It always started the same way. Stretch would wake up to the sound of something dripping, like a leaky faucet. As he became more aware of the sound, it would shift and distort, become thicker like oil, and he would try to sit up to figure out where it was coming from.

Only, he couldn’t sit up. Couldn’t move at all. Soon a feeling of cold, dark dread would creep over him as if death itself had entered the room.

It had happened the same way since he was a young teenager, the night after he’d woken up in the labs with his younger brother and knew that something big had changed. He couldn’t ever place what it was, but something was missing. It didn’t happen every night, and had diminished over time, but at least twice a month he would wake to the same hallucinations he’d had as a teen.

This night was no different. As Stretch lay there on his back, he tried to control whatever parts of him he could. He kept his sockets shut as best he could and sucked in quick, sharp breaths. If he was lucky, his husband would hear his breathing and wake up to help him. If not, then he was in for a hell of a night.

A soft groan, deep and unsettling, seemed to come from right beside him. His sockets flew open, but he couldn’t even turn his head to see what it was. He knew what it was. It was the same every damn time.

With all the effort he could muster, he tried to reach out a finger to get Edge’s attention. His fingers only twitched helplessly. He couldn’t even whimper or call out, couldn’t open his mouth.

“Papyrus…” The voice was distorted and sounded as hollow as the void, seemed to echo in his head. “...help...me…”

Beside him, just off the side of the bed, a dark figure began to rise. He felt something thick and gooey splatter against his bones, the same thing that caused the dripping noises. It was black as night and just as cold. Large hands crept over him while a pale face leaned over him.

The figure moved as if it were made of the leaky substance, as if it couldn’t stand up straight. The only solid parts of it were its hands and face. The face was cracked through each socket, and yet still managed to stay together.

“...please…”

Stretch thought he might scream as he stared into those hollow sockets. He could feel how much this being wanted to take him, wanted to use his body as a conduit to live in this world again. How he knew that, he wasn’t sure, but he was absolutely positive that the thing wanted to cast his soul out and inhabit his bones.

“Stretch?” Edge’s voice cut through the air like a bullet, shattering the being’s concentration. Then Edge’s hand took his, gently squeezing. “Love? You’re okay. You’re safe. It’s time to wake up now.”

A deep growl erupted from the dark figure, and then it vanished. Stretch blinked a few times, suddenly able to control his own body once again. He sucked in a deep breath and turned over to lean into his husband.

Edge wrapped his arms around Stretch and held tightly. “Shhh, love, it’s okay. I’m here. You’re safe.”

Stretch nodded, unable to stop himself from crying. He couldn’t express how terrified he’d been, nor could he convey to Edge how thankful he was that he was out of it now. Instead of trying, he sniffled and leaned back a little.

“thanks, babe,” he said, trying for nonchalance.

Edge saw right through him. Instead of calling him out, however, he just leaned in and gave Stretch a small kiss. “Anytime.”

~~*~~

Stretch looked at the twisted, smoking pile of plastic and fabric at his feet. The stench of burning synthetics was strong and unpleasant, wires sparking as they melted into goo.

Not fifteen minutes ago, it had been ‘flying grim reaper with glowing eyes and electronic laugh,’ and now it was sort of a poor re-enactment of the Wicked Witch of the West. It was slightly disappointing.

Next to him, Edge was also looking at the remains. His eye lights were still overly bright, magic crackling agitatedly at his fingertips. “This is not my fault.”

Stretch poked the remains of the reaper with his toe. It made a last, gurgling laugh that trailed into a garbled moan of electronics and then collapsed. “i’m pretty sure this is entirely your fault.”

“It came flying out of a tree at me!”

“it was supposed to. well, not at you specifically, at the trick or treaters,” he waved at their yard, liberally scattered with pumpkins, fake tombstones, and zombie flamingoes. “the rest of the decorations didn’t clue you in?”

Edge scowled at him. “I’ll buy you another one.”

“um, yeah, i’m thinking maybe something else would be better. it was only fifty bucks, so i got my money’s worth.”

Edge picked up his briefcase from where it had ended up after he’d thrown it, dusting it off. “It was worth fifty dollars just to startle me?”

It wasn’t easy for a skeleton to snort, but Stretch gave it his best shot. “startled? babe, i didn’t know you could hit that octave. i’m betting they heard that scream at the embassy.” He shook his head. “remind me to start wearing a bell. but, yeah, that’s not worth fifty bucks.” He held up his phone with a grin. “now, the video i got…”

He waggled his fingers in a goodbye even as he easily dodged when Edge lunged for his phone.

“Give me that, you—“ The rest was left behind as Stretch shortcutted away.

He chuckled as he watched the video again before saving it to a private folder and locking it. There was no way he was showing that to anyone, but there was no reason for Edge to know that.

At least not until he’d given Stretch a treat for his trick and, knowing Edge, Stretch was sure he’d think of something.

~~*~~

Edge knew hunger. Underfell had taught him that lesson at a very young age and he’d retained it as less of a memory and more of a scar, one that itched from time to time and never quite faded.

He remembered scrounging through the garbage dump and the trash cans in New Home, searching for scraps of anything edible, anything that could be choked down and even defending those shreds of refuse from other scavengers. He remembered trying to sleep next to his brother beneath a thin blanket with an aching void still inside him, dreaming of the kind of perfect food he’d never had in reality.

When he’d gotten a little older, a little stronger, and more able to help provide for his meagre family of two, he’d sworn to himself he was never going to eat food that he hated again. It turned out to be a good thing that he didn’t give promises the same weight that the Sanses or Stretch did, because it was one he’d broken more than once when the supply lines to Snowdin had weakened or broken, and they’d grimly consumed whatever they could to keep their magic up. Gnawing on half-rotten fruit or stale bread verging on mold had brought him back to the misery of his childhood, no matter his age.

He’d made himself that same promise once again, when they’d come to the surface in this universe, and this time it was one Edge had kept.

Cooking had been a necessity in Underfell and a pleasure, but also a way to guarantee that while dinner might be burnt or unpalatable, at least it was his.

Sans, his brother of sarcasm and brutal insults, had never criticized his first stumbling efforts, and while there were few ways of showing affection in Underfell, a tasty dinner had always meant more between them than simply food on a plate. It meant he was keeping his brother healthy and alive. It meant safety, no matter how brief.

Edge didn’t think of Underfell often but occasionally, in his well-appointed kitchen, filled with all the ingredients anyone could ever need, he remembered.

He was rolling out pie dough when he heard the door open behind him, Stretch wandering in and peering over his shoulder. He smelled like the outdoors and faintly of cigarettes.

“pie?” Stretch asked, curiously.

“Yes,” Edge agreed. “I thought it would be nice for dessert.” The crust was coming together nicely, and it would be flaky and tender, a perfect complement to the sweet filling.

Stretch rocked on his feet, hands in his pockets. “can i help?”

Well, that was new. Edge hesitated, giving him a look, but Stretch only looked interested, not as if anything was wrong. “of course, if you like, can you peel the apples?”

It turned out he could, a little clumsily and imperfect, but he managed. The chunks were a bit uneven, but they would work well enough and Edge told him what to mix in with them, sugar and spices with a pinch of flour, filling the kitchen with their comforting aroma.

He let Stretch cut out pie dough, showed him how to interlace strips of it over the apples layered inside, and how to crimp the edges of the crust, demonstrating on his own. In the end, they had two pies sitting side by side, waiting for the oven.

His own was perfection, sitting next to Stretch’s effort. His finished product was a little lopsided, the lattice laid out with ruler perfect precision but the strips of dough themselves were uneven, cut too narrow in some places and too thick in others, and the crimping was ragged.

Stretch looked at it unhappily, toying with the edge and trying to straighten the uneven dough before Edge took it away.

“It’s important to remember that the point isn’t in perfection.” Edge slid the pies into the oven. “Homemade tastes better than anything from a store because you made it.”

Stretch’s grin was as lopsided as his pie. “sappy.”

“True,” Edge countered. He set the timer and then turned to his husband, taking his hands in both of his. “I never lie to you, I only say what I feel is true.” The pies would need at least an hour to bake, and by the end, that warm, spicy smell would fill the house. “You should give that one to your brother.”

Stretch shook his head, drawing his hands away to fidget instead with his lighter. “blue is a good cook, he doesn’t need my frankenpie.”

The temptation was there to look away, to push memory aside and Edge resisted it, meeting Stretch’s eye lights with his own. “There is nothing he could make that he’d love more than that pie from you.”

“you think so?” Stretch seemed hesitant, searching Edge’s face for…well. Stretch always saw more than he should. Edge turned away, busying himself with the dishes.

“I do. If you like, we can take it over when its finished and visit for a little while before dinner.”

“great, i can sneak in a nap then,” Stretch pressed a clacking kiss to Edge’s cheekbone and breezed back out the kitchen door, leaving him with the cleanup. He didn’t really mind; washing dishes and putting them away was satisfying for him; there was pleasure in order as well.

As he washed, the smell of baking pie rose up, spicy and warm, and he inhaled it deeply, closing his sockets and pushing aside memory. He was here and that was enough.

~~*~~ 

Something that Edge had had in his home that Stretch never did before moving had been a walk-in closet. It was pretty damn big, with lots of places to hang stuff, shoe and tie racks, the works, and Stretch used…ehhh…maybe a 10th of it. Maybe.

Not that Edge hadn’t been willing to give him a fair share when he’d moved in, he simply didn’t need it. His clothing collection was pretty simple and if he didn’t own what he needed to wear, then Edge sure as shit did and he’d play borrowsies. It worked out.

Also, Stretch wasn’t sure how Edge would have managed to squeeze out any extra room for him anyway in the depths of clothing bags and special hangers and shit. He’d told Edge once he should put an addition on the house for it all since he had enough suits to count as a roommate, and Edge had rewarded his cheekiness by pinning him down and…well…

It was a fond memory, that’s all.

This morning when Stretch had wandered into it, still drowsy and rubbing at his sockets, he paused to see a change in his tiny sector of the closet.

 In the middle of it all, hanging innocently, were two new hoodies.

Well, that was a hint if he’d ever seen one.

He wasn’t too surprised. He already knew Edge handled his sock issues. Bony toes had a way of rubbing holes into socks faster than fleshy ones, he’d learned, and more than once he’d come downstairs to find his honey homemaker sitting with a basket, darning them, and never mind that they could easily just buy more damn socks.

Not a big deal, they both had their coping mechanisms and if Edge thought sewing up socks was comforting, he was welcome to them. Hell, he could sew them all together and fly them like a flag from their gutters for all Stretch cared.

So, he was used to Edge handling his clothing problems. Hoodies were different, though, Stretch loved his hoodies, he tended to live in them. Hoodies were fucking great; you could snuggle in deep even in the worst snowstorms, keep toasty warm in-between shortcuts. Pullovers, no zippers, he didn’t like the metal tabs, didn’t like the way it split the pocket into two little ones rather than one roomy enough for his cigarettes, his lighter, and his hands. Sanses with their little paws might get away with that but Stretch needed his space.

Yeah, he loved his hoodies and one of his favorites had gotten a ragged hole in the elbow a couple of days ago. Not something easy to repair and it let in an annoying patch of cold through the leak. That hoodie was still hanging with the rest of them, no one had tried to sneak it out and into the trash. It was there, if he wanted to wear it.

The new hoodies were already washed, he could smell the detergent. Slowly, he pulled one off the hanger and slipped it on. Closed his sockets. It was heavy, not quite soft enough. Not worn in.

Somewhere at the very back of his closet, folded and hidden beneath destination T-shirt’s and summer shorts was a very old hoodie worn practically to rags, one from Underswap. He had so little left from home. His brother, a hoodie, a lighter. So very little.

He looked in the mirror, smoothing his hands down the soft knit fabric. This was home, he reminded himself. This was home, with Edge.

He pasted on a cheesy grin and took a selfie. how do i look?

Like yourself  came quickly back and Stretch grinned. That was his baby, the flattery expert.

His phone buzzed again. Are you okay?

Stretch closed his sockets and took a shaky breath. Yeah, that was his baby, all right.

Texts weren’t great with nuances, but he gave it a shot. it’s fine.  

It was. It would be.

His phone didn’t buzz again so Edge must’ve accepted that. He stuck his phone into the roomy pocket, along with his cigarettes, his lighter, and his hands, wandering downstairs to lie on the sofa and break it in.

~~*~~

Edge was sitting at his desk, working through a last bit of paperwork when Stretch came tromping downstairs, bundled up against the autumn chill.

“And where are you going dressed like that?”

“there's an open-air concert downtown at the park!” Stretch said excitedly. “jeff and i were going to head down.” He wrapped his arms around Edge from behind, nuzzling ticklishly at his cervical vertebrae, before moving enough to let Edge push his chair back. “figured since you'd rather sit in a room of chalkboards with freddy kruger than listen to modern music, we'd solo it.”

“Let me rephrase, where do you think you’re going dressed like that?” Edge asked, amused.

He was, frankly, adorable, although if he told Stretch that he’d get a dirty look. Jeans instead of his normal track pants, Edge’s jeans to be more specific and while he would have cuffed them, on Stretch they went down to the top of his boots...which were also obviously Edge's by color alone, bright red and laces dragging. His knit cap was grey with red trim, his scarf matching, and from looking at him, Edge could decisively say that the only thing he was wearing that was his own was his sweatshirt.

He was also wearing his silicon ring, the rainbow of colors bright against white bone and Edge resisted the urge press a kiss against it.

Stretch stepped back and posed as though at the end of a runway. “you don’t like?”

“Hold on," Edge hooked his fingertips into Stretch’s waistband and pulled him in, leaning down to tie the boots with a firm double knot. He straightened the knit hat and rewound the scarf around his neck so that it draped properly, tucking it into his collar so he’d be able to draw up his hood if he got cold.

“gee, thanks, mom," Stretch rolled his eye lights, then laughed softly when Edge tugged him down by the scarf, catching his mouth in a gentle kiss.

Edge kept his grip on the scarf, holding him in, and told him, “I would have come if you'd asked.”

“i know, and i love you for it, but you wouldn't have liked it,” Stretch reached up and smoothed his thumb over Edge’s cheekbone, gentle against the crack that cut through it. Then he tugged the scarf free and stepped back. “andy and i got this. later!”

With a last wave, he was out the door. The house was quieter without him, less vibrant, less alive, but it was all right. It would be filled again when he came home.

~~*~~

On Saturdays, Edge often enjoyed baking and wasn’t particular about what he made. Cookies, pies, breads and scones. All of it was soothing in its own way. Today, in deference to the month, he was making pumpkin cookies alongside regular chocolate chip. Stretch had a craving for anything pumpkin that far exceeded Edge’s tolerance.

In fact, it was only when the last batch came out of the oven that a trickle of suspicion went through him. The smell of baking cookies should have permeated the entire house and yet, Stretch hadn’t tried to sneak one while they were still warm, pumpkin or otherwise.

He left the dishes to soak and went in search of possible trouble.

Stretch wasn’t napping on the sofa or in their room; not unexpected, his internal cookie radar would have awoken him. He also wasn’t in the backyard letting the chickens get some exercise while he took too many pictures of them scuffling through the leaves, which had been a favored pastime all week.

He shouldn’t be in his lab, he had a self-imposed exile on it over the weekend, since he’d spend the entire day there if inspiration struck.

One last place to check and then Edge would send him a text.

When he opened the front door and heard childish giggles, he knew Stretch had been found. Edge leaned against the door jamb and took in the scene in front of him.

Stretch was sitting in a folding chair with a table next to him covered with paint pots and brushes. Above him was a banner that declared in broad, swooping letters, ‘be a skeleton for a day!’

There were at least ten children in line and Stretch was diligently painting the face of the child in front of him, his tongue poking out in concentration.

Edge shook his head and walked over to them. “Having fun?”

A chorus of cheers rose from the children but Stretch didn’t look up. “sorry, important business here, right, kid?”

The kid in question hummed in happy agreement but didn’t move. At Stretch’s elbow was a printed tutorial of ‘how to paint a skeleton face’. Edge picked it up.

“You have a skeleton face of your own. You look at mine every day and you still needed directions?”

“makeup tutorials for humans are like, a quarter of youtube. i don’t see you bitching about those.”

A renewed chant of gleeful shock came from their miniature Greek chorus over the use of a ‘bad word.’”

Stretch winced, “sorry, guys, don’t say that in front of your folks or we’ll never get to do the next kool-aid experiment.”

Kool-aid experiment? Edge firmly decided that the less information about that, the better.

“there!” With a last flourish, Stretch leaned back and his latest skeleton beamed up at him.

“Is it good?” he asked eagerly.

“see for yourself!” Stretch picked up his phone and snapped a quick picture, then showed it to him. “you are a fantastic skeleton, i should know. i’ve been one all my life.”

“Very good,” Edge agreed. “You do realize Halloween is weeks away?”

The child gave him a stern look, all the more amusing from the face of a painted skeleton. “It is always cool to be a skeleton, Mister Edge Sir.”

Edge nodded solemnly. “I stand corrected.”

“okay, kid, you’re done,” Stretch told him and he scampered off, calling back to them.

“Thank you Mister Papyrus Stretch Sir!”

“it’s still just stretch,” he called back. Edge raised a brow bone at him. “don’t look at me, i don’t know where he got that.” He picked up a pen and checked off a name on a list before gesturing to the next child, who was squirming with eagerness.

“What’s this?” Edge picked it up.

“kids whose parents said i could post their picture on social media,” Stretch murmured. “didn’t want to do it without asking but asgore loves it when i post this shi—stuff. figured he could get his kicks and no one would get upset.”

“That was…very thoughtful of you.”

“thanks for saying that with the minimum of surprise,” Stretch grinned then turned his attention to his next victim. “okay, kid, what’s it gonna be?”

“Can I have a flower on my cheek, too?” the child asked shyly.

“absolutely! skeletons love flowers, don’t they, edgelord.”

“Absolutely,” Edge deadpanned. He pulled out the second chair and selected a brush. “Would anyone like me to paint their face?”

“there we go guys, any grumpy skeletons to the right,” Stretch laughed. The children laughed with him and Edge rolled his eye lights, but soon his own victim was standing before him.

“Can I be extra grumpy like you?” The child asked excitedly.

Edge held back a smile with superior effort. “I’ll do my best.”

He didn’t do a bad job, but Stretch was right. It was easier with a reference and his lover wasn’t nearly grumpy enough to qualify.

~~*~~

“so, what do you think of my jack-o-lantern?”

Edge glanced up from his own pumpkin to look at the one Stretch was standing proudly over, his hands extended in a gesture that would have done Vanna White proud. “I think you owe it an apology.”

Stretch huffed in annoyance, “well, thanks, mister art critic.”

Edge shrugged, unbothered. “Do you want me to lie? I could.”

“you’re supposed to lie before you tell the truth, not after,” Stretch told him sulkily. His shirt, one that declared proudly that he was a ‘spooky scary skeleton’, had strands of pumpkin goo and seeds clinging to it.

“Well, then. Were the uneven eyes an aesthetic choice or does that actually represent a Monster you know?” From Stretch’s souring expression, he was digging himself a hole that he was going to have a difficult time getting back out of, but honestly.

“the pumpkin was uneven,” Stretch muttered, poking at it grumpily. Obligingly, it rocked at the touch, wobbling before settling back.

“You can’t blame mother nature for your depth perception,” Edge tried to lighten it with a smile, tapping his cracked socket with a finger. “How is it that you’re the one with that issue in this relationship?”

Instead of laughing, Stretch looked stricken, the exact opposite that Edge had been going for, “that’s not funny!”

“I think it is, but my humor is questionable,” Edge sighed. He went for a different tact, “Really, though, that’s what you get for using inferior tools.”

Stretch held up one of the ridiculous tools he’d gotten, one of several that had come in a colorful package advertising ‘safety first carving!’. Short, flimsy metal with a purple plastic handle, the very picture of ridiculous. “are you kidding? these are seriously cool,” he stuck his tongue out at Edge, surely a sign that he wasn’t going to hold a grudge. “sorry, guess i should have asked your brother to loan me a switchblade.”

Or maybe not. “Don't be ridiculous, that isn't a precision tool.” He held up the x-acto knife he’d been using. “Better tools, better pumpkin.”

“if you’d just let me carve what i wanted on it—”

There was an argument they weren’t going to have again. “I actually would like it if parents would allow trick or treaters to come to our doors, and I doubt they would appreciate your efforts to enhance their education of human anatomy.”

“hey, more candy for me,” Stretch said cheerily. He craned his head, trying to look at the other side of the table. “aren’t you done with yours yet?”

“Nearly.”

“come onnnnnnn,” Stretch whined. “let me see, let me see!”

Edge ignored him, making a few last adjustments before stepping back. “There.”

Eagerly, Stretch scampered around the table, skittering to a halt as he stared at Edge’s pumpkin. “well, okay, martha stewart, nice one there.”

Edge bristled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Stretch held up both his hands, smiling sweetly, "not a thing! how’d you get the flowers to stick, anyway?"

“It’s simple, you hot glue them to toothpicks and—"

“yeah, great,” Stretch interrupted, shaking his head. “I’m not sure you’ve gotten into the spirit of this the right way, but that’s all right, honey homemaker.” He slanted Edge a look, his grin widening, “you’d look good in one of those frilly aprons, babe, that’s all i’m saying.”

“If you want to discuss roleplay, you need to put it in writing,” Edge told him smoothly, “If you’re too embarrassed to read a proposal, you’re too embarrassed to try it.”

“babe, that is not a door you want to open, unless you want a to hear a four-hour speech this weekend about the joys of high heels."  

“Mmhmm,” Edge shook his head. “Well, as enjoyable as this has been, I’d like to start dinner without this mess laying around.” He'd put down a plastic tablecloth and plenty of newspaper, so his kitchen had escaped the worst of the carnage. Stretch, however, was coated in goo up to his elbows; even his rolled-up sleeves were damp with it. “Why don't you take a shower and rinse off all your…innards while I clean up in here.”

“boring,” Stretch said, singsong. “why don't you come with me, instead?”

Edge arched a brow bone at him, gesturing down at his own pristine shirt. “Unlike you, I managed to stay clean through the process. Go on, now.”

He should have known better than to think it was over. Before he could do anything more than turn around, two wet hands slipped around him from behind, smearing stickiness down his shirt and arms.

Against the back of his skull, Stretch said, smugly, “how about now?”

Edge grimaced in disgust. “If this is an attempt to seduce me, your plan has flaws.”

Only to shiver as his tongue, silky wet, tracing down his vertebra like the steps on a ladder and Stretch whispered in a lower, husky voice, a soft vibration against bone, "you think so?”

Oh, it was tempting, too tempting to simply give in, to let Stretch win. Resisting took all his control, but Edge broke his hold and grappled him down to the table, directly into the slimy pile of pumpkin guts. Even he had to give Stretch credit for creativity in swearing then, words that Edge hadn’t even known existed, much less that they could be combined in such a vulgar way.

“That was impressive, but you know as well as I do that we never had a mother,” Edge kept his weight on Stretch, holding him down even as the table rocked threateningly. “If we’re going to shower together, we may as well be as messy as possible, right?”

Edge sputtered as a handful of orange goo was smeared directly across his face, the slimy strands dripping down onto Stretch’s already liberally decorated shirt. “like that?” Stretch asked sweetly.

“You’re going to pay for that,” Edge told him regretfully, scooping up his own handful.  Stretch’s shout of laughing protest echoed around the room and in the end, his kitchen didn’t escape the damage after all. But the hour it took to scrape pumpkin guts off his cupboards was a price worth paying.

~~*~~

Edge had always loved cooking, even in Underfell where supply lines had been fragile. If nothing else, that had taught him creativity and he could make a decent meal from the most meagre of ingredients. When given the option, he preferred his meals flavorful and healthy; their food converted to magic when it was eaten, and higher quality food produced a great amount. It was an equation even he could manage, and one Rus couldn't argue his way around.

Healthy, certainly, was better. But one of his secret loves was homemade donuts.

It was his own recipe that he'd been tweaking since they came to the surface. A dense, cakey donut, crisply fried and liberally sprinkled with cinnamon sugar. He preferred to twist them rather than the traditional rounds with a hole, the crevasses better for holding on to the sugar. A little time consuming to prepare but well worth the effort.

With the temperatures dropping, today at seemed like a perfect day to make them. With only a little effort he had the dough prepared and was making the twists while the oil heated. He was hardly half finished when he heard the familiar pop of teleportation behind him. Not too surprising, Stretch could smell a donut cooking before the flour had hit the bowl. With a sigh, he turned around.

To find his husband, his brother, Jeff, and Antwan lurking behind him, surrounding the table.

That was exactly three more people than he’d been expecting and four more than he needed. A little doubtfully, Edge said to the group, “Hello?”

"heya, babe,” Stretch said cheerfully.

“Can I help you?” It was a little disconcerting to have them all staring at him like ravenous hyenas. It gave him the feeling that if he moved too quickly, he might well lose a limb.

“Heard you were making donuts,” Antwan said lightly. Edge imagined he used that very same voice in court when he questioned Humans about their unfair business practices towards Monsters.

“Yes,” he agreed cautiously. “How did you know—“

“enough chit chat,” Red broke in. “make with the donuts!”

Edge raised a brow bone, unimpressed with his brother's rudeness. “And if I don’t feel like it?”

Three distraught looks were sent his way, coupled with winces from Red as he was simultaneously hit and kicked from several sources.

"pleeeeeeease?” Stretch begged. “they’re so good when they are still warm, we love your donuts, we love you—“

“Can I stick with loving the donuts and strong feelings of friendship for Edge?” Antwan asked dryly.

“quit being a bitch and love your friends,” Red told him. He managed to contort his face into some approximation of pleading. “c’mon, bro, don’t play us that way!”

“I haven’t tried the donuts, can I withhold my affections until then?” Jeff asked, then yelped as the kicks and smacks were redirected to him.

“no!” Stretch hissed. “love me, love my husband's donuts!”

Edge raised his voice over the rising squabble. “If I make them, do you all promise to shut up and leave my kitchen?”

Four heads nodded so vigorously it was like being surrounded by a troop of bobble heads. With a sigh, Edge turned back to the dough and began shaping them again. He paused as a furiously whispered debate started behind him.

“I will decide who gets the first one," he added loudly.

With a liquid burble he dropped the first one in the hot oil, watching as the pale dough turned golden, and made a mental bet with himself over who was going to whine the loudest, because this first donut was his.