#nonbinary dream

Baggs was a creep, so he’d been told, despite his good intentions, and he would be lying if he said it didn’t vex him.

Yes, he could bend others to his will, make them want to obey his every word, make them need to be controlled the way he needed to be in control, but since being taken in by Nightmare and, been appointed the patron deity of biology, assuming the title of The Curator, he hadn’t used his power on anyone without being asked to, ordered to, or forced to for self-defense. 

Spending half a decade being schooled by horrors beyond his comprehension, namely Nightmare and Dream, about the importance of autonomy, consent, and mutual trust and understanding had led to a great deal of self-reflection and improvement.

Yes, he craved the mana flowing through others’ leylines, but these vampiric tendencies were the result of his perseverance-infused soul, not his own consciousness, and he had vowed never to take advantage of another. He’d proven time and time again that his resolve was stronger than the carnal impulses of his corrupted soul, behaving civilly around the others even as his body screamed for him to drink them dry, and isolating himself when he felt his self-control faltering.

Yes, he used pet names constantly, but only because a real name felt so much more intimate, like he was using a term of endearment meant only for family, close friends, and lovers. He himself only ever introduced himself as Dr. Serif, or The Curator, and got uncomfortable when addressed as Baggs by strangers or acquaintances, and it was only right he treat others how he wished to be treated..

Yes, he lavished everyone he knew with compliments, but that was because he genuinely meant everything he said, not because he was trying to proposition them. If he thought Query’s little rambling fits were, quite frankly, adorable, or the care Epic showed to the younger skeletons in the castle was admirable, he felt it was only right that he say so.

And yes, he stared at people, but only out of scientific curiosity, not out of some sort of perversion. People were complex, fascinating creatures, and he was a doctor for gods’ sake, he dedicated his life to studying and fixing them.

He was staring at Epic now, as the engineer slept, studying his face intently, deep in thought.

He was attracted to Epic, of course, who wouldn’t be? He was intelligent, strong, kind, charismatic, and had that undeniable allure of somebody who could switch from an dick joke making idiot to a dead-serious, incredibly intimidating scientist on a dime. And that wasn’t even accounting for his physical attributes. How Baggs fantasized about being held by those sturdy, battle-tested arms, how he dreamed about kissing that cheeky, lopsided smirk, and how he longed to scrub away all those oil-stains and scuff marks that Epic never bothered to clean properly.

But Baggs was not a very brave man, and he would much rather keep Epic’s friendship as he had it than gamble it for something more. Epic was a good friend and colleague, not put off by Baggs’…eccentricities in the slightest, always there to coerce Baggs into resting and feeding when he was too caught up in his work to stop, always there with a smile and a joke when Baggs was having a bad day, and always willing to repair or create any equipment Baggs needed.

So, naturally, when Baggs noticed that Epic had some sort of sleeping disorder, he wanted to help. However, to his increasing annoyance, Epic was extremely cagey about the topic, and, despite Baggs’ persistence, denied that anything was wrong with him.

“Bruh, I’m fine,” Says the man who speaks about sleep with a bitter irony in his usually cheery tone and dark circles under his eyes that contest with Baggs’ namesake features.

“Seriously, Doc, estoy a-ok, chillax,” Says the man who always twitches and grunts and growls in his sleep as if in the throes of a vicious nightmare, but cannot be woken by any means, always starting awake without warning, completely alert from the moment his eyesockets shoot open with a gasping breath.

“Really, Baggs, drop it, I’m not…I’m fine, okay?” Says the man who pretends to go to bed at a reasonable time and instead stays up watching junk on tv, working, or crying (Epic is an ugly crier, Baggs has learned thanks to his chronic insomnia and the unfortunate acoustics of the castle; it would be endearing if it didn’t sadden him so) and goes without sleep until he starts having breakdowns and hallucinating, not that Baggs is one to judge, but it worries him all the same.

Worry, worry, worry.

That’s Baggs ever does, it seems. He’s a terrible worrywort, and he can’t recall if he was always like this, or if the experiment he’d done on his soul had made him this way, but nevertheless, he is. If he’s not fretting over one thing, he’s stressing over another, and the lack of control he has in his new life and amount of caffeine he consumes on an hourly basis does nothing to help. 

And so here he is, watching Epic sleep, in that unnaturally deep yet incredibly fitful way he does, like a creep, and worrying about him.

He’d thrown a blanket over him, because he’d passed out at the table and it was a cold night (He would have taken the sleeping skeleton to his room, but, unfortunately, Epic was both a good deal larger than Baggs and heavier than he looked), and while the gesture eases a little of the ache in his soul, it’s still uncomfortably tight when he sees the pained, almost anguished expression on what should be a peacefully resting face.

Because he knows he could make it better, he knows he could help, but he can’t do anything because Epic is just so goddamn stubborn, and Baggs is left teetering on a razor's edge trying to decide whether he should just let his friend keep suffering in silence or step in a make him accept help. Forcing somebody to do something they don’t want to do, no matter how small, is against the rules that have been drilled into his skull by his eldritch patrons, but is allowed on the condition that there is a good enough reason. 

That just leaves the matter of whether curing Epic’s condition, whatever it is, is a good enough reason to strip him of the autonomy of having a say in whether it gets cured, which is a conundrum, because one of the few things Epic takes deadly serious are promises, and he’d made Baggs swear never to use his power on him or Query when Baggs had moved into their tower from the dungeon. Baggs knows if he breaks that promise, he’d lose Epic’s trust instantly, and likely never get it back.

And that begs the question, is Baggs willing to sacrifice Epic’s friendship for a chance at improving his health, and would that even be the right thing to do? He chuckled bitterly to himself at how neatly this situation parallels the dilemma concerning his feelings for the old engineer.

Ultimately, Baggs is spared from making a decision as Epic jolts awake with a strangled yelp and elbows him in the jawbone with enough force to knock him out of his chair and onto the cold stone floor with a horrible cracking sound.

…

oh fuck

fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck

Epic bites back a stream of curses as he jumps out of his chair to crouch by Baggs’ side.

The biologist was sprawled out on the stone floor, eyelights snuffed out. A thin stream of ichor trails from his mouth, and a pool of it is starting to puddle under his head. The swirling cyan and magenta coloring is eyestrainingly vivid against the dark marble floor of the tower.

Epic could swear he felt his soul crack.

He did this.

He put off sleeping too long and passed out in a common area, and Baggs, diligent, oh-so attentive Baggs, had been keeping watch over him, and Epic had woken up from having his spine snapped in half and lashed out, not realizing that he was in the waking world. And the worst part is that Epic knew this would happen, he knew that he often wakes up confused and in pain, and he has attacked people in the past, but they’ve always been able to defend themselves. Neither of the skeletons he lives with in the tower have any sort of combat ability, and Baggs is the more feeble of the two.

Stars, if either of them could still die by conventional means, that blow would have killed him.

And it would have been Epic’s fault.

Carefully, he lifts Baggs’ head up to check the back of his skull, and can’t decide whether he wants to throw up or scream when he sees a jagged web of cracks leaking mana at an extremely alarming rate. Instead, he takes a deep breath, and makes a plan. He’ll heal what he can, then take Baggs to the main castle where one of the resident high deities can work their magic and prevent it from scarring.

“I’m sorry,” He mutters, placing a hand on the wound and channeling as much mana as he can muster into healing it.

Baggs whimpers, flinching away, and Epic holds him in place with his free hand.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, feeling tears well up in his eyesockets.

He knows Baggs will forgive him, the old biologist is nothing if not patient, but being attacked and wounded by a friend, even by accident, isn’t something you can just shrug off.

“I’m sorry,” he says a third time, as if apologizing will do anything to ease either of their pain.

He removes his hand to check the damage, using his coat’s sleeve to gently wipe away the multicolored ichor staining Baggs’ skull. The cracks are still there, faintly visible in the moonlight filtering in through the tower windows, but they aren’t bleeding anymore.

Sniffling and wiping away his tears, Epic tries to compose himself as he scoops Baggs into his arms, mildly surprised at how light the smaller skeleton is, and stands, forcing his usual easy grin and cheerful demeanor with an ease that sickens him.

Baggs’ eyelights have reappeared, though they’re dim and fuzzy. He’s crying, and Epic shifts his grip so he can hold him while using his least bloodstained hand to wipe away the tears.

“Sorry bruh, that was super uncool of me. Let’s go getcha fixed up.” 

Baggs blinks bemusedly at up him and lets out a strangled groan, head lolling to the side as tears continue to stream down his face, clearly concussed. More ichor trickles out of his mouth and nose, mixing with his tears and staining both of their clothes. 

Epic hurries to the nearest threshold, trying not to stumble on legs that somehow simultaneously feel like lead and jell-o. Which doorway in the castle should he shortcut to? Nightmare was technically Baggs’ and Epic’s patron, but the dark god didn’t exactly strike Epic as the nurturing kind. Would they be offended if Epic went to their warmer counterpart for help instead of them? He hoped not.

If so, he would deal with their rage when it came, but that wasn’t his problem right now. 

“Hang on, bruh,” Epic told Baggs, tightening his grip on the wounded skeleton as he barrelled into the void and burst out into Dream’s quarters. There were several rooms attached to the main room he’d shortcutted to, but only one of them was emanating an unmistakable aura of warmth and light. 

Epic kicked open the door to Dream’s bedroom, instinctively dodging as several sharp bone projectiles came flying at his head, and ending up with a blade digging into his back.

“Hey, bruh, it’s me, chill!” He exclaimed as Cross lowered her sword and moved into Epic’s field of view, mismatched eyelights shrunken and darting. 

“What happened?” She asked, deadly serious as she always was when things went to shit.

Epic turned to face Dream, who was sitting up in bed, golden tendrils already reaching out to take Baggs from him. 

“He needs help.” He chokes out, guilt and fear cracking through the mask and into his voice before he could stop them.

“I will heal him.” Dream assures him, lifting Baggs from his arms and gently squeezing his hand with a tendril, “Do not worry, it will be okay.”

“Epic, is there a threat in the castle, what happened?” Cross repeats urgently, grabbing Epic by the shoulders and shaking him a little

“No, bruh, I just accidentally decked him, it’s fine.” Epic shrugs, an involuntary tremor racking his body as he suppresses the urge to start rattling.

Cross lets out a breath, relaxing visibly, though still obviously perturbed, “Dude, what the hell?”

Epic just shrugs again, gaze straying to where Dream now has Baggs in their lap and is bathing his wound in golden light.

He should be fine now. Epic turns to leave.

“Hey, dude.” 

Oh, right, Cross still has him by the shoulders. Can’t really do anything about that. She has an iron-bending grip strength and he is definitely not going anywhere until she decides to let go.

Fuck.

“Seriously, what’s up? You look like shit and there’s no way you just punched a guy we both know would lose a fair fight to a goddamn watercooler.”

 “Well, I did,” Epic replies bluntly, biting back a fit of manic giggles and pulling back against Cross’s grip to see if she’ll let go. He needs to get out of here before he loses it. He knows he’s insane, but Cross doesn’t, at least not to what extent, and he would really prefer to keep it that way.

Cross doesn’t let go though, looking at him with such concern it makes him sick. “Is something going on? The tower’s pretty isolated, do I need to check on you more often or post guards? Did he-“

“No,” Epic cuts her off before she can finish the question, biting out a terse, “He accidentally spooked me and I accidentally hit him. That’s it.”

Cross sighs, finally releasing him, and Epic stumbles back a few steps, through Dream’s door and out of an arch woven of young trees, into the woods, cold and dark.

He made that makeshift doorway, and he’s the only one who knows about it. Nobody is coming after him, not now, not yet. 

Cross’ll probably organize a search when he isn’t found in the castle after behaving so out of character. She’s a good friend, better than he deserves, and he’s glad she isn’t here.

Alone, his poorly patched mask crumbles, and a hysterical laugh bursts out of him as his grin hitches up so wide it hurts, bones rattling like a wooden windchime caught in a hurricane.

On autopilot, he shoves his hand into his eye socket, as pain greets him like an old friend, reaching for that damned eye so he can crush it, ichor splattering the inside of his skill as he screams, laughing uncontrollably as he pukes and his visions whites out, again and again and again, until either the eye gives up or his body does.