Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sans was awfully late today. Not that he usually wasn't mind you, but he at least pretended to make an effort, if only to appease his stickler of a brother. Especially when the excursions involved Grillby's. 

Most definitely when things involved Grillby's.

But apparently, today was special, since nobody in the District had seen neither hood nor skull of the popular punster when (THE MAGNIFICENT) Papyrus asked around. Not even Grillby himself, when Papyrus sucked it up and went into the grease trap to ask.

It made him all the more worried when the owner of said grease trap stated that Sans had told him that he was going on a short trip to see a friend and expressed that he thought Papyrus knew since Sans only (vaguely) mentioned this ‘friend’ of his a handful of times.

Grillby quieted, and promised to update him if he saw the other, to which a (n enthusiastic) reply of,

 “FEEL FREE TO HOLD HIM HOSTAGE UNTIL I GET HIM IF HE TRIES TO RUN!”,

was said with a blinding smile. Grillby crackled merrily, flames shifting to a gradient bright orange and golden yellow, and nodded the tall scarf-wearing skeleton farewell. Papyrus nodded back and turned to stroll the streets once more, thoughts bouncing and rebounding in his skull.

“IF I WAS A LAZYBONES, WHERE WOULD I BE?”

The easy answer was the couch. At home. Where he had already flipped upside down searching. So that option was out. The other answer was the homely pub he was just in, and where his brother was obviously not, so another no. The only other place would be the park, but that was a crowded area, and Sans despised those so another no.

That only left the forest then, which was in the next town over, where they had gone camping with their other friends not that long ago. A decisive nod. The forest it is!

Papyrus jogged back towards their house, the same one from back underground. Sans was too lazy to go through the procedures of getting a newer residence and only bought the decently sized plot of land, poofing off right after.

The next thing Papyrus knew, their house in Snowdin was now perfectly intact and stood on the plot of formerly barren land and his brother was on the porch, skull flushed blue and panting.

He decided not to question it too much and mentally thanked his brother for it now, since everything was familiar and thus caused no inconvenience. The newest part of it was the recent addition of the garage they had installed together for Papyrus' red convertible and, surprising enough, Sans' sleek royal blue motorbike.

He dived right into the driver's seat and put on his glasses (“THEY HELP ME SEE BETTER AND MAKE ME LOOK COOL! EVERYBODY WINS!”), gunning it out of park and burning rubber with haste as he melds into the traffic-less highway.

It was fall season, and the weather was slightly warmer than usual so he left the top down and enjoyed the rush of the wind, cheeks flushed a light clementine and skeletal grin wide as can be. He was still worried but he also had the utmost confidence that should Sans be in any serious trouble he'd call for him, and that anything else he could handle himself.

His brother may be a 1 HP monster, but that didn't account for his natural aptitude in magic, not to mention his mental talents. Papyrus learned everything he knew from him after all! It's why he had perfect control of himself and his magic at any given time.

Sans was, unsurprisingly, a patient teacher and an even greater trainer! Even against Undyne! Not to say she was bad at it, just that she lacked the grace Sans had. But that was okay because she made up for it in passion and fierceness! Speaking of,

“ALPHYS! HELLO! HAVE YOU FOUND HIM YET?”

A squeak. An Undyne-like cackling. Something cluttering to the floor. Quick shuffling. A voice.

“O-oh! Hello Pap-Papyrus! No, s-sorry, not-nothing here yet. Sorry.”

“NO APOLOGIES NEEDED DOCTOR! THANK YOU FOR KEEPING AN EYE OUT!”

“Of-of course! Always happy t-to help!”

Click. He was so lucky to have such great friends in his life! The road stretched longer in front of him, and his bright grin mellowed out to a small but sincere smile. Yes, he was lucky indeed.

He sang loudly along to the radio, occasionally switching channels to look for better songs, phalanges tapping to the beat on the wheel and skull bobbing joyfully, eye lights scanning the horizon for a hint of the green giants the town was known for. The view started shifting the longer he was on the asphalt, fewer meadows and plains and more trees becoming visible the closer he got to the town.

Thankfully the camping spot they went to was situated by the entrance of the town to entice tourists (with the actual town farther down the road) so he was able to park fairly quickly, deciding to roll the top down in the off chance of rain and locked it.

He shot off a quick text to the group chat (“HE HASN'T EVEN BOTHERED TO TEXT ME BACK.”) and another one to his brother (“IN THE PARKING LOT. DO YOU WANT WAFFLES?”) before walking off to the small diner they went to last time and choosing a cozy-looking booth overlooking the expanse of the forest around it, opening the menu to give himself time to order and for his brother to appear.

Which he did. Eventually. After Papyrus got himself settled, basking in the warmth the place provided.

Sans was sitting in front of him with the permagrin he was never seen without by his friends, the old slightly tattered gray-blue coat he wore instead of his beloved jacket in preparation for the chill, and the dark maroon beanie Papyrus had made him with his name embroidered skillfully on the inside skewed on his round skull. It was like he'd always been sitting there, even though the workers hadn't seen or heard him enter the establishment. One of them approached the duo and cheerily asked for their orders.

“I WILL HAVE YOUR NUMBER 3 STACK PLEASE, WITH EXTRA BLUEBERRIES AND AN EXTRA BOTTLE OF HONEY. AS WELL AS A LARGE HOT COCOA. BROTHER?”

“guess i'll have the number 5 then, with a side of hash browns and a bottle of ketchup. please and thank you.”

Their orders were scribbled down in shorthand on the notepad and the worker raced to hand it off to the kitchen staff with a polite “Great! That'll be right out!” to the skeletons and went to start on the cocoa.

The brothers were left in each other's silence and the chatter of the other customers. One would think theirs would be a stifling sort of quiet, with the elder skeleton's out of the blue disappearance but it wasn't quite that. Instead, it was a comfort, serving to remind them that they had each other's presence no matter what may.

Papyrus had already informed his contacts that yes, his brother was found thank you for your concern, they were together at the moment, and yes they were both fine and would be home soon.

Their orders were picked up the moment they went out, their server reciting what went to who and leaving with a quick “Call if you need anything else!” before greeting another table. They ate slowly, savoring the peacefulness they found, the atmosphere homey.

Sans spoke first.

“thanks for this paps.”

“It Is No Trouble Brother. You Would Do The Same And More For Me After All.”

“course i would. you're so cool bro.”

“Was There Any Doubt? Nyeh Heh Heh!”

“heh, of course not bro.”

Their afternoon was spent in that diner, enjoying the slow pace and finishing their meals. They each ordered another round of comfort drinks (coffee this time for Sans, another cup of cocoa for Papyrus) and nursed them slowly, goodwill and good intent seeping into their magic and warming their bones from the autumn chill.

They spent another hour observing the life around them before they finished and paid for their food, walking out to the crisp air and to the red convertible in the parking lot. The comfortable quiet remained even when they slipped into their respective seats, the younger rolling the top back down and the older enjoying the way the wind seemed to brush softly against him, caressing his bones as he tilted his view up.

The sun was going down soon—the sky filling with a soft cotton candy pink and warm gradients of red, orange, yellow bleeding into the next—a view he would never tire of as long as he lived. It brought comfort to his still healing soul, and he breathed in the beauty of the life they enjoyed. They would be home soon, he knew. His permagrin turned soft. He was content, and there was little else he wanted that wasn't already there with him.

Good life, great friends, and the greatest brother.

He was content.

Chapter Text

Error strolls in, towel slung on his hips and bones dripping with leftover water from his shower.

Ink was humming in front of the stove and stirring the pot that held their cocoa. Error felt something in his ribcage squeeze and flutter and shook his head, flushing softly.

Now was not the time stupid soul, he thought to himself, only a tiny bit spiteful. Error had a plan to follow through dammit.

He stalked closer until his arms wrapped around the artist's middle, pulling the smaller closer to rest his chin on the top of the other's head.

"Inky~"

His poor dear really does make the most adorable squeak when he was flustered. Error leaned into Ink further—knowing the artist could feel every bone—and was extremely pleased with how shaky the artist's voice was with him so close. "Y-yeah? Didja need sumthin Ru?"

The glitch ignored how giddily his soul flipped on hearing the nickname, even though Ink used it nearly every single day.

He loved it of course but he'd dust before he'd tell. Bastard got too smug for his own good sometimes. Most times. Nearly all of the time.

Yeah.

Error nuzzled onto Ink's skull, feeling Ink lean back against him. "I love you," he muttered, smiling when Ink froze and started shifting higher, nearly making them the same height.

"Don't float off yet squidiot," Error murmured. "I'm not done with you."

If Ink was literally anywhere else but here, in Error's arms, in front of their steaming pot of cocoa, he thinks he could’ve puked while he ascended.

But as it was, he was anchored by said glitch and wasn't yet insane enough to dare mess up cocoa. So puking was definitely off the table. The only thing Ink could do was try to quell his internal screaming enough to find the rest of his mental processes to reply to Error.

A futile attempt, though Error did have fun watching Ink's face glow bright iridescent, freckles on his maxilla.

They matched on that end, Error couldn’t help thinking. His often glowed a gradient of yellow-blue (hence the variety of galaxy pet names) and the squid's glowed rainbow.

The Voices called them rainbow sprinkles.

Error hated how he couldn’t disagree.

Ink coughed louder, clearing his throat and swallowing down his namesake in hopes of not puking upon opening his mouth.

Error probably didn't want a third bath.

[The events leading up to that first bath were fun though~!]

Snubbing that particular comment (even though he internally agreed) Ink eyed the cocoa, turning the burner off and adjusting himself so he could snuggle back into his glitch, winding his arms around to return the hug. Burying his face into the other’s neck Ink couldn't help a tiny smirk showing up on his face when said glitch shivered.

Apparently,

Error had a weakness for fangs.

Good thing Ink had such lovely sharp ones on him huh?

He eyed the marks he left, feeling his mouth water and magic tingle. Heh, reminds him of how Error made such wonderful sounds.

The artist grinned to himself. Maybe glitchy wouldn't mind too badly if Ink added just a few more~

He breathed in Error's scent—something static and spicy sweet—nuzzling into the hug. He could feel Error's glitches, gentle and fuzzy against him when once they would have felt like needles prickling into his bones.

Stars, he still had trouble believing it! Error's come such a long way with his phobia. Ink was still so, so proud of him!

“Do you want the space mug or the cat mug?”

“Cat mug please ‘ror, thanks.”

If Ink noticed the slight purr Error gave—which he did, by the way, giggling at how effortlessly endearing his glitch could be—he didn't say anything about it.

It was no secret how much regard Error had for anything to do with outer space. Galaxies, nebulas, constellations have never failed to leave him in quiet awe. More than once Ink found him on a ledge in one of the Outer!verses, fiddling with strings or patching up a puppet.

Hence, any and every little thing relevant to space Ink had, ultimately belonged to Error. There was no use arguing, not that Ink wanted to.

Besides, he was more than happy to hand off all his stuff. Made room for him to make new stuff!

Admittedly, he himself had gotten into a space phase that resulted in tons of space relating paraphernalia—most of which were paintings.

He even had his ceilings made to look like Outertale's stunning star views, some of them glowing when dark fell, some of them shimmered down "stardust"—though the star patterns differed in every room. It was a magic trick of course, but it struck Error speechless the first time he saw it.

He'd also demanded an explanation to the falling stardust effect but Ink kept that one to himself, smiling cheekily at Error's pout.

[Such fun times~]

Ink grinned. Fun times indeed. He could still feel his magic tingling. He was still clinging onto Error though, so he should probably let them both get to drinking their cocoas.

Who knows, the treat might make Error more willing to go for just one more round~

Chapter Text

"I think I’m falling in love with you."

A beat. Two beats.

When it became clear that there wasn't going to be a follow-up statement, Blue peeks out from behind his ornate bouquet of bacon roses and hotdogs on a stick to gauge his crush's reaction.

He guesses shock to be behind the silence, if Dusty's blank sockets and slack jaw were anything to go by.

Blue could feel himself shaking, but if anyone asks, he's going to blame the wind.

Because he wasn't anxious at all, really, why would he be?

He's just confessing. Yep. Just confessing. Nothing bone rattling about that.

Everyone confesses, right? Nothing out of the ordinary there. He's just doing the same thing he's done to everyone who charmed him and met his great standards.

Because he was magnificent! And thus his (potential) datemate must also be magnificent!

Ah, not that all of his confessions lead to actual dating. Most of his confessions weren't even the 'datemates' confessions, if he were totally honest.

Humans seemed to rarely get that though, and some slowly drifted out of his life soon after.

Apparently simply blurting out that he liked being with them and wanted to continue being with them in the future counted as a romantic confession somehow.

He doesn't quite get it, but it's okay, he'd rather they be happy without him than be unhappy at all.

And he's spiraling again. Guess he should tell his therapist about that.

Idly he wonders if the still silence was going to be broken anytime soon. This was the longest he's remained unanswered!

(False. The longest was actually two weeks and a half, but that wasn't a romantic confession so it didn't count.)

“Pardon?” Dusty finally rasps out. He looked really lost and confused.

Blue didn’t fault him. He did drag the poor dear out fairly early, using the sunrise as an excuse for a picnic. And then he sprung the confession and shoved the bouquet into Dusty's face as soon as they got to their blanket, so really, the shock is justified.

Doesn't make Blue less jittery though. He's fidgeting with the ribbon tying the stem of sticks together, twisting and twirling it between his phalanges.

“I think I'm in love with you.”

Dusty's eye lights reignite with a flare, boring into his steadfast ones. This time his gaze flicks down to the bouquet, amusement twitching his permagrin upwards.

“…is this a jape?”

Blue twitches, sockets wide before the implication sets in and his soul burns, affronted and the slightest bit hurt. He places a hand on his sternum, the other lowering the gift so he could properly see the other, half stepping backward.

“Dusty! Do you really think I'd be the type to do something that abominable?”

“…”

(“Nyeh Heh! Remember Grillby’s Confession In Waterfall Cavern, Brother?”)

Dust says nothing and that almost makes it worse. He stares Blue down, in all his confident bravado, and sees the anxiety in his jittering phalanges, and chuffs.

“…'s happened before,” he says in explanation, gruff and hunching down to sit on the blanket. His legs were stiff, it was fuck-the-sun o’clock, and he wasn't even meant to be awake at this abysmal hour, much less have a coherent conversation about an important topic. Of course, this meant he wasn't going back to sleep anytime soon, so he was at least going to lay back down while it happened.

He feels the burn of Blue’s stare and amends himself, looking up with a sincere half grin. “…’m sorry for doubtin ya, Berry.”

“As you should be! I even brought you that hotdog bouquet abomination you begged for three months ago!” Blue drops his bravado, feeling like jelly replaced his bones at the look of relaxed amusement on Dust’s face. The dual eye lights boring into his were more vivid than he was used to, and his Soul flutters. “You’ve known me for the better part of two decades!”

Blue shakes his head in mock disappointment (and to dispel the image of Dust lounging so prettily in front of him). “Is my honor really so questionable?”

Dust ducks his head and gives an appropriately rueful chuckle. “i know, i know. now get over here and talk to me.”

But Blue isn’t listening. Well, he is, but words were blurring into white noise at the moment.

Dust looked so pretty in the barely-there morning light, bright enough to spot the (heheh) spots of ketchup on his gray sweatshirt but dark enough to make his eye lights a striking neon.

Blue feels his Soul spasm and prays to the Angel it isn’t shining through his sweater. He told Stretch white was a bad idea, he should’ve gone with the black button-up just as he planned—

"Berry, c'mon 'n sit," Dust pats the space next to him, tilting his head up and blinking against the bright cyan of a blush. "we gotta talk ‘bout this, don't we?"

He pats the spot beside him twice more, yanking Blue to sit down when he doesn't, and grabbing a skewered hotdog from the bunch when he does.

The gift really was too sweet for someone like him, just like its maker.

Almost makes him wanna take a bite, heh.

("You Don't Deserve Such A Thoughtful Present, Brother.")

Well, not of Berry of course. What is he, a horror-variant?

(“Keep Monologuing Brother, Maybe You’ll Get Smarter If You Point Out The Obvious.”)

Commentary aside— greatly appreciated, by the way, thank you for that, Papyrus, but maybe fuck off for a while —this really was out of left field. Dust makes the most of the hotdog stuffed in his maw to contemplate the bizarre (but not unwelcome) turn of events.

He never expected anyone to take an interest in him, much less Blue of all people.

Blue ''Everyone-can-be-a-good-person-if-they-try''' Serif. Ultimate goody-goody. Sunshine personified. The one who willingly took in and cared for a certified LV20 murderer. 

That Blue. (His sweet little berry.)

Yeah.

Wait, he has to give Berry a response, doesn’t he? Fuck. 

Fuck. 

Dust plucks another two hotdogs and stuffs his mouth. He knows he’s most likely getting a Look from Berry and another earful about his eating habits later when they get back home but dammit he’s not the least bit ready for this kind of shit.

("I Share The Sentiment, Albeit With Less Profanity.")

He’s startled out of his brooding when Berry taps his metacarpal—already grabbing another four sticks from the bouquet because damn culinary school really is worth the money.

“You’re not obligated to give me an answer. Hell, you could even forget I said anything and stuff your face with the bouquet—not that you’re not already doing that.” Blue narrows his sockets when Dust plucks off two bacon roses to punt into his black hole of a mouth.

Seriously, it’s like he’s never being fed, when they literally had to install another fridge just for Dust’s snacks and pre-made meals. Blue watches as Dust wipes his phalanges on the bottom of his sweatshirt, grimacing. “ Heathen .”

Blue carries on, perturbed but used to the sight. He eyes the embroidery pattern on his sweater instead, thumbing the lines and dots, mentally rattling off constellation names as he comes across them. “Ya know Berry, ain’t you s’posed to look someone in the eye when talkin' to ‘em?”

Dust’s grin is knife-sharp, and Blue can see the twinkle in his eyes, and his Soul stutters.

“So, uh, yeah.” Great job not fucking up there, Blue. Very coherent, much eloquence. “Also-” Angel above someone stop him while he’s ahead “-you’re really cute when you laugh, so there's that.”

Aaand his true thoughts are leaking again. Starsdammit.

Blue then proceeds to hand Dust the rest of the bouquet before he smooshes his skull in his hands, trying to contain the internal whine of mortification wanting to make an entrance.

Dust lets him stew for a few more bites, enjoying the sight of a flustered Berry, rare as it is. And also to give himself a few more precious minutes to really think about his words.

He doesn't wanna fuck this one up after all.

...well, maybe not too much. He knows himself well enough to know he’s gonna fuck up in some way or other eventually.

A little fuckery here and there does a lot for his mood you know. Makes him less stabby and more inclined to stare into your psyche instead.

("Truly An Improvement.")

But he’d try his damnedest not to, not right now, not when their balance was at its most fragile.

("Such A Gentleskeleton, My Genocidal Murderer Of A Brother.")

Blue deserves that from him, if nothing else.

("...")

Dust smiles when Blue finally comes up for air, the morning lights making his pearly blue skull glow otherworldly.

“mornin' berry,” he teases, putting the bouquet down to lean in close. “good to see you up and at 'em like always.”

“I’d rather be up and on you,” Blue grumbles his discontent, rubbing the blush out of his zygomatic arch. He nigh immediately slaps a hand over his mouth, looking mortified at an elated Dust.

Dust, true to form, chokes on his cackling like the bastard rat he is.

Berry is once again drowning himself in embarrassment before Dust takes mercy on him and shuffles to sit in the gap between Blue’s crossed legs.

Cyan blue eyes that reflected gold made his chest pound, and Dust drapes his arms around Blue’s shoulders to nuzzle the other’s vertebrae. He presses closer and ignore the hitch in his own breath to whisper.

“why don’t you do that then?”

Chapter Text

“They will tear you to pieces,” she hissed, “do you hear me?”

The skeleton she faced was tall, taller than anyone else she’d encountered, and had she not known him since they were nothing more than brats with inflated heads, she would have assumed he was a murderer, or a mercenary, or an assassin of some sort. Angel knows their lot was known for traveling through their village, old and nearly falling apart, and that the villagers were too far out to send for the King’s Knights for aid they would not be given.

But that was neither here nor there.

“Then I shall haunt their SOULS until the coming of the Angel,” the skeleton snorted, still squared up to her. He knew she would not approve. But he needed to do it. He had already made the necessary preparations, already his horse was prepped and waiting by the stables, and all his essentials were in a hidden pocket inside a small, hidden pouch that would be easy to miss if one had no knowledge of its location.

He only needed to say his farewells and he would be on his way—he couldn’t bear to leave without at least a goodbye in good conscience, not when they took him in and raised him alongside their own. They didn’t have to, but they did, and he would be eternally grateful.

But it was time to go. He finally had word of the possible whereabouts of the one he was searching for, and he was eager to be beside the one he’s been missing.

“We both knew I wasn’t going to stay forever Deine.” He faced his sister in everything but blood, face impassive and stance solid. “We just didn’t want it to be so soon.”

To the common stranger, it would look as if the conversation was over, but they both knew better. He was right, and she knew he was right. That didn’t mean she was just going to let him sashay away from them.  Blood-bound or no he was still the closest thing she had to a brother, and she hated him for not wanting to leave, for leaving anyway.

For leaving her to pick up the pieces he’d leave behind.

But she couldn’t blame him either. Not when she was there to pick up his pieces when they drank a little too much and he broke a little too fast for her to catch. Not when she lay witness to how much grief it had caused him, how badly he wanted to go back—go back where exactly, he never said—how he had sworn to find whatever it was he was so damned desperate for.

But then she always had known what it was hadn’t she? He had the same drive she did. He fought for the same reason she did. They understood each other in that way, and their friendship turned kinship only grew stronger. They both had someone to fight for, and they would each do whatever it would take to keep those someone’s alive.

Deine bowed her head, webbed hand tight on her brother’s shoulder. “You find them, you bring them here,” she failed to hide the croak in her voice but still raised her head, eye gleaming and fangs bared, “got that?”

Edge was no better—claws gripping on his already tattered satchel and spine ramrod straight—but he still managed a terse nod before he strolled out of the hunter’s hut. He had a trail to follow, and it was nearing dawn. He would be able to get to his destination quicker under the cover of night, but it was also dangerous for the horse, so he settled for some daytime riding instead.

The villagers were none the wiser of his intentions—children weaving along the legs of the adults in their striped cloths, the same merchants selling wares, the occasional newcomer asking directions—and he realized he would miss it. This warm feeling of being in a community, of being safe enough to walk with only a dagger on his person, of having friendly familiar faces to turn to for shelter, and he steeled himself.

He was fortunate enough to have experienced it, this comforting life of simple pleasures...

...but he was not meant to be among them. He knew someone who did.

He had a promise to keep, and Angel have mercy on those who kept him from fulfilling it.

Chapter Text

It is a cloudless night when Nightmare goes to sleep, his duties as keeper done. His castle is silent, shadows dancing on the walls with every sway of the candlelit chandelier.

He puts out each and every one when he passes below, twisting and twining the dark to his bidding. (Why he never bothered taking down those ancient creaky ass eyesores he'll never know.)

The sight of his bed is an extremely welcome one, Nightmare falling into it without a care. He was too tired to do his routine--plus he already had three baths today so it wasn't like he was too dirty.

He sinks deeper into the fluff as the fog in his skull thickens, and is whisked away to slumber.

When he wakes, his sight is fuzzy, his skull abnormally heavy, and he internally makes a note to lessen his coffee intake. Work may be a bitch, but his migraines were something else entirely.

He makes to turn himself but finds an unexpected sight--a flaming gradient sky, thick twisting branches of greenery above his aching head.

The wind is in his breath, twining the cold around his ribcage, and a familiar weight on his chest murmuring sleepily. A sound he tucks deep into his soul.

It does not faze him at first--this is a familiar, often comforting dream he sometimes has--so he lets the itch in his skull go unheeded.

There are few things Nightmare keeps close to serve as comfort for himself, and so does not take these dreams (seldom as they come) for granted.

He drifts off once more to the sound of rustling leaves and babbling creeks, content to enjoy the rare feeling of home.

...

...

...

Once again Nightmare wakes, but the black void where cloud and sky should be is terrifyingly unfamiliar. For a split second, he thinks he has woken in the twilight hours, but the twinkling starlight is not there.

In fact, there are many things he notices to be...out of place.

The wind is absent but the cold is not, seeping into his bones and making him shiver. It makes him burrow deeper into the cocoon surrounding him.

Has autumn already come? He could've sworn spring lasted longer though...

Unless it was early autumn? Sometimes the seasons were like that, Dream said. 

Or maybe he was just overthinking it.

He tastes an unusual bitterness and acid on his tongue instead of sugar, and wonders if the cake his brother brought had something else in it.

Speaking of, brother's comforting weight is absent from his chest, but Nightmare doesn't worry. (Yet.)

Dream was the early bird out of the two of them, and sometimes he liked to get up at dawn just to patrol around the Tree and the forest. Oh, maybe he'd bring back some fruits?

Nightmare hoped he did. The food the villagers would give to him wasn't very...

Well, it wouldn't be very nice of him to be ungrateful now, would it? At least he's being given food now--which is already a couple of steps up from their past treatment!

The usual ache in his neck and the stab in the spine from wayward branches is gone too, along with a strange encompassing weight covering him.

(He hears unfamiliar growling in the vicinity and hopes it isn't the chief's dog pack again. What would he tell Dream? He can't use the same excuse again.)

He does not open his eyes, thinking it a nightmare (heh), and forces himself to assess the other things around him in hopes of eventual slumber.

What he realizes does not bring him any closer to comfort.

Chapter Text

And then Error knew.

Death did not see him. Death did not even entertain the thought of him.

Death was clinging to a ghost, a past that could no longer be revised, a person who no longer is.

A story that has closed its pages.

But just as he is stubborn, Death is stubborn too.

He simply refuses to acknowledge the new.

He clings and he holds and he closes his eyes and ears to the reality around him.

Because it is how he stays sane.

It is how he has stayed sane in all of his existence.

Because Death does not welcome change.

Death is the finality, the end, the last mercy.

Change is new beginnings. Change is freedom.

Change is Life's work. 

The two may be close friends but they do not share the same values.

So really, Error understands.

He understands that Death may never truly come to know him, to accept him as he had Genocide. 

He, who took his lover's body and mind and corrupted it to no end, leaving a pitifully unstable copy behind.

He, who stood in the way of the happily ever after that was a step away, now never to come.

He, who shed the name that shackled him to the past and embraced the one that defined him best.

Error.

Chapter Text

Despite all the signs that suggested otherwise, the destroyer and the protector actually had a much different relationship than simply being adversaries and battling over the fate of the ever-expanding Multiverse.

This was obvious to anyone who bothered to watch them interact whenever they weren’t fighting for their respective sides.

What wasn’t as obvious, however, was the less known presence in said relationship.

Said presence was on their way to their bedroom, humming a forgotten tune and pulling their hood down. The scene that greeted him was one he’d hold in his Soul for the rest of their eternity.

The god glides over the multiple knick-knacks scattered on their floor, making a mental note to clean up later, and presses a light kiss on his treasures.

Error scrunches his face, pixels flaring before turtling into a squirming Ink's neck. Adorable. The glitch was a natural cuddler, despite his haphephobia getting in the way of any touching actually happening.

Ink tilts his head up, puppy eyeing his way into a longer, languid kiss, huffing at Reaper's nip. Cheeky thing knew full well if they continued, they'd wake Error. Which would’ve been a problem, if this was a millennium ago.

But as it stood, that same phobia hasn’t included them in many, many years. Warmth floods through him at the reminder that he could actually, physically touch Error now and that Error could touch him and wouldn’t get hurt and hrk-!

“Might have to tone that down a bit inkblot,” the god snickers. “Error wouldn't like ink barf on the carpet again.”

The artist pointedly rolls his eyes and ignores the sniggering black blob in a tattered hoodie robe. The point being, Ink was still so overjoyed at how far Error's come, and in moments like these ones, he remembers all they’ve done to get here.

Error was curled up against his sidearm tossed over his torso, gripping onto his sleep shirt and leg splayed over and tangled with his own—leaving Ink well and truly trapped.

Not a joke either. He's tried multiple times to escape from a cuddly Error, failing every single time and once even getting strung up cocoon style and used as a body pillow. Not a very comfortable position but heck the cuddles were more than worth the aching.

Another snicker from the side interrupts the silence, and Ink silently pleads with his face.

"Having a little situation there, inkwell?" Reaper grins, enjoying the faux suffering expression on his love's face. Ink pointedly cocks his head to the side, eye lights fondly annoyed. Help me, he mouths.

Reaper can't help it. "Oh? And why should I?"

The look of offense on Ink's face was nearly enough to make him cackle—belatedly remembering the other member of their trio, sleeping soundly after having captured Ink in a cuddle trap, and slapping his fist on his mouth instead.

Though, if the narrowing of Ink's eye lights were any indication, the effort was for naught. Ah well, easy enough fix.

Reaper floats closer and trails a claw down Ink’s spinal column instead, scratching at the disks in between and swallowing down the surprised half-moan. “Behave now, inkwell, else I might start getting serious.”

Ink lets out a dazed hum, his eye lights switching from pink and green to yellow and lavender.

Reaper deigns to accept that as acquiescence—and if he looks a lot smugger than usual, well, no one’s going to say anything about it—moving over to pick up the artist’s bandolier. “Where do you want this, inky?”

“Hmmm?” It was a fact that Reaper was a good kisser, but he was getting way too damn good. Ink had to blink away the fog in his head to realize he’s been asked something. “Oh! Over by the table please, thank you!”

“Alright~” Reaper hums, smirk (and fangs) plastered for all to see. He lays the sash where Ink told him—right next to the basket of Error’s yarn and needles—and puts down a box of Muffet’s cocoa bombs and macaroons.

Something sweet for later, when Ror was awake. Maybe he could even steal a bite. Reaper floats back to bed, settling down to spoon Error and twining his hand with Ink’s. He lifts the forgotten comforter over the three of them and flicks the lights off with a small bone.

“Seriously, Reap? Are you for real right now?”

The comforter around him warms up quickly and Reaper sighs, melting into it and snuggling into his favorite glitch.

“Reaper~? If you’re going to nap at least free me! I’ve got work to do!”

Time for a long-overdue, well-deserved nap.

Chapter Text

The moment Error ripped open the portal into his anti-void he instinctively knew something was about to happen.

He hated when he was right.

“If you were here the entire time, why didn’t you ever show up?”

A cold wind blew, and Error shoved his hands into his pockets lest he is tempted to take the portal behind him as an exit. Instead, he does the responsible thing and moves to take the scant steps to his beanbag, purposely turning his back onto the intruder.

“And risk endangering you? Not a chance in the anti-void.”

He can practically hear the bristling feathers. His temper and Reaper’s mannerisms, how fun. “I can protect myself now! I’ve become strong!”

Error scoffed out a laugh, voice skipping and looping in places. Oh, how he wishes this day would've been further away. “Not nearly strong enough baby bird.”

“What do you-”

Error finally looks Goth in the sockets, suppressing the urge to hide and turn tail at the bright red scarf on the tiny thing's neck. He thought Reaper would've thrown it away by now. Why did Goth have it? “Do you even know what I do out there?” Would you even want me in your life if you did?

At this, Goth visibly stiffened. “…Dad already told me about you.”

Ah. “Reaper’s not the type to sugarcoat,” Error says, monotone, “so I’m sure you understand why you can’t be involved with me.”

“I...”

The glitch softened at the trembling teen they grow up so fast in front of him. “Some memories are better left forgotten, baby bird. Especially mine.”

“We…can still be a family, though. Right?” Goth pleads, gaze wide and pleading and so so vulnerable. Error knows whatever decision he makes here will make or break any future relations with his child. "Or I could visit sometimes! We could make it work, can't we?"

At this moment, Error thought of exactly that—him being able to watch Goth right where he could reach out—and nearly let himself slip out a yes.

Nearly, if not for the pair of orange and purple eye lights watching him watching Goth from behind. At the warning swirl and dot combo Error felt his insides freezing as though he’d crashed. He latched on to the silent gaze helplessly, before time marched forward yet again. Mercilessly cruel to everyone, but that's why it's the fairest as well.

Error stares Goth down in silence, internally grieving as he watches the faint light of hope in their eyes fade bit by bit in the face of cold indifference. He forces himself to watch even as tears start forming, forces himself to sit and watch what he's done. He's the bad guy here, he always is. 

He's never wanted to be.

He’d do anything, give everything he could if only to wipe away those tears. If he could just take that measly step forward and soothe his baby how he always wished. Something in him twists and stabs. He could take that step right now. It wouldn’t be so hard. Error takes one more scant look at the observer beyond them and flexes his fingers forward.

The eyes switch to a white asterisk and a pink plus sign. And Error steels himself right where he is.

Not Goth. Anyone, anything, but his baby.

“Not if it means putting you in danger,” he whispers with finality, Goth's eyes widening when he feels wind rushing from behind, the scent of Spring and Life with it.

"But-!"

He needs to finish this quickly before anything more happens. It was the safest way.

“Just, forget about me, please, and never forgive me,” If not for the tears in his eyes Goth would’ve seen the binding strings sent his way and dodged accordingly.

If only that was the case. But most things never go the way we wish, do they?

“I love you, my Gothy.”

And wasn’t that just the worst thing Goth’s ever heard?

Chapter Text

There is a skeleton in his kitchen.

That in itself wasn’t an alien statement, as he is usually the skeleton in question.

Usually.

But not tonight.

Dream should rephrase. There are two skeletons in his kitchen. Him, half awake and half delirious. 

(One would think these two were the one and the same, but surprising no one, they are not mutually exclusive.)

And a dark-boned stranger who seemed to be in the middle of raiding his fridge. 

He would think it Error, his best friend's boyfriend. Except both of them live in the next state over and would have no conceivable reason to come over to his apartment totally unannounced and be unnoticed by his paranoid and extremely people averse cockatoo who he placed in the living area right before the kitchen precisely to alert him to any entrances. 

Head and thoughts still somewhat muddled by the two dozen shots of gin and other unnamed mixed drinks Hearts had forced down his throat, Dream blinks, eye lights muddy yellow dots, softly glowing in his unlit kitchen. He only needed a glass or two of water. Maybe he could…pretend the stranger wasn’t here and forget this happened in the morning. 

He doesn’t think the stranger noticed him, what with their upper half still tucked into his fridge. If not for the sliver of warm light of it, Dream wouldn’t have noticed a thing either, he thinks. He always was more sensitive to light than anyone he knew. It was probably a magic thing.

Most probably a magic thing, since his eyesight was nothing but shit on a regular day.

But he also wasn't that convinced of the reality of this situation. Who knows, maybe this was another hallucination episode? Stars know he's due for another one of those.

Heh, just when he was the tiniest bit hopeful about his recovery. Hilarious.

The near silent snicker he let out wasn’t as silent as he thought though, as immediately the figure whirls around in obvious panic. They leave the fridge door to swing right wide open and bathe his tiny kitchen space in soft lighting. Dream scowls, his plan to have remained unnoticed now impossible—despite the fact that this is his kitchen, and he had every right to dispel the stranger’s presence who broke into said kitchen. He could charge them for breaking and entering and even theft. Dust off that degree he kept stashed in the top drawer and make his adoptive parents proud of him for once.

But ugh, then he’d have to wait until his case was approved for a hearing, and then he’d have to do all those papers and refamiliarize all that legal jargon he hasn’t thought about in half a decade. His face twists in disgust at all the work he had to willingly do and he trashes the thought. The stranger he forgets about in his momentary daze has half their body through his tiny window, barely wide enough for even him to put his head through.

This shocks him awake, but his body doesn’t get the memo and remains stationary (also because of the sheer shock). Irony. He watches in wide eyed disbelief as the stranger almost seems to liquify the rest of their form to slither out of his window out of view.

Dream is left in the measly refrigerator light, at 2 am in the morning, far too hungover to even try thinking about what just happened. Mechanically, he closes the small window first, eyeing the drain pipe a few feet away but otherwise seeing no surface for anyone to climb up on. His apartment is on the fifth floor, for fuck’s sake.

He checks his fridge and sees another bottle of his favorite probiotic drinks is missing from its case. He’d been assuming it was his sleepwalking habits again, except he couldn’t find the missing bottle afterwards no matter how he searched. No wonder, because it hadn't actually been him.

That's one mystery solved at least. 

Dream doesn’t know what to feel now that the scene has passed. He takes a swig of the lemonade he bought earlier in the day and forgot about in the depths of his fridge instead of the extremely tempting bottle of gin beside it.

Tomorrow. Think about this again tomorrow.