sandals you brought. Cross takes a moment, rocking his skull back and forth as if listening to music, then summons the red blade to cut a hole that will presumably take you into the town. Your hand slips into Horror’s, and he gives you a squeeze.
“Have fun,” Nightmare says before you step through. “Text me if you need anything.”
“go start chaos!” Killer suggests.
“Do not start chaos,” Nightmare corrects, with a sidelong glare to Killer. “At least not before warning me.”
With a wave, the three of you step through the portal… and end up walking out onto a decently busy pedestrian boulevard. Palm trees line the one end of the street, a line of separation between pavement and the sands of the public beach, where humans and Monsters are enjoying the sunshine and warm waters just as much as you had been. On the other side you can see shops and patio restaurants, busy with what looks like full capacity. Crowds wander up and down the boulevard, in smaller groups or alone, with drinks and food and bags or nothing at all, all smiles and laughter as far as you can see.
It is a nice day to be outside.
“Oh yeah, this is a tourist trap alright,” you remark, wondering how many of the taller high rises behind the shops are hotels and not apartments.
“... no one’s lookin’.” You look up at Horror, who’s busy scanning the crowds, his eye darting this way and that. “no one’s starin’... at us.”
He’s right. You look around expecting to see at least one person reacting to the literal hole in reality that Cross seals up behind you, but everyone, human and Monster, is just minding their own business. “There are Monsters around, maybe they’re just used to open displays of magic,” you suggest.
“mmmm, not used to that,” Horror mumbles, and you feel a punch of remorse realizing that Horror’s used to others looking at him like he’s a terrifying beast, all thanks to his size and the hole in his head. Your grip on his hand tightens in reassurance, and he responds with an appreciative rumble.
“Should we check out that shop?” Cross points out a small storefront nestled between two restaurants, appropriately titled “Seashell Souvenirs”. Perfect, that’s exactly the kind of tacky store you were hoping for.
The three of you weave between the crowds and dunk in through the open door into the small single room shop. You’re the only shoppers here, it looks like, aside from the girl at the register, who perks up with a big smile when you walk in. “Hello!” she greets. “Come on in!”
You give her one of those small waves that acknowledges the greeting but doesn’t encourage any further interaction. Shelves are set up along the one wall with a variety of nick-knacks and trinkets that don’t really do anything except take up space at home. The other wall has racks of novelty shirts, shorts and other beach wear. There are tables set up in the middle of the store with more objects, some books and tourist guides, a bin of key-chains, and commemorative mugs and dishware.
Horror wanders over to the dishware, to check if they’re decent enough quality to actually pick up. Cross sort of lingers behind you, flipping through the books aimlessly while you scope out the rack of postcards by the register.
“Looking for anything specific?” the girl asks.
“Oh, you know, just something nice to take home,” you answer. While you’re sad to see that most of the place names on these postcards look normal, they do confirm that you’re somewhere in Florida. But Florida doesn’t really have cliffs like the beach you’ve been inhabiting, you consider. It’s just supposed to be flat, right? Flat swampland?
“You picked a good time to visit! The weather outside’s perfect!”
“Uh-huh.” Well, one of these postcards might be cool to paste in your book regardless. You flip through another stack, oh, this one kind of has those cliffs by the beach, maybe this would work. You’re going to be taking actual photos of the scenery on your phone when you get back, but this would work too.
“How long are you staying? You should stay a while, we’re going to have this kind of happy sunshine for a long time!”
You look up to try and politely halt the awkward attempts at conversation when you… stop.
The girl is smiling, a big wide toothy smile, but when you look her in the eyes, you only see dullness in them. A glossy look, and it gives you the impression of talking to someone high, or… sleepwalking.
Forced.
“Everyone loves this place when they visit, and they end up staying here longer! It just makes them so happy!” You watch her speak, watch her mouth form words with an unbreakable grin that doesn’t reach her lifeless eyes. A tremor runs up your spine, the cheery mood you had been in a moment before drowned out with a new feeling of dread.
“... No.”
You turn around when you hear Cross whisper. He’s staring at the girl with eyelights the size of pinheads, His hands curl into tight, quivering fists. He’s quivering, a full body tremble like he's been drenched in ice water. You reach out and place a hand on his arm. “Cross?”
“Nobody has any reason to be sad here!” the girl chirps behind you.
“... She’s trapped inside, she’s trapped inside...” Cross repeats, his shaking increasing as he starts to breathe in short, quick bursts. “She can’t break out, you can’t break out, it’s too strong I can’t-I can’t-I can’t-”
“Horror!” you shout as Cross starts to hyperventilate. Horror carelessly drops the plate he was looking at, letting it fall and shatter on the floor while he runs over to you. You place your other hand on Cross’ other arm to try and get him to look at you. “Cross. Cross, honey, it’s me, it’s Addison. We’re right here. Me and Horror. You gotta slow down.”
“I’m trapped-I can’t-it hurts-I can’-it hurts-no no nononononono-”
“cross.” Horror cups Cross’s cheekbone and tries to urge him to look up into Horror’s face, the pupil in his eye blown wide with worry. “’s’okay, we're here. ya gotta breathe applesauce. we’re gonna count okay? we’re gonna do the counts.”
You pull out your phone and send a hasty message to Nightmare for a portal - now, please! - and before it’s fully back in your pocket an inky portal opens along the wall behind Cross and Horror. Horror tries to gently nudge Cross to step through, but Cross stands rooted to the spot. His hands slap against the sides of his skull and it takes both you and Horror holding onto his wrists to stop him from frantically clawing his skull. “Nononononononononono-letmeoutletmeoutletmeoutletmeout-”
“... I’m so happy!”
Horror manages to pry Cross’ hands away and he wraps his arms around Cross’ chest, carefully lifting him and carrying him through the portal. Cross’ panicked cries are abruptly cut-off as they both disappear through the darkness.
You turn to look back at the girl, with her forced smile and dead eyes. There’s a tear that slides along her cheek, trailing around her smile and down her chin. “My dog died last week, but I’m not sad! I’m happy! Everyone’s happy! It’s so much better now! You should stay!”
You back up, slowly, watching the girl as if she were some kind of animal ready to pounce. When you feel the reassuring chill of Nightmare’s portal behind you, you quickly spin around and dash through into the safety of the darkness.
Her eyes will haunt your dreams for a long time.
Notes:
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Chapter 19: The Eyes in the Mirror That Aren’t Me
Summary:
Takes place a few hours after “When the Sunshine Chases the Shadows Away”. All Cross wants to do is be left alone with his thoughts, but Dust reminds him there are better ways to handle his trauma. Meanwhile, Nightmare and Error have another chat.
Chapter Tags: Post panic attack, discussion of disassociation and a dissociative episode, past trauma, references to two (2!) major characters nearly dying. (Only mostly dead, I assure you.)
Whhaaaaaaa... I've actually posted something in order?!?! Inconceivable!
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The water starts to run cold by the time Cross even notices that he’s still standing under it. He reaches out with a limp hand and twists the faucet further to the right, but finds that it won’t go any further. It was as hot as it could get, and he still managed to let it run out.
Great. Fantastic. What a waste.
He doesn’t know how long he’s been standing under the shower head, staring ahead at the wall in front of him. There’s small flecks of scum or grime that’s starting to accumulate on the grout between the grey tiles. Cross’ gaze follows them, a little crusty line running along the grout like little trails, running circles, leading nowhere. He thinks he should clean them, maybe. Volunteer for bathroom duty the next time chores are arranged. No one likes cleaning the bathroom anyways, so the task might as well fall to him.
It might be all he’s good for.
The water runs colder.
Cross glances down at his body, checking to see if he even bothered to attempt to clean himself off. You know, what you’re supposed to do in the shower if you weren’t such a broken idiot. But the water is clear, the soap inconspicuously untouched on the dish. Not that he was dirty before, he just needed… he’s not sure anymore.
His joints ache, his shoulders feel stiff, his knees want to buckle. Cross reaches a hand out to brace himself against the wall, and his gaze trickles downwards to the frigid water spiralling down the drain. He can still smell the salt of seawater, and it clings to him like a miasma. The salt stings in his nasal cavity as if he were still there, standing in the shallows with the breeze blowing gently in his face. If he closes his sockets, he can still feel the pull of the tide on his bones, the rocking of his body in the water as he swims, hear the laughter of the others as they try to sink him with bigger and bigger waves…
The eyes of the woman, a prisoner in her own head, given up on any chance of getting free…
He just wanted to enjoy a day at the beach.
Cross falls against the wall a little more, bracing himself with his whole shoulder now. Now he’s mostly out of the way of the stream of water, and it rains against the glass screen with little platters and plops. But the air smacks his frigid bones and only seems to add to the chill, and he starts to shiver.
A long time ago, hot water was rationed. Even as guards close to the royalty, hot water was a luxury that they weren’t privy to. Every morning, but especially on those winter days when the temperature had already dropped well past the point of frostbite, Cross would let Papyrus go first, so he could have as much of the hot water they were allowed.
The water is cold. The air is cold. The tile is cold. Cross should just pull himself together and leave. But he can’t. His sockets sting as his teeth start to chatter, and he punches the wall with his other hand, his knuckles clacking against the tile. And for a moment the pain grounds him and feels good. But then his hand stops throbbing as it chills and he’s left with nothing but the cold.
He told everyone to leave him alone. He insisted that he could take a fucking shower by himself, so he should be able to walk out of here by himself.
But he can’t.
What good is a soldier if he can’t keep his emotions in check?
Cross watches the water circle and drain, making a little vortex as it spirals away. He just watches it spin and spin, until he hears the distinctive hiss of a shortcut on the other side of the glass. He flinches at the noise, can’t even deny it. He can’t even deny that his shoulders don’t curl forward as he hunches in on himself. That the wall is becoming more and more necessary to keep him from sliding down in a heap.
The water circles down the drain.
I made you too emotional, discard the experiment and start ag-This is all your fault, why couldn’t you jus-Worthless, disobedient traitor! You can never be-You destroyed this world? Why would I free you then, you’ll just destroy mor-
Are you feeling okay Cross? You don’t look happy Cross. Are you feeling okay Cross? What’s wrong Cross? Are you feeling okay Cross? Why aren’t you happy Crossy? Are you feeling okay Cross? Are you feeling-Are you feeling-Areyoufeelingareyoufeelingyoufeelingyoufeelingfeelingfeelingfeeling-
You’re not happy Cross.
I can make it better.
The faucet squeaks as it’s turned off, the sound of water pattering against the glass abruptly stopping. Cross looks up at Dust standing in front of him, because at some point he’s slid down the wall, his legs splayed awkwardly as he sits on the floor barely propped up. Cross can’t be sure if his vision is hazy because of the residual steam or the tears trapped in his sockets. He can see that Dust has changed back into his usual outfit, has his scarf back on and wound high, covering the lower half of his face. There’s a towel folded and tucked under one arm, and the other side of his hoodie is wet with little splatters of water drops from when he stepped into the stall to shut off the water.
Dust doesn’t say anything as he kneels down to be level with Cross. He unfolds the towel and drapes it over Cross’ shoulder, and then starts to rub and work to get Cross dry. Cross can feel how hard he shakes under Dust’s hands, and he can’t help curling more into himself. Dust pauses, and pulls away slightly, and Cross feels even worse because the last thing he wanted was to make Dust think he’s hurting him. It’s Cross, the problem is all Cross, it’s all his fault that this is happening in the first place, he doesn’t deserve-
Dust shifts his footing, his sneakers squeaking on the wet tile as he moves closer, and resumes drying Cross’s neck and upper back with the soft towel. “you’re thinkin’ too much, cross,” he says quietly.
He knows, he knows he is. It’s all he knows how to do, to get stuck in his own head, circle around the same things over and over like water circles the drain until he works himself up to the breaking point and his mind shuts down in an effort to save himself but Dream won’t let him Dream locked him up in the smallest cage and he couldn’t break out no matter how hard he tried and how much he screamed he’s alone no one can hear him and it’s only a matter of time before he Falls-
… But he’s not.
Dust shifts the towel so he can wipe down Cross’ skull, and Cross lets out a shaky breath. He focuses on the ministrations, on the careful attention Dust pays to catching every errant water drop with his soft massaging. The edges of his sockets still sting, and he can feel that his face is more wet with tears than from shower water. But he’s free to shed them.
He’s free.
Cross focuses on breathing, trying to keep at a slow and steady pace as best he can, like Horror taught him. His jaw clicks with dry swallowing, until he feels like he can form words again. “... I’m not okay,” Cross mumbles.
Dust nods, and pulls Cross’ limp hands into his so that he can rub them down too, phalange by phalange. “then don’t be okay,” he says, as if it’s just the simplest thing.
It isn’t, but it also is. Because Cross can just keep sitting here, letting Dust dry him off, while he just... lets his emotions go. Break down on the floor of the shower stall because Dust is the last person in the multiverse who would tell him to shut up and pull himself together. Dust isn’t going to ask the stupid question that Cross hates because he can see the answer written plain as day plastered all over his skull.
Cross feels a few more tears streak down his cheekbones, and he does nothing to stop them, nothing to wipe them away. He closes his sockets and sees the face of the girl in the darkness, trapped behind her own grotesque smile. He keeps breathing, counting each breath silently in his head. “... When they left me alone back at Ink's house, I would look in the mirror. Trying to see if I could find myself.” Dust says nothing, and the only indication that he’s listening is the slight pause in movement, before he continues where he left off.
“... It’s like, you’re there, but you’re so far away. It’s not a matter of not being in control, it’s… you’re being worn down until all you can do is, give up that control.” Dust goes back to rubbing Cross’ arm, long dry by this point but the touch is grounding and they both know it.
“I kept looking in the mirror, because I was trying to see if I was still fighting. If I had a chance of breaking free.” Cross looks into the eyes of the girl in his mind, and she stares back with the dead look of an empty mind. She blurs, and fades, and morphs into a reflection of Cross when he was with Dream, and the same dead look staring back at him.
Cross swallows thickly. “I couldn’t see myself after a while.”
“we could.” Cross opens his sockets, and sees Dust looking at him, eyelights glowing fiercely, and for a fraction of a moment Cross’ soul sinks in shame because he thinks Dust is angry at him. Then his stare softens, though his eyelights never waver in intensity. Dust brings the corner of the towel up and starts to wipe away the tear stains. “we could see you fightin’ it. we knew you were still in there. it’s why dream panicked and tried to keep you away from us.”
But after a while, he stopped fighting. He couldn’t, everything he had left was draining away, and after the one crack he thought he could exploit was sealed, he just… gave up. Like that girl. Cross’ gaze falls away from Dust’s, and he stares at the wall behind him instead. “I wasn’t strong enough though. I… I can’t even go shopping for souvenirs, can I? I’m not… I’m not strong anymore. So what good am I?”
“bullshit.” Dust cups his cheekbone and urges Cross to look at him again with a very firm grip. “don’t put yourself down like that. you can't sit there and insist that it was nothin' when you guys found a bunch of people hurt like you were. of course it's gonna affect you. that doesn't make you weak. you know how many times we’ve watched you stand back up after gettin’ knocked down like this? you always, always, stand back up again. dream didn’t break you.”
“Dust,” Cross says, and he hates how close it sounds to a whine. “I Fell.”
“and you got back up,” Dust counters.
Cross shakes his skull. That’s not how he remembers it, when he was dumped in the ruins of his former home with the inability to do anything, a puppet with its strings cut. He let the hopelessness finally consume him… and the next thing he remembers was looking up at Nightmare’s face. “Night pulled me up, I didn’t do anything.”
“he couldn't make you take his hand, you had to fight to reach it and then hold on.” The tips of Dust's fingers are a steady pressure on Cross’ cheekbones. Dust leans forward and rests his forehead against Cross’, and Cross’ vision goes askew as he is forced to look only into Dust’s sockets. “so why are you weak? because you needed help? fuckin’ bull, you know every one of us would be nothin’ but dust in the wind if we didn’t have each other. we’re a fuckin’ force to be reckoned with because we have each other’s backs.”
It’s such a jarring statement for a Monster with an LV of over twenty to say, when LV usually poisons the mind and turns the Monster more and more against the world as a whole. But Dust is right, and deep down Cross knows he is, it’s just hard to see when it feels like it took just the smallest, insignificant thing to set him back what seems like a mile.
But is it that far back?
Cross remembers the weeks after they brought him home, where being awake meant reliving everything he had gone through constantly, where he couldn’t speak without crumbling, where he blamed himself exclusively and everyone was being so kind to him even though he felt like he didn’t deserve it. It took him months to work up the courage to talk with Nightmare about what happened, and even then, it was only Nightmare.
It’s only been a few hours, at most, since they hastily returned from the beach. And here he is, talking to Dust.
Dust’s thumbs skim across his bones with a gentleness Cross knows he only shows for those he cares about. “stop tryin’ to force yourself to be okay when you’re not,” he says softly, “stop tryin’ to blame yourself for not being okay. stop puttin’ yourself down and holdin’ yourself to some impossible standard. none of us do.”
Cross swallows, lets out a heavy breath. A few more tears trickle down, and Dust just thumbs them away, and Cross feels how he starts tracing the old scar under his right socket as he does so. Then Cross nods, the bone of his forehead scraping against Dust’s as he does so, and Dust quickly closes the distance for a crushing kiss. It’s possessive, bruising on Cross’ teeth and he lets Dust take the lead and just casts himself adrift in the sensation. Dust practically pushes himself onto Cross’ lap, and Cross wraps his arms around his shoulders to hold him there, squeezing tightly while he let’s Dust dominate his mouth.
And for a while, all he knows is the feel of Dust, the way his conjured tongue chases Cross’ to entwine them both, and it’s bliss as every other thought stops in their tracks. Even when he finally pulls away, he remains close enough to share breaths, before closing back in for a softer kiss.
Dust helps Cross shakily rise to his feet, hit again with a chill that reminds him that he’s still stark naked in the shower. Dust hands him the change of clothes he brought earlier, a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, neither of which actually belong to him. They’re still warm to the touch from the dryer, surprisingly, even after all that time Cross spent on the floor of the shower. His body still aches, more from fatigue now, and it feels like an agonizing slow process as he slips one pant leg on, then the other.
Once Cross finishes dressing, Dust pushes into his space again, wrapping his arms around Cross’ waist and Cross automatically goes to hug Dust close to him again. Cross loves Dust’s height, because he can rest his skull on the top of Dust’s hood without craning his neck too far. “do you know how fuckin’ proud of you we are?” Dust asks. “you’re so much stronger than you give yourself credit for. you get up from things that would keep anyone down.”
“Don’t feel like it right now,” Cross admits quietly, talking more into Dust’ hood than actually speaking to him.
He feels Dust nod against his chest. “yeah, and that’s okay. it’s gonna suck today, and maybe tomorrow too. but we’re still gonna be here, and you’ll pull yourself up from this too. i promise.”
Cross’ breath hitches when he hears those two words, and Dust quickly pushes himself up to steal another kiss, swallowing up what was probably going to be a sob. “where do you wanna go, soldier boy?”
As much as there’s still a part of him that wants to hide away in the smallest corner by himself, he knows that’s not a good idea. He doesn’t want to be alone, and he only seeks out solitude to make himself feel worse. “With the others,” Cross answers after a moment.
Dust wastes no time pushing Cross backwards through a shortcut, taking them both into the living room, where the back of Cross’ legs bumps into the edge of the couch and he falls backwards, bouncing on the cushions with a huff. Dust never lets go, and quickly resettles himself on Cross’ lap where they can continue to hold each other close.
Horror hardly reacts to their sudden appearance in the room. He finishes arranging a platter of cookies on the side table, different varieties piled high. Cross recognizes some of the flavors from batter that had been stored away in the freezer, and he wonders just how long he spent ruminating in misery in the shower. Horror settles on the spot on Cross’ right and pulls the table closer for an easier reach.
“Um.” Cross looks over to his left to see you walking in, clutching a large mug of something piled with whipped cream. You bring it over to him, and hold it out. “I know it’s not the cafe’s, but I tried to recreate it with what we’ve got here.”
Cross pries a hand from his hold on Dust and accepts the mug. He takes a sip, slurping around the whipped cream, and discovers that you made him some kind of mocha latte that’s just oozing with sweet chocolate. It goes down and settles in his core, nice and warm. “It’s good,” he says, sincerely, but he’s not sure if he can put how much he appreciates this into words.
You smile, and whatever irrational fear he had left about making you upset because he ruined the beach trip finally fades away. “Thanks. I melted a Hershey bar for it.”
He loves you. He loves all of you. All of them. Maybe he’s too loose and free with that emotion, but he can’t help how much it consumes him.
Cross accepts a trade with Horror for a cookie, Horror holding onto the mug for him so he can eat the cookie without releasing his hold on Dust, who may have just fallen asleep, he’s not sure. You settle on the couch and rest up against Cross’ left side, as Killer and Nightmare enter the room. Killer walks over to the tower of DVDs next to the tv while Nightmare takes up the last spot on the couch next to you.
“what’ll it be criss-cross? anything you want tonight, it’s your pick tonight.”
The truth is, sandwiched in between everyone, Cross is pretty confident that he’s going to fall asleep sooner rather than later. He doesn’t really feel like watching anything, he just wants to be here, with everyone he cares about. “... Can you play your game, actually? The one with the samurai? And the foxes?”
Killer tilts his skull in surprise, then grins. He grabs the PS4 controller and pushes the button to turn it on. “sure thing, criss-cross. ghost of tsushima comin’ right up.” Killer hops onto the couch as the game loads, choosing to sit on Nightmare’s lap, who mutters something in disgruntlement that Killer just ignores.
And just like Cross predicted, within ten minutes he feels his sockets droop as it becomes a harder and harder fight to keep them open, even as he tries to listen to you roasting Killer over trying to do a stealth mission in the middle of the day. So he doesn’t fight. He closes his sockets and lets his skull roll to the side and rest of Horror’s shoulder. Horror shifts so he can lay his skull on top of Cross’, and then he starts to purr, a deep and throaty rumble that vibrates against Cross’ skull.
Then Dust picks up the purr, and answers with his own, light in comparison but still reverberating against Cross’ chest, and he knows he’s done for. Cross feels his consciousness slip away as noise and sensations fade to nothing…
He stands in the dark, afraid to step forward into slumber, lest he be chased by recollections.
He feels tendrils along his back, cool, calm, assuring, and they urge him towards sleep.
I don’t want to remember, he whispers in the dark. I just want to rest.
You are guarded. Always, the darkness whispers back. He feels a tendril caress his cheek as it rests on the back of his neck. Now rest, love.
And so he does, fearlessly falling into sleep’s embrace knowing that he will be watched over until he wakes.
***
You’re not entirely sure why you’re always embarrassed by late night trips to the bathroom. Is it because you’re the only one in this castle who has a bowel? No, there are times when you’re alone in your apartment and you loathe getting up to walk all the way to the other side of your bedroom to use the toilet. Maybe it’s a by-product of your younger days when you used to hide in your room for as long as possible.
You’re not the only one up and about, if the lack of Nightmare’s presence when your bladder decided to crankily wake you is anything to go by. Did it make it easier to untangle yourself from the cuddle-fest on the couch? No, not when Killer is such a light sleeper and decided to make it his mission to hold onto you for as long as possible until you threatened him with having a deliberate accident on his lap.
Bodily functions, gotta love them.
The bathroom’s not really that far away, so it doesn’t take you that long to walk down the hall and do your business. Nightmare has promised that he’ll put in more throughout the castle, so you’ll never have that far to travel from anywhere. As you wander back towards the living room, you wonder who exactly does Nightmare call to install a toilet fit for a human? Does he have a contractor for multiverse deities? Is there a plumber-Sans? You bet there’s a plumber-Sans, who wears blue overalls and has a fake cartoony moustache and goes “it’s-a me, plumber-Sa-”
“You mean to tell me he wasn’t anywhere near that town?”
“y0u c4llING-g m3 a lIAr-r?”
You stop in your tracks. The door to the library is there on your left, slightly ajar, letting the light from within slip out into the hallway. Your feet carry you right up to the door with little thought.
“If Dream had only visited Ebott at the time, then his area of influence has nearly doubled in mere months.”
“1 wARnn3d you-you-OU.”
You’re torn between staying in place and walking away. This isn’t a conversation meant for your ears, but on the other hand you’re still reeling from the after effects of what happened earlier at the beach. But eavesdropping is rude, and you don’t want to do that to Nightmare. On the other hand, it sounds like Error has decided to pay a visit.
Great.
In the end, boldness wins out, and you gently push on the door, knowing that the hinges groan as they bear the weight of the wood. “Night?” you call out as you poke your head inside.
Both skeletons are standing just inside, in the centre of the foyer in front of the long lines of bookcases, and they turn towards you in unison. Nightmare’s socket widens in quiet surprise before his gaze flickers to concern. Error just sneers, as expected.
“Addison, what are you doing up dear? Did I wake you?”
“No, had to go to the bathroom, heard you guys talking.” Seeing as Nightmare hasn’t asked you to leave, you step in and approach, ignoring the technicolor skeleton who crosses his arms over his chest in obvious distaste. Nightmare holds his hand out to you automatically when you close the distance, and you take it, letting him pull you over to his side.
“c-c-can’T b3liEVE y0u’re sTIll here-re,” Error grumbles, and you glare at him.
“Can’t believe you still think socks and sandals are a good look,” you counter.
“why-i-i-y WOUld 1 fucking-ng c4re ab-bout wh4t U tHINk, ab-bominaTION?”
“You know there are like, a million other things you can call me? Do you want me to find you a thesaurus?”
Error’s growl comes out more like a staticky screech, and he flickers in place like he’s doubling. “are-R U insuLT-lting mY int3llig3ncE?!”
Maybe it’s because you’re still pissed off from the last time you saw him, or maybe it’s because Nightmare’s right next to you and you know he wouldn’t let anything happen to you, but watching Error’s hackles rise in response is becoming so, so satisfying. “No, I'm insulting your vocabulary.”
“y0u’re lUCk-ky 1 don-on’t tEAR y0ur SOul out-t-t aND ad-d-d-d it 2 my-eye-y coLLECTIon!”
“You tried that already! A month ago!”
Yeah, maybe you are still angry about that.
Error opens his mouth to respond, but only static comes out, and then he makes a noise like a fax machine calling out. His mismatched eyelights swivel to Nightmare, who you now notice has his fist in front of his mouth, like he does when he’s trying to hide a smile or smother a chuckle. Nightmare coughs not-at-all-inconspicuously. “Yes, it was a month ago,” Nightmare agrees.
“... whaTEver-ver, c4N’t beli3v3 u'RE-RE st-till m4d ab0ut-t tHAt,” Error mutters. He scratches at his cheekbone, and pulls out a blue thread. The space behind him distorts, and crumbles away to voxels that open up to pure whiteness. Your ears ring with an influx of buzzing static, and you cover your ear with your hand. “r3m3m-em-ber wh4t I tOLd u n1ghtMAre. you’RE gon-n-nna hAVE 2 figuRe it OUt s00ner-r or la-laTER.” Error takes a couple of steps backwards, over the threshold of the portal. The blocks rearrange themselves after he steps through, closing the hole up as if nothing had happened.
You turn to Nightmare as soon as the hole closes. “He forgot he tried to kill me?” you ask incredulously. Then you glare at him when you can see he’s still very badly fighting to hold back a chuckle. “And you’re laughing?!”
“At the fact he tried to kill you? No, never,” Nightmare assures, this time not bothering to hide his grin. “But I was enjoying watching you get under his proverbial skin. It’s rare that he finds someone unafraid to counter him.”
You roll your eyes and scoff, crossing your arms and maybe pouting just a little bit. Nightmare cups your cheek and softly strokes it with his thumb. “There’s no sense of time in the Anti-Void,” he continues, “To Error, a minute is the same as a month, a year, a second. It’s hard for him to track time in relation to events.”
“A regular Dr. Manhattan then.”
“Not quite, he doesn’t experience his whole timeline at once.” You blink, and look at Nightmare with a mixture of shock and disbelief. He gives you a wry smile. “Yes, I did understand that reference, I don’t need every aspect of pop culture explained to me, unlike what Killer says.”
You think the actual answer is that Nightmare has a section of graphic novels somewhere in the library. Something to go hunting for next time. It’s then that you recall what you overheard, and your face falls to a frown. “... What happened to those people, was that really Dream?”
Nightmare’s grin also falls, and he turns away with a look of simmering anger. “Error informed me that Dream had visited that universe just a week ago,” he explains, his voice hardening. You look down and see his tentacles twitch and writhe on the floor. “He only set foot in Ebott, introducing himself to their version of the human.”
You think back to the brief conversation you had on the beach, just before you shortcut to the town. “You said Mt. Ebott was far from where we were.”
Nightmare nods, with a frown more like a tight grimace. “It is. Very far. Hundreds of miles away. And yet his aura was felt by those people, and still lingered a week later after Dream had moved on.”
A shiver runs down your spine, and suddenly you’re crossing your arms less in anger and more to protect you from the chill that seems to sink down to your core. You think of those people, trapped in a false feeling of euphoria and unable to feel anything else, aware that something has happened but not knowing what. You wonder what those living closest to Ebott must be like, if they’re worse off because of their proximity to Dream.
You’ll always remember the look of wild panic etched across Cross’ face as he realized what had happened and fell into a traumatic recollection of the months he spent under Dream’s thrall. You’ll always remember his screaming garbled words before you fled that universe and you all finally managed to calm him down.
You move forward, unhooking your arms from yourself to wrap around Nightmare’s torso, and he follow suit with a tight embrace. You clutch the fabric of his collar, just behind his neck. “... Does Dream… does he know what he’s doing?” you ask, surprised it only comes out as a quiet whisper.
Nightmare’s grip on you tightens, and you can’t imagine the look on his face when he responds, with a voice filled with frustration, anger, regret and sorrow, “No.”
You half expected that answer when you asked, and you bite down on your lip to stop the bitter laugh that wants to bubble up. You bury your face in the juncture of Nightmare’s neck, and he’s content with holding you there. Your grip tightens, and a new resolve sinks into your chest.
Or maybe it’s an old one, laying dormant for all these years, waiting for the right cause.
Because the multiverse has it wrong. The biggest threat isn’t the one who manages the ebb and flow of negativity, the one who allies with a Destroyer who treats the multiverse like a garden, the one who finds broken souls on the verge of ruin and shows them a love everyone assumes he’s incapable of.
The biggest threat is the one it celebrates as a hero, unknowingly spreading unhinged happiness until it festers and roils like an infection of delirium.
And you swear you’re not going to let him hurt anyone you love ever again.
Chapter 20: Shift, Select & Delete
Summary:
Error and Addison’s first impression of one another did not go very well, understandably.
Chapter Tags: Injury (bleeding cuts), Someone making a passive-aggressive snipe at past familial trauma, Near death experience. Or death experience. Can argue for both, really.
This is a fun one :)
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
You’ve never seen a tomato look so eviscerated until now.
Killer flips the vegetable knife end over end, catching it by the blade each time between his index and middle phalanges, like he hadn’t just cut up the tomato like it stole his life savings. You struggle to describe what’s left as chunks, given that it looks more like puree was smeared all over the cutting board, bloody paint on a canvas.
“... You know it was supposed to be diced tomatoes, not crushed right?”
“what’s it matter? it’s all going to end up the same anyways.”
You bite back a snippy response, because you know Killer would just take that as a sign to needle further. He drops the knife on the board with a flipancy that’s very unlike him, crosses his arms and leans back against the counter, signalling that that’s about as much help as he wants to put in for lunch.
In all the time you’ve known Killer, you’ve been paying careful attention to the state of his soul, especially when he’s not his lackadaisical carefree snarky self. Today there’s a harsh fuzz to it, and it struggles to turn in an even circle. Woke up in a mood, Dust explained when he came to your place to pick you up. And he’s probably only not holding up in his room because somewhere deep down in the pit of the apathy he’s experiencing today he still wants to be in the company of those he cares about, even if he is a bit mean.
So you’re not going to meet his cattiness with your own, it’s just going to make him feel worse about himself later. You’re just going to treat this like any other visit to the castle.
Horror has the same idea anyways. He calmly reaches over and grabs the cutting board. With the back of the knife angled against the board, he scrapes the tomato remains into the pot. “we c’n use this to make the sauce base,” he suggests. He adds some of the herbs that you had been slowly mincing down at your station, and gives everything a stir. “... gonna need a few more, diced and crushed i think.”
“I can run out to the garden,” you offer. Especially now that you know where it is.
“mmm, can you take the compost with you?”
“Sure.” You take care to make sure the cutting boards are all out of his way, then grab the very full basket sitting next to the counter that he’s been using for food scraps. “Back in a few.”
“don’t get lost,” Killer snarks.
“Thanks. I’ll try not to,” you call back over your shoulder as you walk out of the kitchen.
It’s really not Killer’s fault; with the kind of stuff he’s been through (or they all have been through, really), it’s amazing he doesn’t have more bad days than good. You know there was probably a point in time when days like this were probably the norm, and it’s a testament to the bond he’s built up with everyone that he does experience these kinds of days less and less frequently.
Barbs about getting lost aside, you do have to pause in the hallway, shifting the weight of the basket to rest on your waist a bit while you reason out how exactly to get to the garden from here. As impressive as the castle is as a whole, an interior planner Nightmare is not, and for some bizarre reason the kitchen is nowhere near the doors that lead out to the garden terrace. The whole place feels like a labyrinth, influenced by Nightmare’s will during the days when calling him ‘antisocial’ was likely an understatement, and his defence plans hinged on intruders falling victim to the twists and turns.
Let’s see, from here it’s down the hall past the den, then a right, then the second door on the left would lead to the foyer and the main doors. From there it’s just a matter of walking around the right side of the building to get to the little garden gate.
A bit of a hike. But if there’s a faster route, no one’s shown it to you yet.
A quick peek in the den as you walk by confirms that Dust is still there, sprawled out on the couch like a vegetable watching yet another episode of Bar Rescue. Cross, you assume, is still exercising in the training room upstairs, and Nightmare has been locked away in the library for thirty-four hours already, so what’s another at this point?
“Shakshuka’s going to be another thirty minutes or so, we’re still working on the sauce.”
“‘kay,” is Dust’s only response. He doesn’t even lift his skull from where it’s resting on the arm of the couch, and now that you’re looking closely you can see that it’s probably because Cheeseburger has wormed his way into Dust’s hood for a catnap, with only his floofy tail visible as it coils along Dust’s neck.
You shrug, and continue on your way, taking the right and then the eventual door on the left. Oh, you should have asked how many tomatoes to bring back, you’d like to save yourself a second trip. Maybe grab a bunch of the larger ones you can find? Horror’s planning on making three pans to feed everyone, so what’s the ratio of tomatoes to an entire carton of eggs?
You nudge open the door to the foyer, which is impressive because you have absolutely no muscle and it is a very big and heavy wooden door –
And the sound of static hits your ears.
It’s like tv static, but louder, harsher in pitch that pierces your ears like an electrical current. You hiss with the sudden pain and try to cover your ear, only to lose your grip on the basket. It falls to the floor with a heavy thud, tipped on its side, and the food scraps tumble out all over the carpet.
There is a hole in the foyer.
At first, it reminds you of one of Cross’ portals, like reality was peeled apart and formed a tear in physical space, with nothing but white visible on the other side. The edges of the hole shift and pulse, but the shapes they make look almost like cubes that grow and shrink in size. The static buzzes louder when you look directly at it, worming its way like a needle puncturing your brain and causing the worst migraine you’ve ever had.
Looking at the skeleton standing in front of it seems to have the same effect.
There are… a lot of colours going on with this skeleton, which becomes even more apparent as the hole closes and they’re no longer back-lit by the bright white light. Their back is to you, but you can see how their skull is deeply black in colour, and that extends down to the palm of their hands. But each phalanx turns bright red, and then shifts to sunshine yellow at the tips, and you can see the red make a reappearance on the skeletons fibula and tibia, visible underneath the hem of a pair of baggy shorts.
You aren’t even addressing how the newcomer’s coat seems to be made up of a patchwork of black and navy blue with red and blue stitching all over. You aren’t even addressing how thin blue thread seems to be poking out chaotically all over the outfit. You aren’t even addressing the socks and sandals combo.
The static fades away as the hole seals up, thankfully, and you pull your hands away from your ears–
“niGHTm4re! U st-t-tuPId ocT0Pu-pus, wh3Re R y-y-U?!”
Just in time to hear the new skeleton screeching like dial-up.
The skeleton, completely unaware of your presence, just continues on. “the FUck-kiNg rupTURe 1s b4ck-k-k! niGHTm4re! wh3r3 tHe f-4-fuCK R U?! 1 sW3Ar if y-y-YOu doN’t g3t 0v-ver herE ’m g0INg to ATomiz3 tHIs sTUPid c4st-tLE ap-apart br-r-ricK By bR1ck!” Their voice sounds like the worst quality phone call, when your cell is just within range of the tower to connect, but good luck getting anything but garbage through.
“He’s in the library!” you shout, mainly in frustration to get them to stop screaming.
The skeleton immediately freezes, and spins around to face you. You only have a moment to see their face - with mismatched eyelights of yellow, white and blue floating in sockets of red, and blue streaks that stain their cheekbones from the bottom of their sockets down to the top of their mouth - before their surprise contorts to something like revulsion.
“wh0 tHe fu-c-ck R U?” they demand.
“Who the fuck are you?” you counter. “You’re the one who just showed up outta nowhere screaming for Nightmare, he can’t even hear--”
It’s faster than you can anticipate.
With a quick flick of their wrist, blue threads launch towards you from the yellow-tipped phalanges, and before you can even flinch back the threads wind around your body and ensnare you. They tighten, and you gasp in pain as you feel the burning of the threads cutting into your skin even under your clothes.
“i’M th3 1 wHO aSks the q-q-qUESTi0ns h3rE.” With tug on the threads, the skeleton starts to pull you closer to them. Your feet skip and skid on the carpet as you’re dragged, and you try to twist and wrench yourself free but the threads only pull tighter and cut deeper.
“Hey-ow, ah, help! He--”
“i sa1D tHAt’s en-n0UGh!”
The skeleton raises their free hand, and makes a motion swiping in the air.
Your jaw suddenly snaps shut. You try to open your mouth, but it’s like the muscles are paralyzed. Your teeth grind and clench and you make muffled grunts as you try to force your mouth to open.
But it won’t.
And robbed of your only means to call for help, your heart starts to pound in your chest with the fear and realization that you’re at this skeleton’s mercy.
And they don’t look very merciful.
“b3t-t-T-ter.” The skeleton smirks, and it’s not at all playful or teasing like the boys. You wiggle frantically, trying to find any sort of give to the thread, but they only squeeze tighter. “so wHy-eye-y th3 fUCk d0es niGHTm4re hav3 a fILThy hUm-man runNin’ 4r0Und his-s-s c4stLe?”
The skeleton makes a few more motions with their hands, swiping and pinching empty air. Your body spasms with a sudden tingle, like you’ve just been shocked, and the feeling wriggles like worms deep into your core. It feels like when a Monster CHECKS you, except this is anything but brief, and you feel it far too deep for comfort, leaving behind a prickling itch within your body.
“l3t’s s-sE3… inTEGrity-y tr4It, b0rin-ng… 0h and justICE. 0h nO, ’m sc4Red…” the skeleton teases with a mocking tone, but you don’t know what exactly they’re talking about. “... goT 4 f3W crACk-k-ks in th3 s-sOul becAUSe dad-D-dy h1t U a coUp-ple 0f ti-iMEs, boo-o-0 ho! U kn0w hOW m4ny t1mES 1 s3e tHat?”
Oh, oh screw this fucker. You blink tears away from the corners of your eyes while you terribly attempt to snarl in anger through your locked mouth, stamping your feet on the ground as you twist and pull on the threads in a fury. You try and see if you can spot something you can kick, knock over, make a ruckus with, but the foyer is empty, and the threads are holding you far enough away from anything that could be kicked. Including the skeleton themself, much to your mounting frustration.
The skeleton just continues with the weirdly invasive CHECK, unimpressed. “... n0t a mAGe, n0 magIc poTENt-t1al…m4ybe? wHAt is th-th4t s-spaRK, it 4in’t DETERMINATION… O, ew, a soULm4te ‘v3rse…” The skeleton sighs irritably. “aNOther-r stuP1d h4rmoNIZ-z-zed soULs 1, d0n’t U ab0min-minATIons know sOulS c4n hARMon1ze wiTH aNy-1? it jUSt t4kes t-tim3. id-dioTS…”
… Wait what?
“1 doN’T g3t it, wH-y… soUL tR4its’ an in-t-tEREstin-ng cOMb0, b-buT Th3r3 is ab-bsOLUtely n0thin’ sp3ci4l ab0ut-t U… oh w3LL, t0o bAD. it’s bEen a wH1Le sinc3 1 adDeD an-n-nyTHIng to mY colLECti0n.”
The tingling stops, and the skeleton flicks another set of thread towards you. You struggle in alarm as the threads appear to move through your chest, and curl around something inside, it’s inside, oh fuck, oh god, oh fuck it hurts help!
You scream through your closed mouth, your body jerks with flashes of stabbing pain as the threads tug and pull, a pressure builds in your chest as something feels like it’s about to burst from within.
The pressure snaps with a pop, and–
You are small
help
There is nothing
help
Black White Grey
help
You can’t see
help
Fingers curl around you
hurts
Cold Sharp Tight Cruel
help
Echoes of voices
let go
Shouting far away
help
Too close
help
Fingers slip in the sea of black white grey nothing
help
Alone Adrift
scared
Then
help
Warmth
You gasp as you feel a crushing pain in your chest. Like a fire burning, spreading out to your entire body through your nerves and veins like kindling. The next breath is a reflex, a gulp where air pools in the back of your throat instead of going down to your lungs. There’s not enough and there’s not enough again and again and again and you feel like you’re suffocating.
“easy! easy addison! listen to me! deep breaths, slow down. you’re okay. you’re okay now.”
“Hold on, I have to check the bond.”
There’s a hand on your chest, pushing down. You jerk and try to pull away, but someone holds you, holds onto your wrists. The fire burns, it hurts, it hurts so much. Every inch of your body screams as pain bursts from every nerve end and you can’t breathe there’s no air you can’t breathe someone is squeezing all of you with sharp claws and cruel hands.
And just like that…
Cooling numbness sets in.
It chills your core first, then spreads along the same paths the pain travelled. The knot of pressure on your lungs suddenly eases and you choke with the sudden airflow. The air ravages your throat but fills your lungs for the first time in what feels like an eternity and you need more.
“easy. that’s it. slowly addison, slowly. we got you.”
You try. You try so hard. You’re conscious of every breath, and the more you rouse the more you become aware again of the world around you; you can hear little noises of groans and whimpers that you realize are coming from you. Your vision starts to fade back in, spotty and blurred as you notice you’re looking at the world through tears.
You’re on the ground, flat on your back and looking up towards the ceiling. Dust is there, on your left, looking down with eyelights the size of pinpricks, so small you can’t even tell what colour they are anymore. You’ve never seen him looking so scared. Cross’ skull is just visible on your right, looking down at your chest while his white eyelight glows with magic use. You try to sit up, but Dust holds you down with firm pressure on your shoulder.
“no, no, no stay down sweet-soul. just keep breathin’, nice and easy. we got you.”
“Du-,” you groan. Your legs curl up and you try to turn over, but Dust's insistent hold keeps you down, and you feel Cross’ hand holding onto your waist. “Fuck-”
“I know, Addy, I know it hurts. I just gotta check...” Cross assures. He has his other hand pressed down on your chest, and you can feel the tingle of healing magic that feels like it’s being pumped deep into your body. You feel it wash over the spots where the threads cut in deep before, and there’s a spark of pain before it’s replaced with a cooling balm. Your muscles spasm and jerk on reflex and you can’t control it enough to keep still.
“cross,” Dust hisses.
“... Okay, okay it’s back in, it’s holding. HP loss from his threads, but that’s it.” Cross leans over and cups your check with his hand, urging you to look at him. He’s frowning, sockets furrowed with a sternness that reminds you of when you first met him. No warmth. “Hey, hey listen, can you hear me? Can you remember what happened?”
What happened? You don’t even know what happened! You--
“you fucking bastard!”
You jump as someone lands on the floor hardly two feet away from where you lie. Cross immediately spins around and rises with both his blades drawn. Dust slides an arm under your shoulders and lifts you part way up to his chest, holding you close, snarling in anger while his left eyelight starts to glow and you hear the hiss and crackle of magic charging.
Killer leaps back to his feet, and raises the red knife in his hand just in time to slice the arc of blue string thrown at him. Then he throws the blade across the room and just barely misses the black skeleton in the technicolor coat.
That fucker. You remember that fucker.
The skeleton blips to the side to dodge the knife, then has to blip again to avoid the massive head of Horror’s axe coming down on their skull. The axe cuts through the carpet and slices into the stone underneath with a crunch, but Horror just grunts and pulls the weapon free with little effort. He snarls, and raises the axe up for another swing.
“wHat-T th3 FuCk h4S got-t-tEN int0 U iDi0Ts?” the skeleton screeches as they dodge again, and retaliates by ensnaring the axe head and pulling on the threads so that it arcs wildly and lands in the wall.
Killer shortcuts behind the skeleton while they’re distracted by Horror, and tries to jam another red knife deep into their back. The skeleton blips away from that, but the threads they throw out are cleanly sliced by Cross shortcutting in front of Killer. Killer wastes no time swinging around Cross for another strike, and it becomes a frantic three-on-one, with Killer, Cross and Horror mercilessly pushing the offensive and forcing the other skeleton to remain elusive and defensive.
Your ears pop with increasing pressure. You look up to see Dust has summoned a large blaster, the skull head glowing lilac with crackles of red as magic gathers in its mouth. The glow only increases in its harshness, and you’re forced to hide your face away in Dust’s hoodie, clutching the fabric tightly. He cups the back of your head with his free hand and keeps you tucked against his chest.
“easy sweet-soul, i’ve got you. don’t look.”
For a moment that stretches painfully long, all you can hear is the cacophony of shouting at the other end of the room, the painful hum of magic charging in the air above you, and the throbbing pulse of your heart hammering in your ears.
The sounds drop suddenly to an eerie silence.
The blaster roars and the magic discharges. You feel the heat of the beam as it blasts above you, racing through the air and striking against something with the clap of a deafening explosion. You curl into Dust more on reflex, and he keeps his hold secure on you.
And then there’s silence once more.
Slowly, so slowly, because you’re scared of what you might see now that there’s no noise, you lift your head up and turn to look over the rest of the foyer.
The castle has a new entrance, a nice big hole punched clean through the wall to the outside right next to the actual main doors. As impressive as the destruction is, your heart sinks when you see the black skeleton just standing there, none the worse for wear.
Horror, Cross and Killer are thankfully unharmed, and they’ve shifted positions, forming a line in front of you and Dust. Horror and Cross both pant lightly, while Killer leers with a cold grin as globs of blackness pours from his sockets.
The skeleton’s fingers clench, and they seem to flicker in place for a moment. “a-L-lRIght, th4t’s it, fUCK ALl of-f yOU.” They lift both hands up to their cheekbones, and appear to pull more thread out from the tear marks on their skull. Horror and Cross both heft their weapons higher, and Killer pinches his horribly distorted soul and pulls out another red blade with his off-hand.
“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!”
You can’t help the full-body shudder as the room seems to darken and the temperature plummets almost instantly. Nightmare steps out of one of his portals, but even as it closes once he crosses the threshold the room remains artificially dim. His tentacles writhe and squirm in the air behind him, like angry snakes as he eyes the lone skeleton at the far end. Then his gaze shifts to all of you, and the boys don’t even pay any mind to his entrance. Finally, the turquoise eyelight falls on you, still held tightly in Dust’ arms, and you feel the unmistakable tingle of a CHECK wash over you briefly. His expression is unreadable as he turns back at the other skeleton, but there’s no misinterpreting the way the tentacles thrash in the air, and the room darkens more.
“What. Did. You. Do?” You’ve heard Nightmare’s commanding tone before, but he’s never sounded this… livid, and it makes you flinch with a spike of fear. A reminder that despite his gentleness with you, this is a deity you’re looking at. Dust tucks your head closer to his chest.
What if he’s mad at you? What if you did something wrong?
“wH4t d1d 1 do-o-O? wh-haT d-dId 1 Do?! U as-s-sHOLe, th3y’RE th3 1's wH0 st-tARTed it-t! th3y aTT4cked m3--”
“Error tried to take Addison’s soul,” Cross coldly explains, quickly cutting off the rant in short order, and earning a snarl from…
… Wait a minute, that’s Error? That’s the Destroyer of universes?
You at least expected him to be taller than you.
“d0n’T U int-t-terRUPt m3 U f-fuCK1n’ d0g!” Error hisses.
But what if he is mad at you? Error is supposed to be his ally, right, what if you did something to piss him off? What if this is your fault?
“don’t call him a dog!” Horror yells.
“Enough!”
The tentacles slap against the ground with a heavy THWUMP, and then shockingly they appear to split, four becoming eight. And then again, all the while the room darkening until the only sources of light are the glow of the skeletons’ eyelights. The edges of Nightmare’s form seem to soften, then distort, and blend into the darkness as you think you see the impression of more and more tentacles growing and reaching out.
Leave the room.
Nightmare’s voice echoes, no longer confined to one source. The darkness itself is speaking all around you.
“naw,” you hear Killer say. Even the bright glow of his soul isn’t casting enough light to illuminate his face in pitch darkness. “i haven’t had my fill of ‘im.”
I will not ask twice.
Dust, unsurprisingly, does not need to be told twice, and he pulls you through a rapid shortcut straight to his bedroom, and the two of you bounce a little as you land on the mattresses.
Dust has an actual bed frame somewhere, but for some reason he insists on just leaving his mattresses on the floor, two stacked on top of one another so it’s a bit softer, but still. It’s the floor. Maybe he just likes the freedom to literally fall face first onto the bed when he stumbles into the room, you’ve certainly witnessed it multiple times.
Even with the lights off, the room is awfully bright in comparison to the darkness that’s engulfed the foyer. You blink a few times, and rub your eyes with the palm of your hand. Fuck, even with your eyes closed it’s not as dark as it was just then.
“hey, hey easy.” Dust pulls your hand away so he can look at you straight in the eyes. The thin angry frown is gone, replaced with worry and shrunken eyelights. You’re not used to Dust looking so unsure, you don’t like it. “it’s alright.”
“I’m okay,” you mumble. “It’s fine, I’m fine.” You wonder if it sounds as hollow to him as it does to you. And if your teeth are chattering because you're still cold.
A loud bang reverberates through the walls, rattling the ceiling light and knocking loose dust particles from almost every surface.
“... good,” Dust mutters, fixing a stare towards the floor as if he could see through and watch the fight that had apparently broken out. “night’s teachin’ the fucker a lesson.”
“... That’s seems excessive, I dunno… Fuck everything feels like pins and needles.” You go to rub your eyes again, only to stop when you catch sight of your arm, where the threads had cut into your skin and left behind thin stripes of drying blood staining your shirt. A glance down at your legs reveals your pants in similar condition.
“you’re shaking dimples.”
Yeah, yeah you are. And it’s not from the chill anymore. With a realization that only comes as the adrenaline in your body starts to settle, you understand with stark clarity that not only had Error tried to kill you, he was very nearly successful. And that you’re not missing anything between the moment Error carved your soul from your body and waking up after the boys evidently put it back.
Nothing but being a corpse on the ground.
“... Fuck--” you clap a hand over your mouth in a vain attempt to stifle the sobs before they start. Dust folds you back against his chest, pressing his face against the crown of your head and he starts to rock, back and forth. Your body shudders, and you quickly bury your face in his hoodie to try and stifle the broken cry that escapes through your lips.
“it’s okay, it’s okay, i have you. we got you. you’re safe.” He repeats this over and over, and right now you’re not sure which of you needs to hear it more. It's hard to tell where your shaking ends, and his begins.
The hiss of another shortcut nearly has you shrieking in alarm, but you manage to pull away enough to see Cross and Horror out of the corner of your teary eyes. The rage that had been etched all over Horror’s face before is gone, and he makes a small noise of sadness that just about makes you cry harder as he stalks forward, then falls onto the mattress and crawls over to you and Dust. He wraps his massive arms around the both of you and uses your chest as a pillow as he makes that broken keening noise again.
You were gone. You were gone and dead and that was it there wasn’t anything you could do.
“Fuck… fuck, me,” you sob. Cross collapses on the mattress beside you with a huff, leaning up against your back. “Fuck… I… I… ruined lunch…”
Horror shakes his skull, tightening his hold on you, whining and unable to form words at the moment. You wrench a hand free and carefully cup the back of his skull, petting in some kind of attempt to comfort his misery. Cross manages to slip a hand under Horror’s arm and rests it gently on your waist, moving his thumb in small soothing circles as the chill of healing magic starts up again.
“S’okay Addy,” Cross mumbles, exhausted as if suffering from dozens of sleepless nights. “Don’t worry, it's okay, we’ve got you.”
No, it’s not okay. It’s not okay as the fear you felt while trapped in the threads returns and only adds to the fear you’re feeling after the fact, your mind replaying the moments before over and over with the very clear understanding that it hadn’t been a near miss, the worst had happened.
Suddenly it’s not enough to be here with Dust. With Horror and Cross. You want Killer. You want Nightmare. You want everyone. It’s not safe, it’s not enough.
Another shortcut brings Killer into the room, arms folded across his chest, which just makes the unstable soul all that more obvious. You doubt it could be legally classified as a shape at all anymore, just an impressionist glare of red and white that fuzzes like snow static. There’s enough liquid pouring from his sockets that it drips off his chin and stains the front of his shirt instead of fading away like it usually does.
He hangs back, says nothing as he stares at you with those empty sockets, and you know that if his soul allows for any capacity for it now he’d be blaming himself, somehow convincing himself this whole thing is his fault to fuel that self-hatred that only makes his soul worse.
You can almost see the wheels turning, see the exact moment he links what just happened with his inability to control his temper and dice a tomato properly.
You know Killer, and you know Killer is hurting and that it would only twist the knife further if you were somehow scared of him at this moment.
You’re not.
You lift a hand and reach out for him. And Killer maybe hesitates for a fraction of a second before he throws himself into the cuddle pile and worms his way into the tightest spot he can find to hold onto you.
“we’re fuckin’ puttin’ in a faster way to the garden tomorrow,” he mutters. "even if we hav'ta fuckin' blow holes in the walls."
And that’s a sentiment you think everyone can agree with.
***
It takes the length of two Sideprojects videos, on top of the time it took for all of you to calm down and for someone to start streaming videos on their phone, for the rumble and tumble audible from the foyer to quiet down. None of you have moved from the bed, just rearranged the sheets and pillows into something resembling a nest and settled into a conglomerate tangle of bodies and limbs with no intention of moving. Most of you aren’t even awake, having slipped into a sleep that was less from fatigue and more from passing out from stress.
You’re barely awake, laying somewhere in the middle of the pile - someone’s foot is poking you in the back and it’s not really that comfortable - when the shadows appear to shift. There is no sound except from the phone and Horror's quiet mumble of acknowledgement towards the newcomer. The mattress dips, and you feel a cool, tacky hand rest on your forehead.
You try to force your eyes to open more, but the turquoise light is all you need to see to confirm Nightmare’s presence, and another knot of anxiety unravels with the knowledge that he’s close by. You curl a little more into what you think is Killer’s shoulder and let your eyes fall shut, barely hearing the words “I’m so sorry” whispered before you fall into timid unconsciousness.
Chapter 21: Cracking the Cage
Summary:
On a day when she feels stuck in a holding pattern, Dust decides to surprise Addison with an impulse visit to Nightmare's famed library.
Chapter tags: Past familial abuse (flashbacks, references to going hungry, property destruction), discussion of the possibility of a dead body.
Hey, sorry about the missed update last week. Holiday season tends to make my job crazier, and I was not able to get into a good writing mindset. I didn't want to force anything, so I gave myself the week off.
I hope everyone's been having a good December! Thank you so much for sticking around so far; I look forward to writing the stuff I have planned for next year!
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Your neighbour’s door is still ajar.
You first noticed a few hours ago, when you left for work and ran down the hall for the elevators, hoping to beat the clock and lonely bus rolling down the street to your stop. A failure to catch it, a long walk to another stop on an alternate route in an attempt to still make it for your shift, and a busy day running around on your feet serving customers who never seemed to be happy with anything you served them has you trudging back to the building as an the first snowfall of the season starts in earnest, already covering the city in a blanket three inches thick.
Your boots leave little puddles in the elevator as you wait for it to slowly climb to the sixth floor, your arms hanging limply at your sides while you stand there just breathing tiredly and zoned out. The door chimes and they jaggedly slide open; the superintendent still hasn’t addressed that repair, and last winter this particular car had repeated issues of the doors becoming stuck due to the cold. You step out and walk back down the hall, and only happen glance at the door in mild curiosity.
Your neighbour’s door is still ajar.
You stop. The door’s only open enough to allow for a small crack of wall within to be visible. It’s dark, no light on, and you know there should be an overhead there if this unit has the same layout as yours. If you listen closely, silently, you hear the rush of air and the faint sounds of traffic outside drifting in from an open window.
You don’t knock. You don’t touch the door. You don’t do anything except go back to your unit and duck inside.
You make sure your door is locked and bolted behind you.
It’s not a bad part of the city. But there are parts that don’t match the pristine ideals advertised in brochures that clutter racks at travel agencies. For a city that sells itself as one of promise, of harmonized cooperation between species, of opportunities and new beginnings for everyone, it shies away from from acknowledging the darker corners that exist.
You’ve grown up in the dark. Survived in it. The first thing you look for when you go somewhere new are where the exits are. You walk around with your hand in the pocket containing your keys, day or night.
The door might be nothing.
You remember the creeping out from your bedroom in the middle of the night, tiptoeing down the hall past your parent’s b edroom, desperate to reach the kitchen and find something to eat after they sent you to bed without dinner again. The door to your father’s office was a tell. Closed meant passing by safely. Open, even just a little, meant an higher risk of getting caught.
After getting caught once you learned to retreat, back to your room and back to another unfortunate night spent hungry.
You hang up your coat, set your wet boots on the mat by the door. You go and change from your work-stained clothes into comfortable layers to keep the chill away since your radiator hasn’t been able to quite keep up with the dropping temperatures. You resist the urge to lock yourself further away in your bedroom (in your closet) and instead fall on your couch and pull out your phone.
It is a very nice couch, you have to admit. You probably would have resisted buying a new one for yourself until the last one literally fell apart, fluff spilling from ripped seams and ready to collapse under its own weight. Maybe you should pick up a nice blanket to go with it, something to curl up with now that winter is starting in earnest. For now, Trixy will have to do, as she hops up next to you and curls against the side of your leg. You sink into the cushions like an amorphous blob, tapping through your apps and open the messenger.
bleh :You
dusty boi: bleh urself
no u :You
im bored :You
dusty boi: hi bored im dust
:/ :You
dusty boi: whats wrong
nothings wrong :You
dusty boi: liar
how am i lying :You
dusty boi: ur texting funny
dusty boi: like short answers
dusty boi: no punctuation
dusty boi: so whats wrong
You stare at the screen, at a loss for what to reply. First of all, you didn’t think you were texting weirdly at all. There’s nothing wrong, why would there be anything wrong? You just had a long day at work, nothing’s happened...
But you can’t say you feel great.
nothings wrong :You
i just feel off i guess :You
i dunno :You
long day :You
There’s a moment where you want to admit that your neighbour's door is bothering you, but that seems way too stupid, even for you.
dusty boi: wanna talk about it
What is there to talk about? I’ve been feeling off since I woke up this morning, I don’t know what’s wrong because nothing happened so I shouldn’t be feeling weird, but my neighbour's door has been open all day and it’s creeping me out for some reason, isn’t that stupid?
i dunno :You
its probably nothing :You
dont worry about it :You
dusty boi: k
The typing bubble disappears. Saying you’re a bit disappointed would be an understatement, because while yeah you don’t think you’ve got anything going on that’s worth worrying over, you think even just texting random pictures or memes with Dust would be enough to lift your spirits. But maybe he doesn’t want to be bothered; he’s not always in the most social of moods, and sometimes he’d rather avoid it. But he wouldn’t answer your texts at all if that was the case, at least not so quickly. Maybe one of the other boys are up to no-stakes chatting, maybe--
You shouldn’t be surprised by the hiss of a sudden shortcut. You’re dating five skeleton Monsters who are all capable of teleportation in a variety of styles. Fuck, how many times had Red surprised you like this through the years?
You still jump a bit in your seat and nearly drop your phone when Dust suddenly pops in front of you.
“knock knock,” he greets, hands in his pockets and a smirk on his skull.
Your eye narrow as you try so hard to pretend to be annoyed and glare at him. You’re still going to play along. “Who’s there?”
“orange.”
“Orange who?”
“orange you gonna talk to me?”
You groan, rolling your eyes while Dust flops onto the couch next to you. “That was weak,” you grumble.
“uh-huh.” Dust shifts closer until he’s up against your side, siting on the side of his hip with an arm against the back of the couch and propping up his skull. He looks at you with those mismatched eyelights that are both disarming and completely honed in on your bullshit. “so what’s going on dimples?”
“Nothing! Really!” Dust gives you a thoroughly unimpressed look, and you sigh and let your head fall back against the back of the couch. The ceiling is a lot less judgmental. That water stain’s gotten a bit bigger, the super is going to have to check the plumbing upstairs soon, otherwise you might come home one day to a hole over your head. “... I just feel weird,” you admit.
“weird how?”
“Like...”
How are you supposed to answer when you yourself aren’t sure what it is that you’re feeling, other than ‘weird’? You pinch the bridge of your nose and massage the inside of your eyes right by the tear ducts, then let your hand fall back onto your lap. Dust slowly encircles his hand with yours, locking your fingers together.
“... You know when something happens and you cry about it for hours, and after you’re just exhausted? Like, you’ve got your head stuck in a fog, so you’re just... going with what you know to get through the day. But you still jump at every small thing, and you feel like you’re one thing going wrong away from another breakdown, except you know there’s no fuel left for one. And... I have no idea where I’m going with this, I’ve royally fucked up every metaphor, this is stupid, nothing actually happened.”
“it’s not stupid,” Dust chastises. “i’m pretty sure i remember someone runnin’ into her ex and his soulmate a few weeks ago.”
... A few weeks ago? That feels like months ago at least. But, still, there’s no excuse for that to be bothering you now, it’s not like you’ve run into Red since.
“and i seem to recall her ex’s edgelord brother harassin’ her in the middle of the night last week.”
“... Okay, yes, fine, you’ve made your point, it wasn’t that long ago,” you concede. “But I should be over it by now. Like... okay, the stupid thing--”
“stop callin’ it stupid.”
“Fine, the ‘frustrating’ thing... I walked by the unit next door on my way to work this morning, and their door was open a bit, and it’s still just slightly ajar and there’s part of me that’s like ‘it’s nothing, don’t worry about it’ and another part that’s ‘somebody’s been murdered and there’s a dead body in there’. Or, or ‘somebody broke in, what are the odds they’ll break into my unit too?’”
“you do realize you’re talking to someone who doesn’t think any of that is weird?” Dust asks, giving you a rather flat look. “i can go check if you want, a dead body’s not gonna phase me.”
“No, no that’s not the point. I mean...” You sigh again, trying to figure out what words work best with the feelings bothering you. “I should be able to knock and check if I think something is wrong... But I can’t. And it bothered me all fucking day because... because it reminds me of something from when I was younger, and... fuck, everything just reminds me of my father right now. How fucked up is that?”
“it’s not.” There’s a sternness in his voice that might have once made you recoil a year ago, but it’s him trying to put a foot down to stop your runaway thoughts, at least until you can put a stop to them yourself. Maybe it’s becoming easier, you’re not sure. “stop belittling yourself for feeling the way you are. you’ve taken a few hard knocks and you’re just waitin’ for something else to fall apart and go wrong. that’s why you feel tense. flight mode’s still active.”
“Kind’a wish it was fight mode instead, then maybe I’d stop feeling like a mouse running circles in a small cage,” you mutter
Dust makes a small non-committal noise, but doesn’t immediately respond. He tugs on your hand, and when you look up to meet his gaze he leans in to nuzzle gently, planting soft kisses on your lips. You let him, compliant and enjoying his turn at the wheel, and after a moment you feel a tension you didn’t know you were carrying eek away from your shoulders.
“then lets change the scenery,” he murmurs with a smirk that knows you love it when he uses the low and husky voice. “i think we need to start showin’ you there’s a world outside the cage.”
You can’t lie, the implication sends a slight tingle down your spine in anticipation, but you try to temper expectations. “Nice metaphor.”
Dust pulls away and stands up from the couch. “you set me up for it, i just ran with it.”
“You run?”
He shrugs. He holds out his hand to you, and pulls you up when you grasp it, pulling you in close. “close your eyes,” he says. “we’re taking a couple of shortcuts, and it’s gonna get disorienting.”
You roll your eyes, but dutifully close them as requested. “You know I’ve taken shortcuts before,” you point out.
With your eyes closed, that flushed feeling you get when Dust leans closer into your space is a lot stronger. “this’ll be different,” he mutters, so close to your face. He gives both your hands a squeeze. “hold tight.”
When you feel the first tug on your entire body, the sudden sense of weightlessness, you reign in a gasp and hold your breath. It does feel different. Red used to walk you through shortcuts so casually it never broke your stride. This feels like being buffeted by wind, then nothing, pulled to the left, up, down, you forget which way you’re standing...
And then you’re standing on cold stone with just socks on.
“Oh!” You lift your feet, hopping a little back and forth to shake out the chill. “Shit, that’s cold! Should of warned me to bring shoes. Where are we, outside?”
The air is cold, you realize as you start paying more attention. Chilled like you’ve stepped out on a frosty fall day without your jacket, and it’s only thanks to your layered sweaters that you’re not immediately freezing. This can’t be anywhere close to Ebott, it’s not cold enough, but you can’t think of anywhere specific Dust might have taken you.
“shhhhh.” You feel Dust place the tip of a phalanx on your lips. “don’t worry, we’re goin’ somewhere warm in a minute. just keep your eyes closed, and keep your voice down.”
Dust then tugs on your hands, pulling you forward, and while it’s not difficult to walk with your eyes closed, you don’t know where you are so it’s hard to anticipate any dips or subtle rises in the floor, so you sort of slide along rather than walk. The slight disorientation from the shortcut isn’t helping either. “So are we somewhere we shouldn’t be? Did we break and enter?” Dust doesn’t answer, and you laugh a bit in nervousness. Though you’re not sure why you’re nervous in the first place. “Always figured Killer would be the one to make me a criminal.”
Wherever you both are going, it doesn’t see too far away, as he leads you to a full stop after a short distance. Or maybe it’s a long distance. Who can tell when walking blind? “if i make you a criminal you’d at least be a cute one,” Dust teases. “we’re at the castle.”
... Wait, really? “Really?” You’ve only heard about Nightmare’s castle for literal months, heard tale of a realm bathed in eternal moonlight like a proper villain hideout should be, listened to the boys talk about living in a gothic-like castle that Nightmare conjured and cobbled together at some point long before any of them met the Guardian of Negativity.
It probably explains the chill. And that notable weight at the back of your mind that’s latched onto your anxiety from earlier and is making it heavier somehow.
“So we’ve snuck in like teenagers and I’m not even allowed to look?”
You can practically hear Dust roll his eyelights. “night wants to make a big show about invitin’ you to the castle, so no, i’m not going to ruin it by givin’ you a full tour. but i can give you a sneak peak.”
You hear the groan of a heavy door swinging slowly on hinges, creaking and whining and in need of oil. Then you’re pulled forward a few more steps. The stone changes to something slicker, and the air feels a touch warmer on your cheeks. “Won’t he, like, know that I’m here? He’s an empath, right?”
“yeah, and he’s also not home right now.” Dust releases your hands, and you feel him step around to stand behind you. “’kay, open your eyes dimples.”
So you do.
You can’t help the reflexive gasp, covering your mouth as you look around in awe.
You’re in the library.
Nightmare’s library.
It’s massive, a large room with two storey tall bookcases that run in neat rows down the long ways of the room. The ceiling itself looks to be nearly forty feet high, and is domed with decals and designs of stars and solar systems, painted nebulae and stylized stars and planets. There are two levels visible, with the upper level full of more tall shelves that look just as chock full of books as the lower one. The room is lit warmly, with small flickering flames burning within sconces placed at regular intervals on the walls between the shelves.
There are books everywhere. It’s more books you’ve ever seen, in your school library, in a public library, ever. You think this is more books than the most avid book collector from your world might own. Small tables are scattered about here and there, most of which have a pile of at least a couple more books stacked on them. Some spines look pristine, others look weathered. Some have titles in English, others in languages or scripts you don’t even recognize.
You spend a long while looking around, taking everything in. None of the shelves have any sort of labelling on them, leaving you to guess what might be contained on each of the massive shelves. You can see little rooms or alcoves off to the sides of the room, some with doors closed, others open and inviting.
“This is...” you sigh, at a loss for words. You look back at Dust, standing there relaxed and with a quirky smile on his face. “There’s so much.”
“yeah, he’s got quite the collection,” he agrees.
“Are we even allowed in here?”
Dust shrugs. “door’s never been locked, ever. i don’t see why you would be the exception.” He takes a few steps forward, coming to stand next to you. There's a soft look in his eyelights, something faraway as he looks over the display of books. “i like comin’ here sometimes, when i’m tryin’ to get my skull on straight. it’s quiet, easy to get lost in for a couple of hours, forget about everything else.”
“There are so many books, how does he even keep track of all of it?” You ask the question, but the moment it leaves your mouth you remember this is Nightmare you’re talking about, and your mouth quirks in a smirk. “... He’s read everything in here cover to cover, hasn’t he?”
“at least twice a piece, if not more.” Dust entwines his fingers with yours again, and tugs. “come here, check this out.”
He pulls you over to one of the alcoves to the side. Past the archway it opens to a round room almost double the size of your entire apartment. There’s a desk set along one part of the room with more books, scattered papers, a feather and quill and other writing utensils. The wall is decorated with something that resembles some kind of chart or a mind map, continuous on the curved wall that wraps around the room. It looks painted at first, until you realize the little bubbles are written by hand, connected sometimes with drawn lines or a thin piece of thread held to the wall with pins. It should give you the impression of those walls of nonsense people who believe in conspiracy theories make to try and connect meaningless things together, but overall the whole thing looks neater, planned.
Charted, like a map.
You step closer to the wall to read the writing within some of the bubbles. Some of it are numbers, maybe coordinates. Others are words like ‘Outer’ and ‘Swap’, ‘Fell’ and ‘Shift’. Some have additional notes, single and descriptive words such as ‘Unstable’, ‘Soulmate’, ‘Rupture’, ‘Locked’ and ‘Safe’. You recognize Nightmare’s neat cursive everywhere.
“... Is this...” You take a few steps back to get a good look at the whole picture. “Is this a map of... the multiverse?”
Dust nods. “as much as night’s been able to figure out so far. it’s a work in progress. look.” He points out a bubble about halfway up the wall. “that’s you.”
The bubble has several lines connecting it to others, most drawn in permanently, but a few lines are marked with the thread. The bubble reads ‘Classic’ prominently, but underneath has ‘Malfunction’, ‘Soulmate-Harmony’, ‘Locked’, and ‘Peace’ written in smaller print. And underneath that, in a notably different colour, the word ‘PROTECT’ in all capitals.
Well, doesn't that leave a warm funny feeling in your heart?
“This must have taken him ages to get to this far.” Centuries, probably. You’re not exactly a physicist, but you know most theories about the multiverse go with the belief that it is infinite, so a part of you wonders what the point of mapping it is. But a larger part of you feels a bubble of excitement at the scope of what there is to see, explore, discover.
Your day to day exists between home and work, and the one time you tried to branch out to something outside your routine you were rewarded with an encounter with Red that’s led to you feeling more withdrawn than ever. But here, you’re looking at something that promises to be bigger than your little corner, your little cage.
You look at the spread of bubbles and lines. It’s funny, the more you look at it, the more everything seems to blend and blur into a tangled mess of jumbled worlds. Where does it start? Where does it end? Lines connect like branches to bulbs, knotting the structure of reality together and holding everything up like the canopy of a
T̴̳̮̬̜̝̫͈̓͋̽̋́͊̈́͆͒͛̏̚R҈̯̩͇̘̰͕̣͒̐̔̋͒̏E̸͇̣̠͍̲̦̫̫̟͗̐̓͂̀̈́͐͊ͅȄ̸̗̙̬̝̞͑͗́̇͂́̓̎͂ͅ
“what?”
“Huh?” You turn to Dust, his sockets narrowed and eyelights glowing curiously and with a confused look. “’What’ what?”
“you said... never mind, i thought you said something.”
“... Oookay.” You look back at the map while Dust continues to give you an odd look. You reach out, and lightly trace a line from your universe to another one at random, one that’s labelled as ‘Dance’. What does that mean? You have no idea, but your mind is already racing with ideas and possibilities.
“How does he catalogue them?” you ask, maybe to understand why some of the labels are what they are. “Like, where does he come up with the names?”
Dust takes a moment before answering. “... dunno. his system was already in place before i met him.”
“he sees... patterns, and goes with that.”
You both turn. Horror is standing by the archway, leaning against the wall casually with a happy grin that you can’t help but return. Even if you’ve both been caught red-handed.
“i see we have a couple ‘a sneaks runnin’ ‘round,” he chuckles.
“How did you find us?”
Horror chuckles again, and points to his nasal aperture. “smelled ya.”
Well that would be creepy. But this is Horror, your big cuddle bear. Case and point, you walk over to greet him with a bug hug, which he immediately returns tenfold with a tight squeeze and picks you up for good measure. “heya cookie,” he rumbles, nuzzling his forehead against yours, a gesture you enthusiastically return.
“don’t tell night, h,” Dust quickly requests.
“mmm, i guess i can keep a secret, jus’ for you pickle.”
“I was having an off day and Dust brought me over to try and cheer me up,” you explain, as Horror lets you back down on the ground.
Horror looks over at Dust and tilts his skull with a silent question. Dust shakes his in reply. “don't worry about it, it’ll be a couple of hours at most.” Before you can ask what he’s talking about Dust turns to you. “the castle has a tenancy to start amplifyin’ negative thoughts and feelings, especially if you’re not used to it. takes a couple of hours before you really start feelin’ it, but we’ll get’cha outta here before then.”
“Oh.” Ah, that’s why you’re still feeling that odd knot of anxiety, and you’d rather not have it grow into something worse. Not when you’re already off. “And you guys are used to that?” you ask, hesitantly. It can't be healthy, living in a place that has a passive power to make one feel worse, but you don't want to judge what the setup Nightmare has going on here.
“the castle starts recognizin’ you,” Horror explains, and that does make you feel a lot better. “it’s, uh, like a... security feature. back when nightmare didn’t want... visitors.”
... And Nightmare wants visitors now? Although, you guess you fall within the category of ‘visitor’ now. Visitor of the girlfriend variety.
You glance back towards the main room. You wonder if you could find a copy of every single classic novel that was ever assigned in school. The ones you had to keep in your locker if you wanted to actually read them, because the ones you brought home were immediately confiscated after your bag was searched and probably destroyed, tossed into the fireplace your mother liked to sit in front of.
You had so many ‘lost’ books on your record, the school stopped letting you borrow books from the library. Teachers stopped letting you take textbooks and reading material home.
Why did no one notice? Why did no one help?
“Do you think...” you pause. Dust and Horror wait patiently for you to figure out what you’re asking for. “Will Nightmare be alright... if I read one? Here, to read here though! I wouldn’t take it or anything!”
Dust slides an arm around your shoulders, bringing you close. “relax dimples. trust me, night would probably be happy to let you borrow some books if you asked.”
“what’dya wanna read, cookie? he’s probably got it somewhere in here.”
You don’t know what you want to read.
Not yet anyways.
You’re happy to scour the shelves along with Dust until something catches your fancy. You’ve never read The Hobbit, so when you see the thin red hard cover belonging to Tolkien’s classic standing out on a shelf full of blue books and brown covers, you pull it out immediately.
Dust tucks some thick tome under his arm, and you walk back to the map alcove, where Horror has pulled out some beanbags chairs from somewhere. He sits in the largest one, content to be the pillow for you and Dust to rest against. Dust flips to a page somewhere in the middle of his book, and when you open to the first page of yours, Horror asks if you could read it out loud. When Dust assures you it won’t bother him in the slightest, you start to read...
... about an ordinary hobbit living an ordinary life, about to be surprised with an adventure that would define the rest of his life...
... sitting warmly and loved under a curated map of infinite possibilities...
Notes:
I'm not going to lie, the original concept of this chapter was very different. But I've been in a funk this past week, therefore Addison's been in a funk. It was cathartic at least.
There won't be an update next weekend, as I catch up on things and deal with the last bit of holiday stuff. After that, we should be returning to a weekly update schedule.
Chapter 22: A Story Heard X Times Before
Summary:
Addison’s having a busy day at work. Cross shows up looking a little messed up and a lot more miserable.
Chapter Tags: dick jokes, a character briefly worried that another has cut wrists (nothing to worry about there, I promise). A bad dream and a bad omen.
This was entirely an excuse to give Cross his Underverse 0.6 look and I'm not sorry.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
did you know him
he fell into his creation
he shattered across
time and space
every version
shares this fate
somewhere far
someone unreachable
touches the machine
they are shattering too one by one
you cant fix it why try
YOU CANT SAVE HER
*****
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Your lunch break is late today.
You blame it on the holiday weekend. You also blame it on the three extra people that were supposed to be on shift, but failed to show up, without even a phone call. Turnover’s been high lately, but this this had been a particularly bad stretch.
You don’t have enough people so those that are left work longer hours with fewer breaks to keep up. The newer people get frustrated and quit. So you don’t have enough people… and on and on, round and around like a carousel you want off of.
You need this job, you remind yourself, over and over. It’ll get better soon.
You’re not really sure if you believe your own excuses anymore.
There’s a moment of brevity, and you’re the last one who needs to have a break clocked in or else head office gets uppity. You throw one of the last egg sandwiches into the oven just to heat up enough to make it palatable enough to inhale. You’re supposed to get half an hour, but you’re not sure if the break in customers is going to last that long. You don’t even make yourself a drink, you just grab some water from the tap, grab the sandwich and scurry to the back to hide away until your inevitable return.
This sucks.
This sucks more than usual.
It’s been sucking for a while, the tethers of patience fraying away with each passing day where you go work your butt off for a barely livable paycheck, and return home a shell of yourself and a zombie of exhaustion where you just want to crawl in bed and sleep everything away.
You’ve thought about quitting. Actually a lot these past few months. Went to the library and updated your resume like an adult and everything. But better paying jobs require a college degree, any college degree in some cases, and you have nothing. That’s what happens when you escape from your family as soon as you had your high school diploma in hand. And the jobs that you were qualified for hardly paid any better than what you have now.
You could deal with the long hours if it weren’t for the feeling of being stuck. You choose this path, and you’ve walked down it as far as it could take you.
You’re so tired.
Maybe… Maybe you should consider that offer…
It is better pay, if what he promised you was the truth, but there’s the whole complication of, well… working in a completely other universe. Like how are you supposed to even commute?
The doors to the cafe swing open, like someone rammed into it. Heck, you could hear it all the way from the back room. Anticipating being called back to the floor because the crowds have returned, you shove as much of the sandwich as you can fit in your mouth, working to chew as fast as you can.
Have you mentioned work sucks right now?
The door to the backroom opens, and your co-worker pokes his head in - He’s new too, what’s his name again? Steve? You’re going with Steve - leaning against the door jam with a confused look on his face.
“Uh, Grace says that’s… uh, your boy… skeleton… friend, uh, your friend is here.”
You still have half a sandwich in your mouth. “... Whhuuuu…?” you respond, oh so eloquently around the scrambled egg and lettuce.
Steve doesn’t even dignify that with a response, he just jerks his head towards the front with a look that tells you he’d like you to deal with whatever this is now.
You hastily chew and swallow the mouthful, wrapping the rest of the sandwich back up and leaving it on the small desk before rising from the milk crate you’ve been using as a chair and following him out the door.
There’s still only one skeleton that regularly visits you at work, so it’s not a surprise to see Cross on the other side of the counter.
What is a surprise is that he seems to be missing half his outfit.
Cross leans against the counter, skull in his hands, while your other co-worker Grace is standing at the till and looking with a matching look of confusion to Steve. What used to be Cross’ turtleneck seems to have been forcefully made into a sleeveless tank with low armpits, and a nice gash across the chest is giving everyone a lovely view of part of his ribcage. His coat, or what you think remains of it, it tied like a sash around his waist, the torn edges stained pur--
“... Cross?” You quickly walk around the counter. Cross lifts his skull up as soon as he hears your voice, and moves to intercept you as you come around to the other side. “What ha--”
You don’t get the rest of your question out before he wraps his arms around you, pulling you in for a tight embrace, burying his face in the hair on the top of your head.
This… is not like him.
Yeah, Cross isn’t afraid of showing affection around others, but not like this. He likes holding hands, or hooking his arms around yours like some knightly gentleman, but he still keeps a reserved air about him in public. It’s only in private, either with yourself or the others, where relaxes enough to be more open.
“Cross?” you try again. You lift your arms up to return the embrace. Your fingers find a few more tears on the back of his shirt, the thread fraying away between your fingertips as you fist it into a bunch. “Cross, honey, are you okay?”
He remains silent, only moving to hug you closer. You rub his back in small circles. Pushing up on your tiptoes lets you take a peek past his shoulder, at the rest of the occupants in the cafe, customer and co-worker alike, staring at the both of you. One of the customers sitting by the door lifts their phone and takes a picture. You shoot them a glare, and a middle finger for good measure, before refocusing back on Cross.
Screw them, you wish everyone would just mind their own business.
Cross still doesn’t answer, but you feel his skull shift as he finally moves, shakes it in a clear “no”, and that’s enough for you. “Okay,” you say softly. “It’s okay. You’re safe now.”
You feel him shift again, and the mumbled words come out so quietly you almost miss them. “... I just need a minute.”
“Okay, so let’s take a minute. Do you want to sit? Or do you just want to stay here?”
Cross is silent again, only making a small noise not-unlike a whine. You test it, trying to pull away to see if he’ll let you go, and he does with reluctance written all over his face like a sad puppy. You keep a hand in his, and pull him towards one of the empty tables at the back. He follows you easily enough, his grip like an iron vice. You try not to stare at the splotches of purple, try not to be too obvious while you scan him over to see if he is bleeding mana… or marrow, or whatever it is for magical skeletons.
You gesture to the chair for him to sit, one where he can keep his back to the wall and his eyelights over the rest of the cafe. Cross sits like he’s been ordered to, but hasn’t relinquished your hand. You are going to need to step away for a few minutes, even though the idea obviously doesn’t sit well with him and his discomfort isn’t sitting well with you either.
“Hey, I’m going to be right back. I’m just going to get something for you, okay? I’ll be right over there.” You kiss him on the temple, and then try to pull your hand away to see if he’ll let you go. He hesitates, then releases your hand. You kiss him again. “Be right back.”
As quickly as you can, you duck back behind the counter and start to scavenge for something you know he’ll eat.
“... Is, he, they… okay?” Grace asks, not at all moving to help in the slightest.
“He’s not feeling great,” you answer shortly. You pull out a muffin and a chocolate croissant and put them on a plate. “Mark this stuff down for me, I’ll pay for it before I leave today.” Next stop is the espresso bar, where you start pumping chocolate and hazelnut syrup into a large cup before setting under the spout and pushing the button for the espresso to start extracting.
“... I’ll never understand Monster fashion,” you hear Steve mutter under his breath, and you have to stop yourself from obviously scoffing. Yes, someone comes in with torn clothes and mana splattered all over their shorts, and you just assume it’s a Monster thing. Figures.
You set a pitcher of milk to start steaming, and then duck into the backroom for the remains of your lunch. You also dig out your phone from the locker, and type a quick message into the group chat.
cross is here :You
was he on a mission? :You
his clothes are a mess and i think he’s got mana on him :You
You don’t have time to wait for a response. You pocket the phone and carry your stuff back out, just in time to adjust the nozzle to stretch the milk as it starts screeching in the jug. A quick peek over to Cross has you catching him relaxing back in the chair, shoulders falling as if that brief moment you were out of sight made his anxiety skyrocket all over again.
The milk reaches the right temperature and foam consistency, and you pour it into the cup you set up before. You’re not great at latte art, but you use the tip of the thermometer to make a weird looking cat face. Then you remember you’re covering it up with whipped cream anyways. Oh well.
A layer of cream and an extra flourish of chocolate drizzle later, you manage to hold everything well enough to carry over to the table, where you place the cup and the plate of pastries in front of him before sitting in the other chair. “There you go, have something to eat.”
Cross looks down at what you’ve brought him, and his infuriating self-sacrifice instinct momentarily overrides the misery. “... Wait I can't have all this--”
“You can and you will,” you say, only semi-threateningly. You gesture to your sandwich. “I’ve got my lunch here, and I’ve got time before I have to go back and work, so let’s just, you know, have some food together.”
Cross brows furrow, then his shoulder slump further in defeat. He grabs the cup and takes a sip. Then he takes another larger one. Then a full chug, his eyelights flashing brighter than they had moments ago.
“Good?”
“... Yeah,” he admits, putting the cup down, now that it’s probably half empty. “It’s always good, when you make it.” It’s probably a good thing Cross covers his face with his hands, because he probably misses the way your face flushes and blooms with colour. Stupid charming skeleton, still charming even when he’s not feeling great. “... Sorry,” he mutters between his fingers.
“For what?”
He sighs, and pulls his hands away to rest on the table. He twists his skull to look out the window, eyelights tracking the people walking around outside. The tip of his index phalanx scrapes the tabletop in small circles.
You take a bite of your sandwich, and pull out your phone to check on the messages. Honestly, you should not be surprised by the amount of responses you got.
thriller pants: wtf
thriller pants: no
dustpan: wheres he been
thriller pants: fucker turned his phone off
thriller pants: addy
pumpkin pie: is he hurt?
thriller pants: wtf
i am the night: He left without telling us anything. He’s been acting odd all day. He turned his phone off and I couldn’t locate him. What do you mean his clothes are a mess? Is he hurt?
thriller pants: night
thriller pants: short texts babe
thriller pants: please
pumpkin pie: he had a bad dream
pumpkin pie: last night
pumpkin pie: he couldn’t sleep
thriller pants: addy
pumpkin pie: something scared him
dustpan: where r u
dustpan: r u working
thriller pants: ???????
Okay, time to maybe calm the others down a bit while Cross is still lost with people watching.
i’m at work :You
i’m making him eat something :You
pumpkin pie: good
pumpkin pie: he missed lunch
i am the night: Is he hurt?
there’s stuff on his clothes :You
mana i think :You
but i don’t see anything coming out of him :You
dustpan: phrasing
shut up :You
dustpan: :p
he’s upset by something :You
thriller pants: his clothes
thriller pants: ??????
they’re shredded :You
“Sorry for worrying you.”
You look up from the phone. Cross is still staring out the window, his chin propped up by his hand, elbow resting on the table. You gently push the plate until the ceramic clicks against the bones of his other hand, and he automatically takes the croissant and takes a bite out of it without even looking.
“Don’t apologize, I’d rather you come and worry me than hide away.” You take a moment to look over him again, just to make sure you’re not missing an obvious wound. You know purple is the colour of his mana, so the stains have to be from him. Maybe his wrists? He’s got torn strips of his coat wrapped around each of them, and the black colour is making it hard to tell if they’re stained too. The implication sits uncomfortably with you.
“... Do you want to talk about it?”
Cross sighs. “... It’s stupid,” he mutters.
“If it’s bothering you, it’s not stupid.”
He takes a sip of his drink. You hear the chatter of more people walking in and placing orders, but you try not to pay them any mind. You’re on your break, and if they really needed your help one of them would call for you. You eat more of your sandwich, casual as can be.
“... I shouldn’t have gone solo. I should’ve… I just wanted to clear my skull.” He goes back to blindly drawing shapes on the table. You place a hand over his, and he folds his phlanages around your fingers, holding securly. “Someone said something that’s… not sitting well, with me.”
“Horror said you had a bad dream.” Cross finally looks away from the window and at you. His expression is blank, not angry or surprised. Just blank. You gesture to your phone on the table, the light blinking with new unread messages. “I just let them know you were here. Your clothes are… I thought you might be hurt. You’ve got… is it mana, or marrow? Or just magic?”
He snorts, and that’s the first positive noise you’ve heard from him since he showed up. Then he looks down, and you get the sense he’s actually seeing himself for the first time. He tugs his shirt, inspecting the gash in the fabric. “Damn, sorry, I didn’t… this looks worse than it is, I’m not hurt.”
“You sure?”
Cross nods. He wipes his hand on his coat, across one of the larger stains, his phlanages finding the edge of the tear and rolling the fraying threads. A few pull away and fall to the floor, garbage to be swept up later. “... I used to hate this outfit,” he says quietly.
“... And now?”
“It’s the only… my universe doesn’t exist anymore.” He says it with a heavy sigh, the words carrying the weight of an admission he maybe didn’t want to acknowledge. The corner of his mouth quirks up, a small sad smile. “Don’t think I can fix it either.” You’re not sure if he’s referring to his clothes, or his world.
Maybe both.
A shout from behind has you turn around to check on your co-workers. The line has gone out the door again, and they’re scrambling back and forth behind the counter trying to keep up with the rush. Looks like your break’s prematurely over again. “Sorry, I gotta help,” you say quickly, rising from the chair.
“S’okay. They need you,” Cross assures, and you trust that he’ll be alright for a bit since he looks brighter than when he first came in, ever so slightly. Less miserable, delicate like he was about to shatter.
“I clock out in two hours if you’re going to stick around.”
“I’ll be here, if you want me to.”
“Always. Day’s better now that you’re here.” You kiss his forehead again, and this time he responds with a burst of colour across his cheekbones. There, that’s the Cross you know and love, the uncontrollable blushing mess.
You quickly take your former position behind the counter to help with the rush. People come and go in a blur, and you perform a repetitive dance behind the espresso bar of pulling shots and steaming milk. Your line of drinks never seems to shrink, but all you can do is focus on the next order. And the next one. And the next.
Every once in a while you look up to see how Cross is doing, only to meet his eyelights while he stares at you with an open look of fondness. Then you both blush and look away. Like teenagers.
He still makes the butterflies flutter in your chest and blood to flood your cheeks, just like when you actually started dating. He looks at you every day like you’re something to be cherished.
There’s a pause, a moment of breathing room where customers only seem to want regular coffee and nothing from the bar. You remember your phone is in your pocket, and in defiance of the rules you quickly rush to catch up on messages.
thriller pants: what do u mean
thriller pants: hes nake
thriller pants: naked
thriller pants: 👀
dustpan: i don’t think so
thriller pants: aww
thriller pants: 😫
pumpkin pie: did he tell u
pumpkin pie: nights mad
i am the night: If he was hurt he should have come back here!
i am the night: I’m not mad.
i am the night: I’m upset that he left without telling anyone and got hurt.
dustpan: same dif
dustpan: mad dad
pumpkin pie: mad dad
thriller pants: mad dad
i am the night: I AM NOT YOUR FATHER
he’s not naked :You
and he says he’s not that hurt :You
just bothered by something some said :You
his clothes are torn up :You
thriller pants: how torn
he has a boob window now :You
thriller pants: !
thriller pants: pics
dustpan: he doesnt make boobs anymore
dustpan: but i get u
thriller pants: pics pics
thriller pants: please
thriller pants: addy
he graduated :You
from anime character :You
to anime protag :You
Drinks are added to your queue, so you hide your phone under the lip of the counter for the time being while you work on them. The next time you get breathing room you pull it back out.
thriller pants: addy
thriller pants: please
thriller pants: im dyin
pumpkin pie: then perish
pumpkin pie: 🙂
dustpan: lol
i am the night: Harsh, but fair
thriller pants: pics pics pics
thriller pants: pics pics pics pics pics pcis pics pcis dics pics pcis dicks pics pcis pics
got something on the mind there freud? :You
thriller pants: ?
thriller pants: 😮
thriller pants: dicks dicks dicks dicks dicks dicks dicks dicks dicks dicks dicks dicks
dustpan: wtf
dustpan: how
thriller pants: dicks dicks dicks dicks dicks dicks dicks dicks dicks dicks dicks dicks dicks
dustpan: how r u typing so fast
he’s motivated :You
i am the night: Evidently
The phone is hidden away again, and the remainder of the last two hours of your shift chug along in a mindless blur. When the next person on shift comes to relieve you of your station, you gladly relinquish it. You’re so done with serving people today, and of course you’re going to be docked the full half hour for your break when you only had maybe twenty minutes of it, but whatever.
You have Cross to look forward to.
It’s amazing how just the thought of spending time with one of them is enough to boost your mood.
You quickly sneak over to the till to pay for the food and drinks, then you run to grab your things from the back, instantly feeling way better when you rip the apron off and toss it into the bin, replacing it with your coat instead. You grab your messenger bag and step back out and scurry to Cross, desperate to escape from the crowds. He’s already standing, and he reaches out to grab your hand. “Back to your place?” he asks as he pulls you closer.
“Please."
You both quickly exit, and Cross leads you into the alley beside the cafe. From there it’s a smooth step through a shortcut into your apartment. You really do prefer the shortcuts to the interdimensional portals.
“Have a seat, I’m just going to put my stuff away.”
He lets you go to hang up your coat and to drop your stuff in the bedroom. You change your shirt to something oversized and far more comfortable, and switch out from your work pants to baggy jeans.
When you walk back out, Cross is sitting on the couch. Trixy has jumped onto his lap and is busy rubbing her face into his hand while he pets her, his phalanges raking through her thick fur. His face is open with quiet contentment, worries from before as far away as they can be for the moment.
This is the way you like seeing him.
Quietly, you pull your phone back out and snap a photo.
Then you send it to the group chat.
The response is immediate.
thriller pants: AHHHHHHHHH
thriller pants: SKHFIGFGKAGKAEHGIRILHGKHA
pumpkin pie: im looking
dustpan: oh no hes hot
thriller pants: IGSKFHSKFGSUFGKHFUGKHJEWKHUJWEGUF
i am the night: Calm down Killer, I can sense your erection from here
pumpkin pie: respectfully
You slip your phone away again, and walk over to Cross. Taking a seat on the coffee table instead, to sit opposite from him, he lets you pull his hands into yours. Trixy flicks her tail in disapproval, and hops away when she realizes she’s not getting anymore attention for the time being.
“Now that we don’t have a whole cafe full of people listening in, are you okay?” you ask. He meets your eyes, and holds your gaze, not shying away. “Do you want to talk about it? Or do you want to do other things? We can stream a movie, put on stupid videos. Anything.”
“... It’s…,” he sighs, momentarily looking away at the floor, before glancing back up at you with a steadying breath. “... I don’t remember what I dreamt about, I just know it was… bad. I was restless and, I just needed some space to... clear my thoughts. Needed to do something to take my mind off it. One of the locals took issue with me, I guess.”
“And they didn’t hurt you too badly, right? Like, you’re being honest with me when you say you’re not hurt?”
Cross nods with enough conviction that you believe him. His thumbs run across your knuckles while you both sit in silence for a moment. “... Can I ask you something?”
You shrug. “Sure.”
“... I know Killer asked already but, umm, can I… heh, you know.”
Whatever Cross is trying ask could be a million things, but the mention of Killer has you narrowing down the possibilities to pretty much one thing. “You also want to teach me self defence... things, stuff, right?” you finish for him.
He blushes, and looks away again. “... Maybe I’m overreacting.”
You weren’t sure what to make of it when Killer asked, and while you really still don’t know now, you know that Cross is bothered by something he’s still not fully admitting to, and maybe this will help settle… whatever it is. Though you can't imagine how teaching you how to fight has anything to do with this?
“Okay,” you answer. Cross looks back up at you in surprise. “Okay, but like I told Killer, I don’t really understand how it’ll be useful. It’s not really like I can fight or, I mean look at these arms. I don’t think punching is going to be very effective.”
“No that, heh, that’s okay. We’ll figure something out… but, uh. Thanks.” He blushes again, and a sheepish look comes over his face. “Can I ask something else? Can I… can I kiss you?”
This guy. This absolute charmer. Your cheeks get hot again like they haven’t been blushing enough all afternoon. “We’ve been together for almost a year now, Cross,” you tease. “I think you can kiss me without asking.”
Cross chuckles at his own expense, then leans forward to claim his kiss. It’s soft and chaste, before he asks permission to plunge deeper as politely as he asked for the kiss in the first place. At first, you remember him as timid and shy, unsure how it works to kiss someone with lips. But he’s skilled, and a fast learner, and now he can take the lead as confidently in passion as he is in a fight.
“damn, that’s hot.”
Cross pulls away and spins around with a blade pulled from his inventory so quickly you almost don’t register it. Killer smirks, completely unbothered as he leans against the back of the couch with Cross’ blade stopped short at his neck.
“Fuck!” Cross hisses. “Damn… you… arrrgggghh!”
“I think someone needs to stick a bell on you,” you snark, a little perturbed at the interruption.
“Yeah! That! Fuck!” Cross glares at Killer before shaking his hand and letting his sword disappear back into his inventory.
“yeah, you gonna stick a bell on me criss-cross?” Killer says in a sing-song voice. “gonna put a collar on with a cute little bell that chimes when i--” Cross puts a hand on Killer’s face and pushes him over. Killer cackles as he falls to the ground.
“Why are you even here?” Cross grumbles.
“are you kidding? i had to see your hotness with my own two sockets!” Killer gestures to Cross from the floor like he’s presenting what’s behind door number one. “look at you! fuck! i’d drag ya to the roof right now and fucking ravage you if i could.”
“As annoyed as I am with him, he does have a point.”
“... Why are you taking his side?” Cross argues, then ducks his head down. Without the fur collar of his coat the effectiveness of hiding his blush is severely diminished, and Killer laughs harder in mirth. You pat Cross’s shoulder in sympathy.
Rude intrusion or not, Killer’s brought with him a breath of normalcy, further chasing Cross’ worries away. And that’s all you can ask for, until Cross feels ready to open up with the specifics. Whether it be with you, or Killer. Or Nightmare, or Dust or Horror. Anyone. The thing with Cross is that he needs time to sort out his own thoughts, needs a safe space of comfort with those few he cares about before he opens up.
You’ll happily wait until he’s ready, knowing that he considers you a safe harbour to land in.
Until then, you can float the idea of taking him to a thrift store for some new clothes with Killer. That’ll be a fun adventure.
*
*
*
*
***
*****
His soul felt wrong.
He felt wrong the moment he woke up.
He should have gone to Nightmare. But he didn’t.
He felt like clawing his ribcage open, ripping out his soul and FIXING IT.
It felt so wrong. It felt like SOMETHING HE NEEDS TO USE.
This wasn’t Chara. He hasn’t heard the ghost in months.
Horror helped. He soothed and settled as best he could, his eye seeing so much more than everyone assumes.
But it still felt wrong.
Like he had to CHANGE.
FIX.
SAVE.
He locked himself away, restless, scared to CHECK CHECK LOOK AT IT pull out his soul to see what was wrong. Knocks on the door when unanswered. Messages sent to his phone ignored when he turned it off.
Then he felt the pull.
He doesn’t know why he went. Only knows that he opened a portal to a universe he hadn’t been before, following some subconscious call ringing in his soul. It’s a broken universe, with places scattered and reconnected like puzzle pieces put in the wrong spots, the caverns of the Underground echoing empty of all life, and monstrous CORE rising high and unreachable. All around him were tears of white, the world a canvas that someone had taken a knife to. Physical reality falls into the white, breaking up into nothing before being swallowed by the Void.
He recognizes the thing that Error has been worried about, the tears in reality he didn’t make that were popping up in random universes. The Ruptures, a ripple of destruction that he can’t find the origin of. Something cataclysmic that had to have happened somewhere, in the past, in the present, or in the future. Time has no meaning travelling between universes.
He finds the only living thing left in this universe.
The Sans, one that shares Gaster’s face.
He hates those ones.
Every Gaster knows things, things they shouldn’t, secrets whispered to them through the veil separating reality and the Void. The Sans Gasters are no different.
Ẃ̸̳̗̺͎̜̈́̊͛̓̓́ḩ̶̱̫̗̤͖̻͍̹̱̪̝̙̟͎͂̀̎̅̆͠a̵̹̞͈̣̺̖͑̉̍̚͜t̶̤͙͍̫͙̫̙̾̀̔́͂̌̐̃̚̕͜ ̸̧̗̩̥̺͔̊́̒̅̏̆̓̍͆͆̉̿̚̕ś̸̢̡̢̝͖͍͔̩̥̹̭͛̇̎̈́̀̇̍͐̀ͅė̷̛̼͓̤̖̣̬̗̼̖͓̽̌̆͗p̵̧̜̼̼̝̤̠̜̠̰͉͊̄̈̍̎̏̑̄͐̈́͛́͆̕͝ͅa̶͇̹̼̞͇̹͈̮̅̓͂̒̂̀̈̿̀͘̕͠ȓ̴̯̲͇̥̀̃a̴͚̪̙̱̒̒̓̔͒̈͠ṱ̶̨̼̼̹̙͍̼͊̐́̐̊̈̑͒̈́̉̔͠͠ê̸̟͔͚̠̞̻̞̩̞̜̿̇̃͘ͅs̷͎̪̪̜̥͚͙̬̬̜̠͕͓̯͆̽̋̊͒͜͝ ̷̭̰̺͚̩̞̺̠̃̀͌t̶̛̤̤̦̙̥ḫ̸̢̺̻̮͙̪̙̝͍̽́̅͗̚̕ȇ̴̡̛̛͙͕̲͕͍͉̪͍͋̈́̓̊̆̊̆̈͛͊ͅm̶̛̼̮͇͍̳̙̹͙̥̠͙̌?̴̡͕̙͇̜̱̫̙̭̩͙͎̹̠̝̍̂̐̏̊̄́ ̴͍̮̹̗͂̂͑̆́̏͊̏͐͐̓̃̕̚͠Ẁ̶̠̬̯̽̑̕h̸͎̭̗̫̘̟͇͕̼̒̏̊̓̉̽ȁ̶̡̛̹̣͖̭̲̝̠̫͙̿̿̄̀͂̔̈́̆̚͘̕͠t̷̢̟̟̗͍͚̼͎͕̭̪̘̏̓͒̂͜͜ͅ ̶̭͙̻͓̬̈́͛̔̐̓̅̿͘͠l̶͕̈́̈͋̒͐̓̋̈́̆ị̶̧̨̛̗̼̜̝̮̭̙̓͒̾̓̃̈́̄͗̂̈̏́̋͠ę̶̌͊̇̽͌̎͆̐́ͅs̷͎̰̬̻̬̪̘̭̱̞̿̆̀͌́̎́͆̐͜ ̶̻̞͉̣̼̣͔̬̪͎̹͖͈͈̍͛̈́̀̽̏̅͗͝b̸̛̫͎͇͆̅͂͌̓̋͘͝͝͝ȅ̷̛̼͚̻͔̲͈̼̈́͆̀͑̒͒t̶̼̓̈̎͛̀̍͠͝w̷̢̡͍̙͓̣̳̮̖̣͉̓̋̚é̸͇͎͇̗̱̊͌̆̇e̴̛̫̠̦̭͓̅͂̍͐̌͛͌̕͠ṋ̴͒̏̓̎̀̆̊͑̔͘͜?̶̢̛͈̺̥̞̯̺̼͕̅̀̀̑̿͗͗́̕͠)̴̬͉̲̮̣͓͈̹̹̫̻͇̄̈́̀̓̒̇̈́̓
This one taunts him as they fight with things he doesn’t want to hear.
Hybrid.
Freak.
OVERW-
The world snaps. The Gaster Sans falls into a white hole, shattering and scattering like others before him. He dies with taunts in his mouth, a threat that sends his soul running cold, magic pounding like drums in his skull.
He doesn’t know why he came here, he doesn’t know why he’s seeing this, he doesn’t know why the edges of his vision have flooded purple like his magic leaked into his skull. All he knows is that before he opens a portal away from the crumbling universe, he sees another figure falling towards the Void, drowning in the nothingness before being swallowed and lost forever in the black cold Void and his soul screams
FIX IT STOP IT FIX IT CHANGE IT CHANGE HER SAVE HER
He sees you.
Notes:
Just in case people are wondering, Cross in this story diverts from Underverse's story pretty much from the moment Nightmare pulls him from the White Void and has him join his crew.
This diversion matters in the future :)
Chapter 23: A Favour in Kind (Part One)
Summary:
A favour is an act of kindness above the norm. To whom you are being kind to… is a matter of perspective.
Chapter Tags: Cyber surveillance and borderline stalking behaviour. Surprisingly not from the squad.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
To say he doesn’t know what he’s looking for would be a grave misasumption.
Wine knows exactly what he’s looking for. He just doesn’t know where he’ll find it.
Yet.
It’s just a matter of time, utilizing the right tools at his disposal.
Wine sips on his third americano of the evening, letting the bitterness of the espresso linger on his palate before swallowing. A decade later, and humans still ask him in earnest if skeleton Monsters are even able to taste anything. Wine likes to tell them that food and drink go right through him, and then take a swing of whatever he has in his hands at the moment, watching to see how many humans check his pants for any leakage.
Idiots.
His bedroom door has been shut and locked for the entire afternoon, a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign hanging from the handle - custom constructed by Coffee, of course - simple yet effective at informing his housemates that he wants to be left alone with this. They know what he’s working on regardless, his activities easily surmised from the conclusion of the ‘family meeting’.
Sans was right to ask him for help, even if he did dawdle and hesitate until the very last moment, when a couch fell from the sky and even he couldn’t ignore the threat for what it was.
How typical.
Still, Sans wasn’t exactly specific with what exactly he needed. Which gives Wine a lot more leeway that he may have anticipated.
“i need to know where that one came from. and if there are more of ‘em.”
Wine could work with that. Sometimes when you’re looking for something, you start at the end, something that you know and is a verifiable fact, and work backwards.
Finding a business with a security camera that has a sight line to the park and a lax firewall is simple enough; a simple internet search along the roads bordering the park and a cursory scope of websites to discover who had decent security and who left the passwords set to default. It’s not the first time Wine has hacked his way around the city in pursuit of his target, and he doubts this will be the last time his talents are needed to aid their group.
Hasn’t he earned the right to have this family? Is he not justified in doing whatever is necessary to protect them?
Wine scrubs through the footage from last month, finding the appropriate weekend, and watches the tents and booths of the small festival get erected in the early morning hours. He watches the first visitors wander into the park to enjoy the festivities, careful to look for the familiar among them. It was a rather pitiful little gathering, especially when compared to the city sanctioned event that had been held at the base of Mt. Ebott. The word Wine might use for it is… ‘quaint’. It was quaint.
The one Wine attended was much more enjoyable.
It doesn’t take Wine very long to find the moment he’s looking for; a small human entering the park around mid morning, with her arm hooked in the arm of a taller skeleton Monster wearing a large black and white coat far too heavy for the weather that day. When the Monster turns their skull to respond to something the human says, Wine can confirm their identity as another alternate ‘Sans’, albeit taller by at least a foot than most of the others.
Regardless, Red was neither lying nor exaggerating, but they already knew that.
Tsk, tsk Addison, what have you gotten yourself into?
Time to trace the steps backwards.
Wine pulls up the lone working camera in that small coffee shop that’s perpetually understaffed, one that looks over the till and the workers behind the counter rather than out over the customer area. He recalls an intercepted email, a notice that the chain’s head office anticipates the closure of that location, and several others, within the next year and a half. The notice stresses that this information is not to be disclosed to the employees for the time being, and Wine briefly considers forwarding it to relevant parties. He decides against it, ultimately.
You never know when information like this may prove invaluable.
Head office must be paranoid about thefts, as their server banks contain footage up to a full year old. Wine quickly skims through several months of it, going backwards in time, watching as the black and white-wearing skeleton comes and goes with decreasing frequency. From this angle, it’s difficult to observe very much of the posture and cadence, but the rigidness in the way they stand, the way their skull moves slightly to observe those in the space around them reminds Wine of himself. Or Edge, Black even. Trained guardsmen.
Soldiers.
The skeleton vanishes altogether in footage older than last November. The contrast between their first visit, and the regular familiarity and obvious affection of the latest is fascinating to observe.
But several things bother Wine.
For one, as far as he’s been able to surmise, there’s only been that one skeleton. If Edge was to be believed, after his return home bitter and angry with wounded pride, there’s reason to suspect at least one other mysterious skeleton Monster running around the city of Ebott in the vicinity of Red’s ex. Someone with comparable LV to the LV-15 Monster Wine can confirm the movements of.
The second thing… The very first day he can find where that skeleton marched into the cafe, they did so with purpose. Suspicion and caution, yes, but also definite purpose and impressive speed at which they hone in on the one human they’re concerned with.
They knew who they were looking for.
Two questions remain: how and why.
Wine drums his phalanges on the desk, careful not to nick the stained finish with his nails. He clicks through a few programs on his computer and pulls up the tracker, recalling the location data from the previous year.
When looking for something, start at the end, and work backwards, right to the beginning.
He starts on the day where it all began, on a cold rainy afternoon with a woman crying her heart out on a park bench.
The movements are easy enough to track for the first week. Wine notes the locations of Grillby’s bar, the motel room that he himself paid for, their house, and the back and forth between the latter two. He sees a small detour, an uncharacteristic visit to a sports bar, followed by what looks like aimless wandering before returning to the aforementioned motel.
He doesn’t begrudge anyone drinking their heartache away. But a sports bar Addison, really?
Wine is disappointed to discover that the bar in question doesn’t keep older recordings saved to their server. He considers his options, trying to remember which establishment might have the best view of that part of the street on that night, but coming up blank. His map of city cameras reminds him that there is a red light camera at that intersection. although the odds of it capturing anything of note are one in a million. Two million, even.
A lesser Monster might give up here, but Wine likes playing the odds. They usually work out in his favour more often than not.
Law enforcement do, thankfully, keep old photos on records, years after the fact, especially when there’s the opportunity to earn some ticket money involved. Wine finds three speeders caught by that red light camera on that specific day. Two are in the morning, predictably during the rush hour, and Wine makes a note to see if tickets were issued against those license plates to satisfy his curiosity later.
But the third…
Wine smiles to himself, congratulating. But not at all happy with what he sees.
He’s just confirmed more surveillance work for the near future. Reviewing the apartment complex’ camera systems, perhaps setting up some of his own should the coverage prove inadequate, locating the master key and having a duplicate made, that sort of dirty work.
Because while the photo shows a navy Corolla speeding through the intersection, it also shows a recognizable human standing on the opposite corner, her shoulder clutched within the grip of a different skeleton Monster, one that Wine could easily mistake for Sans himself were it not for the long familiar red scarf around their neck, and deep crimson eyelights glowing in the evening light…
***
The first call is during the late evening, on a quiet night where most of the lights in the apartment have been kept off to raise the ambience. Of course, with the lights off, and the volume of the movie kept lower to not disturb the neighbours, Horror doesn’t think he can really be blamed for nodding off. A bit. Just a little bit.
The buzz of your phone, only on vibrate and muffled by sitting on the couch cushion next to both of you, is enough to push Horror out of his doze, a small tickle to his highly tuned senses. Horror blinks, the vision in his eye clearing of fuzz as the tv screen comes back into view just in time to witness… aw, nuts what was her name again? The little girl, the younger sister, she’s climbing into a hidden crevice in the tree...
Your phone buzzes again, the way the screen lights up with an incoming call gives it away more than anything else.
“... d’ya wanna grab that? we can pause.”
“No, it’s fine. It’s probably just a spam call or something.”
“ya sure?” Horror tilts his skull to try and read the screen, but the phone’s on his bad side, where his peripheral is shot and reading smaller text is more difficult. He shrugs, his movements jostling you a little, where you sit in his lap. “... they call this late?”
“If their call centre is on the other side of the world, sure,” he hears you reply, crunching and talking around the popcorn in your mouth. You’re holding the bowl in your lap, in easy reach for the both of you.
“hmm.” Horror rolls the thought around his skull, lets it catch on some threads that haven’t been pulled in a while. The phone screen goes dark and the buzzing stops just as the idea takes proper shape. “... ya know, ordered a book a long time ago, ‘bout all the ways to scam people on the internet,” he says slowly, innocently.
“Yeah?” you ask, completely unaware of where he’s going with this, and Horror is a bit upset that you can’t see the way his mouth turns up to a knowing smirk as he drops the punchline.
“‘m still waitin’ for it.”
It takes you a moment, then you start to giggle, trying to hide it behind your hand. You tilt your head back to look at him, and when he sees that dorky toothy grin poorly hidden behind your fingers he doesn’t fight the urge to nuzzle against the top of your head.
Why would he fight it? He likes you. Really likes you.
Horror’s not as quick as he used to be, but he’s not as slow as those years that were the worst of all his life, not anymore. Years of unrestricted access to proper food, of learning better coping mechanisms, of stimulation, care and fucking hope above all else brought Horror back to something like his old self. It’s not about being a ‘Sans’ again, not at all, but the fact that he can be quick enough to come up with jokes on occasion and make others laugh with him (not at him) fulfills him like nothing else. The fog has mostly gone away, not his identity.
Horror knows who he is, and he’s perfectly happy with that.
His brother doesn’t care about not being ‘Papyrus’ anymore either. Choosing his own identity took careful consideration, and neither Taro nor Fennel forced him to come up with one at a faster pace. Horror is grateful to both of them for a million and one things, including their welcome embrace of his brother becoming ‘Parsley’.
He thinks he wants to take you there one day, to the farm to meet his little extended family. To wander the fields and tend the animals and let days of rolling ease drift on by.
Horror continues nuzzling even when you turn your attention back to the movie, and he really does try his hardest to keep his eye on the screen while lost in the feeling of your hair. Don’t get him wrong, he likes to touch and hold onto all of his partners, likes to run his phalanges along the divots and ridges of their bones, feel the smoothness or find the little jagged edges of scars he kisses and worships. But hair.
Dust was right, this stuff is so… silky and soft, even when you insist it’s frizzy and rough by human standards. He hasn’t stooped down to Dust’s level of relentlessly running his phalanges through your hair at every waking opportunity… but he’s damn close.
He likes date nights. Likes that your idea of a perfect evening is just to hunker down in pjs and blankets with food, movies, aimless conversation and cuddles, before going to bed wrapped up in one another for more of the same. You’d really like the farm, he thinks. Horror needs to figure out when to take you, sometime soon probably; the last text he got from his brother announced the birth of the baby goats and he has a sneaking suspicion that you would fawn all over them.
On the screen the little human girl finds some large furry creature deep within that tree, and she starts to poke at its tail. Horror suddenly recalls why you made him watch this movie in the first place. “... is that the thing i remind ya of?” he asks, watching as the little girl climbs onto the sleeping creature’s belly and start poking at its nose.
“I can not be the first one to compare you to Totoro.”
Horror tries to see the comparison, thinks it might be the size? Because if he’s honest, the thing reminds him more of some weird rabbit, or a cat, it’s got whiskers. … Wait, rabbits have whiskers too. ‘Totoro’ sneezes with enough force to knock the little girl off its stomach, but she just laughs and climbs up again. Horror shrugs, and grabs another fistful of popcorn. “i could be wrong, but uh, i don’t think we’ve seen this ‘fore.”
“That is a tragedy. I’m making everyone watch it next sleepover. Actually, scratch that, we're doing a whole Ghibli marathon next time. Nausicca, Kiki's, all of it... Actually maybe not Grave of the Firefiles, that one... you have to be in an okay mood to watch that one...” Your rambling trails off, then you suddenly gesture to the screen as ‘Totoro’ and the little girl start trading roars with one another. “Anyways the point is he’s big and cuddly, you’re big and cuddly.”
Gosh, he thinks you're cute, and considering he does have you sitting in his lap like a stuffed toy, Horror can’t say he denies that comparison. You’re probably the only human in recent memory to call him cuddly though. Most others… well, there is a reason he chose the name ‘Horror’ for himself.
You’ve never made him feel like one.
Horror is about to ask what the little girl’s name is again, actually should probably ask what the sister’s name is too while he’s at it since they seem to be the main characters, but then your phone buzzes again.
You sigh, tilt your head back and glare at the ceiling like it’s the one calling you, and reach over to actually check the phone this time. Horror hopes it’s not something bad, or something like work; you’ve told him how they would sometimes call you at the last minute to cover for someone else, and all of them have picked up on your reluctance to turn down an extra shift by now. Horror thinks they’re taking advantage of that, and it’s been wearing you down a lot lately.
Or maybe, now that he’s spending a lot more time with you, the toll your day-to-day takes has just become more obvious.
Horror wishes you would just ask for help if you need it. Then again, he understands that living as independently as possible is important for you right now. But independence shouldn’t include suffering.
But Horror doesn’t think it’s work, not with the way your whole body seems to stiffen when you look at the screen. He leans forward a bit to look down over your head to check for himself.
Papyrus.
Horror understands that he’s not like the others. Not like Dust or Killer or Cross, who have a hard time looking at any version of their brothers, no matter how different, and not seeing their own standing in their place, at least for the first little while. But maybe because Horror knows that his brother is probably helping Fennel with the wheat harvest right about now, Horror doesn’t see his brother everywhere. So he can look at the name on your phone and immediately recognize that it’s not his brother calling, that’s your universes’ Papyrus, the one you used to live with along with all the others.
Along with Red.
Horror can’t help the low growl that comes from his false throat. He tries to hide it by talking. “that’s, that’s your sans bro, right?” he asks, just to be sure.
“Yeah,” you confirm, voice quiet and withdrawn. You don’t make any move to answer the call, letting the phone buzz in your hand until the call rings out and the display goes dark.
Horror doesn’t know what kind of terms you were on with Papyrus before Red left you; he knows there were some you got along with really well, some you were on friendly terms with, and others you just avoided to keep the peace. All that matters now is that all of them abandoned you when you needed them most, just as Red did. And they’re only now starting crawling out of the woodwork like rats looking for a meal after that chance encounter at the park.
It’s like… Alphys trying to placate him with excuses after Undyne nearly killed him. In that moment she was trying to save herself, because she didn’t expect him to get back up again and saw him for the threat he was.
The phone starts buzzing again, lighting up with Papyrus’ name bolded and in your face, and a picture of a confidently grinning skeleton with sunglasses taped to the sides of his skull. Horror sees the way your shoulders sag, the way your hand starts to shake a little, thumb twitching as you think about answering a call you clearly don’t want.
Nope.
In one swift motion, Horror plucks the phone from your unresistant grip, and before you could even make a sound of protest he shifts in his seat and slides the phone under his ass. It vibrates under his pelvis, kind of ticklish but weak enough to probably be forgettable after a few minutes.
“Hey!” You twist around on his lap to try and chase your phone, then look up at him annoyed after you realize where he’s stashed it.
“problem solved,” Horror states simply. He wiggles in his seat, just for emphasis, and leans back against the cushions not at all ashamed at how proud he feels right now.
“Hey, come on, give it back.” You tug at his arm. Even if you pulled with all your might, there’s no chance of moving Horror when he doesn’t want to budge. “Let me at least go put it in the bedroom,” you try to bargain.
Horror pretends to think about it, tilting his skull up and tapping on his chin with a phalanx. “mmmm… nope.” Then he lets his skull fall back with a flop against the top of the cushion, closes his sockets and lets his mouth hang slack as he starts to snore comically loudly. When you shake his arm more, he manifests a tongue to let hang out as well.
He hears you sigh loudly. “Fine.” He can almost hear the pout in your voice as you turn back around and resettle in your spot. You grumble, and he hears the telltale crunching of popcorn as you eat your way through your anger.
“He’s just going to keep calling,” you mutter.
And Horror’s content to keep sitting, for as long as it takes for Papyrus to get the message and stop calling, especially if he gets to keep you on his lap while the two of you watch movies for the rest of the night. What Horror’s not content with is the harassment and their expectation that you would just put up with it.
It’s time something gives a little.
Horror drops his charade, and winds his arm around you again, pulling you close to his chest as he settles his chin on top of your head. “if he keeps callin’ then i’ll keep sittin’ here.” He pauses, his phalanges rubbing up and down on your arms, feeling the fabric of your sweater catch here and there. “‘t’s makin’ you stressed, and i don’t like it,” he points out, and he feels your shoulders sink lower in silent admission of the truth.
It’s funny, he thinks if he leans more of his weight on you, you would bear it without a second thought. Not because you felt like you had to, but because you could. You might not even realize that you could.
You’re always putting yourself down and calling yourself weak, but he doesn’t think that’s true at all. He wonders how often you had to hear it before you internalized it as truth.
“... I just, hate the mixed messages,” you say quietly. Horror pulls you in a little closer, his growl switching gears to a low purr. “They didn’t care before, but now they do? I don’t even believe that… I think they’re just scared and trying to protect themselves. They still don’t really care how I end up. I don’t even get what they’re worried about.”
Horror can guess a few things. This universe might not be aware of Nightmare’s reputation in the larger multiverse, but if Horror takes a moment to think like a ‘Sans’ he can easily assume that Cross’ unexpected appearance and LV was probably enough to get them all worked up and worried that secrets might be revealed.
Then again, it might have just been the couch they dropped on Red’s shiny motorcycle. But that wasn’t a threat, just a message.
They haven’t seen what threatening looks like.
“... Maybe I should just change my number,” you reason, speaking your thoughts more to yourself than to him. “I have to, to change phone plans anyways. Mine went up by a lot last month, so… I dunno.”
He doesn’t think it’s fair, that you’re the one who had to change everything, had to walk away from a life you worked so hard to build while Red gets to keep his cushy lifestyle intact. He doesn’t think it’s fair that they’re trying to control who you spend time with even after they cut you out.
He knows you see the unfairness of it too, but Horror hates how defeat hangs over your shoulders as you just accept this as another fact of life. You have a spark of something in you - a flash of something stronger that thrives when you’re with them - but this threatens to smother that spark like an ember under the heel of a boot.
Horror can’t let that happen. Not again.
You’re quiet for the rest of the movie, only laughing a little when he tries to bring your mood back up with more jokes. You don’t ask for your phone back, not until you both decide to curl up in bed, and even then all you do is turn it off without checking how many times Papyrus tried calling, and toss the device away on your nightstand. Horror counts it as a minor win for the evening. But half his mind is focused on repeating one thing over and over, a task to do later, when he has a chance to grab his own phone without making too much of a fuss. He just needs to remember to send a quick text to Nightmare, as soon as possible.
Because he thinks it’s time to call in a favour.
Chapter 24: A Favour in Kind (Part Two)
Summary:
Cutting ties is hard when the other party holds the scissors. Nightmare gives Addison a machete and Dust gives someone else a piece of his mind.
Chapter Tags: More cyber stalking behaviour. Jokes about murder, death threats, flashbacks to past murders, mental breakdown.
Hey, let's pretend that a surprise visit from my parents didn't completely derail my whole day yesterday!
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The favour takes a week to come to fruition.
In that time, Horror knows the calls never stopped for you. While you never answered any of them, he thinks the constant pestering takes more of a toll on you than Edge’s visit did. Meanwhile, texts from them went unresponded to for hours, not even a small ‘lol’ to the barrage of memes Killer dumps in the group chat. Not until it’s late in your universe, he thinks, when you would quickly type out an apology, and an explanation about keeping your phone off for the majority of the day to try and get some relief. You were finding excuses to go to work, because then you would have a reason to keep away from your phone while still interacting with someone.
Whether they realized it or not, they were isolating you.
The moment Nightmare got word that the favour was ‘ready’ he wasted no time collecting it. He, Horror and Dust made their way to your apartment that afternoon, with a pit-stop on the way for some drinks and pastries. You already knew they were coming, but when Horror steps through Nightmare’s portal into your living room and sees you standing there sweeping up some cat fur, with sunken eyes and dark bags puffy with stress and fatigue and probably some distressed tears, Horror has to swallow his anger down like a bitter pill.
They’re hurting you.
Dust and Nightmare see it too. Dust takes a moment to give you a soft nuzzle on your cheek, murmuring something that makes your mouth quirk up in a small smile before he holds his hand out with a silent demand. You clearly don’t need him to verbalize his question at all, as you pull out your phone from the pocket of your sweatpants and hand it to him. While Dust wanders over to a chair to fall into, Nightmare steps up and gently hands you a box, simple and black and otherwise inconspicuous. Horror combs through your cupboards for plates to set out the pastries while you open the box with a curious look and discover the new phone nestled inside.
“... I know I shouldn’t be that surprised, but, uh…” You trial off, stepping back and sitting on the edge of your couch. Horror takes the opportunity to put a plate with a danish, donut and croissant down on the coffee table in front of you, shooing the cat away when she tries to get curious about the sweets. Horror also sets down the coffee with your name on it, then takes a seat on the spot next to you.
You pull the phone out from the box. It’s slim, visually comparable to most phones you’ve got in your universe. Nightmare had requested a dark green cover, your favourite colour, but it’s supposed to be standard enough to fit any other case if you want to buy your own. You push the power button, and the screen lights up with a wordless logo - two circles side by side, with a honeycomb shape set just behind the left one - before it fades to the plain looking home screen.
“It’s set up to work right away,” Nightmare explains, taking a sip of his own coffee. One of his tentacles slides across the room to pull over another chair for him to sit on. “It does require a confirmation before your number is transferred over, which you should be seeing on screen right about now.”
Horror watches the screen with you, sees the pop-up alert appear with a giant paragraph explaining the process and a ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ prompt at the bottom. Your eyes dart back and forth as you read it. “Uh, okay. Who’s the provider then?”
“There is none. You are not bound by any contracts with this phone.”
“Wait, I don’t get it, how does this work if there’s no cell carrier?” you ask, turning the device over and over in your hand, as if inspecting the exterior might have the answer.
“magic,” Dust chimes in, and not being much more helpful than that as he’s nose deep in combing through your old phone.
Horror chuckles, because he’s used to this, and Nightmare sighs, because he’s also very used to this. “Monster technology does not require radio waves or a connection to a human-manufactured network in order to transfer data. Magic is a sufficient carrier in and of itself, and you will find minimal interference as a result.”
“neeeerrrd,” Dust jeers quietly.
“hehehe, takes one to know one pickle,” Horror counters, unable to help himself from pointing out the pot calling the kettle out.
“In any case,” Nightmare continues, undeterred by the call out, “The phone has several security features, including a more robust blocking mechanism for calls or texts. On their end it would appear that the number has been disconnected, which should deter them from trying again. It also has the most robust firewall and data encryption in the multiverse, nothing of yours gets out unless you wish it to.”
You turn the phone back over, where the screen still displays the prompt. Horror watches as you silently move your thumb over the ‘Yes’ button, and press it. “So did you just memorize all that from the sales agent?” you ask, glancing back up at Nightmare.
“My associate can be very technical when it comes to his devices, and yes, I do him the courtesy of listening to his lectures.”
“‘m gonna tell sci you call him an associate.”
“And he would welcome the title, as he is a mature professional, unlike you,” Nightmare snipes, earning a snicker from Dust.
Horror reaches over and not so subtly pushes the plate of food closer to you, until you get the hint and pick up the danish. You give him a small smile as you bite into it. He rests a hand on your knee, and rubs it with the side of his thumb. “they’re not gonna bug you, not anymore,” he says. Your smile changes to something softer and more contemplative, and you look back at the phone.
One of Nightmare’s tentacles slithers up, and gently wraps around the arm that holds the danish. “Penny for your thoughts, Addison?” Nightmare questions.
“... Is it wrong that part of me is sad?” You ask quietly. “Like, part of me wishes they had tried to contact me like this after Red broke up with me. I would have wanted to talk to Papyrus and Blue and Stretch, fuck I would have texted back and forth with Mutt or Axe if they had tried to reach out then like they’ve been doing now. I would have wanted to stay friends but… now it just feels so hollow.”
Horror gets that, remembers the circles his mind tried to run as he reexamined every relationship he had after Undyne nearly killed him. In the end, he realized he was just as alone, apart from only his brother. He leans a little closer to you, a reminder that you’re not alone right now, you have them and you have their support. But it doesn't make that initial betrayal sting any less.
“I just… they’re trying to reach out now for something that’s not really about me or… or how I feel, and I’m understanding that now and I’m upset about it because I’m suspicious that if I engage they’ll just pull away again once they get whatever the fuck it is that they’re looking for.” You look up and meet Nightmare’s gaze. “And if it's all fake now, then I’m questioning myself, asking how fake it was back then.”
Nightmare nods. “At one point in time their care may have been genuine. But they made a choice, and that choice hurt you greatly. To expect that they could go back to the way things were without consequence is foolish. They forced you into a position where ties had to be cut, yet they still held the strings. This gives you the power to cut them out from your end, as you see fit,” he says, gesturing to the phone.
“One more thing.” Nightmare leans closer and points to a small button on the back, about three-quarters up from the bottom. “This is for emergencies. Press it once, nothing happens, but press it twice, a second apart, and it will immediately send an alert to our phones along with the exact location of your phone. That is the only time your phone will broadcast your location, otherwise it is also private by default. If any of us use the button, your phone will also get this alert.”
“... That seems, I guess wasted on me. It’s not like I can do much,” you say with a shrug.
“You deserve to be informed, just as we are. And you deserve to have that security too. Besides, you have a tendency to undervalue your own ability.”
One day, you’ll have your confidence built back up to where you could believe them. Until then, little steps, gentle reminders here and there are necessary to nourish the truth.
You duck your head to cover for the slight blush of colour that rises to your cheeks, and clear your throat. “So, uh, what other kind of advanced features does my new super phone have? Can it tell me the weather across the multiverse? Oh, actually can I stream things from other universes, like shows that I don’t get?”
Oh, Horror knows the answer to this one, even if he wasn’t privy to the details of what went into your phone. “it can bypass a lot of, what is it… copyright walls all over the place. just load up the little app here… cause why stream, when you can steal?”
“I knew it. It was only a matter of time before you made me a criminal. Guess you should call me Bonnie because I’ve gone to the darkside now.”
“look who’s mixing up movie references.” You stick out your tongue at Dust, who just mimics you. “you’ll like the camera,” he continues, “once you see what kind of pictures you can take, you'll… hmm?” Dust tilts his skull as he looks at something on the screen of your old phone, confused by what he’s seeing.
“... what’s up pickle?” Horror asks. He can’t think of anything weird that would be on your phone, he knows you kept things simple because it was an older model.
Dust doesn’t answer. His expression changes, brows furrow as he shifts from surprise to anger. He flips over your old phone and cracks open the back panel, pulling the battery out and tossing it onto the coffee table like it burned his hand.
“Dust?” you ask concerned, pitching forward on the couch like you’re about to jump to your feet. “Dust what’s wrong?”
“there’s a tracker on this.”
The anger that Horror swallowed earlier rises and tastes like bile in his mouth. Colour drains from your face, and you sink back into the cushions listless, like you want to sink through the floor. Nightmare sits rigid, the tentacles behind him twitching and squirming along the floor with increasing frequency.
Dust pulls something else out, something small and dark with a wire still attached, and throws it across the room to ping off the far wall, taking a small chip of paint out in the process.
“Explain.”
“it’s a gps tracker!” Dust stands, and starts to pace, sneakers scraping against the floor as he walks back and forth. “tied with an app, sent data out constantly, probably why the battery didn’t have as good a lifespan. mother fucker, i should’a checked the minute you said one of those fucking spy masters was here!”
“... You mean Wine,” you mumble. You stare into the middle distance, looking lost and unsure. You wrap your arms around yourself, like you’re suddenly cold or suddenly scared. Horror thinks it’s both. He slides over as close as he can, and pulls you to lean firmly against his side. “... I never gave him my phone though. And it’s not like I’ve seen him since... ”
Dust stops his pacing and steps up in front of you. He leans in, stopping a hands length away from your face, close enough that Horror briefly considers pushing him away for being too close, too imposing. “what about before?”
Your expression falls to some kind of mix of despair and confusion. You hold Dust’s intense staring, but Horror can tell you’re only just managing some kind of composure. “... Why? Why would he… I lived with them, why would he want to track me…?”
“Dust,” Nightmare warns.
Dust mutters something that Horror doesn’t quite catch - he hopes it’s not talking to the phantom - and pulls away abruptly, stalking out of the apartment with the door slamming shut behind him. You flinch at the noise.
“he’s not mad at ya cookie,” Horror assures, running his hand up and down your back. Part of him wants to follow Dust out the door, knowing that he probably wants to go do something stupid and to be honest he could stand for a bit of stupid violence right now. But you need them more, so he stays, never hesitating to put his own needs and wants last. “you didn’t do anything wrong.”
You don’t respond, or acknowledge their presence anymore either. Your face twists like something bitter and you suddenly push off the couch. “Fucker!” you yell, brushing past Nightmare’s outstretched hand. Horror thinks you’re going to leave too but you stop by the wall, hands rising to the sides of your head, fingers getting tangled in your hair. “Mother fuck--” You kick the bottom base board, making a loud enough ‘bang’ despite only wearing socks.
“They said--fuck!” You slam your fist against the wall, hard, making a noise of frustration and anger with something that sounds like a hiss of pain. Then you do it again, and Horror’s worried you’re going to fracture a metacarpal.
He rises while Nightmare steps closer, winding a tentacle around your arm to stop you from hitting the wall again. “Addison,” he says, keeping his tone even and tempered despite the thrashing his other tentacles are doing. He manages to spin you around to face them, where they can see your expression broken in anger and frustrated tears.
“Addison, dear--”
“They said I was family!” you yell, stomping a foot on your floor now that you can’t hit the wall. “They said--they never told me anything and they never trusted me but they--Red--”
Nightmare pulls you closer until he can embrace you, wrap his arms around your body and hold you close, tucking your face into the juncture of his neck. “Shhh, I know,” he soothes. “I know, it’s alright, it’s alright to be angry.”
“They…” You make another wet, frustrated noise, before hiding your face in the collar of Nightmare’s shirt.
Horror steps up as your whole body quivers, sees how the side of the hand you clutch Nightmare’s shirt with is already starting to darken with the colour of light bruising. He and Nightmare share a look, in silent agreement to keep aside the fury boiling away just under the surface until you were cared for and in a better state.
“... They were the only family I had,” you whisper, only just loud enough for them to hear.
Not anymore, Horror resolves, you have them now.
***
The house sits at the very end of a dead-end street, close enough to a low escarpment near the base of Mt. Ebott to have partial privacy granted by a decently thick forest. The other sides not obscured by evergreens have a plainly neat wooden fence, rising high enough to deter nosy eyes from seeing too much. The house itself is set further back from the road compared to other houses on the street, with an obnoxiously long driveway that’s sure to be annoying to shovel in the winter and a multi-car garage and carport with no less than seven vehicles visible.
Dust is viciously pleased to see the motorcycle has not been replaced.
He stands in the dark, under the shadow of a tree cast by the half-moon light. From here, he can see through a large window and into the dining room, watching the bustle of activity as skeletons move around setting out plates and utensils for dinner. He spots Black setting out a plate piled high with food in front of his brother Mutt. Stretch cracks open a beer and leans over to say something to the shy Coffee. A ‘Sans’ that’s not Horror but looks too much like him for Dust’s comfort accepts a plate from a version of Blue that holds himself with a different stature than the Blueberry that accompanies Dream and Ink.
Dust sees the ghost of his old self, saying something to the splitting image of his brother.
A human woman carries more food in along with Edge, and takes a seat next to Red, kissing him on the skull as she does so.
Picture perfect domesticity. All without a fucking care in the world.
If any of them bothered to pull their skulls out of their self-absorbed assholes and look out the fucking window, they would clearly be able to see Dust standing there like a creep.
YOU SHOULD JUST KILL THEM, AND BE DONE WITH IT.
Unfortunately he can’t do that. He made a promise, and as furious as he is right now, he’s not going to break it.
LOOK AT WHERE YOUR PROMISES GOT ME.
Oh, but he wants to break something.
Dust shortcuts to the other side of the house. He picks a different window on the ground level at random, taking a quick enough peek inside to confirm an empty room and shortcut right in silently. His sneakers leave imprints and dirty snow stains on the carpet that’s bound to infuriate one of the high strung skeletons later. The living room is close enough that he can hear the overlapping conversations drifting over from the dining room.
“... amazing curry! Where did you say you got the recipe again?”
“IT WAS SOMETHING I SAW ON MASTER CHEF! OF COURSE THEY DON’T GIVE SPECIFIC RECIPES PER SAY, BUT THANKS TO MY ASTUTE OBSERVATION SKILLS I WAS…”
“... go see that new exhibit they’re puttin’ in the gallery? we can pick a day… oh, figures, yeah you would already have tickets wouldn’t ya… yeah i don’t mind goin with, ya in too stretch?”
“... INSURANCE EVER GET BACK TO YOU YET?”
“naw… said they’re still ‘vestigatin’ the claim… bunch ‘a bull.. ‘course they wouldn’t believe a fuckin’ couch…”
“I CAN LOOK INTO IT, IF YOU NEED ME…”
Dust’s fingers clench, sparks of magic arcing between his knuckles, but he shoves them in his pockets for now. Sans’ and Papyrus’ may have similar voices, but there are usually enough distinct differences to set one another apart. His voice is low, but not as deep as Horror’s throaty rumble. Not as high as Killer’s smarm, or Cross’ steel. And he’s not convinced Nightmare’s a Sans.
But the moment he hears the voice, he knows it belongs to Wine.
Congratulations are in order, because he’s gone and done the impossible, and made Dust angrier than Red has.
THINK OF HOW EASY IT WOULD BE, CATCHING THEM ALL BY SURPRISE.
He resists the urge to throw a bone through their tv right then and there; it wouldn’t do any good to alert them to his presence now. Instead he steps away and out of the living room, heading for the staircase with a silence he once applied to human stalking on the outskirts of Snowdin a long, long time ago.
The bedrooms are all identical and inconspicuous from the hallway. Dust quickly checks each door knob methodically, taking enough of a look in each room to at least discern the identity of their owners.
When Dust finds the locked door however, he knows he hit pay dirt.
While blind shortcuts are impossible, they fall within the ‘technically possible’ if you work things out right. Dust knows all he has to do is just jump forward the width of the door, and that there’s a negligible risk of something occupying the space he’s trying to jump to.
Really, the only thing he might have to worry about is if Wine has his own room guarded with cameras or a motion tracker or something. He wouldn’t put it past the bastard.
Heck, he almost wants to get caught anyways, to have an excuse to lash out and let the dust explode like confetti all over the house.
IT WOULD BE LIKE A PARTY, SO MUCH FUN FOR US!
Dust takes the shortcut. The room is predictably dark, and he keeps it that way. The decor is magazine worthy, pristine and clean, the bed perfectly made with military precision, and a desk of dark wood grain that matches the bed frame. There’s a computer set up with two monitors, and a large external drive that probably houses terabytes of data and secrets Wine’s gleaned over the years of being in this universe.
Dust summons a bone, crackling with red magic and a sharpened end, and drives it through the drive like a pike through dirt. The magic, fuelled by Determination and LV, spears through the plastic case effortlessly, severing the wires and circuit boards that sputter with weak sparks before dying. Dust rams another two or three through for good measure, then throws a bone a piece through each screen. A final bone kills the main hard drive, and the computer is as good as dead and irreparable.
He makes sure the bones are nice and charged with enough magic to last long after he’s gone.
He wants Wine to know that he was here.
Dust opens the dresser drawers, sneers at the perfectly folded socks and pressed slacks. He rips each drawer out and dumps the contents all over the floor. It’s petty, he knows, but can’t not leave a mess behind for someone so obsessed with order to freak out over. He does the same with the closet, taking a second to tear through a few suits and shirts along the way.
He leaves the room, purposely leaving the door ajar.
He goes back down the hall, rechecking the other rooms until he finds the one he assumes is Red’s. The room itself looks normal, like someone who’s not a slob sleeps in it, but a large poster of a Harley Davidson on the one wall is probably the biggest clue.
A closet full of his and her clothing is the second biggest clue.
Dust does the same to Red’s clothes. He’d like to tear up Melaine’s clothes, but for some reason you’ve been oddly touched by the fact that she hasn’t shown up at the cafe she once frequented as a regular since the run-in at the park. Of course Red would find another human with something like decency and higher standards.
He dated you for a long time, after all.
Dust summons a few longer bones and spears them through the bed, leaving them sticking out like markers of his conquest. He could honestly spend hours going through each room, tearing up belongings and reigning down destruction in petty retribution. It’s satisfying, but not nearly satisfying enough to quench the anger he feels. It’s like when Killer has one of his Very Bad Episodes - capitals and all - where he trashes his room down to the stonework in search of some relief, yet still his unstable souls flickers and fades and the liquid hate gushes ceaselessly from his sockets.
Nothing short of a murder spree would sate his desire for vengeance. In lieu of that, there is one more thing he wants to do.
The destroyed motorcycle was a message. The trashed rooms are a warning.
It’s time to deliver the fucking threat.
KILLING ONE OF THEM WOULD WORK WELL…
Dust walks to the window and reorients himself enough to shortcut back out into the cold. He pulls out his phone, and punches in a new number. In the time he took going through your old phone for stuff you would want to keep, he skimmed over the numbers you still had saved, memorizing a few key ones for future use.
He just didn’t anticipate using one of them now.
His phalanges moving across the screen as he types out the message, Dust ambles around to the back of the house, sticking to the shadows while keeping a good view of the trash bins that are lined up in a row along the brick wall and lit by the single back porch light. He hits send, pockets his phone, and waits.
what’s worse than finding your brother in a trash bin?
me putting your brother’s dust in your trash bin
:)
Dust knows he’s not going to get a response, but Dust also knows that the recipient isn’t going to draw any attention to the messages he just read. He gives it five minutes, tops.
The back door opens, the screen door whines as Sans pushes it open. He stands on the porch a moment, looking out over the backyard. He scratches the back of his tibia with the toe of his other slipper-clad foot, then ambles down the steps and walks towards the trash bins. When he steps up to the first one, he pauses a moment… two moments… three moments…
Then he quickly lifts the lid and looks inside.
Fuck, all the dramatics when he knows his brother’s sitting in the dining room with the others. What a loser.
IT’S PATHETIC.
Dust shortcuts behind Sans. He lets enough ill intent seep into the air for his double to feel, watches Sans flinch and freeze in place. But before he could turn around or shortcut away Dust rushes forward, grabbing Sans’ shoulder and pushing a sharped bone up against his spine.
What a fucking newbie, only able to dodge when he can see an attack coming.
“knock knock,” Dust says, deliberately keeping his tone cheerful and as close as possible to what his voice used to sound like before.
Sans is rigid, body arching forward to keep away from the sharp end of the bone. There’s enough intent that all it would take is one prick, one tiny little stab, and Dust could coat the trash bins with his double’s dust. And Sans knows this. Which is why it takes him a while to respond as he should. “... heh, who’s… who’s there?”
“tank.”
“... tank who?”
“you’re welcome,” Dust answers, leaning close enough to whisper along the side of Sans’ skull. “for not ripping you all to shreds when i had the chance to.”
Dust feels Sans shudder. “... uh, ‘preciate the honesty… so, you gotta name?”
“oh, i think you know it already, but sure, let’s get acquainted. why don’t you turn around? you remember how to greet a new pal, don’t ‘cha?”
Sans is clearly not enthused by the idea, remaining frozen in place, so Dust helps him out. With his grip like a vice on Sans’ shoulder, Dust shoves him around and pushes him against the bin, holding the bone just under his rib cage and angled upwards. Dust watches Sans’s tiny white eyelights shrink further, and dart around in recognition of a near duplicate image of himself. Then he catches sight of Dust’s very familiar red scarf. Dust feels a morbid sense of satisfaction as he watches in real time as his double puts three and three together and makes an educated guess on the kind of universe Dust came from. Dust feels the ripple of a meek check, and to Sans’ credit he doesn’t react nearly as badly as most when they discover Dust’s LV.
“there we go, now we’re speakin’ like polite monsters.” Dust tilts his skull, taking in Sans’ tense grimace, the sweat starting to bead on the sides of his skull despite the chilly air. There’s something about seeing him, the spitting image of who Dust used to be, getting to enjoy a comfortable life without the strife of endless RESETS…
A SAD SACK WHO HASN’T DEALT WITH ANYTHING DIFFICULT, LIKE WHAT YOU USED TO BE!
Dust’s grip on Sans’s shoulder tightens, he watches the wince on his face as Dust’s grinds the bone in its socket. “i’m only gonna say this once. if i have to come back it won’t be with the luxury of a warning.” Dust crowds into Sans’ space, leaning a hair’s breadth away from his skull and forcing Sans to arch back against the bin further. It scrapes against the brick, sending find powder down to the ground.
“leave addison. the fuck. alone.” He spits out every word, dripping with a venom he reserves for the worst days when he stares at himself in the mirror and let’s the ghosts of everyone he murdered scream at him. “if i find another one of wine’s bugs… if i hear about another phone call… if i get wind of any more harassment… you’ll be lucky if i’m the one who gets to kill you.”
Sans gulps, vertebrae clicking against each other. “... don’t know about any bugs, but you’re not ‘xactly makin’ a good first impression… we’re worried ‘bout a friend--”
“you don’t get to call her a ‘friend’!” Dust hisses. He shoves Sans roughly against the bin, and it clacks against the brick and sends more dust down. “not after the shit you all pulled!”
Sans expression pinches, eyelights flicking back and forth between Dust and the back door, as if he’s hoping someone will come and discover his predicament. “buddy, i think you got the story mixed up. the break up sucked, yeah, but she’s the one who didn’t want anything to do with us. we still care about her.”
HE’S LYING. KILL HIM!
“don’t you ‘buddy’ me. i’m not your pal," Dust seethes. Red creeps at the edges of his vision, fluttery wisps of something like hands that reach out and take more of a solid shape as the seconds pass. “i don’t care about whatever lies you have to tell yourselves to make you all feel less guilty. i know who to trust, and it’s not the asshole who bugged her phone and has every dirty detail of her life on fucking call.”
For everything that Dust is now, the sum of all his past mistakes and actions, he forgets that he always had a mean streak, right from the beginning. He only remembers when he sees Sans blink, his sockets opening back up with eyelights extinguished and his grimace quirk up into a self-deprecating smirk.
“... heh,” he chuckles, “i don’t think you get to be the expert on trust, pal. or should we ask your bro how that ended up?”
Dust’s vision floods red.
KILL HIM!
He leaves Papyrus last, he can’t, he can’t bring himself to…
DUST HIM!
The human won’t stop, over and over, he has to…
TAKE THEIR EXP!
He’s the only one…
MURDER THEM LIKE YOU MURDERED ME!
The human mocks him and asks if he feels better…
THAT’S ALL YOU’RE GOOD FOR!
He goes for Papyrus first because it doesn’t matter any more…
MURDER–
Dust shoves Sans back. Sans grunts as he loses his balance and falls to the ground, taking the trash bin down with him, it’s contents spilling around them both. Dust takes the bone still in his hand and drives it through the brick wall like a stake, leaving it to hiss and spit venomously above Sans’ skull.
The back door opens, and Dust only sticks around long enough to see his brother’s double, real and alive, coming out to investigate the commotion, and catch sight of Dust’s wild eyelights before he shortcuts away.
Far.
As far as he could throw himself.
In the middle of nowhere Dust collapses to his knees with malicious laughter, miserable wailing, and harsh tears. He throws a circle of bones out to stake the ground uselessly, slams his fists against the dirt as the phantoms rise with a chorus of accusations and insults that sing like a vicious symphony into the night until he’s nothing more than a shell of himself when Nightmare comes to find him and carry him away from the voices and towards the safety of home...
Notes:
First came denial, then bargaining, and depression...
Now we come to anger.
Chapter 25: No Such Thing as a Dull Moment
Summary:
When the castle is quiet, Nightmare has suspicions that shenanigans are afoot. He's not wrong.
Chapter tags: Stupid internet challenges. Do not attempt any of these! You are not magical skeletons, you will hurt yourself, or worse!
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Nightmare doesn’t pry.
He doesn’t. He’s far too busy for something like that.
He can’t help it if his very nature is designed to pick up on the emotions around him.
He can’t help it if he happens to pay closer attention to those coming from his partners.
He can’t help it if he’s the only one in any immediate position to act when one feels something like pain.
Nightmare doesn’t pry. He’s just not like that.
It just so happens that as he returns a stack of books to the library, with every intention of returning each of them to their proper spots on their proper shelves, he considers that the castle is oddly quiet.
Too quiet.
Suspiciously quiet.
He’s long held the notion that there’s no such thing as a dull moment in his castle, not since bringing home several trigger-happy, stimulation-needing skeleton Monsters. Especially when they’ve not been out on missions for well over two weeks - a necessary precaution in response to the increased movements of Dream and his posse.
Nightmare sets the stack down on the closest table, which already has a stack of three or four on it. There was once a time when he would chastise his subordinates, newly acquired from their home universes, over returning any books they took back to their original places, maintaining Nightmare’s careful cataloguing. Then he would chastise them over putting books back in the wrong spots, however unintended they may have been.
Or fully intended, in Killer’s case, who just can’t help himself from pushing every button he comes across. Sometimes all at once.
(A breath of levity that Nightmare didn’t realize he needed.)
These days Nightmare is alright with books being left for him to reorganize; so long as they make it back to the room itself then he’ll take care of the rest. It’s a calming way to pass the time, in some ways, and it’s not like Nightmare has any lack of that.
These days he’s also not referring to them as subordinates. The way things change...
A fluctuation in the ambient air, a shift of mood, reaches his senses, and Nightmare is reminded of his original observation that the castle is far too quiet when everyone should home.
The emotions he picks up on is a strange cocktail. Mirth and amusement, but also anxiety and a hint of worry are palatable on the back of his tongue. As are excitement and tenseness, delight and apprehensiveness. Then a flash, a tide that rises and falls away, a spark of pain that’s quickly lost among the others.
That alone is reason enough for Nightmare to go hunting for his wayward companions.
He doesn’t pry, he doesn’t worry, he doesn’t stress. He doesn’t.
Locating the sources of these emotions is easy enough, it appears that everyone is gathered in the same spot. Nightmare opens a portal and quickly steps through the blackness…
… And comes upon a scene he didn’t quite expect when emerging in the main entrance hall.
There are… several things that stick out.
For one, the couch that normally lives in the den has been relocated here, where it clearly doesn’t belong. Nightmare doesn’t think of himself as much of an interior decorator but he knows that much. As far as he can tell, there are only you and Horror on the couch, Horror reclining back comfortably with his legs stretched out on the floor, heels resting against the carpet. You, strangely, are lying long ways on the couch on your stomach, your head resting on folded arms and on Horror’s lap. Horror is lightly massaging your lower back with the knuckles of his left hand.
Both of you are snickering at the display of the other wrong thing in the room.
Across from the couch are stacks of milk crates, over four dozen at least that vary in colours of reds and yellows, greens and blues. They’re stacked in a rising pattern like a two-dimensional pyramid, with the tallest point seven crates high. And Killer, for some reason, is perched on top of the three-crate level, his back to Nightmare and his arms held out as if to steady his balance.
Nightmare likes to think that he’s a patient individual. But when faced with something that falls so far outside of his understanding or knowledge base, instead of waiting for the explanation to fall into his lap he tends to cut straight to the chase.
So he simply asks “Just what exactly are you doing?”
Killer immediately twists around, the stack of crates he’s standing on wobbles unsteadily as he moves, and Nightmare realizes that none of the stacks are secured together in any way. “night! check it out, wanna make a bet over how high i can get?”
A complete non-answer, as to be expected really. Nightmare takes a steady sigh. “You’re capable of shortcutting to almost any location you wish to be, I fail to understand what the merit of this… Where did all of this come from exactly? Why is this here?”
“we’re celebratin’! addy got rid of the last milk crate in her apartment, so we decided to have some fun with ‘em!”
Nightmare blinks his socket, and quickly recounts the crates. Then he turns to you, currently doing a poor job of trying to hold in a giggling fit. To be fair, Horror’s not doing much better either. “I don’t recall you having forty-nine milk crates in your apartment, unless you have an extra storage room that leads to the void,” he remarks flatly.
“I only had a few, Killer’s exaggerating,” you laugh. “We’re switching suppliers at work, and the old company didn’t want to come and pick up their crates. They were going to be thrown out anyways.”
“... So you brought them here for…?”
“it’s a challenge,” Horror snickers. “it’s a, uh, cookie explained it… an internet challenge?”
“I made the mistake of sending Killer fail compilations months ago, so when I told him about the crates he wanted to try it out.”
“i need to climb to the top, and then climb back down again.” Killer claps his hands together. Even that slight movement has him wobble on the stack. “easy as pie!”
“It’s the worst!”
Nightmare tilts his skull at hearing the slightly muffled voice. He approaches the couch, then looks behind it, finding Cross sitting on the floor, knees pulled up close to his chest with most of his skull hidden under the fluff of his hood.
Ah, it appears that Nightmare has found the source of anxiety.
“The whole point is that the crates are more unstable the higher you climb!” Cross continues, the distraught anxiousness palpable even without emphatic abilities. “After four or five it starts shaking too much and you fall! People have hurt themselves… cracked their skulls! Broken bones!”
Nightmare looks back over to you and Horror, both nodding solemnly. “It’s true, I gave Killer the warning run down before he started.”
“it’s dangerous… don’t attempt this at home.”
“but how can i resist the glory with odds that are stacked against me?” Killer chirps, and then has the audacity to punctuate the pun with a brow wiggle.
Nightmare sighs, seeing where this is going. “So we’ve decided to make entertainment out of his stupidity?”
“We’re supervising. You know, to make sure he doesn’t hurt himself.”
“and if we laugh in the process… well, that’s just a bonus.”
“I see. And why is the couch here?”
“needed more room for the set up, and cookie wanted to lie down.” Horror shrugs. “this room’s the biggest.”
Well that is an explanation, to be sure. Not what he expected, and Nightmare can’t exactly say he’s happy to learn the explanation. He glances back to the hunched ball of skeleton nerves. “And I take it you’re standing by in case of injury?”
Nightmare wouldn’t expect anything less, Cross would smother any discomfort if he was needed somewhere, and keeping close for when Killer inevitably hurts himself is no different. Cross attempts to duck his face further into his knees, failing as he is already as intimate as he could be with them. “I’m not looking,” Cross mutters with stubborn resolve. “If I don’t see it then I can pretend that it’s not happening.”
“And how’s that working out for you?”
“... Not well.”
He gathered as much. Nightmare works a tentacle around Cross’ shoulders and has it pet the top of his skull, as if to assure and say ‘there there’. This display accounts for nearly all of the emotions he picked up on before, although Killer must have fallen once already. That would explain the--
A wave of pain, with a hint of annoyance, reaches his senses again. Nightmare looks to the obvious culprit, but finds that Killer hasn’t moved to resume his foolhardy climb. So where…?
There. He sees a pinch of a wince on your face before it vanishes and is replaced by the same amused look you had before. He would have completely missed it if he hadn’t been looking. “Addison, why are you in pain?” he asks, any amusement he had over the situation vanishing instantly.
“Huh?” you look up at Nightmare with a puzzled look and confusion evident from your aura. Then your expression falls into recognition, and once again he picks up on a slight tinge of annoyance. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t think you could feel… you don’t feel the pain, right? Just that I’m feeling pain?”
“Correct, but that doesn’t answer my question.” It also doesn’t do anything to alleviate his concern, but he’s not going to mention that. He wonders, you wouldn’t have tried this stunt yourself? No, no you actually have common sense; while you might laugh at Killer’s lack thereof, you wouldn’t attempt something like this… would you?
“It’s a… a thing. A human thing,” you explain, and Nightmare gets the sense that the annoyance isn’t actually directed at him, but at yourself - or your body rather - for experiencing ‘the thing’ in the first place. “It’s ‘cause I have a uterus, it does a thing every month that’s painful because I’m not making babies all the time and human evolution is really stupid.”
“... don’t quite get it myself,” Horror muses, “but ‘t’s why she wants ta lie down… on a heating pad.” The larger skeleton is showing no visible sign of concern over it, so Nightmare forces himself to calm his own concern for the moment. He’s read countless books about humans, but some quirks still baffle and elude him.
Horror pauses, thinking, then shrugs. “says the massaging is nice.”
“It is nice,” you confirm with a satisfied sigh. Horror takes that as a sign to massage a little harder with his knuckles, drawing out a deeper sigh and a noise of contentment that Horror purrs at.
Nightmare makes a mental note to do some research on human anatomy, with particular attention on the reproductive process. If this is something you go through on a regular basis then he understands your disregard for its importance, but if there’s something he can provide to help in some way then he wants to find it.
And maybe this is Killer’s roundabout idiotic way of distracting you from your pain.
Let’s be honest, Killer would find any excuse for the opportunity to do something stupid.
Regardless, it seems to take care of the last…
No, wait, no it doesn’t. There’s one final piece of the puzzle missing. Nightmare had sensed his presence with you all before, but his current absence doesn’t exactly bode well. “And where is Dust?”
The pop of a shortcut next to him answers his question instantly. “alright, hard mode’s ready.”
If you and Horror find this whole thing amusing, then Dust must find this nearly hysterical. His grin is wide, almost manic but still very much aware of himself. He holds a glass with a spoon resting inside of it, empty save for a heap of brownish powder at the bottom in one hand, and a couple of small colorful objects in the other.
Somehow, these innocuous items have Nightmare’s internal alarm bells blaring. His ‘bullshit’ alarm, if you will. There is certainly bullshit afoot.
“yesssssss, gimmie gimmie dust bunny.” Killer bends over and motions for the random objects with enthusiastic grabby hands.
“I can’t believe you have laundry pods.”
“have? pffft, no, i had to step out real quick to find a store who had them.”
“like you actually bought some.”
“What is in that glass?” Nightmare interrupts. “Why do you have laundry detergent pods, and why do I have a terrible feeling this is going to result in more than broken bones?”
“if asshole here can hold his shit in, it’ll be fine,” Dust answers in his usual not-so-helpful way. He hands Killer one of the pods, then stirs the powder in the glass with the spoon. “skeletons are too light for the milk crate challenge to actually be difficult, so we’re ramping it up. humans also did a challenge where they tried to swallow detergent pods, and another where they swallowed a spoonful of cinnamon.”
“and i’m gonna do all three!” Killer exclaims with unhinged glee.
Humans are idiotic.
Decades, no, centuries of interactions with the species, trying to understand their motivations, compulsions, to better predict and counter their actions, to better focus his spread of negativity, to know where to send his boys so that they would be the most effective for the least risk… and he’s learned can all be summed up with those three words.
Humans are idiotic.
“... Addison, why--”
“Because my species is dumb,” you say, succinctly. “Because we can’t help looking at a hole labelled ‘Danger Certain Death’ and jumping in head first. Because if we call things a ‘challenge’ more people will be compelled to do them, regardless of the outcome.”
Nightmare is glad the two of you are on the same page.
At least he takes solace in the fact that what would poison, if not outright kill, a human likely won’t have the same effect on magical digestive systems.
Nightmare’s sure this still won’t end well.
“alright, enough stallin’! you want water for that pod, or are you gonna swallow it dry?”
“i was thinkin’ i should eat ‘em like pop rocks, maybe even give a good shake before i try to step on the next level.”
“This is going to go so wrong,” Cross whines.
“Yup,” you agree.
“absolutely,” Horror confirms.
While Dust and Killer begin to bicker and argue between the merits of which inappropriate substance to consume first, Nightmare decides to quietly take his leave through a portal, at least for the moment.
One of the most common misconceptions about him - of which there are many - is that he’s a proper psychic, or has prophetic abilities of some kind, and that’s not true at all. It’s just so many centuries of being alive have granted him a certain foresight, or understanding of probabilities, actions and likely consequences.
He also understands his partners, far more than anyone would give him credit for.
Most would assume him a tyrant who doesn’t care. Who doesn’t pay attention. Who doesn’t pry.
And he doesn’t.
What he does is understand that certain things happen when they’re happy, when they’re bored, when they want to entertain or find entertainment outside of their usual activities. What he does is learn when he comes upon something he doesn’t understand, which is why he stops back by the library to pick out a trusted tome of human anatomy for later reference.
Then he stops by the infirmary for magic-infused bandages and medicines, so that Cross won’t have to shoulder all of the healing himself.
And as one could reasonably predict, he returns to the spectacle in the main hall just in time to watch Killer waver unsteadily on level five, hacking up brown powder and bubbly foam, before his movements jerk the crate stack too much and the whole thing comes tumbling down.
After all, there is no such thing as a dull moment in his home.
Chapter 26: Lost & Found
Summary:
Pre-Addison. After a frantic search across the multiverse for their missing partner, the gang discover Cross in The White Void, and Nightmare uncovers a new facet of his brother’s power.
Chapter Tags: Near-death condition, reference to torture, disassociation, panic attack and sensory-overload.
Chapter Text
I WASN’T THERE, BUT INK SAID HE TRIED TO HURT DREAM. THEY WERE JUST TRYING TO HELP GET OVER HIS FEAR, I MEAN COWS AREN’T SCARY AT ALL! THEY’RE BIG AND SLOW AND LIKE PETS ON THEIR HEADS, LIKE DOGS! THEY’RE LIKE BIG DOGS… AND YOU SHOULDN’T ATTACK YOUR FRIENDS ANYWAYS, EVEN IF YOU’RE SCARED!
… I THOUGHT WE WERE FRIENDS. HE ALWAYS LIKED TO SIT NEXT TO ME…
INK PUT HIM SOMEWHERE, HE DID IT ONCE BEFORE, BUT… HE KIND OF FORGOT WHERE, YOU KNOW HOW INK GETS.
I REMEMBER HE CALLED IT ‘THE TIME-OUT SPACE’
Nightmare doesn’t think he’s ever opened a portal faster.
The speed at which he rips open a hole into darkness is audible, tearing open with a loud crack like a thunder peal in the eye of a storm. Nightmare throws himself into the shadows, pulling his boys behind him and giving none of them a chance to prepare. For once, he doesn’t care; not about the way their magic might churn with nausea, not about the small wounded blue-clad skeleton they abruptly left behind, no doubt already calling for help from the other members of his little troupe.
Jumping into darkness and emerging into the blinding white hot space of nothing is disorienting, but Nightmare doesn’t have time.
This was the first place he should have checked.
He should have checked.
It’s bad enough it took them months to figure out that something wasn’t right with Cross, that maybe when they faced off with him on the other side Cross wasn’t seeing them with fully conscious eyelights. That being in Dream’s presence was doing something to him, controlling him maybe, making him perform actions that he wasn’t able to fight against.
But when Nightmare realized what was happening, Dream started keeping Cross away from all rescue attempts, the fool convinced that Nightmare would ‘kidnap and torture’ Cross again.
Who was the fool, the kidnapper and the torturer?
Cross hadn’t been seen in a month before Killer was able to corner Blueberry, convincing the cheerful skeleton to reveal all he knew about where Dream was keeping Cross, and if what he said was true…
Then Cross has been here, in a place that he’s unable to teleport to or from on his own, for a week.
A week trapped in the ruins of his world.
Nightmare is already on the lookout the moment his feet touch the unseen floor of this world. Behind him he hears the sounds of retching as Dust throws up his lunch from earlier, Horror quietly mummering soothing words to calm him down. There’s a stab of guilt that Nightmare has to ignore for now, they can’t afford to waste anymore time than has already been wasted.
In a world of nothing, anything that’s something is bound to stand out, but as Nightmare scans their surroundings there’s nothing , not seen nor felt. Not even the taste of conscious thought or feeble emotion. His tentacles sway, stretching up and around like seeking serpents, but aside from the mounting anxiety he feels emanating from the boys, Nightmare feels nothing.
Did Blueberry lie to them? Or was Nightmare wrong? Did he misunderstand the meaning of the ‘time-out space’?
No, no he has to be right. His instincts are screaming that this is the right place, they just need to find Cross…
“fuck-k… sh-hit,” Dust stammers, down on his knees and trying to keep himself upright, coughing like he’s going to manifest lungs just to hack them out.
“easy, easy,” Horror soothes, rubbing a hand up and down Dust’s back while the other keeps Dust from tipping over; a clever trick to keep his own hands busy and not tugging at his socket in anxiousness. “let it out… if it’s gotta come out.”
Killer spins in place, like he’s trying to right himself with the ups and downs when there’s no indication of anything of the sort existing in this place. The tar gushes from his sockets, dripping down to the ground. Nightmare doesn’t want to tell him those drops will stain that spot for eternity.
“this… this is cross’ world…?” he mutters, the corners of his mouth twitching but otherwise frozen in a tight grimace. “... hehehe, hah, i thought… i thought… oh fuck, cross why… why didn’t you tell me it was like this…”
Because he was afraid. Of this place, of what happened to it, of what you might think had he told you the whole truth.
Nightmare shakes his skull, choosing to bite his tongue and keep that discussion between themselves. He knows the longer they stay here the worse they’re going to feel, but they can’t afford to not be thorough. They can’t afford to not be searching, but he can’t leave them alone and risk losing them in the White Void either…
“...right, ‘m-m up, ‘m f-fine.” As if sensing his thoughts, Dust wipes his teeth with the sleeve of his hoodie and rises on unsteady legs, leaning a bit more into Horror’s support than he would probably like to admit. His eyelights glow furiously under the rim of his hood, albeit shrunk to half their normal size, and he stares at Nightmare with grim tenacity. Horror and Killer both turn and join in staring, and Nightmare doesn’t have to be an empath to feel the strong pulse of determination surge within their bodies and resolve towards the reason they’re here in the first place.
Find Cross.
But how do you search an endless expanse of nothing?
Nightmare tries to think for a moment, to not just rush blindly in panic; he wonders, if he were Ink, having just watched Cross break free of whatever control Dream had over him, where would he have put Cross in retaliation?
He quickly opens another portal, and pulls them all through, less roughly than before. The darkness feels warm and welcoming in contrast, and he misses its embrace when they exit out into another part of the White Void. It’s nearly impossible to tell that this is a different spot given that there’s nothing but white all around them, but here is where he first found Cross all those years ago, and the spot bears the still wet and timeless splatters and pools of purple blood and tears shed by the grieving skeleton…
And there he is.
Laying motionless on his side, face turned away from them, Cross’ body and high-contrast uniform stands out compared to everything else.
Nightmare instantly suppresses a shudder, because even this close, he still can’t feel anything.
“cross!”
Killer moves first - of course he does - shortcutting right to Cross’ side and kneeling down. “cross? hey, criss-cross, come on, it’s us.” Killer places his hands on Cross’ shoulders and rolls his upper body over as the rest of them rush forward. Cross’ face is slack, his sockets open but empty holes with nothing sparking inside, appearing as nothing more than a skeleton in the human sense.
Horror kneels on Cross’ other side while Killer maneuvers Cross' skull to rest on his knees. “hey, wakey-wakey. cross! you’re over sleeping! alarm went off ten minutes ago! beep, beep, beep!”
Cross doesn’t wake.
Horror pulls back Cross’ heavy coat, checking through the layers of fabric and straps for any sign of wounds. Killer’s brow bones pinch above his nasal aperture. He taps Cross’ cheekbone gently with two fingers. “listen, you were gone a while, so i switched your polishing oil out for sugar syrup, what are ya gonna do about it, huh?”
There’s still no reply, no twitch of recognition.
Killer’s soul starts to flicker wildly, the edges fuzzing and losing definition. His mouth curls with a sneer of frustration. “cross, come on, do i gotta wave chocolate under your nose or somethin’?” Horror shakes his skull, slowly, then more frantically as he discovers there’s nothing physical to heal.
“cross!” Killer shouts, frustration curdled into anger. “wake the fuck up already!”
Dust hasn’t moved, quietly standing at Nightmare’s side. His hands tremble, a little at first, increasing with each passing second, and Nightmare realizes he’s already CHECKED and sees what’s been plainly evident the moment Nightmare laid a socket on him.
Cross Lv. 15
1/1220
Fallen
Nothing Left
Too late.
A gasp of a manic laugh barely manages to escape Dust’s mouth before he claps his hand hard on it, eyelights the size of pinheads and darting around as his shoulders shake. Nightmare swallows the bitter taste of despair back down, already drowning in the distress he feels from the others, fighting against the urge to let his knees buckle and take him to the ground. Behind him his tentacles lash through the air and coil painfully around each other.
“you fucker!” Killer screams, either unaware that Cross can’t hear him or far too aware. “you fucking wake up right now! we didn’t hunt your ass down all this way for you to quit like this!” Killer bends over, looming over Cross’ unresponsive face. “you don’t get to go like this!” he hisses. The liquid hate trails along his cheekbones and falls, dripping like raindrops onto Cross’ face.
No response.
Killer’s shoulders drop, the winds of anger ripped from his sails. His sockets widen in open dismay. “... cross?” he says, with a voice so quiet it’s almost lost in the silence.
“no… no applesauce, ya gotta come back…” Horror shakes Cross’ shoulders, like he’s just trying to rouse him from a nap for a meal. “we found you… please? please…” Dust stumbles behind him and collapses to his knees, his hand still held against his own mouth as he curls into Horror’s back to try and control his shaking.
A droplet of tar runs along Cross’ cheekbone until it finds a crevice between bones to slip down into. Killer thumbs the trail, smearing the streak rather than cleaning it. Black liquid streams faster from his sockets, the tar changing to something with a brighter sheen as tears are mixed in. “but… but we found you… you’re supposed to come back… that’s not fair…”
No, it’s not, it’s not fair. It’s not fair that Dream took him from them, hid him from them, did this to him…
It’s not fair that they were angry with him when he left, that they took too long to realize, that every moment he wasn’t getting help brought him closer and closer to the precipice.
Nightmare doesn’t know why he checks again, maybe hoping to feel a spark of magic pulse back in response.
Cross Lv. 15
0.8/1220
SAVE HIM
Monsters don’t fall to fractions, not if their body has already Fallen.
Not the ones ready to die.
No.
No, if Cross is refusing, then so is Nightmare.
“Take him,” Nightmare orders, his deep voice shattering the miserable silence. The portal opens immediately behind him. “Quickly, now!”
It’s been over a decade since Nightmare’s felt like he’s had to give any of them an order, but Horror is the first to act, the old but ever-present instinct kicking in immediately. Horror carefully slides his arms under Cross’ knees and upper back and lifts him in a bridal carry, shaking Dust from his stupor temporarily and forcing him to rise as well. Cross’ skull rolls limply and comes to rest against Horror’s chest, dotting Horror’s shirt with splotches of tar from the smears.
Horror rushes through the portal, Dust and Killer hot on his heels. Nightmare turns to follow them, but gives the surrounding emptiness one last look of furious scorn, internalizing the absolute hatred he has for the place that hurts Cross so much.
He needs to have a chat with Error at some point, but if the Destroyer won’t tear this place down, Nightmare will do it himself, gladly pushing the bounds of his powers and pulling apart the remaining threads that hold this grave together.
Then he leaves through the portal, closing the way behind him.
***
Cross’ room remains the same as the day he left it, sparsely decorated with few personal possessions, most of which had been forced onto him as gifts. A simple bed, sheets made with a military attitude and two pillows that Cross allowed himself to keep, a dresser, nightstand and desk, everything one would assume speaks to Cross’ personality at a glance.
Except the sketchbooks have been kept safe in the desk drawers, drawing tools kept in ready condition; a few books about dinosaurs, knock-knock jokes, comic creation and flower identification that had been borrowed from the library are still sitting on the nightstand, and in the bottom drawer is the complete DVD set of Dragonball and DragonBall Z. On the right pillow is a bean bag stuffed black and white cat, on the left is a similar looking brown tabby.
Before, no one had the heart to clean the room out; angry and bitter and liable to destroy rather than clean.
Then it went from a room avoided to a room they took comfort in, a sign of hope that they could rescue him, to bring him back home.
Sometimes, on his bad days, Dust would sit at the desk and look through the sketchbooks in quiet reflection. Horror took weeks watching through the DVDs, going through each episode multiple times so that he could remember them and they could gush as fans when he got back. Nightmare caught Killer sleeping in the bed, clutching the toys and the pillows like another body. The bed was always perfectly made by morning.
But Nightmare never wanted to bring Cross back like this. Not like this.
Horror carries Cross and lays him out on his bed, moving the stuffed animals over and lowering his skull carefully onto the pillow. He clutches at the sheets, as if he just considered tucking Cross in under the covers but not wanting to lift him up again.
Killer is a little more sure of what he wants to do. He starts to unbuckle Cross’ boots and pull them off, then he peels off his socks as well, as if they’re just putting him to bed after a long exhausting day. He sets the boot down neatly by the foot of the bed, while the socks he tosses to the laundry basket that Cross had kept in the corner of the room.
Dust stands in the middle of the room, hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders hunched so far in as if trying to fold himself in half longways. His whole body shakes, jerking with sudden movements as he tries and fails to suppress the shuddering. “we c-can’t… he… he’s g-gonna… he…” Dust stammers.
Nightmare halts his morbid train of thought with a firm hand on his shoulder, and a tentacle cautiously winding around his forearm. “Get blankets and pillows from the other rooms.” Nightmare consciously keeps his voice stern and even, leaving no room for the idea that any of this is optional. “A change of clothes will also help. He’ll need supplemental food to bring his HP back up when he wakes. I will not be leaving his side until he does, so bring whatever you need to fortify yourselves.”
Dust shudders, taking a deep breath. He disappears into a shortcut, focusing only on Nightmare’s request. If Nightmare’s being honest, none of what he just asked for is necessary, except for maybe the food, which will only be useful if Cross becomes conscious enough to eat. But if he doesn’t direct Dust to do something - if he doesn’t let any of them feel like they’re doing something to help - then he’ll have three skeleton Monsters in the midst of panic attacks in addition to the one Monster actively Falling.
Horror has decided to leave Cross on top of the sheets, and he assists Killer in removing the extraneous layers of clothing that would only serve to make Cross feel more trapped, boxed in. They remove everything except his undershirt and shorts, and if he looked lifeless before then he looks lifeless so small now, so very small.
“we can’t… how are we gonna…” Horror holds Cross’s coat in his hands, bunching it up and squeezing the heavy garment, seeking some comfort when he can’t hug the Monster it belongs to. His wrist twitches, and his hand starts to rise towards his face--
“nu-uh, no.” Killer grabs Horror’s wrist and pulls it back down. He glares up at Horror, expression full of an anger he can’t actually direct at anyone, at least not anyone present in the room. His soul fizzles and spins in as an imperfect oval, but it hasn’t destabilized fully. “we can’t have you doin’ that bear. come on, it’s not what cross would want,” he points out. Horror lets out a low whine at the low blow.
“Enough.” Nightmare places a hand on both their shoulders. “Cross is not dust yet, and we are not going to let him dust without a fight. Take his stuff to the laundry room. Then come back here. I’m going to make contact with his soul directly and try to pull him back up, but it’s going to take time. I will not be able to pay attention to anything around us until I’m done.”
“will… will that work?” Horror asks.
He doesn’t know.
“It better,” Nightmare growls, “Or Ink will find that I’m very resourceful at coming up with ways to snuff his life out permanently.”
Horror and Killer both nod, and carry the clothing and laundry out as they leave the room. Killer gives Cross one last look over his shoulder before he steps into the hallway and shuts the door behind them.
Nightmare sits at the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping slightly and the frame creaking with new weight. His tentacles immediately skim along Cross’ body, finding their purchase on various points, along his forehead, coiled in a limp hand, around his shin and across the upper part of his chest. Nightmare rests a hand on Cross’ sternum, right about where his soul would sit, and for a moment, despite time being of the essence… he hesitates.
He stares into Cross’ empty sockets, imagining what they would look like with his eyelights lit and bright, and Nightmare throws out one more CHECK.
Cross Lv. 15
0.5/1220
help
“I’m coming Cross,” he murmurs, moving his thumb back and forth, the side of it rubbing against the bone under Cross’ shirt. “I’ll find you.”
Then Nightmare dives.
He lets the physical world around him melt away, his consciousness falling down, sinking further, seeking the speck of life that Cross clings to.
The corruption peels away layer by layer until he has no form left. Just a will, a mind, his consciousness spreading like wings long bound by restraints.
The space he falls through is grey, an expanse that mirrors the dead world they just left behind. It’s cold here.
Empty.
Nothing.
He falls deeper, past spaces where he should be bombarded with thoughts, recent memories, emotions. He stretches his consciousness further, but the only presence he feels is his own, scattering and seeking like a predator on the trail of its prey. Yet there’s no trail to follow, no hint of another mind here.
He sinks further than he thinks he should, and he’s still met with nothing. No thought, not emotion, no will.
Even the parasite is absent.
It’s as if he’s ventured into the mind of a doll, an empty shell where the mind vacated ages ago.
Maybe he’s already too far gone. Maybe they really were too late.
Here, This space reacts to thoughts and feelings, regardless of which presence is having them. So the grey shifts, darkens. He feels the boundary shrink, the infinite becoming finitie, growing smaller by the moment.
No.
He refuses, steadfast in the face of the encroaching hopelessness, his consciousness pushing the walls back.
Until the moment Cross crumbles to dust in the physical world, he will keep searching to prevent it. Until they’re both awake, or until both their minds are consumed and rendered to nothing.
So again he wonders, in a vast space of nothing, how do you find the something?
He reaches for the soul, for the one thing that should still hum with light and life, but the distance to it feels immense, as if it’s withdrawn further and further away from everything.
Or pushed.
When he finds the soul, he finds a faded mass of magic, the last source of it in this body. It doesn’t hum, or burn, or beat or pulse or anything, as if the magic is inert. It’s cold, colder than the space around it, chilling him through when he tries to plunge deeper inside, like ice, like…
Stone.
He extends his consciousness over the whole soul. He’s met with the same resistance all around, a solid wall of cold rigid stone with little to no give against his prodding. Even the most withdrawn, traumatized individual is unable to erect walls capable of withstanding his intrusions. This was influenced by an outside power, one a match for his own…
Dream.
The world grows darker. Wisps of crimson cloud-like shapes gather and bunch, light arcing between the masses like lightning heralds the coming storm. His anger fuels his charge at the walls of the cage his brother built, lunging and striking from all sides, finding the weakness, finding the way in to let Cross out.
A cage like this doesn’t stop emotions from happening or being felt. It stops them from coming out, from being expressed. In a cage like this they boil under pressure, churning like waters in a hurricane, growing exponentially until the cage breaks or the soul does.
And Cross is in there, being battered and crushed by the weight of his own feelings, not able to feel that help is just outside fighting to break him free.
He will not stop Falling if he believes he’s been left alone and abandoned, there has to be a way to get through, to make a small crack and reach the consciousness trapped within.
He strikes against the walls, over and over, pummelling against the magic seals, willing all of himself to surround the cage and press inwards. He pushes his own thoughts and feelings, twisting the space around him and bending it to his will and filling it with mantras he repeats over and over.
I AM HERE
I WILL FIND YOU
YOU ARE SAFE
HOLD ON
The wall cracks.
It’s small, too small to be of any kind of use.
He presses all of himself to it nonetheless, reaching out into the maelstrom within…
And it’s unmeasurable joy and relief he feels from both sides when something slight, something frail, something alive, reaches back.
I FOUND YOU
His awareness slowly returns to his physical body. Nightmare opens his socket. The sense of relief when he still sees a whole body skeleton and not a pile of dust threatens to drown him, but he has to push it aside. They’re far from done, Cross is still trapped and standing on the precipice, and it’s going to be a long while before Nightmare is able to fully break apart the cage.
But he has to know if he even has the time.
Nightmare CHECKS.
Cross Lv. 15
0.2/1220
holding on
believes in you
***
The process is painstaking.
Nightmare is only dimly aware of the passage of time around him. The voices of the other float in and out as they speak quietly, bring more things into the room, leave him food he can’t take the time to eat.
At one point his whole body ripples with an influx of negativity, a surge from some far corner of the multiverse, courtesy of the boys taking the initiative to get him more energy for the task at hand.
He hasn’t moved from Cross’ side. Not an inch.
Neither has Cross. But he also hasn’t dusted, and is still holding on with the same fraction of HP, leaving the slimmest margin of error should his consciousness give up under the pressure.
Nightmare has learned that the cage holds up when under direct assault, so he adjusts to a more careful approach. He peels apart the walls like one would unravel a tapestry, pulling it apart thread by thread. It’s slow, aggravatingly so, but he knows it has to be because the moment a large enough hole is made the whole thing will crumble like a dam under the weight of too much water. Every emotion built up in the time since the walls were put in place would come rushing out at once, and Nightmare has a suspicion he knows which would likely be at the front of the wave.
He doesn’t look forward to it.
As he works, Nightmare marvels at the thoroughness of the seal; it lets nothing out, negative or positive. Which implies that anything they saw from the outside that looked like an emotion was false, planted there deliberately. Dream’s magic is strong, stronger than Nightmare would give him credit for, being stuck in that stone prison for hundreds of years.
It’s so unlike him.
What was it? Nightmare bitterly wonders. What was it that made Dream choose to suppress Cross’ emotions and supplant his own in their place? What hint of negativity was too much for Dream’s naive world view of sunshine and happiness?
He questions how long Cross has been trapped like this. Was it from the beginning, after Dream tempted him to his side, only for the subversions to start immediately? How many battles have they fought, angry and hurt by seeing him standing next to Dream, where Cross was trapped and desperately trying to call for help? What if they hadn’t seen his note? What if Horror hadn’t noticed the sluggish movements of dissociation?
What if, what if, what if.
It’s too late to spin circles around the possibilities. All that matters is the here and now.
It might as well take days, weeks, months… Nightmare doesn’t care about the speed of his work, only that it’s being taken with careful caution. They’ve come so far to let a misstep send Cross out of his reach again. He will not lose him.
He refuses.
When Nightmare feels close, when he feels the walls weaken dramatically and buckle, ready to fall with a few more careful prods, Nightmare pulls himself back, much as it pains him to do so. When everything breaks, if Cross is strong enough to wake, it wouldn’t be a joyous reunion. They need to be ready.
For the first time in what feels like a century, Nightmare takes stock of the room. There are food trays, plastic wrappers, cans and bottles all over the floor. There’s a pile of scavenged pillows and blankets laying in a messy heap in the center of the room, Nightmare is sure that he’s looking at everything soft and plush that exists within the castle walls. The boys lay in their nest, locked in hushed chatter, unaware that Nightmare is watching them until he makes a throat-clearing noise. Then five eyes and eyelights snap to him immediately.
“What I’m about to do will wake him, if it works,” Nightmare explains. He ignores the raspiness of disuse, the fatigue he can hear clear as still waters. “I think it would be better if you all join me up here, so that we can be the first thing he sees. It…” He pauses, struggling with the right words that won’t cause them to fret further. But he doesn’t want to lie either. “... He’s not going to be well. The assurance may be necessary.”
Killer takes the initiative and the invitation. He springs up and throws himself onto the bed with enough force to rock the frame, jostling Nightmare and Cross, something that would have certainly earned chastisement if Cross were awake. Killer perches on his knees in the spot next to Cross. Both hands reach out and grasp Cross’ limp one, and nothing short of death itself would make him let go.
Horror rises and walks up next, choosing to sit with more ginger care at the head of the bed. He rests a hand on the crown of Cross’s skull, rubbing the bone with gentle, careful pets. Nightmare picks up on his trepidation, his worry that just his touch would be enough to cause Cross to dust.
Dust is the hesitant one, the pessimist that assumes the worst will come to pass, because it’s always come to pass for him. Who worries his presence is too unstable, too corrupted and will hurt more than help. He quietly walks up to the side of the bed, and lowers himself down to the ground. He peeks over the edge, staring at Cross while he slides a hand up and over to come to rest on Cross’ wrist. He doesn’t hold, or squeeze, just rests it there.
There’s nothing more to do, that they can do.
It’s time to break him free.
Nightmare’s consciousness sinks back down to the cage.
The walls don’t hold up much longer, the dam is already leaking, the cracks growing of their own accord. Were time not of the essence, Nightmare would let everything drain out slowly, letting the pressure drop. But the longer Cross stays trapped the worse it will get, so Nightmare has no choice. The wall has to come down now, entirely.
He pierces through, making the first significant hole.
There’s nothing at first.
He waits, a moment of dread anticipation in the face of receding ocean tides.
Then the tsunami.
Cross’ whole body spasms, shivers and convulses. Caught by surprise, the others struggle to keep his limbs from lashing out and hurting himself, while Nightmare’s senses are wholly engulfed with the acrid taste of wild and desperate panic. He struggles to keep his head up, to keep from drowning as his body absorbs everything that’s being thrown at it.
Cross tries to kick away, but only gets so far before Horror moves behind him and wraps his arms around his chest in a bear hug, holding him in place while his legs kick out and his arms try to wrench themselves from Killer and Dust’s grip.
His sockets are wide, but still empty and unseeing, his teeth grind against each other as he keeps his mouth shut as if his jaws were wired together. Not a sound escapes him except the frantic pants of hyperventilation that manage to slip between gaps in his bite.
Nightmare pushes through the onslaught of feeling, fighting to keep his own composure and not be swallowed by the turmoil in front of him. “Cross,” he says with a solid, stern voice, trying to cut through the panic to reach the skeleton inside the storm. “Cross, stop. It’s us. You’re safe.”
“cross! hey-” Killer moves his skull aside just in time to avoid Cross’ fist. He keeps a firm hold of his left arm, Dust trying to do the same with his right. “cross stop--”
“dammit, cross--” Dust struggles as Cross twists his arm up and around to try and break free, his shoulder rotating so far back they worry he’s going to pop it out of its socket entirely. “fuck, it’s us! cross!”
“cross!” Horror curls around Cross body a little more, slipping his arms down to try and pin Cross’ forearms against his body. “please, cross! it’s us, it’s us! i promise!”
Their pleas fall on deaf ears. Cross makes a deep, breathy noise that’s a mix of a groan and a cry that gets muddled as he refuses to open his mouth for whatever reason and struggles to roll over and break their hold on him.
This isn’t working.
Tentacles spring forward and wrap around Cross’ limbs. With rarely used strength, Nightmare is able to pin his arms to his body and trap his legs together, effortlessly subduing Cross’ wild strength. Nightmare then pulls Cross from the hands of the others, and pulls him across the bed, close enough so Nightmare can reach out and hold the sides of Cross’ face and force the latter to look him dead in the socket.
“Cross.” Nightmare keeps his voice even and steady. He doesn’t wince when he feels a rough kick to his shin. “Cross it’s me. You’re safe.”
His body ripples like the surface of a lake in a downpour as it absorbs more panic, the corruption growing thicker and more viscous, dripping off his body and staining the bedsheets. He doesn’t want to feed, he’s never wanted to feed from them, but he needs to calm the panic long enough for Cross to realize that he’s not in danger.
He needs Cross to see him.
If kinder appeals for recognition won’t work, then Nightmare needs to change course and reach for something firmer.
“Cross. Look at me.”
The command is sharp, loud, short and to the point. Air whistles through Cross’ teeth as he inhales, sputtering as he’s still stuck hyperventilating. But his body freezes, just long enough for Nightmare to pull his face closer, his gaze boring down deep within his sockets.
“Look at me.”
A still and silent pause, then magic sparks within Cross’ sockets. Once, twice, before his eyelights flicker to life, dim and nearly faded from magic deprivation. But there, moving and alert. They lock onto Nightmare’s face, appearing discolored as the teal light from Nightmare’s eyelight overpowers their natural tones. Cross’ whole body tenses and locks up like a spring wound too far and ready to snap.
“We found you.”
As quickly as the tsunami rushed out, it ends.
Cross’ sockets widen, curving downward along the outside edge as tears start to build along the bottom, spilling over and dripping down to Nightmare’s hands. Panic recedes, but in its place comes everything else. Misery, fear, confusion, disgust, frustration, anger, bitterness, grief, terror, impotence, worry, guilt all fight for dominance, for the right to be expressed.
There’s only one thing a mind can do when feeling all of them at once.
Cross’ body crumples, all the fight leaving him instantly and Nightmare the only thing holding him up, as his mouth finally opens and he screams.
A loud, wrenching scream from the very pit of his soul, from the very last point he had been compressed down to, everything that had been boiling for months releasing the only way it knows how. Dust, Horror and Killer flinch away at the sound of it, but Nightmare holds his composure, he has to, even if Cross screams like a dying Monster in agony and hopeless despair.
“There. There, let it out Cross. You’re safe, you can let it all out.” Nightmare loosens the grip his tentacles have on Cross’ body, and he pulls him forward, cradling him like a child and tucking his skull in the juncture of his neck. Cross’ ceaseless tears are immediately lost within the corruption, but still he screams, pausing only long enough to take a breath and scream again.
Yet it's Nightmare who finds his skull spinning, who's fighting a pressure within his chest that causes him to take a painful breath and swallow his sudden nausea. It's hard to tell where the line between the emotions he's absorbing ends and his own begins. He clings to what he knows his monumental sense of relief, so strong it threatens to send him careening down into the pits of agony, strong enough to keep him afloat above the flood of negativity. He clings to Cross like the cherished thing that he is, as if releasing his hold even slightly will allow the powers that be to rip Cross away from him again.
The room reeks of negativity, the air thick enough with spilled emotion that it even affects those not empathetically tuned. There isn’t a dry socket among the trio as the struggle to resist the urge to curl up and cry in isolation, and when Nightmare reaches out to pull them close as well, he does it both for their benefit and Cross’.
“You're safe. You did good. You held on. I have you now. I have all of you.”
I found you, he repeats to himself, I found you. I found you. He'll repeat it until he starts to believe his own words.
I found you. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I found you, and I will never lose you again.
For the first time in over a century, the walls of the castle are privy to the endless screaming of wretched fear and misery, the magic stonework once tuned to negativity hardening with new strength. The corruption coating Nightmare’s body grows so thick it threatens to choke and drown him utterly, but still he sits and absorbs all he can while they all weep tears of distraught relief and sympathy and Cross screams and screams until there’s nothing left behind but the comforting blanket of exhaustion and temporary numbness.
Chapter 27: A Valentine’s Delight
Summary:
Many are surprised to learn that Killer is the most romantic of the bunch. A Valentine’s Day special.
Chapter Tags: Talk of sex, sexual innuendo and implied sex (offscreen). Otherwise it’s just all fluff!
This is what happens with I decide to write something the day before Valentine's. Pretend this isn't a week late.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The day starts early. Very early.
Cross has a tendency to wake up at the crack of dawn, regardless of whatever alarm might have been set beforehand. Not that dawn is actually a thing in Nightmare’s realm. It’s an early hour regardless, where there probably is only one other soul awake in the castle, and that’s only because deities probably don’t need to sleep like mortals do.
And what woke Cross up this time was not the training ingrained in him since childhood urging him to get up and run exercises. No, instead it’s the feeling that there’s someone in his room. Someone standing at the edge of the bed, and he has to suppress a shudder at the sensation of being watched. But he’s home, and reminding himself that he’s in his own bed and Nightmare’s realm has a way of blocking access to those he doesn’t want visiting, so after a hazy moment of self-reassurance Cross decides he’s not all that worried about the intruder.
(Maybe he has a little bone attack summoned out of sight in his hand, hidden by the bed sheets, just in case.)
It’s dismissed anyways, the moment the bed dips with new weight and a warm body curls under the covers next to him, worming their arms around his chest and tangling their legs between his.
Killer always liked to stake his claim.
Cross lets a deep grumble escape from his mouth; Killer is undoubtedly going to make it difficult to get out of bed this morning, but if he’s being honest, Cross isn’t that upset about it. Heck, maybe he can try to get in some extra “z’s” if Killer’s just going to keep him in bed.
“wakey-wakey handsome,” whispers the voice behind his skull.
Looks like Cross is both not going back to sleep and not getting out of bed.
Cross grumbles again, refusing to budge. Killer chuckles, and starts to run a finger lightly up and down his shirt, tracing the length of Cross’ sternum. “come on criss-cross, wanna give you somethin’.”
“... If it’s your dick I’m going to toss you across the room,” Cross mutters, trying to sound way more tired than he is, mainly because he wouldn’t be all that upset if he turned over and found a dick in front of him.
Killer chuckles in a cheeky way that suggests that he doesn't buy Cross’ threat in the slightest, and knows exactly where in the gutter Cross’ mind fell. “you’re in luck, i’m your dick, remember?”
“Unfortunately,” Cross snarks. Then he sighs as if this is all some great hassle, and slowly opens his sockets, one at a time for maximum time-wasting. He even lights his eyelights slowly, although trying to beat Killer in a game of impatience can either be the most difficult thing or the easiest, depending on what the goal is. Finally he twists his skull, craning his neck so he can get a look at the skeleton in bed next to him. With only the red glow of Killer’s soul providing light in the dark, he’s a little disappointed to see that Killer has his shirt and hoodie on.
“Alright, what is it?”
Killer laughs at Cross’ indignant tone, and pushes himself up to give Cross a very thorough kiss on the mouth, and Cross’ false discontent falls away almost immediately. Killer is dominating, seeking to stake his claim on Cross’ mouth like he does his body. They usually fight a bit over who leads who, but for once Cross is happy to let Killer have his way with him. Maybe he’s more tired than he thought.
Killer places a hand on Cross’ shoulder and pushes it down towards the mattress until Cross rolls over flat on his back, allowing Killer to slide over and straddle his hips. And it’s about this point that Cross realizes that despite being fully clothed in his upper half, Killer is definitely not wearing anything below his waist.
It's going to be this kind of morning, and Cross isn’t complaining in the slightest.
Killer leans down, hands resting on the pillows next to Cross’s skull, pinning him in. “happy valentine’s day criss-cross,” Killer croons, lowering his skull until their foreheads touch. “got ya somethin’."
Oh, right, it’s Valentine’s. No other skeleton in the house goes all out with the holiday like Killer does. Last year he woke up to find himself buried under rose bouquets and rose petals, then whisked away for a thorough spa bath and “massage”, all before breakfast.
He remembers the difficulty he had walking straight when he finally managed to stumble down to the kitchen.
It was a very thorough massage.
“Yes, I’m pretty sure we established that it was your dick,” Cross muses, earning him another laugh with a side smirk that promises he’s going to be punished for that later.
“no it’s a box of chocolates i made and now i’m gonna to eat them all in front of you, you ass.”
Cross blinks. “You made…? You… you made chocolates? You made them?” Making chocolate takes days, weeks, if you’re actually making it from cocoa beans and not just melting down a chocolate bar and reshaping it. Surely he just bought some and is just pulling his leg.
Cross already loves him, he doesn’t need fancy chocolate. He doesn’t need any chocolate. He just needs Killer.
Killer’s brows rise and fall as he pretends to roll the eyelights he doesn’t have. “uh-huh. course i made some for you, criss-cross. i was gonna feed them to you, maybe, if you want,” Killer teases, letting his voice drop an octave. “unless there’s something else you want to eat up first?”
Cross decides, in this very moment as a new and very obvious shape manifests in the space above their pelvises, that this officially tops last year’s wake up, and he’s very much looking forward to staggering his way through the walk down to breakfast once again.
***
When Horror steps into the kitchen, he knows someone’s already been here.
A… couple of things give it away.
He’s not really a light sleeper, but his room is nearest to the kitchen so he can sometimes hear the muddled rummaging of late-night snackers. The others are usually pretty good about not leaving a mess behind for him to wake up to, maybe an errant tupperware lid here, condiment bottle there. Nothing too disruptive.
But while Horror slept through last night’s kitchen intruder, what gives their presence away this morning is the mess left behind.
Bowls of various sizes spread out all across the counter, pale white batter hardened in place after running down the sides and pooling on the counter. On the table are four baking sheets of sugar cookies, shaped like little hearts and souls… maybe a little wobbly-shaped. Like someone did it by hand rather than using a cutter… oh, there’s a few knobby-shaped too. That’s obviously on purpose.
About half of the cookies are fully decorated with globs of pink and red icing, in layers four times thicker than the cookies themselves, topped with a generous helping of white sprinkles, each cookie a literal sugar bomb that’s bound to have even Nightmare bouncing off the walls just by eating one. There’s another bowl, probably used to make the icing sugar, with a thin layer of icing hardened at the bottom.
The light steps of sneakers on stone has Horror turn towards the kitchen entrance, just as Killer walks through the threshold, carrying what looks like three bags of flour and one of icing sugar balances on one arm, and a sack of potatoes and few bottles of food colouring clenched tightly in the other hand. Killer stops in his tracks the moment he sees Horror. His cheekbones are flushed deep red, a rarity for Killer, like he’s been exercising hard or… something else was hard at least.
Heh, hard.
Killer blinks in surprise, then does his very best looney-toons impression as he tries to hide everything that he’s holding while also preventing it from falling to the floor. “... uh… hi!” Killer chirps with forced nonchalance, which is very unlike him. The way Horror sees his brows shift gives him the impression of Killer glancing nervously over to the mess on the counter, which would probably be a lot more obvious if he had visible eyelights. “... you’re, uh, up early!”
Horror shrugs. Normally he’s a pretty good sleeper, especially when he’s got someone else with him. His internal clock got him up early this morning, and his mind’s not quite fully caught up as to why yet. He’s not worried, it’ll come to him eventually. “how come you’re up?” he asks instead, because seeing someone other than Cross or Nightmare at this hour is almost unheard of.
“i was… cooking. baking. making things! and i was going to clean up, honest! i just wasn’t done yet and i had to catch criss-cross before he woke up and…” Killer laughs nervously, shifting the goods in his arms and nearly losing one of the bags to gravity. Then his shoulders drop when Horror has nothing to add in response, and he says much quieter “... ehh, surprise?”
Horror’s honestly not as concerned with the mess as Killer maybe thinks that he is; yeah, he prefers to keep the kitchen neat, but only so he can find where things are when he has a literal hole in his memory. It’s a kitchen, you cook, you make a mess, you clean up after. Easy as pie.
Horror’s more concerned with the notion that there was a surprise he inadvertently walked in on. He didn’t mean to ruin a surprise, even if he has no clue what it would be for. Clearly he’s trying to make something for everyone for breakfast, although the cookies are an odd…
Oh, right. Red, pink... hearts, those are hearts not souls, it’s Valentine’s day isn’t it?
Horror’s never been too fussed about keeping track of human holidays, if he’s being honest; he has a hard enough time staying on top of birthdays and Monster holidays. But Killer always liked Valentine’s, really likes to go all out with it.
Horror feels a lovely warmth settle in his soul as he takes stock of the food already made and the stuff apparently still to go. Those kinds of cookies aren’t quick to make, he had to have been up early, maybe even all night. Horror can’t imagine what Killer’s going to do with that much flour though, even more cookies? Fresh bread for toast? A whole cake? Three whole cakes?
“h?”
Horror blinks, and finds that Killer has stepped closer to him, a subtle look of concern on his face. “you okay big bear?”
Right, must have been spacing out, and Killer probably still thinks he’s upset about the mess. That won’t do, nope, not at all. Horror slowly reaches out and gathers the items from Killer’s hands, relieving him of his burden, and placing them all on the table after gently nudging one of the trays out of the way. Then Horror wraps his arms around Killer and lifts him clean off his feet in a massive hug.
“mmm, sorry, forgot. happy valentine’s day snickerdoodle,” Horror gushes as he nuzzles against the side of Killer’s face as the latter starts shaking with giggles. “sorry for ruinin’ the surprise.”
“hehehe, happy valentine’s bear,” Killer chuckles, returning the nuzzle and the hug enthusiastically. “don’t worry ‘bout it. i was just workin’ on the finishing touches.”
“what’re ya makin’ now?”
“more icing. then pancakes. eggs, bacon, hash browns, the works. wanted to have breakfast ready before everyone comes down.”
Horror feels his magic rumbling already. Killer cooking is a rare treat, rare when he wants to help, and rarer still when he wants to do most of the heavy lifting. Horror tries to do away with the notion that he’s the only one in the castle allowed to cook, and if that means he takes second fiddle when someone else wants to take the reins, he’s more than happy to do so.
It’s the company he loves, laughter and happiness while they create something together. Something he never thought he’d be able to have again.
“can i help?” Horror asks, and he doesn’t mean to sound like he’s pleading but he absolutely doesn’t want to be sent away, even if this is supposed to be a surprise.
Killer rubs the top of Horror’s skull, right along the jagged line of the crack that’s the most sensitive and so, so good to massage. “of course, big bear,” Killer assures. “would love that, always love spendin' time with you.”
Horror’s soul pounds, the little nagging voice that always questions his usefulness banished for the time being, and he nuzzles with Killer some more, holding his smaller partner against his body for a while longer before they eventually have to break away and finish making breakfast to surprise the others with.
For Horror, the thing he loves best about Valentine’s is the sharing. Sharing food, sharing time. Sharing love.
***
Hot Sauce Lightweight: don’t work on the 14th
The text lacked all his usual flair, so you think you could be forgiven for not believing it came from him at first. This was the kind of message Dust would send you and refuse to elaborate on if pressed.
Still, it wasn’t that difficult to guess maybe why he (Dust or Killer or some other mysterious skeleton who used Killer’s phone) would want you to be available on the 14th.
Too bad that’s a universal day of chaos in coffee shops all around the world, next to Christmas and Black Friday.
Everyone wanted the 14th off, or at least specific parts of the day. Many wanted the evening in particular, given that there’s a huge soulmate-related Valentine’s party happening in the promenade around Ebott City Hall. For some reason, many of your co-workers thought you wouldn’t mind working all day, which is baffling. You have a partner - partners, even! - and by now most of them know you and Cross are an item at least. That they assumed you wouldn’t also want time off to spend with someone you care about is frankly insulting. As was the fact that you had to agree to take three extra shifts to give away working the evening shift on the 14th.
Whatever.
You still had to do the morning of, working only until noon, thankfully, but you’re still kind of done seeing pink, red and white sprinkles on every drink and calling out “Valentine for...” that was written on every single drink order. You’re kind of done with the endless requests to had raspberry shots to every single drink in an attempt to make them pink, regardless if raspberry went with the flavour of the original drink or not. You’re really done with explaining why the raspberry syrup isn’t chemical dye red anymore because of the switch to natural ingredients, and why the drinks weren’t coming out piiiinnnkkkkk.
You’re also kind of sick of whipped cream. That you don’t understand, why Valentine’s has been equated to whipped cream on everything; lattes, americanos, every fucking pastry that got ordered also came with a request for a dollop of whipped cream.
There are no new messages by the time you get home. So you can either text Killer and ask what he was planning now that you’re free, or wait until you inevitably get another cryptic message. Either way, you're seeing them all tonight for dinner and probably staying the weekend again, and if his little plot doesn't manifest itself by then you can always ask.
You really shouldn't be surprised to walk through your door to see one of those massive edible arrangements sitting on the only empty spot on the counter. Heck, you almost miss it because you're too busy thinking about changing out of your work clothes. Trixy’s already taken the initiative to hop onto the counter and sniff around a chocolate dipped strawberry.
“Hey!” You quickly walk over to shoo her away, and then take matters and the cat into your own hands when she doesn’t pay you any mind. You scoop her up and put her back down on the floor. She looks up at you with sad, sad eyes and a mournful meow.
“No, you know you’re not supposed to be up there.” You shake your head as she continues to meow like the saddest cat in the world, and then take a closer look at the colorful bouquet of fruit.
It appears to just be strawberries, dipped in an alternating pattern of milk chocolate, dark chocolate and white chocolate, with random ones decorated with sprinkles. There’s a heart-shaped balloon taped to the pot with the words “Happy Valentine’s Day” printed on it in curly cursive, and a stuffed brown bear strapped to the front with a heart-shaped tummy. The bear has a lovely custom addition of black streaks coming down from it’s small black eyes and down it’s cheeks, probably coloured on with permanent marker.
The only reason you don’t jump in surprise for once when arms wrap around your waist from behind is because you were already suspicious of a certain skeleton before, and doubly suspicious of him now.
“‘sup addy,” Killer greets, nuzzling your cheek. “happy valentine’s day.”
Some might say it’s silly or useless, but you’re completely smitten with the gesture regardless. You laugh and spin around in his arms, wrapping yours around his shoulders and giving him a full kiss on the mouth, which of course he completely takes over in typical Killer fashion.
You may be done with Valentine’s, but you never want to be done with him.
“I can’t believe you got me fruit,” you tease when he finally lets you pull away, although not too far. His soul hovers inconspicuously between your chests, you feel the warmth of it bleeding through your shirt a bit. “You trying to get me to eat healthy?”
Killer laughs, and cocks his head to the side with a playful smirk. “the chocolate cancels out the healthy bits, trust me, i’m an expert on these things.”
“Mmmm, I do love chocolate.” Which is funny, because an hour before you were cursing out the chocolate syrup that exploded out of the pump all over the bar and you had to clean it just at the end of your shift.
It’s funny how all it takes is Killer showing up to put a smile back on your face and make you feel like a person again, not just another cog in the machine. Sure, you could argue that it’s his tendency to laugh in the face of everything, maybe some would think that he doesn’t take anything seriously. But you would laugh at those people, because you know he takes a lot of things seriously.
He sees you. That’s the difference. And he’s so very deserving of someone seeing him.
"Happy Valentine's Day, Killer," you say in earnest, then glance over at the arrangement. You jerk your head towards the bear. “So does that guy have a name? I see he looks just like you.”
Killer grins wide, beaming at his artistry. “‘killer jr.’”
You frown, in mock confusion. “I thought that was your dick.”
He laughs, tilting his skull forward, resting it against your forehead. “naw, that’s ‘killer esquire’,” he snickers.
“Oh, my mistake. It’s so hard to keep track of your family tree.”
You both laugh lightly before falling silent. Looking into his sockets this close makes you feel like you’re going cross-eyed, but you don’t pull away, even when you know he would let you. You stare into one another quietly, your breaths passing back and forth between the two of you. Killer starts to sway, gently, and you move with him, rocking in slow dance to something neither of you hear but you feel pulsing through your bodies as everything falls away and all that matters is the warmth between the two of you.
Soon, you’ll be brave enough to say the words.
It’s alright, he already knows.
***
It’s probably closer to mid-afternoon by the time Dust shortcuts back into the castle from the garden, lured by the prospect of another nap before the inevitable calorie and sugar rush that would be tonight's very special, very romantic dinner and dessert.
The day started normally enough, waking up content and warm in Horror’s bed to find the latter already downstairs working on breakfast. After a quick rinse and gurgle in the bathroom to clear out any morning breath, he shortcut down to the kitchen to find Killer doing most of the heavy lifting while Horror supervised, and occasionally pilfered a kiss here and there, maybe a butt squeeze. Dust was greeted with a kiss that literally swept him off his feet and had him hiding in his hood until a plate full of food was placed down in front of him. Nightmare walked in and took his usual spot, but not before a light pat on his upper back and whispered words of affection, and Dust swears his tentacles were far more playful with everyone’s legs under the table than normal. Cross stumbled in last, with an unsteady gait and a blush almost as bright as Dust’s that silently let everyone know he was Killer’s first mark for the day.
First and certainly not the last.
Valentine’s day had a certain effect on all of them, due in no small part to the skeleton who makes it his business to be the most romantic of them all.
Dust doesn’t dislike Valentine’s. He doesn’t. But the grand gestures that usually come hand in hand with the overly pink human holiday aren’t really his thing. He likes… well, it’s hard to explain. He likes the physical stuff, always likes the physical stuff. He got real cuddly with Horror after breakfast, spent some one-on-one time with Nightmare. When Cross stole away for some quiet time in the garden Dust decided to join and keep him company.
That’s all Dust really needs, company. He doesn’t need flowers, chocolates, extravagant dates, doesn’t need a day of constant PDA to reaffirm his commitment to the others.
And they all know that.
And that’s why he loves them for it, they understand him.
So when Dust walks into his room, he isn’t expecting to find gifts on his bed. And he doesn’t!
He finds Killer lounging on it instead like he’s been waiting hours for Dust to drag his boney ass in the room. He hasn’t, but that’s not the point.
“lemme guess, still horney and lookin’ for some relief?” Dust asks, kicking his door closed with the heel of his foot.
“depends,” Killer muses. “you offerin’?”
Dust shrugs. Maybe, he’s not sure if he’s in the mood or just wants to relax. He walks over to the mattress and unceremoniously flops face down on it, just barely missing Killer, who doesn’t move out of the way at all. And if Killer’s not going to initiate, then Dust is going right back to plan A and taking a nap.
“hey.” Dust feels Killer pat his lower spine. “got ya somethin’.”
That peeks Dust’s attention a bit. With a heavy sigh he rolls over like a lazy seal, only to discover that Killer has shifted position, so Dust ends up rolling and having his skull land right onto Killer’s lap. Dust blinks, then squints in suspicion. “what?”
Killer smirks as he holds up a clear plastic bag filled with small colorful balls, and shakes it. “nothin’ fancy, just some candy.”
Oh, that’s a great idea before dinner. And who is Dust to say no. He lifts a hand to grab the bag, only for Killer to pull it away and hold it higher up. Dust grunts as he stretches his arm out further, only for Killer to keep it consistently about an inch out of reach. They go at it for a few minutes, long enough that Dust wonders why he doesn't just sit up and yank the bag out of Killer's grip. That'll ruin their little game, he decides, and continues to swipe for the bag like a kitten batting for a toy.
That and he's lazy.
So lazy, he gives up before long, letting his hand drop and land on the mattress with a plop. Killer laughs in victory, and drops the bag onto Dust's chest.
“asshole,” Dust mutters as he rips a hole in the top of the bag.
“i know you are but what am i?” Killer counters with a pointed look, and gestures to the candy.
Dust pours out a handful. They're little soul-shapes in light pastel pinks and purples, one mint-green, and a light blue one too. Most look blank, but a few have small red letters on them, very tiny messages that Dust has to squint his eyelights to read.
I LIK UR PEACH
EAT MY ASS
“the fuck are these?” Dust asks with a breathy, surprised laugh.
“candy hearts, duh,” Killer answers, as if the candy was incredibly average and Dust is an idiot for questioning it. “i just thought the regular ones were a bit boring.”
Dust throws the candies in his mouth. They practically melt immediately on his conjured tongue into nothing but sugar, as expected. He then pulls out another one, rummaging in the bag until he finds one with another message.
FARTINTINE
“be my fartintine, won't you dust-bunny?”
Killer asks so sincerely, so typical of those garbage romance made-for-tv movies they sometimes like to watch together just so they can laugh at the acting and the dialogue, that Dust starts giggling, then laughing. Then losing it completely. The bag slips out of his hand to the side and he doesn't care, only laughs more when Killer joins in, the two of them cackling and hollering and without an utter care about anything.
Killer is just that way with him, plowing through all his walls so effortlessly that he's not afraid to be that silly skeleton that's still a part of him, buried under the mountain of apathy and trauma.
Dust grabs the front of Killer's shirt and yanks him down for a kiss that's not all that glamorous considering they keep breaking it to laugh more. They spend the next few hours polishing off the bag of candy, laughing fits starting all over again when one of them pulls ones that says BITE ME or LOL or some other ridiculous message. Their kisses are silly, and taste sugar-sweet for the rest of the afternoon, but Dust doesn't care. This is all he's ever wanted for a day like Valentine's.
***
Killer marches through the halls like a skeleton on a mission.
He is, actually, a very important mission. Actually, it’s more like he’s on step thirty of a forty-part mission, having started the preparations for everything the night before.
He doesn’t go crazy with Valentine’s, despite what the others might assume, he just uses it as an excuse to go out of his way to show them how he feels.
Just in case there’s a day when he can't, where every wisp of emotion is lost to the static of his soul and drowns in the black hate that courses through his body. Those days are few and far in between, but they happen, and the last thing Killer wants is for those days to define him.
He loves his partners too much.
Killer rounds the corner at the far end of the hall, and heads straight for the set of double-doors at the end. He doesn’t bother knocking, he never does, and instead shoves the doors open with his shoulder and a grunt, a snarky greeting ready to go as soon as he steps in…
Only to find the room devoid of someone to greet.
The room is considerably smaller than the double doors would imply, round in shape and lined with a custom bookcase that curls all the way along the walls. In the center is a large desk, with a stack of books, a few loose papers, a feather quill and a bottle of black ink on the right corner and more modern writing utensils lined up on the left. There’s a chair behind the desk, and an armchair set off to the side closer to the shelves, and a larger sofa that’s probably only fit for two to sit on.
Killer’s probably the only one brave enough to linger in Nightmare’s office when the latter isn’t around. Not because Nightmare trusts Killer not to mess with things (he absolutely would, and has frequently in the past), but because Killer really isn’t afraid of the reprisal.
Sometimes he even looks forward to it.
But this isn’t according to his plans. Nightmare said he would retire for a few moments after everyone finished dinner, and Killer was sure that he meant his office. Maybe he’s gone to bed? Or the library?
Or--
Killer blames the copious amount of sugar he’s eaten during the day, and the uncountable cups of coffee that’s kept him up nearly 48 hours at this point, for him to miss the subtle shift in the shadows until something coils around his leg with an iron grip. He’s hoisted up into the air with a yelp, held upside-down, high in the air with his skull six feet from the ground and at eye level with the smirking face of Nightmare.
Ah, busted then.
“hey boss, fancy runnin’ into you here.”
“Yes, imagine that, running into me in my own office. An unforeseeable happenstance,” Nightmare replies, that dry wit that makes Killer’s soul beat quickly on full display.
“must be my lucky night then,” Killer continues without missing a beat. He tries to wiggle his leg, just to see how tight the tentacle is holding on. It is very tight, no danger of dropping him unless Nightmare wants to, excellent. Killer happily lets himself dangle in the air like a macabre Gyftmas decoration.
He trusts Nightmare after all, trusts him with every mote of dust that makes up his body.
Nightmare rolls his turquoise eyelight, and brings Killer closer to him, their faces a few inches apart. “You’ve been quite the busy little cupid today, haven’t you?”
“noooooooo,” Killer playfully denies.
“No? Well then, who was it that left a pristine copy of da Vinci’s Codex Leicester on my pillow this morning?”
“original copy, don’t forget. that’s the important part,” Killer adds with a grin, but maybe one a little too manic, but he had fun hunting around for an original copy. Hunting down, he should say, maybe. The previous owner of the book could run really fast, it turned out. Took real good care of their stuff though, Killer had to give them points in their favour for that.
“Of course, how could I forget.” Nightmare tilts his skull, as if considering. “All that you’ve given the others today, and yet I still sense a thread of doubt in you. Why?”
Because if Killer is being honest - and Killer can only be honest with a few select individuals and he doesn’t always include himself on that list - he doesn’t feel like he deserves the love the others give him. He rarely considers himself lovable - romantic, yes, but lovable? Him? The one whose emotions teeter-totter on the best of days and have him question if anything his soul feels is genuine?
Does he put in all this effort because deep down, he thinks he’s a fraud?
Nightmare shakes his skull; even if he can’t read thoughts outright he very much understands where Killer’s train tends to spiral down to. “No,” he says sternly. “I would have words for the one who makes you believe that you don’t deserve even half of the devotion you show us on a daily basis. Even if that one is your inner self-hatred.”
Nightmare finally brings Killer close enough to to claim his mouth, forcing every last inch of Killer into eager submission as he dominates the kiss, conveying in every sense of the way that Killer is his, and Killer happily letting himself ride the waves of dominance and replying with his very soul that he belongs to Nightmare, every bit of him.
When Nightmare pulls back Killer is left breathless, panting, his limbs feeling tingly and numb and his soul humming and bursting with an obvious glow. “take me,” he whispers, pleads.
“Of course,” Nightmare promises, always promises, always has him. He reaches up and cups Killer's cheek, his thumb wiping through the ink that stains his cheekbones and merging with the inky void that covers Nightmare’s body as he pulls them both through the shadows to the privacy of Nightmare’s bedroom.
“Happy Valentine’s Day, mi amor.”
Notes:
I would like to point out that Killer was upside-down for almost all of that last part, a sweet and hilarious mental image.
You may have already noticed, but NBJB is moving to a two-week update schedule, as my schedule IRL has changed and a weekly update is no longer as easy to maintain. Next update is planned for the weekend of March 5-6, see you all then!
Chapter 28: A Forgotten Dream
Summary:
Being stuck in stone for 500 years has a way of discombobulating someone like nothing else. Dream tries to find his footing, and finds something else in the Doodlesphere instead.
Or does he?
Chapter Tags: Episodes of minor dissociation, flashback depicting implied poisoning, crawling through tight spaces, implications of off screen dismemberment and character death.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The birds have been singing their cheery songs with their light chiming chirps since the sun started to rise over the horizon and light chased away the retreating night sky, never stopping as the sunlight glowed ferocious red, then changed to hot ember orange, and finally warm and welcoming yellow. Their trilling bounces in the air like the birds bounce on their branch, the sound floating through the round window, always open and letting every kind of sound and smell and flit of breeze through at all hours of the day, making the bathroom feel as much a part of the outside as it was the inside.
It takes a whole ten minutes for Dream to realize he’s been holding his hands still under the faucet. The hot water flows through the tap and pours all over his bones, running along the divots and valleys of his palms and falling through the gaps between his metacarpals.
He hasn’t reached for the bright blue bar of soap once.
Dream rubs his fingers together, the joints feeling creaky and stiff as he flexes. He feels something like grime coating the surface of his bones, something fine like sand or dust. But nothing visible washes off under the torrent, the white sink remaining white as the water flows and spirals down the drain. The water doesn’t feel all that hot anymore, or maybe his hands have gone numb after all this time; his hands feel warm like a dying ember, losing the last of its heat to the chill of the air, the crispness of the frosty ground, the unforgiving iciness of stone--
cold, cold, cold like stone spreads from his chest and robs him of breath
Dream moves suddenly, so quickly he startles himself, latching onto the left faucet handle and turning it until it’s firmly in the “off” position. He tests the tightness, then he checks the other, untouched handle for good measure. So much has been learned in the past month, one of which is that faucets are finicky. For all the advancements of modern plumbing if you don’t shut the taps off all the way the water just leaks out, endlessly, in slow, steady drips that bounce off the shiny porcelain and slide down to the drain at the bottom, drip, drip, drip, harmonizing with the chirp, chirp, chirp of the birds outside singing their song for all time…
nothing all around, no thoughts only darkness and the slow steady steps of time marching forward
Dream needs to leave the bathroom.
He steels himself with a breath, brushing down the front of his shirt and wiping his hands dry before he steps back out into the hallway. There’s only one bathroom in this small little house, on the second floor, in the corner of the house right where the hallway turns ninety degrees. If Dream walks on he’ll find the bedrooms, five that he’s counted, but three more than necessary for the people living here.
Well, two more than necessary now.
His rescuers assume he’s staying after all.
He’s not so sure.
He’s never been more unsure of anything before.
He wishes his brother was here.
The walls are simple white, dark wood wainscotting running along all the walls both up here and downstairs on the main floor. The ceiling is higher than what Dream is used to seeing, arched in pockets, like how a button on a pillow pinches the fabric inwards. Drop lights with bare bulbs hang from the pockets, fully illuminating the hall with warm light. It’s still too modern for Dream to wrap his skull around.
The house does remind Dream of some of the stockier buildings scattered all around the village, the ones built more of stone than wood, the ones owned by humans with rounder cheeks and fuller bellies, at least when compared to those who lived in wooden houses. Dream remembers spending time in those houses, some more, some less. He thinks he’s visited each at least once, usually enthusiastically invited by happy families, given food and drink and offers to stay as long as he wished.
He liked talking to the villagers, liked to walk through their market and learning about their wares, their food, their ways of living that were so alien to him. He liked to visit their homes, liked discovering the way their unique personalities influenced the decor, liked to tinker with their kick-knacks and trinkets.
Dream remembers the days he considered their offers to stay a little more earnestly.
But he always went back to the Tree. Always went back…
Dream learned quickly that Nighty didn’t care to hear about Dream’s daily adventures with the villagers, didn’t care to listen about how the villagers who disliked him openly flaunted their fondness for the lighter of the twins. So Dream stopped talking about them when they were alone under their Tree. Instead they talked about the multiverse and their hope to one day explore it.
About the stars that hung overhead, making up their own constellations and stories of.
They talked a lot about finding their place, and what it meant to be a Guardian.
Dream liked talking about their Mother’s teachings.
Nighty liked talking about new knowledge he discovered in books.
They…
They talked.
Dream doesn’t remember when they stopped.
Dream finds himself standing at the top of the steps, staring down mutely at the wooden steps. A dull throb pulses at the back of his skull, the beginning of another headache threatening to form, just as it has every time Dream’s found himself stuck in these spells of reminiscing. He jerks forward as if pulled by an invisible string tied around his chest, forcing himself to climb down the stairs with shaky steps.
It’s been a month since Dream woke from the endless slumber, freed from the stone prison he had been trapped in for five hundred years. At least, that was Ink’s best guess; Dream didn’t understand much about how Ink could determine the passage of time in a universe that “was frozen in it”, but then again Ink speaks at the rate of sunlight and Dream’s mind is throttled by the fog he’s just starting to shake.
His grip on the railing is stiff as Dream comes to the foot of the stairs, letting go as he steps off the stairs with hesitation like the floor is going to immediately swallow him with nothing to tether him. It doesn’t, because that’s not how floors work and it’s an irrational fear to have. He keeps his steps silent as he makes his way to the kitchen, even though he knows there’s no one else in the house to disturb. Ink and Blueberry have left for some adventure or another, and a small blossom of longing and hope blooms in Dream’s chest, that he might get comfortable enough to travel the multiverse like they do.
The main floor of the house is much more open than the upstairs, and Dream is secretly happy for it. Large windows allow for sunlight to pour in from all around like an overflowing river of warmth. There’s only one partial wall acting as a separation between the kitchen and the rest of the living space. Thick wooden beams run parallel across the ceiling, the same dark colour as the floor and the wainscotting, in high contrast with the cream coloured walls.
Dream recalls overhearing a conversation between Ink and Blueberry, with the former boasting about redecorating the house to be more comfortable for their new “roommate”. How the energetic skeleton studied extensively to replicate something called “old world cottage core” as seen on “heych-gee-tee-vee”.
Dream had no idea what it meant then, and he really doesn’t understand it now. The house does look very nice though.
Dream steps through into the kitchen, a cozier space with brick wall accents copper-coloured appliances. He doesn’t know what half of the tools in here are for, and he’s fairly sure Ink and Blueberry are just as inept with some of this stuff, but Dream is very proud to have taught himself how to work the stove and kettle to boil water. Truth be told, it’s not that different from a fire pit, figuring out how to make the stove produce its “flame” was the tricky part.
Dream works with what he knows, finding the mug he prefers to use in the cupboard next to the tea pouches. He has no idea what the rest of the stuff hidden away in the cupboards are for, and he has no intention of experimenting with them right now. He fills the kettle with water from the sink down here, ensuring the tap is shut off just as tightly as the ones in the upstairs bathroom, then places the kettle on the element and turns it on. And only that one on.
While turning all the knobs does make the kettle heat faster, it is in fact not the recommended method in this enclosed space.
While the kettle heats up, Dream selects the flavor of tea that best suits his fancy. When he was first brought to this house, he would have needed a step stool to reach the cupboards. The magic that held him in stasis faded quickly, and his body worked to catch up on missed time. Dream found himself growing about two centimetres a day since waking. Yesterday Blueberry was dismayed to discover that he was once again the shortest one in the group.
The group, their group, because he had already accepted Dream into their fold.
Dream recognizes teas made from flowers; chamomile, lavender, mint. But he has no clue what “Orange Pekoe” is, and why it doesn’t taste like oranges if it’s named after them.
the tea tasted bitter and foul like biting into something rotten
he choked on liquid while the feelings of deception and greed threatened to pull him under
and he knew something was very wrong
he screams for Night
but his brother was gone
The kettle screeches.
It’s loud, shrill, piercing right through his skull.
He remembers barely existing in the sea of nothingness, his awareness only fleeting, feeling every moment that passed and unable to do anything more than just be.
He remembers when his vision cleared, looking up into bright blinding light that slowly subsided and revealed the faces of two skeleton Monsters looking down at him.
He remembers the way the light seared his eyelights and scorched his marrow, how every bone trembled and shivered as the numbness melted away, and he was screaming, crying, writing in agony as every sound, every touch, every blade of grass, every gentle hand and whispered assurance, burned with pain.
Dream slaps a hand on the kettle’s handle and yanks it off the element. Steam still whistles from the spout, but the ringing starts to wane, removed from the constant source of heat. He breathes, deliberately, until the whistling stops completely, and then he places the kettle down on a cool element. He twists the knob of the other element off, wincing from a shock of pain, realizing that he’s hurt his hand grabbing the kettle without a towel.
He can’t keep doing this.
Dream brings the hand close to his chest and continues to breathe, sending a pulse of self-soothing magic to the injured limb to mitigate some of the pain. When it’s good enough, he drops both hands to his sides, and forces his mouth into a smile.
“I changed my mind, I don’t want tea after all,” he says to the empty house. “Maybe all I need is a bit of sunlight. Some fresh air. It’s no good to stay inside for so long, and I haven’t left the house at all in weeks!”
The silence does not disagree with Dream’s self assessment, so he takes it as a sign that he’s right and leaves the kitchen, abandoning the mug and tea boxes on the counter. He walks to the entrance of the house, two heavy oak doors with decorative glass insets, and pushes them open.
He’s immediately greeted by the sounds of chirping loudly, as if they were perched right next to him. The light breeze rustles the leaves and branches of the trees that surround the grove this house was built in. The sun is high in the cloudless sky, aglow with such picture perfection that Dream can only stand there and bask in the light, his body feeling lighter than it has in days as the knot that pressed down on his sternum eases away, leaving him only with the balm of relief.
Dream closes his sockets and tilts his skull back, letting the sun hit his face fully. “That’s better,” he sighs. The light soaks into his bones, chasing the chill and loosening the joints that’s never felt the same since he woke up. Of course the sunlight would make him feel better, he grew up outside, he was never meant to be always confined by walls or a roof.
Never meant to be stopped from running and exploring every nook and cranny of their world. Never meant to be stopped from meeting new people and learning new things.
Dream isn’t sure how long he just stands there in front of the house, but it’s far more pleasant losing himself here than inside with the faucet running cold. When he does come back to himself, tilting his skull back down and blinking open his sockets…
He sees it.
A tree, taller than most of the others, it’s dark canopy of very dark green leaves, almost grey standing out in stark contrast with the sea of bright vibrant green around it. It looks to be a ways off in the distance, a walk of maybe twenty to thirty minutes from the house. There’s not much else Dream can see from here, at this angle, but it's a colour Dream doesn’t associate with good health, grey reminds him of death, disease, decay…
stone, cold grey stone that encases him from the inside out
Ink called this place the Doodlesphere. Dream understands that he is a Guardian, although one whose role differs from himself for Night, and while Dream had a hard time keeping up with his rapid explanations he understood that the Doodlesphere isn’t like other universes. Less of a place and more of a space, Dream thinks, very much at the whims and mercy of a being that embodies hyperactivity as much as the delight in creativity. Ink filled the space with this forest and created the house to sit peacefully within it, so…
That tree doesn’t seem like something that should be in the Doodlesphere.
Dream rubs his hands together. His knees twitch with the urge to start walking. He thinks he should wait until Ink and Blueberry come back, so they can investigate together. Or maybe Ink would explain that it’s something natural, something that he created on purpose for a perfectly justifiable reason.
Or he could go… check. Himself.
Explore.
Dropping his hands to his sides, phalanges curling into little determined fists, Dream takes a few hesitant steps towards the forest. “I can go check myself,” he says, and his steps grow more confident. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
Dream marches through the treeline and into the forest proper. He effortlessly hops over exposed roots and fallen logs, side steps around bushes and stumps without so much as glancing down. He’s walked through forests his whole life, and with each step a growing sense of excitement he thought was gone returns.
But every step closer to the tree the quieter the birds seem to be.
The air seems to still, like the world is holding its breath.
Green shrubs, leafy bushes, colourful flowers start to become less and less frequent, leaving the forest floor only with roots and twigs, bark and sandy dry dirt.
When Dream finds the suspect tree, standing in a smaller clearing of its own just a few meters ahead of him, the world is silent.
A twig snaps under his boot as he approaches the tree, and it startles him with how loud it sounds, like the thunder peal of a storm overhead.
Dream doesn’t think Ink has been here.
Up close, the tree looks so much more grey than Dream’s initial sighting implied, statue-like as if it were carved from a massive rock. Strangely there are patches of grass here and there around the tree that also have a greyish hue. The blades bend underfoot when Dream slowly steps on them as a test, certainly not like stone. They crinkle with the dryness of fallen leaves withered in fall.
The tree is massive, up close it’s easier to see how it dwarfs most of the trees around it. It’s roots curl upwards out of the ground in large bends, as if they had been pulled out of the dirt like snakes and left there, each root thicker than the width of Dream’s body.
There’s a hole at the base of the tree.
A hole, like a den carved by a fox or a badger or some other beast but ten times the size, a burrow large enough that Dream thinks he could crawl into it and see how far down the tunnel goes. He wonders what kind of creature made this burrow, if they’re still around or if they’re long gone. Air whistles out of the hole, and if Dream listens carefully he can hear a low quiet groan of wood as it shifts and settles like a living tree would.
This tree can’t be alive anymore, can it?
Dream steps up to the edge of the hole, resting a hand on one of the roots. The tunnel is lost in the gloom and darkness quickly, with no indication of how long it is or how deep it goes.
He should absolutely wait for Ink and Blueberry to come back, shouldn’t he?
Dream eases down on his knees. The golden glow of his eyelights cast a little light into the tunnel, but not enough to truly illuminate it. He scoots forward, just a little ways in. The dirt slopes downwards at a gentle pace as the tunnel ducks under the tree and travels further into the ground.
Dream realizes he’s nearly crawled all the way in before he twists his skull, glancing back over his shoulder. His body quivers with a sudden chill now that he’s out of the light. Ahead of him the tunnel stretches on, dark and silent.
there’s nothing to fear in the dark
the dark is not bad
there’s nothing to fear
don’t fear
“Don’t be afraid,” Dream whispers. “Fear is bad. Fear is not for you.”
He starts to crawl forward.
He makes slow progress in the dark. The tunnel is abnormally large, but still closes in all around him. At one point it feels like he has to drop down on his chest and slither forward under what feels like another root, moving like a snake. His eyelights don’t cast enough light to help much, but thankfully he still has somewhat decent night vision. The dirt feels like it was cut haphazardly, unevenly, the tunnel dug painstakingly without the help of tools to smooth the walls. Every now and again clumps of dirt fall onto Dream’s skull, jostled loose by his movements. He shakes his skull, spitting out dirt and sneezing once or twice.
Any moment he hesitates, any moment he wonders about stopping and going back, he finds himself pushing through a narrow bend in the tunnel, and he tells himself it’s easier to just continue forward than to try and go back.
he can never go back
Then something starts to change around him.
He feels it first, as the lumpy floor of the tunnel starts to smooth out and becomes something easier to crawl on. The tunnel starts to widen enough for him to raise his skull a little, for his shoulders to feel less hunched over and bent in.
Strangely, Dream feels like he can see better here than he could at the tunnel’s opening. He’s all but stopped running into roots, and the dirt is starting to look and feel like it’s been pressed or shaped more deliberately. Then the dirt stops abruptly, and Dream finds himself crawling on something like smooth stone, or even metal. Something artificial.
Dream should turn around. He should turn around right now.
He doesn’t.
The tunnel opens up a bit more, and for the first time in what feels like days Dream is able to rise off his knees and stand. He still has to duck his skull a little, but he’s not worrying about hitting the roof of the tunnel anymore. Tunnel, cave? What can he call this even? He’s lost all sense of how far down he’s traveled, how far below the surface he even is.
Does Ink even know about this place?
Dream’s boots click on the surface of the floor, echoing all around. There’s no mistaking the feel of tile, purposely carved and installed in this secret tunnel under a suspicious tree. Dream keeps a hand on the right wall, his fingers gliding over the metallic surface.
Then he comes to the end, abruptly.
A door.
It’s dark, made of a darker metal than the walls around it. There’s no obvious handle, no latch, no button to press or pull or anything to open the door. But it is a door.
Dream knows this because he can see a thin line where it’s pulled away from the wall, a dull red glow wafting out from within. When Dream places a hand on the door, testing it’s give, it pulses warmly, warm like the kettle heated on the stove. Dream slides both hands to the crack, slipping his fingers in and getting as good a grip as he can get when he can only push them in up to his second knuckles.
Then he pulls. The door slides a little and gets stuck, jammed on something. Dream grunts, slipping his fingers further in and pulls harder, lifting his foot against the wall to brace himself. The door groans, then breaks free of the jam suddenly, sliding open all the way as Dream slips and knocks hard against the other wall.
“Owww,” he hisses, rubbing his left shoulder. With the door open more of that red glow pours into the tunnel, but it’s not strong or bright enough to do anything more than illuminate the area immediately in front of the door.
Dream doesn’t hear anything moving on the other side of the door.
He quietly approaches, and pokes his skull through.
The room inside is large, and despite the ambient glow it’s too dark to see where the walls actually are. For some reason he feels like the room is round, or roundish. The ceiling looks to be higher than the ones back at the house, nearly twice the height of Dream, but there are no lights hanging above.
The glow is coming from the left side of the room. Dream takes a few steps inside, keeping his footfalls light and silent as he walks closer to a large arrangement of thin metallic boxes stacked on top of each other, with cords poking out the back and running along the floor, disappearing into the darkness. The boxes remind Dream of that thing Ink has in the living room, playing those “motion pictures” or “shows” as he calls them.
“TV” is what he called it. Dream is looking at a stack of tvs.
Dream counts ten screens that he can see. They vary in size, some bigger and some very small. The glass parts, the screen where the pictures play, of all of them are broken. Shards of glass littering the floor in front of the stack. Inside the tvs are long cylinders that kind of look like the light bulbs back at the house; some are dark and grey, others glow dark crimson red, the source of the glow and the only light in the room.
Dream takes a step forward, wanting to look at the stack closer. Glass crunches underfoot, grinding against the floor as he walks closer and closer.
His foot hits something soft.
He looks down.
On the floor is a large piece of cloth, discarded messily among the glass. Dream bends down and picks it up. In the present ambience it looks pinkish red, but Dream suspects that it might be white, or something close to it, in natural lighting. He spreads the cloth between his hands, and realizes it’s a long shirt, or coat of some kind, with long sleeves and buttons up the front. There’s something small and rectangular hanging from a clip on the front, something that shines weirdly in the light and splattered with more glass dust. Dream has to bring it close to his face to read the writing on it.
ALPHYS
A shiver runs down Dream’s spine. It’s not a word or name he recognizes, but… this belonged to someone.
The hand holding the card starts to shake.
It’s not glass dust.
Something rumbles loudly from the other side of the room.
Dream jumps with a yelp and spins around.
There’s a shape in the darkness. A lump of something sitting on the ground just at the edge of visible light. It doesn’t move as Dream stares at it, or make any other noise.
“H-hello?” Dream calls. He steps towards the shape, slowly, holding the dusty coat in front of him like an ineffective shield. “Is… is someone there?” he tries again.
No response.
Dream gets close enough to see the shape more clearly, and he doesn’t hold in his gasp of shock very well.
It’s a Monster, a large one, sitting propped up on the floor. They wear a similar long coat to the one in Dream’s hands, mostly black or near black with two bands of white crossing over the front like a giant “X” shape, but the edges of the coat are tattered and torn like it was nearly ripped apart. They have no visible arms or legs, just a torso and a head in the shape of a skull, but whatever facial features they might have had are gone. Instead their face is nothing more than a singular gaping hole about the size of Dream’s hand, no light or spark of magic within. The Monster is coated in dust, on their clothes and in streaks on the floor all around them.
But Dream knows the rules; a Monster that hasn’t fully crumbled to dust is still alive, even if this one is only just. And Dream just can’t leave someone like this.
“Hello?” Dream kneels down, wincing as his tights stain from the dust on the ground. “Can you hear me? I can help.” Dream places the white coat to the side and reaches out for what he thinks is the Monster’s shoulder. “My name is Dream. Let me help yo--”
the monster moves
dream can’t move the monster stares at him the empty hole gaping and endless boring deep into his soul and the monster shrieks with a high whine
dream can’t move he sees a tree with empty branches bark opening with eyes and eyes blinking and looking the tree moves the roots twist and open mouths with too many teeth
dream can’t move he sees colours that shouldn’t exist and shapes that make no sense and vast space with walls on both sides and the shadow of something looming over all
dream can’t move he sees an underground ruin tunnels that run like fleeing rats deeper and deeper and deeper still darkness all around until he sees
a glow
NOT THE FIRST NOT THE LAST
a dream
A STORY TOLD OVER AND OVER
a dream
FIND THE TOMB AND TOUCH THE SPACE BETWEEN
he is dream
h̵͈̾̄̂̉̊̽͂̑͋͝e̶͓̼̠̖͕̠͈͍̫̘͎̅͊͊̉͊͆̅͐͘̕͠͠ ̷̡̳̠̙͉̺̣̪̯̬͕͔͒̓̑̾̈̚̚͜͝͠į̶̛̬̘̞͚͕̜̫̱̮̰͉͌͐͋̎̈́̉̃̇̿̎͘s̷̨͉͈̭̤̈́̔̽̀̿͒̀̉̄̋̃̅ ̴̧̡̫̻̹̤̰͓̔̌̌̎̓̀̄̈̈̊͒͑̓͘d̴͓͎̤̪̭̬̑̂̌̒͆̾̈́̓r̷̖͈͉̮̲͚͊̌̓͆͌͛͋̈́̌͆̈́̇͐̊͝ͅe̴̢̨̠̜͚̙̞̟̘̻̪̥͔̻͗͋͒̉̓̊̾̎̏̍͊̂͜a̸̫̟̝̪̤̭̬̩̟͐̿͌͜ͅṃ̵̨̺͔͔͎͉̭̓͒͌͊͜͜͝
“Dream?”
Dream blinks. The ceiling above is mostly obscured by the skull of Ink leaning far closer than Dream is currently comfortable with.
Dream sits up, pushing Ink aside gently. He’s in the house, laying on the couch with a blanket pulled across his waist. The light outside is bright, the midday sun still high in the sky.
“Dream? You okay?” Ink’s sockets flash with a green question mark in one and a blue upside down triangle in the other. “Wow, must’a been a good nap if you didn’t hear us coming home!”
Dream blinks again. “Wha…?” His voice cracks, tired and scratchy like he hasn’t had anything to drink in days. He coughs, trying to clear the grittiness away. “Sorry, what do you mean… nap?” he asks, hesitantly.
Ink tilts his skull in confusion. “You were napping? You know, sleeping? Blueberry and I got back and we found you asleep on the couch. You haven't heard us the whole time, and we've been home for hours.”
Oh. Oh, well, that’s… mundane. Hours, huh? Dream looks at his hands. His gloves are clean, neither dirt nor dust stained. Dream scratches the back of his skull. “... Guess I was just really tired, I’m sorry about that Ink.”
Ink shakes his skull, chastising. “Don’t be! I love naps! You’re allowed to have naps whenever you want, you don’t have to have a reason for it.” Ink rests his hands on his hips and grins wide. “Next time we can have a napping party! It’s like a slumber party, except you do it in the middle of the day! It’s great!”
Dream smiles, doubting that such a thing exists, but he’s amused by Ink’s suggestion none-the-less. Then he catches sight of the splatter of purple on the front of Ink’s shirt, just under the bandoleer of vials he wears. There’s an empty vial, cracked and broken on the bottom. “Oh Ink,” Dream says, pointing to the stain, “one of your vials…”
Ink looks down, pulling on his shirt to get a better look at the stain. His sockets briefly glow purple in unison, a purple “X” and a round purple target, before he blinks and the shapes are replaced with two question marks, one yellow and upright, the other pink and upside down. “I didn’t even notice,” he says, almost confused by the sight himself. Then he shrugs flippantly. “Oh well, paint is paint, I don’t remember the last time I used that vial anyways!” Ink spins on his heel and marches towards the kitchen. “I’ll switch it out later, it’s time to make dinner and I’m starving!”
Ohh, that’s a recipe for disaster. Dream may be a novice cook because he doesn’t understand half of the tools at his disposal, but Ink has been a disaster in the short month that they’ve known each other. “Ink! Wait!” Dream hastily untangles himself from the blanket and sprints after Ink. “Would you like some he--”
He freezes in the doorway.
On the kitchen counter is a forgotten, empty mug, and a box of tea pouches, next to a copper kettle on the back element of the stove.
no matter how hard he searches, he never finds any trace of the dark grey tree
***
“... what’s with that face newbie?”
“Are you alright Cross?”
“oh fuck, you look like you just bit into a pile of--”
“I’m fine!”
“... you’re coughing.”
“... It’s just, something burned a bit, that’s all. Food probably went down wrong.”
“... are you fuckin’ saying that a skeleton can get heart burn?really? are you shittin’ me?”
“That’s enough Killer.”
“It’s fine, I’m fine… Nothing’s wrong… I’m fine.”
Chapter 29: Rage is a Doing Word
Summary:
Stretch finds himself taking part in an uncomfortable conversation in the middle of the night, as you do. Meanwhile, Killer has an interesting idea in mind for a date. One that Addison might need more than she thinks.
Chapter Tags: A lot of introspection and description of past familial abuse (physical, not sexual), some attempt at rationalization and realizing that some things can't and shouldn't be rationalized, breaking things with blunt objects.
IF I NEED TO ADD MORE TAGS PLEASE TELL ME, THIS IS A HEAVY CHAPTER IN THE SECOND PART
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
There’s something about night that has a calming effect on Stretch. Not calming enough to get regular sleep, no that’s a bridge too far. But in the quiet hours where the world goes dark and the others chase their fancies in la-la land, Stretch can just… vibe. Be. There’s no snarking or expectations. No judgment. He’s free in solitude when the lights go out.
… Which is why when Stretch slinks down the stairs for his favorite nighttime activity of zoning out in front of the television, he’s not expecting to find Melaine already sitting there. Mutt, maybe. Axe has been here on occasion too, and he’s hung out with his insomnia buddy Red more times than he can count. But Melanie?
She’s sitting on the far end, leaning her head against her hand, braced on the arm of the couch. Her legs are stretched out, crossed at the ankle, her right foot twitching up and down at a regular rhythm. She’s watching a game show, he thinks, or some kind of reality show, where contestants are tripping over one another trying to find something or other in a grocery store.
Stretch spends half a second wondering if he should leave her alone and go back to bed. Or try to anyways.
But if Melanie is having a sleepless night…
Stretch always believed that his fatal character flaw is that he’s a nosey-nose, too nosey for someone without a nose, and how many times can he think the word nose before it starts to sound weird? Six? Seven? Nose?
Nose, nose nose? Nooooooosss--
“You don’t have to stand in the corner like a creeper, you can have the couch if you want.”
Ah, busted.
Stretch plays it totally cool as he saunters around the couch, and casual as a pair of distressed jeans falls back onto the cushions with a soft huff, absolutely like he would any other time. Totally normal. Totally cool.
Mel doesn’t even turn to acknowledge him, he’s so cool.
Totally.
“I can move if you want to crash on the couch tonight,” she says quietly. Now that Stretch is closer he thinks that she’s not actually watching anything on the screen she’s staring at. And that’s a vacant look he very much recognizes. And very much one he doesn’t usually see on her.
So call him curious.
“naw, it’s alright,” Stretch dismisses, with a simple shrug. He inches himself back into the cushions, cosying in and getting nice and comfortable for the long haul. He does what she’s too polite to do and rests his feet on the coffee table, it’s not like Edge or Black’s around to yell at him for it. “so what’d we have for our entertainment tonight?”
“Supermarket Sweep.” Melaine shrugs, shaking out her hair and running a hand through it. “I just don’t understand why they don’t go to where the most expensive items are and just load the cart with everything there. Like, go to the deli counter and just go… no I’m not going to say it…”
“go ham with it?” Stretch finishes, chuckling to himself. And really, she has no room to groan about it because she set him up knowing the consequences. “so they’re not tryin’ to look for somethin’ specific?”
“Nope,” she replies, popping the ‘p’. “Just gotta get the biggest grocery bill at the end.” She sighs, with a slight hint of exasperation. “I don’t know why I always watch this stuff, I over analyze everything and just get frustrated with it. I have enough of that in my everyday life.”
No kidding. Long hours and regular mandatory overtime shifts at Ebott General because the emergency room is facing a staffing shortage would send anyone running for the hills. Stretch admires Melanie’s resolve for staying, how she works very hard to avoid the burnout that has plagued her profession. She usually doesn’t suffer sleepless nights.
Which is, again, why finding her here is so interesting.
She didn’t seem off during dinner, heck Stretch is pretty sure he remembers her turning in early for the night. And she doesn’t have a weird shift tomorrow that would skew her sleeping schedule. And…
Well, it’s no secret that she and Red are still… not fighting, but not… they’re not ‘taking a break’ or whatever polite language people use to describe a relationship that’s hit some turbulence. They’re just not talking. Right now.
Right now, Stretch is kind of thankful he’s single, because he feels second-hand awkwardness just thinking about their current little… disagreement.
Stuff like this is usually why he stays quiet and avoids everything, lest he walk onto an emotional minefield and step on hidden mine.
“... Can I ask you something?”
Yes, see, that. That is exactly the kind of thing that sends Stretch running for the hills. Because if he says the wrong thing then maybe it’ll piss her off and he likes being friends with Mel because she’s funny and smart and kind and just an all around awesome person to hang with, or maybe he’ll say something that will piss Red off and he likes being buddies with Red, who’s way more sincere and empathetic than people give him credit for, Stretch is one of the few who knows he locked himself in his room and cried for weeks after the breakup--
“Stretch?”
He nearly leaps out of his seat on instinct when he feels the light touch of her hand on his shoulder. She’s watching him carefully, concerned while he probably looks harried and a little unhinged. She pulls back to her side of the couch.
“Sorry, just… it usually isn’t good to grind your teeth that much, and I bet that’s true for skeleton Monsters.” Melanie folds her arms across her chest, fully retreating back into her little corner of cushion, eyes focused back on the television. “I’m sorry, forget about it, it’s… it’s nothing important.”
He doubts it. Stretch tries to ease himself back into a comfortable recline, fully aware of how every joint in his body is tensed like a spring ready to go. He should probably leave, it’s not like the room is going to get any less awkward between the two of them. Melanie wants to talk and Stretch very much doesn’t, it’s none of his business, he should just leave it alone…
No.
Wait.
Fuck.
Stretch sighs, he doesn’t mean to but he does, and pinches the top of his nasal aperture. This is exactly the problem. This is the problem that’s been around for years, the problem that everybody pretends isn’t there, the problem that’s very much coming back to bite them in their boney asses apparently.
There were several rules everyone agreed to ten years ago when multiverse theory was proven true and Sans and Papyrus found themselves with multiple versions of themselves stuck and without a place to go. There had to be ground rules, otherwise the whole house would erupt into chaos.
Most important, rule one: No killing anyone. No violence. Obviously more directed at the skeletons living the hard-knock life and with the LV to back themselves up.
Almost as important, rule two: No interfering between brothers. Axe and Crooks arguing? It’s nobody else’s business. Edge and Red? Definitely do not get caught between them. This, more than anything else, has been something that’s kept the peace for years and kind of made the house a close-knit little family.
The problem is, Stretch thinks that somewhere along the way, “no interfering” became “keep your skull down, everyone mind their own damn business even if someone else is crashing and burning”.
Not exactly a close-knit little family anymore, is it?
The problem is Melanie and Red are fighting and haven’t been sleeping in the same room since someone snuck in and trashed everything. The problem is that someone was another Sans, and they have more skeleton Monsters showing up from who knows where who have LV that makes Edge look like a harmless pussy cat.
The problem is everyone kind of dropped the ball when it came to Red’s breakup, and now they’re paying for it.
“mel.”
Melaine hesitates before turning her head to look at him, her expression carefully schooled to be neutral, like she’s in no-nonsense work mode. By this point the game show’s ended, the winning team screaming and jumping up and down in victory as the credits scroll along the bottom of the screen.
“... go for it,” Stretch says, nodding. “ask. anything. whatever it is. i promise i won’t bullshit you.”
If Stretch is being honest, the look of relief passing on her face is worth taking a chance on the minefield.
“I…,” she runs her hand through her hair, pulling the loose ponytail out entirely, and starts to play with the elastic, pulling it between her fingers. “... When did Red break up with her?”
Obvious question, and equally obvious why she would want to know the answer. “last september,” Stretch answers. He feels like he can go on and on about it, but something in the back of his noggin is telling him to keep it simple and to the point.
Melaine nods, stretching the band far and then letting it collapse back. “... Did Red tell you he first met me last February?” she asks without looking at him.
…
Well damn.
There’s a mine.
Stretch, well, stretches, sliding his legs forward and his shoulders back until he feels a nice pop in his lower spine and relaxes back in his chair. That’s the thing about soulmates: humans might be clueless until they spend enough time around magic, but Monsters… they know the minute they see their soulmate. And they’d certainly know if they tried to leave the area their soulmate’s in.
So Red had to have known…
And he still…?
Fuck.
Seven months is a damn long time to fight against the direction your soul’s pullin’ you in.
Especially when you’re the type who hates authority and the powers that be.
“Thought as much,” Melaine mutters, pulling Stretch out of his little thought spiral. She sighs, winding the band between her thumb and index finger, then pulling back on one side to make a tight triangle. “... Red knows this is kind of his fault. He knows. But he’s doing that thing where instead of facing the issue he’s hiding, by being unpleasant, by actually hiding whenever I try to talk to him. And the more he hides the worse this is going to get, I think.”
Melanie releases the band, sending it flying like a slingshot across the room, where it pings off the wall and falls to the floor behind the entertainment console. Stretch is sure one of the cats will find it later.
“... And it’s not just him either.”
Stretch winces, because he knows it’s true, and Melanie has every right to call them out on it.
Truthfully Melanie’s not the only one who deserves that honour.
“We literally had someone sneak into our house and trash things while we were eating dinner a week ago. Literally threatened Sans in the backyard while we were none the wiser… and everyone wants to pretend that the problem is all on her and how she’s bitter about the breakup? No one wants to maybe examine why she’s not exactly receptive to everyone suddenly bombarding her with calls after a year of no contact?” Without anything in her hands to play with, Melaine settles for pulling at a loose thread on the cuff of her sleeve. Stretch is kind of happy she’s still not looking at him, not with that twisted look of frustration in her eyes.
“I didn’t know she existed, Stretch,“ Melaine continues, not even waiting for an answer to the rhetorical questions. “No one told me Red had broken a five year relationship before he told me I was his soulmate. Not you, not Edge, not Papyrus. Not even Axe, who doesn’t really seem to care about it anyways. Certainly not Red!” She pulls the thread until it stops at a knot in the stitching, and with a quick twist yanks it right out. “It wasn’t that long ago she was just a barista at my favorite coffee shop. But no, she’s actually a big fucking deal who I guess found some other skeleton Monsters that you guys swore up and down couldn’t be here.”
“they can’t,” Stretch quickly interrupts. “i mean, as far as we knew, know, the machine’s busted. it’s in pieces downstairs, you’ve seen it. we don’t know where those other ones came from.”
“And is that why everyone’s trying to get a hold of Addison?” Melaine asks, finally turning to look at Stretch with her resting-nurse-face on. She can’t judge like he or Sans can, she’s just a human, but Stretch still shudders at the uncomfortable shiver that runs up his spine. “Is anyone trying to reach out to make amends? Or is everyone more concerned about the skeletons showing up than actually making sure Addison’s okay? Because from where I’ve been standing this whole time, that’s what it looks like.”
Stretch didn’t even have to do anything to end up on that mine. All she had to do was voice the thing that’s been unvoiced for months to trigger it and blow him to smithereens.
He is worried about Addison, he is, he honestly is and he believes that down to his very soul. He’s sure that some of the others are genuinely worried too. That the worry’s been there since the breakup. But Melaine’s right. They weren’t worried enough to call and check in before, you know, like a friend would, let alone family. Even if it couldn’t be reconciled, she at least deserved an honest conversation and a proper goodbye. Actual closure. That thing that Stretch is pretty sure no one’s gotten from this whole mess.
Stretch leans forward, resting his elbows on his legs as he rubs his tired, tired sockets with tired, tired hands. He doesn’t answer, figuring his reaction is an answer enough. It’s too late in the night for deep conversations like this… or maybe it’s too early? What time is it anyways? Doesn’t matter, it’s too whatever-the-fuck o-clock to have his actions and motivations run through the wringer. Or maybe it’s the perfect time, with looser lips and less of a reaction to flee and all that.
… What’s the skeletal equivalent to loose lips? Flappy teeth?
Uhg, he’s gotta stop.
“so what do we do?” Stretch asks. He’s pretty sure he actually sounds tired now. “addison’s… she might not know the kind of folk she’s hanging around with. it’s really not my story to tell, really, but i actually think edgelord is right and she’s being manipulated somehow. she wouldn’t know…”
Melaine’s stern face dissolves as her shoulders sag, replaced by an openly empathetic look. “Harassing her isn’t the answer,” she says, pointing out the obvious. “You can’t just call her out of the blue and tell her who she can’t associate with. She’s a grown woman, capable of making her own decisions.”
Stretch shakes his head. For as much as Melaine can pick up on subtly and subtext, for as much as she understands and is accepting of why half the house have ample LV… to get to the level the skeleton at the park had…
To even get near the level of the one who nearly turned Sans into a sad pile of dust…
“you don’t understand,” Stretch urges. “monsters like that… all they know is violence, all they know is how to hurt. all they want is to hurt, to get more lv. addison’s not going to see it coming, she… she’s small and meek, like she’s so scared of confrontation she ran away from edge when he tried to talk to her. she can’t stand her ground. she can’t fight back.” Stretch lifts his skull from his hands and levels Melaine with a sad, forgone look.
“she doesn’t stand a chance.”
***
“You know, your text had me thinking that we were going to do a ‘b an’ e’.”
“... A what?”
“oh come on, it wasn’t that suspicious!”
You roll your eyes and fish your still shiny, new untraceable phone out of your hoodie pocket. Tapping open the messenger window, you hold it up for Cross to get a good look at what was sent just an hour earlier before you even got home from work.
grunge isn’t dead: get ready
grunge isn’t dead: were gonna do a thing
grunge isn’t dead: wear comfy stuff
grunge isn’t dead: black
grunge isn’t dead: inconspikus
grunge isn’t dead: inconspikuos
grunge isn’t dead: spic
grunge isn’t dead: fuk
grunge isn’t dead: it
“It’s ‘i-n-c-o-n-s-p-i-c-u-o-u-s’ by the way,” you snarkily point out, earning you an exuberant raspberry blown by Killer in response. He doesn’t need to know that you spent a good thirty minutes on the bus ride home furiously memorizing the spelling of the word.
Cross’ eyelights skim over the screen before he shrugs and hands you back your phone, which you tuck back into the pocket. “Yeah that’s pretty suspicious,” he confirms. Apparently he also got cryptic clothing instructions, because he’s actually left his massive bulky coat at home, leaving him with just his very nice black turtleneck.
“no it’s not!” Killer waves his hand dismissively, as if that’ll help make his point.
“Then why did you want me to look a second rate burglar?” you ask, gesturing to the per-request all black outfit. “All I’m missing is the beanie and domino mask.”
“... what i'm hearin' is that you have a domino mask?” Killer deflects.
“Why am I dressed like this and where are we going?”
“maybe i think you look good in black! what are you gonna do about it?”
Blush apparently. You feel your cheeks heat up just enough that Killer can’t miss it before you can turn your head away and loudly scoff to cover it up. Stupid compliments going straight to your heart.
Killer chuckles patronizingly, stepping up and throwing his arms around your shoulders. “come on, addy-pouty, i just want you to be comfy and have some fun tonight,” he soothes. You roll your eyes and glance away with a full put-on hard-to-get look. You hear Cross snickering behind the two of you. “i got a real nice evenin’ activity, i promise i ain’t makin’ you break laws or whatever you’re worried about. honest. a totally legal and legit activity.”
“You still haven’t said what it is, or where we’re going,” you point out.
“Uh, he told me,” Cross admits. “Sort of. Told me where it is at least. Which is weird because it’s… well it’s here, in your universe.”
“Wait, really?” As far as you knew, the entirety of Killer’s experience with your universe adds up to just the boundary of your apartment walls. He doesn’t go out when he visits, certainly hasn’t made his presence known at the cafe. His socket gets twitchy thinking about being near humans he doesn’t know, so what is this place that he wants to go to all of a sudden?
“It’s a place called, I think 'Crash and Smash',” Cross explains, then shrugs. “I have no idea what that could be though.”
“guess you’ll both just have’ta find out, now won’t you?” Killer teases playfully. He stretches out his arm towards Cross, holding his hand palm up and curling his fingers all inviting like a venus fly trap. “come on handsome, let’s go take addy for some crashing and smashing.”
“I’m still not convinced that this isn’t a euphemism for breaking and entering,” you retort as Killer pulls the three of you through a shortcut…
You instantly find yourselves standing on the sidewalk outside of a large, almost warehouse looking building, part of a long line of strip mall kind of businesses. You see a barbershop at the end, with the little spinning red,white and blue candy cane-like sign, and next to that an Asian mom-and-pop style restaurant, Vietnamese you think, based on the lettering. There’s an adult movie shop, with windows covered for the privacy of the patrons looking for their porn, and then a spa and massage parlor, also with windows covered for privacy.
And then there’s Crash and Smash, with an otherwise plain front, save for the brightly lit neon sign, where the letter “a” in all words look like they’re exploding.
You wonder if covered windows are just the norm in this part of town.
And then you realize that you’re standing outside without a coat in the middle of winter.
“Ffffuck!” You quickly wrap your arms around yourself, already shaking and shivering as you start to hop from one foot to another, your sneakers doing a poor job of insulation. “Why didn’t you say we were going outside?!” Cross is immediately on you, also wrapping his arms around you trying to use his bulk to stave off the cold.
“cause we’re only gonna be out here for a sec, come on.”
Killer pushes you towards the door. He yanks it open, the metal hinges creaking and a little happy chime sounding as he ushers both of you inside, the door slamming shut from the wind as soon as he steps through the threshold and lets go.
Inside is thankfully warmer, but still looks more like a warehouse than anything. The walls are plain sheets of drywall, with no sign or plaster or paint to make them look nicer. The floor is dark grey concrete, with a few pock marks here and there. In front of you is a high desk, or at least several sheets and chunks of wood thrown together in the shape of a desk, with one bored looking college-aged kid sitting at it. He doesn’t even glance up from the computer he’s staring at, head leaning against his hand as he watches some kind of video playing on the screen.
“Welcome to Crash and Smash,” he says, sounding every bit as bored as he looks. “The only place in Ebott where you can become the hulk and unleash your rage.”
Killer marches up to the desk like a skeleton on a mission, and it’s about this time that it clicks in your head what kind of place Crash and Smash is.
“Is this a rage room?” you ask, glancing off to the side to see a cubby shelf similar to those you remember in classrooms with different sized coveralls hanging off hooks. You didn’t think Ebott had one of these, folk seem to be more interested in escape rooms or board game cafes, stuff like that.
“What’s a rage room?” Cross asks, preferring to keep closer to you rather than Killer.
“It’s a place where you pay money to break stuff to, I dunno, work out anger and stress,” you explain. “You like, smash things, break glass, throw porcelain at the walls, stuff like that, I guess.”
“you get to beat shit up into itty-bitty little pieces,” Killer chirps, happily eager and skipping with excitement. He leans against the desk until it’s supporting more of his weight than his own feet are. “we have reservations for the v-i-p destroy and conquer package, under the name ‘killer’.”
The kid nods, kind of, some kind of head movement that could be recognized as a nod. “Yup, you sure do,” he replies flatly. He reaches down for something in a drawer next to him, pulling out a clipboard and setting it down in front of Killer. “Each of you needs to sign the liability waiver and consent forms. When you’re done, grab the equipment on the shelf around the corner behind me, the room is down the hall to the right from there.” The kid sighs, and waves his hand kind of in the right direction.
“No food or drink is allowed in the smash room,” he continues, sounding exactly like he’s just repeating a policy speech word-for-word. “No open-toe shoes, no sandals or crocs. No magic or outside weapons. Protective gear must be worn at all times. You can use the coveralls if you need them. Please return all equipment where you got them from at the end of the session. Play fighting is not allowed on the premises, cops will be called if there’s a threat of injury or violence. You have ninety minutes before you must vacate the room, though extra time can be purchased in fifteen minute increments for ten bucks.”
Killer finishes scribbling whatever on his form, and passes it to you. You quickly scan the generic looking form and sign it before handing it to Cross. Once Cross is finished, he passes the clipboard back to the kid, who just puts it back in the drawer he got it from.
“Have a happy rage,” is all he says.
And now you kind of understand why Killer picked this place. You doubt this kid’s going to even remember the fact he worked today, let alone that the three of you were here.
You find the gear easily enough, very well worn face shields and helmets, heavy gloves, and several blunt “weapons”; long pieces of rusty pipe, metal bats with logos long worn off, and a few crowbars. Killer takes a moment to carefully look over the offerings, before selecting a bat and handing it to you.
“gotta build some muscle,” he explains with a wink. It’s heavy, and you hold on both ends like you know anything about holding a bat in the first place. Killer ends up grabbing a pipe for himself and hands Cross a crowbar, and takes the lead down the hall to the smash room, which looks to be the only other room in this place given the lack of any other doors over here.
Inside is another warehouse room that could only be described as “under construction”. One wall is made of cement and brick, an outside wall probably, while the other three are covered with more unfinished drywall. Everything is littered with scuff marks, long gouges, one section of wall has a nice little hole in the shape of somebody’s fist.
And in the center is the unfortunate soon-to-be victims of destruction, a pile of various items that all probably break very well. A stack of plates, mugs, wine glasses, those little porcelain figurines that you see in every single yard sale that nobody buys, a pile of various electronics older than you are, a pair of big box speakers, and a boombox stereo are just a few of the things you identify with a glance.
Cross shuts the door and stands next to you, and probably feeling the same way based on the confused look he’s got.
Now what?
“... Soooo…”
“so? don’t everybody jump in at once, time to start smashing!” Killer grabs a plate from the pile and holds it out to you, grinning wide with excitement. “go on! take it!”
“Uhhh.” You grab the plate. It’s white with a generic floral pattern along the rim, most of the colors are gone with age. Probably also sourced from a yard sale, bland and not-unique enough to be considered sentimental or worth more than a buck.
You don’t really…
Well… it’s not like you don’t have things to be angry about. There was that whole “your ex’s family had a tracker planted in your old phone” thing, and that’s the literal least of it. But, you’re not really the type to… you get angry and burn out and cry and shut down when you’re upset. The anger part really doesn’t sustain itself for very long.
You spend a lot of conscious effort to make sure the fire doesn’t sustain itself.
You don’t really see how breaking a plate could make you feel better about… anything.
You look back and forth between Killer and Cross, then toss the plate like a frisbee to the opposite wall. It doesn’t hit very hard, and only breaks in two on impact, falling to the floor and breaking into another three pieces.
“are you serious? that was the saddest throw i’ve ever seen.” Killer grabs another plate and winds up to throw it like a baseball. “watch and learn.”
And with a gleeful “yeahwww!” he throws it with a lot more force. The plate hits the wall with a loud crack, shattering into dozens of little pieces that fall to the ground.
“that’s how it’s done!” Killer shouts, gesturing to the mark on the wall left behind from the impact. “come on! let loose addy!” He clasps his hands on your upper arms and wobbles you back and forth. “get raging and break shit! you got loads of things to be pissed about! see that speaker? think about red’s stupid face as you smash it to smithereens! those wine glasses? think of every single annoying ‘medium latte one-thirty-eight degrees only non-fat extra sugar vanilla caramel chocolate drizzle with perfect whipped cream and if it’s not perfect i’ll scream’ customer you’ve ever had and let the glass break!”
His skull twists to look at Cross, who’s still in quiet bewilderment. “and you! you definitely gotta get some aggression out! take that stick shoved up your ass and start breaking shit with it!”
“Excuse you,” Cross counters, “last I checked you had no complaints about my ass this morning.”
“it’s a fine ass and i like squeezing it. it doesn’t change the fact that you walk with your joints so tense you might as well be in a tug of war with yourself. your shoulders are so squared under pressure it makes atlas’ load look light.”
“Wow, did you just reference Greek mythology?” you interject, earning you a light bop on your face shield while you snicker.
“come on guys,” Killer sighs, dramatically and exasperatedly both. “i just want you to have some fun and do some destruction. it’ll be good for you, i promise. here.”
He goes back to the pile, scouring around for something specific, before dragging out a two foot by two foot picture ornate picture frame with a painting that looks more like random globs of acrylic that splattered on the canvas rather than 'art'. You don’t think it’s 'minimalist' as much as it’s 'accidental'.
Killer drags the frame in front of Cross. “alright criss-cross, here’s your chance! go to town on this!”
Cross looks down at the picture for a moment, then back up at Killer. “It’s, uh… You know I don’t really have a problem with art, right? Just because… you know…” He falls quiet with a shrug, glancing away to the floor.
Killer tilts his skull, and you recognize that this is one of their silent conversation moments, one where Killer’s empty sockets see every little tiny bit that you try to keep hidden and Cross tries very hard to ignore Killer’s insistent look. Then Killer’s grin widens, devilishly like he knows he’s won.
“... what if i said i stole this from the squid. special. just for you.”
You hear Cross inhale sharply, air traveling quickly through his nasal aperture, even muffled by the face shield. He taps his right boot against the concrete floor as his gaze drops to the picture again.
After a beat, he stalks forward.
“Move,” is all he says.
Killer obliges, bowing out of the way and letting the frame rest against the wall. Cross stops in front of it, feet spread slightly apart, and he brings the crowbar up over his head.
The fact that he doesn’t bring it down right away has you holding your breath like a spell, where the seconds tick by in slow motion, waiting…
Cross doesn’t scream or yell or roar in anger as he brings the crowbar down on the frame, shattering the wood to splinters and tearing the canvas with the loud rind of fabric ripping. The frame, in two pieces barely holding together at the bottom, falls forward and clatters on the ground. Cross then stomps on the back of the frame, snapping the support rods with the heel of his boot.
And while Cross’ stomps echo in the room, Killer turns to you, pleased as pie. “your turn addy,” he practically sings. “let’s find you something nice and big to break.”
Killer looks through the pile again, perusing the offerings like he’s shopping for fruit at the market. He starts to pull one of the box speakers out, presumably to drag it to a better spot for you to smash…
And then you see it.
It’s a tv.
One of those old tvs. Old, really old. Standing up on four skinny legs, a faux wood decorative panel surrounding the bubble screen that curves outwards a good inch. Two knobs on the side, one for the volume and one for the channels, and a single silver adjustable antenna on top to help with the signal.
The one at your grandmother’s house had two antennae, bunny-eared style, but otherwise looked just like this.
You weren’t allowed anywhere near it.
You don’t really feel the steps you take walking up to the tv. Killer is ignored, and the stomping behind you fades away as it’s tuned out. You kneel down. The screen is dark grey, unlit, unpowered, your reflection is just a darker silhouette in the glass. You reach for the channel knob. There’s no resistance to it anymore, and it can spin freely around and around for as long as you want to keep uselessly spinning it.
Your father has one brother and two sisters. They each married and have children, two, three and two each, some your age, some older, some younger.
Family gatherings had all the children hidden away in the basement, out of sight and out of mind, told to be quiet and to pick at whatever tasteless food the adults had graciously remembered to bring down to you all.
None of you were allowed in the tv room at grandma’s house.
Your cousin, an older boy with a tendency to lash out at anyone smaller than him if only to make him feel more brave, snuck up one day and broke the knob off the tv.
When confronted, he blamed you.
You were punished harshly, and everyone learned…
Everyone learned…
“Addy? You okay?”
You think you hear Cross walk up behind you, maybe place his hand on your shoulder. You spin the knob, around and around with your index finger.
It didn’t matter that your cousin blamed you, he would have blamed someone else. Or maybe he wouldn’t have gotten the chance to blame anyone, and would have gotten punished himself. Maybe he got punished anyways, at home and by your uncle who you know is very much like your father. You would have gotten punished anyways, for that or for something else, that day or the next.
The problem with surviving abuse is that it leaves you searching for the ‘whys’, for the trigger that started it. For the thing that could have gone another way, and had your life go down a different route.
There is no why. Only a cycle that goes round and round endlessly.
People talk about cycles a lot, when they learn what your childhood was like. Immediately plunging into the psychology of it, talking like experts who read wikipedia pages and watch daytime talk show doctors.
“Violence comes from violence,” they say, nodding to themselves like know-it-alls.
“You can’t let him win,” they say, like it’s a game you never wanted to be in.
“If you act out in anger, you’ll be just like him,” they say, as if they know.
It’s why you stopped talking about it.
You were good, for years you tried to be the best you could possibly be. Kept your head down, avoided arguments, disagreements, never complained, never yelled, packed every single bad thought in that tiny little box in the closet of your mind under a lid that could hardly stay shut anymore. Forced yourself to walk away, to be okay, never ever to lash out, and if the glass of emotions spilled over you hid away and cried in the dark corners that have always meant safety to you.
Safety from you.
Because what if they’re right, and you’re just like him?
The knob spins round and round.
“Growing up in an abusive household taught you…”
What? What lesson did it teach you? You knew right from wrong before your father first slapped you across the face. You knew right from wrong before your mother started to spit out bitter words of hatred directed at you. You knew right from wrong before every institution that was supposed to protect you failed because you had the poor luck to be born in a small town where nobody cared.
What lesson did you learn?
All you learned was to hide when voices rise and the shouting starts. All you learned was that dark corners were the safest places where you could be ignored. All you learned was to expect the worst after everyone who said they cared shattered your trust and your heart. All you learned was that being good meant being quiet, meant accepting everything that happens with a shrug and a plastered smile. Being good meant being perfect, the perfect victim not allowed to misstep once less you be labelled as “just like your father”. Saying you were taught a lesson implies that all the times your father punched you in the stomach or whipped you across the back with his belt were somehow necessary to your development. That you only understand right from wrong because of it. That… that…
Your fingers tighten around the knob, and with a quick jerk you yank the knob out of its socket.
All you’ve learned is that society would rather you not see your father’s head in this television.
You rise, shaking off Cross’ hand. You grip the bat with both hands and lift it high above your head.
And with a frustrated scream you bring it down.
The antenna bends, snapping off the top of the frame as the bat crushes through the chassis. The glass shatters, lands and scatters on the ground, ringing against the concrete like chimes and the high peal of hundreds of small bells. The frame buckles, two legs pop off, spinning and skittering away as the bat mangles the inner circuits and aged tubes and comes to a stop with an echoing crack as it hits the concrete floor, ringing with a definite, defiant, note.
And the room is suddenly silent, the only sound is your heavy panting, muffled and distorted strategy by the face shield, like you’re standing on the surface of an alien world. Your arms feel taught, they’ll probably hurt in the morning.
You don’t regret a thing.
“addy?”
You look up. Killer looks at you, his normally mirthful expression neutral and observant, the same look that sees more behind the mask people wear to keep themselves safe.
But you don’t have a mask right now.
You grin, wide and toothy, still panting. “Wanna throw some plates and see if I can hit them?” you suggest, already excited at the idea.
Killer blinks. You can’t tell behind the shield, but you think the liquid that flows from his sockets looks thinner than normal, like there’s less of it. Then his grin stretches to match yours, happy and not hampered in the slightest by the piece of plastic in front of it. “thought you’d never ask, sweet soul.”
It turns out, you suck at baseball. You only hit maybe one plate, just barely, catching it on the edge of the bat and sending it flipping over and over as it loses forward momentum and crashes on the ground. It doesn’t matter, you laugh about it anyways. Cross does better, catching every plate Killer throws neatly with the crowbar and knocking them to the walls, right and left.
You and Killer crush the box speakers, beating them over and over into smaller and smaller heaps of broken materials. The stereo holds up a little bit better under Cross’ swings, maybe evidence that old things were made better. He works at it with precision, eventually rendering it down to pieces of twisted metal and shards of plastic while Killer improvises a custom cover to “Video Killed the Radio Star”.
The three of you throw the glasses against the wall, and you imagine each another stupid bug like what Dust destoryed in a similar manner. Killer gives each porcelain figurine a name and a backstory, before you did the honor of bringing the bat down on them.
Ninety minutes pass quickly. In the end, the best you can describe the wreckage remaining is just that: wreckage. Carnage. Destruction.
It felt good.
And the funny thing is… you’re pretty sure you haven’t forgotten right from wrong. Letting your anger out of the cage you keep it in hasn’t changed you, hasn’t made you suddenly like your father. You think maybe it’s the opposite. Because you’re angry and instead of using that anger to hurt an innocent party, you’ve allowed yourself to vent and rage in a manner that doesn’t hurt and won’t bring hurt to anyone, yourself included. What normally stays locked away to churn and boil under pressure has been expelled, the energy that you never know what to do with drained.
You’re tired, you’re spent, and you think you’re going to sleep a little longer in the morning.
And you feel so much lighter, the box of shoved away emotions empty. Dealt with.
You can be angry. You can be sad. Happy, scared, curious, excited, you’re allowed to have those emotions and you’re allowed to work through them. Maybe this is a way that works for you. It doesn’t make you any less of a good person.
There’s a hand on your shoulder. Cross looks at you with a small grin that suggests he found this as cathartic as you did. He gives a comforting squeeze, grounding and assuring. You go for more, and dart forward to wrap your sore arms around his chest, hugging him so tight. You see Killer out of the corner of your eye, equally deserving of a crushing hug so you swipe your hand to grab his hoodie, pulling him in too. You end up sandwiched between the two of them, a tight knit ball of beating heart and beating souls, smiles and soft affection. Nowhere else you’d rather be.
“You doing okay Addy?” Cross whispers warmly.
And for the first time in a long, long while, you think you can give the default answer honestly.
“Yeah, yeah I am. I’m really okay.”
Notes:
This chapter's been rewritten twice because Melanie decided to go fucking *off*
@feallangilyvor on tumblr and twitter
EDIT PLEASE READ: Hey guys, I know this chapter is dealing with some heavy topics and will probably trigger some responses/emotions/etc. That's okay, those are valid, you are valid for having those feelings. However, please please please I ask that you don't (for lack of a better term) trauma dump with explicit details about it in the comments section. I put warnings in the tags and at the beginning of each chapter so that people are aware ahead of time what they're about to read, but comments don't have those warnings and you don't know who's going to come across them unprepared. It's one thing for me to get the notification emails with those full comments and have my anxiety spike. It's another entirely when a another reader checks out the comments not expecting to find triggering content. The comment section is not therapy, it is not a replacement for therapy.
Please, I just ask that you think before you post, and that you consider other readers. Please be kind to one another, please. Thank you.
Chapter 30: The Multiverse Lesson
Summary:
Addison has a request that only Nightmare’s library can fulfill, and Nightmare takes the opportunity to teach her a lesson or three about the Multiverse.
Chapter Tags: Paranoia, existential questions, Nightmare gets a little scary towards the end.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
When the idea came to you, it nagged at you. Consumed you.
It was all you could think about every conscious second of thought.
The innocuous comment overheard at work had one idea leading to another for the rest of the day, and the following day, and the following day, until the weekend arrived and you had to do something. With a packed backpack and ample food and water left for Trixy - who will probably only eat half the offering and be yeowling for food when you get back - you’re whisked to Nightmare’s castle for another sleepover with your boys.
The thought never leaves you.
So the first thing you do after dumping your things in Dust’s room and saying hello to Horror, Cross and Killer, is march through the twisting halls until you come to the ornate double doors that lead to Nightmare’s office. You knock three times, because you’re not Killer, and then twist the handle and open the door instead of waiting for a response. Because you’re not Cross either.
Nightmare is sitting at his desk, silver fountain pen in hand and jotting down something in a thick hardcover book. His turquoise eyelight flicks up to track you as you walk in and approach the desk with purpose, and you can see the slight quirk of a smirk that emboldens you even more.
“Hello Addison dear,” he greets, almost teasingly because he can tell you’re after something and he wants to play along. Is something the matter? I was just finishing my work up here.”
“Hello Nightmare,” you answer, responding pleasantly in kind. “Nothing’s wrong, bbuuutttt…” You stop in front of the desk and lean down, resting both palms down on the wood surface and leaning forward towards him. You’re barely the taller one in this position, but knowing that Nightmare is in a good enough mood to maybe help you with your quandary makes you feel a bit powerful and you can’t help but smirk. “I need a favour.”
Nightmare tilts his skull, considering. “A favour?”
“I need a book.”
There’s a pregnant pause. Nightmare sets his pen down on the desk, perfectly vertically straight on the surface. He closes the book with care, the dark grey cover bearing no title or marking except for a silver embossed pattern of a crescent moon. Nightmare opens a drawer and places the book inside, then shutting it with a faint click as if the drawer became locked afterwards. He turns his attention back to you, folding his hands together, resting his elbows on the desk and his chin on his knuckles.
“A book? What sort of book are you looking for? I’m under the impression that libraries exist in your universe,” he teases.
“Yes, but the book I’m looking for does not,” you counter coily.
“Ah,” Nightmare sighs, leaning back in his chair but keeping his phalanges interlocked and resting on his chest like a mob boss. “Then I suppose I might be able to help with that. Though you will have to be more specific. As you know, I have access to many books that likely don’t exist in your universe.”
You lean further in, as if about to whisper something secret. “... I’m wondering if there’s a Good Omens sequel written by the original authors,” you explain, slightly hushed but very excited. “The one guy is dead in my universe. Apparently there were plans but the two writers couldn’t co-ordinate time to actually write it since they had their own stuff to deal with.”
After that first magical visit to Nightmare’s library that reinforced the idea that you’re allowed to read whatever you want now, and no one’s going to stop you anymore, you signed up for an Ebott City Public Library card. The fact that the idea never dawned on you before then just goes to show how deeply entrenched you were in the memories of your past. You’re not going to let that rule your life anymore, not without a fight.
You practically devoured every book you borrowed, reading during those long bus rides, those no-where-near-long-enough breaks at work, those days when you felt like doing nothing and just curled up in bed with the cat and another book.
You discovered things about yourself you never had the chance to learn. You learned what kinds of genres you preferred, what kind of stories, what kind of characters you admired and which ones you would probably punch if you met them in real life. You dove into history and autobiographies about people you probably learned about in school, but for some reason now feels a lot more compelling.
You had a list of books you needed to read, one of those ‘Top 100 Books to Read Before You Die’ kind of lists. Good Omens had been high up there, and had been quite funny and enjoyable. But that was that, a one and done, single-book story with a satisfying enough closure to move on to the next book.
Until you overheard some co-workers talking about the TV adaptation, and how a second novel was supposed to happen, were it not for the conflicting schedules of the two authors and then ultimately the untimely death of one of them.
And you got to thinking… it never got written in your universe…
But maybe it got written in another?
Nightmare makes a curious humming noise, tapping his chin with the side of his phalange. “Hmmm, fantasy fiction, comedic prose, I’m familiar with the original. Now… is there a sequel? I wonder…”
“You already know if you have it!” you exclaim, recognizing his uncertainty as false.
“Of course I know if I have it or not,” Nightmare chuckles. He rises from his seat, brushing down the front of his coat that’s just as goopy as the rest of him as he walks around the desk and up to your side. “But would you deny me a little fun in the meantime?” He holds his arm out in silent offering. You do him the favour of ignoring the small specks of cat hair, courtesy of Cheeseburger, still speckled and caught in the goop on his pants.
“Uhhhggg, I guess not,” you answer with an exaggerated sigh. You slide your arm under his and hook your elbows together. “Lead the way sir.”
“As you wish.”
You and Nightmare do not walk back down the halls towards the library, Nightmare simply opens one of his black and smoky portals of darkness right there and leads you through. The chill that shoots through every part of your body only lasts a second before the two of you step out into the main foyer of Nightmare’s grand personal library.
The portal is dismissed behind you, and Nightmare pulls away towards one of the tall two storey shelves on the left in the main part of the room. He looks up and down the shelf, scanning the spines in rapid fashion. “If I have the book, it will be in one of two places: here, in the ‘To Be Organized’ section. Or in the collaborative works section.”
“You don’t organize by universe or origin?” you ask. You walk over to another shelf and read some of the titles. There are ones you recognize, as expected, some in different languages but you at least recognize those as languages that exist in your universe. One one with shapes for a title confuses you, as does the one with spirals and swirls that seems to have something like dark smoke wafting off of it. Maybe best not to touch that one.
“That would take up more than double the space I currently have allotted,” Nightmare remarks. “The multiverse is infinite, it’s one thing to expand a section once the books are overflowing, it's another entirely to add a whole new one for every universe I encounter. Author and genre are still the most efficient sorting methods.”
You shrug. The alcove off to the side catches your eye. You lightly step into the smaller rotunda, the one with the multiverse map covering on the wall. You think it’s gotten bigger since the last time you saw it, maybe a bit more detailed too. It takes a bit of time, but you find the spot that was pointed out to you the very first time, the small bubble no bigger than the width of your palm that represents your entire universe. Your index finger skims over the word ‘PROTECT’, along the oval that contains everything you’ve ever known.
Ten lines are drawn out from the bubble, travelling out in all directions, indicators of ‘links’ or ‘paths’ between your universe and another that Nightmare and the boys can utilize to travel all over. Eight more lines are represented by thin white strings pinned to the wall by thumb pins at both ends, something you know means a possible, but not yet proven link.
Your fingers run along the wall as you step along the curve of the room, looking at other bubbles, other universes, more than you can even count if you were to sit and devote time to it. You’re not sure how he keeps track of all of them, the only reason you know yours is because Dust pointed it out. Otherwise it would be lost, a bubble among thousands of bubbles. Millions.
Infinite.
A most of dust, small and insignificant.
There must be hundreds of you. Maybe thousands. Ones that had happier lives. Ones that had worse. Ones that were helped. Ones that never had the courage to leave home. Maybe there’s one who got to stay with Red.
You don’t like thinking about that.
So what does it mean for you, to be the one who gets to stand here, taking in the bird’s eye view of the multiverse as if you stand outside of it? What does it mean to be the one who stands in the presence of a being of which there is only one?
What does it mean that you are the one fleck of dust that is noticed?
“Addison?”
You twist around to see Nightmare in the doorway, one hand in his coat pocket, the other holding a small paperback book. He watches you curiously, the playful mirth replaced with careful consideration.
“Oh, sorry! I uh, well…” You scratch the back of your head sheepishly, caught like a child in a room you feel like you shouldn’t be in. Even though there’s no door. Even though you’ve been allowed in every part of the castle anyways. “I got distracted by… well, you know, that,” you say, gesturing to the wall.
Nightmare tilts his skull, but then his smile returns and he starts to chuckle quietly. He walks up and stands next to you, facing the wall of his creation. “Yes, well, I suppose it does tend to draw the eye, doesn’t it?”
“It’s big,” you blurt out intelligently, a word that describes and doesn’t describe enough.
Nightmare’s brow quirks up. “Yes, it is. Getting bigger every day.”
It speaks to the magnitude of your awe that you don’t even think to respond with a ‘she said’ joke. Somewhere in the castle Killer would be mourning the missed opportunity. “How do you… how…?” You struggle with what you’re trying to ask, an idea that feels as large and abstract as the idea the wall is depicting. “How do you even learn about… all this? Like, did you always know? Or were you told, or…?”
Nightmare makes a quiet humming sound, and turns his skull to look at the map, leaving you standing on his blind side. After a moment, you feel one of the tentacles slither and curl loosely around your wrist, cool but not wet, like a soft gel ice pack. “... Curiosity,” Nightmare answers. “When I was younger we were taught about different universes. Different worlds, different peoples. My brother… Dream had no desire to see what lay beyond our little corner… but I imagined so much more outside the borders of our world… I suppose it was our mother’s fault for teaching us there was an outside in the first place.”
Nightmare looks back at you, his eyelight half crescent and glowing with less intensity than before. “You start with a question. For me it was ‘what else is out there?’. For you, it’s ‘does this book exist?’.” Nightmare holds out the book in his hand, a slightly worn paperback with no visible title but two very familiar names printed on the cover. “And you follow the path the answer takes you.”
You take the book, flipping through the pages, feeling that it’s about as long as the original book. For as normal as it looks, minus the lack of title, it’s hard to wrap your head around the fact that you are holding something that doesn’t exist where you’re from.
“Penny for your thoughts?”
“It’s just hard to… I mean it shouldn’t be, I’ve been dating you after all, and alternate versions of the same guy for like the past eight months. And, and even before that… like honestly learning that all of Sans’ and Papyrus’ ‘identical cousins’ were actually alternate versions of them made way more sense, so… I don’t know why I’m having a hard time understanding what I already know when I look at this… salad.”
“... Salad?”
“It’s like a tossed salad,” you say, waving your hand at the wall in a circular motion like that somehow means ‘tossed salad’. “It’s circles and lines and words thrown down all scattered randomly like a, a word salad. And this is the whole multiverse!”
“That is the strangest simile I've ever heard," Nightmare muses. "This is not the whole multiverse, just what I’ve discovered of it so far. Here, let me see if I can help explain things a little more. You wouldn't be the first I’ve had to teach this to.”
Nightmare steps up closer to the wall. The tentacle stays wrapped around your wrist. Nightmare points to one of the bubbles. It has the word ‘War’ in the centre of it, with ‘Stable’ , ‘Classic-Adjacent’ , ‘Locked’ and ‘Rupture’ underneath.
“Now, as you know, this is a universe,” he starts. “An entire universe, from the largest galaxy down to the smallest particle of magic or matter. You’re people may refer to it as ‘reality’, a better term for it might be ‘physical space’. It’s anything that is something, as you or I know it.”
Nightmare points to another bubble above the first. This one is labelled ‘Fae’ , with ‘Soulmate - Mark’ , ‘No Humans’ , and ‘Ink Ally’ underneath.
“This is another universe. This one might be different in a small way, nearly imperceptible, or it could be very different in obvious ways. Now, these two universes are both self contained, with no knowledge of the other’s existence, or any means of reaching out and making contact.”
“What about something like, the accident that brought Red, Edge and all the rest to my universe?” you ask.
“Just that. An accident. The unlikeliest outcome out of a series of unlikely outcomes, a fluke of a machine created by a soul who had no ideas of the forces he was toying with. Your universe stood a better chance of imploding on itself than opening an artificial bridge long enough to bring living Monsters over unscathed.”
Oh, well that thought’s going to give you bad dreams for months to come. It must have shown on your face because you feel the tentacle tighten in comfort. “It’s important to not dwell on the ‘what ifs’ Addison,” Nightmare soothes. “You will go mad thinking about it.”
Right, yes, you can do that. You very much want to move away from the notion that your whole universe could have been destroyed when Sans flipped the switch without you feeling it or knowing why. “... So… ahem, so what’s this place then? Is this your old home, or something else?”
“Ah, no, not quite. This place was created from the remnants of other universes, a small pocket universe that would not be able to sustain itself if it were a larger universe like these.” A tentacle reaches out and points to a bubble, smaller than the rest, off on the right side with no words in it but dozens of lines spreading out from it. Another slides along the floor and points out a similar sized bubble on the left, this time with the word ‘Doodlespehre’ in it. The lines from it are all made of thread. “These are fixed points in the multiverse. Places that will never change, ever. While normal universes grow and expand, become full and then buckle under their own weight before collapsing entirely, these pockets stay still.”
For a moment you think he’s telling you there are only two such places - and you honestly wonder what a place with the name ‘Doodlesphere’ even is - but you glance up and spy another small bubble, with one single line drawn out from it, and the word ‘Linden’ contained within the sphere.
“Universes collapsing is a natural occurrence in the multiverse” Nightmare continues, unknowingly interrupting the question you were about to ask. “Your physicists believe that something cannot come from nothing, and that matter and energy must always go somewhere else, even if it just changes form.” Nightmare moves one of the tentacles, pointing to a bubble near the bottom that you hadn’t noticed, another small one simply titled ‘Anti-Void’.
“There is a being called a ‘Destroyer’, and he does exactly what his title implies to universes. But that matter, that essence from destroyed universes goes somewhere. It feeds others, creates whole new ones. And the cycle continues.”
“Okay… I think I understand that part.” Even as you say that you doubt yourself, but continue to reason out loud anyways. “So, he destroys universes on their last leg, ones that have gotten too big like you said, and that makes new ones. So it’s like… what scientists think the Big Bang did?”
“Not quite,” Nightmare answers, shaking his skull. “Not just dying universes. Sometimes he destroys young ones, ones that are mid-way through their lives. Sometimes they are already damaged and fragmented, sometimes the picture of health. Admittedly this is not an area I’m knowledgeable in, trying to convince Error to explain his process and reasoning is like trying to wring blood from stone.”
The fact that the Destroyer has a name surprises you, but you suppose Nightmare has a name and a title himself as well, and… wait, Error? Why is that a familiar name, where have you heard it before? You bite your bottom lip in thought. “... Didn’t… didn’t Killer say something about Error and… poker night? Movie night? Something…? Do you guys regularly hang out with him? Just hang out with the Destroyer of Universes?”
Nightmare laughs. “I had forgotten. It was poker night, and you just reminded me that Error is not as adept at card games as he thinks he is. Dust may have taken advantage of that.” Points for Dust you guess for being able to sit down with an eldritch Destroyer of Universes and giving him a run for his gold. “Yes, we do have dealings with one another regularly, a dying universe is an ample source of negativity for me, regardless of whether it’s a natural death or otherwise.”
“Okay, noted.” You have a weird thought about the chances of running into this Error and decide that you’d rather not, at least not in the near future. “So is the ‘Anti-Void’ there where it all ends up?”
“The Anti-Void is where Error resides, another pocket universe like this one. Although comparing it to this place is disingenuous, and trust me when I say you would rather not end up there."
“So how many of them are there, the pockets? Did you guys make them? Or were they here already and you just found the real estate?”
“Hmm, there are many, and they came to exist for various reasons. None of us created these places, but some of them came into existence for our purposes. There is no conscious mechanism… but there is a distinction between them.” Nightmare gaze moves along the wall before it stops. You try to follow it, and spy a bubble about the size of the normal universes, but lacking all of the identifiers that the others have. The words ‘White Void’ are written within, small, as if they once had to make room for other words in the otherwise empty bubble.
“Some fixed points are called ‘Lode Points’,” he continues, and to your ears his tone has changed to something more despondent. “These are universes that have hit a dead end, and unlike places such as the castle or the Anti-Void, new universes spring up directly from here.”
Nightmare steps close enough to the wall to reach out and touch the bubble. You hear his phalanges scrape over the surface, skimming the words, before tracing the lines that were drawn from it. The ink they’re drawn with glows and floats off the wall into the air, then disappears, as if small embers blown away by wind. Only one line remains, and you can see it leads all the way to the Anti-Void. “They are random. There is no mechanism for a universe to become a lode point, no common trigger. It just… becomes one in the span of a blink. And there’s nothing anyone can do to change it.”
Even facing away from you, his voice alone is a giveaway that he likely has that faraway look in his eyelight, the one you’ve come to recognize when he talks about something that hits too close to home. You coax the tip of the tentacle wrapped around your wrist into your hand and squeeze it, trying to give the same comfort that he tries to give you.
Nightmare coughs, clearing a throat he doesn’t have and signalling his desire to move on from the pause. “That was rune magic by the way,” he states in a noticeably deeper voice. “A rare magic form, useful for mapping out something that can change on a whim. I wouldn’t want to mark my walls with a pen like a toddler after all.”
“No, of course not. That’s cool.” You’re familiar with types of magic about as much as physics, so you just tuck that tidbit in your mind for future investigation later. “So if there’s an Anti-Void and a, well, that other place… is there an actual void or something?”
He nods. “Yes, though it works a bit differently.” Nightmare waves his hand over the map, pointing to the gaps in between universe bubbles. “Universes are separated, and the Void is what keeps them so. If you think of a universe as physical, then the Void is the opposite of that.”
“Oh! Like antimatter, right? Or dark matter, whatever they’re calling it now.” Every now and then a science headline catches your eye and it’s written in enough layman’s vocabulary that you can keep up with most of the big scientific breakthroughs and endeavours. Dinosaurs had feathers, the hunt for Planet X, the test shuttle to Mars with the hybrid magic engine, you’re able to keep up with stuff like that.
“I suppose that’s a good analogy, although I suspect your scientists are looking for something different from the Void. You’ve likely felt the Void, when Dust uses his shortcuts to bring you here. Or when Killer shortcuts you for a romantic date under the stars perhaps?”
You snort. Of course Killer would kiss and tell. And you think you remember the sensation - the empty, cold endless darkness you only saw for half a breath before you found yourself in another universe proper during the jumps. And while the map still looks like a scattered mess of word salad you at least have a better understanding of what you’re looking at, it’s probably less of a physical location map and more just abstract because how can you possibly…
Wait… hold on.
When you were dating Red, he used to take you through shortcuts all the time. His were less disorienting for sure, but you remember when he took you through a shortcut you would see something like a brief moment of darkness - nothing longer than a blink - before the two of you stepped to your destination, be it work or home or the doctor’s office or…
Things in your universe. From your universe, to your universe.
So how did you ever see something that only exists between universes?
“Umm, maybe this a stupid question and I’m just not understanding how a shortcut works…”
“There is no such thing.”
“If shortcuts go through the void, then how can Sans, and Red and, and any of them shortcut? I thought Dust and Killer were special or something, like they knew you and can travel between universes because of it. That makes sense. But if it’s the same thing that Red used to do to take me home after work, how were we traveling through the Void?”
You run your hand through your hair, scratching at your hairline as one question leads to another in your head. Nightmare turns to face you, but you just continue voicing your thoughts out loud. “Is it like, we’re jumping into the Void for a second only to come back to our destination? But what’s stopping them from just shortcutting back to their home universes? They know the multiverse exists now so why don’t they try to map it like you do? What is it that sets Dust and Killer apart? And Cross! What’s the freaky thing he does with his red sword and the noise and the weird feeling like all my senses are scrambled? Like I hate that one more than anything because my skin feels weird and it’s like I shouldn’t be there at all. But his portals are direct and I don’t think go through the Void, not like yours, and--”
“Mine don’t go through the Void.”
You stop immediately. Nightmare is looking at you, frowning, but as you look back at him in confusion you see that his eyelight is dim, almost a dark green instead of the bright turquoise, and it’s not really focused on you at all. More like he’s staring into the middle distance, or somewhere past you. His phalanges curl into fists and he turns back to the wall, resting the side of his right fist on its surface.
“If she can see the discrepancies too then there has to be more to it. Then why haven’t I found it yet?” Nightmare asks, and you know he’s not really asking you, just talking out loud as you had moments before. “If this is where the Void exists, then how can Cross travel to other universes without interacting with it at all? How can I? My abilities come from the corruption of the apples, but it was already in the apples before I consumed them, long before. And if it was in the apples, then it was in the tree that bore the fruit. How did the tree become infected?”
“... Night?”
Nightmare’s tentacles start to twitch erratically, as if stimulated by electrical shocks. You feel the one on your wrist squeeze and relax sporadically, and you start to question whether Nightmare is aware of their alien-like movements.
“What’s in me is not of the Void, it’s something else. Something that nags and teases but hangs just beyond my reach… There’s a wall, always a wall preventing me from going further. The Void exists because there must be an equal, there must be an opposite. If the Void is endless, why does the multiverse feel finite? Why do I find paths with an end? Why do I hit these walls?” Nightmare smacks the wall with the side of his fist as he speaks. The tentacles rise in the air, jerking and spasming about, going faster as his speech picks up speed. The ooze on his body seems to shift, and change, rising with little spikes like the fur of a distressed cat, or hairs just before the impending lighting strike.
Your skin crawls with the feeling of breath on the back of your neck. The feeling of being perceived all the way through. The static of imagined whispers just below your audible range.
“I can find hundreds of Dusts,” Nightmare hisses with audible frustration. “Hundreds of Killers. But there should be infinite. Every choice, every action, should have another universe spawn, no? Why so few? Why no Cross? Why in all my travels have I not found another Cross? Another Sans before he became Cross? Why have I not found a Papyrus destined for the same role?”
Something painful pinches
the T̸̢̨͖̥̦̭͉͈̭̖̈́͆̈́̑̒̍Ř̸̦͉̮̪̞̺̂̿̔̈́̅̉̾͐̈́̀͑͘͜͝U̶̠̣͕͓̙̠̩͇̯͈̯̮̜͐̓͗N̷̢̪̠̟͔͊̂̈́̒́̀͑̃K̶̨̢̛̞̫̬̺̜̹̗̩̜̖͈͚̝̉̔̓̿͘͝ͅ is a wall that stretches end to end across the horizon
in the back of your mind.
“The Void is empty space, but why does it feel like a place? Why does it feel as if half the picture is missing? No, not missing. Kept from me.” Nightmare takes a step back and spreads his arms before the map of his creation. “What’s the point in mapping the multiverse if it constantly changes?” he scoffs rhetorically. “That’s what you always told me, Mother. There was no point in looking beyond our borders because we couldn’t know. But couldn’t or shouldn’t Mother, which is it? This can’t be all there is because it defies everything you taught us! Were you wrong? Or did you lie to us? To protect us? Or to hinder?”
Like a headache
the B̷̺͂̿̂̔̃̌̓̀͒̎̍̊̒͊̂̑̏͠͝͝͠Ŗ̷̡̢̳̗͉͔̫̲̥̘͉͔̤͇̜͚̺͎̰͉̬͖̤̽̌͌̋̀̆̆̏̊͂͘̕̚͜͜͝͝͝͠͝A̸̺̟̍́̍̀̽̓̍̒̍̽͆̂͑̃͌̎͗͘͘͘͝N̸̹̮̰͉̱̥̤̦̘̱̥̻̞̭͇͓̳̟͎͓̮̺̄̈́̂̿̀͒̃̅̐̊̉͊̾͑͘Ç̶̹̙̭̺̦͍̬̲͙͙͎̭͚͕̣̦͈̝̼͙͖̼̈́̆̑͂̑͛̇̔̈̀͜͝͝H̸̱̭̙͉̰̙̙̲̪͈͎̭͇̖̀̃̀͛̄̈̇̀͌͊̉̀̀̽́͗̕͜͠E̴̡̛̞͉̝̝̱̱̗͕̺̮̲̪͎̮̱̖̹̟̣̖̫̔̈́͗͗̓͂͑̀͛̏̄́̓̀͆͛̃͘̕͜͝͝͝ͅS̶̻̯͓̟̳̭̮̺͚͓̦̱̲̥̞͚̰̳̣̰̭̘̓̈́͗͑ spider upwards and outwards forever growing constantly
from a forgotten dream.
“Nightmare--”
Nightmare laughs, a desperate, despondent laugh that echoes in the chamber. A haze starts to waft off his body, the room darkens as his agitated outline starts to blur with the surroundings. “I made this map because I realized nothing I discovered made sense! You think I wouldn’t notice that there were things missing?! You think I wouldn’t be able to feel the eyes upon my back as I tried to claw my way closer to the truth?! I know they’re there, let them watch! I know the multiverse is an infinite place and the void is an infinite place, so what lies between?! ”
a colossal Ţ̸̨̢̯͓͍̠̝̭̼̳̞̙̥̘͉͒̎̿̆͆̉͌̂̂́̑͊̉̏̌̑̒͆̈́̌͌̀̉͘͜͜͝ͅR̸̨̧̻̱̝̪̰̟͔̪̩̗̤̙͉̙̼̮̠̤̜̦͎̾̏͆̓̐͌̄̔͑̈̀͒͌̾͂͛̆̕̚͘͜͠͝ͅE̷̼̱̠̗̯̥͉͎͉̠̻͔͓͎̪̩̭̦̯̼̤̎̄̀͑̎͆̓̀̀̾͐́̽̄͌̂̏̈́̍̽̚͝͝ͅĚ̸̻̲̩̦̲̺̻̙͕̼͒̊̌͝͝
“Nightmare!”
He startles. His skull whips around to look at you. Your hand is on his shoulder. You don’t remember putting it there. The black goop is hot under your touch.
The confusion on his face doesn’t worry you as much as the open fear plain across his features. His eyelight wavers as a thin, royal purple line in its socket. Spots of purple tears collect along the lower rim and then spill over, sliding down before being absorbed by his body.
“You’re crying,” you whisper. You cup his cheek with your other hand on instinct.
“You’re…,” Nightmare blinks, his eyelight returns to its normal shape and colour. “Addison, you’re crying.” You don’t realize he’s right until he mimics you, cupping your cheek and you feel your own tears slide down from your eyes to collect along his thumb. “I scared you.”
“No!” You shake your head vehemently. It hurts. “No, I wasn’t scared, I… are you okay? You had me worried.”
“I’m… ahem.” Nightmare blinks deliberately, shaking his skull a little as he tries to school his expression back under control. The movement of the goop on his body calms, and then is still once again. He coughs again, and takes a deep steady breath. “I’m alright. I just go carried away there, I apologize for worrying you.”
“No it’s okay, don’t apologize.” Nightmare glances away from you, your assurances having little effect on his shame so maybe it’s time to reach for something lighter. “It’s, it’s like you said before, right? About questions. I guess you still have unanswered ones.”
“Evidently.” Nightmare looks back at the map, his mouth drawn tight and reserved, like he’s holding himself back from saying something more. Then he turns back and regards you fully. “Let’s leave this now, hmm? I find myself parched and I think you would rather spend your time doing more interesting things than listen to me drone on."
You doubt what just happened could be blamed on Nightmare being a little thirsty, or even hangry, but fuck it if you don’t want to maybe get away from this room for a bit too. “I could listen to you about anything really,” you admit. You can’t help but laugh when he quirks his brow in confusion. “You’ve got a nice voice… and besides, I asked. I’m still interested, I want to know more about what’s out there, beyond my borders too… but maybe after we’ve had a little break though.”
“... You’re more like who I was than I thought,” he mutters, then with a small smile hooks his arm around yours again and starts to lead you out of the room. “Then we’ll revisit this another day. For now, I could use some tea.”
You nod in agreement and match his smile, but can’t help but notice how the tentacles behind him still shiver in the corner of your eye. You still let him lead you out of the room, the book you wanted tucked under your other arm but forgotten. There's still a nagging tickle along your back as you leave, but you do yourself the favour of not looking behind you at the wall and the map.
The map that implies a truth none of you might not be ready to understand, and the room with the feeling of a thousand eyes from the outside peering in.
Chapter 31: The Consequences of Being Fine
Summary:
Directly after the events of “Smile, Everything’s Just Okay”, Cross tries to take Addison’s advice and have a talk with Killer. It goes well.
Chapter Tags: Rough housing, panic attacks, ptsd, discussion of sexual acts/kinks and the consequences of a breakdown in communication during the act, the after effects of trauma.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Killer’s room is only fifty feet down the hall from Cross’ room. That was on purpose.
At first it was because Killer wanted to be within walking distance to optimally harass the newbie as he saw fit. Sure, Killer’s capable of shortcutting anywhere in the castle he pleases, but the glee he expressed every time he kicked Cross’ door in screaming “some-BODY” seemed to fuel him like no energy drink ever could.
When their constant fighting morphed from a bitter feud to banter-laden foreplay, the closeness of their rooms became something of a comfort. Cross isn’t sure who spent more time in whose room, especially when you factor in the times he spent with Dust, Horror and Nightmare for full pentagonal poly confusion. All he knows is that he stopped spending most of his time alone and it was the nicest thing he ever felt until…
Until he ruined it, like he ruins everything else.
Until Dream…
Well…
Cross stands statue still in front of Killer’s door. His hands hang at his sides, rigid and rolled into nervous fists. He’s been doing those breathing exercises Horror taught him, the ones where he breathes in through his nasal aperture and out through his mouth, counting to a slow ten between the inhale and the exhale. It’s so stupid that it works, skeleton Monsters don’t need to breathe. But it keeps Cross from screaming.
He’s been standing in front of the door for a long while.
All he has to do is knock. He knocks, he’s polite. He knocks and he waits until someone gives him permission to enter.
He waits until the order is given.
He hasn’t been in Killer’s room in a while either. He’s pretty sure he's not wanted in there anyways.
Dust said they had to sort it out themselves. Horror said they needed to find a solution. Nightmare said it was up to them.
The human said they needed to talk.
Cross knows what he has to do, so why can’t he just lift his arm up and KNOCK?
Cross turns around, walking back down the hallway to his room. He shuts the door behind him and leaves the lights off, keeping the room submerged in darkness. He knows exactly how many steps it takes to walk to his bed, even if his steps drag along the floor from his body fighting against his hesitancy. When his knees bump into the edge he lets himself fall face first onto the mattress. He’s sideways, his lower legs hanging off the one side and his skull nearly hanging off the other. He doesn’t make any attempt to right himself, not here where only the dark bears witness to the sad state of him.
He feels safe, alone in the dark.
It’s the opposite of being alone in the white.
Cross blindly grabs for one of his pillows and pulls it under his body to cover his face. It’s a pillow that’s absorbed drool and tears equally, that’s muffled his screams and moans. It’s the same one from before he left, same pillow case, same mattress and bed spread. He’s surprised he even had things to come home to. He was so sure they threw everything out.
He would have deserved it.
Cross shoves his skull further into the pillow of shame.
He wonders if Nightmare can feel his misery from wherever he is right now. Actually, scratch that, he knows Nightmare can probably feel this, is probably rolling his beautiful turquoise eyelight in annoyance right now as he abandons what is no doubt very important work just to come all this way and pat Cross’ skull while he blubbers like an idiot until he passes out.
He can’t keep doing this.
He’s supposed to be better.
No. No, he’s going to be better. He’s going to make himself be better.
Cross pulls his skull up out of the pillow, ignoring the fresh trails of purple staining the cover. He takes a sharp inhale through his nasal aperture… and shoves everything down. Down, down so far that Nightmare can’t reach…
down in the box with no space no air no way to scream while Dream just makes him smile smile smile
No, the difference is this time Cross is in control. This time he’s fine and he’s the one making himself feel fine. This is fine, this is fine, everything’s going to be fine, it just needs to go back to the way it was before, this is-
He hears the subtle pop of a shortcut just beyond his door. It’s not Nightmare, and Horror can’t shortcut, but both Dust and Killer are practically silent with theirs. So…
In one quick motion, Cross rolls off the bed and onto his feet. Then he shortcuts to his door, working hard to suppress his magic enough to keep it quiet. His left hand holds a thin bone construct summoned on instinct while his right lightly touches the handle…
He quickly whips the door open.
He’s never seen Killer’s sockets that wide in surprise.
They stare at each other for a comically long time before Killer finally breaks the silence. “uh, hey cross.” His smile is plastered on his face, tense, he might break his cheekbones trying to smile that hard.
Cross. Not Criss-Cross.
Cross fights so hard to keep the disappointment from his face as he dismisses the hidden bone attack. Then he catches the way Killer’s holding his hand up, as if... “... Wait, were you going to come into my room?” he asks, and something else clicks halfway through that sentence. “Were you actually going to use the door knob?”
Killer quickly pulls his outstretched hand away and hides it behind his back. “you can’t prove anything!”
The strangeness of seeing Killer so off-footed throws Cross for a moment. No Criss-Cross, no snide greeting, Killer actually using a door properly instead of treating it like his personal kickball… Why is he even here right now anyways?
Why does he come now when he’s been avoiding Cross for almost two weeks?
“What are you doing here?”
Of course, it comes out a lot more cold and harsh compared to how it sounded in his mind.
Killer’s stupor fades away quickly at Cross’ tone, replaced with that dark bitterness and sideways smirk that only shows up when he’s annoyed. It’s a face Cross remembers so well from the very first days of being under Nightmare’s wing. “the boss sent me, but you know what, you can go talk to him yourself,” Killer snaps. “it’s not like you want to talk to me anyways. have fun mopin’ in the dark.” Killer waves and steps back to take his leave, but all Cross sees is red.
Him?! He’s acting like Cross is avoiding him?!
Cross thinks of all the times Killer’s got up and left a room when Cross enters, all the times Cross tries to call out for him only to have a door slammed in his face. He thinks of Killer just up and leaving without telling anyone, running missions by himself when it was supposed to be the two of them together. He thinks of the ignored texts, the forced silent between them, everything.
And he wants to pretend that it’s all Cross avoiding him?!!
Cross’ hand whips forward and grabs Killer’s forearm just as the latter shortcuts, pulling them both through empty darkness until they pop into Killer’s bedroom. It’s also dark, with the lights off and the curtains drawn and the sheets tousled and kicked to the end of the bed where they spill down the sides.
“what the hell?!” Killer tries to wrench his arm away, but Cross refuses to let go. Not this time. Not when this is just going to go on and on with no end in sight. “get off me cross!”
“No! I’m not going to let you act like I’m the one avoiding you!”
Cross starts to pull them both through another shortcut back to his room, but Killer kicking him in the shin is enough to make him flinch and throw his focus off. They tumble backwards before falling out of the shortcut. Cross lands on something hard, the back of his skull clacking against the solid surface as he lies flat on his back. Killer’s on top of him, left arm still held tight in Cross’ grip, but his right hand pinning the taller skeleton down by the shoulder. Killer’s soul twitches and fizzles like a glitch in a game.
“what the flying fuck are you two doing?!” Dust yells, startled awake from his nap by the two of them abruptly falling into his room.
He’s promptly ignored.
“why would i listen to a word you say when it’s just gonna be a lie!” Killer snarls.
“How can I lie about anything if you won’t even give me the chance to say something!” Cross shouts.
Killer twists his arm around to try and break Cross’ grip, and Cross counters by hooking his leg around Killer’s waist and shoving him over to flip them both around. He pins Killer to the floor with his shoulder against Killer’s chest, but Killer blips them through another shortcut and they free fall.
When they land they’re on their sides, twisted bodies trying equally to hold on and break free, crashing onto something hard again that gives under their combined weight. The legs of the dining room table buckle and snap and the whole thing collapses to the floor with a loud clatter of splintering wood, with two skeletons still wrestling for dominance on the wreckage.
“fine! you wanna talk! i’m here! go ahead and talk you asshole!”
“Fuck you!”
Another shortcut.
This time they land on something appropriate, not that the mats in the training room are all that comfortable to land on but at least they’re meant to be fallen on. They continue switching positions in the chaos, trying to get the upper hand on one another. Cross tries to break free from Killer’s painful and very secure hold on his clavicle. Cross knees Killer in the waist, but Killer doesn’t even budge as he holds Cross down against the mat, his whole arm pressing down on Cross’ skull.
"no! fuck you! you don’t get to run! you finally have the balls to talk to me and you just run the minute you get some push back?"
Cross wriggles and tries to get his skull out from under Killer’s arm. He tries to throw a punch that only manages to catch air. "Fuck you! Why am I the one who has to grow a pair when you've been avoiding me! You're the one who stopped talking. You! Mister Never-Shuts-The-Fuck-Up, except I guess when someone is trying to get a fucking answer from you, then you clam right up!"
"fuck you!"
Cross goes for the waist trick again, this time wrapping both legs around and whipping them both over at the same time he pulls them through yet another shortcut. This time where they land, on the floor of his bedroom, Cross is back on top and pinning Killer down.
"Fuck you!" he seethes.
"i did! that's the problem!"
And just like that, Cross freezes, cold like his marrow’s suddenly frozen to ice. They’re both panting, loud, sounding louder than even their shouting moments before in the silence of the room. Killer’s soul pulses wildly and illuminates both of their bodies with the harsh red glow. He bares his teeth at Cross, mouth twisted in something mixed between a snarl and a grimace, the black streaks pour sideways on his face to pool on the carpet underneath.
“oh now you get it,” Killer scoffs. “now you wanna talk ‘bout what happened. now you wanna come and tell me the truth that i hurt you while you pretended everything was hunky dory and i had to find out from horror!” The way Killer spits out his words has Cross flinching as if taking more blows, and his desire to try to dodge them rapidly drains away. Not when every word Killer is saying is right.
“i had to find out from someone else because you didn’t trust me, or maybe you just didn’t care to tell me, i don’t fuckin’ know, i don’t know what goes on with you anymore!”
Cross feels like he’s about to throw up his own soul. He can’t argue against any of this. He didn’t say anything, he didn’t tell Killer, even after everything was said and done. And he had no intention of telling Killer; Killer only found out after Horror found Cross in the shower, shaking horribly in the middle of a panic attack. And all those times since where Cross tried to talk to an increasingly avoidant Killer, was he actually going to be honest about what happened? Or was he just going to continue to pretend that it wasn’t a big deal?
He’s absolutely right, Killer shouldn’t trust Cross.
“how am i supposed to trust you if you won’t even tell me when i’m hurting you?!” Killer continues, either unaware of Cross’ anxiety spiking, or very aware and bolstered by it. “you think i enjoy that, huh? you think i like the fact that i hurt you?! you put me in that position! you didn’t say anything! not then, not all the times before! you don’t trust me, so why the fuck should i trust you?!”
He didn’t mean to. He was trying to avoid all of this. If he didn’t say anything then everyone would just move on and things would be like how it used to be and he could be like how he used to be because…
Don’t say anything. Don’t say anything when there’s a problem. Don’t say anything when you’re upset. Don’t say anything to rock the boat. They’ll throw you out. They should throw you out. You don’t deserve them. You don’t deserve to be forgiven. Just don’t say anything. Just don’t. Just…
Smile.
“how am i supposed to trust that you were okay with everythin’ we did?! all i get from you is that ‘you’re fine!’ ‘you’re fine!’, what the fuck does fine mean now?! if you always had a problem with it then why the fuck did you say you were fine?!”
“... It wasn’t a problem, before,” Cross thinks he says. He thinks, because he can’t really hear his own voice over the ringing in his skull. Killer doesn’t visibly react either, still as angry and hurt as before, as he deserves to be, because Cross fucked it up, just as he fucks everything up. Cross can’t tell if he’s starting to talk fast, or if his mind is running past its speed limit in a frenzy and he can’t keep up anymore.
“I liked it when you did the pain stuff. It wasn’t - it was good, it was good and it was you - I loved it because it was you and -”
Killer would be the one in control in those scenes, and was always careful with balancing the pain with the pleasure, making sure Cross always knew it was just play, that he could stop if it got too much, making sure that Cross was okay. Always okay. Always loved.
“I don’t know why it wasn’t -”
He was ready for everyone to stop treating him with kid gloves after coming back. He needed to stop being scared, stop being miserable, pitiful. He wanted to go back to the way things were, with the closeness they all had. He wanted Killer to be able to make love to him the way he used to.
Maybe it was his punishment for going with Dream.
“It wasn’t - You didn’t do - It wasn’t anything new, but - I didn’t say anything because you didn’t do anything wrong it was me - it’s my fault - I should get over it - I liked it before I don’t know why I can’t - I just want to be okay - I need to be okay -”
“... cross.”
He can’t go out by himself. He can’t look at a sketchbook anymore. And he can’t have this, he can’t have Killer loving him like he used to, he can’t, he can’t, why can’t he have this one thing anymore?
“It’s not your fault - it’s me - my fault - I should be okay - I’m okay - just let it go back to before - I’m sorry - please - I’m fine - I’m sorry -”
“cross look at me.”
The order cuts through the hysteria like butter. Short and simple, Cross opens his sockets, not knowing when he even closed them. They feel heavy, his skull feels like cotton and his vision swims fluidly. Killer looks up at him, the anger gone from his expression and replaced with careful neutrality. He has his hand wrapped around Cross’ right one, which is doing a lot more holding Cross up than it is pinning Killer to the floor. Cross realizes that the sound of heavy panting is only coming from him now, as he struggles to get a breath around the knot in the middle of his throat.
“cross,” Killer says quietly. “i need you to breathe, okay. slowly.” Killer’s phalanges slowly rub and soothe the bones of Cross’ wrist, like he’s tending to a sore. Cross realizes now how badly his arm is shaking. “come on criss-cross, in and out, just follow my lead.”
Cross’ chest heaves as he fights for breath he really doesn’t need, shouldn’t need, shouldn’t be having this reaction. The only thing keeping the mortification from having a panic attack over this is the actual panic attack making his mind spin and his body tremble. His sockets sting and he realizes there’s splotches of purple on Killer’s shirt where tears have already landed.
“come on, let’s breathe in. deep in.” Killer’s chest lifts as he breathes deep and holds it, waiting for Cross to follow his lead.
He tries. It’s stuttery, and he coughs and he has to try again before he can hold something. Killer exhales, slow and steady, and Cross follows, trying to do the same. He coughs some more, swallowing around stuck air and smothered cries, but breathes in again. In and out, Killer breathes and Cross follows for what feels like forever.
Somewhere in the middle of all this Killer manages to worm his way out from under Cross. He still keeps a ground hold on Cross’ wrist as he sits up, sliding backwards a bit until his back hits the side of the bed. He waits for a moment between breathing cycles, then he tugs on Cross’ wrist, pulling him forward until Cross practically falls across his lap with his skull pressed up against Killer’s chest. Killer lets go only so that he can wrap his arms around Cross fully, one of his hands brushing the back of Cross’ skull.
And the cries can be smothered no more.
“‘m sorry!” Cross bawls between teary coughs and hiccups. “I didn’t want to-to ruin anything! I didn’t… I didn’t mean…”
“shhhhh, it’s okay, it’s okay,” Killer soothes. His petting is gentle, grounding, and Cross cries harder for it. “it's okay, i think i get it.”
No, he doesn’t, not when he (understandably) thinks that Cross doesn’t trust him. Cross shakes his skull fervently, still trying to argue despite swimming in a cocktail of misery and embarrassment of his own making. “No! I liked it before! I did! I did I did - you never hurt me! B-But I don’t know what happened that time! You didn’t do anything wrong!”
He didn’t, he didn’t do anything new or anything that they hadn’t previously discussed. But what once gave Cross that satisfying high of bliss suddenly hurt , and hurt bad, making his bones itch with discomfort and horrible feelings of self-loathing to sink in his soul. In the heat of the moment and swimming in confusion he panicked, and he did what he’d become very good at.
He buried it. Buried it so far down it didn’t resurface until the day after. Buried it because it was better to ignore than deal with the fact that something had changed, maybe irrevocably.
Because the only difference between now and then was Dream.
“I’m sorry! Please, please can we talk again, I can’t… I need… I’m sorry,” Cross sobs, holding onto Killer as if he might just leave or vanish, abandoning Cross right when he feels his worst.
“shh, shhh, shhh cross it’s okay. it’s okay,” Killer repeats softly. “it’s okay.”
“It’s not! It’s, it’s not-I’m sorry!”
“cross, look at me.”
Cross whines, and he hates that he does, and tries to hide further in Killer’s shirt like he once hid in his pillow. But Killer gently rubs along the side of Cross’ skull in encouragement, and with another whimper he slowly tips his skull up, lifting his face off of the thoroughly damp spot to look up with tear-swollen sockets. Killer’s tears never stop, they can’t, but they look thinner now, more like runny ink than thick globs.
“there you are handsome,” Killer says, and it’s not fair how that simple pet name still makes Cross’ soul flip when it feels so heavy with despair. “listen to me for a moment, yeah? it’s okay, it's okay that something feels different now, that’s not your fault. no one’s going to be upset if you say you don’t like something, even if you liked it before. everything… you went through hell, that’s gonna leave scars. that’s not fair but that’s how it is.” Killer cups Cross’ cheekbone as he says this, his thumb tracing the thin red line under the socket that’s never faded or gone away, even with time. Cross blinks, feels some more tears slide down and follow the path along Killer’s thumb.
“there’s nothing wrong with you, okay. if you never like pain play again, that’s fine. that doesn’t change anything between us. and if you want to try again later, we can do that too. but you gotta tell me if you don’t like something, okay? you gotta trust me cross, how am i supposed to look out for you if you don’t trust me to?”
That’s the problem sometimes; where Cross makes it his mission to look after everyone, to be the protector, he forgets that they do the same for him. That he deserves to have someone watch his back too. He feels like he owes them, all of them, forever, but he forgets that they became devoted to him too.
If he was in hell, in the one place where he had no hope of rescue, then they went to hell and back to get him. And what does that say?
Cross shivers, like his body literally can’t take the idea that he has someone who cares about him - never mind multiple someones - and he cries even harder. He nods excessively, just in case Killer gets the opposite idea. “I will! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to! I’m sorry!”
“shh, cross calm down, i know.” Killer pulls Cross close enough where he can duck down and rest his forehead against the crown of Cross’ skull. “i know you, i know it’s hard. nobody likes feelin’ weak, you hate that you're not the same. i’m sorry too, i’m sorry i kept walkin’ away when you wanted to talk before. i was pissed and moody, i shouldn’t have pushed you away like that.”
Hearing the apology for something that in Cross’ opinion is so small compared to his own massive fuckup that started everything pulls out a pouring of fresh tears and incoherent sobs. Killer just holds him through it, whispering gentle assurances while he cries with relief and sadness, cries for the chance to set things right and the loss of parts of him he might never get back. He cries forgiveness for that fateful choice to go with Dream, and cries some more when he realizes they wouldn’t have rescued him if they hadn’t already forgiven him.
“I-I lov-ve you,” Cross stammers, pulling from every part of his soul and hoping against hope that Killer can hear everything unsaid. “I l-lov-ve y-you s-so mu-much.”
“i love you too, criss-cross,” Killer answers, just as truthfully. “we all love you too.”
And he believes it.
So Cross cries for a long time until he can’t anymore, but unlike all other times it doesn’t feel like a pause. It doesn’t feel like he’s shoving his emotions away knowing that they’ll rear their head again in the future. It doesn’t feel like he’s just going to do the same thing next week, the week after, and the week after. He might cry again, sure, but maybe not like this.
Cross sighs, and he actually feels lighter than he has in a long, long time.
He also feels ready to pass out.
Killer must know that too. He coaxes Cross up, pulling them both to their feet and leading him to his bed. Killer gently pushes him in, and this time Cross falls on the mattress the right way long. He’s not out completely when his skull hits the pillow, but in a comfortable haze while Killer pulls his boots and socks off, carefully peels off his coat and the last layers of bulk before tucking him under the blanket.
Then he crawls into the bed too, and Cross realizes how much he missed falling asleep with him. Killer gathers Cross in his arms, letting him nuzzle and make little noises against Killer’s chest while he gently strokes the underside of Cross’ skull. Cross feels the heat off Killer’s soul like a balm along his face, and he tips into sleep…
“... Nightmare needed to see me,” Cross suddenly mumbles, remembering with a start that Killer came to see him for a reason. He shifts, trying to pull away while fighting against fatigue to get back on his feet and go see what Nightmare wanted. He’s probably pissed that Cross never showed up.
Killer quickly puts a stop to that and pulls Cross back, holding him firmly. “naw, night told me to go talk to you cause he wanted us to work through this stuff, so, mission accomplished.”
“Oh.” Cross immediately relaxes again, now that he knows he’s not missing some important meeting. He feels his sockets sink closed again, and it’s almost comical how quickly he’s wrapped up in absolute exhaustion again. “Night said th’ same ta me too.”
“yeah, i figured.” Killer slowly strokes a line along the back of Cross’ skull, deliberately lulling him to sleep and Cross can't be mad at that at all.
“... an’ dust, h…” Cross slurs. He makes a quiet noise, trying to think of something he’s forgetting. “... an’ th’ human.”
He’s far too sleepy to feel Killer freeze. Far too sleepy to hear the sharpness in Killer’s voice.
“... what human?”
What human? Oh, guess Dust never told him… Cross can’t remember her name right now, too sleepy. Something… long, longer than his. Too many letters. “... Dus’ human,” is what his brain settles for. It’s close enough. “sh’s okay… sh’s… nice…”
The last words slip out as Cross finally gives up the fight and falls asleep, falling so deep that he doesn’t hear Killer’s quiet words.
“... yeah? we’ll see about that.”
Chapter 32: The Scales and The Sword
Summary:
For Dust, the best kind of evening is chilling in the company of someone he cares about, especially when he’s just come back down from an LV spike. Too bad for him and Addison that someone else decided to call in the big guns.
Chapter Tags: Post LV spike, talk of past murder, home invasion, violence, panic attack.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
It used to be a rare thing, coming home to dinner ready to eat.
It’s becoming a lot less rare these days.
Not that you’ve been walking in through the door to find a home-cooked meal set out and ready, Horror’s the only one who really does that, and he only cooks without you when you work really late. He knows you love cooking with him as much as he loves cooking with you, and almost as much as you both love eating the food you make together.
If it’s any of the other boys surprising you, it’s usually with take-out.
So while coming home to an assortment of containers from that Indian place a few blocks over spread out on your coffee table isn’t surprising anymore…
Tonight, the fact that Dust is the one who brought them for you is.
Dust pops the lid on another container with yellow curry, and spoons out a good helping all over the pile of rice on one of the plates he’s already got set out for the two of you. You shut and lock your door, and hang up your coat and bag on the rack.
“Hey there stranger,” you greet, cheer in your voice at the sight of your ‘bonefriend’. You walk closer to Dust, appreciating the absolute assortment of food he’s brought, and the effort he had to have put in to keep Trixy from sticking her nose in everything. You’re going to eat so much, enough for a stomach ache later, probably. But whatever, it’s good food.
But first…
You lean towards Dust, slowly, so he has enough tom to let you know if he’s not in a touchy mood today. He doesn’t pull away though, and meets you for the hug and face nuzzles. His arms wrap tightly around you, like he’s making up for lost time, but the way he keeps his eyes hooded and hidden makes him seem more insecure than usual. A tell-tale sign that he’s feeling guilty about something.
You know exactly what that something is.
It’s been two weeks since Dust discovered that your phone was bugged after all, and this is the first time you’re seeing him face to face since.
You’ve talked - a lot - messaging each other back and forth, sometimes early, sometimes late into the night. The first message that you got from him on your gifted phone, three days after he stormed out to do something reckless, was an apology.
The way it was written - stilted, short and out of the blue - was all you needed to recognize he was still in the middle of the LV spike.
It would be another few days after that before his messages started to reflect his mood calming back down from that frantic, distraught and manic peak. And he apologized again, with more words and sounding more like his usual self.
And again.
And again.
You’re pretty sure the food on the table is apology number ten at this point.
And while you understand, and appreciate it, you’re going to tell him for the tenth time not to worry about it, there’s nothing to apologize for.
“Missed you,” you say, quiet and honest, like sharing a secret. Texts and late night phone calls are one thing, but you missed being with him. It kind of shocks you how much you missed him, given that it’s only been two weeks.
Dust’s arms wrap tighter around you. “‘m sorry,” he mumbles as he hides his face on your shoulder.
“Please don’t be. You had a bad spike, I’m glad you’re feeling better.”
“kay, no, but…” Dust lifts his skull up to meet your eyes. He’s still obviously timid, but there’s a new tenacity to his gaze that’s a lot more like the Dust you know. “you still deserve an apology for how i snapped at you. you didn’t deserve that.”
While he’s apologized several times, hearing it in person had you softening quite a bit, despite believing that it’s not necessary in the first place. He’s conscious of your feelings, or at least trying to be, and while you don’t want him feeling guilty over something that you might not feel is important, you shouldn’t brush his feelings off either. It’s still eating away at him, obviously.
“Okay…” Your fingers twine with the fabric of his hoodie, avoiding the scarf that you know he’s still not comfortable with others touching. “Thank you. I do appreciate the apology, and accept it.” You kiss his cheek, trying to convey as much as possible that there’s no hard feelings on your end.
“... that was a fucked up thing they did to you,” he adds, with a lot less heat than two weeks ago, but definitely still bitter.
There’s a matching taste in your mouth, one that’s never really gone away. Even now, the memory of the small device being pulled out of your phone causes a flash of anger to course through your body. That one of them - if you’re being honest, it was probably Wine - or maybe more of them would deem it necessary to violate your privacy like that. Forget the harassing phone calls and uninvited late-night visit to your home, this was something deceptive that had been in play long before you even became Red’s ex, and ‘a problem’.
You know Dust went to confront them that evening, and you know that in a perfect world that would have been the wrong thing to do. That it’s still the wrong thing to do, an act that only serves to escalate things further. That you should have just removed the tracker, blocked their numbers, and done nothing more and moved on with your life.
It doesn’t stop you from feeling jealous that Dust got to smash a spying computer or two.
How are you supposed to take their attempts at reconciliation at face value if that’s where they were coming from?
Your expression has probably started to betray the frustration you still feel, because Dust rests his hands on your cheek and pulls your attention back to him. He would let you vent, unload, talk yourself in circles about this if it helped… take you for some petty vengeance if you wanted to go egg their house or something…
But you don’t need to, not right now.
As quick as the anger rises, you let it flow through, and subside. It doesn’t get bottled away. You feel it, acknowledge it, and you can move on.
“So what have we got for our dining delight tonight?” you ask.
After a beat, Dust smiles, and you can tell by his smile he knows you’re deflecting a bit. But he also knows you’ll be more open to talking later, once you’re no longer tripping into ‘hangry’ territory.
He’s always been like that, from that first night you met him. Sure, he’s sharp along the edges, but he’s always let you talk or not talk, let you work through things without judgment. He’s always been there to talk, let’s you be you, no matter what you’re feeling.So you’ll have dinner, chat and joke with each other, maybe put on a movie or something to binge after, and talk about those quiet things the two of you think about in the privacy of darkness, well into the wee hours of the morning.
This, is a good evening.
***
The moment Dust wakes, he knows there’s someone in the other room.
There’s nothing but darkness beyond your bedroom window, the orange glow from the streetlamps below creep up from the bottom edge. The bedroom is in complete darkness, with the eerie green reflections from the cat’s wide eyes, from where she still lays at the foot of the bed. She’s hunkered down, on her belly with all four paws flat on the sheets, looking like she’s ready to jump at something. She’s staring at the bedroom door.
You’re still wrapped around him, head resting on his chest while you sleep mostly on your stomach with your limbs spread out on your side of the bed. You still snore a tiny bit every time you exhale, remnants of the cold you had last week. He still picks up on the smell of garlic from dinner earlier.
You being peacefully asleep is the only thing that’s holding him back from freaking the fuck out over the fact that someone else is in the apartment.
Dust’s hands ball into a fist. He keeps his sockets empty and unlit, keeping everything dark as much as possible as a protective cover. He’s so fucking thankful your bedroom door is closed, that you always sleep with your door closed even if you’re the only one home. He holds himself perfectly, painfully still, straining his hearing until the silence becomes too loud and rings like a steady alarm in his skull.
He still hears the quiet creak of the floor in the other room. That squeaky creak from the tile in the kitchen, the one you have to step on to open the fridge.
The cat further confirms his fears by silently jumping off the bed and darting underneath to hide. She’s an affectionate attention seeker normally, and even she’s running away from this.
Dust feels a heat grow instantly along his bones, and his knuckles throb with the sudden sharp pain. He takes a breath through his nasal aperture, then another, and another. It took two whole weeks for his LV to finally calm and the spectre of his not-brother to disappear like the illusion he is, but it already threatens to boil over again. He can’t, he can’t do this again, he won’t do this again.
He wants to count, breathe and count, but there’s no time because someone is there! Right there! Threat! Intruder! Just on the other side oF THE DOOR…
Dust exhales. Air whistles between his teeth.
He can’t just react. That’s Killer’s MO, not his. Not in this moment. He thinks about his position, how quickly help could get here, the easiest way of getting you to safety. He wants to shortcut you somewhere else - NOW - but the only place he feels is safe enough is the castle, and he’s not about to take you through the eight jump necessary to get there while you’re asleep…
He’s gotta wake you.
Dust starts with a light shoulder shake, something a little stronger than a gentle rocking motion. You tend to have the opposite reaction and fall asleep to stuff like that. After a few seconds of shaking that starts to turn a little more frantic, you shift, and groan quietly but all too loud for Dust’s comfort.
“... Duu-mphf!” Your eyes open quickly as he clamps his hand over your mouth. You blink a few times, probably trying to figure out if you’re still dreaming or not. There’s no time to wait for that nice and easy gradual shift in awareness though, Dust pushes your head up to meet his sockets, confusion very much etched all over your face.
There’s someone here he mouths. With a jerk of his skull he gestures quickly to the other room, watching as your eyes dart to the door, then back to him. They go back and forth a few times before your brain fully wakes up and registers what he’s trying to convey. He feels that exact moment, when your body goes stone rigid and you start breathing hard and fast through your nose, the air tickling along his smouldering knuckles.
Dust pulls his hand away and shortcuts out from under you, reappearing by the door. He presses the side of his skull to the door, trying to pick up on any other movement, but whomever is on the other side is keeping near silent. There’s only an odd creak here and there, but they are so distinctively footfalls to Dust’s senses… he marvels at how familiar he’s gotten with your space that he’s able to recognize them in the first place.
You, meanwhile, slide off the bed, slowly and as silent as you can be without magic, crouching on the floor while keeping the bed between you and the door. You keep your eyes locked on Dust as you grab your phone off the nightstand.
It’s not doing enough for his nerves though. With a small crackle, Dust summons a large bone in his hands, about the length of a baseball bat. Pale white with a dull lilac undertone, red sparks flicker along the bone, a clear sign of how much magical charge he’s given it. He tosses it underhand over to you, and you catch it easily.
Stay here, and he points down to the floor for emphasis. You respond by ducking further behind the bed, holding the improvised weapon with one hand like you’re going to throw it at the head of anyone coming through that door. Probably not going to work well, it’s too long for a good throw, if he had known that’s what you would try to do he would have made it smaller. But it’s good enough, and if it comes down to you needing to throw it in the first place then it’s going to hurt like a son of a bitch regardless of how it makes contact. He’s made sure of that.
If someone other than him comes through that door… he hopes you know he would at least have gone down fighting.
Dust takes the span of a breath to listen for more footsteps, pinpointing the location of the intruder to somewhere in front of your couch. Magic sparks between his phalanges, and Dust considers his approach. Go in quietly and dispatch them as quickly as possible? Or go in with blasters blazing and bones raining from the ceiling to ensure the fucker won’t know what hit them?
If they’re human they’re going to leave a bloody mess, and a Monster will leave dust like a flour bag exploded. He’ll clean up himself, or call Horror if he needs help. He’s not going to make you clean up.
Never you. Never ever ever you.
He hears another floor creak, and he wastes no time. Dust shortcuts, putting himself in the kitchen with his back to the fridge. With a quick flick of his wrist he throws out a long sharpened bone attack towards the unrecognizable shape in the darkness…
It’s immediately deflected by another bone attack, sending both flying off to the side, each hitting the opposite walls. Dust’s bone sinks a few inches into the drywall and stays there, sticking out like one of Killer’s thrown knives. The other bone, with soft rounded blunt ends and glowing with a yellowish hue, bounces off the other wall and clatters to the ground.
And Dust locks eyelights with another, yellow orbs floating in dark slim sockets on a slender skeletal face with twin cracks that run in a straight line up the right socket and down under the left, and a mouth curled with the smarmiest smirk that would put Killer to shame.
“... Wow, rude much?”
Of all the fucking… Dust really hates these guys.
The skeleton Monster is at least a skull and a half taller than Dust - because of course he is - and wearing an outfit that Dust has seen three dozen times across the multiverse, that stupid half coat with full fur trim along the hood, dark knitted turtle-neck and slender fitting jeans. He spreads his arms out, as if welcoming, but Dust knows he’s anything but. He holds the half full two litre bottle of Sprite shamelessly pilfered from your fridge like one would hold a beer bottle by the neck. The angle gives Dust a good view of his hand, with the large circular hole bored out from the carpals and metacarpals, and he would be shocked if there wasn’t a matching one on the other hand.
Gasters share a lot of traits across the multiverse, and Gaster Sans’ are no different.
“... So, are you going to say something? Or are you just going to glower in the dark like the resident cryptid?”
Dust responds by throwing another bone attack. This time the Minster shortcuts out of the way - because of course he does - and the attack pings off the radiator under the window. The Monster reappears standing with his back to the bedroom door, and Dust is so very very thankful he kept it closed.
“Okay, I guess we’re going to be like that,” the Monster taunts, with that same stupid smirk on his stupid face. He twists his skull, the bones of his neck popping audiby, before he meets Dust’s glare with an arrogant confidence. “I can tango. But maybe we should go outside before we ruin this chick’s deposit?”
“fuck you!” Dust snaps his fingers, and an array of bones materialize in the air like deadly wind chimes, hissing red magic and all pointed towards the taller skeleton.
And the fucker has the audacity to look more bored than anything. “Really? Don’t you think this is a bit unnecessary?”
He hates, hates, hates these guys, and it has nothing to do with any biased dislike he has towards Gaster (any Gaster, but really just one). Whipping back and forth from the laid back casual familiarity of Sans to the analytical and curious precision of Gaster, these guys never talk straight. They answer questions with questions, deflect worse with off topic tangents that send conversations spiralling out of control, and always with that air of ‘I know more than you’ that infuriates Dust to no end.
“get the fuck out of here you asshole!” Dust can’t help shouting. Maybe the neighbours will hear and call the cops. He wonders if he’ll be able to kill him before the authorities show up. He wonders if he’ll have to explain the murder. He hopes it won’t cause problems for you later.
“Not until I get what I’ve come here for.”
With a brazen self-assuredness, the Monster lifts the bottle to his mouth and drinks several large gulps of soda. When he finishes there’s only small pools left in the little nubs on the bottom. Dust doubts there’ll be an offer for a replacement bottle…
But before Dust can get properly angry about it, worry slaps him like a cold splash of water as the bedroom door opens very slowly behind the distracted Monster.
“Listen, we can do this one of two ways,” he says, completely unaware. “We can talk and I walk away with the information I’m looking for, or we can fight until one of us is broken and bruised. Spoilers, it isn’t going to be me, I don’t care what your LV is at.”
Dust watches as you poke your head out, and quietly creep through the narrow opening you’ve given yourself. The bone attack is held tight in your right hand. You lift it up, grabbing the base with your left and rearing back for a proper swing…
“If we talk this out, we can avoid waking the sleeping princess in the other--”
His sockets go wide as he shortcuts away at the last second before your swing can connect with his shoulder. The bone attack slices through the empty air and hits the wall with a loud bang.
“Dammit!”
When the skeleton reappears by your couch, Dust redirects all of his hovering bones towards him, repositioning them until he has the skeleton surrounded, and more than a few incredibly sharp ones between you and him. You pull your bone back as if ready to take another swing at any moment. The skeleton blinks, staring at you, the smug grin from earlier gone in favour of a stern thin line.
“Careful, that could have hurt someone,” he chastises like a disappointed teacher.
“Good! Get out of my home!” you yell, clearly not concerned by what your neighbours can hear at all.
“That’s not any way to treat a guest Addison.”
“You’re not a guest! You broke in! I don’t even know you!”
“... Ah, of course, right. I doubt any of the others would have mentioned me, I don’t live with them and I really don’t visit all that often. Too busy with travel and exploring and all that fun stuff.” He places his hand on his chest. “I’m G, and normally I’d tell you that I’m one of Sans’ cousins, but…” His eyelights dart over to Dust, then back to you. “I get the feeling that little lie won’t work as well here. So I can just cut straight to the point, which suits me just fine. I hate dealing with unnecessary details--”
“Get straight to the point by getting the fuck out of my home before I call the cops!”
Or Nightmare, Dust thinks. Nightmare would be a good option actually. Carefully and discreet, Dust slips his hands into his pockets like a casual observer, and finds the emergency button on the back of his phone. He keeps the tip of a phalange on it, ready.
“If you were going to call the cops, you should have done that already,” G counters. “Let’s not go down this road, alright? We can talk, just a nice chat among friends.”
“We’re not friends.”
“Acquaintances,” he corrects. He bends down to take a comfortable seat on your couch like he owns it. He leaves the practically empty bottle on the coffee table and rests his arms along the back of the couch. “Come on, let’s just be civil here.”
“‘Be civil’? Bold words coming from the guy who broke into my home!” you argue. Your grip on the bone hasn’t lessened in the slightest, in fact Dust thinks it’s gotten even tighter. You learned how to swing a bat when Killer took you to that rage room, and right now you’re not afraid to use that acquired skill.
“Okay one, I didn’t break anything to get in here, except maybe the laws of physics. Two, you’ve made yourself unreachable by phone, so I had to go direct. And three--”
“In the middle of the night?!”
G sighs, and shrugs. “I don’t know your work schedule, best bet was to figure out the likeliest time you would be home sleeping.”
You’ve practically become a radiator of fury, your hands shaking just slightly in anger. But Dust latches onto a different detail entirely. “you were sent here,” he accuses, drawing G’s attention back to him. “the vanilla doughboy sent you.”
“Had to cut my trip to Prague short for this,” G sighs sadly. “I mean, I don’t blame him, what else was he going to do? Trying to let the situation play out without interfering wasn’t working, and you obviously decided to escalate things.”
“What the fuck do you mean they weren’t interfering? I was being harassed daily until I had to get a new phone! Why the fuck would Sans think you would make any of this better?”
“Because I don’t have any attachment to you.” G leans back against the cousins. He rifles around in his left pocket and pulls out a lighter. Dust is about to launch every bone in the air if he so much as thinks about lighting a fucking cigarette, but all G does is flick the lid off and on, off and on, clicking loudly and annoyingly. “Truth is, I couldn’t care less between you and Red. The others are wringing their hands because they can’t get around your former relationship, but I don’t have that problem. What is my problem, if him,” G says as he gestures to Dust with a tilt of his skull. “Him, and that walking oreo cookie. They’re like us, they aren’t from this universe, but the machine hasn’t worked in ten years and they’ve managed to find a way in around that. I want to know what that is.”
G shrugs with obvious detachment. “None of this is really about you. If they hadn’t shown up, the others would have just left you alone. You’re just… the unfortunate bystander Addison.”
It’s probably because G doesn’t know you, like he claims, that he doesn’t realize he just said the most hurtful thing he could. Your shoulders dip and lower from their agitated high, anger dims from your eyes and in its place something like hurt slips in, but he probably doesn’t notice, or hasn’t put two and two together. Because it’s one thing for you to pessimistically think it, suspect it, question it and get frustrated with it… Another for someone like Nightmare or Dust to point out, the outside perspective looking in…
But it’s something else entirely to hear it straight from someone claiming to represent your former family.
That all of this, all of this pain, this popping back up in your life and preventing you from moving on, was never really about you. It wasn’t about their worry over your feelings, the chance you could be hurt, their concern for your safety. That if a completely different human got entangled with Dust that night… the group who claimed they cared about you wouldn’t have reached out in the first place, maybe at all. Probably never.
Dust shifts his attacks around, clearing a path for him to move closer and stand by your side, a little in front. His movements draw G’s attention back to him, as expected. You slowly lower the bone from your ‘ready to swing’ pose now that Dust is in your way, holding it with one hand at each end. You keep your eyes trained on G, eyebrows narrowed with frustration, but your eyes tell Dust your mind might as well be in another room.
Time for Dust to keep G distracted then. “so, what, you think i’m gonna spill the secrets?” he asks. Because if it’s him G wants, then it’s him G gets, thorny edges and uncooperative snark and all. “is sans lookin’ to finally offload his so-called ‘family’, finally got tired of ‘em?”
“... You really do sound exactly like him,” G mutters. “Look, when the accident happened, and we were all dragged here from our homes the worst among us was Edge. And we could understand that, his world was a literal fight for survival. Just like we could understand Black and Mutt, Wine and Coffee. Even Axe and Crooks were more victims of circumstances, even if I personally wouldn’t have gone as far as that. I don't approve, but I get it. But you, you and that other skeleton show up after so long with LV that puts Edge’s to shame. So yes, we’re a little concerned about how you got here and what your intentions are.”
“world domination.”
“Cute. How many of you are here?”
Dust shrugs. “does it matter? i could tell you it’s just us, i could tell you there are five of us, or ten, or a hundred. i could tell you that i’m here visiting my girlfriend, and that it’s none of your business anyways. so what are you gonna do about it?”
“Not believe you for one,” G fires back. The way his eyelights glow under the lip of his upper sockets is making him look way more like the Gaster half of him right now, and not in a pleasant way. “Even if it’s just two of you getting your kicks off the local drama, that’s two too much, and you need to get out of here and never come back. And if you won't go... then we have to make you.”
Dust’s grip on his phone tightens painfully, he can hear the quiet crack of the plastic case straining under pressure. He can deal with being on the receiving end of G’s prejudgment, he’s used to it, it’s the problem of LV being so easily checked after all. He doesn’t give a flying fuck about what G thinks about his choices.
He really doesn’t like the accusation that he doesn’t care about you.
It should be the other way around, you shouldn’t be giving someone like him the time of day. You, with a soul that everyone assumes is kind but gleams blue with integrity, a strong sense of morality and unapologetic honesty. You look at him like he’s not defined only by his LV, you look at all of them like they are… just more. Whole.
“LV like yours brings nothing but trouble,” G continues while just Dust scowls at him. “LV like that always has someone, or something chasing you. Someone seeking more power, more violence. When you have LV like that its like an addiction, you’ll never be satisfied by what you have. LV like yours corrupts everyone and everything around you, and that’s exactly what you want.”
“the fuck are you talkin’ about?” Dust asks, incredulous. LV’s not some infectious force, it only affects the individual receiving the EXP. It’s not fucking mold. That’s not how LV works, at all. Sure, it brings nothing but trouble wherever he goes, but that’s because nosy pricks like G throw out one CHECK and proceed to make every assumption under the sun and take it upon themselves to ‘avenge Dust’s victims’ or whatever righteous nonsense they come up with. "so you've been to two whole universes and decided you know how everythin' works. goody for you. why don't you take your knowledge and shove it up your coccyx!"
A curious look crosses G’s face. He flicks his lighter closed, his thumb resting on the top. His eyelights flick between you and Dust, and then he gestures to you with his skull. “Really? Then how is she holding your attack without it hurting her?”
Dust startles, flinching like he’s been slapped across the face. He automatically opens his mouth to argue back, but he falters, having no argument to give. He turns to look at you, and you’re looking back at him, eyebrows high and eyes wide with understandable confusion. His bone attack sparks angrily in your hands.
He CHECKs.
“Dust?”
Your LV is still 0. EXP 0, as expected. But your HP hasn’t even dropped a fraction. That attack in your hands, the one he gave you, should be hot, searingly hot, uncomfortable to hold like a cup of coffee heated past the boiling point on an already sweltering day. It should be like holding a thorny vine with no safe spaces to rest even a finger. A live wire of electric current enough to power a whole building discharging into you. It should be a devastating punch to the gut.
That should be hurting you.
“Dust? What is he talking about?”
He doesn’t understand. You shouldn’t be able to hold that, yet here you are. He didn’t even think, didn’t even notice until it was pointed out. You have no LV, the CHECK hasn’t shown any change in your soul, at least not on the surface. But that’s not how LV works anyways, it’s not like it can leech out from him and into you. It’s not like a fucking cold… Is it?
Is it?!
He tries to say something again, but he can’t. In the face of your confusion and G’s accusation… he doesn’t know. He doesn’t understand. The longer he goes without answering, the more your expression drops with dread.
“Souls don’t change, especially not human ones. But LV corrupts, absolutely,” G explains, content to pick up where Dust apparently can’t. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and folding his hands together under his chin. “All LV is good for is hurt, for making it easier to hurt others. It gets to the point where it can hurt without you so much as lifting a finger. It corrupts the way you think until you lose yourself. With LV like his,” and G’s eyelights flick towards Dust before locking back onto you “everything in his world revolves around it. He doesn’t feel anything positive unless he’s hurting someone, and even then it’s not real. Just enough to fuel the addiction. Whatever you think he feels for you is fake, you’re just a means to the end, and the proof is right there in your hands… He’s changing you Addison.”
G tilts his skull, and in the darkness of the room his yellow eyelights smoulder brightly along the lines of the cracks running up and down his face. “Red used to gush about you all the time. ‘So kind, she couldn’t hurt a fly’, he’d say, ‘so gentle and soft’. ‘Scared of violence’ and ‘would rather run away and hide from it instead of fighting’, he liked that about you. That you were everything he wasn’t, made him feel like he could one day be something like that too. But when you took that swing at me, Addison, you swung with intent. Wouldn’t have killed me, wouldn’t even come close, trust me. But it would have hurt. And he made it that way… he made you that way.”
Dust’s hands shake in his pockets. He wants to run - he’s hurting you - he wants to tear G apart - he’s hurting you - he wants to disappear forever - he’s horrible, he’s terrible, he’s HURTING YOU --
You’re still staring at Dust with a look he can’t quite place anymore. Confusion still, sure, but something else that has your wheels turning, something paired with that look of deep thinking that Dust has never seen on you before. He feels a shiver run down his spine, like a cold drop of sweat.
“So is that what you want?”
Your expression shifts, mouth forming a tight, thin line, brows furrowing in resolve. Dust shudders again, and lowers his skull under his hood falls protective over his sockets, shame keeping him from facing you anymore. He’s SCUM, how could he THINK HE DESERVES a chance at HAPPINESS when all he’s capable of is HURT --
“... Those are good qualities?”
Dust lifts his gaze to see you looking at G. Your tone is slow and deliberate, and you take a small step forward. You hold the attack at your side with your right hand.
Your fingers are clenched around it.
“... Let me rephrase,” you say after a moment when G doesn’t answer. “Those are ‘moral’ qualities?”
Dust feels like a child again, sitting in class with a teacher looming over him, asking him a question that he knows up and down, left and right that if he answers, no matter what the answer is, he’ll be screwed.
And you’re not actually addressing him.
G’s face hardly betrays anything other than mild surprise. “... I’m sorry, are you trying to imply that shying away from violence is a bad thing all of a sudden?” he asks instead of answering, obviously at a loss in your line of thinking. “I really don’t understand the point you’re trying to make.”
“No, you don’t understand. You think you do, you think you know it all, but you don’t. And that’s not what you said,” you respond, holding up a finger like you’re silencing a class. “‘Scared of violence’ and ‘would rather run away and hide’ are the words you used. The exact words, the words Red supposedly used to describe me. I don’t know what that sounds like to you, but to me it sounds like my best quality, in Red’s opinion, is that I’m too scared to defend myself.”
An arc of magic ripples down the bone, and for a second the colour looks off. Dust shudders again, but for a completely different reason.
“Okay, look.” G sits up straighter. “Obviously you’re still bitter about how Red treated you. I told you before, I don’t really care about whatever issues the two of you have, it’s none of my business. I’m only here for him, and I honestly came here expecting to find a human who can’t really fend for herself against someone like him. Instead, here you are threatening me at his behest.”
“No, that’s where you’re wrong,” you say calmly. So calmly.
And Dust realizes why he couldn’t place your expression. Even compared to that night at the bar, that evening so long ago that entwined both of you together…
He’s never seen you this angry.
“You can tell yourself otherwise, and try to pretend you’re impersonal, but you have firmly shoved yourself into my business,” you continue. “You’re using Red’s words, and my former connection with Red, to justify your intrusion into my life however you see fit. For the ‘greater good’. As if my feelings don’t matter.”
You take another step forward, then another. The bones still hanging in the air, forgotten and on the verge of fading away from Dust’s distress, simply move out of the way, giving you a clear path. The frightening thing is that Dust can’t tell if he’s moving them consciously or unconsciously for you. You stop in front of your coffee table, keeping it between yourself and G.
“There’s no version of your story where I have my own choice, my own agency,” you point out. “I’m either the innocent victim being played, or the bitter ex being manipulated. You’re saying Dust made me use this against you, somehow.” You lift the bone attack, not in any way threateningly, and just wave it slowly back and forth, like you’re examining it for defects. “... I took a swing at you because you broke into my home in the middle of the night while I was asleep. I was defending myself, Dust just armed me.”
“Right, okay, so killing’s acceptable for you now if you’re defending yourself,” G argues with increasing annoyance. “Glad you’ve drawn that line in the sand for yourself.”
“If you’re going to argue morality, don’t do it after breaking into my home to attack someone I care about,” you counter. Hard anger temporarily slips through your composure. “Who gave you the right to claim that my feelings don’t matter, or that his feelings aren’t real? Who exactly do you think you are, huh, the judge, jury and executioner? Tell yourself over and over that those with high LV don’t matter so that you can feel justified in being an ass? Everything’s on the table, so long as you don’t actually kill anyone, right? That’s your line in the sand, your moral high ground.”
G was wrong.
Even without the sight of the Judge, the ability to see your soul directly, he knows that integrity may be the make of your soul, but it’s bound together by veins of fury, a core of justice that pulses vibrantly and burns hotter than the surface of the sun, suppressed under the lock and lid manufactured by others telling you over and over not to retaliate, not to fight back.
You don’t need LV at all.
G sees it too, the exact moment that Dust does. He jumps to his feet, tense like a coil, a frightened creature backed into a corner. But while magic seeps into his balled up fists, and his eyelights glow yellow…
The yellow in your soul blazes like an inferno.
“There are a lot of ways to hurt someone without killing them, a lot of ways to cause so much pain without LV. Trust me, I know that very well. That’s the kind of behaviour that corrupts, those are the kinds of people who are dangerous. Because it’s insidious, it’s deceptive. If there’s anyone manipulating anyone in this room, it’s you. You’re manipulating Dust into thinking that he’s hurting me just by being here. You’re trying to manipulate me to turn against him. All while you sit on my couch like this is all a performance and you’re just the director.”
“So you just trust him?” G snaps. “He says one nice thing to you, maybe pats your back a bit while you cry over the breakup, and that erases all the hurt he’s caused?”
“You don’t even know how he got his LV, you’re just assuming,” you fire back. “That's all you're doing, is making assumptions. 'He's gonna do this, he's gonna do that', you took one look at him and decided you knew everything there ever was to know about him. You all took one look at Cross, at the big scary skeleton on a date with his girlfriend at the park, and decided that he was a threat to you. You said it yourself, you ‘understand’ why Axe and Crooks have their LV, but you don’t ‘approve’, because again you’re the beacon of morality and anything anyone’s done in the name of survival needs to meet your standards, otherwise they’re scum, and unworthy of any kind of decency. Well guess what, you don’t meet my standards.”
“You can’t apply double standards to this; you can’t say that my morals are wrong and yours are right.”
“They are right, for me. I choose who I trust, I choose who I care for. Not you. Not Wine, not even Red. Not anyone of your family, who have caused me more hurt and betrayal in my life than Dust ever has, or ever will. Then Cross ever will, or any of the others. They’ve earned my trust, they respect me and my choices, and I choose them. All of them, through and through. If that means changing into someone who fights back, then that’s who I choose to be. Because for the first time in my life, I feel brave. I feel like I have a handle on who I am and what I want, and what I would do to defend it. So…”
You rest the end of the attack on your coffee table, holding it like King Arthur about to pull out your sword of truth. “You wanted to know how many? There are six of us. And I’m only going to ask you one more time nicely…” You smile at G. It carries the unspoken threat undeniably, crashing like waves of the oncoming storm.
“Leave.”
The room is silent for an agonizing minute. G glares at you, his face wearing both the cold frustration of Gaster, and the mean anger of Sans. With his hackles still raised, G shortcuts behind the couch. “... Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” is all he says before he vanishes, shortcutting again to who knows where to lick his wounds and probably spill all the glamorous details to the others.
Dust watches you as your shoulders drop, your chest heave as you take a deep, shaky breath. You run your left hand through your hair, and he sees the gleam of sweat along your hairline just starting to bead from stress. You turn to look at him, there’s no heat or anger left, and all he sees in your eyes…
“Are you okay?”
LV of a different kind.
Dust nods, jerkily. He doesn’t trust his mouth. He should be asking if you’re okay, he should be… he should be…
“Hey.” You walk over to him, the attack left behind on the coffee table, discarded so casually. Dust dismisses it, along with all the others that were on the verge of breaking apart anyways. You place your hands on his shoulders, and Dust can feel them shaking too, even through his hoodie.
“... you’re s-shak-king,” he mumbles, intelligently. He tries to ignore the fact that his stutter’s made an appearance. Fuck, he was already pulled thin from the last flare-up, just feeling like he was getting back on his feet, fucking exhausted but better mentally. Now he feels pulled like a rubber band that’s snapped, his magic surging but not strong enough to sustain another spike. He feels worse than drained.
“That’s okay. It’s okay. C’mere.” You pull him in for a hug and he greedily accepts it, clinging to you like a figment of a good dream he doesn’t want to wake up from. You’re shaking, but fuck if you’re holding yourself together way better than he can right now.
He should be the one comforting you, he should be--
“We’re okay Dust,” you say soothingly. “What he said isn’t true, okay? Your feelings are your own, your choices are your own. You’re more than just your LV, don’t listen to him. You’ve never hurt me, you aren’t hurting me, okay? I trust you. I choose you.”
He trusts you too.
Dust clings to you, hiding his face on your shoulder. This time, you’re the one to hold him, whisper assurances to him, to calm the last of the surge and stop the phantoms of his brother and the others from appearing. His lighthouse in the storm leading him home, a beacon of gentle sincerity and steadfast virtue… and you chose him. You chose them, the ones everyone said weren’t worth existing. You chose them.
He chose you too. And he’ll spend the rest of his days showing that to you.
Chapter 33: The Bonds We Break, The Bonds We Make
Summary:
After Addison’s not-so-wonderful encounter with Error, Nightmare suggests a visit to Sci is in order, to ensure there’s no lingering damage after all that’s happened. But the scan uncovers more than anyone expected, and reveals an answer that’s just as puzzling to the question it belongs to.
Chapter Tags: Eldritch on eldritch fighting, discussions of medical exams and discomfort with them, allusions to past trauma
Hey guys, sorry I've taken so long with this chapter. Turns out, even when you know the plot from beginning to end, writer's block is still a bitch and a half. This is a pivotal chapter as well, with future stuff relying on the stuff revealed here. That, and work-life balance has been a pain to deal with, but anyways, we move on!
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
It felt like a shock racing through his body; a sudden, sharp jolt that stole the breath his body was forced to make.
Something was wrong.
But this was such a foreign feeling for him, he couldn’t know what.
The corruption on his body rippled violently, bubbling like brewed concoction as it reacted to a sudden spike of negativity. Rage lit his core on fire, fear sat like an acrid taste in the back of his mouth. So abrupt was the surge that his fingers jerked uncontrollably, the pen in his hand skipping on the page and tearing a line into the paper.
And from somewhere in the very depth of his body, in the part of him so buried and hidden away under the layers and layers of everything he is now…
Nightmare’s soul beat with a new pulse.
Within the confines of his castle, the ambient magic spreading his consciousness out like a web… he sensed a soul exposed.
And the soul in his body pulsed with a plea for help.
In the time it took to rise from his desk, his body unconsciously siphoned enough negativity to feed him for a solid week. He had to momentarily brace himself, leaning against the side of his desk, as he fought against the haze and discovered that this fury, this fear, was coming from within his home. That he recognized each soul that was producing all this sudden negativity.
When he stepped into the foyer, he was intent on being the disciplinarian, the rational mind aiming to get to the bottom of the irrationality around him. The room was a murky soup filled with the brine of anger and rage, his body rippled again, amplifying all feelings on unconscious reflex.
Ahead of him he saw the recent damage, the newly destroyed wall brought down to smouldering chunks courtesy of a blaster. He saw Error standing in the path of carnage like an obvious target, his body humming and flickering in obvious irritation.
And he saw his boys, weapons out and trained on the Destroyer, unabashed outrage etched clearly across their features.
They know, they know down to their marrow, that while Error might resemble a colourful skeleton Monster like them, he is anything but. They know that Error is not to be trifled with, that a fight with him, for any reason, would be akin to throwing pebbles in an attempt at knocking down a mountain…
He saw you on the floor.
Cradled in Dust’s arms, your clothes stained red and body littered with the kind of wounds that Nightmare recognizes from Error’s sharp threads, a CHECK returned a sign that your HP had dropped by about half and a single line that had Nightmare’s soul run cold:
COLD AS A CORPSE
SOUL SQUEEZED LIKE A PLUSH
And suddenly he was willing to knock over the mountain too.
Nightmare slammed the skeleton against the wall, crushing him within his enlarged claws. It felt good, shedding the small confines of his physical body and allowing himself the change into something sharper, primal. It felt good, expanding his domain of darkness all through the foyer, allowing his shape to change in ways only the fearful can imagine.
It felt good to not have to hold back.
Let me make this abundantly clear: you are NOT to touch her.
He felt Error squirm within his grasp, like a wriggling fish caught out of water. He felt thin blue threads try to latch onto his claws, sharp as Error tried to cut his way out. Nightmare simply dissolved his fingers away to nothing, then reformed them immediately after the threads failed to latch onto anything solid.
Her soul is NOT yours to TAKE.
He felt the moment Error decided to stop playing around like a child pretending to fight, shortcutting in an instant out of Nightmare’s grip. Threads streaked out of the darkness from the left, and on instinct Nightmare melts away and becomes incorporeal again. He summons tentacles in response, dozens and dozens of tendrils forming in the darkness and homing in on the erratic Destroyer with uncanny alien cunning.
Error continued to dodge and shortcut with impressive speed, but what he was either wilfully ignorant of or just deliberately ignoring was that Nightmare IS the darkness, and so long as he continued to stay within the void of blackness Nightmare would ALWAYS be able to find him.
Tendrils ensnared Error once again, coiling, twisting and squeezing as Nightmare yielded to the full might of his fury. He ensures his voice booms from every direction when he speaks.
This is my last warning to you. You will not harm what is MINE.
Error predictably continued to struggle and resist, his frenzied eyelights glowing harshly in the unnatural dark. In spite of Nightmare existing less as a corporeal being and more of an overwhelming presence, Error was successful in levelling Nightmare with an angry glare.
“tH3n U’d-d-d bETt3r g3t HEr l00k3d @ so0n. w0u1d-dN’t w4nt 2 G-g-gET a N4stY surpR1Se, W0uld U-u?”
***
“So… you want to take me to a doctor?”
“As a necessary precaution.”
Nightmare completely understands why you’ve been… quieter than usual this morning, your attention obviously being pulled away at regular intervals to reflect on what happened only yesterday. He understands, and he doesn’t like it. Even now, part of him wishes he had let his anger at Error go for a little while longer.
It would have been futile, the logical part of his mind argues. For as much as he was capable of throwing around the Destroyer like a rag doll, it wasn’t exactly hurting him. Had both their minds been set on it, they could absolutely do a fair bit of damage to one another. But they’re too evenly matched in terms of strength, any ‘victory’ would not exactly be that rewarding, nor be all that long-lasting.
Nightmare especially doesn’t like the twinge of fear that causes the corruption to ripple like pond water, or the way your shoulders seem to drop and curl on yourself at his suggestion, like you’re trying to shield yourself from the mere idea.
“... Would he have done something to me?” you ask meekly.
“No,” he answers. “No, that’s not his usual forte. It’s only…” and here he falters, his mind scrambling to try and explain his reasoning without alarming you further.
All Error ever does to souls he finds interesting enough is add them to his collection, whisking them away to the Anti-Void before they shatter where they can hang in stasis strung up by thread like macabre ornaments. It’s enough of an unsettling hobby that even Nightmare tries not to pry too much into the “whys” and the “dear gods why?!”.
But Error’s cryptic words echo in Nightmare’s mind, teasing his curiosity and testing the bounds of his worry. Error might not have done anything to your soul - a point Nightmare’s sure you would like to argue - but the fact that something piqued his interest enough to throw a thinly veiled warning Nightmare’s way has him highly concerned nonetheless.
Of course, you might not trust that Error has your best interests at heart. Nightmare has doubts about that himself.
“Error takes notice of souls with unique qualities,” Nightmare continues, deciding to go with the half truth. “Something he saw in yours stood out to him, but he was not exactly forthcoming when I pressed the issue.”
“when you pressed the issue, or pressed him into the floor?”
“Both.”
Dust hums, only semi satisfied with the answer. He takes the opportunity to gently push your forgotten plate of blueberry pancakes closer to you, until you take notice and oblige him by taking a few more bites that are probably only room temperature by now.
To be fair, you’re not the only one having a hard time focusing on breakfast, less than ideal conversation aside.
Dust’s own stack of pancakes is only half eaten, he’s done more to nurse his coffee than to pick up his fork and continue eating. Nightmare knows that he’s still holding your other hand under the table, and has no doubt that he would shortcut you away immediately at the mere whisper of something going wrong, as unlikely as an event that is here in the castle.
Horror is seated on your other side, and normally the lack of appetite at breakfast would bother him greatly, but Nightmare instantly noticed how he only gave himself a single pancake, and has hardly added any syrup to it. It’s mostly gone in comparison to the rest of the plates on the table, but that’s not indicative of a good sign as it doesn’t particularly look like he’s enjoyed it. His pupil has been stuck as the size of a small pinhead all morning, laser focused on you this whole time.
Cross has been looking everywhere but you. His movements have been stiff and robotic, taking sips of coffee as his eyelights dart between the doorway, the small and round porthole window on the opposite side, and the wall across from him, as if expecting someone or something to come bursting through at any moment. The cold soldier in him is still very much in the forefront, and Nightmare knows that when it eventually recedes and the real Cross comes back he’ll be exhausted and full of anxiety and guilt.
And Killer…
By all accounts, he appears to be the least on edge visibly, leaning back in his chair like he hasn’t a care in the world. But Nightmare knows the small tell-tale signs one should be actually looking for, such as the way Killer’s been sloppily shredding and tearing the soft pancakes apart with the knife rather than eating them. The way his smile is spread too wide, like a theatrical grotesque mask; the way his usual snark drips with the venom of an angered serpent. His soul has yet to return to a solid shape, it’s still too unstable, too fluid, flickering and wavering like something out of an impressionist’s fever dream, something so unsteady that a slight breeze could blow it apart.
This isn’t the worst Nightmare has seen it, not by a long shot, but it’s going to have to be taken care of sooner rather than later. Nightmare suspects it’s past the point where Killer can pull everything back together by himself with time.
So of course, when Nightmare feels the prickle of anger and anxiety in response to his suggestion, he knows it’s not only coming from you.
It’s impossible not to recognize that he was the only one not to see your soulless body on the floor after all.
“It doesn’t have to be today,” Nightmare offers, a compromise that doesn’t sit well with his own worry over the mystery lurking unseen in your soul. But if time is what you need to be more comfortable, then time is the least that he can give.
You shake your head quickly however, with a look that suggests that would be even worse. “No! No, just… let’s just, do it. Get it checked out. Over and done with.”
“you sure?” Dust asks. “you don’t have to, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”
“No, it’s fine… I mean, it’s not, but… I just, I’m not a huge fan of doctors,” you admit. “And I’m not exactly thrilled that my soul has to be… looked at… again.”
Nightmare nods. “If it helps, the individual I wish to go to is not your typical medical doctor… but he is highly skilled, and has the equipment capable of scanning your soul without… removing it.” He fights his own wince saying that last part, and again he feels the flinch of anger across the room as everyone else recalls the events of the day prior.
“of course you’re gonna take her to poindexter,” Killer mutters.
“well who else was it gonna be?” Dust retorts sarcastically.
“someone who doesn’t talk with his lab samples like a creep.”
“you hold whole ass conversations in baby-talk with your knives, dude.”
Despite the background bickering, you actually have a look of relief pass across your face though, almost happy to learn that you won’t have to go through something invasive so soon after what happened. “Okay, that’s… fine. That’s workable. I can deal with that.”
“we’ll be with you,” Horror assures quietly. “if ya want… so ya don’t have’ta be alone.”
Not that anyone in the room was intent on leaving you anywhere alone, everyone’s been practically glued to you since you all woke up. But the verbal assurance is enough to bring more relief to your face. “Yeah, I’d like that.” Horror rubs your upper back with a small throaty rumble of approval. “... So, this equipment, is it like an x-ray, or something?”
“Something similar.”
“don’t worry dimples, it’s all gonna tibia okay,” Dust promises.
Nightmare rolls his eyelight, and sighs loudly and disappointingly. You quirk your mouth in a smirk, Horror chuckles and Killer lets out a quiet “heh”. Even Cross cracks a hint of a smile. The soothing qualities of a terrible joke at obvious work.
If that’s what it takes to make them smile again, he’ll gladly pay the price.
“I’m afraid I can’t quite stomach your medical puns anymore,” Nightmare responds with his usual dour tone. “... I suffer from a severe irony deficiency.”
The snickers and laughter, still quiet but at least louder than before, was well worth the hit to his pride, and serves as enough of a distraction from his own lingering worry over what they might find.
***
From the outside looking in, this universe is one of the more “boring” ones, as Killer would put it. Nightmare thinks the term “stable” is more fitting, if he’s being honest. While The Underground here is still securely trapped behind the Barrier, its location directly under one of humanity’s great repository of scientific advancements means that objects infinitely more useful than broken appliances and forgotten toys tend to find their way down the winding caverns into the Junkyard.
It also means there’s a severe lack of human children falling into deep crevasses.
In all the time Nightmare has known and kept an eyelight on this universe, not a single human has appeared in The Underground. Which means not a single human soul has been collected to help breach the Barrier. Which also means that the Royal Family still only has one child, currently in his teenage years who enjoys tinkering with mechanical contraptions. Which also also means that Monsters here are not currently hostile to humans, or preparing for war.
It’s so fascinating how one small change has such a ripple effect on the advancement of the timeline. With no child, there is no soulless creature born from the dust of death. With no child, there is no RESET.
At least, not in the usual sense.
But that is a story for another day.
For now, the goal today is to see the current Royal Scientist. Which is not Gaster, nor is it Alphys. Or even Undyne. For all intents and purposes, the lone skeleton Monster in the expansive, spacious lab appears just like most other ‘Sans’. Short and stocky, with the usual hoodie swapped out for a clean white lab coat, the badge pinned to the front of it might say ‘Sans’, but they’ve come to know him by a different name altogether.
The Monster adjusts where his round metal glasses balance on his nasal aperture. Nightmare has known for a long time that particular mannerism is one of the few this Sans’ shows when he’s surprised or anxious.
It might have something to do with his current predicament.
You fidget in your seat, one of those basic task chairs on wheels with fake leather covering that squeaks every time you move, set up in the corner of the lab in front of a device that Nightmare’s already seen several different iterations of. In its current form, the scanner is something that looks like a flat, transparent, rectangular pane of glass, surrounded by a ring of metal with a few lights and buttons, set up on a tall, slim construct not unlike but more complicated than a tripod rig.
Their scientist follows two methods of design: simple and elegant, or as abstract and alien as possible.
“So… how much like an x-ray is this?” you ask nervously, crossing your arms over your chest.
“it’s not,” Sci says simply, and though Nightmare can tell that he feels exasperated at the basic comparison Sci is polite enough to not let it bleed out to his spoken words.
For the umpteenth time, Nightmare is happy with the decision to just have himself and Sci in the room with you for the scan; the rest of the boys are still on hair-trigger tempers and would probably not take Sci’s briskness all too well. And while they’re currently crowding just outside the lab door just waiting for the moment they can rush in, at least they’re behaving well enough that there still is a door in the first place.
And, yes, he had to drag out promises and vows not to ‘let off steam’ in this universe, as that would probably have a detrimental effect on the working relationship between Sci and Nightmare.
Maybe they should have waited until everyone had calmed down.
Sci’s short answer does very little to calm your anxiety. “... Okay, so how does it work then, like is this like an MRI?” you ask. When Sci just shakes his skull but neglects to answer, you press on. “Do I have to sit still for ten minutes? Am I going to feel the scanning? Or is this like a CHECK?”
“a modified one.” Sci’s never been much of a ‘people-person’, not as far as Nightmare has known him, and his standoffish personality is more of a product of nervousness than anything else. But the best way to get him to open up, or at least to start talking, is always to ask the exact right question to get him to delve into the specifics of his work.
“it’s supposed to mimic the abilities of someone with the judge’s eye,” he continues, speaking clearer and louder than his clipped responses before. “stats, lv, hp, atk, the usual attributes, but it can also determine dominant traits, tags, quirks, changes in resonance, health concerns… it’s meant to provide a full workup and detailed analysis of any soul it scans.”
“So it’s like a DNA reader?” you surmise.
“sort of-not really, but i guess that would be the closest human equivalent. you can’t exactly look at dna and be able to tell a subject’s temperament from it though.” Sci adjusts a dial on the stand, lowering the device half a foot before locking it again.
“Nightmare mentioned that there’s no humans in your Underground, so how is it going to understand what it’s looking at when it scans my soul? I was always taught human souls are different than Monsters.”
“you can thank nightmare for that, a lot of the data in the internal library came from him after all.”
Most of it came from Dust actually; while Nightmare does his best to understand the technicalities, there are some things that are beyond him, and better left to the one who still tinkers and dabbles in the sciences as a hobby.
You tilt your head. “So that’s what you get out of this arrangement, data from other worlds?”
Sci shrugs, and flicks a switch on the top of the device, causing the transparent glass to start glowing bright white along the edges. “more or less. i’m a scientist, and he has access to other universes. of course i’m gonna help him with technical problems if he brings me information that helps with my research here… speaking of…” Sci looks up at Nightmare, pushing his glasses up again. “we’re ready on my end.”
You immediately sit up straighter in the chair, like you’ve been jolted by an electrical shock, and Nightmare can taste your anxiousness rising like bile in the back of his mouth.
“I promise you nothing will happen, you have my word,” Nightmare assures. He’s not happy about the flash of shame he feels from you before you try to suppress it.
“I, just… sorry. I’m sorry.” You cover your face with your hands, rubbing around your eyes. “I’m freaking myself out about this, sorry…”
“You don’t have to apologize, Addison. We can wait until you feel more comfortable.” Sci’s skull bobs up from the instrument panel, clearly about to voice some sort of objection after spending all this time setting up, but Nightmare is quick to stifle the potential comment with one of his trademark looks that he’s been giving out like candy all day.
Sci is saved from having all his work go to waste as you shake your head vigorously, though you still keep your face hidden behind your hands. “No! I’ll be fine, just, just get it over with, please… don’t stall, just… hit me with it.”
Nightmare winces internally at your choice of words, but Sci takes it as appropriate enough go ahead. He presses another button on the panel, the glass lights up and lines of text scroll rapidly along it. The screen blinks, and while the glass part remains transparent enough to see you through it, a bright blue outline is drawn on the screen around your body. Sci presses another button, and the machine hums quietly as more lines of code appear around your outline. A white bar appears horizontally on the top of the screen and slides down, briefly illuminating a human soul shape as it moves over your body, then disappears once it reaches the bottom.
The code disappears, and the machine chimes with an obnoxious tinny-sounding jingle. Nightmare wouldn’t be surprised if it was some recognizable song that’s been made memetic, Sci’s version of a joke.
“scan’s complete,” Sci announces.
You slowly pull your hands away from your eyes, blinking in surprise. “... That’s it?”
“that’s it.” Sci presses a few buttons and flicks a few switches on the right side of the machine. He slides out what is probably the data core, a smaller, rectangular object that Killer or Dust would probably know more about. “you don’t have to sit there anymore,” he adds, without even looking up at you.
“... Oh.” You lower your hands fully, then you eagerly jump off the chair and shuffle over to stand closer to Nightmare. He automatically hooks his arm around yours, and clasps your hand tightly when you come close enough.
“Oh my god, I’m so stupid,” you mumble to Nightmare, and he can sense the beginnings of another apology on the tip of your tongue, so he quickly halts it with a gentle kiss to your forehead.
“You have nothing to apologize for,” he assures quietly. “Do not put yourself down for your feelings over this, it’s perfectly reasonable.”
After all, to say that you had a bit of a rough day yesterday would be a massive understatement.
“I just hate feeling jumpy and scared over everything.”
“That will pass, I promise you.”
Sci carries the object over to the front of the lab, and a complex set-up with a row of computers running different programs and one large screen hanging on the wall above them. Sci slots the object into the back of one of the computers, and starts to type rapidly on the closest keyboard, a digital one that glows blue. Lines of letters and numbers in nonsensical order fill the large screen row by row.
“Should we let the others in?” you ask, your eyes fixed on the screen as data continues to appear line by line.
“If you wish, we can. I expect they’re eager to join us, and there’s less risk of destruction when they’re supervised anyways.”
“you make them sound like they’re not house-broken,” Sci mutters, underestimating Nightmare’s very well tuned ability to hear bullshit.
“You’re more than welcome to try training them Sci,” Nightmare retorts as a tentacle slides over to the door and presses the button to unlock it. “Word to the wise though, Killer bites.”
“Just Killer?” you ask sarcastically just as the door slides open.
It doesn’t open fast enough, apparently, because as soon as there’s enough room to slip a phalange or two through Horror grabs the side of the door and hastily pushes it open all the way, knocking it off the sliding mechanism in the process. He obviously pays it no mind as he clambers into the lab, Dust and Cross hot on his heels as they come to join you.
Killer doesn’t even bother with that, merely shortcutting right to your other side. Nightmare has a small amount of appreciation that Killer managed to refrain from just popping into the lab before, especially given that his soul looks no better than it did that morning.
“‘just killer’ what?” he repeats, his tone doing its best impression of being teasing and light, and his mouth doing its best impression of a smirk.
While Nightmare knows that Killer would never let himself sink deep enough to be a threat to those he doesn’t want to hurt - and would hide himself away if he were plunging that low - that doesn’t stop Nightmare from wanting to be a touch cautious should Killer attempt to toe the line.
You however - either because you haven’t seen him at his worst, or because you understand who he is even at his worst - pay caution no heed, leaning your body closer to him with a coy smile, one of the more honest ones Nightmare has seen you make all day. “Sorry, it's a secret, going to have to beat Sister Friede for it without my help.”
Killer’s smirk becomes a little more real. And while it doesn’t do much to improve the state of his soul, it’s a step in the right direction. “isn't that the lady with three phases?”
"That's what she said," you reply, without missing a beat.
This time he laughs. “tease,” he snickers, winding his arm around your waist. Horror and Cross join the group, standing close behind you, and Dust quietly slips into a spot in front of you and Nightmare.
There’s a part of Nightmare that just longs for moments like these, where everyone can just be with one another, keeping close and with quiet conversations and gentle looks. Too seldom do they zip by each other, while some get their moments of peace, others are drawn into the chaos of their activities in the multiverse. He especially wishes this moment existed under better circumstances, and that everyone wasn’t as high strung as they are.
Maybe he should see about that…
“i’ve got the data imported, whenever you’re ready.”
But first, the matters they came here for.
Everyone steps closer to the screen, stopping a few feet away from Sci and his setup as he types in a few more commands. The lines on the screen all disappear, and then a three dimensional image appears in the centre, a churning, shifting magical construct not unlike a small concentrated fire that vaguely resembles the shape humans commonly associate with a cartoonish heart. It glows vividly, rotating on the screen with several wisps streaking out like ethereal tendrils, its colours shifting between a deep royal blue and a bright luminescent yellow.
The room is silent save for the humming of equipment. Nightmare feels the change in emotions almost immediately, the sudden outpouring of different responses from around him; surprise from you, awe and adoration from everyone else at seeing even a facsimile of your soul under better circumstances than yesterday. The anxiety and lingering anger all seem to melt away, and there’s a near silent shuffle of feet as the others try and move impossibly closer to you. Nightmare himself regards the image of you, your soul, all of you, with a rare but not unfamiliar feeling of reverence, a feeling he saves only for his partners. His grip on your hand tightens, though he doesn’t recognize his own possessiveness right away.
Even on the screen, it’s you.
“okay, first thing’s first,” Sci announces, his back still to everyone and completely unaware of the emotional shift behind him. Small boxes with white text inside appear on screen in the black space around the soul. “predominant traits align with ‘integrity’ and ‘justice’, with a fifty-four percent and forty-two percent split specifically. two point four percent ‘courage’, zero point nine percent ‘perseverance’, and negligible amounts of ‘kindness’ and ‘patience’ to round it out.”
“knew it,” Dust mumbles.
“Wait, I…” you trail off, looking at the screen with a clear expression of confusion. “I don’t fully understand traits, but, I thought… I was always told mine was ‘kindness’. They were so sure of it.”
“A regular CHECK won’t show traits, not unless a Judge is the one CHECKing you,” Nightmare explains. “The soul must be observed, either directly or through equipment like this, to properly identify a soul trait.”
Although one could make an educated guess, if they understand traits and know what qualities they’re looking for. Nightmare recalls the conversation he had months ago, after the G in your universe brazenly broke into your apartment. They all had reasoned that you must have ‘integrity’ as a dominant trait somewhere in your soul makeup, but after that night Dust was sure ‘justice’ was tied in there too, and in a large way.
Looks like he was onto something.
Notably no DETERMINATION though.
“ya can still be the other stuff,” Horror adds, zeroing in faster than the rest on the root of your concern. “you’re kind, an’ brave… jus’ like you’re dedicated an’ true, honest… those are jus’ the stuff your soul draws from to make you you.”
“everything you do will have those traits adding context to those actions,” Sci continues. “even human souls are still magic, and traits follow along the core principles of magic. so if you were magically inclined, those would be the main pillars of magic you would naturally be drawn to… speaking of…” Another box suddenly appears on screen, this time with a bright red bar along the top and with a thin line between it and the soul connecting it.
This time, the flash of surprise and confusion Nightmare feels comes from Sci.
Before Nightmare can get a good look at what’s written in the box, Sci presses a button and it blips away.
No one says anything.
Nightmare gives Sci until the count of thirty before he speaks. “... What was that Sci?” he asks tersely.
“nothing,” Sci says quickly. “more stuff about traits.” He types out another command, and new boxes appear on the screen, similar to the ones from before. He pushes his glasses up.
It takes more control that Nightmare wants to admit to keep his tentacles from suddenly thrashing against the floor behind him, Error’s message dancing hand in hand with Nightmare’s paranoia as Sci’s lie melts bitterly in his mouth.
And he knows Nightmare can pick up on it.
“as i was saying,” Sci redirects, interrupting everything Nightmare was about to voice, “there’s no magical ability detected in the soul, which makes sense given what you’ve told me about humans in your universe…. i can also see a bit of damage here.” Sci points to a few areas on the soul, parts where the colours appear duller, or dark grey in some small spots, a clear indication of scarring from soul trauma. “a lot of it looks older, somewhere in the range of ten to thirty years old, it’s hard to pinpoint this kind of stuff.”
Nightmare is about to politely request that Sci backup a moment to when he lied about something in your soul, but you chime in instead. “That’s okay Sci, I think I know where that came from then,” you say, a doleful and far away look in your eyes, and it’s not hard to guess exactly where your mind has travelled to.
He finds himself once again of the opinion that those who have hurt you badly enough to leave permanent scars on your soul don’t deserve their continued existence, but pushes aside thoughts of vengeance as now is not the time for that.
You bounce out of your memories rather quickly this time, shaking your thoughts away as Cross rests his hand on your shoulder in comfort, reminding you of the care and affection that surround you.
“well, i said most of it’s old… some of it is newer.” Sci slides his hand across the touch pad built into the keyboard, which rotates the soul on screen. “i can see here that the soul was forcibly removed recently, which makes sense… given error paid you a visit and all. the tether’s been healed well though, so i don’t think there’ll be permanent damage in the long run.”
“yeah that’s thanks to criss-cross here.”
Cross straightens at the sound of his nickname, although remains silent as he has been all day, the main tell that he’s still too stressed to be an active participant in conversations. You look over your shoulder at him until you catch his eyelights, and when you give him a small smile his stony facade cracks a little bit more and he returns it, though equally shy.
Nightmare wasn’t lying when he told you it would take time for your feelings to settle back to normal, and the same goes for the others. Emotions will eventually even out, once some distance is gained between the event and the present.
“okay, yeah, as i said that makes sense... but then, here there’s the resonance change, and the broken bond, and that-”
“I’m sorry, a broken what?”
Yet again there’s a pregnant pause, and emotions start to shift again as everyone tries to reason out their own interpretations of what was just said.
Sci clears his false throat. “... okay, well this here,” and Sci points to one of the tendrils floating out from the soul, the smallest one in comparison to the others. Now that Nightmare is looking at it, he can’t recall any instance when he’s seen a soul - Monster, human or otherwise - with those tendrils. “this is a broken soul bond.”
This time the pause lasts about ten seconds before everyone erupts and speaks at once, startling Sci enough to turn around and actually face them, sockets wide behind his lenses.
“A… what?”
“are you shittin’ me?”
“... what d’ya mean broken?”
“so what are those other ones?!”
“Enough,” Nightmare asserts loudly. Further outbursts are held in check thankfully, giving Sci some room to explain.
And he’d better explain.
Sci blinks, and hides his hands into his pockets after adjusting his glasses. “uhh, well, i… admittedly i don’t have a lot of data from soulmate universes, but this fits some of the patterns i’ve been finding. it’s…” Sci starts to pace a few steps back and forth in front of the monitor.
“okay, souls all exist with their own frequency, for lack of a better term, it’s called a resonance. you remember your dna analogy before? the resonance is like the soul’s dna, completely unique to the individual. from what i can tell, in your universe, soulmates are individuals who share the same resonance, so their souls are naturally drawn to one another.”
“Yeah, believe me, I get that… but what do you mean that’s a broken bond?” you ask, anger clearly rising in your voice.
Something in the back of Nightmare’s mind twitches with familiarity, and he realizes he knows where this is going…
Sci sighs, for lack of a better word. He turns his back to everyone again, opting to hide in the safety of reading data off on one of the smaller screens below the large one. “your soul… there’s an adaptable quality to your soul’s resonance, according to what i’m reading here. and it doesn’t look to be a mutation, and that’s also not something you see in a lot of universes. i’d have to get more data, it might be a trait only found in yours, i don’t know the statistical prevalence for something like this in the multiverse…” Sci spins the image of the soul around again, highlighting the small, stubby tendril.
“souls in your universe… when two souls with different resonances spend a certain amount of time in the vicinity of each other, their resonance will start to change, and adapt, to the other… well, until they match, and the bond is established.”
“Then why is that one broken?” you repeat, your voice hard with a barely contained fury as Nightmare realizes you’ve figured out where this is leading too.
Sci doesn’t know the context behind your anger, so Nightmare can understand his bafflement at your reaction. “there could be a lot of reasons, really: the other individual died before the bond became established, the souls are no longer in close proximity to one another-”
“Because someone had the winning fucking resonance number and got her bond nice and settled just by walking by?! And five years goes down the drain like it was never fucking real?!”
“uhhh… i don’t-”
“Better that you don’t, Sci,” Nightmare interrupts while you cross your arms and positively fume in anger and frustration.
It’s understandable, really. Resonance harmonization certainly answers a few of the lingering questions Nightmare had. For someone who wasn’t Red’s soulmate, the break up appeared to hit you hard, significantly so. Some might say that the time it’s taken you to come to terms with that pain and to move on is excessive, though Nightmare has a tentacle or three they could try saying that to.
Because if the backup occurred just before the bond had settled…
“... Stupid, stupid, so stupid,” you mutter. “It’s so stupid that’s how it works. I hate it. I hate my world.”
“i agree.” Killer tilts his skull closer to your head. “want me to go fuck it up?”
“I’m thinking about it,” you grumble. As angry as you are, Nightmare can tell the threat has very little substance behind it, just venting for the sake of getting it off your chest.
Still, your world does suck.
“you didn’t answer my question,” Dust says suddenly. “what are those other lines then?”
The other…
Sci ducks his skull, hunching his shoulders as if trying to hide behind them. Nightmare looks back up at the image, at the longer tendrils snaking out from the soul, and he counts…
Five.
And more puzzle pieces slide into place, revealing a picture that Nightmare never considered possible.
His chest feels tight.
“well, those are… um.” It’s impossible to see Sci’s face from this angle, but his sheepishness is all too apparent in his broken sentences. “... well it’s still able to change resonance, even with one broken bond, so… i mean… i don’t know why i have to tell you guys, but… uh, it looks like it’s trying to attune… five different ways.”
It’s trying to attune.
It’s trying to bond.
“... Wait, how… what do you mean…?” You fall silent, mouth agape as the realization fully sinks in. Your tense posture softens as the anger falls away and changes to a shock that echoes and ripples all across the room.
Your soul is reaching out, trying to become their soulmate.
Theirs.
The ones the multiverse said was undeserving of such things.
Theirs.
“... What if they don’t want a bond with me?” you whisper.
“What?” Nightmare almost misses the sourness of guilt that starts to emerge. He turns to face you fully, watching as your posture shrinks under self-doubt and a terrible feeling of worthlessness. “Addison-”
“My soul’s doing that without asking, and, and…” you stammer, tripping over your own words. “What if you don’t want… I don’t need a bond to be okay, I’m happy with… I just… I don’t want to force anyone to, if they don’t want--”
“Hey, come here Addy,” Cross says quietly, the first words he’s said all day. He tugs on your shoulder until you oblige and turn around, and he pulls you into a tight hug. You bury your face in his coat and twist your fingers in the white fabric while he rubs your back. “I want you,” he whispers.
Hardly a moment passes before Horror throws his arms around both you and Cross, nearly taking both of you off your feet. “‘course we want you cookie… always,” he assures, his voice wobbling and thick with emotion.
Dust joins the group hug from behind, worming his way under Horror’s arms and leaning his skull on your shoulder as he hooks his arms around you and Cross. “i told you i’m selfish, sweet soul. you’re ours.”
Killer stands still and quiet just out of reach, and for a brief moment Nightmare thinks his own issues with self-worth are going to cause him to flee. Instead, despite the state of his soul and difficulties dealing with his own confusing mixture of emotions, Killer quickly closes the distance and throws himself into the group. “ours. only ours, fuck everyone else,” he repeats, “we’re not lettin’ you go.”
Whether they listen to his will, or move with a will of their own, Nightmare’s tentacles slide and wind securely around everyone before he too steps forward and joins the hug. His chest feels tight yet light at the same time, the corruption churns under the haze of adoration and devotion, yet he feels bolstered by it too, driven by the sense that this is his, and he would rend the multiverse apart for what’s his.
His partners.
His soulmates.
“Ours,” he vows, with a strength and resolve that will never break.
***
Nightmare elects not to follow the rest of you through the portal back to the castle. He’ll return later, as he’s sure there will be many hours of tears and talking ahead of them, buffered by whatever creature comforts everyone needs to work through their own thoughts and emotions. The revelation of the soul bonds doesn’t change anything, not per say, but at the same time that fluttering feeling in his chest persists with the knowledge that your soul is choosing them. All of them.
Your soul, fuelled by integrity and justice, is choosing HIM.
He wonders if this is what it feels like to be ‘on cloud nine’.
Unfortunately, euphoria must wait, because there is another matter to attend to.
Sci was kind enough to keep quiet and out of the way as everyone broke down under the weight of their collective affection for one another, likely embarrassed at being witness to normally private moments. But as he works away, compiling the rest of the data to look at another day when emotions aren’t running too high, Nightmare picks up on the obvious line of dread that sends his spine straight and rigid.
Because he knows Nightmare hasn’t forgotten.
“You had better have a damn good reason why you’re keeping things from her,” Nightmare hisses. He thinks he’s doing a fantastic job of keeping his temper in check, even as he feels his tentacles twist and slap the ground in response to his anger. “Otherwise you and I are going to have a discussion, and then I’m going to drag you to the castle and have you apologize to her personally and inform her of what you’re hiding.”
“look, i’m sorry. but she was freaked out enough from the moment you brought her in,” Sci points out. He keeps his back to Nightmare, not even looking away from the screen once. His phalanges move quickly as he types away on the keyboard. “i’m an introvert, but i’m not soulless, i’d rather not scare her until i have some kind of answer.”
“Answer as to what?” Nightmare demands. “If this is regarding her soul resonating with ours--”
“it’s not.”
“Then what are you hiding?!”
Sci sighs angrily, and finally turns around, staring up at Nightmare with a fire in his eyelights, as if he weren’t glaring at the Guardian of Negativity. He points at the screen. “look at this,” he demands.
Nightmare obliges, even as his tentacles itch for violence. He looks at the spot Sci has pointed to, where that box with the red bar on top has reappeared. Inside the box are some lines of text that doesn’t look like typical code, but still looks gibberish even to his well-read eyelight. “Explain,” he orders simply.
“that shouldn’t be there.”
Nightmare feels something in him go cold, and Error’s words come right back to the forefront of his mind. But that’s even more of a cryptic response than the uncooperative destructive skeleton. “That’s not an explanation,” Nightmare snipes. “All you’ve done is dance around what it is that you’ve found.”
Sci sighs again, and mumbles something that Nightmare chooses to ignore for the sake of peace. Sci shoves his hands in his pockets, and walks away few steps, putting space between himself and Nightmare. “... when i made the scanner, the first thing i did was scan everyone i could here in the kingdom,” he explains. “once i did that, the next thing i did was ask you for help getting more scans. more data.”
Sci’s wandering takes him to the scanning apparatus. He rests a hand on one of the bars supporting the glass tablet. “you know why i made this… that i made this because of pap.”
Nightmare nods, not that Sci is looking at him. In a rare turn of events in the multiverse, Sci’s brother Papyrus was the one who inherited the role as this world’s Judge, something that as an older brother Sci has never been too thrilled with. Being the Judge carries a certain level of danger embedded within the role, and while things might be good in a peaceful society…
Nightmare knows all too well that all it takes is one.
Sci knew that too. And as a Monster with a passion for science, also knew that the supposedly-impartial force of the Judge will always walk hand in hand with the biases that come from living a life as an imperfect being. Nightmare knew he had been working on something to remove the Monster half of the Judge equation, to bring the position to what he considers true impartiality, and make it a bit safer as well.
The Judge and the role has varied from universe to universe; sometimes it’s a whole conscious entity living within the host’s mind, and others it’s merely an additional power or instinct bestowed onto the unlucky Monster. Most always serve the crown ruler, although some act independent of the whims of the royalty. Nightmare has his own opinions on the Judge and its pursuit of ‘justice’, most of which can be summed up to he doesn’t like it. But he keeps that to himself.
“he was the first i scanned actually, practically begged to be first in line when it was ready.” Sci smiles, and Nightmare picks up on the subtle wave of affection and pride behind his look. “didn’t understand how it worked, but that’s never stopped him from ever being enthusiastic… such a great guy… he still asks about this, if i ever got it to work the way i want it.”
His smile falls, a serious look overtaking it as he meets eyelights with Nightmare again. “there are thousands of data points in this. tens of thousands, from here and all across the multiverse… that marker addison has is something i’ve only found in a handful of souls.”
The gravity of the statistical rarity isn’t lost on Nightmare, even if he still doesn’t understand what Sci is trying to allude to. “What are you saying, that you don’t know what it means?”
“i have a theory,” Sci says slowly, and Nightmare recognizes that he’s holding himself back from launching into a full rapid-fire theoretical lecture. “... because i’ve only seen the marker in a few souls that belong to other sans’... found it in dust too when he offered to be scanned… and my papyrus.”
Nightmare quickly tries to reason out what commonalities might exist between you and Dust and Sci’s brother of all individuals, but Sci saves him this puzzle.
“... i think it’s a marker for compatibility with the judge.”
What?
How?!
“How? That’s not possible…” The Judge is a soul-based entity, magic-based. Sure, Nightmare has come across one or two universes where a human has carried out the role of the Judge, but only due to quirks and circumstances of their universe. And the humans in those few circumstances have magic-capable souls, or are human mages.
You’re… none of those things.
In the face of confusion, Nightmare tries to reach for the logical. “Are you sure that’s the case? You said before that her soul has no affinity for soul magic!”
“and i also said her soul has adaptable qualities,” Sci counters.
“No, you said her resonance is capable of adapting to others as harmonization.” Nightmare crosses his arms.
“that’s all i can confirm, the rest is speculation.” Sci drums his phalanges on the device. He then walks to the nearest wall, where several tall shelves sit in a row filled with containers and objects, pieces of tech and instruments. He walks slowly along the wall, running his hand along each shelf. “the truth is, i have no idea what the limits of her soul’s adaptable capabilities are, and i get the impression that it isn’t a highly explored topic back in her universe.”
Sci isn’t incorrect in that assessment, if the truth of how their soulmates are formed has lied undiscovered under gossip and the myth of ‘love at first sight’ for this long. Still, though, Nightmare remains unconvinced. “Human and Monster couplings are - while not widespread - are fairly common in her universe, at least in her area, and have been for a number of years,” he points out. “If your reasoning holds, then I would think someone would have noticed souls gaining curious qualities by now.”
“but nobody’s looked into it, that’s the important thing.” Sci faces Nightmare again. “there are too many variables with something like this: does high lv influence this adaptation? how about age? are certain soul traits better for this, did she pick this up only because she has high ‘justice’ influence? what about the one who’s bonded with the current judge?”
Nightmare can’t help the scoff that comes out of his mouth, and the eyelight roll that comes with it. “I’m not privy to the intimate details of that dysfunctional house, and I don’t wish to be if I can avoid it. As far as I know Sans has not coupled with anyone.”
Although who’s to say what’s going on over there after… matters were dealt with.
“... so he wasn’t the ex i needed to block on her new phone?”
“No, that would be…” Nightmare doesn’t finish that sentence, the thought striking him suddenly. Sci takes notice of his pause, and tilts his skull in consideration. “... That would be Red,” Nightmare concludes slowly.
Red, who you were almost completely soul-bonded with until he abandoned the relationship and unknowingly shattered the near bond.
Red, who was likely his universe’s Judge.
Universes where a certain pair of skeleton Monsters have unwillingly - or willingly - congregated are a dime a dozen in the multiverse. Nightmare practically trips over a new one every week. But he’s never stopped to consider the implications or the workings of how having more than one Judge in one location even functions.
What if there is something to be said about high LV? Your bond with Red might be broken, but yours with Dust, who was also a Judge at one point in time, is only growing stronger each moment you spend with him. So was Horror, before his Undyne nearly killed him, and your bond with him is just as strong. As strong as the one with Killer. The one with Cross.
What does it mean that you’re bonding with all of them at once?
What does it mean that you’re bonding with him?
He thinks about Dust months ago, shaky and nearly sent back into another LV spike, who couldn't tell if he was controlling his own magic... or you were.
Sci’s right, there are too many variables.
“this is why i didn’t want to say anything,” Sci explains. “i get it, you’re all worried about her, but the fact is i don’t know what it means, if it means anything at all, and i didn’t want to scare her any more. i hate to say it, but i need more time to figure things out, run a few experiments…” Sci shrugs. “... and maybe you need to ask error for help.”
Well that’s not happening for a good long while. Not unless you and Error become friendly enough with one another that you would trust him to look at your soul again, something not even Nightmare or the others even have with Error.
About as likely as he and Dream reconciling all of their differences and skipping away into the sunset.
The goal today in bringing you here was to find an answer to an unknown, to deal with a cryptic warning and settle a concern. But as Nightmare opens a portal back to the castle - after drawing a few more assurances from Sci about doing all he can - he finds himself leaving with more questions than he came with, and a shadow of dread looming over him over what the future might hold.
Notes:
So, on August 1st one year ago, I posted the first chapter of this little idea that was a side-project to a bigger idea that became so big I had to walk away from it. I had two and a half chapters done, and I had just decided to take the leap and post it because if not then, when? And I was so sure it wasn't going to get much traction because of various things, but every time I post a new chapter you guys always prove me wrong and make me feel all warm and happy inside.
Thank you, sincerely, all of you, because you guys are a lot of my motivation to keep going.
Chapter 34: The Talk, Where Nothing Is Said (Part One)
Summary:
Addison decides to finally take matters into her own hands and confront her ex’s family over their repeated intrusions in her life, once and for all. It doesn’t go as planned.
Chapter Tags: Emotional manipulation, gaslighting, past familial abuse, mentions of physical assault (in the past, spoken about in the chapter, and the individual in question is fine)
Hey, remember when I said I was hoping for regular updates again? Ha, hahahahaha, ahh life... Anyways, we do what we can.
Let's close out a story arc, shall we?
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
i'm doing something stupid :You
maybe :You
The replies take less than a minute to come pouring in while you glance up at the board of bus arrival times.
ticklish elbow: how stupid?
Prince Blush: Wait wait wait
spooky scary: wat r u doin
Prince Blush: What are you doing?
spooky scary: jnx
Sir Killsalot: y wsnt i invited
ticklish elbow: 1 is not stupid
ticklish elbow: 10 is max killer
Sir Killsalot: hey!
Sir Killsalot: :( :( :(
ticklish elbow: 😘
spooky scary: srsly wat r u doin
The bus you're looking for is ten minutes late, because of course it is. You join the sparse crown in boarding while thumbing your response.
i'm returning the tracker :You
Sir Killsalot: :0
spooky scary: damn
Prince Blush: Do you need backup?
no :You
The first thing you think to type is "i need to do this", but you only get as far as the "i" before you stop. The bus lurches forward as it slowly pulls out from the terminal. You make your way to the back, and find a seat right in the corner next to the window that you slide into. You lean your head against the window, foggy with condensation from the cold air outside. You don't have much with you today: your phone, obviously, clutched in both hands. Your wallet, just tucked in the right pocket of your questionably-suitable-for-winter coat. And the small clear sandwich bag next to that, containing the broken bits of the tracker pulled from your old phone.
i got this :You
Debatable, but there's no going back now.
There's only one bus in the whole network that goes all the way out through the suburb that the skeleton family calls home. If you couldn't get a ride, then this was the bus you were force to take to get home or get anywhere else in the city. It runs in okayish intervals during the midday, weekday hours, but anything before eight in the morning or after six in the evening was an exercise of waiting thirty to forty minutes between buses. And it stops altogether for the day after nine-thirty.
Not like you worked a job with predominantly evening hours!
You get why they wanted something private and remote, you honestly do. Well, now you do. They never disclosed that secret to you after all. But man did the distance used to frustrate the hell out of you back in the day. It was the main reason why you dragged your heels before finally agreeing to move in with Red.
You, of course, believed that he was worth it.
Feels like a lifetime ago.
You shift in the seat, reaching into your pocket and pulling out the little clear bag. You never got a good look at the tracker itself, not until you swept it out from under the couch yesterday. It's small, two pieces of plastic with two thin black wires connecting them. One piece looks like it was probably bigger, but the impact with the wall snapped off the other part of it or something. You never found that piece despite the thorough sweep of the room. You hope Trixy hasn't eaten it.
You're not super tech savvy, nowhere near enough for something like this, but based on what Dust implied one end of the tracker hooked into the battery of your phone, and the other presumably to the motherboard or whatever. Your phone battery's been shot for a long while, you got it shortly after moving to Ebott. You just assumed it was age showing. You don't think you could pinpoint the exact moment it started really acting up.
Doesn't matter.
You slip the bag into your pocket, and check for new messages.
Sir Killsalot: hell yea
Sir Killsalot: rip an tear addy
ticklish elbow: punch wine in the face
ticklish elbow: :)
Prince Blush: He deserves what's coming
spooky scary: let us no if u need help
The offer is reassuring, of course. The fact that they're not rushing in to try and take care of this for you is also... something. Should be empowering. Validating. And it is, a little.
But not as much as you feel that it should be.
It's more... apprehension is a good word for it. You've been nothing but reactionary throughout this whole mess, pulling in your defences little by little as they're breached. Just like when you moved out, you're the one making all the changes.
There's only so far you can bring your protections in.
You want to say "you got this" and believe it.
You're tired.
The bus trudges on through the half-ploughed streets towards your ultimate destination.
It's early afternoon when you arrive at the old, familiar stop. You're one of the few left on the bus by that point, and you carefully step off onto a sidewalk that hasn't been given enough snow-removal attention. You keep your hands warm in your pockets as you walk down the street and around the corner, another fifteen minutes before the house itself comes into view.
There were arguments whether the street is technically a cul-de-sac or just a regular old dead-end. It's two-way, only so that those who live here can drive out when they need to. One side has two homes, and the other five, large houses that get away with having a lot of space for decent prices simply because the neighbourhood is so far away from most amenities. The road ends abruptly at the tree line, where nature-lovers can take the foot trail through the forest that approaches the base of Mt. Ebott itself.
The house you want is the last one on the left.
You see at least four cars you recognize in the large driveway, and two that you don;t. It;s the weekend, so you're not really surprised by the amount of cars in the first place. The only one you care about is the compact, low riding black vehicle, shining bright in the winter sun, not tarnished in the slightest by salt dust or snow debris because it gets washed and polished every single day.
Your pace doesn't slow at all as you walk towards the house, coming up to the end of the driveway like you always used to. Like you still called this place home.
Your fingers curl into a fist around the little tracker.
You're not sure what to expect, for as much as everything looks identical outside this place feels so foreign to you. Maybe even hostile. Like the house itself doesn't want you here. The blinds in the front window are drawn shut, as they usually are, but it doesn't stop the feeling of being watched as you walk up the driveway and straight to the front door.
You wouldn't put it past them to have a whole security system set up, keeping the whole property under guard like Fort Knox.
It's only when you raise your hand to the doorbell that you finally pause, for the first time since starting this journey. Whatever small force of will, resolve, or simple bravery fuelled your steps before withers in the presence of new uncertainty.
You could just throw the tracker in the garbage where it belongs and be done with it. Or mail it if you really want to send that message to Wine without the messiness of actually being here.
But you feel as if you've been coasting, floating, trying to stay upright as you react to everything that's been thrown your way. You're starting to lose sense of being able to get your feet back under you again. Like you've lost control and are scrambling to grab it again.
Have you ever had control?
You're tired.
When your apartment was broken into - and yes, broken, you don't care if G didn't actually smash anything to get in - it was like some tether inside you snapped. You felt powerful and capable in a way that you don't feel right now, and you're trying to figure out how to get that back. You felt like you could push back against the trespasses of your boundaries, but looking back on it now...
It didn't feel like you could push back very far.
Is that what this is? Trying to test the limits of what you can do?
You ring the doorbell.
You hear the faint shrill ring echo from beyond the closed door. You don't want to push your luck by ringing it over and over - you kind of do, but you kind of don't too - but it doesn't take long to hear some movement from inside as someone approaches the door. You assume they look through the peephole, because the door doesn't open right away.
Fair enough.
The door does eventually open after what feels like an eternity of awkwardness that's probably only just a taste of what's to come.
Coffee is tall, taller even than Edge, not that anyone ever notices because of the way he always slouches and keeps to the outside of groups and crowds, standing lankily in the quiet corners of a room. He's in a long, black sweatshirt today, long enough to go past his pelvis, with the magically shifting big block white lettering reading "WARY GUY" across his chest.
He leans against the edge of the door, only keeping it open enough to see you and use his body to block the rest of the opening. Very dull eyelights of faint gold look down on you from a face that appears tired, nervous and apprehensive, all the norm for Coffee.
The suspicion underneath is not the norm, but not unexpected either.
True to form, Coffee says nothing as he looks down on you, a single phalange twirling one of the cords of his hoodie almost absentmindedly.
Your beef is with... well, everyone really, but you still find it hard to be mean about this. At least to Coffee.
Some of the others are a whole 'nother story.
"Coffee," you greet neutrally, without a smile or any warmth. "Is Wine home?"
You already know the answer, his car is in the driveway after all, and you've never known Wine to bum a ride from anyone else if he needed to be somewhere. Still, you're not surprised when Coffee just shrugs nonchalantly.
The boys clued you into the kind of universe Wine and Coffee might have come from. The protectiveness is expected.
You're not here to play the avoidance dance, not anymore. "I have something I'd like to return to him," you say as you reach into your pocket for the tracker. You try not to let it show on your face when you feel the smack of a quick CHECK bounce off of you, like being hit in the face with a dodgeball. It's been a while since you were the target of one of those. Who knows what kind of information he sees come back.
You pull out the bag, holding it out with both hands for Coffee to clearly see what he probably recognizes is inside. His eyelights flick down to your hands and back up at your face nearly in the blink of an eye. He's never been very expressive, not like some of his counterparts. But you've spent the better part of a year getting closer with Nightmare, and his poker face can put everyone to shame.
What pulls his sockets downwards isn't suspicion anymore, it's resignation.
"I want to talk to him," you push, emboldened by the concession you see. Maybe you do have the power to end this, you just have to stop settling for the middle ground. "I'm not leaving until we have a conversation face to face about this, so tell him if he wants to be an adult--"
Coffee holds up a hand, and shakes his skull. With his other hand he pulls out his little flip notebook and pen, flips to a page and quickly scrawls out a sentence. He turns the notebook to show you:
WE ALL NEED TO TALK
You meet his eyelights again, and he wastes no time in opening the door further, inviting you inside.
This is it then.
You step over the threshold for the first time in over a year.
There's light conversation coming from the kitchen, three or four voices that you recognize pretty instantly. The tv's on in the living room, and you hear music bleeding through the walls from somewhere upstairs. It feels familiar. And it feels wrong.
Coffee silently leads you under the archway to your right and into the living room. Axe is the only one in there, sitting on the far side of the couch with a bag of chips sitting in his lap, attention absorbed by watching House Hunters or some other kind of home buying show. From this angle you can only see his skull in profile, with only the empty socket and gaping hole visible. Even with the carpeted floor, he hears you approach, and turns to see you and Coffee in the entryway.
The surprise is quickly overshadowed by the scowl and anger. "what the fuck are you doin' here?"
Even from the very beginning, you could never mix up Horror for Axe. For one, Axe is about the same size as Sans. Shorter, stocky, maybe with a bit more bulk than the other but generally with the same proportions. And about half a body shorter than Horror on the whole.
The other main difference is in their sockets... or singular socket really. Where Horror has some kind of physical eye wired into the magic holding his skull together, Axe has an eyelight like the other skeletons, albeit bright red and about four times as large, with a dark slit down the middle like a cat's eye.
The hostility is just like how you remember it though.
Axe was one of the few skeletons that you've never been able to get along with, and you couldn't figure out why. So you gave up after a while, and there was at least a quiet agreement to just stay out of each other's way.
Unlike with Mutt, who made it his business to be unpleasant every step of the way.
Axe glares at you, and then glares at Coffee when you don't answer right away. Coffee makes some motion with his hand that you miss. The glaring subsides a little, but the palpable aura of annoyance and frustration stick around as Axe huffs and turns his attention back to the tv.
"whatever. you wanna have the big blow up here, be my guest," he grumbles. "jus' don't forget i told ya all so."
"I'm here to talk, I'm not here to fight."
"yea? see how well that works for ya then."
"WHO WAS AT THE DOOR? DID WE GET ANOTHER TECHNICIAN WHO WANTS TO LOOK AT OUR FURNACE? I TOLD THEM THERE’S NOTHING WRONG WITH--"
Blue's voice enters the room well before he does, coming around the opposite corner from the kitchen with his old sauce-stained plaid apron on and his hands still in the oven mits. He freezes immediately when he sees you, eyelights shrinking by half, mouth slightly agape.
"... ADDISON?"
And with that, something in the air breaks.
Lingering conversation in the kitchen stops instantly, and with the scraping of chairs along the tile floor and the rapid foot falls that follow, Stretch, Mutt, Edge and Black all join Blue in the living room. Stretch and Edge mimic Blue's surprise, while Mutt and to a lesser degree Black mirror the scowl Axe had just a moment before.
"JUST WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING BACK HERE NOW?" Black asks with about as much volume as Blue and as much tact as you think he's capable of.
"'s what i said," Axe mutters.
"bet she's here ta beg for help," Mutt suggests with a snicker. "should'a shut the door in 'er face."
"YOU MADE IT CLEAR THAT YOU DON'T WANT OUR HELP, SO WHY HAVE YOU COME HERE?" Edge barks.
Well, you had a feeling this would be a hostile visit. You'e not sure if you're glad things are living up to expectations, or upset. "I'm here to see--" You don't get to say who when another voice drifts into the room.
"we havin' a party here? no one invited... oh."
Sans stands on the bottom step, looking rumpled and tousled like he just rolled out of bed. He probably did. Whether it was the doorbell or the shouting that roused him is anyone's guess. He did always have the uncanny ability to just show up without much fanfare right in the middle of everything.
He keeps his hands tucked in the pockets of his sweatpants, and sways back and forth, rolling on the heels of his slippers. "fancy seein' you here addison. can we help you with somethin'? red ain't here right now."
Sans has never been threatening, rude or unpleasant in any way back when you lived here. But you feel like this is a trap. The room's gone from decently open to closed in and suffocating with the appearance of five more skeleton Monsters. With the front wall and window of the house directly behind you, and Coffee standing back and to the left, between you and the door, you feel as if you're slowly being surrounded. The familiar pinch of tension starts to run along your spine.
"I'm not here for him," you say quickly. And just like at the front door you feel the smack of several CHECKs pound against you and wherever your human soul is hidden. Some hit harder than others, and you fight to keep from taking a step back under the barrage. "I'm here to see Wine," you explain, your tone stubborn and hard.
"... huh." Sans' white eyelights flicker once, and you feel another CHECK smack your soul. Not surprising his are some of the harder hitting ones. "he's around," he finally says with a casual shrug. "but i don't think that's everythin', is it?"
Well, you don't think it was worth the CHECK to figure that out. Sans always had the ability to ask the prodding question, or say the exact right thing to cut through defences and send someone stammering and stumbling.
A couple of months ago you'd have more to say to all of them: Why did none of you help? Why did you all leave me alone? Why won't you leave me alone now? Why? Why? Why? You'd want to shout your frustration, scream through your anger with them.
But now... you don't think any answer is going to give you any kind of satisfaction anymore. And you don't really think you'd want it anyways.
It's just not that important anymore.
"All I have to say to you is to leave me alone," you say firmly. "Stop with the calls, trying to visit me... and don't fucking send someone to break into my home to find me... that's it." You shrug. So much for firm confidence. "Maybe if this was a few months ago I'd be a lot more dramatic about this, but honestly it's not worth it anymore. That's my boundary, stop crossing it."
You're just so tired of all this.
"or else what?" Mutt mumbles, audible enough for everyone in the room to hear. He crosses his arms over his chest, but that only gives Stretch room to lightly elbow him in the lower ribs.
"not everything's a threat dude," he mutters.
"Or else I'm going to go to the cops," you sigh with exasperation. "Or else I'm going to get a restraining order."
Mutt barks out a laugh, like he's a bad joke lover and you've just said a really terrible one. "ha! yeah, that'll work out jus' fine fer ya. go on, go runnin' to the cops, i dare ya."
"I DOUBT SHE WILL. SHE'S MORE LIKELY TO SEND ONE OF YOUR NEW 'FRIENDS' OVER TO DESTROY MORE OF OUR PROPERTY," Black argues. "YOU'RE GOING TO ENCOURAGE YOUR LITTLE ENTOURAGE OF MURDERERS TO DO THE EXACT THING YOU'RE ACCUSING US OF, YOU HYPOCRITE!"
Oh my god. You take a deep breath, trying to keep calm and focused. Jury's out on its effectiveness. "They literally didn't care about any of you, not until you started with all of this bullshit. Like when he," and you point to Edge, "showed up in the middle of the night and started to lecture me and yell at me on who I'm allowed and not allowed to hang out with. Because how dare I be seen out in public with my date by Red and his soulmate."
"IT'S NOT ABOUT BEING ALLOWED TO 'DATE' AGAIN, IT'S ABOUT WHO YOU 'DATE'! BECAUSE YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND WHO YOU'RE DEALING WITH!" Edge shouts, like he's just picking that argument back up again. "YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND THE DANGER THEY POSSESS!"
"You don't know a fucking thing about any of them!" Just like that night at your apartment, you can't stop your voice from rising against his, trying to defend yourself. Like how a small dog barks louder to make themselves seem bigger. Something twists in your chest into a small, tight knot.
"AND WHY THE FUCK WOULD THEY CARE ABOUT YOU?!" Black argues, his voice rising further, pulling the tension along your back up with it. "YOU FOOL, THEY'RE NOT 'DATING' YOU! WHY ARE THEY SO CONCERNED WITH THE FEELINGS OF ONE SINGLE HUMAN WHO IS SO FAR BENEATH THEM IN TERMS OF POWER? BIT OF A SUSPICIOUS COINCIDENCE THAT THEY'VE CHOSEN TO FIXATE ON THE ONE HUMAN IN EBOTT THAT WE ONCE CALLED 'FAMILY'--"
"You never treated me like family!" you snap before you can stop yourself, your fingers curling into a fist. "Even when I fucking lived here I had to dance around some of you because I guess me just existing in your space offended you! Mutt would tell Red constantly that he should just break up with me because I wasn't fucking smoking hot or whatever'! You didn't tell me shit about all of this!" You wave your hand over the room, pointing at everyone in your arc of vision. "Not allowed to go into the fucking basement even though I live here, and everyone else is allowed! Not allowed to know anything about your fucking pasts even though you made me answer so many fucking questions about mine!"
"yeah, sure, tell the random human about multiple universes," Mutt says with an incredible amount of sarcasm. "'s a great idea, can't see where that fuckin' goes wrong."
"WELL WE COULD HAVE BEEN MORE HONEST..."
"NO, SHE'S NOT ENTITLED TO ANY OF THAT! NEVER HAS BEEN, AND NOW NEVER WILL BE. YOU CAN'T DEMAND ACCEPTANCE, YOU EARN IT."
"guys, enough." Sans' normally even voice sharply cuts through the arguing, leaving the room silent enough to hear the crinkling of the chip bag as Axe shifts in his seat to scratch his lower spine, then settles back down on the couch. You're really surprised he's not left the room by now, and that sometime during all of this he's changed the channel and put on some kind of soap opera.
You take a breath, exhaling shakily, trying to keep your focus on the reason you came here. You didn't want to fight. You wanted to talk, lay down your boundaries, and leave. That's it.
"look, this's a bit of a complicated situation," Sans continues, his normal grin strained and tense with sudden stress. "i wanna respect your wishes about leavin' you alone, i really do, but we can't. not with a couple of other skeletons runnin' around that are a bit more... unhinged than the rest of us. i'm sorry, you're just gonna have'ta accept that until we figure out how they got here and what they want."
"Oh my god, I just said it literally has nothing to do with any of you," you argue back, exasperated. "Not everything is a fucking conspiracy against you Sans. It was stupid random chance that Dust went into the same bar that I was at, and the only reason he stuck around is because somehow we got along pretty well."
"the fact he's got a name like 'dust' doesn't exactly bode well," Stretch points out quietly. And yeah, you can concede that point, except you've gotten to know why his name is Dust and why he chooses to keep it that way. They don't. "and it's kinda freaky how a high lv monster just showed up in the first pla--"
"NOTHING OF THAT MAGNITUDE IS A COINCIDENCE!" Edge shouts, interrupting Stretch, as if Sans hadn't just told him to chill out. "THEY ARE MANIPULATING YOU ADDISON! WHY CAN'T YOU SEE THAT?"
"How are they manipulating me?!"
"PLEASE, EVERYONE, LET'S JUST CALM DOWN!" Blue implores, rather futilely as Edge shouts right over him.
"BY SHOWING UP AT THE EXACT RIGHT MOMENT TO START POISONING YOU AGAINST US! BY TELLING YOU WHAT YOU WANT TO HEAR! THEY'RE FEEDING INTO YOUR HURT AND PLAYING UP YOUR FEELINGS OF BETRAYAL TO GET WHAT THEY WANT!"
"What is it then?! What is their end goal?! You're so convinced that they're using me to get to you, go on, tell me! What do they want from you?!"
Instead of answering, Edge's jaw snaps shut, his shoulders shaking as if straining under the pressure of holding back.
Mutt, apparently, has no such qualms. "you wouldn't understand, and frankly, 'm gettin' real fuckin' tired of you thinkin' that we owe you shit," he says with an abrasiveness that's far more hostile than you've heard it before. "you don't get ta come in here and demand shit from us. you don't get to demand anythin' after red rightfully dumped your ass, all ya ever did was bring trouble and fuckin' problems to all our lives. good riddance!"
"What problems are you even talking about?!"
"THE ONES I HAD TO COME IN AND FIX AFTERWARDS."
Wine stands at the top of the stairs, looking as presentable as always with a neat button-up top wrinkle free, and perfectly tailored slacks. His hands are folded behind his back as he walks down the stairs, step by step, moving around Sans without so much as a glance in his direction. Wine's single eyelght glows brightly as it fixates only on you, and he comes to a stop only an arm's span away from you.
And despite coming all this way to see him in particular, you don't say anything now that he's in front of you. You're shaking, fighting between warring wills to stand your ground and try to be strong again or flee from the shouting and the conflict and find the smallest, darkest place to hide in. You don't. Like. Yelling. And it's something they've known about you for a long time.
"... WELL NOW, COME ON, YOU WANTED TO SEE ME," he states, tilting his skull as if he's examining you curiously. You don't feel the pressure of a new CHECK from him, but part of you thinks it's because he feels as if he doesn't need one.
Wordlessly, you pull out the plastic bag from your pocket and hold it out for him to clearly see the pieces inside.
Sans sockets squint. "what’cha got there?"
"SOMETHING THAT BELONGS TO ME," Wine answers without really explaining. He makes a show of carefully taking the bag from you. "I SURMISED THAT YOU CHANGED PHONES RECENTLY, THOUGH I DID NOT ANTICIPATE YOU BEING SO THOROUGH IN FINDING THIS."
"... you mean..." Sans' eyelights flick to you, then to the back of Wine's skull with a wince. "the tracker was... real?"
"TRACKER?"
"OF COURSE IT WAS. HMMMMM." Wine turns the bag over to inspect the other side of the broken pieces. "I FEEL AS IF I SHOULD FILE A COMPLAINT AS TO THE CONDITION OF MY PROPERTY. THESE ARE NOT CHEAP TO REPLACE."
That reignites the fire in your blood. "Why shouldn't I report you for stalking?" you snap. "You can't put trackers in people's phones! That's not legal!"
"OH COME NOW, YOU'VE HAD NO ISSUES FOR THE LAST THREE YEARS. YOU WOULDN'T HAVE EVEN KNOWN IT WAS THERE HAD SOMEONE NOT GONE SNOOPING."
"... Wait, three...?" Something in your brain fixates on that number. Three years. Three years. Why three years? What happened three years ago? You were still with Red, a whole year before he met his soulmate and this whole mess began. You still lived at the house - heck, it wouldn't have been very long after you moved in officially - and you still worked at Grillby's, you had double dates with Undyne and Alphys every other week, you...
The phone was set to silent while you and Red were visiting the planetarium. It was your first time seeing the limited run "Cosmos Above" light show. It was his fifth. Loved it as much as the day he saw it for the first time. He was still beaming like the moon when you exited the auditorium and you both turned on your phones.
Four voicemails. Fifteen missed calls over the span of an hour. Over two dozen texts from almost everyone you lived with asking 'where are you?'. Red's brother screaming at him to get home NOW in all of his messages.
A shortcut... and you were greeted with the sight of several cop cars in front of the house...
"wine, buddy, you can't... no, that's too much, that's actually not okay."
"AH, BUT YOU HAD NO SUCH MISGIVINGS OVER HACKING SURVEILLANCE FOOTAGE OF OUR NEW SKELETON VISITORS AND TRACKING THEIR MOVEMENTS BEFORE, NOW DID YOU?"
"that's... different...."
"NO! THAT'S STILL A MASSIVE BREACH OF PRIVACY! AND A FELONY!"
"dunno, sounds logical ta me. how else 're we gonna keep tabs on their movements, eh? what if they hurt someone?"
"why... three years...?"
"That's when..." you start without realising you're actually speaking out loud, not until everyone turns their attention back onto you. Wine's never left you in the first place. "... You installed the tracker after... the day Papyrus was attacked. Here."
"CORRECT."
While it's nice to get a straight answer for once, it only adds to your confusion. You don't understand. You weren't even home, didn't even know anything had happened until you turned your phones back on and came back with a hasty shortcut. And by then the intruder had already long been arrested and carted away for booking. The police hadn't even bothered to question either you or Red outside of confirming that you knew nothing of what went down.
To this day you still don't know what exactly happened. Some anti-Monster nut turned up at the home of the fourth most important figure in Human-Monster politics aside from the King, Queen and ambassador, and attacked him. And sure, Papyrus is a very capable Monster and apparently quite handily defended himself against a human with far less combat training, but it's the principle of the thing. You remember the stir it caused all across the city, even if key details were being kept from public record for privacy and security reasons. You were even kept in the dark for a lot of it.
So why bug YOUR phone?
Unless... did he somehow think you were involved somehow?
WHY?
"Why?!"
Wine's brow bone raises as he watches you try to work through your confusion, only to come up short. He offers no hints though, no reasoning.
It seems to click with everyone else though.
“... wait, you actually blame her for that?" Stretch’s skull twists around to look at Wine, then you, then he turns fully around to look at Black and Edge, the latter of whom is suddenly and uncharacteristically having a hard time making eye contact with anyone. Stretch looks back at Wine again. “holy fuck you do. look i get it, i’m not thrilled that he showed up outta nowhere either--”
“Who showed up?!” you ask, but are immediately spoken over by Black.
“BUT WE DIDN’T KNOW THAT!” Black argues, turning away from you and shouting at Stretch. “WE DIDN’T KNOW ANYTHING! FRANKLY A TRACKER MOST PASSIVE THING WE COULD HAVE RESORTED TO GIVEN THE CIRCUMSTANCES! FOR ALL WE KNEW SHE WAS IN CAHOOTS WITH HIM!”
“but he said during the trial--”
“Who said what?!” But you’re ignored again.
“it don’t matter what he said. could’a lied. humans lie as easy as breathin’.”
"so do you," Axe mutters, completely uninterested in everything except the tv.
“IF YOUR BROTHER HAD BEEN THE ONE ATTACKED--”
"NO, STOP IT!" Blue shouts, catching Wine by surprise enough that he drops his normally smug grin. "YOU NEED TO STOP WITH THAT KIND OF EMOTIONAL MANIPULATION, THAT'S NOT RIGHT WINE! I NEVER BLAMED ADDISON FOR WHAT HAPPENED! PAPYRUS NEVER BLAMED ADDISON, AND HE WAS THE ONE WHO WAS HERE!"
"SANS DOES," Wine counters.
“Blame me for what?!” you shout.
Sans shuffles in place, slippers crunching in the carpet as he shifts his weight back and forth. The floor is the most interesting thing in the room right now, that same vacant look in his eyelights that you've seen in Dust after an LV spike, when he's feeling ashamed and eaten alive by guilt.
“… heh, know what they say ‘bout hindsight, twenty-twenty and all that,” Sans chuckles weakly, his soul not really into it. “probably should’a told you, probably would’ve, eventually… but your pop’s the one who attacked papyrus.”
It’s scary how quickly you go from upset and confused to your heart plummeting to your feet and your chest feeling trapped in a closing vice. Thoughts of trackers, trust, exes and soulmates all rushes out the window as you’re consumed by something new.
He was here.
You thought you were safe.
You’d never have to see them again.
You’d never be hurt again.
He was here.
They hid that from you.
“I DON'T HAVE THE LUXURY OF BEING ABLE TO JUMP TO CONCLUSIONS WITHOUT EVIDENCE," Wine continues while head starts to pound and you can hear your heart drum in your ears. “THAT’S HOW MISTAKES ARE MADE AND SOMEONE GETS HURT. WE WELCOMED YOU INTO OUR FAMILY, AND THEN YOUR FATHER TRACKED YOU DOWN AND PUT ONE OF OURS IN DANGER--”
“I… I ran, ran away,” you stammer. He tracked you? How? How did he find you? Why…? “It’s not, not like I told them where… Why didn’t you, why didn’t you say anything?!”
“BECAUSE WE COULD NOT BE SURE WHERE YOUR ALLEGIANCES LAY.”
“A-allegiances? What are you talking about? I’m not some... this isn’t a spy game--”
“NO, IT’S NOT A GAME,” Wine interrupts, quick and sharp. “YOUR FATHER CAME TO OUR HOME UNINVITED AND OVER THE COURSE OF ATTEMPTING TO HAVE HIM VACATE THE PREMISES HE ATTEMPTED TO ASSAULT THE CROWN'S MONSTER AMBASSADOR. IT WARRANTED A THROUGH INVESTIGATION INTO HIS MEANS AND MOTIVES. IT WAS DISCOVERED THAT HE HAD FINANCIAL TIES TO SEVERAL EXTREMIST AND ANTI-MONSTER GROUPS, SO THE STATE PROSECUTOR HAD TO PERSONALLY STEP IN AS THE CASE HAD ALL THE HALLMARKS FOR A HATE CRIME.”
Extremism? Hate crime? Sure, you knew your father was probably on the far, far end of the spectrum where hate is fundamentally a way of life, and you knew he was no fan of Monsters. But he was no fan of anyone, anyone except himself. The whole family was like that, the whole town full of enough like-minded people to make it seem like hate was just everywhere. Like there wasn't anything different, that things like love and kindness were myths.
You knew... if you stayed, you would drown in it. You had to leave for any hope to survive, so you did, as soon as you could and without looking back. And knowing him, he wouldn't waste his energy on trying to find you, why would he? What would he even want from you at that point?
Did he actually come looking for you, or was it just a coincidence? It's hard to imagine the latter when he picked the exact house you had just moved into. But then again, if it really was a hate crime, Papyrus is very much a globally known public figurehead.
You don't know what to believe anymore.
Why didn't they tell you?!
"YOUR FATHER WAS SENT BACK TO UTAH TO COMPLETE HIS PROBATION AND BARRED BY COURT ORDER FROM ENTERING EBOTT, BUT I COULD NOT ASSUME THE MATTER CONCLUDED. THE TRACKER WAS A PRECAUTIONARY MEASURE." Wine explains, as much for you as it is for anyone else in the room who might want to continue the argument.
"SOONER OR LATER, THE TRUTH COMES OUT... SOONER OR LATER, ONE'S TRUE NATURE APPEARS. WHILE I COULD NOT HAVE FORESEEN THE QUESTIONABLE COMPANY YOU WOULD ATTRACT AND BRING INTO OUR VICINITY, IT IS BITTERSWEET THAT I WAS ULTIMATELY PROVEN CORRECT."
Proven correct about, what? That you must be just like your father? That you must be as bad as him just because you're his daughter?
And Wine carried this suspicion ever since? They all did? For as much as Blue might say that he never blamed you, he sure never told you that your father had come close to your inner circle. They knew, they all knew the life that you left behind, and none of them told you he showed up? Wine blamed you, Black and Rus obviously do too. Sans blamed you, kept that blame and suspicion hidden when he used to laugh and tell jokes and be the pleasant guy in the family.
Three years is a long time to carry that kind of animosity. You can imagine some carrying it easier than others, sure, but for someone like Sans to interact with you as if nothing is wrong...
And if Sans, then who else?
What about Red?
Isn't it strange then that throughout the whole investigation, and the courtroom proceedings that kept Papyrus, Sans, Edge, Black and Wine out of the house for hours each day... no one came to question you? If everyone was so suspicious, why did no one question the familial link between you and the man that turned up at the house of the ambassador? Why were you never interviewed by the detective, never called to testify, or give an affidavit?
They were waiting for the chance for you to screw up.
Family with a knife behind their back.
They blame you for this happening - most of them, enough of them - and that's never been clearer before now. Your past has always been a point against you, several points against you. It was too traumatic to not be exaggerated. It was not traumatic enough compared to others suffering. They say you're a good person despite your upbringing. They say you're a good person only because of your upbringing. You were too blasé about it. You were too upset by it.
Your short nails dig into your palms as your hands clench. But you say nothing. For what can you say? You're dealing with these revelations now, whereas they've been stewing in their bitterness and distrust for years, going unvoiced and unacknowledged for so long and only coming to light now because you - the subject of their grievances - are pushing for the truth.
It doesn't matter why Wine felt the tracker was necessary, what kind of logic leaps he made between your father showing up and deciding you were untrustworthy.
At some point, you became their villain.
And it was probably well before the soulmate ever crossed Red's path.
It was never about the breakup.
"I WILL HELP YOU, BUT YOU MST DO SOMETHING FOR ME," Wine said so long ago, when you were on your fiftieth breakdown over what Red had done, after you had dragged yourself back to the house early because Grillby couldn't keep you employed without risking a friendship older than you are. No one would talk to you, everyone would get up and leave a room if you so much as tried to enter.
All except Wine.
"YOU WILL LEAVE AT THE END OF THE WEEK. I'VE ARRANGED FOR YOUR STAY AT A HOTEL, AND I WILL GIVE YOU ACCESS TO A CREDIT CARD THAT HAS BEEN LOADED WITH ENOUGH FUNDS FOR ALL YOUR EXPENSES TO BE PAID FOR A MONTH. I'VE ALREADY CRAFTED AN ATTRACTIVE RESUME FOR YOU TO USE, ONE OF MY ASSISTANTS WILL ACT AS YOUR REFERENCE IF NEEDED."
"MY TERMS ARE SIMPLE. KEEP THE REST OF US OUT OF THIS. I TRULY SYMPATHISE WITH YOUR POSITION, BUT YOU MUST UNDERSTAND THAT THIS IS THE END OF OUR TIME AS A FAMILY. I WISH THAT IT DIDN'T COME TO THIS."
Liar.
He just saw an opportunity to remove a problem.
"WE ARE A FAMILY," Wine continues when he realises you're not going to say anything in response. "YOU WERE INVITED INTO OUR FAMILY BECAUSE WE TRUSTED YOU. BUT ONE OF OURS WAS THREATENED AS A RESULT, AND I WILL NOT MAKE THAT MISTAKE AGAIN. AND I KNOW I'M NOT THE ONLY ONE IN THE ROOM WHO WOULD GO TO GREAT LENGTHS TO PROTECT FAMILY."
Where all attention had been on you and Wine, several gazes now flicker around and join Sans in discomfort and silent agreement.
Because at some point before their lives were thrown up and around and mashed together like a bad salad, in what ever variation of the universe they used to call home most skeletons have already done things for the sake of family. Things that they thought were the best course of action for the circumstances, things that have left scars through the again and agains of unnatural repetition. Action or inaction, violence or pacifism, lies or truth.
Wine's done nothing more than exactly what he's always pledged to do: protect his family. From hatred, from assaults, from mysterious skeleton Monsters.
From you.
You're at an impasse. Because from your point of view it's a gross violation of boundaries and privacy. And from theirs it's just another choice they make for their family. You don't want to lie down and let them trample all over you anymore. And they're not going to stop until the threats are neutralised.
There's a quiet scratching from behind you, Coffee scribing something in his notepad. He holds it up at an angle for only Wine and Sans to see what he's written, except Sans hasn't done much except carefully inspect the floor as if it held the answer to all life's problems.
Don't you sometimes wish that it does.
"YOU'RE RIGHT COFFEE, WE ARE BEING SIDETRACKED FROM THE ISSUE AT HAND," Wine agrees, and somehow you doubt this is going to make the 'conversation' go smoother. "WE ALL CAN AGREE THAT OUR FOREMOST CONCERN IS THAT OF THE MURDERERS YOU CALL 'FRIENDS'. YOU SEEM TO BELIEVE THAT THEY ARE NO THREAT TO US, AND WE UNDERSTANDABLY DON'T WANT THEM NEAR US OR ANY OF OUR FRIENDS. SO I PROPOSE A NEW DEAL."
Wine steps closer to you, leaving maybe no more than a foot and a half of space between you. Close enough to throw a punch if you wanted. Instead your arms are locked at your sides, fingers curled so tight your knuckles hurt, they shake and strain under the weight of your hurt and anger, fear and upset that none of this is fair.
Wine's eyelights remain locked onto your eyes, a predator about to pounce on their trapped prey. "LEAVE," he says, firmly. A marching order. A threat. "LEAVE EBOTT. GO ANYWHERE YOU WISH, BUT JUST LEAVE HERE. AND IF YOUR LITTLE TROUPE FOLLOWS YOU, THEN YOU CAN TAKE PLEASURE IN THE KNOWLEDGE THAT YOU HAVE PROVED US WRONG AND WE WILL NEVER HAVE A REASON TO BOTHER YOU AGAIN. BUT IF THEY DON'T LEAVE WITH YOU..." Wine shrugs, something wholly unbecoming of him.
"WELL, THEN, I SUPPOSE YET ANOTHER LIE WOULD BE UNDONE, NOW WOULD IT?"
Some kind of deal if you're the only one who has to do anything. Just give up on everything, again. Walk out of another job, break the lease early, figure out how you're going to move all of your stuff and a cat when you don't even know where you're going. Sure, the stuff isn't in the greatest condition, but they're yours.
It's your home. You have every right to live in your shitty apartment in Ebott as anyone.
Last time you were told to get out you were in a very different mental state. Now...
"... Why would I leave?" you ask, finding your voice after what feels like forever, hearing it waver and crack unsteadily.
"... HMMM," Wine tuts. "I CAN THINK OF THREE REASONS I SHALL ILLUMINATE FOR YOU. ONE," and he hold up a single phalange, "YOUR FATHER'S BAN IS EXPIRING IN FIVE WEEKS TIME, AND HE'S DONE NOTHING TO WARRANT THE DA'S OFFICE PETITIONING FOR ANOTHER EXTENSION. NOW, DO YOU TRULY WANT TO BE HERE WHEN HE'S ALLOWED TO RETURN?"
This is extortion. You know it, you know it. This is Wine's exact M.O. It still makes the lump in the back of your throat swell with the very idea. "... I won't be here," you point out. "So how would he find me?"
Even to you, that argument sounds weak. He apparently found you once before, why wouldn't he be able to find you again? Wine gives you a sceptical look that confirms he thinks the same. "... TWO," he continues, uninterested in bothering to tear down your argument, "YOUR JOB IS NOT AS STABLE AS YOU BELIEVE. DID YOUR OLD MANAGER'S RECENT ABRUPT TRANSFER OUT OF YOUR LOCATION NOT STRIKE YOU AS ODD? ESPECIALLY GIVEN THE ASSISTANT MANAGER WAS THEN TRANSFERRED OUT SHORTLY AFTERWARDS? ALMOST AS IF HEAD OFFICE IS SHUFFLING THEIR FULL TIME EMPLOYEES AWAY AS THEY PLAN ON CLOSING A FAILING LOCATION?"
What?
Okay, ignoring the fact that Wine has been spying on you in other ways to know about the change in management, that doesn't necessarily mean... But they weren't the only full time employees, and the others haven't left yet... You're technically... technically...
Part time. Because you've only ever been given 39.5 hours a week once you deduct for breaks and lunches. None of your co-workers hit the magical 40 hours, except management.
Okay, fine, you could just get another job. Coffee shops are a dime a dozen in the city. Hell, it doesn't have to be coffee, it can be anything that's basically entry level. It wouldn't be that hard of a hit to your finances, considering you started at minimum wage with the cafe and after a whole year of being there they only rewarded you with a twenty cent raise.
You could do it though. You wouldn't have to give up everything again.
"NOW, LET'S SUPPOSE YOU CHOOSE TO RIDE ALL OF THAT UNFORTUNATE UNPLEASANTNESS OUT. OUT OF WORK, YOUR FATHER IN TOWN, ARE YOU SURE YOU WOULD EVEN BE ABLE TO HAVE A PLACE TO LIVE?"
What the fuck is he implying?!
"FINALLY, THREE... YOUR NEIGHBOURS HAVE NOT BEEN HAPPY WITH THE RUCKUS COMING FROM YOUR UNIT LATELY." Wine shakes his skull. "THEY'VE BEEN KEEPING CAREFUL RECORDS OF THE NOISE, EVERY TIME YOU'VE DISTURBED THEIR LIVES WITH THE CHAOTIC COMINGS AND GOINGS OF YOUR 'FRIENDS'. WHAT DO YOU THINK WILL HAPPEN WHEN YOUR LEASE COMES UP, HMMM? DO YOU THINK YOUR LANDLORD WOULD OFFER A RENEWAL OF SUCH A PROBLEM TENANT?"
...He's joking. He's lying. He's... There haven't been complaints, there hasn't...
"... You're lying," you argue. You shake your head. "No, no you're lying. I know you're lying."
"AM I?"
"The only noise has been you guys trying to harass me! It was Edge deciding that confronting me in the middle of the night was the sane thing to do! The shouting was from Sans sending G to break into my apartment while I was asleep!"
"AND YET INSTEAD OF KEEPING YOUR COOL, YOU RESORT TO YELLING AND CAUSING A DISTURBANCE. EVEN NOW, YOU'RE YELLING, AND WE'RE JUST HAVING A CONVERSATION LIKE ADULTS. THAT IS WHAT YOU WANTED, ISN'T IT?"
This isn't going to stop. It doesn't matter how many arguments you have in your favour, he's just going to find another way to manipulate things to his end. To achieve his goals, which right now is wanting you gone. You didn't come here expecting a win-lose situation... but you already lost. You lost the moment Coffee invited you inside, trying to be the bigger person and resolve this like a mature person.
Why is trying to do the right thing backfiring on you so much?
When you first came to Ebott, it was just with whatever fit in a single travel bag and could be carried on a bus. Just as you'd done in every city and town after leaving your parents, you built up a life from nothing. It was small, humble, not really built for long term stability but was good for the moment, and it was all under your own power. Your own job with nothing higher than a high school diploma, your own apartment with hardly any credit to your name, your own independence. You forged your own path, and Ebott gave you enough solid ground that you finally stayed with the intention of planting more permanent roots here. You finally opened a little to others, let your guard down, sought out new experiences and met new people.
And you met Red.
Who introduced you to his extended family. To his brother, to his 'cousins'. To friends of the family who came to regard you as a friend all on your own.
When you finally decided to live your life instead of just surviving it, it was almost immediately entangled with Red's. So entangled, it became a knotted mess that was impossible to neatly trim or undo in the aftermath of the breakup. Everything had to be cut away whole, taking away the friends you made, the job you worked hard for. The home that sheltered you. The family that cared about you.
It took away your path, your stability, your independence. It took away the life you made for yourself, that you fought and survived for.
It left you with even less than what you had when you came to Ebott in the first place.
It left you with nothing.
And they want you to do it again, and take away the final thing everyone forgets they have until it's gone.
They want to take away your choice too.
"DO WE HAVE A DEAL?"
You're tired.
Of being defensive, of being on edge, of being the better person. Of the lies, the drama.
But most of all...
You're tired of hitting the limits of your ability to fight for yourself.
And of being reminded that those limits are much too small.
You're done.
The moment you decide is the moment you start walking, walking past Wine with barely enough space between you that you nearly shoulder check him. He doesn't even flinch, or even turn to watch you leave.
Sans' eyelights widen with surprise, flicking to Wine's back tracking you as you move past him towards the front door. He inhales like he's going to say something, but then doesn't. No one says anything as you leave. Again. You didn't expect them to anyways
Outside there's a new car in the driveway, just pulled in and its occupants unloading. Papyrus climbs out from the driver's seat, unfolding himself from a seat that's still too small for him. He looks up and sees you, his face immediately taken with surprise, and a brief expression of joy before that sours and he looks at you with uncertainty. Crooks pokes his skull out from the passenger seat, an even lankier Monster in an even smaller seat. He's a perfect match with Papyrus' surprise, but there's something like relief in his eyelights as well.
And of course, because the universe thinks it's funny, Red clambers out from one of the back seats, looking at his phone in one hand while his other clutches a few plastic bags of groceries. He only looks up as you get close, and does the classic shocked double take that's so fucking perfect you almost want to laugh.
His clothes are rumpled, more than usual. His sockets look heavier, eyelights duller than their normal vibrant crimson, and once you might have tried to decipher what that could mean, because he was never the type to come out and tell you if something was bothering him.
A few months ago the mere sight of him sent you into an anxiety attack.
Now you just walk on by.
It's not because you're better.
You're just so numb, you don't care.
You don't hear whether anyone shouts after you as you walk back up the street. The bus isn't there and isn't in view as you approach the stop, and you don't want to wait, so you keep walking along the sidewalk towards the direction of home, hands in your pockets, head down and ignoring everything. Fifteen blocks and four stops later you manage to intersect with the bus and climb aboard. You don't care if it would have been faster to just wait at the original stop.
Your phone vibrates with an incoming message. You pull it out and check it out of habit. It's from work, someone called in sick, they need someone else to cover on short notice.
You think about how often that's been happening lately. Of the wave of new, inexperienced hires to replace the revolving door of mainstays quitting the job for greener pastures later. You think of those who are staying behind, over worked and still desperate for the pay check despite the diminishing return of pay.
You send a message back. You're out, but you can swing by home to change and be at the cafe soon if they really need you. A minute later, and you get a thumbs up in response.
You ignore the motivational memes that have flooded the group chat over the past half an hour. Half an hour, that's all it's been.
The ride home seems longer than it was going the other way. You're not keeping track or anything, but you just notice it. You walk into your apartment complex, and for once there's someone actually manning the building manager's office. They see you, and watch as you press the button for the elevator. You've never seen them before.
Do they know who you are? Is there a file for you somewhere in that office? A case building against you, just waiting for your lease to run out?
The elevator chimes, and the doors slide open. It's a lonely ride up to your floor, and the hallway is empty as you walk to your door.
Do your neighbours hate you? Do they count the days until you move away?
Trixy looks up at you from where she lounges on the coffee table. Her eyes track your movements as you drop your coat on the couch and go to the bedroom to change. She doesn't meow or chirp, just silently jumps down and follows. She jumps on the bed and sits, watching you change into your work clothes.
You check your face in the bathroom mirror, to make sure your eyes aren't too red for the public. And the culmination of your life stares back.
One year of independence. Of surviving. Of trying to live your life. And this is what you have to show for it. This is all you've been able to achieve.
This is all you've been allowed to achieve.
This is all you'll ever be allowed to achieve.
You're tired.
You go back to your coat, slipping it on and reaching into the pocket for your phone. You send one message out. Not to the group chat. But to a private, one on one chat.
Then you zip your coat back up for the cold outside, top up Trixy's food, and head out for work.
You're tired.
***
"why th' fuck did you do this?!"
Axe feels like he should have made more popcorn for this. The soaps are one thing, but schadenfreude from this? He hasn't bothered to turn around and watch while everyone's been shouting at each other behind him, but boy has he been smirking the whole time.
Fuck, it's been two hours and they're still arguing.
At this rate they’re going to forget about dinner again.
Figures.
He told them so. Told them so all that time ago, and now it comes to bite everyone in the coccyx.
“BECAUSE WE’RE STILL CLEANING UP YOUR MESS RED.”
"CLEANING UP? THAT WAS EXTORTION! YOU CAN'T EXTORT SOMEONE LIKE THAT WINE!"
"WHY NOT, IF IT KEEPS US SAFE?"
"'cause it's a step too far."
"BOLD COMING FROM YOU, WHO I REMEMBER SAYING TO USE ANY MEANS NECESSARY."
Yes, Sans is a hypocrite, fucking news at eleven. Axe twists his shoulders until the knot near his spine pops and the tension eases satisfyingly. Gonna have to see about another physio session soon, this weather's never been good for his weakened bones.
The picture on tv flickers, white flecks of signal static starting to cloud the screen annoyingly. Stupid cable, this channel's always been bad for it. Axe starts to switch between channels, looking for something mildly interesting at this time of day, even if he's more into the drama explosion happening right here in real life.
"SANS YOU NEVER TOLD ME HOW YOU FELT ABOUT WHAT HAPPENED. I DIDN’T BLAME HER, I DON’T UNDERSTAND WHY YOU DID."
"why th’ fuck are any of ya'll blamin’ her?!"
"SHE WAS A SECURITY RISK."
"she was my girlfriend and her fuckin' asshole father came lookin' for her!"
"AND YOU SHOULD HAVE TOLD HER WHAT REALLY HAPPENED AGES AGO, BROTHER."
Huh, strange, there's static on a lot of channels today. Axe's brows furrow. Cable's bad, but it's not like the weather's stormy or anything right now.
The ceiling light flickers.
"NONE OF THIS WOULD HAVE EVEN BEEN A PROBLEM IF YOU HAD BEEN HONEST ABOUT YOUR SOULMATE, RED!"
"fuck that, none of this would've happened if ya actually broke up wit' her like i told ya!"
"fuck you!"
"fuck you!"
"WE CAN TALK WITHOUT THE PROFANITY!"
"guys, come on--"
"STOP BEING MEEK AND PASSIVE LIKE YOU'RE NOT INVOLVED!"
"EVERYONE ENOUGH!"
The bulb shatters.
And the room is plunged into utter darkness.
Only darkness. Unnatural darkness.
No feeling but the painful chill that envelopes the space and freezes through bones, so cold it burns and rips through marrow straight to the soul. No sound except the maddening screams of silence. Nothing moves. Nothing exists.
No sign of the room that once was. No light from outside. No light from the tv.
No light save for the growing glow of sickly green, the eerie turquoise of something other and beyond spreading and illuminating their petrified forms.
I have had enough of this says the voice of every terror, every fear, every nightmare.
It's time we had a chat.
Chapter 35: The Talk, Where A Lot Is Said (Part Two)
Summary:
A surprise invite leads to a long overdue chat between the two women at the center of everything. In which no skeleton Monsters appear, but there is much talk about skeleton Monsters.
Chapter Tags: The author is a goddamn tease.
Hey look, less time between updates this time!
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
“I mean, thanks for coming in anyways.”
“You only thought to let me know now? ”
“Look I made a mistake, alright? You don’t have to get aggressive just because I forgot to let you know that we got someone to cover.”
Aggressive?!
You glare at him. You’re not even ashamed to do it. He’s not even paying attention anyways.
Brian, your temporary manager of barely two months, is too busy scrolling on his phone in the backroom to even look up and notice just how aggressive you’re feeling right now, all shaking with badly contained fury. “When Carol called in I sent messages to everyone,” he adds almost absentmindedly. “Sure, you got back to me quickly, but then so did Mitch and he got here way faster, so I don’t need both of you here now.” He shrugs. “I already said sorry.”
Brian is supposed to be ten years your senior, but you’re having a hard time believing it right now. You breathe in, loudly and deeply, through your nose. “It’s just, you had a lot of time to message me back, it’s not like the commute here is short and I was already out so I had to go back home to get changed–”
“Dunno what you want me to tell you. Move closer. Your commute isn’t my responsibility.”
He still hasn’t bothered to look up.
You want to punch him. You want to punch something.
Instead you exhale very slowly and try very, very hard not to start righting the wrongs in your life through violence.
But you do wonder what would happen if you just… did it.
“... Oh, by the way, a customer left you something,” Brian says. He leans to the side and opens the bottom drawer of the small desk. He pulls out a plain white envelope with nothing except your name written on the front. “You can’t make a habit of having letters and stuff sent here, this isn’t a post office,” he chastises, holding the envelope out to you.
Oh, you so want to punch him. You swipe for the letter instead. “I wasn’t expecting anything,” you explain tersely. Yesterday you would have worried about being written off for back-talk, today you just don’t care. You slide your finger under the fold to rip the seal apart. “I didn’t have anything ‘sent here’, it doesn’t even have an address on it. Who left it?”
“I already told you, one of the customers, I don’t know their names… Maddison said something about it being an old regular, some nurse or something…”
You pause while the paper inside is half pulled out. The odds say no, it couldn’t be, but… with everything else… “... When did they leave it?” you ask slowly.
Brian shrugs. “Couple’a days ago, not sure.”
“... Okay.”
You slide the paper back in the envelope, and fold the whole thing into the left pocket of your coat. You think you at least say goodbye to Brian as you leave, but you don’t think you can hear yourself over the din of ringing in your brain right now. That’s been going on since you left the house, you’re probably in for a massive headache at this rate.
Life fucking sucks.
You barely give anyone working in the front a wave as you push past the line of customers and out through the door back into the chilly winter air, and the first thing you do as you walk down the street is pull out your phone. There’s been no new notifications or messages since you posted a quick reply in the group chat about going to work. And absolutely nothing since you messaged Nightmare.
He’d tell you if… Maybe he wouldn’t… You don’t want to know. Whatever’s happening, you don’t want to know right now. If that makes you a bad person, then fuck it.
The phone is shoved back into your pocket without sending a new update about your suddenly free-again afternoon. You walk with your head down, staring only on the sidewalk immediately ahead of you. You should eat, but you’re not hungry. Actually, you’re starving. But you don’t want to eat. You don’t want to go home. You don’t want to go anywhere. You don’t want to be anywhere. You just want…
What, exactly?
You arrive at your normal bus stop a few blocks away. Nearly walk right into it. It’s not one that has a shelter or a place to sit while you wait, so you just lean against the pole as you pull the envelope back out of your pocket. Your hands still shake a little, and maybe it’s because of the cold. Probably not though.
There’s a single sheet of paper inside, you unfold it to read the short handwritten note:
Hello Addison,
I know I’m probably the last person you want to hear from. I wouldn’t blame you at all if you wanted to rip this letter up and throw it away. I won’t be making any other attempts to get in touch with you, I promise.
I wanted to give you the opportunity to talk, no strings attached. Any questions you might have, anything that you want to say to me, it’s all fair game. If you don’t want me to ask you anything, or to just listen, that’s okay too.
My number is below, call me or text me when you feel comfortable to do so and we can set something up. Wherever you want, whenever.
Melanie
You blink a few times, then wipe your eyes with the side of your hand, a few small tears soaking into the fabric of your glove.
Were it any other day, you would have just shoved the letter away to forget about.
Today - against your better judgment - you pull your phone out and text a short message to the provided number.
this is addison :You
might be short notice, but are you free today at all? :You
i think we should talk :You
***
Ebott General is actually closer to the cafe than your apartment is, you just have to take the bus going south instead of east. By the time you arrive, you’re still twenty minutes ahead of the agreed meeting time. It would probably be weird if you go inside and wait for her in the waiting room - you know, since that’s urgent care and you’re not really visiting for treatment. So you waste some time walking around aimlessly, around the same block enough times that someone would probably look at you funny.
You don’t waste time going into a store or something, oh no, because that would be the logical thing to do.
Clearly your logic engine is running on fumes today.
By the time you return to the bus stop, you’re in that weird middle ground of frigid because of the weather, but warm because of the physical activity. At least this bus stop has a bench that you can sit on while you wait.
Except sitting makes you think more and at least when you’re walking you can not think about what happened and how fucked your life is and that he was here he was here and you never knew how close he got--
“... Addison?”
Hardly five minutes past the agreed time, Melanie approaches you from the main exit path of the hospital. You instantly feel a little guilty at seeing that she hasn’t even had a chance to change out of her scrubs, but she steps up to the bench too quickly for that feeling to really get a chance to set in.
“Sorry, were you waiting long?” she asks briskly, almost slightly out of breath as if she ran over from the main building the moment she could leave. “I tried to get out a little earlier but I had to wait for the night supervisor to arrive.”
“Uh, no, no, not long, it’s fine,” you stammer, a little bit of white lie. “It’s my fault for suggesting the time, I should have realized--”
She shakes her head. “No, please don’t apologize, I told you that we could talk anytime and I meant it. So, uh…” she wrings her hands together, almost nervously. “Did you want to speak here? Or did you want to go somewhere? Completely up to you!”
She holds her hands up, like a surrender, leaving the choice completely up to you.
And that’s the rub, isn’t it? What did you want to do? What are you hoping to achieve with this?
What do you want?
A month post break-up you would have wanted to scream at her, unleash all of that hurt and pain you felt after being tossed aside like nothing. It would have been the wrong thing to do, but it would have made you feel better in the moment. And then later you would have felt guilty for it.
Now?
You don’t actually know.
Maybe you’re so far down the pit of uncaring that you’re just doing this to see where it goes. Maybe you’re trying to find something to hold on to and right yourself on. Maybe you just want to start some shit with Red’s partner. Throw a match at the gasoline-soaked pile of shit and watch everything burn.
Your chest feels like it’s been pulled three ways ‘til sunday, and your stomach has been doing flips that would put Olympians to shame; your head is a nauseating stew of emotions that you haven’t had a chance to process, and it’s still stupid cold out here, so…
“Uh, let’s find a place to… eat I guess, get something to drink,” you suggest. It’s a hollow suggestion, you’re still unsure if you’re hungry or not. But maybe she is, if she just finished her shift.
Melaine nods. “Yeah, we can do that. I know a good little bistro a few blocks from here, they have really good deli sandwiches.”
“Yeah, sure, that sounds… that sounds nice.”
It does. It doesn’t.
Fuck.
You rise from the bench, brushing off your butt in an effort to try and get feeling back into it. Then you fall into step alongside Melanie, with her a little ahead, leading you from street to street. She doesn’t offer much in the way of small talk, which leaves you alone with nothing but your own scattered puzzle-piece thoughts.
You never did figure out if she knew about you before that day in the park. You just know she stopped showing up at the cafe after that. Until now, you guess. You don’t know how much she’s aware of what you’ve been dealing with, it’s not like you had her number before now. And let’s be honest, soulmate or not, you kind of doubt she would have been told even half of the stuff you just had unceremoniously dumped on you today. Like, you doubt she knows…
But maybe he would have told her about that time Papyrus got attacked.
Would he have told her the truth? The truth that you weren’t even told?
Did she know?
“Here we are!”
You pull your head out of your thoughts and stop abruptly enough not to crash into her. Points for having some kind of situation awareness.
The bistro is one of those little ones crammed in a tight spot between a larger bank branch and a chain clothing store. Looking through the front window, you can see several people standing in a bunch by the counter, and with no obvious lines you can’t really tell if they’re waiting to order or waiting to pick up.
Melanie opens the door and ushers you inside, and the blast of hot air and smells of cured meat smacks you right in the face. There’s a constant din of noise and chatter between the customers and workers, and coming inside has not made it any clearer where you’re supposed to actually line up to order. At least it’s nice and warm in here.
“There’s the menu hanging up there, but really they’ll make anything you want, just tell them what you want to slap together,” Melanie explains as she follows you in and the door shuts loudly behind her thanks to the pressure difference. She immediately starts to pull her gloves off. “They do drinks too, coffee, lattes, tea, simpler stuff like that.”
She points out the menu board, and then tilts her head closer to you and lowers her voice. “The coffee’s alright, but it’s kind of watered down though. Also when they label a cut of meat ‘spicy’, it’s really spicy, so, you know, tread cautiously if that’s not your thing.”
It could be your thing today, you’re not really that picky right now.
Actually, maybe you have that backwards, maybe you’re too picky to want anything today.
“... You can order first,” you concede, mainly to your indecisiveness. “I’ll, uh, take a minute with the menu.”
“Sure.”
Melanie has no problem moving through the throng of people and figuring out where the line actually starts. The familiarity of being a regular here too, you suppose. You move a lot more slowly and meekly behind her, trying to find something that you think you’ll be able to stomach for the time being. After she quickly orders her coffee and a custom sandwich that sounds more complicated than it probably is, your turn comes next. Wanting to avoid the embarrassment of holding up anyone else with your indecision, you just order and pay for a simple black tea and a basic ham and cheese club sandwich.
“Why don’t you grab a table for us?” Melanie suggests as you duck away from the cash register. “I’ll wait for our stuff and bring it over.”
“... Yeah, sure.”
Just follow directions, easy enough. You opt for a small table towards the back, away from the windows and away from the crowd by the counter. You peel off your coat and drape it over the back of your chair, but you leave your little hat on for added warmth. You’re not exactly sure where your initiative went; you made a snap decision to arrange this meetup with Melanie, but now you seem to be unable to do anything with it. She’s been the one leading you around, setting the mood for all this.
What do you even want to say to her? It’s not like you’re interested in fighting for Red back, she can fucking keep him.
Fuck, and if it wasn’t for that stupid coincidence of being in the same park at the same time, none of this bullshit would have happened, and Red would not be on your mind as much as he has been. The amount of brain power that gets devoted to ‘Red’ and that fucking house on a daily basis lately is not fair at all to Dust. And Nightmare. And Horror, and Cross and Killer.
They are so fucking patient with you and your stupid baggage and you don’t fucking deserve-
“Here we go, sorry about the wait!”
Melaine slides the plate with your admittedly good looking club in front of you, along with the mug of tea. She takes the seat opposite you, with her own even more delicious looking sandwich and drink. She removes her coat with all the speed of an ER nurse and practically whips it backwards to drape on her chair. She then wastes no time grabbing a bunch of sugar packets from the little condiment holder off to the side, shaking them to get the sugar to bunch up at the bottom before tearing three open at once.
“Normally they’re faster than that, but I guess it’s busy today,” she explains, with an apologetic look, making it sound like it was an exceptionally long wait.
… How long were you sitting there just alone with your thoughts exactly?
Still unsure of your actual appetite, you settle for trying to nurse your tea first at least, pulling the mug over in front of you. You’re not feeling anything sweet though, maybe it’d just be better black. Or maybe just one pack of sugar… half a pack.
“Are you feeling alright?”
You look up from staring at your tea as if it could tell you the answers to all your problems. Melaine looks at you with very obvious concern, but more empathetic and less that resolved go-getterness you remember from that day she took you to the hospital.
“Have you eaten anything today?” she asks, and you’re not sure if she’s asking because she thinks you’re actually hungry or if she’s trying to run through a triage checklist.
When was the last time you ate? Probably this morning… yeah, you had a bowl of cereal before you foolishly decided to make the trip to the skeleton household. Sure it’s later, but really, this can still count as lunch, so you haven’t missed a meal today.
Even if today feels a thousand years long already.
“I’ve… eaten,” you concede, deciding to go for the half truth. “I’m just… appetite’s not really all there right now.”
She nods slowly. “I get that… Bad day?”
And isn’t that an understatement? You nod a little, with a quiet “Yeah” you’re not even sure she hears. So do you explain how bad today has gone? Do you tell her about the extortion? About being pushed to a breaking point and calling Nightmare about it? Do you tell her you don’t know if he’s over there now giving everyone a verbal lashing or a physical one, and you don’t really care which it is?
Do you tell her how your thoughts all come back to your father, over and over like how a broken record skips and grinds at the worst parts and you don’t know how or why or if he’s going to come back?
Do you tell her that the thought of him shouldn’t scare you… but it does anyways?
Do you tell her how you can’t take it anymore?
What do you say to her?
You grab a sugar packet, just a single one, and shake it, faster and harder than she had with hers. And for longer too. “... I think I’m leaving Ebott,” you say abruptly.
She blinks, pulling her head back a little in surprise. That’s fair, you’re surprised you said that too. “Oh, that’s, uh…” She looks off to the side for a moment before looking at you again. You’re not exactly meeting her eyes, so it feels like she’s looking at your forehead more than anything. “... Is that a good thing?” she asks slowly.
No. Yes. No. You’re not sure. But apparently that’s the only choice you have. You shrug. “I’ll make due,” is all you say.
Melanie doesn’t say anything right away, looking off to the side again like the wall might have a better idea for her. She goes to grab her mug of coffee, only to change her mind at the last moment, her fingers falling on the surface of the table instead. She drums them, once, her short nails clicking against the hard surface. “... Would you be making this move… by choice?”
No! you want to shout, one of those shouts that’s also a cry. Instead you pull the toothpick in your sandwich out and pluck off the green olive stuck on the end, popping it into your mouth and savoring the saltiness. That’s a good olive, nice and ripe.
“It’s fine,” you respond, not answering but also answering the question at the same time. “Everyone gets what they want this way; you and Red don’t have to worry about running into me ever again, and everyone else can stop worrying about new skeletons popping up all over Ebott. And maybe I’ll even be left alone for once!”
You can’t help the sarcasm. The olive’s not the only salty thing at this table.
Melanie looks at you sadly. It’s not a pity, patronizing kind of sad thankfully, but just sad in general. Like she didn’t want any of this to happen any more than you did. “I told them to stop, but…” she sighs, shaking her head a little. “I’m sorry, I should have tried harder to stop them. I didn’t--”
“Wait, no,” you quickly interrupt. No, that’s not right. You didn’t come here to make her feel guilty for what the others did. “No, no, you don’t have to apologize, you didn’t do any of this, and it’s not like you can control what they do.”
Whatever you were hoping to get out of this meeting, you really didn’t want to make Melanie feel in any way responsible for the actions of the others. She didn’t choose to be Red’s soulmate, she just is. She didn’t choose to bug your phone, Wine made that choice all by himself. She never harassed you in the months following the run in at the park, despite clearly knowing where you worked.
Despite being at the center of the maelstrom, none of this was her doing. None of this was in her control.
“I know you probably think that I messaged you so that I could be angry at you, but I’m not,” you continue, rattling on as the words keep coming before you can stop them. “And I don’t want you to feel like I’m, I’m going to blame you for any of this, because I don’t. Honestly, I’m actually sorry I asked you here, and I think I made a mistake.” If your voice sounds like you’re two seconds away from cracking and crying, she makes no mention of it. “I honestly don’t know why I did. At one time I wanted to hate you, and hate that you existed. But you didn’t make all of this happen, and clearly things have been way worse than I thought for a lot longer and no one ever says anything and--”
“Addison,” Melanie says, her turn to interrupt you. She holds a hand up and forward a little, like she wants to reach out and touch you, but is holding herself back. “Okay, okay, let’s take a breath, and maybe go back a bit. I think we need to talk a bit, maybe, about what happened before. Because I think I have some information that you deserve to know.”
You rub your eyes with both hands, fingers massaging along your brow, like you would if you were tired. But you’re not tired, you’re in that uncomfortable state of being too wired and physically drained all at once. You take a deep breath, your shoulders rising and falling dramatically.
“Yeah, sure,” you mumble. “... Sorry, I just… today has not been a great day and I’m just… kind of winging everything right now.”
“... Sometimes that’s all we can do,” Melanie agrees, and you wonder if she’s speaking from some kind of experience. She clears her throat. “... For what it’s worth, I didn’t know you… ‘existed’ is the wrong term, I didn’t know you and Red had a history together - that there was even a history he might have had - until that day at the park.”
So much history. Five years worth of history. Look how easy it was for that history to be neatly swept under the rug and erased for all intents and purposes. And despite your personal insistence that it’s done and you don’t actually care, you can’t help but ask “... When did you two… when exactly did you meet Red?”
Melanie makes a small, considering noise. “I think ‘met’ and ‘started dating’ are two different answers in this case,” she explains. “We met… from what I understand, we first met seven months before he broke up with you. And he didn’t ask me out until after that, that’s when he first told me about being his soulmate.”
Strangely, you feel both relieved and more upset. Relieved that Melanie didn’t become involved until after everything went down, but hurt that Red kept yet another thing of that magnitude from you for so long. You know Monsters feel the soulmate bond instantly, whereas humans take a little longer to notice it - something, something Monsters are soul-based and humans are not kind of thing.
First your father, then finding his soulmate… how many other things has Red kept from you?
“He… I was working the day shift when he came to the ER,” she adds. “Ran into him here and there after that; grocery store, on the street, that kind of thing. He never really said ‘hello’ or anything though. So when he asked me out, it came out of nowhere… I didn’t know it was you. About you, that it was you. I honestly didn’t know that… well, I didn’t know. And for what it’s worth, I am sorry that I never asked.”
If it’s like she says, then this was sometime in the winter, and you think you know exactly what day they would have met. There’s a seasonal day camp for kids that runs out of the Ebott Recreation Center at the base of the mountain. During the summer they teach kids how to swim, ride in a canoe, play tennis and basketball and other warm weather sports. During the winter it’s stuff like skiing, tobogganing and snowboarding. A kid took a bad fall off their board their first time going down the slope solo, and one of the camp volunteers took them to the hospital for stitches.
That volunteer was Red.
For all your paranoia about being set up, about how unlikely it was that in a city with a population in the hundreds of thousands Red’s soulmate would choose your little cafe to come for her three lattes a day out of every other one in the city, everything you’ve heard can really only pin it to one stupid thing: sheer dumb luck.
“Red only told me afterwards, the day we ran into you at the park.” Melaine laughs quietly to herself, and shakes her head. “... Well, I made him tell me. He was freaking out and I couldn’t understand why, or why seeing us would send you into a panic attack.”
“I’m surprised you could tell,” you mutter. “We weren’t there very long, I don’t think.” The memory of that day doesn’t have too much detail in it anymore, but Cross gave you the impression that he shortcutted you both out almost instantly.
“You’d be surprised how many we see in the ER,” Melaine quietly answers. She takes a deep breath. “Red doesn’t like spilling the beans like this, not with something that hits so close to home, not something he’s still hurting about.”
This time you have to laugh, loud and bitter. “Hurting? Are you kidding me? He’s not the one who had to lose everything when we broke up,” you argue, your grip on control momentarily failing leaving you unable to keep the anger from your voice.
Melanie doesn’t respond right away. “... He hides it. He keeps it all bottled in.”
And the frustrating thing is that you know she’s right.
Red wears his rowdiness and brash rudeness like a security vest, aimed at protecting the softest parts of him by not letting anything get close enough to wound. Survival meant keeping vitals safe, weaknesses hidden, and maybe that’s why the two of you hit it off so well all those years ago because you recognized the defense mechanism for what it was.
Which is why learning about him not telling you about your father - when he knows what you went through as a child - hurts so much more.
Before you can say anything else, Melanie continues, “That doesn’t mean he’s right.”
The sandwich on her plate is still pristine and untouched. Then again, so is yours, aside from the plundered olive. “I keep telling him he needs to talk to you, that he owes it to you to have more than a one-sided conversation about everything. It doesn't matter that he didn’t ask me out until after he broke things off with you, you deserved to know the minute he realized who I was to him.”
“Let’s be honest, it’s not like anyone in that house actually talks about things,” you mutter, an understatement of massive proportions. There’s a swirl in the pattern on the table, and you idly trace it with your finger. “They’d rather… keep secrets from each other. Argue when they can’t. And fight and bicker, and nothing actually gets resolved.”
“I know. Everyone there… hmmm.” Melaine pauses, and sighs, clearly mulling over how to proceed with her train of thought. “... I’m not qualified to pass judgements on any of them. They all have… idiosyncrasies, I think. Long-standing habits and behaviors that don’t always play off one another in… constructive ways. But it worked for them, for a long time, until… well, until outsiders came into their sphere.”
The term ‘outsiders’ has you bristling reflexively. As much as you would think it might refer to Cross or Dust or any of the others, you know that the outsider Melanie is referring to is you. You were never an insider, never a true part of the family, even if you and Red did end up married you would always have been held away in the outer sphere, outside looking in. Would you have ever questioned why, or would you have been too scared to rock the boat and lose what you had? Would you ever have noticed a problem with your role in the family dynamics, or was your concept of what a ‘healthy family’ looks like too fucked up from your upbringing?
“They have a lot of… secrets,” Melanie explains while you continue to sit with your thoughts. “Secrets that affect all of them, and secrets that only a few know about. There’s the, well, I’m assuming you know the big one already--”
“They never told me,” you interrupt. And for the first time since the start of this little meetup you see genuine surprise cross Melanie’s features. For some reason, maybe because her eyes are wide with shock, you consider that her eyes are ‘big’ and ‘bright blue’, and you think those would be the kind of eyes Red would be smitten by. You don’t know why that thought crosses your mind at this moment, but it does.
“... Oh,” she says quietly after the pause. She glances away, down at her still untouched sandwich, then to her coffee, anywhere but directly at you. “Uh…”
It wouldn’t be fair to leave her floundering, thinking that she just gave away the big one like she’s not expertly trained in keeping confidential information in actual confidence. “I was already onto them when Red dumped me,” you explain. Then you go for your neglected sandwich, because there’s nothing you like better than to cover for an awkward moment by stuffing your face full of food.
The sandwich is not bad, actually, not dry at all, salty with a bit of spiciness from whatever they used to cure the meat with. Or maybe the mustard. Hard to tell. Today’s a good day for salty food actually. Maybe you’ll grab a ramen to go later for dinner.
“Dust filled in the blanks when I met him,” you continue, speaking around your food like a child, but you don’t really care about etiquette. “And they know that I know. It’s just they kept up with the ‘cousins’ act the whole time with me, and they had no plans on telling me the truth even if I stayed with Red, I don’t think.”
Melaine takes a moment to absorb what you said, the shock slowly replaced with something like tired frustration. The face you probably make when the cat decides to dig out the whole litter box and leave the contents all over the floor like she’s a kid in a sandbox. “... Of course they didn’t… dammit Sans!” Melanie hisses under her breath.
You can’t help the reflexive smirk. “Which one?”
Melanie laughs, a genuine chuckle that breaks her awkwardness enough for her to actually start drinking her coffee. “All of them, just… they’re all such knuckle skulls. Stupid, stupid knuckle skulls.” She shakes her head, and follows your lead by starting her own sandwich.
Of course, this has you wondering just how open they’ve been with Melanie. You know they told her the big secret early on of course, but what about the stuff… well, there’s the really heavy stuff that you know some skeletons would rather take to their grave.
How much of that is universal? …Multiversal? Whatever.
Sure, your boys have been completely honest with you about that stuff , but that honesty only comes from a lot of time passing and a place of acceptance over what happened in their pasts. And a kind of flippancy born from the stubborn will to just survive and go on that still waxes and wanes day to day.
Red never told you about your father, his soulmate… and never, ever, uttered a word to you about RESETs.
“... So, can I ask what you… you know, think of… uh.” She shakes her head again. She pulls her plate closer and picks up her sandwich, leaving the olive and the stick in place to hold it together. “There’s no one else I can really talk to about… the ‘big thing’, so I kind of want to hear your thoughts on it.” She chuckles. “I remember Sans sitting me down one day and giving me this whole long lecture that honestly mostly went over my head, and far above my level of understanding… I didn’t think I did that badly in physics class but maybe that’s why I stuck to biology and chemistry.”
You’ve never played an audience to one of Sans’ lectures, but all the explanations you’ve gotten haven’t exactly been too technical to understand. The map you saw in Nightmare’s library might be the most headache-inducing bit, but even then you think it’s only because it represents something so massive in scale. Like if you were an astronaut looking down at the Earth for the first time, you’d probably feel the same way: it’s so big and you’re so small.
But you also know there’s other stuff out there that makes the Earth look small.
Either way she’s right; who else do you have to talk about this, aside from two groups of skeleton Monsters? You take another bite of your sandwich, wiping mustard off the corner of your mouth with your thumb. You try to think back, far back, because Dust pretty much told you the majority of it that very first night you met him.
You always wonder why he was so open right away. Was it because he didn’t care and wanted to see what kind of rise he could get out of you? Or could he tell that you weren’t in the mood for bullshit that night?
“I think I laughed,” you finally say. You’re pretty sure you laughed. Because it was ridiculous. And also made so much fucking sense. “I don’t think I had a moment where I doubted it was true, it just… filled in a lot of gaps so neatly. Explained so many things.” You shrug. “I dunno, we’ve always had theories about a multiverse anyways, so… why not? Why wouldn’t one exist?”
“Because I think it’s nearly impossible for science to prove… but sure, I guess,” Melanie concedes, and sighs. “I guess it’s, it’s one thing to think about it as a theory or a trope in fiction. That stuff’s fun to think about. But it’s another when you meet your boyfriend’s family and it’s basically ‘this is your boyfriend but he acts like his brother’ and ‘this is your boyfriend if x had happened to him’ and ‘this is also your boyfriend but if y and x had happened instead’. Like, now I feel like I’m in one of those stories, ya know?”
d̵̡̨̡͉̱̱̩̭̻̠͕͕̬̥̖̎́͊̉̂͒̄o̷̥͔̩͍̼̩̰̮͈̤͚̓́̉͜͜ ̷͎̭̭̬̞͙̠̖̰̩̟͕̅̈́̈́̊̌ͅͅy̵͈͐̎̂͛̂͛ǫ̶̧̛͖̻̗̥̺͓͎̬̟͓̝͍̥̾́̌͋̀ȕ̷̗̻̼̅̃̊͋̄ ̵̖͔̫̙͇̲͌̓̎͛̓̀̍̽̐̇̆̋͐̅̓̓̍͜͝͝f̸̛͓̠̬̼͚̺̪̹͖̞̬͕͕̹̬͓͎̈́͋́̉̒̅͛̂͛̀͠͝ẽ̶̻̲͚̻̟͕̬̱̖̪̬̫́̀͂̂͌̈́̓ę̴̧̲̤̠͙̘̼̼̽̈́̾̕l̵̢̛͌̀͑̓̈́̿̑̑̇̌͘̚̕͠ ̸̖̬̺̙͈̟̯͓̙̜͔̳̹̜̈́́̏̋̌̎̉́̋̽̇̀̆̚̕̚͝ͅt̷̨̙̲̹̮̗̲̗͉̙͕͉̋͂̑̈̂̿̀̚͜͜͜h̸̬̞͓̣̱̠̤̦̻̖͚̓͐̐̃è̵̛͙͇̅̅̎̈́͐̍̀̐̂̋̽̓ ̸͍̳̒̆̑̉̇̅̒̈́̈́̌̎̓̀̄̅͒̚͘͝ţ̴͙͔̩̼̜͉̯̹̙͍͚͇̅́́̌̉̑̈̑ͅì̸̡̢̬̙͎͈͓͓͚̗͉͉͚͑̌̉̅̆̇̈͜͜c̸̢̤̹͖̤͍͉̦͕͈͉̖̤͔̰̱̀̒̈́̾͐́̎̃͘͘ͅk̶̢̨̯̲̺̫̝̜͍̲̫̺̫͎̩̩̺̾̿͂́̇͒͒͛̾̉͛̏̃̎͘̕ͅͅļ̷̛̮̘̜͖̭̇̇̊͊̿͊́̂͗͛̓ȩ̷̹͖͖͍̞͕̗͍̬͓͕̣͚̱͚͉͆̒̆̀̕ ̶̢̢͎̪̩͙͍̫͍͔̯̬̮̬̜̇̐̆̈́͜͝i̷̡͖̬̯̗̣̺̬͇̤̓̂͐͊̉͗n̶̡̢̢͍̲͈̪͇͎̪͔̄̀͒̉̀s̴̡̖̗̬̼̩̜̭̘̖͚̟̺̻̮̙̜̰̑͒͆͝i̴̧̞̳̯̞̳̩̳̞͈̬̎̒̽̄̋͑̅͗̍̒͒̋̾̿͝͝d̸̛̹̱̪̗̬̪͕̻̖͔̼͇̱͍̅̈͋̉́̔̍̌͒̍̓̓͂̈́͂̈́̚͜͠͝e̴̛̛̥̤̜̝̲͂̉̉̆̆̔̈́́́̇̽̄͛̄͋̇͝ ̶͓̓̉̈y̵̢̢̡̨̨̨̡̪̫̰͚̺̻̙̤̮̭̜̟̒͗̿̍̂̃͘͘̕̕͝o̵̦̖̥͎̜̅̈́̑̀ͅư̸̡̟̤̦͙̥̿̅͒̓̑͒͆̒͒̀ͅŕ̷̡͕͈̞̪̮͍̰̰̭̺̱͖̝͆́͠ ̶̪̰̀̎̾͐͆̈̊̔͊͝m̴̨̜͍̯͑̂̃̒̉͋̈́̅̅̑̍̎̀̓̒̀͠i̷͚͂̈́̈́̏͛͋̑̿̔̋n̸͉͉̲̿̑͊̓̀̾̓̓̅͆͗̇̍͛͐̆̕͘̕͠d̵̛̛͇̻̗̝̩̬͎̼̹̹͐̈́̐͛̄̊͊͑͊̈́͌̑̌̆̈́̓̚͝
You blink, then shrug. Sure, if you think of it that way, it’s going to fuck with your brain. But even from the very beginning you’ve never really thought of Dust as ‘Sans but murderer’, or Killer as ‘Sans but murderer and pumped up on sugar’, or heck even Horror as ‘bigger version of Axe who is the tragic version of Sans’. They’ve just always been… Dust. Horror. Killer. Cross. And Nightmare.
It’s never bothered you. Never phased you. Never freaked you out.
It honestly kind of excited you.
“So, have you ever… you know,” you start to ask, then pause, scratching your cheek a bit. It’s a question you never really stopped and asked yourself, but now that you’re asking Melaine… “I mean, if you had the ability… like if the machine was working or if one of the boys could take a shortcut a lot further than normal, would you ever want to go to another universe?”
“What, like for a vacation?” Melanie chuckles. “No.”
You tilt your head, your shoulders falling slightly. You’re not sure why such a simple answer disappoints you as much as it does. “Oh.”
She shrugs, and eats a bit more of her sandwich. “I think the whole thing is, hrm, how to put it? It’s too big for me, it’s uncomfortable.” She licks some mayo off her thumb, looking at the sandwich more than she looks at you while she continues eating. “I’m happy here… I have my friends, my family, my job. I don’t need to know how some other universe is shaking out. I don’t necessarily want to know either. It wouldn’t be like taking a trip through Europe, I don’t think. An adventure like that is fun to imagine, if you’re into that, but I doubt it’s that fun to actually do.”
“Oh,” you repeat. And decide to hide the sudden shame with more food, as usual. The sandwich tastes drier now, maybe because you’ve just been sitting there for what feels like hours already.
So what’s wrong with you then? Why are you having a hard time answering the same?
You were born here. Your life is here. Shouldn’t you be like Melanie and try to have a happy life here, with what you’ve got?
Why does that sound like such a terrible thing?
“Addison,” Melanie asks, and her tone has you breaking out of your thoughts, looking up and meeting her gaze. It’s a firm tone, but not unkind. It’s the tone of someone walking you through a problem, holding your hand but letting you lead down the path yourself. Of someone who doesn’t think they know better than you, but they see everything from a different perspective.
It’s the tone of someone who will patiently wait through your epiphany.
“What do you want?”
She’s not asking about this little meeting, not asking about what you want from her, or Red, or the rest of the house.
What do you want?
You don’t know. You haven’t known this entire time. Every action you’ve taken today came from an overwhelming need to do something, to try and take the reins and control over your own damn life for once because you’ve never felt like anything more than a passive actor in someone’s else’s drama… and isn’t that what it really comes down to.
What do you want? You don’t know.
But you want the chance to figure that out for yourself.
You want control.
You want choice.
And maybe that’s why you’re having a hard time turning away from the siren call of the multiverse.
“... I want freedom,” you say after a moment of silence. The moment the words slip, you start feeling less intimidated or embarrassed when meeting her eyes. “You said you don’t want to go anywhere else because you’re happy with your life here. Well, I’m not. I want to be able to go on adventures, to make my own choices and my own mistakes, to figure out what all of that means for me. I want to be me . I want to figure out what being me is about.”
You lean back in the chair, and you feel the first smile of the day finally stretch across your face. But it’s not a happy smile, because you don’t feel happy. It’s a smile of recognition, of frustration. Of stubbornness, and incredulousness. It’s the smile someone makes when the only other option is fury.
“I can say that I want something like an apology from the others - and I know I’m never going to get one - and that I want them to just leave me alone. Like, fine, they want to cut contact because I’m the ex and it’s messier to keep those relationships? Because I’m ‘dangerous’ or whatever they’ve convinced themselves of? Fine, I’ll be the fucking bad guy, but then actually keep the contact cut and don’t come barraging into my life as you see fit and demand that I live my life your way. But I’m not even going to get that because they’re just always going to be suspicious of me for this or that!”
It’s not fair that you feel like you have to walk on eggshells in your own life, but it’s also not fair to be expected to just live like that for the rest of your life. To just accept that this is how things are. It’s not fair to be force fed the lie that you have choice when it’s been proven over and over that you don’t.
“So maybe I should leave because it’s better for me, I just hate that it’s come down to something like this again and I don’t get any option except to wipe the board and start over. I’m sick of being a passive victim of my own life, and what I want is the power to do something about it for once. And I’m just so frustrated with everything… maybe this is some sad, stupid coincidence that this is all coming down at the same time but I’m angry about it and I don’t just want to accept it anymore. I mean, we live in a culture that’s so obsessed with stuff like soulmates, how can I believe that I have anything like choice when something as intimate as choosing who I love has been taken from me?”
Okay, now you're venting. And maybe going a little far, should you be complaining about the implicit controlling nature of soulmates when Melanie herself is in a happy relationship with one?
Melanie hums a little, grabbing her drink and taking another sip of coffee, holding the mug close to her face with both hands. “... Did you ever get a chance to meet Toriel? Or Asgore?” she asks, looking at you over the rim of the cup.
The fact that she just casually drops the first names of the King and Queen of Monsters does not escape your notice. You knew the skeletons were close with the royalty, especially Papyrus and Sans, and the others somewhat so. Melanie being invited into that exclusive club both doesn’t surprise you and disappoints you. “Nope, uh, no,” you say quickly, shaking your head. “No, I was never… I’ve been to some formal events here and there and, I think I saw the King from a distance once, but I never interacted with either of them, no.”
Melanie gets that sad look across her face again,and averts her eyes, looking at the corner of the table instead. “To be fair, I’ve only talked with Asgore once, maybe twice in the past year. But I’ve spoken to Toriel a lot, she and Sans go way back. She’s very nice.” The sad look gets replaced with a quiet smile. “Really funny too… Did you know she and Asgore are soulmates?”
… They are?
Huh.
You feel your brows shift and pinch in confusion. Because while the King and Queen have their duties as a unit, everyone knows that they’re divorced, or at least the Monster equivalent of divorced.
“Soulmates are… a complicated subject, even for Monsters,” she continues. “It doesn’t help that the event of finding a soulmate seems to be a lot more common now, after Monsters emerged from Mt. Ebott. They used to be a lot rarer, like myth-level rare, according to Toriel. She thinks that’s part of the problem, why there’s an unhealthy obsession with them. Even Monsters focus too much on the label and not enough on the relationships and bonds that they can form without it. And of course us humans take something like ‘soulmates’ and ‘fated love’ and run it into the ground, just like everything else we obsess over.”
Melanie drums the fingers of her right hand on the side of the mug. “Toriel doesn’t like that there’re some who are convinced she and Asgore are going to get back together, that they have to because clearly that’s what destiny has in mind. She feels like she should have the freedom to say ‘no’ because… Well, it’s not for me to say, but choices… actions have consequences, and some are too much for her to overlook, even if she feels the pull of a soulmate. Which is completely fair, and, and I think that alone is something a lot of us forget in favor of some imaginary ideal.”
Ain’t that the fucking truth.
“I’m not saying this to try and dissuade you of anything,” she says, drinking a sip of her coffee. “Toriel deserves to have choice, you deserve to have choice, we all deserve to live with the freedom of choice. Do I think it’s a bit drastic to want to jump into a whole different universe? Yes, but it’s not up to me. The only one who can make that choice is you. So if you’re going to leave Ebott, make sure you’re doing it for your sake, not anyone else’s.”
That’s the issue, isn’t it? Would it honestly be better for your own mental health to just leave Ebott entirely, regardless of Wine’s motives for pushing you to do so? Should you just walk away from all this?
Should you just walk away from… everything?
That’s really not a step you necessarily feel ready to take though, even setting aside the logistics of such a move.
You don’t know.
You want space and time to figure it out.
A silence falls between you and Melanie that you’re not in a hurry to fill. You slowly work your way through the rest of your sandwich, not exactly tasting anything distinct anymore. It’s probably a great sandwich, this is probably a great place to grab food, you’re just not in the mood to enjoy it much today. Melanie quietly eats hers in a manner that suggests a healthy appetite, someone not struggling with the weight of everything else. Just someone who’s hungry and hasn’t eaten since the lunch hour.
She waits for you to finish, then collects your dishes and leaves them at the counter for the staff to take back and clean. You grab your coat from the back of the chair and slip it back on. You feel more tired now than when you left the house, and it’s hard to say whether this meeting was productive in any way. It’s given you a lot to think about, that for sure. Nothing you feel prepared to tackle today though. Maybe not for another week.
Maybe not for a while.
Melanie returns and bundles up in her own coat, then leads you both out of the bistro that surprisingly hasn’t gotten any less busy. How long have you two been in here? Long enough that it’s already dark outside, and slowly lightly again, with big fat snowflakes that fall leisurely from the sky.
“I need to go grab my car from the hospital lot,” Melanie announces, turning to you. “Do you need a lift anywhere? I don’t mind the detour, I don't have any pressing plans this evening.”
You shake your head no, but maybe it is kind of time to warn her about going back to the house for… uh, however long it takes Nightmare to do whatever he’s decided to do. “Uh, no, that’s fine. I’m alright, but uh, just a heads up that… well I was over at the house to try and… whatever, it turned into an argument and uh, things might still be ‘heated’ over there.”
Yea, sure, that sums up what happened perfectly. No downplaying over here, nope.
A weird look comes across Melanie’s face, and for a brief moment you worry that she’s going to take issue with the fact that you were over there in the first place. But instead she stammers “Oh, no I’m not… I mean I don’t… We’re, uh… I’m actually staying with my sister right now, so I’m not heading out in that direction anyways.”
You hear the words. The implication hits you a second later. Your entire demeanor shrivels as your expression falls with dread. Because it’s one thing to casually think that maybe you called this meeting to fuck with Red’s soulmate.
It’s another entirely when you realize their relationship might actually have been fucked with because of you.
“Oh,” you say, quiet and staring like a deer in headlights. Panic floods your mouth, but you try to act normally. “Oh, that’s, uh, oh, sorry. For. Uh. Assuming.”
Totally normal.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
Unfortunately your attempts at being normal are more like flails, and Melaine sees right through it. “Listen, it’s not your fault, alright? This is between me and Red, and… when I said that some of us put too much stock into soulmates, and that includes me. That includes us. So, we’re… yeah.”
You didn’t want this.
You didn’t want to implode someone else's happiness, especially when she has nothing to do with any of this.
You didn’t want collateral.
“I’m sorry,” you squeak. Nothing else you think to say even feels remotely appropriate.
Melanie shakes her head. “It’s alright, we just… we both agreed that we needed to take a step back for a bit. And figure things out for ourselves. Maybe look at things from a different perspective before we… opt to re-approach this.” She smiles, looking off to the side. Cars drive past both of you, and the street lights click on above your heads. She looks sad again, and you realize that she’s never really shaken that look this whole time, just sort of redirected here and there as needed.
Maybe she doesn’t buy into soulmates like the rest of the world either, but there’s something there, a bond she’s made with Red that’s pulling her idle thoughts towards him, even when they’re separated. A bond that aches and tugs her mood down until that sadness becomes the subtext of her every moment.
She doesn’t deserve to hurt for this.
You didn’t want this for her.
But if she respects you for any choices you make, then you have to show her the same courtesy and do the same for her. And as much as it might feel like it, that you might feel like you’re the catalyst, not all of this is about you.
Melanie’s relationship with Red… is between Melanie and Red. Them and them alone.
Maybe she does have some kind of support group but… you’ve been alone. It sucks.
Melanie shakes her head, shivers, and slips her hands into her pockets. She meets your eyes, and smiles. “Anyways, I need to get going. I’ll try talking to some of the guys again later about leaving you alone, but if you need anything-”
“You have my number,” you blurt out before you realize it.
She looks at you, but says nothing in response. Of course the skies choose now to start dropping large, fat snowflakes that float down to the ground more than they fall.
“Uh…,” You falter, then shrug. “You know, like you said, it’s not like we have a big circle of people who… understands… our unique situations. So, you know, if you ever need to… This was a nice afternoon, and I wouldn’t mind hanging out again when things aren’t so… stressful. For either of us. Yeah.” You shrug again.
How nice to see that you’ve gotten better with stuff like this.
Melanie remains silent, and blinks. Then smirks. “Well, I do miss your lattes,” she quips, then turns away and moves to hurray across the street as the light turns her way. She gives you a quick wave over her shoulder as she scurries across the road and down the opposite sidewalk, disappearing from view as she rounds the corner.
Which leaves you standing there, alone, with the all too familiar task of needing to find the nearest bus stop.
Needing to figure out where exactly you are, and more importantly… where you should go from here.
Chapter 36: The Talk, Where Everything Is Said (Part Three)
Summary:
Nightmare enters the chat.
Chapter Tags: Physical violence resulting in injuries and broken objects, mentions of broken bones, threats of death, threats in general, mention of character death (off-screen and temporary), lots of petty arguing, copious amount of italics.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
i can’t do this
i’m done
this isn’t going to stop
just do whatever you need to
i don’t care anymore
The first volleys of magic are those of wild and confused panic, as expected. Bone constructs of all colours and sizes shoot out in every direction in hopes of finding their target, whipping through the darkness in an uncoordinated barrage, more likely to accidentally hit one another than the actual threat in the room.
Because what they don’t - can’t - understand is that Nightmare is the darkness.
He holds nothing back, and the constructs crack and crumble to nothing as their magic is corroded by a power much greater than theirs. More fly out haphazardly and all miss the mark as the skeleton household shouts and cries for one another, all blind and lost in the dark.
Inky tentacles form solid out of the void and whip out with intelligent accuracy towards the scrambling skeletons. Nightmare focuses on the easy prey first, the ones that try to flee rather than fight. Sans is caught with ease, a tentacle coiling around his midsection and pulling him to the floor flat on his back before the thought of a shortcut even forms in his mind, and Stretch violently hoisted into the air with a yelp as another tentacle winds around his right leg with enough force to nearly snap it in two.
Papyrus is captured as tendrils slither like serpents up his arms and around his wrists, then binds his arms to his body and he loses his balance and falls to the floor with a thud. And Blue, little Blue that’s not nearly as wild and impulsive as the one Nightmare is used to dealing with, has his leap for his brother effortlessly interrupted as a tentacle grabs him midair and shoves him hard against the ceiling.
Nightmare turns his attention to the career fighters next, the ones who have not stopped trying to pin him down with a hail of bones or grab for his soul with gravity magic. But Nightmare keeps his dark form fluid and incorporeal, making contact with him about as futile as grabbing a fistful of air.
Edge and Black are grabbed at the same time, their constructs shattering in their hands as tentacles bind their arms and legs. He’s been holding himself back regarding the ones with single digit HP totals, but these ones… these ones can take a hard hit or two with HP to spare. So he’ll happily indulge. They struggle against the bonds as expected, and Nightmare slams them both down against the floor in response, knocking a dozen HP each off their totals.
Their shrieks of pain predictably gets Mutt and Red into the action. Mutt is dispelled as easily as Stretch was, with tentacles wrapping around his chest and crushing his body until the fight leaves him and he goes limp in defeat. Red finds seven or eight tentacles grabbing him from all angles, pulling him backwards with ease against his desperate struggles until he too falls to the floor and is left bound there, the tentacles coiling around him like a constrictor.
Then there’s Wine - conniving, scheming Wine who believes himself to be above reproach - who is caught and slammed into the far wall of the room, dragged along its surface and thrown against the furniture still hidden by the aura of pure darkness. Nightmare pulls him up into the air, then slams him down to the floor with a reverberating thud before pulling the dazed skeleton back up and letting him hang there like a macabre ornament. When Coffee tries to rush to his brother to free him, Nightmare merely grabs him and pins him to the floor much like the others, the fearful skeleton doing nothing to actually help anyone in his wild panic.
And then there were two.
Axe is not Horror, and Crooks is not Parsley. Nightmare has no trouble looking at this shorter, angrier version of his Horror and recognizing the two are not the same. It’s a problem that Dust, Killer and Cross are still working through, but they have not spent the centuries travelling the multiverse as Nightmare has. Axe and his brother may have come from similar circumstances, may have once walked the same path through unforgiving lives, but they are their own complete and unique beings, and to treat them as being merely copies of one another does a disservice to both of them.
So it’s for that reason that Nightmare still grabs a hold of both Axe and Crooks by their arms and yanks them down to the floor like chained prisoners. Axe twists and struggles against the bonds he can’t break, old survival instincts kicking in, but Crooks is forced to fold and bend his body into a small ball as he’s held down against the floor.
…There’s still a touch of sentimentality, clearly, in that Nightmare doesn’t use as much force as he could.
And what a sentimental fool he is sometimes…
With every skeleton some variety of battered and restrained, Nightmare pulls his darkness inwards, a receding tide collecting to a point like a pending tsunami, revealing a shambled mess of shattered furniture and destroyed walls. He suppresses the remaining natural light and keeps the room only dimly lit as he steps out of the pulsing cloud of shadow and into his preferred solid form, his hands clasped behind his back as he calmly steps into the centre of his ring of captives scattered in the mess and lets them get a good look at him for the first time.
He feels dozens of CHECKs bounce off of him like bugs crashing against a brick wall, and several feeble swipes of magic trying to latch onto a soul so alien to their own they might as well be blind to it. His expression stays controlled with bored indifference as the realization that he is something more than a Monster sinks into their thoughts, their eyelights widening with confusion and a growing urgent fear palpable on his palate.
Behind him, his main tentacles squirm angrily, fat with negativity and dripping with physical malice. They slap against the floor randomly, agitated and pulsing with want for more.
Nightmare is going to feed well tonight. Very, very well.
Too bad he’s too downright furious to enjoy it.
Teal light sweeps over his captives as Nightmare looks at everyone in turn, examining their stats and conditions, his own CHECKs striking them precisely and with enough force to make them physically recoil from the feedback. He’s met enough Sanses and enough Papyruses to have a good idea of what each of them are potentially capable of. Of who’s more likely to stay and fight and who would turn tail and run at the first opportunity should one break free.
He’s killed more than his fair share too.
These are no different.
Sans is obtuse, cryptic, and depressingly avoidant, Papyrus is flagrant with his cluelessness and overboard with his optimism, Edge has a hair trigger temper yet still foolishly noble, Blue is reckless and presumptive, Stretch is too indecisive and lax, Black is angry and judgmental, Mutt is deliberately unapproachable and mean, Coffee is easily anxious and codependent, Axe is stuck in a cycle of bitterness, Crooks is too comfortable to rock the boat.
Wine is secretive, aloof and pragmatic to all faults, and the collective negligence in setting boundaries with him results in all manner of casualties as he plows through them in the pursuit of his goals without remorse.
And Red is so aggressively self absorbed about his own martyrdom and self pitying that he’s constantly drawn to the worst choices like a suicidal moth to a roaring flame, and has his skull stuck so firmly in the sand he’s wilfully blind to the cycle he’s put himself in.
This group had the benefit of ten years together to work through their individual and collective shit.
But all they’ve done is bring out the worst in each other.
And yet Nightmare’s the ‘bad guy’.
“So,” he says casually, allowing his voice to echo uncomfortably in the dim gloom surrounding them. One word, and he feels the sudden spike of apprehension and terror ripple through his very being.
At least they’re listening.
“Can I trust that you all understand why I’m here and what we need to discuss?” he asks, his gaze falling to Sans, then Edge, before settling on Red, still definitely fighting against the bonds that just coil and tighten further. Red sneers as much as he grimaces, and Nightmare just rolls his eyelight. “No, of course not… I suppose the matter in your skulls is so thick that I have to spell everything out for you.”
Mixed with the fear comes the confusion , and it’s frustratingly annoying that for all the collective intelligence this group should possess none of them seem to understand causation.
The self-absorbed idiots that have already forgotten what happened mere hours ago.
Nightmare tuts when no one offers any verbal response. “The longer you all try to drag this business out, the worse it will get for you. I only have so much tolerance for stupidity, and trust me when I say that you lot have been walking a very thin line.” His control slips for only a moment, the corruption rippling as his voice drips with barely contained malice.
“NOW THAT’S NOT FAIR!” Papyrus argues. He seems to have given up fighting against his bonds for the moment, though his sockets divert towards his brother or one of the others every so often. “WE DON’T EVEN KNOW YOUR NAME! YOU SKIPPED THE MANDATORY INTRODUCTION PHASE AND WENT RIGHT TO THE BINDING AND CONFINEMENT!”
Of course boisterous, innocent Papyrus is the first one to actually say anything. Yet only his voice boasts confidence, his bravado merely surface deep and nowhere close to the uncertainty that he keeps close and hidden.
Nightmare regards him with a tilt of his skull, an acknowledgement. “You’re correct, you have no idea who I am. I’d wager that before now you had no idea someone like me even existed. I certainly paid you no mind before, not until you started hurting someone very dear to me.”
Their confusion only deepens. Nightmare’s tentacles coil and twist in the air, annoyed raptors waiting for the invitation to strike. “Allow me to spell this out for you then: my name is Nightmare, and I am the bogeyman you all fear. I am the villain you all assume is after you. I am that fiend, that force of chaos you believe will ruin your lives… and I am sorely tempted to do so, after all the pain you’ve caused Addison.”
Confusion turns to shock, then back to bewilderment. When Nightmare looks at Red, he sees the crimson eyelights widen then shrink to small pin pricks. Then his gaze diverts, unable to meet Nightmare’s stare as his anger melts away into shame, and he stops fighting his restraints, his shoulders falling and limbs going limp.
Good.
But he’s the only one who seems to stop fighting.
“WHAT THE FUCK, WHAT DOES SHE HAVE TO DO WITH THIS?!” Black yells. He summons a sharp bone attack and tries to saw away at the tentacle holding him down. Nightmare just tightens the restraint on his wrist until he hears the subtle crack of his radius fracturing and another twenty HP is taken off his total.
It’s fine, he still has plenty in reserve and Nightmare can do this all day until it sinks in.
“Let me explain this in simple terms for you,” he replies calmly while Black writhes and groans with his new pain. The darkness in the room deepens as Nightmare loosens his physical form just enough to grow and loom over everyone at once. “I couldn’t care less about any of you,” he hisses, his voice echoing in the space like a painfully sharp frequency. “I don’t care about you or the lives you lead. I don’t care about the circumstances that brought you all to this universe.” His gaze settles on Wine, now less dazed from being thrown around the room, his attention bright and obviously calculating. “I don’t care about your secrets, your lies, your actions in the present or the sins in your pasts. I. Don’t. Care. What I care about is Addison, and every wrong you have done to her from your own short-sighted selfishness. I’m sure that even someone as thick-skulled as each and every single one of you can figure out that I am not happy about it.”
Bones creak and skeletons gasp as Nightmare’s tentacles tighten on reflex, but this time he stops himself from giving in to the urge to go further and snap some spines in two.
“I-AH SHE LI-URG!” Black’s teeth grind as he fights to break free, while Nightmare just pulls him further and further down until his face is forcibly intimate with the floor.
“WHAT HAVE YO-URK YOU DON-ARH WI-STOP! WITH HER?!” Edge yells, no more successful at breaking free than anyone else but certainly trying to be the first, the hero, the one with something to prove and everything to lose.
“What have I done? What have I done?!” The tentacle wrapped around Edge’s chest moves, sliding up and coiling around his neck, working around his skull and with little effort whips him forward and his skull slams against the floor with an echoing crack, taking another twenty-four HP off in the process.
“I am not the one harassing her daily for trying to live her life as she sees fit!” he seethes, leaning down over Edge. “I am not the one who triggered her traumas to bully her into submissiveness! I am not the one who tries to spy on her and sends goons to break into her home when she refuses to yield! I am not the one who tries to extort her and threaten her when she stands up for herself!”
Edge’s struggles seem to wake Red from his melancholy. “stop it!” he shouts as he strains against the tentacles holding him in place. It doesn’t escape Nightmare’s notice how your name only inspired self-pitying, but Edge’s plight ignites a spark of fight in Red.
Nightmare just manifests another tentacle to shoot out and coil around Red’s lower face, muffling his protests and leaving him no wiggle room to even try and bite in retaliation.
Killer likely bites harder anyways.
“You be quiet for a moment, I will get to you in due time,” Nightmare chides harshly, and Red’s muted retorts are easily ignored as Nightmare turns his attention back to the others. “First I need to deal with the matter of your ‘family’ and their transgressions.”
“fuck that!” Mutt argues, though his argument is only so effective as he hangs helplessly in the air. “fuck that shit, we didn’t do anythin’ w-”
“WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM US?” Wine interrupts, a surprisingly calm question among the shouting. Nightmare would almost welcome the display of rationality… if it wasn’t coming from the one skeleton known for twisting situations to suit his own advantage.
Nightmare considers how succinct to be with his demands. There’s a lot he wants them to answer for. “I want you to leave her alone,” he answers simply. “Let her live her life as she chooses, on her own terms.”
Wine’s brow quirks in response, but it’s Axe that replies. “that’s it?” he asks skeptically. “you’re a guy called ‘nightmare’ but all you care ‘bout is how some human got her feelings hurt? i don’t buy that for a sec’.”
Again, Nightmare thinks it’s just sentimentality that keeps Nightmare from punishing the back-talk as he had with the others. Instead he just grabs the edge of Axe’s hoodie and drags him up until his face is only inches away. “What exactly do you think I could possibly want from you?” he counters harshly while Axe grunts and tries to twist away. Nightmare growls, then throws him back to the ground and starts to slowly pace around the others. “What could I want from any of you? Do you think I want your world? This boring plane that’s a dime-a-dozen across the multiverse? Don’t make me laugh, this is barely worth the attention. It’s not even notable for the accident that brought you all here in the first place.”
He senses the sharpest spike of astonishment from Sans, keeping shock still on the floor, as if moving a mere inch would draw unwanted attention to him. Nightmare meets Sans’ look knowingly. “Surprised? I could take a blind leap into the aether and be likely to find yet another universe where some group of ‘Sanses’ and ‘Papyruses’ have been lumped together for one reason or another.” He then looks at Edge, then Stretch, then up at poor ignored Blue still pinned to the ceiling. “You’re not the first ones to adopt the monikers of ‘Red’ or ‘Edge’, or of ‘Black’ or ‘Wine’ or ‘Mutt’, ‘Rus’, ‘Blue’ or ‘Blueberry’ or ‘Stretch’ or ‘Carrot’ or whatever quaint nicknames you’ve decided to give yourselves, and you certainly won’t be the last.”
A strange look comes across Stretch’s face. “... carrot?” he mutters in confusion.
“WAIT, WHY WOULD I WANT TO BE NAMED ‘BLUEBERRY’?” his brother asks, equally confused but not as equally quiet. “I DON’T EVEN LIKE BLUEBERRIES. THEY’RE TOO SWEET!”
“who th’ fuck is ‘rus’?”
“ Enough. ”
Nightmare’s voice echoes in the room, his tentacles wiping and cracking in the air like thunder claps, and the chatter dies as quickly as it started. “The point is you are not unique, this world is nothing out of the ordinary. So what use could I possibly have for you? For a machine that no longer even functions by your own admission? I travel the multiverse at will, and you think yourselves important enough for my notice? For me to scheme and plot against you?”
“THEN WHY ARE YOU HERE?” Wine asks, bringing the conversation back to his original point. Nightmare can practically feel his skepticism and paranoia like a sour on the back of his mouth. “IF OUR UNIVERSE IS HARDLY OF ANY IMPORTANCE, THEN WHY SPECIFICALLY IS ADDISON?” he presses. “YOU CANNOT SIT THERE AND TELL US THAT WE DO NOT MATTER AND THEN THREATEN US ON HER BEHALF IN YOUR VERY NEXT BREATH. IF WE ARE NOBODIES THEN SO IS SH-”
He isn’t allowed to finish. In one fluid motion Wine is yanked back towards the wall and is swallowed by a festering portal of darkness, he and his startled shout absorbed wholly and utterly by the void.
Silence follows.
Nightmare tuts, and turns his attention back to the rest. “Anyone else?” he asks sharply.
“wh-where th’ hell did he go? what did ya do to him?!” Mutt yells, twisting around violently as he tries to break free. Coffee obviously has similar concerns, as the mute skeleton suddenly starts struggling feverishly against his bonds, trying to pull himself towards the spot where his brother disappeared.
Nightmare merely shrugs. “I sent him to another universe.”
Coffee stills instantly. Shock ripples around the room like a wave, confusion amplified and concern mounting as some remain transfixed on the darkness surrounding them.
It’s Sans who speaks next, his question of “where?” so quietly mumbled.
“Does it matter where?” Nightmare responds, and Sans almost flinches as if he didn’t expect to be heard. “Maybe I sent him to a universe that’s a mirror copy of this one. Maybe it’s one of death and destruction beyond the likes you’ve ever seen.” Nightmare tilts his skull mockingly. “Maybe I sent him to a universe of silence and emptiness, a dead void of nothing that will drive him mad from the desolation. Or maybe I sent him to one that’s on the verge of dying, with atoms and molecules tearing themselves apart as everything crumbles into the void.”
He begins to walk slowly around his captives again, feeling their emotions rise in distress as their imaginations take hold and spin worse and worse places that Wine could have been sent to.
“Did you know I found a world where the Underground’s CORE had imploded?” he continues, almost sadistically, knowing that the uncertainty will only rile them up further. “The mountain was entirely obliterated. The explosion created a hole so deep it takes an object falling at terminal velocity twenty-three minutes before it hits the bottom. Maybe I sent him there? Imagine his screams as he plummets endlessly in the darkness with no clue of when he’ll reach-”
“BRING HIM BACK!” Black shouts in fury. Nightmare roughly presses his skull harder against the floor until he relents and cries with pain in response.
“Why should I? What was he contributing to this conversation except his unwillingness to actually listen?”
“THIS ISN’T A CONVERSATION! YOU BROKE INTO OUR HOUSE AND ARE HOLDING US HOSTAGE!” Edge yells, trying to yank himself free.
“YOU CAN’T JUST THROW SOMEONE INTO ANOTHER UNIVERSE WHEN YOU’RE ANGRY AT THEM!” Blue adds, talking over Edge as he does so.
Mutt continues to twist futilely like a lone leaf fighting against the wind. “i swear ta’ fuck when i get my hands on you-”
“... so can you send us back?”
Once again, the room stills, the frantic energy freezing in the silence.
It’s… not a question Nightmare had anticipated, that’s for sure.
And given the speed at which everyone’s skulls turn to Stretch - still hanging limply upside down yet carefully avoiding looking at anyone else - that’s not a question they were expecting to hear either.
“BUT… WAIT WHY WOULD YOU EVEN ASK THAT?” Blue blurts out before Nightmare can ask what use this line of questioning even is to the matter at hand. “THIS IS REALLY NOT THE TIME FOR-”
“WHY WOULD YOU WANT TO LEAVE STRETCH?” Papyrus interrupts with a counter question, concern in his voice and hurt in his feelings. “ARE YOU NOT HAPPY HERE?”
Stretch winces, and if he could will the tentacle to turn him around to face the wall and avoid the others, he certainly tries to. “it’s not that, i-”
“it’s cause this ain’t his home!” Axe yells, startling everyone except Nightmare. “cause no matter how she acts that ain’t his pal undyne, that ain’t his buddy asgore, and that ain’t his underground!” Axe glares, but not at Nightmare.
Sans flinches again as the glare is aimed squarely at him.
“we’ve always been nothin’ more than an inconvenience for a certain someone who would be more than happy ta see us go!” Axe continues, obviously past the breaking point of whatever walls he kept up to maintain the performance of peace. “ya think we don’t know it? ya think we can’t tell when ya basically treat us like second-class citizens?!”
“THAT’S NOT TRUE!” Papyrus argues, rushing to Sans’ defence. Yet Nightmare picks up on the thread of guilt he tries to keep suppressed, an internal acknowledgement of the truth of Axe’s words. “WE’VE BEEN A FAMILY! A STRANGE FAMILY SURE… AND YES WE DON’T ALWAYS GET ALONG BUT THAT’S JUST WHAT FAMILIES ARE!”
“MAYBE YOU THOUGHT OF US AS SUCH, BUT SANS WOULD DUST BEFORE HE EVER CALLS ME ‘BROTHER’,” Edge counters bitterly. “IT HASN’T ESCAPED MY NOTICE EITHER HOW ‘INCONVENIENT’ OUR PRESENCE HAS BEEN TO HIM. I FRIGHTEN HIM. MY LV, MY UPBRINGING - MY LIFE- FRIGHTENS HIM, AND HE CAN’T SEE PAST THAT.”
Nightmare feels the tone of the room shift, of attention shifting away from him, of lines being drawn and sides being picked, and not for the first time. He sighs inwardly, forgotten as their pent up aggression and frustrations turn onto one another in the stress of the moment. And how quickly they turn, how dysfunctional this ‘family’ actually becomes under duress.
“okay, wait, that’s goin’ a bit far.” Stretch wriggles as if being held up in the air is no longer the most uncomfortable thing happening to him right now. “yeah there are days when i wanna go home, ‘kay? nothin’ wrong with bein’ homesick. but sans and papyrus have done nothin’ but take care of us since we all dropped in and upended their lives. it didn’t matter who we were-”
“yeah, no, there’s been a difference stretch,” Mutt grumbles. Below him, Coffee nods slowly. He steals another glance back towards the spot where his brother disappeared. “edge’s got it right, you ain’t got a speck of lv, so you don’t see the tiptoein’ everyone ‘civilized’ does ‘round us, like we’re gonna go crazy or somethin’.”
“IT’S NOT ABOUT THAT-”
“it’s all about that!” Axe argues back. He leans forward as far as the bonds will let him. Nightmare has half a mind to let him loose and get in everyone’s faces like he so clearly wants to.
“it’s exactly about that! ‘cause he hates confrontation!” Axe yells, jerking his skull towards Sans, trying to hide away from his shame in the safety of apathy but failing with all the eyelights on him. “he hates the messy stuff that don’t fit neatly in his moral boxes! he hates that i have his face and his name and that we had ta do that shit daily just ta survive while he gets ta live all nice and comfy in this sanitized sunshine and rainbows shithole”
“WE’RE-URG… NNNG-NOT EVEN ALLOWED TO LEAVE THE CIT-GET OFF!” Black shakes off one of the tentacles holding his face against the floor, Nightmare not even interested in keeping it firm any more. Black cranes his neck and levels a glare of his own up at Blue. “WE CAN’T EVEN LEAVE THE CITY WITHOUT ASGORE’S APPROVAL, REMEMBER? ‘SECRETS’ THIS AND ‘MASS PANIC’ THAT, IT’S NOT ABOUT THE FUCKING MULTIVERSE IT’S OUR LV AND EVERYONE’S A FUCKING HYPOCRITE BECAUSE NOBODY BATS AN EYE AT HIS CHILD MURDERING ASS!”
Were anyone else here witnessing this confrontation - Killer, Dust, even Cross comes to mind given the shows he watches - a bowl of popcorn would have been acquired and ravenously eaten as the drama unfolds around them.
Unfortunately, it’s only Nightmare here, and his socket twitches as the throb of a frontal headache forms in his skull and his patience for this wears down to the barest fibre.
“… IF WE GO HOME, WE GO BACK TO THE UNDERGROUND,” Crooks points out quietly, completely unaware of the thin thread about to snap. “NONE OF US WERE ON THE SURFACE WHEN IT HAPPENED… THE BARRIER WAS STILL UP IN ALL OF OUR HOMES.” He looks at Papyrus with a sad smile. “YOUR BROTHER HAS GOTTEN BETTER AT HIDING HIS DISCOMFORT OVER THE YEARS, BELIEVE ME. HE CAN ACTUALLY LOOK AT MY FACE NOW! BUT IF HE REALLY WANTS US TO GO HOME… I WOULD VERY MUCH NOT LIKE TO.”
“i won’t let him,” Axe insists. “if he wants ta send us back he goes through me first.”
“same,” Mutt agrees. He tilts his skull, then grins meanly. “even if he does get what he wants though, wonder how long his ‘happily ever after’ would last? maybe i should call up a favour and ask frisk to-”
Sans’ skull whips up from his forlorn look in the middle distance, his eyelights gone and his sockets hollow voids as he stares at Mutt. “you wouldn’t,” he says in a deep tone that brokers no argument.
“FRISK?” Papyrus looks back and forth between his brother and Mutt. “WHAT DOES FRISK HAVE TO DO WITH ANYTHING? YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW FRISK… SANS HASN’T EVEN SPOKEN TO THEM IN YEARS-”
“it’s ‘cause… never mind.” Stretch tries to curl away from everyone again. “that’s goin’ too far mutt,” he mumbles.
“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU BOTH TALKING ABOUT?”
“YES, I’M ALSO CONFUSED, WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT-”
“ Oh enough already! ”
Nightmare’s tentacles shoot out in different directions, pulling a billowing cloud of darkness with them and submerging the room in pitch black void in the span of a gasp. It churns like a physical, viscous soup, as tactile and real as the corruption that’s been latched to his body for centuries. He fumes in an incorporeal state, feeling their physical bodies struggle in their blind panic, absorbing the sudden influx of negative emotion in the room and amplifying them right back - the fear, the hurt, the betrayal, anger, confusion and resentment.
He could drown them all in it. Then let them have a taste of their own emotions thrown back at them ten-fold. They want to bicker and fight? By all means, let them feel what true negativity looks like. Let them die with their cries smothered, let their last thoughts be torn and sundered under the maelstrom of everything they caused as they crumble to dust to be kicked under his boots.
It would be easy.
So easy.
But no, someone has to be the adult in the room.
Someone has to teach these squabbling children the meaning of the word ‘consequences’.
Starting with the one right in front of him.
Red remains bound and gagged, untouched by the darkness and the only point of focus in the black void, his crimson eyelights whipping in every direction as he tries to understand where he’s suddenly found himself and where everyone else has gone. He looks up directly into the face of the harsh teal orb of light radiating malice.
“I didn’t come here to play therapist for your family,” Nightmare seethes, his voice reverberating ethereally. “I don’t care about any of you or your interpersonal problems. I came here because Addison asked me to. Because she’s at her wits end and asked me to deal with this . Do you understand? That you left her no choice except to call me , and she doesn’t care how I choose to resolve this, only that I do. She is turning a blind eye to me - me! - and what I might choose to do with you in retribution. Do you understand? Do you understand?!”
Red winces and tries to avert his gaze, but Nightmare is done allowing him to remain purposely uninvolved on the sidelines. The tentacle around his mouth shifts around his neck and twists his chin around, forcing him to maintain eye contact as Nightmare looms closer.
“No, you don’t get the luxury of hiding anymore, not from me. Not from this. Not when your cowardice got us here in the first place!” Nightmare’s eyelight narrows to a vertical slit. “Not when you’ve led a good woman who deserves for the world to care about her as much as she cares about others to her breaking point, where she no longer cares if I walk out of here leaving dust piles in my wake! So do you finally understand why I am so angry?! ”
And it is only because Nightmare does care - cares so strongly with every speck of mana and magic that makes up his body as if to compensate for the lack of care you’ve faced over the course of your life - that he doesn’t wring Red’s neck until his skull separates from his body and crumbles to dust. Because you say you don’t care anymore, but he knows you.
It won’t be tomorrow, it might not even be the next day…
But their deaths would weigh heavily on your conscience, your guilt would drown you as if you had been the one to pull the trigger, as if you had been the one to gain LV.
He never wants that for you, never wants you to feel that pain.
“We wouldn’t even be having this conversation if all you were guilty of was a tone-deaf breakup,” he continues, his voice dripping low with fury. “But you have repeatedly refused to get involved, to stop the harassment from the others. You’ve merely turned a blind eye to it, when they started it because of you! If you actually loved her about even half as much as she once loved you-”
“fthu-ck ouuuhh,” Red growls around the gag, a furious anger overtaking the shame. Nightmare loosens it, allowing him to speak freely. “fuck you!” he spits. “i loved her! i fuckin’ cared about her! don’t you fuckin’ accuse me of that shit!”
“Then why didn’t you stop your brother going to her apartment when you saw her with someone else at the park?” Nightmare accuses. “Did you expect her to never move on with her life, to pine for you for the rest of it? Why did you allow Wine to bug her phone, to stalk her even after she was kicked out of your home?”
“i didn’t know-”
“Why did you look the other way every single time they escalated their harassment? With the calls that had to be blocked, or sending someone else to break into her home in the middle of the night? Why did you sit there mired in self pity while they gave her an ultimatum to either continue facing the harassment or being exiled from the city she called home all these years?!”
“i didn’t-”
“I know you didn’t, that’s the problem! ” Nightmare roars. Tentacles grapple Red tightly across his chest to hoist him up into the air, and Nightmare’s enlarged claw springs from the darkness and snatches the front of his heavy sweater. He twists the fabric hard, until the collar is taught and Red sputters in distress, and brings him inches away from the burning teal light. “All of this is about what you didn’t do! What you continue to not do! All you do is dodge the inconvenient consequences of your actions because stars-forbid something or someone makes you feel remorse for once in your miserable life!”
“tha-ah… that ain’t t-true!”
“ Then why didn’t you tell her about her father?! ”
Nightmare knows he’s hit a sore spot when Red freezes and doesn’t have an immediate smart comeback or blustered swearing to answer with. He’s content to wait in silence, a silence rich with fury while Red struggles with his own inner turmoil and agonizing seconds just tick by. When the tension starts to ebb away, when Nightmare feels Red fighting himself to stay angry, stay focused , and then feels him losing that fight, then he knows this at the very least has gotten through to him.
Red’s shoulders drop, letting Nightmare hold up his whole weight, limp in the air. “... she’d ‘ve left,” Red mumbles, quietly, so unlike the loud abrasive self he was mere seconds ago. Something he doesn’t want to admit out loud… or to himself.
Nightmare hoists him closer, until all he can look at is the teal glow of his eye light, dancing in the dark like the lure of a predator. “ Explain, ” he orders, leaving no quarter for Red to do anything but.
Red gasps, his hands clench around nothing but he doesn’t fight, uncomfortable but compliant. “she… th’ city wouldn’t ‘ve been safe anymore, so she’d… she’d ‘ve run, left, an’...” Red’s face drops with sorrow, and he heaves a deep sigh. “we ain’t allowed ‘ta leave, like black said. she’d ‘ve left and… i couldn’t follow… i’d ‘ve lost her.”
Predictably, everything returns to Red and Red’s feelings. “So you kept her in the dark about the near miss all these years, while your family grew to silently resent her for reasons she didn’t know and couldn’t control.” Nightmare squints, as the threads of this drama unravel and are laid bare and he connects the ends together. “And yet you did nothing when Wine threatened her with that very danger now that you want her gone? So all of your moaning about ‘losing her’ is thrown out the window the moment your ‘soulmate’ walks by, is it?”
Immediately at the word ‘soulmate’ Red’s eyelights flare and his grimace twists into a sneer. “ya don’t get it!” Red argues back. “ya think i didn’t fight it?! like i wanted ta be told who ta love?! fuck that and fuck you! i loved addison, ya don’t know a damn thing about that! ya don’t know a damn thing about soulmates! ya don’t understand the kind o’ pain when your chest is fuckin’ rippin’ itself apart because ya want to be wit’ tha woman you chose but yer soul wants ta be with its other half!”
Maybe not, maybe Nightmare doesn’t understand the feeling of his soul pulling unnaturally in another direction, but he doesn’t think he wants to. He knows who he’s willingly given his soul to, who he chose to trust with the most vulnerable parts of himself, and he knows the feeling of being chosen by them in return. And he would sooner die than do anything to betray that trust. To him, that feeling is far sweeter than any spark of whatever instant allure Red is referring to.
He hopes that one day, when you’ve healed enough to trust others with the whole of your heart without the fear of it being ripped apart again, he gets to experience what it’s like to be chosen by you. But that is a road only you can set the pace for, and he’s happy to help you walk it for however long you need.
Nightmare’s grip on Red tightens, but he continues to snarl and yell like a caged animal. “i tried! i tried everythin’ i could ta stay away from mel, but she kept poppin’ up like the fuckin’ universe thought th’ whole thing was hilarious! flounderin’ around like i was the fuckin’ butt of th’ joke! might as well ‘ave had a fuckin’ laugh track and yakity sax playin’ in the air! and she was nice! the nicest soul ya ever did meet and… and… fuck!” Red’s bluster drops and he hangs limp in the air again, distress and misery wafting off him in powerful waves, thickening the darkness around him.
“... i couldn’t fight it anymore, it… it hurt so bad, an’...,” Red’s eyelights go hazy, a soft diffused red glow like a dying ember, almost swallowed by the burning harshness of the teal light in his face. “... whenever mel was nearby my soul felt… whole. happy. truly happy. like colours were brighter an’... shit, like there was singin’ in my chest... i never thought i could feel somethin’ like that feelin’ after everythin’ that i did. like i ever deserved it.”
Nightmare has a thing or two he can say about something like that, but he remains silent as Red bemoans about everything. “i couldn’t string addison along anymore, it ain’t fair ta her, so… i thought… if i’d just go quick, like, rippin’ the band-aid off, it wouldn’t hurt her as bad in th’ long run. i didn’t want it ta… ta hurt. she didn’t deserve that. she don’t deserve any of the hurt she got.”
He sighs, grimacing as he attempts a weak shrug. Humiliation and self loathing waft off of him like a terrible stench, and Nightmare bitterly absorbs the emotions. “addison… didn’t deserve any of tha’ bullshit cause of me… and mel don’t deserve ta be shackled ta a guy like me either. jus’... i jus’ fuck everythin’ up when i didn’t want ta hurt anyone, so… i dunno, maybe yer karma after all this time, an’ it’s time ta pay up my due. fuck knows i fuckin’ deserve it…”
Nightmare barely resists the urge to roll his eyelight. “Unbelievable,” he hisses. “After all this time you still haven’t heard a single thing I’ve said. Still just a self absorbed moron refusing to get off the ‘Woe is Red’ pity train.” Nightmare twists Red’s sweater tighter until he chokes, then throws him roughly back to the ground with a snarl. Red lands hard on the small of his back with a grunt, and he’s slow to roll over and push himself up to his knees. He glances up towards Nightmare looming over him, but is barely making eye contact anymore. Tentacles wriggle and slither in the dark in aggravation.
“You want me to kill you yet you won’t even look at me,” Nightmare snipes. “Coward. That’s all you are. A coward who flees the moment anything gets hard for you, takes the easy way out regardless of who gets hurt along the way. You hide and ignore, then have the audacity to call yourself a ‘survivor’. Of course I could kill you, but you would just be avoiding consequences again.”
He bends down low, hovering inches away from Red’s face again, causing him to flinch from the glare of the light. “No. No I’m not going to do anything to you, except leave you here to live with the mess that you’ve made. So you can either do something productive for once in your pathetic life or go wallow in your own worthlessness for all I care. Just as long as no more harm comes to Addison… otherwise we will meet again and you will find me less sympathetic the second time. Do we have an understanding?”
Red tugs at the collar of his sweater, then fingers the collar buckle around his neck that’s done absolutely nothing for protection. His shame has only deepened, his self worth drowning in a bottomless lake, and Nightmare wonders if he even has the strength of will to eventually pull himself back up again.
But that’s Red’s problem, entirely of his own doing.
Red’s skull eventually jerks with a stressed nod, begrudging acceptance that he’s in no position to argue otherwise really. Nightmare breathes deep, and starts to pull the darkness back into himself. “Loathe as I am to admit it, you’re not even the worst transgressor here,” he remarks bitterly. “No, that honour belongs to a few choice others.”
The darkness rolls back into Nightmare’s core, uncovering the room inch by inch like dark secrets revealed by a draining lake bed. One by one the other skeletons appear back into the light, limp on the floor, gasping for air like drowned souls, eyelights blown and dazed or for some of them entirely missing. He ensured they’ve heard every word so far, and he doesn’t bother keeping them bound anymore.
Their will to fight has been effectively drained after all.
Nightmare brushes down the front of his coat and adjusts the high collar, the corruption so thick and roiling he practically gained a few inches in height and width. He lets his tentacles slither along the floor, content serpents stuffed with misery. He looks to Sans for a moment, drenched in sweat and sheltering in the void of apathy lest his mind shatter, before changing his mind. He walks over to Black, sockets empty of light and panting heavily. Nightmare leans down and grabs the dazed skeleton by the scruff of his bandana, jerking him upwards to his knees.
“Now that we are all more agreeable to the idea of having an actual conversation, there are other matters we need to discuss, ” Nightmare remarks coldly, and he’s pleased that Black’s arrogance has evaporated and he visibly flinches at hearing Nightmare speak. “I want to know how her father found her.”
Black’s empty sockets pull downward in pain and upset, but he at least manages to hold eye contact better than Red had. He swallows the dryness in his mouth, his vertebrae clicking with the motion. “... WE DON’T KNOW,” he admits quietly. “THAT WAS THE ONE QUESTION WE COULDN’T FIGURE OUT. NOT EVEN WINE KNEW.”
Debatable, there was a great deal misinterpreted of the situation and Wine could have kept something hidden for future advantage, but Black at least is telling the truth as he understands it, much as the truth smolders bitterly in Nightmare’s mouth. It doesn’t quite feel like the whole truth though, not with the slightest hint of guilt hidden in the air. “And you never thought to speak with her about it?”
“... WE DIDN’T TRUST HER.”
Well that much is obvious. Before and after the incident, some just using it as an excuse to be even more hostile and cruel. “... It should have been the other way around,” Nightmare retorts. “She should never have trusted you, liars and backstabbers that you are.” Nightmare shoves Black back down to the floor and straightens to address the room. “Then I suppose everything was just a mere coincidence, hmm?”
No one offers an answer right away, until Blue grunts and lifts his skull up. “... HE WAS LOOKING FOR HER SPECIFICALLY,” Blue answers quietly. He winces, and pushes himself up to sit on the floor, his eyelights dull and lacking their usual exuberance. “HE SAID HIS WIFE WAS… ADDISON’S MOM WAS DYING, HE WANTED HER TO GO BACK WITH HIM TO UTAH FOR HER FINAL DAYS.” Blue diverts his gaze for a moment. “SHE DIED BEFORE THE TRIAL ENDED,” he adds.
Good riddance Nightmare thinks.
“IT WAS THE REASON A PLEA DEAL WAS OFFERED IN THE FIRST PLACE,” Edge interjects. Nightmare briefly considers punishment for speaking out of turn, but he’s offering information and this is after all an exercise of communication, so he turns to acknowledge the skeleton instead, and motions for him to continue.
Edge pauses, hollow and sombre. “BLUE AND I WERE INVOLVED WITH THE TRIAL BECAUSE OF OUR CONNECTIONS WITH THE EMBASSY, AND BLACK WITH THE PROSECUTOR’S OFFICE,” he recounts. “ADDISON’S FATHER WAS SEEN AS A GRIEVING HUSBAND WITH AN ESTRANGED DAUGHTER, AND HIS CONSUL ARGUED THAT HE WAS NOT IN HIS RIGHT MIND WHEN PAPYRUS REFUSED HIM ENTRY. THEY ARGUED THAT THE CONCERNING IDEOLOGY THAT HE WAS IMMERSED IN WAS NOT RELEVANT AND CIRCUMSTANTIAL AT WORST.”
Black’s face twists with an angry frown, and he makes a dismissive noise. “THERE’S A LIE SOMEWHERE IN THERE,” he mutters. “BUT THEY BOUGHT IT AND HE WAS ONLY GIVEN A LENGTHY PROBATION AND A VISITATION BAN… A SLAP ON THE FUCKING WRIST.”
“MAYBE HE REALLY DID JUST WANT TO MAKE AMENDS,” Blue adds quietly. “EVERYONE DESERVES A CHANCE TO SAY ‘SORRY’.”
“And where’s the apology Addison is owed then?” Nightmare counters, and Blue ducks his skull, chastised.
Based on everything he knows about your father, Nightmare highly doubts that his motive was so altruistic. A manipulation tactic designed to feed on your sense of guilt, to put the needs of someone else above yourself, even if that person has done you great harm. He wanted you to go back, and Nightmare is sure that he would not let you leave of your own free will a second time.
It’s something he’s sure you know as well, given how far you fled and how hard you try to keep a low profile.
“So we are back to my original question,” Nightmare says through gritted teeth, his tentacles flaring with impatience. “How did he know she was here?”
Again, no one has an immediate answer. Nightmare walks slowly around the room, pacing like a hunting cat, focusing on the warble of guilt that one of them is feeling. Someone knows, and someone isn’t telling.
“HER FATHER WASN’T FORTHCOMING ABOUT THE ‘HOW’S’ DURING PROCEEDINGS,” Black explains. “AND THE PROSECUTOR WASN’T THAT INTERESTED AFTER THE PLEA REGARDLESS.”
“sh’ probably put somethin’ up on the internet that revealed a bit too much-”
“She doesn’t have social media,” Nightmare quickly interjects, rounding onto Mutt and leaning down as if to strike him. He knows you don’t have any social media accounts, he knows you avoided having any kind of online presence for exactly this reason , so he would appreciate it if Mutt didn’t try to deflect the blame for this situation onto you. “Try again.”
He’s at least smart enough to look chastened, and turns away in regret.
“it could literally have been just a dumb fluke,” Stretch suggests, a kinder suggestion to try and tone down Nightmare’s anger. “like he was in town and saw her, or somethin’ like that. a one-in-a-million, like the worst kind of luck.”
Murmured words of agreement bounce back and forth across the room, but the note of guilt pangs heavily. Nightmare tilts his skull and consciously follows it around until…
“...Papyrus.”
Papyrus jolts upright as if he had been shocked, his sockets drawn upwards and Nightmare steps in front of him.
“You know something.”
Sans blinks out of his stupor and looks to his brother, his confusion and worry fighting against each other. The others are merely taken by confusion.
Papyrus sits himself up, wrapping his arms around his knees as he draws them up, doing a fairly good job of making his normally tall and lanky body small. He rests his chin on his kneecaps, a grin on his face that’s tight with awkwardness.
The guilt throbs in the air.
“... I DIDN’T KNOW THAT SANS WAS ANGRY AT HER,” he admits. “AND I DIDN’T KNOW THAT WINE WAS SPYING ON HER, THOUGH HE SPIES ON EVERYONE REALLY. HE EVEN HAS FILES OF ME ON HIS COMPUTER. ME! HE PUT A LITTLE MICROPHONE UNDER THE WHEEL OF MY BED, BUT HE SHOULD KNOW I POLISH MY BED LIKE A REAL CAR EVERY DAY. HE HIDES HIS FILES AND PLANS BEHIND A PASSWORD HE THINKS I’M NOT CLEVER ENOUGH TO FIGURE OUT… BUT REALLY HIS PASSWORDS STINK.”
Coffee makes a scandalized noise in defence of his absent brother, but everyone ignores him while Papyrus continues.
“I’M VERY GOOD AT PUZZLES LIKE THAT, AND VERY GOOD AT NOTICING WHEN SOME-THING AND SOME-THAT ARE SECRETLY RELATED OR WHEN THEY ARE NOT. AND I THINK… I THINK MUTT HAS THE RIGHT SOLUTION BUT THE WRONG ANSWER FOR THIS PUZZLE… BECAUSE I THINK IT WAS ME.”
Nightmare kneels down. Papyrus winces like he’s anticipating Nightmare to get angry in his face like the rest, but Nightmare maintains a calm, neutral expression. “I want you to explain,” Nightmare starts. “I want the truth.”
Papyrus fidgets, pulling his knees closer to himself. “WELL THE TRUTH IS THAT I’M A VERY BUSY MONSTER!” he exclaims. “AND REALLY IT WAS NOTHING THAT OUT OF THE ORDINARY! NOTHING OUTSIDE OF MY NORMAL DAY TO DAY ROUTINES… AND MAYBE PART OF ROUTINE IS MY OBLIGATIONS AS THE MONSTER AMBASSADOR FOR KING ASGORE, AND PART OF THAT OBLIGATION THAT’S A PART OF MY ROUTINE IS TO MAINTAIN AN IMPECCABLE PUBLIC PRESENCE… THE PUBLICLY PUBLIC AND THE ONLINE PUBLIC… SOOOOOOO…”
“You put something online.”
Papyrus shifts again. “I’M VERY POPULAR ONLINE, VERY VERY POPULAR, VERY HANDSOME, I HAVE FANS WHO FOLLOW ME ALL AROUND THE WORLD AND LIKE AND SHARE ALL OF MY EXPLOITS AND… PHOTOS.” Papyrus glances to the side at Sans, then back to making poor eye contact with Nightmare. “WE HAD A BIG BARBECUE FOR THE SURFACING ANNIVERSARY A FEW YEARS AGO… WHERE EDGE HOOKED THE GAS UP INCORRECTLY AND THEN THE GRILL EXPLODED AND ALL OF THE WELL SEASONED AND PROBABLY VERY DELICIOUS STEAKS WENT FLYING INTO OUR NEIGHBOURS' YARDS.”
“PAPYRUS,” Edge growls, “WHAT DOES THAT HAVE TO DO WITH-”
“WELL I TOOK A SELFIE, AND THEN I POSTED THE SELFIE WITH A WITTY CAPTION. SO OF COURSE THAT PHOTO AND CAPTION WERE SHARED AND THEN SHARED AND THEN LIKED AND THEN SHARED OVER AND OVER AGAIN. AND MAYBE BECAME ONE OF MY TOP PHOTOS THAT MONTH… AND MAYBE… MAYBE… ADDISON WAS A LITTLE, TINY BIT VISIBLE IN THE BACKGROUND.”
And there it is.
The root of all of this.
A blasted photo you probably weren’t aware even existed.
Worse than a ‘dumb fluke’ as Stretch called it, this was just plain dumb. A lapse in judgment, lacking any kind of foresight.
And they blamed you this whole time.
Idiots.
“that’s… that’s it? i mean, are you sure it was that?” Sans asks. “paps, you post dozens of pictures a day.”
“FORTY-NINE PER DAY, FIFTY-THREE ON WEEKENDS!” Papyrus clarifies. “I MAXIMIZE THE ALGORITHM THAT WAY, FOR MAXIMUM SPREADAGE!”
“when you say it like that it sounds like you’re spreading a virus…”
“THAT’S BULLSHIT, WHY WOULD A GERIATRIC MONSTER HATER EVEN COME ACROSS A PHOTO LIKE THAT IN THE FIRST PLACE?”
“yeah, that’s a load of horse shit pap, i think your math doesn’t add up there buddy.”
Papyrus shakes his skull. “NO, I AM QUITE CAPABLE AT MATH AND PUTTING TWO AND TWO TOGETHER, THANK YOU VERY MUCH. HE RECOGNIZED ME WHEN I ANSWERED THE DOOR WOULD NOT TAKE NO FOR AN ANSWER WHEN I TOLD HIM HE NEEDED TO LEAVE… I DID FEEL BAD FOR HIM, MAYBE HE WANTED TO MAKE AMENDS AND SAY SORRY… AND IT’S HER FAMILY AND FAMILY IS IMPORTANT… BUT I HELD MY GROUND! AND THEN HE TRIED TO HIT ME.”
He pauses, then makes a waving motion with his hand. “WELL, ‘TRIED’ IS THE PART IN AIR QUOTES. BECAUSE HE COULDN’T REACH MY FACE. AND HIS COORDINATION WAS POOR, HE NEARLY TRIPPED OVER HIMSELF IN HIS ATTEMPT. BUT I UNDERSTOOD THAT IT WASN’T ABOUT HIS SUCCESS AND MORE ABOUT THAT HE INTENDED TO HURT ME IN THE FIRST PLACE.”
“... pap… pap. you gotta stop postin’ photos where folks can see our address.”
“yeah there’s like, whole media literacy courses about why you shouldn’t do that.”
“WELL I KNOW THAT NOW THANK YOU VERY MUCH.”
“Stop.”
The chatter falls silent. The tentacles behind Nightmare slap against the floor. He takes a sharp, audible inhale while his hands curl into fists and he stands back up again. “You all have a tendency to devolve into finger pointing and petty arguments, and I suggest you reign it in.”
“It’s always someone else’s fault with you, with all of you. All this time you blamed Addison for the incursion,” he hisses. “Here Papyrus admits to suspecting he was likely the cause, and yet in all these years he has not once reached out to explain and apologize. None of you have. ”
“BUT IF SHE HAD JUST BEEN HONEST ABOUT HER PAST IN THE FIRST PLACE, WE COULD HAVE TAKEN PRECAUTIONS,” Black argues. “SHE NEGLECTED TO TELL US ANYTHING ABOUT THE THREAT HE POSED TO US.”
“None of that is your business!” Nightmare bellows. “You are no more owed her past than she is of yours! The threat was not towards you, it was to her! And you knew that she had no contact with her family before any of this happened! She was taking appropriate precautions, precautions that you-” Nightmare jabs a tentacle in Papyrus’ face, “carelessly plowed through without so much as a second thought! And then you blamed her, just like you blame anyone else except yourselves! You all harboured resentment that you then used to justify your campaign of harassment, and for what?! What point does it serve to continue to hurt her after he’s-” another tentacle is thrust towards Red, “already abandoned her for someone else?! She was already out of your lives, so why did you repeatedly try to drag her back in?! ”
He already knows why. Everyone in the room knows he knows, he’s just waiting for someone to stop being a coward and say it. But of course, no one is so quick to speak, to risk their neck in case he lashes out.
But their silence just makes him angrier .
“... You idiotic, cowardly scum,” he snarls, his hands balling into fists, tentacles curling with the want to strike out. “You can’t even admit out loud that you’ve done any of this out of concern. You’ve never been concerned for Addison, only your own fears and assumptions. Only for your own safety to your little perfect bubble of existence. She’s just acceptable collateral to you in your misguided campaign! You hypocrites! You fucking maggots!”
The floor quakes and plaster dust shakes free from the walls with Nightmare’s roar. A tentacle whips out and smashes the lone surviving lamp in the room, shards exploding over Axe and Edge. Everyone flinches and whimpers, curling away from him as they expect him to throw them about the room again. He might. He should. They were so desperate to prove a threat where there was none. And look where it’s got them.
Cowering from the threat of their own making.
“Threats, threats, threats, all you speak of are threats, all you want to see are false spectres that frighten you. Fine. I will be the threat you’re so desperate to prove.” Nightmare straightens, holding his skull high and his form unyielding. “Here is my ultimatum for all of you,” he warns, his voice deep and echoing, commanding and final. “You will leave Addison alone. No more scheming, no more spying, no more harassment. You will have no contact with her unless she chooses to initiate contact. If you refuse to do this, I will kill each and every single one of you slowly and painfully.”
He says the last part casually, with a small shrug, as if he were just pointing out rain clouds on the horizon. But by now they should understand how easy it would be for Nightmare to follow through on his promise, and how little provocation it would take. They should understand just how much he’s been holding back this whole time. Based on the wave of fear and shame that washes around the room like a tide, they do understand. And one by one, they nod, some with more enthusiasm, some with a jerk of their skull like they were being yanked by a chain.
Amazing, something finally sunk in. A fucking miracle.
“I’m glad we are finally in agreement,” he mutters with barely restrained sarcasm.
With a flick of his wrist, Nightmare conjures a portal of darkness above their skulls, and Wine plummets through and crashes hard into the ground at Nightmare’s feet. He lands badly on his left elbow, the crack of the break instant and echoing in the silence, and he writhes and twists on the floor.
Instead of clutching the broken bone he claws at his chest and neck, from his shoulder to his waist, desperately gasping and choking for air he doesn’t actually need.
Coffee startles in alarm, and then scrambles on his hands and knees over to his brother and rests his hands on Wine’s shoulders, trying to roll him over. The movement and Nightmare’s lack of punishment for it breaks the spell holding everyone in place, and several others rush to Wine’s aid.
“WINE!” Blue runs over and kneels down next to Wine and immediately starts to administer healing magic into his shattered arm. Papyrus is right behind him, trying to help hold Wine steady while he thrashes and tries to pull away from anyone touching him. “WINE PLEASE, YOU’RE OKAY NOW, WE’RE GOING TO HELP YOU!”
“what’s wrong? what’s wrong wit’ him?!” Mutt shouts.
Coffee makes a few pitiful whines of distress, then looks up to Nightmare, as if to ask for mercy or help.
Nightmare is content to offer neither. He folds his arms across his chest and leans back against the lip of the table, remarkably still standing after the initial assault.
He knows exactly what Wine has been dealing with in the time they’ve been chatting.
Nightmare wishes he sent him falling through the near-infinite hole, but then the landing would have killed him instantly. And much as Wine deserves it more than anyone here… you don’t deserve that burden to carry.
That doesn’t mean he gets away without experiencing the pain of dying.
“Welcome back. I do hope you enjoyed your trip,” Nightmare remarks dryly, thrilled by the spike of alarm he feels when Wine recognizes his voice and starts to weep, his calculated composure broken utterly. Nightmare tilts his skull, playing as if considering something. “My, my, I can see you’re in quite a bit of distress at the moment… don’t tell me this was only the first time you remember dying?”
The words, spoken so casually, so boredly, has the intended effect on the expected individuals. Blue and Papyrus briefly look up in confusion, but then turn their attention back to helping Wine. Edge and Black both glare at Nightmare, but with no understanding behind them. Crooks wrings his hands in distress and desire to help.
Sans, Red, Stretch, Mutt and Coffee all freeze however, eyelights shrinking as the implication slowly sinks in. After all, for Sans and Red the spot Wine clutches on his chest should be intimately familiar.
And Axe just mutters “oh fuckin’ hell.”
Inwardly Nightmare cackles, but outwardly he just nods as if sympathetic. “I see, my mistake then. I assumed you came from a universe where you were already used to such abuses of time.” He looks upwards, sighing deeply with so much exaggeration that only the foolish would believe he’s actually remorseful. “It can be so hard to tell when one of you is aware of previous timelines, you all tend to bury your traumas under all that bullshit, don’t you?”
Edge rises to his feet, hands balled into fists as he shakes with frustration. “JUST WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOU-”
“As I understand it, it can take upwards of dozens of repeats before one becomes aware of them,” Nightmare continues, ignoring Edge completely. “Hundreds even, before memories start to really stick. But you see, there are some places where you can skip that step entirely… some universes where no one has the benefit of forgetting.”
Nightmare hums, and looks down at Sans, knowing and long-suffering Sans, waiting for him to speak the question Nightmare is so gleeful to answer. “...where did you send him?” he asks, trying to be demanding but his voice hardly carries over Wine’s whimpers.
Nightmare lifts his hand as if to inspect a nail. “I dropped him in front of a human on an endless warpath,” he explains with great boredom. “Their Determination is so warped by their greed and narcissism that anyone exposed to a RESET in their universe carries their memories intact, regardless if it’s their first or fiftieth one.”
The big “R” word isn’t taken well by those who recognize it, but Nightmare pushes on to press on the bruising. “For all his strategy and devious cunning, Wine could not beat a child who has done this hundreds of times before,” Nightmare clarifies, looking at Coffee and watching with amusement as he tries to hide from his gaze. “I’m sure if you had informed your brother how many times your human went on a rampage, he might have been better prepared. Or maybe if Sans had been honest about how many times Frisk has killed him in previous timelines…”
“... WHAT?” Papyrus looks back and forth between Nightmare, grinning with a sadistic knowing smile, and Sans, purposely avoiding looking at anyone.
“Oh well. What’s dying and having that death undone matter anyways?” Nightmare chuckles loudly to himself. He summons a portal at the far end of the room, and casually strides past the group of skeletons towards it. “I trust you all will fill him in on our agreement and the consequences of violating it…” he remarks over his shoulder. “And maybe you should finally explain what a RESET is as well, I’m sure a few of you have quite a bit to say about that and your brothers would very much like to know what you’ve been keeping from them... because I might just decide to dump you all back in that universe later for my personal enjoyment.”
And then Nightmare steps through the threshold without so much as a backwards glance at the impending eruption of chaos he’s leaving behind.
He gave his warning. If this is the last time he encounters any of these idiots, it’ll be too soon.
He doesn’t step out right away, lingering in the pocket of darkness and shadows between spaces, and he pulls out his phone. He sends you a short text, that he would like to meet with you after work. Maybe you would want to go back to the castle and see the others, maybe not, he’s content with whatever you’re feeling up to this evening.
He doesn’t think you should be alone.
Nightmare is surprised to get a response back almost immediately, informing him that you’re not at work anymore and giving him an address. After a moment, you save him from having to puzzle out a map of your Ebott by just sharing your phone’s location with his.
He steps out of the portal to find you outside, in some unremarkable park with sparse trees and little in the way of decoration or recreation equipment. It’s dark with evening gloom, empty of walkers or other signs of life, street lamps casting dull orange cones of light along the narrow path that winds through the park. You sit on a nearby bench, legs pulled up so that your chin rests on your knees, your arms hugging your legs close to your chest. Light fluffs of snow float down steadily from the sky, your breath misting like small clouds with each exhale as you stare silently upwards at the heavens.
And it doesn’t escape Nightmare that maybe a long, long time ago his younger self looked up at his night sky with the same endless weariness weighing his shoulders down, and the same longing for… something else. Something better. Something more.
You don’t seem to notice as Nightmare approaches, not until he’s right next to the bench and his shadow crosses over you. When you look at him, your nose and cheeks deeply flushed from the cold, your eyes puffy and rimmed with deep bags that speaks volumes of the kinds of thoughts you’ve had this day, you smile with a flash of joy that spears right through the corruption. But that joy is short lived, your smile not reaching your eyes and your feelings flood with exhaustion, upset and hurt, and the guilt for calling him in the first place that he knew would unfairly hound you, just for reaching your limit and asking for help.
He wants better for you.
Nightmare holds out his hand in wordless offer. You inhale deeply through your nose, holding it for a moment before breathing out icy condensation, and slip your hand in his. Even through the gloves he feels the chill stiffness in your fingers. He gently pulls you up off the bench, and then seamlessly into a tight embrace, holding you as close as he can and tentacles folding all around you. Maybe to warm you up again, or maybe to show you everything he wants to say, every hurt he wants to chase away, to give you every assurance that everything will be okay.
You cling to him just as tightly, wrapping your arms around his neck and burying your face under his chin. He feels you shake, shivering with chill or because you’ve desperately needed a hug, some sort of contact all day. He feels your breath stutter, hot puffs against his neck as you try to hold onto whatever composure you have left. He slides his phalanges through the hair at the nape of your neck, thumbing the sensitive spot just behind your ear, and he feels you tuck further into him.
He says everything he can in the hug.
And everything he can’t.
He parts only when he’s sure you’re steadier, head held a little higher, a little surer. Nightmare pulls another portal into existence, and arm in arm, leads you home.
Notes:
Part Three of Three
Now I can say I managed an update before the end of the year.
In all seriousness, IRL life behind the screen has been up and down. Burnout and a fear of getting this chapter absolutely right because I knew it was so highly anticipated didn't really help matters. IRL might continue to be a bit of a thing for me over the next few months as I go through some changes, but I'm going to try and not let this get away from me again.
Chapter 37: Creative Process Blues
Summary:
Sometimes the strive for perfection leaves one blind to everything else. Ink ruminates over his latest work, unsure of why he’s not satisfied with it.
Chapter Tags: Suspicion of gaslighting, self-induced mental harm and depressive episode, vomiting, dissociative moment, hand injury from broken glass
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
There’s something wrong with this picture.
Warm, radiant sunlight pours in from the large bay windows to the north, their spot perfectly designed to catch the sun at all times of day as it travels across the skies, making artificial lights all but unnecessary for the room. The ceiling is light cream and domed, matching the arch of the roof of the house. It doesn’t feel like an attic but it technically is, a cozy quiet attic and very much not one of those creepy dead-feeling ones. It’s cluttered like one though, with cabinets and drawers along the walls, chairs and stools left haphazardly around like someone abandoned a game of musical chairs halfway through. All furniture is mismatched across styles, colours, eras and worlds.
And in the centre sits an easel, a simple easel with side arms that hold paint trays and brushes, jars of cloudy water, rags and sponges, all of it aged and clearly seen better days. The wood is stained with paint splatters in all kinds of colours, one of the legs has notches gored into the wood as if it had been an animal’s favoured chew toy.
It’s the picture perfect representation of an artist’s studio, rocking the eclectic cottage-core, home to a reclusive genius who spends their days fostering their creativity in comfortable privacy…
It literally is picture perfect, it’s right next to the definition of ‘studio’ in the dictionary. Ink was the one who drew it in after all.
That picture was perfect.
This one is not.
Ink leans back on his stool, crossing his legs and flicking his right foot up and down, up and down, up and down… as he considers the picture. He hums loudly, biting on the back half of the paintbrush and holds it in his mouth. He hums again, except it comes out more like a muffled “ah” of a growl than a hum. He crosses his arms against his chest, and leans further back.
Then further back.
Then further, and further.
Until he’s practically horizontal like a board and balanced unnaturally on his rump, craning his neck to keep his latest painting in sight.
It still looks wrong.
Faster than the thought could be processed, Ink hefts himself up and forward and pulls his feet under him until he lands on the stool curled up and perched like a skeleton gargoyle on top of his belfry. He growls again like one too.
Ink has painted lots of pictures… hundreds of pictures? Thousands? A billion? A billion ka-jillion? A billion ka-jillion fe-fi-fo-trillion banna-pana ko-zillion?
It’s a lot, okay.
So he knows when a picture looks wrong.
Which is what this is.
But when a picture looks wrong, it’s usually pretty obvious why. Sometimes it’s the composition, sometimes the proportions… sometimes what he tries to sketch from his scrambled-brambled memory looks nothing like what it’s supposed to be.
But his memory’s been pretty good lately.
So he can’t figure out why this looks wrong.
Ink hops off the stool and stands in front of the easel, leaning in close until his face is inches from the acrylic on the canvas, the surface layers still fresh and wet while he peers - really peers - at the finer details of what he created.
The viewer’s perspective is from a grassy ridge overlooking a scenic landscape; a bright sun hangs in a cloudless sky, radiating down and bathing the recognizable rocky range of Mt. Ebott with light, its forested slopes sweeping down the incline where the valley lies and the sprawling crystal lake pools in the distant centre. Standing on the viewer’s ridge is the King of Monsters, his arms outstretched in happy greeting towards a human male, the mayoral representative of the nearby town, equally positive and equally welcoming.
‘Reunion’ he had wanted to call this piece. At least, that’s what he wanted to call it today, sometimes he changes the name three or four or fifty times before a piece is finished. Sometimes they’re not named at all, because he forgets them anyways.
Ink knows he doesn’t have the greatest memory. It’s actually very shoddy, very holey, very sporadic with what’s retained and what’s lost. But he does remember visiting this universe recently, standing just to the side with Blueberry and Dream watching this very meeting happen before their eyelights. It was a lot of work, Ink recalls, convincing this universe’s child hero to bring the Monsters of Mt. Ebott to the surface when all they wanted to do was hide away and play with the Temmies for the rest of their life.
Which, if he’s being honest, fair enough. Ink could spend days playing with Temmies too.
Ink thinks it was more work on Dream’s end, convincing the unaware human population above ground to overcome their centuries old prejudices and join with the Monsters in peace. Ink assumes it was more work at least, but Dream makes diplomacy like that look easy. He’s better at that kind of stuff, with his patience and his careful way of speaking to strangers and his calm voice, way better than Ink has ever been…
“I don’t get it, if you can just make them forgive each other, why are we just sitting around watching them argue?”
His friend tilts his skull, acknowledging that he’s heard the question, but keeps his gaze forward and directed towards the King and Queen, arguing with raised voices in the nearby garden.
“… It would not be productive,” he eventually murmurs. “I cannot read their thoughts. I need to understand where their underlying problems lay… so that I may fix them for the next time.”
Ink scratches the back of his skull. He feels his eyelights flicker between confused shapes and vibrant colours until settling to something stable. The Queen shouts some more at the King, about souls and children, and jabs a finger into his chest. The King does not slap her hand away like Ink would have.
“… I still don’t get it,” Ink admits with a dismissive shrug. “We know why she’s mad, I’d ‘ve started over by now.”
“Yes, well, you and I both know patience is not your strongest skill.”
Ink looks up at his friend, who finally turns enough to see his sockets, his friend looking down at him like a tired teacher might a struggling student. “Think of it like creating a painting, and think of what you would do if you found a mistake. Unless you recognize where the mistake originates from, simply ‘redoing’ it will not fix the error.”
“… Then how do you know when you’ve finally found the mistake?”
His friend opens his mouth and his answer is roaring static as his skull melts --
Ink blinks, and rubs his sockets.
The picture still looks the same.
Still looks wrong.
“Gah!” Ink wails, throwing his whole upper body back and slapping the sides of his face dramatically. “What’s wrong with it?! What?! I don’t wanna guess anymore! Just tell meeeeeeeeee!”
The painting remains stubbornly silent.
Ink crosses his arms and frowns hard until his cheekbones hurt, tapping his foot quickly on the hardwood floor, his bare toes clacking loudly. He starts to pace the length of his studio, walking all over scraps of paper, sketches started and abandoned, paint brushes and pencils that roll and skitter on the ground as his toes kick them away. Blueberry always tells him that he needs to clean up, put away the mess, throw away the things that he doesn’t need.
But the problem with a spotty memory is that he can’t trust what he thinks he needs and what he doesn’t.
So he keeps everything.
Everywhere.
Somewhere.
Sometimes he doesn’t remember exactly where things were left, but he always finds them in the end.
Even when he forgets he was looking for them in the first place.
The walls of his studio are just as messy as the floor, with completed artwork hanging in frames or from simple thumb tacks over every available spot, overlapping three deep in a lot of places. Ink picks a random spot and starts looking at his old work, his fingers tracing the sketch lines and the paint strokes on pieces new and old. He knows they’re his, even if he can’t always remember when or why he made them.
Sometimes looking at them brings back a memory, just like when he looks at the notes scribbled on his scarf…
His scarf!
Ink twists around and paws for the edge of his scarf as it trails on the floor behind him. He shakes it, bats out all the dust and dirt it's gathered from being dragged around who knows where, then pulls the fabric so close his eye lights cross painfully over his nose bridge. The writing on it is small, scattered, chaotic like his studio, scribbled with different coloured inks - pens, didn’t matter what kind, only what he could get his hands on and what would be thick enough to sink into the fabric and stay there, even after repeat trips through the dreaded washing machine.
Blueberry one joked that Ink would get so dirty they should just throw him into the washer whole. Ink gleefully tried it, and while the ride was fun and all he threw up all over himself after stepping out on shaky feet. Which just made him just as dirty than he was before the bath of his life.
His ink vials also exploded sometime between the spin and the drain cycles, so that didn’t help either.
But he had a cool tye-dye shirt for the rest of the day!
…
What was he doing again?
Ink blinks, looking down at his scarf, rereading all of the notes on it to try and climb back up the chain of thought that…
au: sans is king, neds name
FROWNY FACE!
friendly tho, makes dad jokes
daily reminder that error SUCKS
y is tree grey? wat tree????
red hafway green neds full
yellow not used, mix for ornge?
store blue, not nedded
he found smth, dunno wat
won’t tell
I WANT WINGS!!!
king?
monarch?
royal? <- mybe this
remember the vial!
get the other half!
very IMPOTENT do NOT FORGT
there are eyes now
Ink stiffens.
And not because of the poor consistency with spelling.
He reaches for his bandoleer, the tips of his phalanges skimming over each vial hanging in their pockets. He finds an empty spot, then another… and another… between the greens and the purples.
Why is he missing some?
Ink drops his scarf back to the floor and walks over to one of his cabinets, pulling open the larger doors. Inside are shelves on shelves of different paint bottles, some large, but a lot are smaller and palm-sized, containing all kinds of paints and all kinds of colours across the rainbow. Reds, yellows, greens, teals… acrylics, oils, enamels… rows of bottles shoved in as tightly as he could get them to all fit on each shelf. Anyone else would take one look at all of it and scream chaos! How can you find anything Ink?
He can.
When he’s the one putting things away, he can find them again.
When someone else messes with it, then he can’t.
He’s being messed with
The paints he uses to paint and the paints he carries with him are entirely different paints. And not the kind of different like between satin paints and latex paints. What he paints with is kept all over the studio.
What he drinks is kept elsewhere, a spot only he knows.
And yet, sitting there in the mess of bottles, an impostor in the crowd pretending like it belongs, is one of his little vials, his special vials, full to the brim with deep royal blue. Ink carefully plucks the vial out from the group, holds it in the palm of his hand, staring.
store blue, not needed
He wouldn’t have stored it here, because he wouldn’t have thought to look here if he did need it.
And the truth is… he still does need it.
Ink walks backwards from the cupboard, feeling his hip knock into the stool and tip it over. He crouches right there, down on the floor on his haunches, staring at the vial. Then he flips it around, looping it over and under with easy dexterity between his phalanges, while he cups his chin with his other hand.
It’s not a question of ‘should’, but a question of ‘does he want to’.
Maybe he was messing with himself.
Because who in their right mind would want to purposely feel bad?
But why would he ever want to feel jealousy either? Or fury? Frustration? Pain?
Why was blue singled out?
He pops the cap like the cork of a wine bottle - he doesn’t drink, he’s never drunk, but it’s fun popping corks all the same. The cap bounces on the floor and rolls away, disappearing under the cabinet, doomed to be forgotten and lost there forever. Ink swishes the paint around in the vial, breaking up the thin glossy film that’s grown over the surface. Then he tips his skull back and chugs, gulping as the bitter paint washes down like too thick cough syrup and is absorbed by his system.
He thinks he can never be honest when someone asks if he likes his paints. To like something is to feel for something, to experience joy and happiness. When he drinks the paints he’s happy he has them. When he doesn’t…
Then he doesn’t care about the question at all.
Because he can’t.
The vial empties, and Ink sighs. He wipes his teeth on his sleeve, leaving a smear stain on the fabric that’ll be gone in a few hours. Then he wipes around his sockets, catching the clear, colourless tears that have been freed to fall in earnest.
He feels heavy.
How is he supposed to mourn something he didn’t know existed until it was already gone?
A breath wedges itself in the back of his mouth and he chokes with a distressed moan. He clamps his hand to his mouth as the hot tears roll down and down, dripping to the floor like rain drops. He slips off his feet, falling to the floor limp on his side, curling his knees up against his chest as the pressure builds and he feels like he’s drowning.
It was the only way he could understand others, that he could relate to others, that he could feel the urge to laugh at their jokes, to rage at their misdeeds, to cry at their pain. Finally, he GOT them.
But no one ever got him.
Sometimes he regrets drinking the paint when he catches Blueberry’s sideways disappointment, always behind his back when he thinks no one is looking, because then he feels the shame cling to his shoulders and drag him into a pit of misery.
Sometimes it was easier not to drink the paints at all.
Ink’s hands ball into fists, the empty vial cracking then shattering in his grip, shards of glass clinking to the floor or lodging painfully in the spaces between his joints. Mana wells in the cuts, black drops sliding and dripping down to stain the floor but his phalanges just curl harder and harder until his bones feel like shattering. He stuffs his fist into his mouth and bites, stifling a cry and swallowing around the lump in his false throat that just grows larger and larger with each passing second.
He thinks of the home that was never allowed to be, and the half-made family he was never allowed to have.
he thinks of the eyes he sees when he sleeps
He thinks of the world and the family he couldn’t save for Blueberry, and the time they didn’t have to spare to let him grieve.
he thinks of the puppet reunion and the smiles that aren’t natural
He thinks of the friend who saw him as an equal and promised to show him something great, and the anger he has at his son for ruining it all.
he thinks of the painting that’s just as false that lacks depth from the dark colours he hides from his view
He thinks of the one rescued from stone, and how despite everything he’s been through he strives to do good and be happy and smile smile smile smilesmilesmilesmileSMILESMILESMILESM—
Ink coughs and pulls his fist out from his mouth in time before the vomit pours out, a mess of viscous colours from days prior rushing out between his teeth. He chokes and coughs around the unending flow that pools on the floor, curdling black with a rainbow sheen like an oil slick. It sticks to his cheekbone and reeks like rotten paint, and Ink can’t even muster the energy to push himself up off the floor and out of the growing mess. Everything drains out of him…
As quickly as it starts, it stops.
He lays there, breathing, the bitter taste evaporating out of his mouth. His ribs hurt, his body feels the wrong way twisted. He’s cold. He doesn’t care to try to move. His eyelights flicker weakly as his vision blurs and all that’s left is the black puddle and the smell of paint.
He burps.
He doesn’t care.
He doesn’t...
He isn’t…
He.
Ink.
Nothing.
Time moves.
Time stands still.
Everything that Ink has been lies in a pool of spoiled paint on the floor by his skull, a failure expunged and left to rot, clotted and black, void of all colour.
Void of everything.
Nothing.
Ink is nothing.
Ink is…
Then it’s warm.
He feels warm.
He feels.
“Ink? … Oh Ink! Oh no, let me help.”
Ink takes a small subtle breath as the warmth sinks into his numb bones and he feels relief - he feels relief! He tilts his skull up as Dream crosses the room towards him with no care for its messy state and kneels down, around the black pool of expelled paint. Dream rests a gentle hand on Ink’s shoulder and with some careful encouragement gets Ink to sit up.
Dream's eyelights drift up and down as he assesses, and when he spots Ink's frozen and bloody fist he slowly and gently coaxes each phalange to relax. A pulse of healing beats through the mana lines, pushing the remaining shards of glass out and healing the small cuts left behind. Ink takes another breath, and another. He feels his eyelights start to flicker to life again.
He can feel, he can feel!
“You must have been doing something very exciting to overwork yourself like this,” Dream murmurs, a gentle smile on his face. He’s wearing some casual clothes that Blueberry got him, loose fitting and flowy and comfortable around the shoulders where his feathery wings pop out. He’s got the sleeves pulled up past his elbows, and has an apron on overtop, the one Ink got him with a little happy bee and the word 'WHOLESOME' written underneath. Dream grabs the edge of the apron and lifts it to Ink’s mouth, wiping away some lingering paint along his jawline.
He cares.
He always cared.
From the very beginning, Dream never looked at him like he was anything less. When he drank from his vials Dream never looked away.
“There we are.” Dream drops the apron and leans back, as if he is the artist admiring his work. “How are you Ink? Do you need to rebalance yourself?”
A year ago Ink would have had to, the purge leaving him numb and unable to feel anything until he got fresh paints back into his system again. Now, there’s a few he knows are missing, but…
He feels.
Happy, relief, gratitude.
“I’m alright, thanks Dream,” Ink answers - and it’s an honest answer. Ink stretches his arms up, pulling on his shoulders until there’s a satisfying pop in his spine. Gosh, laying in a heap on a bunch of brushes and stuff on the floor is not all that comfortable in hindsight.
Dream tilts his skull, with that look of understanding but not quite believing when someone tells him something contrary. Ink rolls his eyelights - and he can feel them glow with mild colours and shapes all on their own, ‘kay, thanks. “Fine, fine,” he sighs. He wiggles his phalanges before pulling a dark green vial and a deep purple one from his bandoleer. He should probably also skim some orange and red later too.
He doesn’t need yellow right now.
And he doesn’t want blue.
“I just want to make sure you’re alright.” Dream watches Ink drink down a quarter of each vial before replacing them, then helps him rise back onto his feet. Dream starts to brush off Ink’s shoulders and arms from dust like a mother hen before his eyelights catch sight of the painting.
… Oh, right.
The painting.
“Is this what you were working on?” Dream steps closer, quietly humming while taking an appreciative look at the overall piece.
Ink shrugs, bending down and rescuing some of the paint brushes that got knocked off the easel when he kicked over the stool. He adds them to the pile to be cleaned later. Eventually. To be determined. He sets the stool back upright next, but it’s got a bit of a small wobble now. Maybe something got loose when it fell over.
The puddle is finally starting to evaporate away, subtle smoke wafting up into the air and dissipating. There wouldn’t be a stain, there never is. The paints aren’t permanent after all.
Dream is still admiring his work when he’s finished the extent of cleaning he’s willing to do today. The tips of his wings, a rich golden rod with a faint glow, barely brush against the ground, and for a moment Ink worries about the puddle tainting them, fleeting and temporary as it is. Ink shuffles from foot to foot.
He wonders if Dream notices.
“… I’m almost done, but… I dunno, there’s something that feels missing... or something. I guess.”
“I don’t know about that, I think this is lovely!” Dream turns to face him, his golden eyelights bright and happy like the sun. He laughs, and rubs the base of his skull as the same gold spreads across his cheekbones. “I mean, I’m nowhere near the artist you are, so I can’t critique. But I love the way you use colours, and the way your art tells a story.”
Ink looks at his painting. He’s never thought of his art that way. Or maybe he has, but introspective thoughts tend to only stick with him like oil and water.
His art is of the stuff he sees, or the stuff he wishes to see. Of things said and heard, or things he’s kept to himself. He can make art, but to tell a story… He just likes drawing, painting, creating.
Can he make stories too? Is that... allowed?
But Dream is right, the painting tells the story of two sides long in conflict, long in isolation from one another, coming together with the shared hope of a better future, one not thought possible.
How will he know when he finds the mistake?
Maybe there’s no mistake in the first place.
Ink feels his cheekbones flush when the compliment really hits him, and Dream rests his hand on his shoulder. It’s about then that a strong smell of sweet vanilla, cinnamon and butter wafts through the open doorway. Dream’s eyelights flash in recognition. “Ooh, I think the cake is just about ready to come out of the oven!”
Cake?
Cake!
“Cake!!!!” Ink cheers with energetic fist pumps in the air. He loves cake! Can’t make them, but loves eating them! He grabs Dream’s hand and quickly pulls him out of the attic towards the kitchen while the guardian laughs with lighthearted amusement, leaving the easel and the painting to be cleaned up and displayed another day.
Because Dream was right, he’s just over-thinking things.
The painting is just right after all.
Chapter 38: Two-Thirds of the Fire Triangle
Summary:
Heat. Fuel. Oxygen. They’ve got their own method of knocking a fire out. When Addison’s sparks, Killer’s the one to help her burn it out.
Chapter Tags: Mentioned previous injuries (burns, bleeding wounds), privacy invasion and public scorn, fantasies of murder, trespassing, heights, shouting and arguing, self-punishing behaviour, falling from a great height momentarily.
There are going to be questions by the end of this chapter. Things will be answered in due time, and I will just point out that this chapter is now currently the furthest out in the timeline.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
It's a beautiful day outside.
The sun is high in the bright cloudless sky, bringing warmth to what otherwise would be a nippy fall day. The sidewalks are full of bustle as Humans and Monsters walk along in all directions, paying Killer very little attention as he quietly emerges from the narrow alley way like it was perfectly normal.
The fine line between suspicious and not is just confidence. And charm. Gotta have the charm.
Luckily Killer has both in spades.
He's never actually visited the cafe before, but if he's being honest it looks just the same as any other he's seen in rom-coms and tv sitcoms. Monochromatic colour theme, artsy minimalistic logo, a generic coffee pun for a name, catchy enough for the brand to spread out across the country like weeds in the wind. All to serve the haggard students and well-off office folk who can afford to spend ten bucks on a single drink with flashy milk and fancy syrups. All fru-fru and fancy-pants, attracting the kind of class that he lacks.
Again, good thing he's got charm oozing out of his body.
And no, it's not the stuff pouring from his sockets like a broken faucet, thank you very much.
The patio chairs and tables are still set out front this late in the year, packed with people enjoying their overpriced drinks in the unseasonably warm weather. Killer makes his way around the patrons towards the front entrance, and through the windows he can see that inside is just as busy as outside.
This really isn't a place he would casually walk into.
And yet, here he is.
And so with that trademark overabundance of confidence and charm that Nightmare likes to call 'a headache waiting to happen', Killer pushes open the door and makes his grand debut.
...
Okay, so it kind of loses its flashiness when no one turns around to pay attention and the line's right up to the door leaving him barely any room to even stand there.
Killer sighs, disappointed, but he supposes it's for the best.
He's not as disappointed as he acts.
The tables and chairs inside are occupied by patrons, the sounds of chatter and laughter and the murmur of conversations mix together like a dull blur of background noise. He tips backs and forth on the balls of his sneakers and rests his hands in his pockets while the line moves painfully slow, but after a few minutes he's able to catch a glimpse of you between bodies, working at the drink bar at the very end, pivoting back and forth and side to side as you juggle the rush of orders. Your head is down, focused on the things right in front of you. The only time you lift your head up is to hand off another drink to a customer, and even from way back here Killer can tell your smile isn't winning you any poker games.
It's like an endless conga line: grab the cup, steam the milk, pull the shots, pump the syrups and serve the drink, rinse then repeat. And while you're at least trying to muster some enthusiasm for others, the customers barely even look your way when they get their order, not even to mumble a minimal 'thank you' before briskly escaping with their fancy drink to continue their self-absorbed day.
Fuck, he hates this for you.
It's not fair that he gets to have the time of his life and you're stuck here.
He wants to whisk you away somewhere, to show you universes with floating mountains and rain that sings like musical notes, with colours you've never seen before and sounds no one's ever heard.
Thing is, he knows you agree. Before the job was just a job, but now not a day goes by where you don't mention how much you hate it. How much you dread going back to your tiny apartment that's the best you can afford in this city, leaky sink and dying stove and all. Lately you've called out more times than not; heck you spend so much more time at the castle that Trixy's been moved over full time now, your place more of a formality and an address to send the pay cheques to. Your good frying pan even made it over.
Killer knows your plan was just... to put up with things a little while longer.
Counting against whatever metric you've got running in your head until you're ready to leap over that final hurdle and finish the race, that hurdle less of a hurdle and more of a wall, one of those terrible metaphorical defensive walls that can only be brought down with time.
At least, that was the plan.
Who knows that the plan is looking like now.
Kind of hard to build up any kind of confidence to leave when you kind of sort of don't want to go back to your apartment at all. Not while everything's still fresh... and the stains have barely been cleaned from the floor.
What a fucking mess.
The line moves forward and he gets closer. From here he can see that the bags under your eyes are a little less hollow than they were yesterday, and while he hopes that means you had better sleep last night Dust would probably report otherwise if asked. The again, Dust was probably not sleeping last night either, which means they need to have another chat... But really is Killer one to talk? When he's been wired on energy drinks and Night's stolen coffee four days in a row? Hopped up on all the sugar from the mountain of sweets Horror's been stress baking? Catching Nightmare prowling the castle halls doing his best Nosferatu impression because he can't sit still when they've been threatened?
Heck, one could probably be reasonably assured that the only member of the sleep club in the castle right now is fucking Cross, and ain't that the funniest joke in the book.
What an absolute fucking mess.
You haven't spotted him in the line yet, so that gives him the opportunity to get your attention his way. When Killer finally gets to the register the kid standing there gives him an odd look, and a sideways glance towards you - because of course every skeleton in existence must somehow be connected to you - but otherwise says nothing except to ask for Killer's order.
It certainly is an order.
He even pays for it like some kind of honest citizen, even if the price is unfairly inflated for what he's ordering.
But it's worth it for the look of utter confusion from the kid at the cash.
And it'll be even more worth it once you see it.
So he moves over like a regular joe, standing by the pickup bar innocently with the most shit-eating grin on his face. He waits patiently, hands in his pockets, bouncing on his feet. Folks around him probably think he's a bit weird, a bit spacey and probably a bit high on something with his dripping sockets and a grin a mile wide like that.
Let them think whatever the fuck they want.
You finally grab his cup robotically, having to hold it awkwardly towards the bottom because of the thick wrapping of fresh gauze and protective bandage around your right hand. You glance at the ticket on the cup like you would any other... and do a perfectly executed double take that nearly send him cackling. You stare at it for a few seconds as you absorb the whole thing, mouth agape and eyes wide with clear bafflement, before you look up right where he was waiting for you.
And for a moment, the best moment, that false show of happiness is real and it's because of him and it makes his soul feel warm and twist and turn in all the funny ways he's become downright addicted to.
You both stare at one another, silent and smiling and ignoring the movement of the world around you, before your expression becomes more bemused. Your eyes dart down at the cup, then back at him. "This is going to kill you," you say, completely deadpan like the dutiful straight-man.
Killer's grin only gets wider. "what are ya talkin' about? it's my usual."
Fourteen shots of espresso, two pumps of each flavour syrup, whipped cream with chocolate and caramel drizzle, and any other kind of topping available this season in the largest size he could order.
Just the usual.
"Sugar? Caffeine? Sure. This much together? You're going to explode."
"'m hurt. you don't think i can handle it?"
"Nope," you answer, popping the 'p' and shaking your head. "If the caffeine doesn't kill you the sugar will. I can't even pull fourteen shots at the same time, they're all going to be bitter by the time the last ones are done."
"well that's what the sugar's for."
You roll your eyes and start pumping the ridiculous amount of syrup into his cup. "I'm going to film you drinking this and send it to the others while you're dying."
Well, duh. And he wants a copy of that video after all is said and done. Outwardly he just sighs dramatically, leaning his elbows on the bar and resting his chin in his hands. "so cruel."
"No, cruel would be posting it on the internet too. I'm just doing Night a favour and showing him what you get up to without supervision."
"oh trust me, he already knows what he signed up for, post it anyways. but you better get my hashtags right! i deserve to be viral!"
You level him with a look you probably picked up from Nightmare. "You're already viral. But don't worry, I'll put them all in. Hashtag: fail. Hashtag: idiot. Hashtag: L-O-L." You look across the espresso machine, then glance at the line of cups that have sprung up in the last minute "... Okay, honest question: do you want me to make this for you now, or can I make this when the line's died down a bit? Because this is literally going to take up every single one of these heads to pull all the shots for like ten minutes."
"yeah sure, make mine later when you're clockin' out," he replies with a wave.
"That's like... in thirty minutes? Or so."
"it's good, i'm patient."
You laugh, a small chuckle bursting out before you can control it. "No you're not," you counter, but the smile stays and that's what actually matters. You set his cup down on the side for later and grab the next drink in the queue while he not so subtly stakes his claim to the prime waiting spot by the bar next to you. And he absolutely notices how to start to favour working on that side of the machine closest to him. He'll do you a favour and not bring attention to it though.
"... I figured that Night would just open a portal for me out back or something," you say quietly. "... You didn't have to come."
No, he did. He absolutely did.
And it has nothing to do with the fact that he's kind of the only one available at the moment; that Dust and Horror have gone on a low-profile supply run that's antithetical to his usual brand of chaos; that Cross is still on strict bed-rest and Nightmare has his hands full reminding the stubborn ass what 'strict bed rest' actually means.
It has everything to do with the little, itty-bitty, misconception you've got that keeping your head down and thoughts all locked up like a bank vault is the correct way of dealing with everything right now. Because you don't want to be a burden. And that's wrong. Trust him, he knows.
He's walked this road before.
But instead of saying any of that, he goes for the usual play of deflection. He shrugs. "how else am i supposed to get my caffine fix? what, you think we have a literal mountain of coffee at home or somethin'?"
Classic.
You sigh that long-suffering sigh that Killer is known for inducing, and slide over someone else's fancy drink before working on the next. Killer takes a moment to glance around the cafe again, most people still stuck in their own little worlds and not even looking his way. It reminds him of days gone by, the vibe of old haunts he'd rather not reminisce about. Those days are long gone, those souls long dead, but the fact that none of these humans look at him like he's a walking testament to his past makes him more uncomfortable than the way he consciously holds his exposed soul so close to his chest that it's nearly enveloped by his hoodie.
He couldn't waltz into a Monster establishment and expect the same nonchalance, no sir-ree.
But that kind of reaction is almost preferable.
He doesn't want to think about what that implies.
So he doesn't.
Unfortunately, time proves that you're correct and he's not the most patient skeleton in the world. He keeps his skull leaning against one hand, drumming the counter with the other. The seconds tick by slowly, and you settle back into your work rhythm while he watches the drinks fly on right by him. Double-shot caramel something-or-other here, sixty-nine percent milk fancy-dancy latte there, something with way too many words you forget what kind of drink it is... Killer has no clue how you can even keep track of what you're making. When did making coffee need a whole ass degree for it?
It really shouldn't surprise anyone when he starts offering up his own little commentary.
"looks like you got a latte orders comin' up."
"you know, we all have those days when we just want'ta venti."
"i tell ya, all this sugar is mocha me giddy."
"i believe i suffer from a bad case of despresso."
"And I believe I'm going to spray whipped cream in your face."
"brew it, you won't."
Your groan is music to his non-existent ears.
He does take mercy on you after a while, just watching you juggle different orders without breaking a sweat, pivoting between the hot drinks and the cold smoothies alike, your injured hand not slowing you down all that much. The left healed up pretty quick, but the burn on the right is still going to need more care. Of course, it would be helpful if they could figure out where it came from in the first place, but they just gotta take it one crisis at a time right now.
Maybe it's the curiosity from that old side of him he chooses to ignore that makes him want to test some things some other day, a better day. Because his working theory makes no sense at the moment.
He really hopes you're not making it worse by working, because that's exactly the kind of thing you would do. You and Cross could make a serious tag-team for the martyrdom Olympics - gold medal contenders for sure - though your stubbornness is a bit easier to break through in comparison. With Cross it's like trying to cut through into concrete with a butter knife.
All of his knives are sharp, thank you very much, and even he has a hard time getting through to that dense skeleton sometimes.
Ah, but he is so very handsome. Handsome and dense. Handsomely dense. Densely handsome.
Between the grinding of the beans and the repeated swings of the door opening and closing with patrons, Killer zones out a bit somewhere after the twelfth vanilla latte or the thirtieth, nearly snoozing right there on the bar with his skull balanced on his hand. He snaps right out of it when he spies the next person walking into the cafe.
Because the next person is not a person at all, but a Monster.
Killer doesn't react.
Nope, he plays it cool, cool as a cucumber, all loose and suave and easy smiles while his joints tense and his phalanges start to itch. His soul burns from the pressure of being held so close to him when the gravity well just wants to push it away, his teeth grinding as he holds his grin. He plays it so cool you don't even notice his mental shift as you grab his cup in the momentary lull to add more syrup to it.
The Monster is tall and all limbs, green like a lime peel and walking upright on seven long tentacles like an octopus would if it were actually in its element. The core of their body is small and shaped like a deflated basket ball, with four more tentacles hanging out on the sides like arms, and five eyestalks that stretch upwards enough to give them the height they would need if they wanted to actually shoot some hoops. The eyestalks swivel around like cameras, independent of each other and probably giving the Monster a good three-sixty view of the cafe as they slorp up to the counter to order. They don't have a visible mouth, but that clearly doesn't stop them from ordering a drink with the voice of someone swallowing frothy water around cotton balls and makes the inside of Killer's skull feel every bit as wet as a murky swamp and makes him want to scrub it would with a toothbrush.
They could be Jerry's cousin. Or Jerry's even worse sibling. Jerry's something, it always comes back to Jerry.
The Monster places their order and stretches out a very sucker-covered and decidedly not-sexy tentacle to hand over payment, only one eyestalk focused on the kid at the cash while the others continue to swivel all around.
One turns towards Killer.
They stare at one another, single stalk to empty sockets.
He's not going to react, he's not going to make a scene, he's not going to ruin this for you on the one day he comes to the cafe, but he's going to get ready for a problem. For a problem, to be a problem, whichever shakes out first.
He waits for them to get suspicious. He waits for them to see his warped soul. He waits for the CHECK. For the freak out. For the screaming and the terror.
For the judgment.
... But it never comes.
The eyestalk swivels away as Peepers McGee looks elsewhere. They slide along the floor towards the side counter, closer but staying a respectful distance away from Killer while they wait for their drink, completely non-pulsed.
He's...
Not used to that reaction. Not from a Monster.
"... Literally won't even be able to fit all of the shots you want with all this syrup," he hears you mutter distantly, muffled like his skull's submerged in water. You place his cup back to the side for later before grabbing Peepers' cup to look at the ticket. You turn around and grab a blender jug to start putting together their smoothie.
Killer's phalanges curl and his knuckles crack quietly. He doesn't get it, what, does Peepers think this face is supposed to be leaking like a bad fountain pen? That his soul is supposed to be all out and about like loose bits? That this is normal? He's hurt, actually offended, that the jolly green tentacle squid doesn't think he's worth a CHECK, doesn't think he's dangerous enough to be wary of. Where's the manager? Killer wants to lodge a complaint--
The blender whirs to life. Peepers' eyestalks turn towards you.
And Killer realizes a fraction of a second too late.
That he didn't get a CHECK because Peepers is that sheltered type of Monster that implicitly - foolishly - trusts other Monsters.
But not humans.
And that Peepers has been CHECKing, CHECKing every single human in this place with their beady little eyestalks. Most humans wouldn't bat an eye or even notice the CHECK.
You're not most humans though.
Killer straightens as he catches the moment you feel the CHECK hit you like a hard smack across the back. He sees your flinch, your shoulders jerking up while your head ducks down with the urge to ball up and hide. Your injured hand on the cover of the blender tenses, fingernails scraping against the plastic as it curls into a fist.
And Peepers has the fucking audacity to gasp and warble like a scandalized maiden.
The blender stops.
Killer thinks about the knife in his sleeve, how quickly he can drop it into his hand and swing in an arc that slices every single one of those fucking eye stalks clean off.
You slowly lift the cover and pull the blender jug from the base. You shake it around to loosen the liquid, slowly, again, working at half the speed you had before. You pour the smoothie into the cup and fasten the lid on. Then, so painfully slowly, like your feet's stuck in a wading pool of thick molasses, you turn around.
Gone is the small smile he worked so hard to put on your face.
Not even the fake enthusiasm you managed to muster earlier is coming back. Your eyes shine in the halfway point between normal and breakdown, your mouth held in a firm line bordering on frustration and misery.
Gone is all the progress you made in the last week.
All because some fucking slimy peeping tom can't keep their fucking peepers from prying into someone else's fucking business!
He thinks about how their deflated body would crumble to dust before it hits the floor, how the screams would start after a weighty moment of silence. And in the panic and the terror, he thinks about how he would take you away so this place can never ever hurt you like it's been hurting you over and over again.
With a deep breath that no one else would understand, you step forward to the hand off spot, defiant in the face of obvious judgment. You place the smoothie down on the counter and slide it towards Peepers, ignoring the way all five of their eye stalks leer and peer and judge you with laser focus. "... Lactose-free banana mango protein smoothie," you announce as if everything were fine, as if you weren't a bare thread away from snapping and losing the composure you cling to. And then you lift your head, making eye contact with them.
Killer is so, so fucking proud of you.
Peepers doesn't move to take their drink. Their limbs wibble and wobble as their body sways like a thin tree in a breeze. They make a distressed noise again.
"hey buddy."
Three eyes turn his way, startled and wide like they forgot he was standing right there next to them. Killer's grin hasn't gone away in all this time, but now it sharpens and turns into something much, much meaner as the black tar streaks along his jaw and down his chin.
"mine's bigger."
Now he feels the slap of a hasty CHECK thrown his way, sloppy and panicked. And he just barely holds himself back from laughing manically when Peepers makes a much louder, much more animated distressed noise as they realize that yes, his is in fact exceptionally bigger. All five eye stalks swivel back and forth between him and you, before Peepers gives up and grabs their drink with all four tentacles like it's about to be stolen away from them. They scuttle-slide their way back out the door, sideways like a crab, four eyes on the two of you the whole time.
Killer just flips them the finger as the door closes behind them.
"fuckin' asshole," he mutters and turns his attention back to you...
But you've already turned away, hiding your face from him with a bowed head as you make a show of cleaning out the blender jug at the sink, rinsing and dumping the water, then rinsing and dumping again, rinsing and dumping. Rinsing and dumping. Like you're trying to clean a spot that's not coming out.
"addy--"
"I'm fine," he hears you mutter sharply. You rinse the jug again. "... I have another fifteen minutes if you want to bail and come back later. I know you're bored."
What he wants is to chase Peepers down the sidewalk and rip out every single one of their limbs from their sad sack body like plucking petals from a flower, but giving into his inner inhibitions and letting his penchant for violence run rampant isn't going to help you right now. His whole goal today was to try and help you walk a little bit closer to normalcy. And look at where that's got you.
Seriously, fuck Peepers.
But he's not going to leave you. He can't leave you. Not like this.
If time went slow before, it crawls now. Killer tries his best to relax against the bar again but it's pointless. His phalanges clack as he drums them against the bartop, his sneaker squeaks as his left foot bounces on the floor, and he watches you move around with busy work, wiping down the counter or adjusting the syrup bottles when you're not making someone's drink.
Neither of you say anything.
And that says a lot coming from a chatterbox like him.
But the silence leaves him far too much time stewing with his own thoughts, already a bad enough thing while his attention wanders fifteen ways from Sunday. Right now his thoughts keep cycling back to ripping the tentacles from Peepers squish-ball body and playing hacky-sack with it. Or taking the tentacles to see if they float like pool noodles.
Daydreaming about grabbing those tentacles and swinging Peepers around and around before letting go and launching him like a shot-put ball.
Calling up Dust and telling him and Horror to ditch their mission and come find all the fun ways to make the octo-asshole hurt.
He's going to need to hurt something, later, when he's got you back at the castle where you can be distracted by the others and folded into a comfort nest while he goes to let off steam. Maybe Nightmare will let him pop out for a solo bad-time run, just to churn up some negativity for him to feed on. Kill two birds with one knife that way.
Maybe he'll pop back here in the dead of night to track down Peepers anyways.
He misses when you step away from the bar and disappear into the back room, coming back with your bag and coat. He's practically forgotten that he even ordered something when you thrust a cup in front of his sockets, a large densely-filled cup missing the lid in favour of a mountain of whipped cream capped with a generous helping of drizzle syrups. He blinks out of his fantasy, and looks at you.
"I think this officially counts as something you drink with a spoon," you quip, expectantly snarky but without any heart in it, like a bad line read.
But you're trying. So he grins for the both of you, and grabs the drink. "i'm just gonna pour the whole thing down," Killer retorts, hoping that playful might cut through the awkwardness. "just gonna chug it straight."
There's maybe a small quiver of muscle by your mouth, a weak attempt at a smirk. "Can't believe you're not even going to enjoy my hard work."
Heh, hard.
He stows away the monstrosity of a drink into his inventory for later, when the mood is better and it's guaranteed to make you laugh all your worries away. Then you hand him another drink, an obviously very chocolate smoothie with a normal helping of whipped cream and drizzle.
"For Cross," you explain. For a brief moment you look like you want to say more, but the hesitance wins again and whatever it was going to be retreats back into your own thoughts.
Everyone knows you guys need to talk. But neither of you are in a good head space for it yet, and too soon might mean making those raw feelings worse.
Killer nods and stores the drink away as well. For now, he pulls the chivalrous card from Cross' deck and hooks his arm around yours, pulling you close as he leads the way through the afternoon rush crowd to the doors and eventual freedom...
Only to see a pair of human and Monster cops hanging around outside, chatting with none other than Peepers Mc-Fucking-Gee sitting at one of the tables, two of their eye stalks openly glaring at you through the window in the door.
He feels the itch in his soul, the twist and churn as it burns with the want to let the red blades fly and blood and dust to fall to the ground and to put down this fucking disrespect.
You tense hard next to him, inhaling sharply through your nose. After a moment of staring, you twist your head and duck close to the side of his skull. "Out the back way," you whisper, with a tone too close to pleading for Killer's liking.
Killer has no clue if there's actually a back door or not, but hey, that's never stopped him before. He makes his own back door, shortcutting between one blink and the next right into the alley behind the cafe. He takes the lead from this point, following the alley down to the next street over and pulling you out onto the sidewalk. From there he just follows the crowd, walking arm in arm with you as if you were just a normal couple out on the town.
Except he can tell you're about to explode.
By all rights this should be a prime opportunity for some romantic wandering in the streets, holding you close where he can murmur sweet nothings in your ear, make you blush, make you laugh, nuzzle your cheek enough to leave you flustered and breathless. But you're still wound tight like a stressed coil, biting hard on the inside of your cheek so that you don't start crying or screaming or both like you probably want to.
He can't bring you back to the castle, not when you're like this. Not when he knows the first thing you'll do is pull away and lock yourself alone in your room because you still believe that you're not allowed to show your hurt, or be helped through that hurt that you've been drowning in.
And not when seeing you isolate yourself would just make Cross spiral harder, right when they've just started to get through to him that what happened wasn't his fault.
Killer knows that the best way to deal with the toxic combo of adrenaline and tension cooking through your nerves is to burn it out somehow, and while he can think of several things that would work for him - mostly involving knives - he has a sneaking suspicion that he should probably try something different for you. He wracks his skull, trying to think of something good to get your blood pumping... Maybe he should take you a hop-skip-and a jump away to that volcano universe on the way back to the castle--
No, wait, that's actually dangerous, humans have skin that tends to ignite in hot air... Fireworks? That's safer. Grab a bunch of fireworks, staring popping them off? Or maybe he should just take you back to that rage room place from ages ago--
Walking past a high rise construction site causes a little light bulb to go off.
Oh, there's an idea.
"hey." He slows his pace down to a stop, and you look at him in silent question. He asks you one instead. "trust me?"
That silent question only seems to deepen, and probably turn into several more, but there's a cautious curiosity that surfaces, and is a step in the right direction. "... Always," you answer, honest and trusting like you've always been, even when he doesn't always deserve it.
This time when his soul twists and warms he has a hunch that it looks a little different.
Don't think about it.
The gravity of that question is ignored, and instead he slides his hand down to grasp yours, squeezing it tightly. "hold tight," he instructs with a mischievous wink as he pulls you both through another shortcut...
Right into the middle of that construction site, on the ground floor of what's probably going to be some mega tall monolith of a condo building.
These buildings all look the same when they're still just shells; big open ground floors with none of the superficial ritz that makes them look classy and inviting, a box made with large floor to ceiling windows and unpainted drywall with screw tops exposed, wires and cables hanging in bundles here and there waiting for some electrician to come by and actually install them away.
A few construction workers are milling about in the corner, having a break chatting and laughing before the work piles up again. They're not expecting a skeleton Monster and his girlfriend to just appear out of nowhere, and their startled surprise is enough of a momentary distraction that they don't immediately call out to the trespassers.
You look at them equally surprised, quickly putting two and two together as to where Killer's brought you, before turning back to Killer, confused but with a bubble of excitement breaking through your earlier anger.
He knew - he always knew - that you had a thrill-seeking streak in you. Just stuck in a place with absolutely no thrill to speak of.
Oh the things he wants to show you.
Just as the workers come to their senses and realize that hey, maybe they should do something about the intruders, Killer shortcuts again, to the floor about ten stories higher. The bones of the condo are still mostly built and finished here, the hallway closed off from what will be the individual units.
Bor-ring!
He shortcuts again, then again, and again, five or ten floors up each time. Sometimes you pop out of the shortcut in front of more workers who have no clue what the fuck is going on - one poor soul spilling his coffee all over his shirt from the jumpscare while your giggles echo through the next shortcut. The higher you go, the less built up the building gets, until Killer pulls you to the final destination near the very top, where it's nothing but a slab of concrete for a floor, thick support beams and pillars every twelve feet in a symmetrical pattern, and wide openings to the open air where windows will eventually go. This high the wind blows through like a frigid gale, the front of his hoodie flapping about wildly and your hair whipping uncontrollably around your face.
But you're laughing.
And that's a fucking win in his books.
"Oh wow!"
From up here the city looks like a model, the buildings like plastic toys and the cars nothing more than little glints of reflected sunlight skittering down the roads, and people practically invisible. Ebott spreads far out from the closely cluttered centre, curling around the base of its namesake mountain. Even this high the mountain rises higher in the distance, stark and snow-capped against the blue sky, imposing and omnipresent over the day-to-day of the city that grew at its doorstep.
You let go of Killer's hand and step closer to the edge, your arms wrapping around your body as you try to steady yourself against the wind. Either someone was negligent about installing safety railings or they just haven't gotten around to it on this floor yet, but that doesn't seem to scare you at all as you get closer. You lower yourself down slowly, sitting down at the edge and letting your legs dangle in the open air. Killer walks up and eases himself down next to you, propping himself up with his hands behind him as he reclines back, letting his soul finally spring back out to a comfortable - tolerable - distance.
See, he can do patience. When it's something like this, with someone like this... slow is good.
"... You know, I've never actually been there." He tilts his skull to look at you, curious, and you gesture towards the mountain. "It's all anyone ever talks about... I've lived here for, fuck, ten years, and in all this time I've never been." You smirk, and huff with a small chuckle. "I've been to Mt. Ebott's in other universes, but I've never gone anywhere close to my own. Isn't that weird?"
"eh." Killer shrugs lightly. If you've seen one you've seen them all as far as he's concerned. He can't think of many that are special beyond 'big mountain with hidden city underground', they all kind of blur together after the first twenty or so. But considering the crowd you used to hang with, he's actually surprised that a little field trip never came up. "we can go if ya really want. i doubt there's anythin' in there that can stop us."
"Oh no, that's okay. It's not... I don't really..." you trail off, then sigh. You let your legs swing unresistant in the wind. "... It's not like it's off limits or anything, but... There are some Monsters that still live there, they never really left I guess... Maybe it's just comfortable, even if it's the place you wanted to escape from for so long. The devil you know versus the devil you don't." You sigh again, carding back the hair that keeps blowing into your face. It's getting longer than you'd like again, messier to manage, he's not sure why you haven't trimmed it yet.
"... I never felt like I was allowed, if that makes any sense. Like I would be the intruder ruining the peace they choose for themselves, because I... I don't understand how staying in an open cage is all that peaceful, so..."
Well of course. Because you're someone who left, someone who took the first one-way trip you could outta that back-water shitthole you grew up in even if the bigger world was the scary unknown. When it came down to just existing and fading away, or living and surviving, you choose the latter. It's not all that confusing, at least not to Killer. Wouldn't be to any of them.
There's not a lot he wants to remember from the old days when he had a normal soul and a different name. As far as he's concerned, his life started the moment reality split and a shadow poured from the crack, as black as the hate that gushed endlessly from his sockets. When Nightmare made an offer, give him a choice, Killer never hesitated for even a fraction of a fraction of infinity.
Your mouth twists to a frown, frustrated and upset. Your curl your hands together in your lap, head drifting down to look towards the ground down below instead of the scenic vista in front of you. "... Why did they... what did I do that made them..." you mumble practically under your breath, so quietly he almost misses it.
And he's going to stop that train of thought right there. "you didn't do nothin'," he counters. He places a hand on your shoulder, not that he's worried about you falling off or anything, but that you might have just forgotten that you're not alone. "peepers mcgee was just a fuckin' judgmental asshole that was checkin' every human in there."
You turn to look at him. "... Was that actually their name?"
Killer shrugs. It wasn't worth the CHECK then, and it's not worth the mental capacity to care now. "point is that you didn't do anythin' wrong," he insists, and he's not going to quit until he drives this home for you. "it's no one else's business who you are, what you are or where you've come from. you don't owe anyone anythin', except yourself. you owe yourself a fuckin' break from beatin' yourself up over somethin' you couldn't control."
But saying that only seems to frustrate you further. You make a face like biting into into a bad lemon, angry and bitter, and you turn away from him again, shoulders hunching and looking back down towards the distant ground that's so very far away. "Bullshit," you grumble.
"addy--"
"I had control," you snap, louder and sharper. Your hands ball into fists, the right one straining with the bulk of the gauze. "Stop saying that. 'Couldn't control' my ass, I had a choice. I made a choice. I did it, it's done, and that's that. I don't regret it. Move on. I'm fine. It's fine."
Every time you say you're fine Killer believes it less and less, and he didn't believe it all that much the first time around. It's not about regret, he knows it's not about regret. Regret came and went five days ago, blowing through like a hurricane with enough 'what ifs' and 'should'a would'a could'a' to drop someone into a catatonic spiral of misery. Now you're stuck with the fallout, with the clean up. He gets it, he's been there. They've all been there. It's what everyone's been trying to tell you all week, that just because they were alone before - alone and scared and guilty and everything at once - doesn't mean you deserve to be alone while you suffer through everything too. None of them want that for you, you're the only one who somehow thinks it's owed.
Killer slides his hand across your back and down around your waist in a side hug. He doesn't pull you closer, because he's pretty sure you're going to resist if he tries. Instead he moves closer to you, leaning forward so that he stays in your peripheral while you stubbornly stare down, focused on some invisible spot in the middle distance between you and the ground while your hair blows in every which way in the wind.
He's probably not the ideal one to be having this conversation, but it's happening now whether you like it or not, so fuck it. "addy, listen to me: there's nothin' 'bout what you're thinkin' and feelin' right now that's wrong, 'cept that you think it's wrong in the first place. you're the only one makin' it an issue."
"I'm not-!" you cut yourself off, twisting your head away to try and hide the way your eyes mist and your cheeks go red from how hard you're straining to hold it back. "... Just leave it alone."
He hears it as the warning you intend, but it's a piss poor one given that the sharpness in your voice is wobbling, dropping soft and quiet and if you think he's just going to let you bottle yourself up now just to break down alone later, then he clearly hasn't done a good enough job showing you how stubborn he can be.
"no." He leans further into your space while you twist further away. "you need to knock that chip off your shoulder and listen to me now. i'm not gonna sit here and watch you hurt yourself like this anymore."
"It's-"
"it's what? it's fine? no it's not, i can see it's not! you don't even believe that it's fine, but you keep pushin' us away! what am i supposed to do when i can see that my girlfriend's hurtin' and thinks that she doesn't deserve to be comforted?"
And there the light sparks.
You spin around, glaring at him with all the anger you've been terrible at holding back. "Well your girlfriend should be able to handle a little fucking LV without a fucking breakdown when someone looks at her funny!"
There's the ignition.
Maybe he pushed a little too hard, played a little too close with that match, but now the fire's burning, and there's nothing to do but let the fire burn itself out.
You twist and rip yourself out of his hold, pushing yourself up to your feet and stomping away from him, before you spin around to face him again, with balled fists and spitting angry. "I don't care what anyone else thinks!" you shout. "I shouldn't care what they think! Fuck them! But fuck you! You keep telling me it's okay when it's not!" You point at him, angry, while he just eases himself up onto his feet. Your voice bounces around the shell of concrete and rebar, loud like you're trying to convince someone - anyone - that the louder you are the more true what you say is, but it loses something in the rush of the wind constantly blowing through the open gaps.
"You guys live with this every day but I get one little blip and that's it?! I can't handle it?! I can't even fucking handle a fraction of what you deal with all the fucking time?! And you keep telling me it's okay?! Stop being nice to me!" If your face was red before it's redder now, ripe and hot and blazing with tears streaming down your cheeks the way tar always runs from his sockets. "Tell me off! Tell I'm being a fucking drama queen! Why am I getting the sympathy when none of you got the chance for it?!"
It's the loudest Killer's ever heard you be, and anyone without LV would probably get their panties all up in a twist and tell you to stop screaming. But you need to. You're not screaming at him, you're screaming at yourself, arguing with yourself, because you're definitely not going to convince him if you can't convince yourself first. And it's a losing battle, a battle you've been losing all week, where all it took was a look from a careless Monster to crack the facade of 'fine' you've been hiding behind.
"There are a million other things you guys should be focused on instead of me! Focus on Cross! He's the one that got the shit kicked out of him and bled out all over the floor! He's the one that almost died! I don't deserve to be comforted because I should be able to fucking pull it together and handle this! I can handle this! I'm not some fucking virgin puritan princess! I'm not made of fucking glass! I'm not broken!"
No, you're not. But what you are is the most empathetic human he's run into, with a fucking justice soul and a license to judge someone like him if you wanted. Yet the only one you refuse to be empathetic with is yourself. You judge yourself in the same harsh light that whole worlds judge him.
Killer doesn't feel feelings anymore, not in the same way you or Cross or anyone with a normal soul does. But he remembers what it was like when he did. When a feeling couldn't be polite enough to wait its turn, when it felt like everything was fighting for attention all at once. When just answering the question of 'how are you feeling' felt like an impossible task because there isn't a word big enough or messy enough to describe the clusterfuck of it all happening at once ten times over.
It's not even 'conflicting', because at least conflicting feelings are binary and are still clean enough to understand. You might as well take a dictionary and and beat someone over the head with it because it feels like every word applies right now. And every word is nowhere near qualified enough to apply.
You're frustrated, and you're guilty that you're frustrated; you're angry, you're angry at yourself that you're angry in the first place. You're sad and lonely and so self-conscious about it that you think the only answer is to withdraw yourself more.
This is exactly what started to pull at his soul all those years ago, stringing it from his body like a confectioner pulling taffy until all that was left was a scared lollipop swirl that could no longer be reattached.
You're changed. You know you're changed and fucking hell you're trying to make peace with it bit by bit.
But you're still you. And you're drowning under everything right now. And every time someone forgets that fact you drown a little more.
The last thing you need is to be treated like some porcelain statue fallen from their pedestal, shattered on the ground with no hope of repair.
You're not broken.
But you're a little lost in the blaze right now.
So it's up to Killer to bring you home.
And maybe he isn't the right one for this.
Nightmare's better with feelings, Horror's the better listener, Cross' better with comfort and Dust is the better problem solver. Killer is just Killer, marching through life making his own rules, flying by the seat of his shorts not listening to anyone trying to tell him otherwise.
But the secret is just the confidence. And the charm.
So he casually steps toward you, like there's nothing wrong and it's just any other day in the shell of a building-to-be, up here a hundred and fifty feet from the ground and away from peeping eyes, while you shudder and smoulder, your face wet and glowing red from the rush, your eyes bloodshot and furious, your chest heaving while you try to catch your breath. He throws his arms around you, pulling you flush against him without so much as a 'how you do' or a chance for you to draw back. He crushes your body against his, feeling the warm thrumming pressure of his soul pressed between your chests.
And deep in his where he doesn't feel anymore, there's a pulse of agony crying from yours.
"you're not broken," he repeats softly. You start to shake more but he doesn't let you start up again. "cross 's alive because of you, and we know you don't regret that. no one questions that, no one believes otherwise. but that doesn't mean you can't be upset about what happened. gettin' lv sucks the first time. i promise you i was still a fuckin' mess after my first one, even if i knew exactly what i was doin' and i had every intent on doin' it. we all were. every single one of us."
Sincerity's not the usual thing he resorts to, and there's a small pull in his soul that hurts as he talks, like working an lethargic limb he hasn't exercised in a while. "this isn't a contest, it doesn't make you any better or worse refusin' help when you need it. all you're doin' is punishin' yourself for somethin' you're not guilty of. it's okay. it really is okay to feel everythin' you're feelin' right now. i know it's all confusin' and messy. i know if feels like nothin's gettin' better but it will. lv just makes everythin' overly intense until it settles. you're still you, and we can see you, even if you can't see yourself. no one believes you're broken. you're not broken."
If you're broken, then what does that make the rest of them?
You breathe heavily in his arms, quivering but unmoving, frozen. The fire is dying, reduced to embers. The fuel is gone, the oxygen thin, two thirds of the fire triangle knocked out. So he goes for the cheap play, tipping his skull and whispering in your ear, because he fights dirty and this is a battle he has to win for your sake.
"... trust me?"
You stiffen, a muffled, wet gasp escaping before you can catch it. After a moment, you reach up and rest your hands on his arms, and he waits to see if you'll push him away again.
But you don't, your hands clutching the folds of fabric, and you tuck your face in the nape of his neck.
The fire is well and truly out for now.
"... Cheater," you mumble, your face lost in the fluff lining of his hoodie. He rocks your body back and forth, swaying in the wind. "... I hate this."
"i know addy." Killer rubs your back hard enough it probably counts as a massage. "it'll even out soon. you don't have to hold yourself back. be angry, scream, cry, throw things, stab a pillow, do what you gotta do, but you gotta be nicer to yourself right now. let us help you, okay? it absolutely sucks goin' through it alone, and no one wants that for you."
You sniffle, pulling your head back to meet his gaze. Your eyes are puffy and red and so tired more than anything, tears still streaking down as you blink. He wipes them away with his thumb. "... I really wanted to punch them," you admit wetly, and it doesn't take an empath to see guilt in feeling that way in the first place getting added to the mix. If he's going to teach you how to cope, then that guilt is the first thing that has to go.
"i know, me too," he assures. "they would'a deserved it." And there's that trademark Nightmare disbelieving look again, and boy is he happy to see it. "... well, okay, i wanted to do more than punch them, sure, fine. semantics. but i totally get where you're coming from and i would have held them for you while you got your shots in. thought 'bout tying their tentacles up to the ceiling rafters and makin' a punchin' bag outta them. call it a trainin' exercise."
You sigh, with an eye roll and a shake of your head, and the smallest, tiniest, minuscule hint of a smile again. But it's there, he'll take it, he wins.
Time will tell if you'll listen or fall back to shutting everyone out again, but he knows you. That you'll try for him, for all of them.
For now though, there's a very sad face in front of him that's deficient of comfort, and he can't let that go unpunished. So he presses a little kiss on your nose, because it's a cute nose on a cute face and you need all the kisses you can take. You huff, half of a fraction of a laugh. See? You're trying. "feel better?" he asks.
"... No, not really," you answer, and while it's probably the truth it's also not at the same time. Baby steps.
"well, we gotta fix that, hmmm." Before you can say anything, he leans back in for a kiss on the cheek, lingering a little longer. "how 'bout now? no?" Then another on the other side, this time punctuating it with a soft ticklish nuzzle proven to bring out the chuckles in even the most stoic. He knows, he's tested it on Nightmare.
Oh, he should show you Nightmare's ticklish spots.
"Killer, s-stop it," you manage say, fighting a losing battle to hold back the giggling, but not exactly pulling away from him either.
"no can do. my girlfriend's sad, gotta make her feel better." This time he swoops in and kisses you on the lips, because that'll help with your giggles. There's a moment before your brain catches up and you reciprocate, pushing in but letting him take the lead. He never, ever thought he'd be someone who had a thing for lips, but here he is, getting all tingly and light from the softness.
It's you. He has a thing for you.
"H-hey! They're up here!"
Unfortunately the perfect romantic make-out is interrupted. Gears and chains grind and shake loudly as the temporary elevator on the far end slowly rises into view, filled with half a dozen of those startled and very confused construction workers from earlier. Wow, it only took them like twenty minutes to find the trespassers that have been shouting from the literal rooftop.
Morons.
But it looks like this date has to be cut short.
You tense, watching as the workers lock the elevator into place and slide open the gate, unsure of how to respond or where to go. Killer just chuckles. The key to getting away with what you want is just confidence and charm.
And there's always a back door.
"hey."
This time when you look at him, he doesn't have to ask, he sees the answer light up in your eyes all the same, shining with acceptance and a small smile filled with affection and trust.
And his soul twirls as it's flooded with the feeling of love.
"hold tight."
All at once Killer grips your hand and pulls you sprinting towards the building's edge, ignoring the shouting behind you. Just as his sneaker pushes off the very tip of the concrete floor, he twists back to wrap his arms around you, and the two of you slip into the open air, laughing as the wind holds you up floating and free for just a moment before gravity takes control. The fall only lasts a fraction of a second before he pulls you through a shortcut out of your universe.
No one will mind if you bounce around a few extra worlds on the way back to the castle, taking the scenic route home, if it means he gets to bring back your laugh again and again.
Notes:
Killer does eventually "drink" the monstrosity he ordered when they get back to the castle, and he predictably explodes. Nightmare sacrifices his love of coffee and limits everyone's caffeine intake from then on. And by everyone I mean just Killer.
Chapter 39: Small, Innocuous Things
Summary:
There's something about a thunderstorm rolling over a peaceful little farm in the quiet of the night that brings out the introspective in the restless sleepers.
Chapter Tags: Just some mild talk about rough and tragic backgrounds, nothing really explicit or super specific.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
It's the rain you hear first.
Small drops tickle the glass with the lightest of impacts, sounding like the drone of static more than rain. It's only just loud enough to wake you because your head is nearest to the window, laying on a homemade pillow stuffed with the down of geese. You always thought a pillow full of feathers would feel like... a pillow full of feathers. Lumpy, pokey, with too little volume to be anything close to plush and comfortable. Probably a bit smelly too. But then again, you suppose someone who knows what they're doing, who knows which feathers make for the best stuffing, which cotton to use for the cover and how to wash and care for it properly would be able to make a pretty good pillow for sleeping.
There's nothing but the growing static of steady rainfall for a few minutes, and you almost slip right back to sleep before a bright light flashes through the window, briefly illuminating the room through the curtains before it vanishes as quickly as it came.
And the thunder peals.
You push yourself up, sliding over to sit at the side of the bed, finding it relatively easy to disentangle yourself out from under Horror's embrace. Normally an impossible task, you think he tested the upper limits of his endurance rolling the hay wheels from where they were dropped off at one end of the farm to the other. And helping his brother up on the roof tackling the leak that's apparently as stubborn as Cross can be.
And leading the horses from their old pasture to the new enclosure with a stronger fence that will hopefully last more than a single winter.
It could also have been the turkey burgers you all had for dinner.
He's very tired, is the point you're getting at.
Lightning arcs through the sky again, and thunder sounds seconds later, the boom strong enough to rattle the window in its frame a little.
You quietly slip off the bed, bare feet tip-toeing a few steps over to the window. You draw back the curtain and tie it to the side. There's no lock or latch to flip that you can see, so you grab the bottom part if the window and lift slowly, as quietly as possible. The window creaks as the frame slides until it's stopped about halfway up. There's a thick piece of wood sitting on the sil, just long enough to jimmy into the opening to keep the window from shutting. The sound of the rain comes through louder now, the raindrops steadily increasing in size and frequency as it beings to pour down properly.
There's an old chair in the corner of the room, too cushioned to be a dining chair but too small for a living room, so it lives in the guest room. You drag it over by the window and take a seat, folding your arms on the window sil and pillowing your head on them, positioned perfectly to watch the world outside.
It's still quite dark, maybe a few hours out from sunrise. With the lights off inside the room, your vision quickly adjusts to the darkness, and you can make out the tall, slim shapes of the wire arches and tomato stakes sticking up in the back garden, twelve or fourteen feet out from the window. Further out from that, past the pasture and equipment shed, the massive silhouette of the main barn rises up like a small mountain, but still dwarfed by the actual Mt. Ebott far out in the distance and overshadowing everything in the surrounding area.
When the lightning flashes, and the thunder roars, the whole world lights up as the sound washes over you like a heavy blanket.
You love thunder storms.
The air outside is cool, but not cold. Not too cold at least, Sticking your arm out the window, letting the rain platter against your skin, the drops slightly warmer than the ambient air. They land like ripples on your skin, like a small, natural massage. You twist your wrist to catch the rain in the cup of your hand, the smallest puddle forming in the creases of your palm that spills over the edge and dribbles down to the ground. There's a part of you that wants to run out into the storm and let the rain wash over you completely, in spite of the late hour.
There was a time when you would do just that, without hesitation. When night would be the only time you could creep out your bedroom window, the rain your cover as you dashed across the yard, your toes squelching in the muddy ground with each step. The house you grew up in was a farm house without the farm, an imitator of its namesake, a building already a century old isolated by flat land overrun with tall rustic weeds and dry brush and so very far from its closest neighbours. The dusty soil used to absorb rain like a dying sponge, turning into a viscous muddy mess that drowned out smaller plant life before they had a chance to take root.
The rain would soak right through your thin ill-fitting flannel pyjamas, the winds whipping without a care or caution around you, and above the storm would crash and flash almost in beat with your wild heart.
Whenever you ran, it was just you and the storm.
A heavy hand on your shoulder has you twisting you head and looking up, your eyes meeting the red glow of Horror's, bright like a night-light in the dark. His skull is tilted to the side, curious, and his sockets half-lidded with fatigue, but his sky smirk tells you he's not that upset about waking up despite the hour.
"Hey, sorry," you whisper. You're pretty sure the walls are thick enough to dissuade normal conversation volume from disrupting the other sleepers, but something about the dark makes you talk quieter regardless. "Didn't mean to wake you."
"... 't's okay," Horror mumbles, quiet but not tired quiet. "was gonna wake up anyways, haven't slept a full night in'a long while." Horror's eye glances towards the window. "... rain sounds nice, kind'a muffled and comfortable... s'like what dust listens too sometimes, when he can't sleep too well..."
"I like falling asleep to it," you admit. "Or if I can't sleep, I like to watch. Listen." Run. Escape. You shake your head. "It's probably a bit weird."
"hmmm." Horror's skull tilts the other way, a considering look coming across his face. Then he coaxes you up, pulling gently at your shoulder. "come."
When you rise, Horror clasps your hand and leads you both out of the guest room, without a thought to getting dressed. You quietly navigate through the narrow hallway, past the other bedrooms and towards the back door of the house. The door is unlocked, and barely makes any noise as Horror twists the handle and opens it, letting the torrent of sound in for a brief moment as you both step out and shut the door behind you, sealing the house in silence once again.
The back porch is large and long, going around the western corner of the house in a continuous 'L' shape. It's fully covered, but despite the ample patio furniture set out and ready for use, Horror leads you to the stoop, kneeling down and sitting on the top step, leaning back with his arms braced on the porch and letting his legs stretch out in the rain. You sit down next to him, mimicking his posture and letting your legs stretch out as he does.
Feeling the cool open air hit your bare skin is different from sticking your arm out the window from within the warmth of the house. It's midsummer here, but while the days are filled with high heat and bright sunlight at night the temperature drops more than a couple of degrees. For a moment you almost regret your habit of sleeping only in a tank and your underwear, and as the rain starts to hit your legs you almost flinch from the sensation, ticklish and hyper sensitive compared to your arm. But after a few seconds your tension ebbs away and your body acclimatizes as the raindrops continue to splatter and roll off your legs. You wiggle your toes in the air childishly.
"does it tickle you too?" Horror asks. The rain streaks down the sides of his bones, dripping to the steps below from between his tibia and fibula. If he's bothered at all from the cooler air he doesn't show it, sitting relaxed in just his sleep shorts. Bones don't get goosebumps like skin does after all.
"Yeah," you confirm, very thoughtfully. "Always feels like... tapping? Little pin heads bouncing... small fingers running down my skin." How does one describe the feeling of rainfall without saying it feels like rainfall? Saying the first closest thing that comes to mind out loud sounds nonsensical at best, creepy at worst, and does little to explain how nice the sensation is for you.
Horror, thankfully, does not appear creeped out. "you like bein' out in the rain?" he asks, less of a question and more of a statement.
You nod. The world lights up again as you do, and thunder peals not two seconds later, the storm well and truly on top of the little farm. You never once felt the urge to hide during one, and you doubt you ever will.
"I used to watch storms growing up," you say. "Most of the time I could only watch from my room, since I wasn't allow outside much." You shift, leaning forward instead of back, and much like in the guest room before you hold your arm out and let the rain fall on it again.
"Sometimes when I could sneak out, I would stand outside and just let the rain fall on me. Used to get wicked thunderstorms where I grew up, there's a lot of flat land, middle of the prairies where we had a lot of hot and cold air mixing."
Lightning arcs across the sky, the visible bolt striking down somewhere near the summit of the mountain. The thunder rolls over you like the crest of a wave engulfing your body.
You're not scared. You were never scared.
It was awe, mostly. A reverent appreciation for how strong nature could be. You were never stupid about it, like the kids used to tease you for in school, among other things. You never stood under a tree or held onto anything metal or anything like that. If the winds ever whipped up into too much of a frenzy for your small stature to handle you knew to retreat and watch from safer shelter.
You respected a storm.
They have a way of making you feel...
... Small?
No, that's not right.
"... first time i saw the rain fall, i couldn't stop watchin'." Horror's voice is steady, contemplative. Like you, his gaze is fixed out in the dark distance. "drippin' water from a cave roof ain't the same as this... stood outside for so long, nearly filled my skull with rainwater 'fore nightmare made me put a hat on... never made me go inside though."
He scratches the side of his jaw, idly. "think he knew... someone who's been inside their whole life, you can't take stuff like this for granted."
"You can't," you agree. You weren't alive when the Monsters of your universe made it to the surface. You don't even think your parents were married at that point. But if you were to look at news articles from back then, there was this bizarre focus on the sun for some reason. As if humanity was incredibly nosy not about the Monsters themselves and how they managed to survive in isolation, but about how they felt seeing the sun for the first time in thousands of years.
Nothing about the sprawling seas or the giant redwood trees. About forests or deserts, coral reefs or aurora lights. Nothing about rain. Nothing about storms.
Only the sun.
It's almost cliche... and a bit insulting.
"i knew water was strong... the cave we all were trapped in didn't spring up on its own, not overnight at least... y'see a river and you think 'that's powerful'. y'see a waterfall and you say 'that's a force of nature'. but you see this... an' i don't think folks appreciate it for the strength it has too."
"Most people are scared," you point out. And you understand, that's not an irrational fear. Between the sound and the small but not insignificant chance to get at least very badly hurt if struck, lightning has a well-earned reputation for being a terror.
"you're not."
No. There are other things that instill fear in you, other situations that felt far more threatening than a force of nature. Threats that felt far more immediate.
A storm is nothing more than a precise mixture of small, innocuous things; water that evaporates into air, condenses into clouds, becomes too heavy for those clouds and falls; a static charge between the ground and the sky, a larger version of what you can do with a good shaggy rug and a metal door knob, and the sound of that discharge letting out all at once.
A force of nature roaring with all its might, but never did it hurt you. Threaten you.
"... Were you ever scared?"
Of the storm? Or when leaving the only home you'd ever known? It doesn't occur to you to clarify which question you mean. Maybe both. Maybe neither.
Were you ever so afraid...?
He understandably doesn't answer your half-question right away, a strange look pinching his sockets. He stretches his right hand out from under cover like you had, but the rain just falls through the spaces between his metacarpals. "... 's weird," he says quietly after a long pause. "... you go so long with no hope of ever gettin' out, it jus' becomes survivin' fer the sake of it... so you kind'a forget there was ever an 'out' to escape to in the firs' place."
Thunder crashes above, briefly drowning out the sound on rain pelting the shingles on the porch roof. "... when night came he told me up above was fallin' apart jus' as bad as we were," he continues, in that sleepy way someone speaks when they're half present and half not, wandering through memories all out of order trying to figure out what you're saying now and what you want to say.
The bus was crowded with people, luggage and pets, hot and stuffy. You sat at the very back curled into a ball around your bag - everything that you owned and could carry with you - your heart racing to the point of tears, worried that you would look out the window and see the faces of those you were running from.
"... i think the whole thing only lasted another week before error had to go in an' do his bit... never did see if my world had anythin' special 'fore it all went away, we jus' got outta there. didn't think twice... couldn't afford to. pap... uh, parsley had a harder time with that, at first. he stayed in the castle a lot, 'fore he found his footin' and night found this place for 'im. not that he wasn't welcome... he jus' never wanted to stay."
Horror pulls his hand back under and lets it fall limp across his lap. You reach over and hold it, his long phalanges curling over and covering your hand almost entirely. The tips have always been sharp like claws, but never once did you feel intimidated by them. "i always held it together... cause of him. i had to. 'm good at compartmentalizin' so i jus'... put it all away for later. but all that... catches up eventually. night said my skills were useful but..."
Lightning flashes and you see his pupil shrink, his eye fixed towards the silhouette of the mountain briefly illuminated. "when my brother left i thought... i knew how ta survive in our little space, but everythin' outside was just so big... and i got scared that it was all too big fer me."
The terminal stop dumped you in the middle of your first big city, a confusing maze with blinding lights and deafening noises, too many bodies and too many eyes that see too much of you and ignore you at the same time and you almost go back because despite everything it still feels like the safest place in the whole world is your bedroom closet.
Were you ever so afraid... you felt safer standing still?
When the Monsters set foot on the surface, did they find the world too loud? Too crowded and close?
Was the sun too bright?
You lean into his side and he wraps his arm around your waist. Neither of you look at each other, instead just watching the rain fall over the farm. "... it's been a few years but parsley could never get used ta weather like this. too loud... too busy... too chaotic. it's a good thing he's sleepin' through tonight."
Which yet again just goes to show that no two Papyrus' are the same. With a few exceptions the ones you knew would be the loud, the chaotic, the always busy and always moving. Even Crooks, the one who probably would have the most in common with Horror's brother, could not take a break for anything. He relished the noise, the crowds.
The reminders of the living.
"... forget what we even went for, or where it was... we were in some world on the surface, jus' me, night an' killer... we hadn't met dust yet, it was awhile 'fore that... anyway this storm rolled in. a big one, jus' like this... an' i couldn't help but stop an' watch. here's another thing that was bigger than me, louder than me, somethin' i couldn't jus' use my size ta scare away, but... it didn't bother me. for the first time... seein' somethin' bigger didn't feel scary."
It was the park that drew you, close to the soup kitchen and the shelter that you lined up hours for every evening for the chance to have a room and a bed for the night. The lady serving the soup always looked at you with too much pity and gave you an extra portion when she could get away with it. You used to accept only so she wouldn't start an argument.
The city was overwhelming, large and looming, monolithic and indistinct, where it was all too easy to feel like a speck of dirt just hiding in one of the cracks in the foundations... but the park was lush with trails and bushes and trees, so large that you could forget everything for just long enough to feel comfortable.
Free.
"i remember the rain was warm. never got warm where i'm from, 'less you were in hotland... after the core went out things got bad all over... but even with the new source it never really got warm again... power source jus' wasn't strong enough ta bring any heat back... figured it wouldn't work, i told 'er so, but i was jus' 'the lazy one' so fuck if she ever listened to me..."
He falls silent as the words, bitter-edged with sad frustration, leave his mouth, and there is only the rain pouring against the roof and streaming off the tiles into the overflowing gutter, a new waterfall pouring over the edge and cascading down to the ground, smacking hard against the mud below, too rain-soaked to absorb any more water.
"water was never warm anymore," he eventually continues, less bitter but just as sad. "i kind'a forgot 'bout it 'til that first rainstorm. it soaked right through my clothes, thunder was too loud and i had a bad headache after... but it was warm... an' the way the lightnin' moved in the sky an' lit everythin' up... i dunno, kind'a felt comfortin' in a weird way, but i guess you get that feelin' too."
You agree with a confirming hum, and you rest your head against Horror's ribs, tucked in as you are under his arm. Another flash of light across the sky, the bolt of lightning striking down somewhere not visible from the porch. Thunder calls in response nearly thirty seconds later, the storm and most of its furious power having moved away from the farm.
The rain lightens as the storm retreats, slowing from a pour to a stream. Far in the distance, the silhouette of the mountain darkens further as the sky behind it starts to subtly shift from black to dark grey with the incoming sunrise, maybe now less than an hour away. As the sky lightens all the little details in the world around start to emerge. The way the rain has folded and flattened the grass, the inch-deep puddles that have formed in pockets and divots in the earth, new lakes and oceans to the bug life that will wake and rise from the soaked dirt with the sun.
Horror twitches suddenly, his chest shaking with an inward laughter. He tilts his skull down, his cheekbone resting on top of your head. "also figured out that night was a big fuckin' liar 'bout not carin' 'bout us after that, heh. took him a little longer ta figure that out himself, but that's alright," he whispers, his grin audible as he shares in conspiracy.
You chuckle quietly. "Yeah, he's just a big softie."
"one of th' biggest."
You both chuckle, quiet and to only yourselves, knowledge of the multiverse's largest conspiracy shared with scarce few others, and only the storm around to witness it.
You cherish it.
The rain once again becomes the only source of sound, the two of you in comfortable silence, resting and watching the imminent sunrise. Before long there's a hint of brightness along the horizon, a thin line of warm yellow dawn rising against the darkness of night. It's enough to lose all sense of time inching forward, not quite dozing or sleeping, your mind still conscious enough to absorb the senses and sounds from the world outside the little bubble of the porch. The way the distant birds start to call and sing to one another, the way the air warms with the coming dawn, tingling on your bare skin as it chases away the lingering chill from the rain. The way Horror's subtle purrs of contentment sink and echo through your core.
The bubble is not broken until the farm is richly flooded with the bright radiance of sunrise and the sharp click of the door latch behind you snaps you back to awareness.
The door creaks as it swings open, the springs whining as they stretch and shrink and then the door quickly closes with a snap. Small footfalls across the wood, and you turn to see another skeleton Monster walk up to the porch railing. His round skull and stout stature is typical of a Sans, shorter than Horror but also shorter than you by half an inch. His good-natured grin is also typical, cheekbones round and prominent with a light speckle of pistachio green magic that seems to be constantly bleeding through.
"mornin' you two," he greets, leaning against the rail with one elbow.
"mornin' taro," Horror greets, while you give a shy smile and a little wave. Taro is already dressed for the day, shorts and a work shirt and a straw hat adorning his skull. You're a little self conscious about your general state of undress, but he doesn't ogle or seem to care all that much really, and Horror certainly isn't concerned with just wearing boxers so you try not to let any embarrassment settle.
"y'all sleep well?"
Horror nods, his chin rubbing against the top of your head. "sure did. storm woke us up, but it was nice to watch."
Taro nods. "ah, the rain's always nice. we've been havin' a dry spell lately, so this'll be good for the crops." He turns to look out over the yard and towards the fields. His grin widens until his cheekbones nearly collide with the bottom of his sockets. The natural pale green of his small eyelights are almost golden in the light of the sunrise. He inhales deeply, air rushing through his nasal aperture as his chest swells. He holds the breath, then lets it out in a content, slow sigh. "... i think the best thing 'bout a storm is how fresh things are afterwards."
He's not wrong. There's something about air that feels better than before; clearer, and lighter. Energized.
Hopeful.
A gentle world left behind after a storm washes everything away.
In Taro's world Monsters were never at war, never banished, never forgotten. They lived and grew alongside people, in the shadow of a mountain revered only for its size, not for any historical or mythical significance. They've never known strife or hardship, it's a rare day when quarrels are not settled amicably.
Horror told you Taro never judged them, never pitied them, when Parsley moved in with the farmer brothers and Horror started to visit. He never made a big deal about their past, a song and dance of self serving sympathy pretending to be empathy. Taro was just Taro, and welcomed them to be anything they wanted.
He never asked them what they think of the sun.
You could tell he loves it all anyway.
"... anyway, i was jus' gonna go check out the coop, see what the ladies left us for breakfast. we still got some o' that hard loaf from last night, if ya want somethin' crusty with the eggs. fennel's in the kitchen, but uh, no rush to come in or anythin', if ya wanna enjoy the sunrise a while longer."
Taro stretches, bracing his lower spine and arching his upper body back until it pops with a satisfied sigh, then steps off the porch and trundles across the yard, heedless of the puddles and the way his flip flops squelch in the mud.
Taro never so much as bat a socket lid when Horror introduced you, just welcomed you warmly and offered you some freshly made lemonade. Neither did Fennel, who told you about the comings and goings of all his friends over a slice of freshly baked caramel apple cake. And neither did Parsley, who loaded you up on his little green tractor and gave you the grand tour of the farm he's so very proud of.
You didn't miss the way Parsley asked about the others; if Killer still whittled wood in secret or if Nightmare still wrote in his journal every day. He even asked about the skeletons he'd never met; if Dust liked the old telescope he sent back with Horror last time, or if Cross had taken up sketching again and needed new books.
You didn't miss his hope that one day soon Dust, Killer and Cross would overcome their reluctance to face him and finally pay the farm a visit.
But sometimes the only thing you can do with fear... is to take that leap of faith anyways.
The sun continues to rise, high enough now to throw beams between the posts and shine over the two of you. Horror doesn't make any move to get up, and so neither do you.
You've always loved a good storm, and that's not likely to change anytime soon. It makes that small moment of calming peace, the stillness that only invites you to notice the little things, all the better.
A storm is nothing more than a precise mixture of small, innocuous things.
But a storm is more than the sum of its parts, stronger than the forces that it's made of.
Maybe you liked thunderstorms for the reminder that no matter what, there was always something stronger than your worst fear. Or the feeling of something greater and grander beckoning you from beyond your borders. Or the promise of something new once it ends.
Maybe it's because a thunderstorm is a collective of those small, innocuous things, made powerful.
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