Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You slide a small dish of cream across the counter with an unnecessary flourish, punctuated by the soft jingle of a cat’s bell collar somewhere in the back. The dish lands neatly in front of Mussolini—a gray tabby with the kind of resting bitch face that suggested he once ran a failed dictatorship and never recovered from the embarrassment. He leaps up onto the polished wood and sniffs the cream with the judgmental air of a man who ordered espresso and was given decaf.

“You’re welcome,” you say solemnly. A customer—a young mom juggling twins and a foam-topped drink branded Purrista Supreme—laughs as she strokes the cat’s pompous back. “Do you name all the cats after war criminals?”

“No,” you reply flatly yet a small smile is present on your face. “Just that one. He’s earned it.”

Across the café, a sharp, deliberate huff cuts through the clink of ceramic mugs and distant meows. It lands with all the subtlety of a thrown brick. You don’t need to turn to know who it is.
“WELL, SOMEONE'S MUCH MORE PRODUCTIVE THIS MORNING,” comes the unmistakable voice of your favorite coworker: Edge. A tall skeleton monster, with sharp cheekbones that look like they could cut steel, pitch black narrow sockets with three scars on his left socket and a crimson red eyelight used to scrutinize the world around him. 

His voice is gravel ground under a bootheel, dry and thick with mockery—mild affection, if you’re fluent in Edge. “WHAT? DID YOU WIN THE LOTTERY, OR JUST STEAL SOMEONE’S LUCK OUT FROM UNDER THEM?”

You look over your shoulder, careful not to jostle the remaining cream dish. He’s leaning over the side counter, arms crossed over his broad chest, one skeletal brow raised so high it might detach from his skull. The black bandana around his neck today is printed with tiny red skulls, which makes him look like a very festive outlaw from an old Western film. You consider telling him that, but he’s already squinting at you like he knows you’re about to say something dumb. You grin anyway and predictably, he looks immediately annoyed.

“I found a place,” you announce, like it’s just any other Tuesday. “To live.”

The words are barely out before the tension shifts. A little hiccup in the air, like the universe stumbled over your sentence. You reach lazily for a plush, fish-shaped cat toy and wiggle it in Mussolini’s direction, not able to watch the way Edge straightens—slow and silent. His arms drop from his chest. His shoulders pull back like he’s been caught mid-thought.

“HMM. IS THAT SO.” His tone flattens—less mockery, more suspicion. “MAYBE YOU DIDN'T TAKE MY OFFER SERIOUSLY.”

You wince, slightly, still smiling but a little softer now. “I did,” you say, honest as you can be. “I really did. But I didn’t want to be a problem. You’ve got a full house already. All your cousins, roommates... last time I overheard you on the phone, you were yelling at someone named Mutt for eating your leftovers.”

“NYAGH.” He groans like you’ve stabbed him with a spoon. His head tilts back toward the ceiling, like he’s appealing directly to the heavens for mercy. “THAT ISN'T—UGH. YOU REALLY ARE A PAIN IN MY COCCYX.”

“I’ve been called worse,” you shrug.

“I MEAN IT,” he barks, pointing a spatula at you like it’s a sword. “DO YOU THINK I JUST EXTEND KINDNESS OUT OF PITY? THAT I WOULD OFFER MY HOME TO SOMEONE I CONSIDER A BURDEN?”

You blink slowly. “No. I figured it was because you care about me.” He chokes, literally chokes on the breath he’s about to take, it’s confusing to see someone so structured now bend out of shape, over you none the less.

“I—THAT’S NOT—YOU—NYAARGH.” He spins away from you with all the drama of a stage performer exiting stage left, turning back to the prep station where he begins furiously chopping what might be a cucumber, or what's left of one anyway. 

“YOU’RE RIDICULOUS,” he mutters, low and hot. “RIDICULOUS AND OBTUSE AND... TOO FRIENDLY. YOU’RE TOO FRIENDLY.”

You let the silence stretch, the plush fish toy dangles idly between your fingers. Mussolini bats at it once, lazily, before deciding it’s beneath him.“I didn’t mean to upset you,” you say finally, not looking at him. “I just didn’t want to... assume anything.”

“YOU WOULDN’T BE ASSUMING,” he snaps. “YOU WOULD BE ACCEPTING. WHICH, CLEARLY, YOU'RE TERRIBLE AT.” You turn your head slightly. He’s got his back to you, but the edges of his cheekbones are flushed with a deep ruby-red hue.

You could push, you want to, but you’ve learned something about Edge that you haven’t figured out how to explain to anyone else yet: he’s not just bluster and yelling and posturing. There’s a soft spot buried under all that leather and spikes—raw, messy, tender. It comes out in the smallest things. Like the way he cuts sandwich crusts off for the café’s regulars who have sensory issues. Or how he scoops up the oldest, crankiest cat at the end of the night and holds it like a fragile heirloom. Or how he offered you a place to stay without even making it weird.

But people like him don’t like it when you see the soft spot, you’ve learned that, too. So you say nothing, you wiggle the toy again and Mussolini yawns in boredom. Behind you, Edge mutters something too low to catch, though it sounds like absurd and maybe soft-brained. You pretend not to hear it, just like you pretend not to notice how he checks to see if you’re still smiling. You are, and that, somehow, seems to make him even more irritated.

••••

You leave a little before Edge’s shift ends, slipping off your apron with a gentle tug and folding it over one arm. The hum of the milk steamer sputters behind you, drowning out the soft clack of your shoes on tile as you step back.

“Bye,” you say, offering a little wave.

Edge doesn’t look up, too focused on scraping out the frother. “See You Later,” he mumbles, distracted. No smile, no boisterous gestures of a 90s Saturday cartoon villain. Your hand drops slowly, maybe he’s just tired.

You step outside, the afternoon sun soaking your skin like a battery charger. You feel—alive, recharged, hopeful, like you can Persevere through anything. 

Your heart thrums like a tiny, rhythmic engine as you drive towards your new hom, each moment that passes pulsing with a kind of disbelief. The key Vicky gave you this morning is a solid weight in your pocket. 

You’ve checked it at least a dozen times today, slipped it out and turned it over. Pressed it to your chest like it might melt into you, because you live in a house now.


You don’t have to sleep in your car anymore. You half expect the lodge to disappear before you get there. Some cruel mirage cooked up by overheating processors or loneliness-induced hallucinations but no, it’s real.

The lodge looms ahead—three stories of rough-hewn wood and modern siding that clash like two people forced to share a room but decided to compromise. The steps creak under your boots as you ascend, pausing at the door.

You double-check the number, yep right place.
Still, you knock, just in case it vanishes. Just in case someone opens the door and says, 'Oops, wrong Y/n, sorry, good luck out there.' Instead, the door flings open with the force of a stage cue, and a blur of pink greets you.

“Y/N!” Vicky sings, voice pitched like a commercial jingle. She’s wearing a weird amalgamation of y2k meets early 2000s teenage sitcom. The one thing that catches your eyes is the hot pink crop top, that's sheer and sparkly and aggressively her.

You blink. “Hi.”

“Oh my gosh, you’re gonna love it here!” she beams, grabbing your wrist and yanking you inside before you can even brush your feet on the doormat.

The living room is—Loud.

That’s the first word that clicks into place. Not from noise, necessarily—though the television is playing some kind of old kung fu movie—but from visual chaos. There are clashing rugs layered over each other like geological strata, a couch that looks like it lost a war, and at least one suspicious stain on the wall shaped exactly like Florida. Your processors hitch slightly.

“I decorated it myself!” Vicky says proudly, sweeping her arms like a game show host. “Boys! Come meet our new roommate!”

You barely have time to process the word boys before skeletons start filtering into view. There are a lot of them. Seven, if you count the snoring one slumped across the armchair. They all look vaguely alike—shorter ones, taller ones, fanged and toothy grins, some with glowing eyes or heavy boots. A few look so similar to eachother you wouldn't be surprised if they turned out to all be twins, or clones of each other, like the movie "They Cloned Tyrone". 

You try not to stare, you really try not to stare. “This is Sans and Papyrus—yes the Monster Mascot, Papyrus. They're the owners of the lodge,” Vicky coos, draping herself over the tallest one in a pristine apron and wide smile. “Then we’ve got Blue, Stretch, Red, Black, and Mutt. Red’s brother is still at work, but you’ll meet him later.”

You recognize the names from her rambles, mainly Red. 'Huh, it seems like I ended up taking Edge's offer after all.' Although your quickly pulled out of your thoughts by Vicky's high pitched voice. Vicky seems to talk like she was hosting a reality show and the skeletons were contestants, some things never change. 

“They’re all my boyfriends,” she adds, grinning. “So hands off, okay?”

Your eyebrows lift. “Okay,” you say seriously. “I wasn’t—hands are off. All four of them.” A beat passes, nobody laughs.

Stretch gives a single nod and immediately leans back into the couch, his arm lazily draped over the back. His eyelights slide back to the television without a word. Blue gives a hesitant wave before returning his gaze to the screen as well. 

Red grunts, then steps around the corner and vanishes entirely. Mul raises a single brow ridge and returns to his book with a dramatic flip of the page. Mutt’s hood dips a little lower, followed by a snore like the punctuation on a long sentence.
Papyrus gives you a smile, bright and a little too practiced. It reminds you of those rookie actors who try too hard to play their role, which just comes across as uncanny as the movie continues. 

“Hi,” you say, raising a hand in a half-wave. “I’m Y/n.” No response, not verbally, anyway. You pick up a subtle shift—a lean away from you on the couch, crossed arms, glances traded between them like you missed a private joke. They don’t trust you, it's a realization that pings faintly in your system, but not with urgency. 

You’re still too busy marveling at the house. The floor beneath your feet, the kitchen with actual appliances and just brimming with food like a scene from Ratatouille. The sense of safety humming in your circuits. 

“I really like your couch,” you offer helpfully, as if your admiration might fill the awkward silence. It doesn’t. Vicky claps, the tv show host smile not faltering once. “Oh, wait till you see your room! I picked it out just for you, babe. C’mon!”

You follow her upstairs, and even though you try to walk normally, your feet keep wanting to bounce. The hallway smells like old wood and lilies, bright lightbulbs beaming down on you from overhead.

The room is tucked in the back corner, the door's hinges creak when she opens it, revealing a small space with a twin bed, a cracked window, and a closet that looks like it might be hiding Freddy Kruger. The walls are bare, and floor slopes a little; it's perfect; you love it immediately.

“This is amazing,” you breathe. “It has a window!”

Vicky doesn’t react to your enthusiasm, she turns on you instead, stabbing a manicured finger an inch from your nose. “Okay, so. You’re gonna be in charge of all the cooking and cleaning, got it? That’s your job now.”

“Oh.” You blink. “I mean, I’m not really—um. I can try to follow recipes, but the last time I tried to make a pot pie, it exploded and took the microwave with it, so—”

“You’ll figure it out,” she cuts in, breezy and final. You open your mouth, but she’s already talking again. “Also? Stay away from my skeletons.”

You tilt your head. “I don’t—?”

“I see you, Y/n,” she says, rolling her eyes. “All smiley and twinkle-toes, you’re not subtle.”

You blink again. “I didn’t know I was twinkle-toeing.” She gives you a look like you’re the slowest computer program in the system.

“I wasn’t flirting,” you say, trying to clarify. “I don’t even know when I’m doing that half the time. I just want to show you all how grateful I am. You gave me a place to stay.”

“Sure,” she mutters, already halfway out the door. “Just don’t get in my way.” The door slams shut behind her.

You stand in the center of the room, staring at it. Something in your chest whirs—a gentle mechanical sigh. You frown a little, but only for a moment. Then you kneel beside your box of belongings, brushing your fingers over the top like it’s a treasure chest. One by one, you begin to unpack.

A wrinkled t-shirt with the logo long faded. A chipped mug with a cartoon black cat holding a golden sword and wearing a bright red cape, on it. A mechanical box disguised as a music box, used to repair your nonorganic limbs. A blanket you knit during a three-week power outage in the middle of winter—just you, three candles, and a ukulele.

A tiny ceramic cat, its paint flaking at the edges. You stole it, on accident of course, from a vending machine that glitched out when you touched it. You set the little trinket on the windowsill, the sun catching on its cheap glaze. Your chest clicks silently as you straighten. No one can hear the soft hiss of hydraulics adjusting your spine. No one sees the way your fingers tremble with the relief of belonging, even if your uncertain. Even if it’s only temporary

You tap the little cat on the head. “Welcome home,” you whisper. And you mean it, even if no one else does.