#type writes

Nightmare gets to his boyfriend’s apartment with a backpack on, a frown on his face, and his cellphone in hand as he types out a quick text.

The door to Killer’s apartment is locked, which is already a bad sign. Usually, by the time the elevator stops at his floor, Killer can smell Nightmare coming. He’d unlock the door and that would let Nightmare walk in at his leisure. As the seconds tick past, however, it becomes clear that today isn’t the usual case. Nightmare continues to stand outside, staring at the scratched up wood and the golden numbers affixed to the front of it with impatience. He waits about a minute longer before he gives a frustrated sigh and reaches out to knock against the hardwood.

It opens up before he gets the chance to.

He’s greeted with the sight of Killer’s haggard face, sleepless and on edge. The circles under his eyes are steadily heading towards looking like bruises. His hair is a mess, sticking up every which way, and his red, flannel shirt is crumpled and slept in. Nightmare’s heart twists in his chest. He tries not to stare.

“Hey,” Killer croaks, “Sorry, I was on the balcony. Left my phone on the table.”

“Balcony? Were you smoking?” Nightmare asks, walking in as Killer steps aside to make room for him to pass.

His question is answered almost immediately by the sight of an empty carton of smokes on the kitchen counter to his left. Nightmare stops in place, looking over his shoulder to level his gaze at Killer. His boyfriend shrugs at him, sheepish.

“You already know it doesn’t affect me the same as humans—”

Nightmare cuts him off, turning back around. “What I protest to is you using it as a crutch.”

There’s a tired chuckle from behind him, which creases Nightmare’s brow and worries him further. Usually, Killer takes every opportunity to tease and argue with him. The fact that he’s just letting it go right now speaks volumes about his state of being.

Heart growing heavier by the moment, Nightmare walks further into the apartment and deposits his backpack on the couch before taking a good look at his surroundings.

As expected, the place is a mess—more so than usual. On a regular day, Killer and his roommates are unorganised, but not exactly filthy. Today, however, there are clothes both on the floor and over the furniture, empty cans of energy drinks on the coffee table and entertainment stand, as well as chip bags and their crumbs spilling into the carpet; utter chaos in the small space.

Nightmare bends to pick up the TV remote from where it’s fallen next to the table. At the same time, he keeps his voice as free of concern as he can.

“Normally you’d know I was coming even if you were out smoking outside.”

Running is exhausting.

That much Ink already knows, just from the sheer number of universes they have to wade through when trying to avoid Paradisum’s hold. They barely have time to breathe in between the camp-outs every late night, keeping guard, switching watches, staying on the fringes of every AU just to make sure they have access to a quick escape. He knows Nightmare has brought it up to Error before, but neither of the de facto leaders have any decent solution to the sleepless nights and the ever-increasing plague of fatigue creeping up on them.

It’s part of the reason why he’s in trouble now.

“Come back here, you bastard!” Screams the Emperor himself from behind him.

Dream doesn’t call himself that, of course, but it doesn’t stop it from being true. All of Paradisum is at his beck and call, with an outpouring of AUs to bolster his Empire behind it. He’s an idiot if he thinks he’s fooling anyone by insisting he’s anything less than someone with absolute rule.

“Gee, with a request like that, how could I ever say no?” Ink snickers, barreling through the alleyways of the current AU they’re in—some poor, shambling place that he’s already forgotten the name of.

“I’m warning you, Ink,” Dream shouts, closer now, the burn of his magic a threat at his back. “Drop your mask! Stop wearing his face!”

He grimaces at the reminder.

It had been a simple enough task—Error had asked him to infiltrate the lower ranks of Paradisum’s guard force. He was to wander around and listen in on what Dream’s plans were. He was to find out which new AU Dream would take his conquering force to and which places would be left with minimal protection in the duration. With Ink’s shapeshifting ability, it would have—should have—been a cakewalk.

Unfortunately, alongside his convenient ability, Ink also had a keen flair for the dramatics. There was no way he’d shift into some run of the mill guard, whispering to his friends about possible movements of a distant ruler. No, he wanted rank. He wanted command. He wanted something interesting.

So, naturally, he had shifted into Cross.

It had worked well enough; immediately the lower guards had flocked to him, information flowing like ale between friends. It had been almost no effort at all to pretend to be Dream’s broad-shouldered bodyguard. They’d been friends once upon a time, and even if Ink’s memory is shit there are some things even he can’t forget. So he’d made use of his recollections of Cross’ kind smile and the serious furrow of his brow. He’d learned what he needed with almost laughable simplicity. Reconnaissance done, he’d been ready to head home but—

“Cross?” He’d whirled around, heart stopping briefly in his chest at the sight of Dream standing behind him.

The other guards had respectfully bowed, backing away as Dream continued to approach, an unfamiliar hesitance to his features. One look and Dream could clear a room, that was the power he held, no matter how much he tried to deny it. 

Ink had been unable to look away. It had been so long since he’d been this close to him.

“Cross, what are you doing here?” The authority had slipped back into Dream’s voice, like he was correcting himself for the earlier softness. Still, Ink knew him well enough to see lingering anxiety in his eyes. “You were supposed to be making rounds in the mid-sector today.”

Ink had shrugged, a sweat breaking out over the back of his neck as he tried to keep in the shadows. It was one thing to fool strangers who barely knew him or the person he was pretending to be, and quite another to fool Dream. One look at Ink’s ever-changing eyes and he would know exactly who Ink really was. 

And yet, at the same time, there had been a part of him that was glad to be face-to-face with Dream again, after so long fighting at a distance. 

“Must’ve been a mix-up.”

Dream hadn’t quite looked like he believed him, the hesitance from earlier returning in the lull in conversation but, curiously, he didn’t pursue his line of questioning either. He had seemed distracted by something and Ink realised this was the best opportunity he had to make some excuse and walk away. With new resolve, he had racked his mind for a way to escape.

Dream interrupted before he could. “Is… is this about what I said last night?”

The words and their soft reluctance had grabbed him, keeping Ink rooted in place.

There was a part of him that knew, of course, that delving further into this conversation would only ensnare him further. But Ink had been curious. It wasn’t like Dream to look so regretful. Not lately anyhow, and certainly never where any one of his enemies could see.

There had been a brief moment of bitterness enshrouding Ink that Dream would lower that wall of his around Cross of all people when Ink had known him for so much longer. But times had changed. They had changed. And as he stood, speechless in front of the man he’d once called a friend, Ink had slowly lost the drive to interject at all.

Thankfully, Cross had always been the silent sort to begin with, and as the quiet between them had lengthened Dream winced and filled it with his own rush of words.

“Look, I… I was stressed. I didn’t mean what I said. I—” Ink watched, quiet, as Dream took a breath, hands clenched to fists at his side. It was obvious that whatever he’d said to Cross was weighing on him. “It was the heat of the moment, Cross and I’m… I… what I’m trying to say is that I’m…” 

It had occurred to Ink then that Dream was working himself up to give an apology.

His gut had twisted at the thought.

Ink knew how hard it was for Dream to apologise. It hadn’t used to be that way—in a time now long past, the Guardian had given his remorse freely—but that time was a distant memory. The hard-edged Dream from today had to be fought for every apology, each mistake pulled like teeth from his mouth. Ink didn’t want to hear it. After everything he and Dream had been through, after all the fighting, and the vicious words, and ugly cuts and scrapes, he refused to hear it.

He didn’t want the first apology he heard from Dream to be one he was directing at someone else.

Automatic, Ink had reached a hand out and placed it on Dream’s shoulder, stopping him. In an affectation of Cross’ deeper voice he’d said, “It’s fine, Dream. Don’t worry about it.”

And, really, that had been his biggest mistake.

Because in his exhaustion, in his tired mind, drained and fuzzy from days and nights fusing into one endless stretch of time before him—he’d left the blue scarf tied around his wrist.

Error’s scarf.

He had known the second Dream had seen it, because the expression on his face had morphed wildly. It had gone from relief and the beginnings of a grateful smile, to something far more familiar to him as of late. A moment of recognition, Dream’s gaze jumping from the scarf to his mismatched eyes, a second to parse the betrayal, and then a flare of hatred so bright it burned to look at.

“You.” Dream had snarled.

And that had been more than enough to send Ink running.

Which brings things back to now, as they continue to race through the narrow alleys of the city.

Ink is panting, having avoided half a dozen attacks from Dream already. He’s not equipped for a fight right now, barely has enough energy left in him to keep this up. His body aches and his very bones hurt, screaming at him to rest. He glances back to see how much distance he’s managed to put between himself and his former friend only to stumble his footing.

Another charge of Dream’s bright purple magic cuts the air just to his left, scarcely missing his arm.

He can’t keep going like this. Something has to give.

“Stop and face me, coward!”

Ink stops. Turns.

Dream looks startled by his sudden compliance, face twisting up in confusion. Ink grins at him, finally dropping Cross’ guise and returning to his own body. The gold of his uniform and the monochrome of his appearance melts away, renewing itself in forest browns. Ink raises his hand, the shock of blue displaying his loyalty still wrapped tight around his wrist. He waves.

As Dream’s jaw tightens with fury, Ink charges—not away, but towards him.

It takes Dream off-guard, that much is certain in the way he yelps. Arms out-stretched, Ink tackles him, wrapping himself firmly around Dream’s middle. They hit the ground in a mess of limbs, Dream immediately kicking out with his booted feet, catching Ink right in the stomach. The pain that explodes from the strike promises thorough bruising later, but Ink holds on anyways.

He doesn’t have a plan here per se, but he figures fighting Dream in close quarters is better than being shot at from afar. At least like this, he has a chance of knocking the self-righteous bastard down a few pegs. And if he’s lucky, he’ll find a good opening to escape without having to worry about being chased and attacked.

With new direction in his mind, Ink leans slightly back from his tackling position and elbows Dream, holding down a shoulder to keep him from retaliating. It’s not fast enough, because Dream uses his free hand to punch him square in the jaw. Ink’s vision rocks but he recovers quick enough to catch Dream’s second punch before it lands, coming in with one of his own and relishing the pained grunt Dream gives in response to it.

“You dirty little rat,” Dream growls, anger burning bright in the glow of his eyes. The earlier punch split his lip, and Ink finds his eyes drawn to the red welling up there before he manages to flick his gaze back up.

He does so just in time to see Dream reach out with both hands towards his face. He has a sudden vision of Dream thumbs gouging out his eyes, a second-hand fear borne out of every panic-attack he’s witnessed out of Error. He jerks back in self-preservation, which gives Dream just enough room to turn the tide, using the space to sit up again and wrap his hands around Ink’s neck.

“Fuck,” he gasps as Dream knocks him down, struggling to breathe as the shorter man squeezes his throat. His hands come up to grab at Dream’s and he digs his nails into the soft leather of his gloves. It’s not enough to make the asshole let go and Ink rocks from side-to-side, trying to dislodge him while spitting breathless obscenities. Irritated, Dream uses one of his hands to cup Ink’s mouth shut and that’s where Ink sees his chance.

He’s always been a little feral, and he proves it by shaking his head quick and shifting Dream’s hand enough that he can bite into it. His teeth dig through the leather and Ink is viscerally pleased by the way Dream howls in pain.

It almost works to free him too, Dream tipping over to the side and losing balance. But as soon as his hands retreat and Ink drinks in a desperate breath of air, Dream barrels right back into him, flipping him over onto his stomach. Ink tries to push himself back up, but the disorientation from being flipped and the haziness from being oxygen deprived makes him slow. Dream gets on top of him, pinning him to the ground.

The adrenaline is what’s kept him going, but even Ink knows that Dream has the advantage here. He’s tired, aching, and all the last of his energy has been all but used up. It’s useless to keep fighting.

“Bien, minou, bien!” Ink shouts, “I’m done.”

Dream twists his arm behind his back and shoves his head against the concrete, hard. “Don’t call me that.”

“You can hardly blame me,” Ink chuckles, drained, trying to wish away the ache in his worn-out muscles and the burn in his lungs. “You’re so tiny and yowly. What’s that expression? ‘Kitty’s got claws?’ It’s perfect for you, ma puce.”

“Comment dit-on ‘get fucked’ en français?”

Ink laughs, “Your accent is improving.”

Dream responds by digging a knee into his spine, pressing him harder into the floor. The hand on his head keeps him pinned there uncomfortably.  Ink struggles, wincing at the feeling and Dream doubles down, straddling him from behind and, in doing so, subtly dragging his face down the coarse surface of the alley floor. The texture breaks the soft of his skin, leaving pinpricks of pain in its wake.

All the worst of rug burn without any of the fun.

“Shit,” Ink groans, “Okay, okay. You’ve made your point, stop.”

“What are you doing here, Ink?” Dream demands, making no move to get off of him. The position keeps his ribs pressed in, making it difficult to breathe and thus to talk. He manages to gather himself enough to bite out short answers.

“Reconnaissance.”

“Who else is here? Did you bring Error with you? Did you bring Night—” Dream pauses, like he’s searching for something. “No, I would’ve felt him if he was nearby.”

“It’s just me,” he says, really starting to feel exhausted now that the rush from battle is dwindling down.

There’s another moment of quiet, or maybe the weariness finally makes Ink black out for a bit, he’s not sure. But when Dream shifts and resettles on top of him, Ink’s more than aware of the way he leans in close. Dream’s head drops down into the space of his shoulder and neck, breath cool against the side of his face.

Step one, allow Sans to continue on pretending that everything is okay.

Step two, conveniently check-in on him while he’s at his post. Bringing snacks is optional, but advised. (Sans always lit up whenever he brought something particularly unhealthy, the fiend.)

Step three, very casually and not-at-all suspiciously suggest cutting the work day short and heading back home together. Insist that it’s not for any reason in particular and mostly because you’ve secured the area far faster and far more thoroughly that Sans could’ve done it in the first place because you are just that Terrific.

(Step three-point-five, try not to preen too much at how easily Sans agrees and relaxes, trusting you completely.)

Step four, take Sans back home.

Which leads him back to the situation at hand---Sans is fast asleep, head resting in his lap and feet dangling off the end of the couch. Reprehensible behaviour, really. They’d been in the middle of an exceptional new movie! ...he assumed. Papyrus couldn’t remember the details of it exactly, but only because he’d been too busy watching Sans sigh and untense, slumped against him as he drowsily watched. The small breathy laughter and hums of enjoyment had made his soul squeeze with fondness.

So, maybe he’ll need to watch the movie again at some point to give it a proper review, but that’s okay. It was important for a good caretaker to consider their patient first, after all. For now, he keeps one arm curled protectively over Sans’ side where he’s snuggling into Papyrus’s chest, and the other brushing soothingly over the top of his skull.

Papyrus wasn’t a fan of distance following an intense scene, so Sans made sure to keep essentials handy nearby, set up prior to doing anything intimate. A container of warm water and plenty of washcloths; a variety of snacks and drinks; a set of fresh clean clothes; a book. So as Papyrus lay back, coming down from the end of his latest test of endurance, Sans got to work.

His brother didn’t like feeling sticky and dirty so Sans wiped him down with the washcloths and the warm water, whispering praises and endearments like he only ever did in these situations, the only time they were ever vulnerable enough to allow this to pass. Papyrus breathed softly through it, sockets still closed and body too worn to move. Once clean, Sans redressed his brother, helping him into a pair of soft, worn-in pyjamas and giving him space to do it himself when he tried to do up the buttons on his shirt.

After that, he gave Papyrus a glass of water, placing other drinks---boxed and fruity like his brother enjoyed but dared never admit---nearby in case Papyrus was in the mood for something else. But his brother didn’t glance their way, instead draining the glass quickly. Sans eased it out of his hands and pressed a granola bar into it, pressing a kiss to his cheekbone as he reminded him to take it easy as he ate it. Papyrus nodded at him, humming something he wasn’t quite steady enough to voice.

As he continued to slowly chew at the bar in his hand, Sans retrieved the book from under the bed and sat with his back up against the headboard. Almost automatically, Papyrus curled up against him, resting his head on Sans’ shoulder. Sans pulled the covers up over them, soul warm and content.

Papyrus looked down at the book as Sans cracked it open. “Do the voices too.”