#utmv fic

It felt stuck to the inside of its skull. Standing was more manual than it should’ve been, even two weeks into the host like it was. The weight of its body felt like too much for its brittle joints.

“So flipping annoying", it growled to itself. And boring, to add to that.

There wasn’t much it could do to entertain itself without putting itself in danger– its lack of its usual quickness leaving it vulnerable to all of its usual favorite targets. There was one Fresh knew wouldn’t risk chasing it off permanently though.

It landed in an undignified heap, the neon fog it created with its teleportation desaturated and nearly grey. The tone matched the AU’s sky and dead vegetation.

Quickly getting to its feet, Fresh made sure nobody was close by. The imposing silhouette of Nightmare’s castle loomed, blotching out half the sky. It wasn’t as close as it wanted to teleport. Hissing to itself, it began trudging closer. The lack of spatial awareness was as annoying as it was disquieting.

Empty eyes greeted it by the entrance, but they scuttled off quickly. It was almost disappointing, but that monster always proved to be unreactive and boring to play with. Messing with it wasn’t a past time anybody but the castle’s owner were allowed to partake in anyway. Possessive bastard.

“Helllooo!” It called out as it entered, sauntering in. The sound was dampened by all the drapery inside. It knew they could tell it was here anyway. It called out again.

He wasn’t coming out to greet it, though, and it was too annoyed to walk itself into his jaws. The day was already bad, it didn’t want to pander to that egotistical prick too.

Maybe it could raid their snack cupboard, get itself a treat down in the dungeon. A new host wouldn't really make it feel better, and the thought of breaking them in made it feel nauseous, but most things did in the moment, so it beelined towards the basement entrance. It wouldn’t hurt, anyway. 

Fresh wanted a pick-me-up, and if he wasn’t planning on being it, it would have to make do with something else. 

The place was cold and dreary, the chill permeating even to its true soft body. Curse that guardian and his devotion to that horrid aesthetic of his. It could imagine so many more interesting places to keep prisoners than a damp stone basement. 

The steps were uneven, and it had to brace itself on the wall as it meandered downwards. The darkness didn't help matters, the stairwell steeped in shadow. It would give Nightmare points for sticking to the vision, if nothing else. Someone called out from below as it neared the bottom, really adding to the dungeon vibe.

“Hello? Is someone there?”

It perked up as it answered, putting on a cheerful affect, “Yup! Though hearing a voice coming from the dungeon is pretty spine-chilling!”

Silence. 

“Tough crowd, tough crowd.” Thought skeletons enjoyed funny little puns.

“Sorry.” Eventually they answered again, a bit more subdued. “That just… reminded me of my brother.”

Ohhh, it was one of those. An absolute score in its books. It swiped the keyring holding all the cell keys and turned down the hall it could hear the other’s voice echoing from, eventually coming face to face with him.

“Yo,” it said, grinning down at the skeleton. He'd hopped up to face it, but still stood a full two feet shorter.

“Hello!” He said again, an almost reserved smile on their face. A bit of reluctance it usually didn't see on a swap. The skeleton had probably been down here for a while. “My name is Sans! I'd say it's very good to meet you, but my situation is… not the best.”

Fresh snickered, the wrung out optimism was amusing. It wondered if this guy would even be able to fit in his universe anymore, if it let him out. Diverged from his cookie cutter, ultra palatable start. Not as cute. A stuffed animal covered in mud.

It couldn't imagine him being missed for long. It couldn't imagine him not being replaced.

Leaning in, it settled a clawed hand on the bars, taking a break from holding itself up, “The name's Fresh, pal. It's nice to meet’cha.”

The smile brightened. An expression like that wouldn't fit in the dungeon if it wasn't for the bags still obviously under his eyes. “Fresh, that’s a good name.” A pause, “Are you with the… the monsters who own this dungeon? I do not think they are very kind. I would really appreciate some help leaving.”

“Well I wouldn't describe myself as ‘with them’. Bet they'd be pissed if I took you out.” It pouted and drooped, hoping its genuinely tired state would add to the act.

Sans waved his hands, as if trying to keep its attention, “It's okay! I could protect you.” He patted his bicep, “I’m actually training to be part of the royal guard. If I’m not surprised, I could definitely put up a fight!”

It dramatically swooned, but moved its hand further up when the other tried to hold it through the bars. Yuck!

“I'll take that in mind, my knight.” Fresh couldn't hide the amusement in its voice as it fingered through the key ring for the proper one for the cell. The other was pushing out of the cell as soon as he was able, practically falling as he shoved their weight against the door. 

“Okay, Mr. Royal Guard, lead the way!”

Sans smiled, bashful and tired, “I'm not a royal guard yet. I'm sure they'll consider it once I get back though–escaping an evil castle, how many monsters can say they’ve done that?” He did some exaggerated motions as he went on, hands gesturing widely. 

It felt oddly like looking in a mirror, and it realized the other was trying to calm it down. That would be cute if it wasn't so annoying to be looked down upon like that– it was the one outside the cage. Fresh just smiled and motioned him forward.

As he made his way down the hall, he made sure to look back at Fresh every few steps. There was a certain keenness to his eye lights that made it hard for Fresh to keep its hackles down. “I was a bit worried– well, it doesn't matter. Thank you again, you’re being very brave for this, you know.”

It grinned, baring its teeth, and the words would've come out strained if it were a lesser person, “Aww thanks bud.” No response, more of that horrible stare. It did a cute pose, jazz hands, “Take a picture if you like my swag so much, bro! Don’t know if now's the time to check out my style though.”

“Right, right, we really should get moving.” Sans said, picking up the pace down the hall, forcing it to stagger after him.

Stupid cobbled dungeon floor, uneven and not at all helping its uncooperating balance. It should’ve removed the wheels in its shoes before this, the plastic catching on the stone as it tried to keep itself steady. As if to further show how obvious its weakness was, the other slowed his pace almost as soon as it failed to match it. Terrific. It felt like gagging.

“Sorry,” his droopy sympathetic eyes were worse than that knowing look, and it wanted to get this over with even more than it did earlier. 

As soon as they were out of this dungeon, it could teleport the two of them into some isolated AU and start its meal without risk of Nightmare showing up. It just needed to get this over with quickly, just needed to stop slowing down.

“Just ignore me,” the words were nearly growled, and it made sure to smile widely to hide its annoyance, “We just gotta get out of here, yeah?”

The other nodded, as if agreeing, but still started walking beside it instead of front, arm poised to grab it if it fell, “It's okay if you need help, Fresh! You’re already doing quite a lot right now.”

It panted, struggling to keep the emotions tamped down. It wanted to sink its claws into him early, wanted to rip his throat out for the suggestion that it would need him to do anything but cooperate. “I’m fine.”

Sans clearly didn’t believe it. He moved closer, hand outstretched to steady it. 

It reminded itself it was to play the role of damsel, and he the role of weary hero. Fresh needed to calm down. The emotions were like water cupped between its hands– no matter how hard it tried, it slipped between the cracks. Doomed from the start.

It took a step back, too much weight on its heel making the wheel slip out from under it. 

The next moment felt like it was in slow motion; as soon as it started truly falling, he rushed forward to catch it. His short stature compared to it did nothing to stop him from grabbing it, holding its weight up by himself like it was only a sack of flour.

 Its instincts screamed that it was being held by something stronger than it, able to snap its spine if he only moved his hands a little further back.

It wasn’t fear that it felt though. Hot and rushing through its body like fire, anger. Vitriolic and like poison. The world had gone completely silent, it could see him trying to say something to it, calm it down, like it was nothing but a startled animal. It couldn’t hear him.

It couldn't move, paralysed by the intensity of the feeling.

It just wanted to eat. It just wanted to leave this stupid dungeon. It just wanted to stop feeling sick. It just wanted this all stop, be over with so it could go back to sleep, it just wanted–

“Now, what’s going on here?” 

Nightmare.

Sans pushed it to the wall, bracing its back to the cold stone as he stood in front of it. “G-get back!”

“So hostile,” Their smile stretched across their whole face, “is it so horrible I wish to know what’s going on in my own basement?”

“That’s– well that makes sense but,” he floundered, searching for words. “I would really appreciate it if you stayed a few feet back.”

Nightmare placed his hand to his cheek, “So very demanding.”

“I’m sorry, I really would like to give you the benefit of the doubt but–” he glanced back at it. It didn’t meet his gaze though. 

Nightmare was seeing this, Nightmare was seeing– Its eyes met theirs instead. Crescent, amused. Sans didn’t seem to notice this small exchange, or maybe he just thought its raised shoulders were fear. It certainly was acting pathetic enough to warrant that.

“--I really can’t do that right now.” he finished, conviction steadying his voice to something firm. This was so embarrassing. 

“You’ve really put yourself in a pickle, pet.” Nightmare disregarded him, completely focusing his attention on Fresh. “Are you mad at me?”

It was.

Sans tried to get between them more, but it was too tall for his silhouette to block from Nightmare’s sight. It was a polite try, at the very least.

“I can give you that, if you want an apology.” He gestured vaguely, but it knew what he meant. 

Fresh looked away, palms braced against the wall to keep itself up. It didn’t really know if it’d be able to actually take the other over at this point, if given the chance. Wouldn’t that just be the cherry on top of all its incompetence? Unable to even butcher its meal.

Sans said another heroic protest against what he most definitely assumed was Nightmare harassing it, but the guardian made a good impression of not hearing him. “That’s no good?” He tilted his head like a curious cat, it a puzzle he wanted to claw treats out of. “I assume you are hungry, otherwise you wouldn’t be trying to nick this fellow…”

And that smile was back, content with whatever conclusion he had drawn, “How about a meal, together. I’ve always wanted to be more involved in… what makes you unique.”

It didn’t answer right away, and they stalked forwards. Sans widened his stance, hand held out in a ‘stop’ sign. “Could you stop ignoring me? I see you have a history with Fresh but that doesn’t give you a right to talk to them.” 

They took another step forward. Sans tensed, ready to start a fight.

It shoved him in the back.

Nightmare used his momentary unbalance to grab him, their tentacles striking at the weakness and restraining him easily. Gagged and rendered imobile.

“Was that a yes, my dear?” he cooed with a smarmy smile, “Oh how exciting.”

“What do you even mean, involved?”

He shifted his cargo, the struggling monster kicking at air silently as Nightmare made his way to Fresh’s side, “Whatever you want it to mean, darling.” 

He offered his hand, and after a moment’s hesitation, it took it. He seeped between its bones.

“I could always just watch, but that would be so boring, and so overdone…” Nightmare glanced up at it, catching its eye, “I’m more looking forward to, let’s say, helping out.”

He started to lead it onward, the two of them making their way to the stairs, Nightmare using his unoccupied tentacles to grab things off the dungeon walls as they went. It barely paid attention to it all. Chains and other restraints– probably things to make sure its prey couldn't run away. Distrust in its ability to restrain them.

It scowled, “Do you think I can’t eat by myself?” It ignored the fact it could barely walk up the stairs without leaning on them.

“Not at all, darling,” he gave it a closed eye smile, “I’m just saying I would enjoy that. And wouldn’t it be a nice apology? You won’t have to do anything at all, just let me do all the work, easy as breathing. You could even direct me– wouldn’t that be a nice role reversal? Ordering me around while you lounge.”

“Stop trying to act all sweet, it doesn't suit you.” It faked a gag.

They made it to where Nightmare had been leading them, the dining room, and Fresh regarded the large open space with distaste. Nightmare laughed at its expression. Usually, it was fed in the bedroom, so it could lounge around and nap after eating. It seemed Nightmare wanted to make this more of an event.

“Right here, darling,” Nightmare cooed as he seated it at the head of the table, where he usually sat. It relaxed into the plush of the cushions despite itself.

He swept everything actually on the table to the other end. Seeing it watching him, he shot it a satisfied smile and made quick work of restraining the struggling skeleton as well.

Sans took big gasping breaths after Nightmare’s tentacles left him, the chains restraining enough. It was a wheezy wet sound, almost gagging. That probably wouldn't get the rotten apple taste out of his mouth, Fresh knew from experience.

From where he lay, his head near where Fresh sat, he couldn't see it looming over him easily. He could see Nightmare though, and tracked the guardians movements with his head.

“What are you doing?” He asked, struggling against the chains. On any good day, it knew the other would be able to pull until the wooden table legs the chains were attached to snapped. The amount of time he'd spent in confinement wasn't doing him any favours though.

Fresh wrinkled its nose bridge with distaste at the rattling sounds– the metal sound ringing in its already aching head.

Nightmare laughed at the question, nearly shaking with amusement. “I'm being kind and considerate to my dear friend. Isn't that what your sort are always advocating for?”

He stalked closer, until he could hold the other’s skull, tilting it around. The guardian met Fresh’s eyes as he did, and it knew they were showing the body off to it. Useless, Fresh already saw all it needed to know. 

The skeleton spluttered at the touch, frozen stiff for a moment by it, “My-? What? Well you can't just harm someone and say it's fine because you're doing it for someone else.” 

“So picky. Can’t even appreciate the effort,” he sighs, “I need to get a few more... specialty supplies. Fresh, my dear, could I leave you for a moment?” 

“Just get on with it,” It grumbled, slouching in the chair as Nightmare left. There was only Sans and it in the room now. A few moments after Nightmare left, the skeleton seemed keen to use this to his advantage. “Fresh?”

It ignored him, pressing its face to the upholstery of the chair to block out any light. The room was already kept dim, but the darkness was still more welcome.

“Are you…” A few moments of silence, it could hear him squirming on the table. Was he trying to look at it? “You’re not really with him, right?”

“You don’t know me, pal.” It grumbled, voice muffled. “I know that you showed me a moment of kindness. I know that you have the potential to do the right thing.” His voice got stronger as he continued. 

It turned just far enough to see his eyes looking up at it, and kicked him in the back of the head. The wheels of its shoes made a satisfying crack against his skull. “Can it.” It snarled. 

He was silent except for measured breathing, and it wished he would just cry instead. Lash out already. Call it a monster. Do anything. 

“I’m sorry.” The skeleton finally got out, “You- you, must be really going through something terrible right now.”

Fresh wanted to scream. 

It was contemplating if another kick to his skull would cave it in when Nightmare got back, voice whiny as it asked why he took so long to return. “He’s been so annoying,” It pouted.

The guardian dumped his supplies on the table before making his way to Fresh’s side. “Oh, I’m sorry, dear,” He cooed, reaching a hand out to hold its cheek. It leaned in, his chill welcome. “He won’t be talking much longer, don’t worry.”

Their tentacles shifted behind them, and it sat up to watch. The only thing it could see was the restrained skeleton struggling, letting out a choked “stop–” before Nightmare moved so Sans was no longer in its sight. 

Eyes on him. It huffed, but obliged, leaning back into his palm, blinking expectantly.

Nightmare brought up his other hand, so both were settled on its face. It scrunched up its nose and leaned back when he drifted one closer to its eyesocket– he laughed, but didn’t go any further than cupping its chin. He was cold, an icy balm to its achy bones. 

“What’s your plan, anyway?” It asked as he petted its face. 

“Well, I suppose that’s up to you, my dear.” He replied, trailing one hand down its jaw and around the back of its neck. 

It whined, closing its eyes and pressing further into his hold, “Man I am done thinking today. You said this’d be easier for me.”

He laughed; it could feel it through his hands, and hear a muffled noise behind him. The guardian leaned forward until he could press a kiss right under its eye. They stepped back with a flourish, presenting what they’d done with the skeleton behind them as if it was a nine course meal. 

Sans had been gagged, this time with an actual implement instead of one of Nightmare’s appendages–the taste probably wasn’t any better though. He’d also been blindfolded, but it could still tell how stressed he was from the rest of his expression.

It clapped dryly at the display, a wry smile on its face. Nightmare bowed, making it snort. 

They held a finger to their mouth, shushing any further noise, and began moving their tentacles around the table. The appendages slithered around the bound skeleton, brushing against his clothes but not touching him yet.

It was surely felt though; he flinched in his bounds, and let out a muffled noise, the gag not letting any words out. 

Nightmare sent it another smirk, and it kept a keen gaze as the points of his tentacles wormed around and then between Sans’ joints. The skeleton jolted at the first touch. It knew most other monsters found the guardians’ cold slimy exterior uncomfortable.

The tapered ends easily pressed in, but the further the appendage went the more resistance was no doubt felt. Slower and slower as the seconds tickled by, extra slime weeping between the cracks. 

There was no one moment the bound monster reacted, but it could see him breathing more heavily as the seconds ticked by. At that point it could see appendages pushing through, like shoots of bamboo. He let out a shaky gasp, breaths soft and short. Tremors shook him, but he kept purposefully still.

Fresh looped a hand around his bandanna and gave a sharp tug, jarring him harshly. The tentacles barely followed the motion, and it could feel the resistance, the tugging at the bound skeleton’s joints.

He didn’t react much past a tightening of his face and another huffing sound. It wondered what it could do to make him cry.

Nightmare tsked at it, "Impatient, are you?” 

“Only because you’re taking forever,” it pouted. 

He stalked closer, crossing the small amount of distance he’d put between them in two strides, grabbing its hand in his. It tugged it back, but not before enjoying the touch for a moment. 

“You never want to take things slow,” Nightmare complains. It rolled its eyes; the other was clearly feeling the same thing, his tentacles waving and jerking with the bits of slack they had between his back and the bound skeleton. 

He reached back for its face, and this time it made no move to stop him from tracing a finger around its eyesocket, the one that housed its true body. “Do you want to get to the main course then?”

“Don’t know if that thing,” it pointed towards Sans, who was breathing loudly now, sweat beading on his skull, “Is quite ready yet. He seems like a struggler, and you said I wouldn’t have to put in any effort.”

“You won’t,” they assure it, “You won’t need to take control just yet… just sit there and look pretty.”

“Flatterer.”

“You like that about me,” he laughed, plunging his hand into the cavity of its skull. He didn’t scoop it out, instead putting pressure outwards until the fragile bone started to crack. 

It let go of the host’s Soul, and without Fresh holding it together, Nightmare’s action did too much damage for the body to recover. Sitting in Nightmare’s palm without a host, its tentacles coiled closer. It watched from there as Nightmare dusted off their chair– they'd probably order one of their little pets to clean up more later. 

The guardian curled his fingers until he was clutching the main part of its soft body. The pressure was pleasant, but it didn’t want to be in the open. He seemed to get the message, setting it on Sans’ face. 

He jolted violently, making another noise beneath the gag. It slipped a tendril underneath the blindfold and slowly slipped the rest of its body in afterwards. The body jerked and shook underneath it, the head waving wildly from side to side as if to dislodge it. It held tight, pressed to the walls of the skull.

Abruptly, the shaking stopped, and the body let out a pained grunt. 

Everything was still, and warm, and dark. Fresh sent out more feelers as it settled into its new perch.

And then light started spilling in, Nightmare removing the blindfold with one hand and looking at it with that knowing smirk, his other arm positioned to hold the body down by the neck. It squinted at him, unable to word its displeasure but confident he could feel it.

Nightmare leaned down to that socket and made as if to kiss it. It squirmed in the cavity, amused by the way the body had jolted and grunted, no doubt able to see Nightmare out of the other eyesocket. 

The guardian giggled as he leaned back out. With an almost careless motion, they ripped all his tentacles out from between the body’s joints. The body shook and panted around it, falling mostly limp. A tenseness missing now with Nightmare no longer exerting as much pressure. It knew there was more to come though.

Nightmare made good on that implicit understanding, moving to unchain the body. Their tentacles wrapped around every limb they removed the chains from, until it was only them keeping him in bondage.

He lifted the body into the air, admiring his work, and it looked down on him from its eyesocket. He smiled up at it, and settled where Fresh had been seated beforehand: the head of the table. 

Gently, the most they had been since they ferried it from its old dusted corpse to its new body, they set him into their lap. Tentacles wound tighter and farther, taking advantage of how close the two of them now were to slide between bones and around arms and legs. 

The body shifted as Nightmare arranged it to his liking. The torso arched forward, and the arms and legs held behind them; it could feel the jarring motion of Nightmare tugging him into place. 

His grinning face was all it saw out from the eyesocket, content with what he had wrought. It curled up, making itself comfortable as Nightmare pulled the body further into extremes with his tentacles. 

Once he was satisfied, he pressed his cheek to the body’s, inches away from Fresh. It roiled in place, before squirming closer to him. Eye to eye, he smiled, a cyan crescent moon. “Are you enjoying yourself, dear?” he asked.

After a moment's consideration, it bobbed up and down. The motion startled a laugh out of the guardian, shaking the body with the motion and tugging out another wheezy breath from him.

“This is taking longer than I thought it would,” He continued, slowly twisting the already strained bones. “I know you’ve been so excited to start your meal.”

There was very little it could see from its place inside the body’s eyesocket, but it could feel him slowly being shifted around by Nightmare. Grinding bones vibrated up through the body to where Fresh could feel them– It shifted angrily, flashing a warning blue when it heard something snap. 

Nightmare seemed to find this much more amusing than it, smiling widely at its antics. “Don’t be so anxious, dear. That was just a finger.” He poked it with his own when he said that. There was still a discomfort to letting him touch its soft body, but his surface was soft and smooth, and it allowed him his moment. 

It’d be fine as long as he didn’t damage the body too much, it reminded itself.

“You are more pampered than any pet in the world,” Nightmare said, petting around its eye. “And you probably don’t even realise it.”

It gave him a look. It very much knew the situation it was in, at all times. He was the one who didn’t know he was pampered. The guardian couldn’t know what it was thinking though–even he wasn’t that powerful– so he took its non-answer as agreement.

The two sat like that, quietly enjoying each other’s presence. Anytime Nightmare got bored, he’d entertain himself with the body. Fresh slowly dozed off, knowing there wouldn’t be any power struggles if it let its guard down. 

Eventually, it jolted back awake, the first thing it processed being the sound of the guardian's laughter. He gave it another smile, stretched so wide it reached his eyes. It knew he blew on it to wake it up. Annoying freak.

“I think it's about time for you to have your taste, darling.” Nightmare cooed, “He’s been so delicious so far.”

It wasn’t like the two of them ate the same part, it couldn’t say. Why would it care if the body’s misery was enjoyable? It spread out anyway, tendrils digging into the skull and splitting into tinier growths, permeating the bones it could reach like mycelium.

Fresh was much slower than he usually was– on a good day he could do this in seconds– but there wasn’t any rush. The body wasn’t getting away no matter how long it took. It got through the ribcage easily enough, spreading from there to the shoulderblades, arms, pelvis, legs. It carefully avoided the Soul. The best for last, as they say.

Eventually there was nothing else left, but as it reached for it, the body jolted once more. Lashing out randomly, in a last ditch effort to get away from the sensation. Nightmare put a stop to most of the convulsions by tightening his tentacles, but the scowl on his face made it obvious he wasn’t very pleased.

It wasn’t either. 

“Don’t worry,” he sighed, ripping open the body’s shirt with a clawed hand, exposing the ribcage and, more importantly, the Soul, “I’ll handle him.”

Carefully shying back, it let him reach into the body’s ribcage without touching any of its tendrils. His hand enveloped the thing easily, the glow dimming to near nothing through the negativity that encased Nightmare. 

The body shook more violently, Fresh letting go of any small amount of control it’d gotten and leaving containing the struggling thing up to Nightmare. They barely seemed to notice, their attention laser focused on the Soul in their hand.

They squeezed. The body thrashed, knowing that he was nearing his end, that he'd be dead if this continued. Each movement was uncoordinated and stilted, unable to move out of the stress position Nightmare had forced him into.

They squeezed. Whistling breaths came from the body’s nose, each kick and struggle weaker than the last. 

They squeezed. The body went still.

“Viola,” Nightmare grinned, splaying his hand out at the now limp body. It looked like jazz hands, but it knew he’d give it an offended look if it said that.

Hesitantly, it reached back out to the Soul. It was half worried he’d crushed it too much and there wouldn’t be anything left for it. It’d be in character for someone like Nightmare, afterall. The damage was only superficial though, and with a little coaxing, it got the Soul under its control, safely tucked in the eyesocket with its true body.

“Done?” He prodded.

It grunted, not up to figuring out how to talk again yet. 

He didn’t force it, just keeping that stupid smile on his face and learning back into the chair. 

His tentacles remained wound tight around its body, but manhandled it into something much more comfortable. Its face was tucked against his chest, its legs cushioned by the seats upholstery, him wrapped securely around its arms and chest. He peeled off the body’s gloves and boots as he did that, leaving it only in the ruined shirt and shorts.

The pressure was comforting, and it was too sated to want to get up anyway– maybe it could shapeshift itself a look that matched its sensibilities after a nap. Nightmare seemed to share its sentiment, content to just sit there with it on his lap. He nuzzled its face with his own. The man acted so similar to a haughty cat, it mused to itself.

“We should do this more often.” 

“please just eat,” Ink groaned, staring at the little blob splayed out on the couch. “it’s lunchtime, that means you stand up and pick out what you want, yeah?”

When this garnered only a reluctant slosh, the artist resorted to more desperate measures. “paperjam, you can have three oil pastels if you go over to the table.” That more than doubled the toddler’s half-melted ‘stash’ under their pillow, didn’t it? It seemed to be a decent offer. The kid only turned their head halfway to see Ink, a small puddle of magic waste ‘snot’, soaking into the old couch’s fabric, now all too clear.

“go get it for me,” they demanded, cheeks squished against the cushions.

“wha— go get what, your lunch?? why?? you love picking out your own lunch, and— and say ‘please’! i’m supposed to teach you to do that.” Ink frowned, noting the runny nose, and proceeded in scooping them up by the armpits. “are you feeling okay? you’re a little warm, i think.”

“i’m sleepy please.”

“okay, well, you can sleep after—“ Wait, please?? Ink stared down at the tiny two-year-old in his arms. Although Error’s appearance hadn’t passed onto PJ, his genes sure made up for it in personality. ‘Please’ was a rare word in the house unless used in the glitch’s semi-satirical pleas for just one more episode before going to bed, and Paperjam had only ever used it genuinely… well, today. 

Ink stared at those tiny misshapen hands grasping at his, met little eyes watching his every move. “you’re sick, aren’t you.”

———————————————————————————

Error had been stuck in yet another Omega Timeline approval processing meeting, grimacing as magic suppression technology was proposed, or just full-on sedation. Ink’s plan to move into the massive universe was shaky at best, especially considering that Error and the Council had equally murderous opinions of each other. Opinions never to be shared, of course, lest they deem him ‘mentally unstable’ again and send him back through the psychiatry process. Creators, it was exhausting. 

He sat on his left hand to keep it from twitching as a glitch jabbed through it, giggling as an instinctive reaction to the slight pain. Why was that his default? He had no idea. The workers here sure didn’t like it when he laughed at random intervals. His glitching hand erupted as the phone in the pocket it was pressed against buzzed. And buzzed. A full minute went by before he could even move to get it, or explain himself to the others at the mini trial— not that it mattered. A conversation on the effects of long-term sedation was quickly cut by an accidental tap of the ‘accept call’ option, Ink’s voice and some random sizzling sound pouring into the room. “hiii, glitchy! jeez, thought you’d never pick up. so—“

Face burning in embarrassment, the glitch stuttered out some kind of excuse before tripping out the door. Sinking down against a waiting-room wall, startling some poor Undyne (probably also going through the criminal version of acceptance into the OT), and turning his volume back up, it seemed all Ink had been doing for the past few moments was laughing. “did you really panic that badly because a few officials heard me call you ‘glitchy’??”

Error sputtered out the intro to a hopefully witty comeback, but Ink bulldozed right over it. “so anyway, PJ’s sick. probably really sick. they’ve got a bad fever, are generally kinda floppy, and… really, really sweet.” 

Icy fingers began to creep around whatever remained of Error’s soul. “s-so i assume i should-uld h-help you pack for the-the hospital?”

He said it almost lightheartedly, as if every one of these calls didn’t shatter him completely for the next week at minimum. He never thought such a tiny thing would take up such a residence in his life, especially after rejecting it for an entire week after its creation… but he loved Paperjam. More than anything, really. It was like their mere existence sent echoes from something else— something older, maybe something stronger— but that absently familiar feeling was always the result. He’d sacrifice the multiverse if it meant he got to keep them.

It only added insult to injury that the only hospital advanced enough to care for a skellinkton was located in the Omega Timeline— the one place he couldn’t go. He had already waited six agonizing months to meet them after they were created because of the intensive care they needed, and even now, they were taken away once every two months or so. This would just be… another scare. Another bag packed and another wave goodbye, another night asleep against the front door in wait. 

“‘ru, hey, you still with me?”

Error sat up against the gaudy wallpaper of the waiting room walls, his free hand clenched around an exhausting amount of string he hadn’t even realized he was pulling out. “y-yeah, uh, i- i’ll ask the-em to send m-me ba-back. y-you should t-take their blanket th-this time. you s-said they were cold when y-you went back in—“

“no, error, i said the doctors think they’re okay to stay home this time.” The tone alone released half the tension in Error’s shoulders, an audible squeak-like sound escaping him. Ink’s voice always lisped slightly when he smiled, so you could hear it even over the phone— those little fangs poked just over the rest of his teeth and made him sound a bit like an overexcited second grader. 

“okay to stay home,” Error repeated almost numbly. “…so they don’t have to go away again?”

Ink gave a little ‘mm-hmm!’ and the background sizzling sound exploded into more of a roar. “oh jeez, okay, um, i left the stove on and forgot about it, there’s an egg on fire, come home though okay because they’re gonna stay this time and— ACK—“

The call ended in three worryingly open-ended beeps.

—————————————————————

“that was fast!” Ink grinned, popping his head through the doorway to the kitchen. The squeaky old wooden door was like its own warning system— the whole house knew whenever it was opened. As the artist scrubbed away at a blackened ceramic pot, frowning whenever the sponge had no effect as if it was a personal insult, the couch squeaked slightly. Ink smiled as he watched his partner squint, blurry eyes struggling to identify the source of the sound, before sock-padded footsteps echoed down the hallway. 

Ink wished he had a camera. Error’s squinted eyes went wide, a grin splitting his face to an almost creepy degree. The second the two-year-old saw him in the door, they perked up and their shuffle turned into a toddling trot. “first time they actually walked today,” Ink remarked, a smirk tugging at his cheeks. “every time they wanna go anywhere, they whine at me to pick them up.”

“i say please, ok, papa.” Paperjam insisted, hands wobbling around to grab their fathers’. Ink laid down on the floor to let them come over at their own height, but the act alone seemed to inspire them to do the same. Melting into a little puddle, they made a sort of gurgling whine for their blankie.

Error hurried off to go grab it— it was almost funny how quickly he would cater to PJ’s every need, Ink had to remark over the next few hours. The toddler quickly leaned into it and acted like a spoiled little brat, but both parents agreed it was (probably) fine if they were sick. Sitting, body half-formed, in a little tub on the couch, all they had to do was point to something and their glitching father would hand it to them almost instantly— Ink was sure the little one must have permanently damaged something in eating all that junk ‘food’. 

After a hastily thrown together dinner of popcorn, frozen pizza pockets, and a leaf from the yard to feel fancy, Ink dove onto the couch, his body instantly relaxing. The world slowly faded to black, the peace of whatever dreamless state he slipped into instead of sleep… quickly interrupted by a soft, but somewhat crushing, weight on top of him. Forcing his airway back open, he managed a snicker and slipped one arm around his partner’s neck. His living weighted blanket clung to his hand a little harder, and the world seemed quieter than it had all day. 

Killer was not not a voyeur. It wasn’t important to think about and he didn’t tend to stick to labels so there was no use in pondering it. However, recently there had been some going-ons which had brought the topic to the forefront of his mind.

More specifically the problem was Horror and Dust. Killer had never put much thought into their weapons (not more than necessary at least) rendering it as unimportant and a stagnant factor of their characters, not something they typically switched up.

That was until one day he spotted Dust with a knife in his hand. And as if that wasn’t enough, it was one of Killer’s. It glimmered in the light, well taken care of with meaningless carvings in its handle that proved it was one of his. And yet, Dust’s reflection was in its blade, his red eye lights casting lines of light that could challenge the brightness of the sun.

And his fingers. The joints of them held the knife in a tight grip, bones pointed but not quite as abruptly as Horror’s tended to be. They were the difference between sharpened and chipped, though both dangerous in their own right.

Horror handled a knife with more diligence, not lazily and uncaring like Dust did. Probably because he didn’t want to stab himself by accident. That was quite disappointing. Seeing Horror stab himself was the greatest thing Killer could imagine experiencing.

The little knicks Dust got were good enough though. He usually didn’t even notice it, too caught up in the motions of his euphoric craze to factor in any damage that was being done to him. It was amazing to watch.

Like a machine, he didn’t stop until whoever he was up against was dusted or dead in spite of the magic leaking out of him, staining his pristine (ish) bones and leaving a trail of glistening power in its wake. Killer’s mouth watered at the sight of it, and if he was not too far away to reach he would delight in licking the magic off Dust’s bones himself.

It was a shame Horror was so cautious. Sure, he looked cool, albeit a bit less threatening than normal, swinging around a knife, but the only fluids getting on him were from other creatures. The idea of Horror and Dust fighting each other with knives was another thing altogether. A shiver went up his spine just picturing it.

Close range, Dust didn’t fare as well, though he was still a major threat. His reaction time was a little too slow and he was more likely to overestimate himself. That didn’t mean it wasn’t entertaining, if anything seeing him take unnecessary damage was exhilarating. That paired with Horror’s hard hitting attacks were pretty great. If they were fighting with knives that would almost guarantee they both bleed at least a little, all the while silver blades dance around the air, pointed and carrying with them the certainty of pain.

The afternoon in the Lunar Woods Park was a languid, heavy thing. Sunlight, filtered through the dense canopy of ancient birch and oak, dappled the clearing in shifting patterns of gold and deep green. It was the kind of day that felt suspended in amber, thick with the scent of damp earth and wild honeysuckle. The usual spectral activities - Killer’s petty theft of shoelaces from joggers, Cross practicing orb-form dashes between trees, Horror’s quiet ‘tending’ to a patch of blackberries he couldn’t touch, let alone eat - had all been abandoned in favour of a collective, bone-deep inertia.

They were arrayed in their usual spots. Nightmare sat on a moss-covered stone plinth that might have once been part of a fountain, his purple tunic a dark splash against the grey-green stone, one hand absently tracing the charred cracks on his radius. His single socket was half-lidded, watching dust motes dance in a sunbeam. Cross lay on his back in the grass nearby, chain mail glinting, fingers laced behind his skull as he stared at the clouds, the arrows protruding from his ribs pointing skyward like bizarre antennae. Horror was perched on a low-hanging branch, the javelin through his head casting a long, grim shadow. He was meticulously cleaning non-existent dirt from under his phalanges, a habit born from a life of baking.

And Dust… Dust was a silent, hunched figure curled at the base of the great willow tree, drowning in Killer’s oversized grey hoodie. He had his knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them, his face hidden in the fabric. The frayed, blood-red remnant of the noose was a stark collar against his cervical vertebrae. He’d been like that for hours, which wasn’t unusual. His presence casting a subtle, melancholic pall over the immediate area, a psychic fog of regret that made the flowers seem to droop.

Killer was the one who shattered the silence. He’d been pacing, a restless energy coiling in him that the peaceful afternoon couldn’t diffuse. He stopped suddenly, snapping his fingers.

“Hey. Hey, Dust.”

Dust didn’t move. Cross cracked an eyesocket open. Horror paused his cleaning. Nightmare’s smokey tendrils, which had been idly weaving through the air, stilled.

“I overheard something the other day,” Killer continued, his voice a bright, conversational slash through the quiet. He plopped down cross-legged in the grass, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, a wicked, curious grin spreading across his face. “Some living guys talking by the old gallows replica near the town museum. Morbid fuckers. Anyway, they were saying something, and it got me thinking.”

A bad feeling, cold and slick, began to coil in Horror’s non-existent stomach. Cross slowly sat up. Nightmare’s eyelight sharpened, focusing on Killer with dawning alarm.

“Is it true,” Killer asked, his tone dripping with faux-innocent curiosity, “that hanging gives you an erection?”

The clearing didn’t just go quiet; the silence became a physical entity, a suffocating blanket that smothered the birdsong and the rustle of leaves. Horror’s hand slipped, and he almost fell off the branch. Cross’s jaw went slack, the arrows in his face quivering with his shock. Nightmare straightened on his plinth, smoke tendrils lashing in agitated swipes, his expression shifting from serene to utterly appalled.

“Killer!” Nightmare’s voice was a whip-crack, colder than the grave he’d never gotten. “What in the name of every forsaken god do you think you are doing?”

“You can’t just *ask* that!” Cross hissed, scrambling to his feet, his armour clinking. “Have you lost whatever remained of your damned mind?!”

Horror just stared, his shattered socket seeming to widen further around the javelin shaft. “Killz… why?” he rasped, the word heavy with disbelief.

They were braced for an explosion. For Dust to finally shatter, for the fragile, mostly-silent peace he clung to to be obliterated by this callous, brutal question about the most traumatic moment of his existence. They expected him to vanish, to retreat into the forest depths for weeks. They expected tears, or rage, or the terrifying, blank catatonia that sometimes took him. Nightmare was already rising, preparing to intervene, to shield Dust, to verbally flay Killer alive for his insensitivity.

But Dust… shifted.

Slowly, with a stiffness that spoke of long stillness, he lifted his head from the hoodie. His eyelights were there, small and dim but present, not the hollow voids of a dissociative episode. He blinked, once, twice. He looked not at his horrified friends, but at Killer, who was watching him with unabashed, analytical interest.

The reaction they’d steeled themselves for didn’t come. There was no fury. No crumbling. Just a slow, considering tilt of his head. The frayed rope shifted against his cervical vertebrae with a soft, dry sound.

When he spoke, his voice was its usual ruined scrape, but it was calm. Detached. Clinical, even.

“…Not really sure,” Dust said, the words leaving his throat with effort. “Wasn’t… thinking about it.”

The others froze, their outrage stuck in their throats. Killer’s grin didn’t falter; it just gained a layer of genuine intrigue. “No? Huh.”

Dust uncurled slightly, pulling one hand from the hoodie pocket to gesture vaguely at his own neck. “Hanging for monsters… different to humans. ‘Specially with that rope. Wasn’t… for breaking necks.”

He paused, gathering the words, stitching the explanation together from the fractured memories. “It’s like… a tourniquet. For magic. Not breath.” He tapped two phalanges against his sternum, where his soul would be. “The loop… cinches tight. Cuts off the magic flow from the soul to the body. Soul keeps trying… body starts… starving. Starts dusting from the extremities, in.”

He let his hand fall back into his lap. “Everything… goes wrong. Magic systems… freak out. Try anything to… preserve. To shield.” His dim eyelights flickered up to meet Killer’s. “So… yeah. Maybe. There’s a chance. Body panicking, might summon ecto… try to create a barrier. Unconsciously. Doesn’t know the danger’s… inescapable.”

A heavy, thick silence followed. Cross looked ill. Horror had brought a hand up to cover his mouth. Nightmare had sunk back onto the plinth, his anger replaced by a profound, aching sorrow.

Dust gave a tiny, one-shouldered shrug, the motion so slight. “But I was… a little busy. Dying. Y’know?”

The sheer, devastating understatement of it hung in the air, more palpable than any ghostly presence. A little busy dying.

Killer, after a moment, nodded slowly. The morbid curiosity on his face had softened into something else - something like understanding, or perhaps just the satisfaction of a puzzle solved. No judgment. No pity. Just… data. “Makes sense,” he said simply. “Magic’s a bitch when it’s scared. Thanks, Dusty.”

He then leaned back on his hands, looking up at the canopy as if they’d just discussed the weather. “Always wondered.”

The tension in the clearing didn’t dissipate, but it changed. The horror of the other three was now mixed with a bewildered, reluctant awe at Dust’s composure. At the fact that he could dissect his own execution with the detached air of a historian.

Nightmare finally found his voice, but it was quiet, drained. “Killer… you will never ask a question like that again. To anyone. Am I understood?”

“Sure, boss,” Killer said, waving a dismissive hand, though his eyes held a glint that said he’d file the information away forever.

Cross sat back down heavily, running a hand over his face. “Stars, Killer…”

Horror just shook his head, the javelin wobbling. He looked at Dust, who had already tucked his head back into the hoodie, the conversation clearly over for him. The melancholy aura around him seemed unchanged, perhaps even a fraction lighter, as if speaking the mechanics of it had bled off a tiny bit of the poison.

The afternoon settled back over them, the sunlight continuing its slow crawl across the grass. But the dynamic had shifted, just a little. They had seen a new facet of Dust’s trauma - not the explosive grief they feared, but a chilling, precise dissection. And they had seen, yet again, that Killer’s moral compass wasn’t broken; it had simply never been installed. He’d asked the question not to be cruel, but because he genuinely wanted to know. And somehow, against all reason and decency, Dust had been the only one not offended by it.

Horror was the kindest and gentlest of the four other castle residents, Cross thought.

While Killer was loud and pushed many boundaries, and Dust mostly ignored him, Horror always greeted him with a wave and a hum when he came into the kitchen in the mornings.

For someone with such an appearance, one would thing that Horror would be much scarier. He was tall and lumbering, with an incredible strength that was shown in both how he wielded his axe, and how he carried crates of vegetables with ease into the kitchen after supply runs.

He only had one massive eye that glowed, and it wasn’t exactly a perfect fit. Horror, much to Cross’ initial anxiety, had shown him that, if he focused on the magic in his skull, he could simply roll his eye around inside like a marble.

Cross had been... a touch unnerved by that at first but did admit that it was cool.

The scarier and more disturbing part of Horror’s appearance was the massive hole in his head.

The bone was cracked and jagged, and was stained around the edges and down the side of his face where blood and marrow had dripped down. Hairline cracks that had long since healed but left many scars that arced down past his eye socket and into his cheekbone.

Cross was no scientist or doctor but he knew where the main leylines of a skeleton rested and he knew that there had to be countless that were permanently broken from that injury.

He couldn’t imagine how painful it must have been.

Cross knew that Horror still had issues from his injury; he sometimes spaced out in the middle of conversations, suddenly losing concentration and stopping in the middle of a sentence, only to pick up again a few seconds later as if nothing had happened.

He also had trouble with words, often taking longer to form sentences and find the words in his mind.

And yet, through all of the struggles, Horror was incredibly kind. To the others, and to him.

Every day, even from the first day that Cross had arrived, Horror made sure that everyone ate. If one of them didn’t come down to dinner one day, he would go up to their rooms to bring them down.

If any of them didn’t want to come down for any reason, he would bring a plate loaded up with food straight to their doors and wouldn’t leave until they took it.

Horror was a wonder, and Cross was surprised that, in a castle full of murderers and unstable killers, one could remain so genuine and kind.

Cross often woke incredibly early, a habit left over from his time as a royal guard, and was surprised at first to find Horror often awake before him.

Horror had been humming to himself quietly and had been clearly suspicious of Cross at first, but when he realised that Cross wasn’t there to cause trouble, he relaxed and continued with what he had been doing.

Cross didn’t recognise the song but found himself calmed by it regardless.

It was quiet... nice.

At some point, after Horror had nearly finished cooking and the lovely smell of roast vegetables and sausages started to fill the room, he asked, “Can you... s-set the table... Cross, please?”

Cross had startled when he first started talking, but nodded.

“Hmm... in... the cabinet,” Horror said, gesturing with a spoon to the cupboard by the kitchen table.

Cross nodded and walked over, collecting enough dishes and cups for everyone. By the time he was done setting the final forks and knives to their places, the others had started to wander down.

Nightmare arrived first and was reading a book, barely stopping to nod at Cross, and Killer came down after. Killer was loud and rambunctious but was talking mostly with Nightmare, their boss only responding with hums and small, “yes, that is interesting, Killer.”

Nightmare didn’t look up from his book but Killer didn’t seem deterred.

Horror brought out two mugs, one with Easter bunnies and chickens all over it, and the other with “Worlds 1nth Boss” written crudely in marker. He placed the hand written mug in front of Nightmare and... leaned down and kissed him on his skull.

Interesting.

Cross turned away to give them a moment of privacy when Nightmare hummed in thanks, and Horror did the same to Killer. Killer was much more... reactive, and gave a loud purr, leaning up into the touch.

Horror whispered something that Cross didn’t hear, and he heard the voorp sound of a shortcut. Cross startled when all of a sudden, Dust was next to him, leaning on the table with his hood over his skull.

Horror placed the other mug in his waiting hands and gave him a kiss as well, before returning to the kitchen.

...Very interesting.

The table was mostly quiet, aside from Killer’s chatter, when Horror told them that breakfast was ready.

They got up slowly and took turns serving themselves, aside from Dust, who looked like he had fallen asleep at the table. Horror made up two plates and placed one in front of Dust, a routine it looked like he had done a lot.

Breakfast was quiet.

Nice.

Cross was still tense, still unsure, but the food was good and no one was yelling. No one was rushed and his plate was fuller than he had ever had anywhere else before, so Cross would take that as a win.

After they had all eaten and their dishes had been brought back to the kitchen, Cross stayed to help clean up.

He started doing the dishes and when Horror had come in shortly after to see him struggling to find where to put them away, he had simply taken them without a word.

They didn’t talk but Cross found it nice regardless.

It was peaceful.

When they were done, before leaving the kitchen, Horror put a hand on Cross’ head and nodded with a bright smile, one that was full of happiness and genuine care.

He signed, “thanks” to Cross and then left to continue on his day.

It probably meant little to Horror, but Cross was pleased. He hadn’t done much so far since having been rescued, but for the first time, he felt really good.

~~~

It became a bit of a routine, and eventually Nightmare noticed and added help Horror with meals and the dishes to his chore wheel.

Every meal, or at least every breakfast and dinner, Cross would come down early to help set the table and would stay a little later to help clean up after.

Every time, Horror would pat him on the head in thanks, and Cross would be happy.

At some point, that translated to Horror giving him a hug every day and Cross was nothing but elated.

Horror was kind and soft and wonderful, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be harsh.

Cross quickly learned that he was the only one that Horror allowed in the kitchen.

While he was surprised at first, it made sense when Horror explained.

Though he could apparently be a shockingly good cook, the liquid hate that dripped from Killer’s eyes would get into everything, and from what the other’s said, it didn’t taste good. And on top of that, Killer was more likely to start a food fight and break several dishes before he actually cooked anything successfully.

Nightmare was immortal and, though he did eat, it was more to keep Horror happy and for the “bonding, as mortals often bond over food, do they not?” as Horror quoted. While Nightmare could technically cook, it was often bland, over seasoned, or a strange sort of concoction that he didn’t realise would not taste good to the others.

Dust just... burned everything he touched. It was quite simply really, there wasn’t any other deep explanation, he just somehow had the ability to set even something as simply as a broth on fire. Horror thought it may have been related to his high level of magic but ultimately it didn’t really matter.

Horror liked to cook and so that’s what he did. The other’s liked his cooking and he liked seeing everyone fed.

At some point, Horror had finally started to let Cross help in the kitchen. He didn’t think he was a great cook, and was tasked with simple things such as stirring pots and mixing ingredients.

At some point, and Cross can’t remember why, Horror had wanted to make a cake.

It had come out wonderful, smooth, and Horror had entrusted Cross with icing it.

He remembered doing the same with his siblings back in Xtale and though it was bittersweet, his memories mostly fond.

Cross was younger, barely taller than the sword he had been training with, and he had been trying to make cupcakes with his siblings, Frisk and Chara. They were both younger than him, only by a few years, but enough to make a difference in their eyes. Their father had been out for a couple days and Papyrus had been in training, so Cross had taken the twins and they had gone to the library to find a recipe. He didn’t have much money, XGaster hadn’t given him any, so with only the limited amount that he had scrounged up over the past few weeks, he had been able to buy some ingredients for them.

Their oven technically worked, and even though they had made a mess, they had cleaned up well and the cupcakes turned out nice in the end.

It had been such a wonderful time, baking with them. They had gotten flour all over the kitchen and the cupcakes ended up uneven and lumpy, but it had been fun.

Cross would never forget the beaming smiles on the twins’ faces as he bit into one and called it the most amazing dish that he would ever have the honour of trying. He would never forget the taste of those cupcakes, slightly too sugary as they were.

Cross had been smiling lightly and since he had been given free reign, found himself drawing the identical necklaces that the twins used to wear.

They weren’t that detailed or that good, more just a couple of yellow hearts with a green and a purple dot in each, intending to be the gems they were inlaid with.

Cross was happy with them and just as he stood up to admire his work, he heard loud laughter and yelling in the hallway; the voices of Killer and Dust.

He ignored them, they had never come into the Kitchen before, but he was startled by the running footsteps skidding loudly the kitchen and Killer suddenly tripping with a cut off, “oh fuck--” and ramming straight into him.

Cross was knocked into the table, and the cake, only sitting on a light drying board, slid right off the edge of the counter and smashed on the floor, sending chunks and icing everywhere.

He would also never forget the looks on the twins’ faces when they father walked inside earlier than he was supposed to be home, raving on his phone and using his magic to write and take notes on three different clipboards at once. Cross pulled the twins behind him as their father shoved past them and the cupcakes tumbled to the ground by their feet.

He knew already what was going to happen before it did, as Frisk and Chara’s eyes started to well with tears and their father’s eyes turned to him with a look of utter disdain and rage.

Even if he had wanted to, Cross wouldn’t have been able to block the fist that came straight at him, cracking his face and knocking him down into the pile of cake and icing.

Normally, he would have tried to dodge, tried to run away or hide, even though he knew it would have been futile as it always was.

Now though?

The twins were behind him and he could feel their trembling as they held onto his sleeves.

He wouldn’t move out from in front of them if there was a knife pointed in his eye.

“Sans, clean this up. Now.”

Cross kept his head down and nodded, “yes, father.”

XGaster barely spared them another glance, scoffing as he turned and walked away.

His eyelight glowed a bright violet as he trembled before he closed his eyes, took a breath, and turned around.

Cross found himself on his knees next to the cake, scooping it up with his hands and throwing it into a bowl to take to the trash.

His breathing was quiet and he could just hear the yelling in the background. Horror’s rumbling baritone was louder than Cross had ever heard it and when he looked over, he saw Horror yelling at Killer, though his eyesight felt foggy and he was having trouble understanding what was being said.

“Hey, it’s alright,” he said quietly, “I’ll clean this up and you two go play in your room alright?”

Horror was still yelling, though now he was stuttering and looked more anxious than angry.

“Horror, it’s alright.” He said. He barely noticed that he was talking at all. “We can make some more, yeah?”

Killer looked sufficiently cowed, hanging his head and wringing his hands restlessly. Cross could tell that he felt bad, he probably hadn’t even meant to enter the kitchen at all.

When Cross looked out the door, he saw Dust peeking in from the empty hallway. The look on his face, while much more subdued, was the same look of guilt that Killer held.

When Cross looked back, he found that he had already cleaned up the entire mess, and there was barely any trace of anything having happened in the first place.

Frisk and Chara looked at each other and at him before they hugged him around the waist and ran quietly up the stairs. Cross watched after them and stayed there long after they were gone until he sighed and started to clean.

He knew that even if he cleaned the kitchen to a better state than it was before, he would pay the price later tonight. Whether it be through more testing of unknown experiments on him, another beating, or spending the night alone in the bathtub after his father came into his room to relieve his stress, he knew that something would happen.

As Killer muttered a quiet apology and fled with Dust, Cross grabbed Horror’s hand away from tugging at his empty eye socket, and looked him in the eye.

“it’s alright,” he smiled, “we have plenty of ingredients and we can make some more to share with the others.”

Horror didn’t respond verbally, he was having trouble, but was repeating small humming noises. With a small whine and a huff, he nodded, and they went back to the ingredients to start again.

Cross made sure to put the first cake in the compost to at least be able to feed Horror’s garden, and when dinner rolled around, Horror was feeling better.

Cross was… feeling strange. His mind floated and things felt far away. He was glad Horror was feeling better and after dinner, he saw Horror talk to Killer before he fled. He didn’t hear much but saw him apologise.

Horror leaned down and pulled Killer into a bear hug and Killer gave a hearty laugh.

It seems they were back to the status quo.

Cross zoned out and before he knew it, the dishes were already done.

When he turned around to leave for his room, he nearly ran into Horror.

He flinched back, and Horror briefly winced, but before Cross could say anything, he was pulled into the same kind of hug that Killer had been, and he brought his arms around Horror’s neck without thinking.

Horror’s hugs were wonderful; warm and kind, just like him.

Whispered in his ear, he heard, “Thank you… A-applesauce.”

He winced as his bruised ribs shifted when he stood but he didn’t care. If the twins stayed safe then he would take any number of broken bones and bruises.

He was tired and nervous for a reason he didn’t really know, but Horror wiped that all away and he felt better.

He smiled into Horror’s shoulder and genuinely meant it.

He was good. He was happy.

Everyone was alright. Everyone was ok and the day hadn’t gone perfect but it had been fixed in the end.

Everything was alright.

...so why did he still feel so scared?

~~~