Chapter Text
Edge’s shoulders sag as he locks up the café. The familiar buzz of the industrial fridge winds down behind him, the last hiss of the espresso machine echoing like a distant sigh of relief. He rotates his neck until it pops—twice—and slips his keys into the inside pocket of his long black coat. The wind outside is sharp, tugging at his scarf like it has a vendetta.
His boots crunch over gravel as he makes his way to the fairly new black SUV waiting just off the curb. The sky is a slate of darkening blue, stars barely poking through. He rubs at one eye socket and exhales long and slow through his teeth. “Home,” he mutters without any affection.
The drive is mercifully short. A few winding turns through pine trees and a raccoon memorial later, the lodge appears: too big, too loud, too full of people with opinions. The porch light is on. Of course it is. Like a glowing invitation he didn’t RSVP to. The moment he shuts the driver door, he hears her.
“Edgyyy!” He flinches, his tired expression being replaced with an annoyed scowl. Vicky flings the front door open and stands framed by warm lodge light, bathed in the golden glow like a princess in a low budget movie. She’s wearing something pink and floaty again, something that rustles every time she moves like a warning rattle. Her glitter-covered hand lifts in a wave that’s just shy of a seizure.
“I was thinking,” she starts before he’s even up the stairs, “we should totally go on a date tonight! You’re off now, right? Let’s go into town, just you and me. We haven’t had any alone time.”
Edge sighs, stepping past her into the lodge without stopping. “NO.” Vicky pouts. “You always say that.”
“THEN THE ANSWER SHOULD BE OBVIOUS.” He hangs up his coat and kicks off his boots, replacing them with house shoes. His bones ache, his soul aches. His patience, however, is somehow the most intact.
“But you haven’t even given me a chance,” she insists, stomping in behind him in kitten heels. “How do you know you don’t like me if you won’t try getting to know me?”
“YOU'RE ALREADY DATING HALF THE IMBECILES IN THE HOUSE,” he snaps. “TRY GETTING TO KNOW THEM.”
She huffs. “You’re so mean to me! You’re the only one who treats me like this!”
He gives her a sidelong glance as he starts toward the kitchen. “I SUPPOSE THAT SHOULD TELL YOU SOMETHING.”
Vicky’s lips twitch into a frown before she finally throws her hands up. “Ugh, fine! Be that way. Don’t come crawling to me when you realize what you’re missing!”
“NOTED.”
She flounces off toward the living room, muttering under her breath. Something about ungrateful men and how “Mutt should’ve taken her up on that movie night.” Edge exhales again. Every word with her feels like trying to defuse a glitter bomb. He steps into the kitchen, relieved at the momentary quiet. Only for this universe's Papyrus to pop up behind the fridge door like a jack-in-the-box.
“HELLO, COUSIN!” he declares with a grin as bright as the fluorescent lights. “YOU’RE JUST IN TIME. WOULD YOU LIKE TO HELP ME PREPARE DINNER?”
Edge wants to say no, he really wants to say no. But he can feel his stomach crying out for sustenance. And well, Papyrus is the only one in the house, besides Red, he can consistently tolerate for more than thirty minutes.
“...OF COURSE,” he replies, rolling up his sleeves. “THAT SHOULDN'T EVEN BE A QUESTION.”
Papyrus claps his hands together. “WONDERFUL! TONIGHT’S MENU INCLUDES CHICKEN ALFREDO WITH BROCCOLI, GARLIC BREAD, AND A VERY AMBITIOUS CRÈME BRÛLÉE!”
Edge hums, “THAT'S A RATHER BOLD STATEMENT, CONSIDERING YOU'VE NEVER MADE IT BEFORE.” He wasn't rejecting the idea so Papyrus takes that as a win, laughing to ease any tension before they begin to cook. It’s rhythmic, methodical, chicken searing, garlic sizzling. Edge works the pasta with a practiced hand while Papyrus sings something in Italian with passionate mispronunciation. They’ve just pulled the bread from the oven when Red shuffle's into the kitchen like a shadow in a black jacket.
“Yo,” he grunts. “Roomie’s here.” Edge doesn’t look up. “ROOMIE?”
“The human,” Red says with a jerk of his thumb toward the hallway. “Vicky’s stray, showed up two hours ago.”
Edge’s face darkens. “GREAT. ANOTHER ONE.”
“She said they were weird.”
“SHE'S WEIRD.”
“Yeah, but like—extra weird. I don’t trust ‘em, something’s off.”
“ISN'T THAT YOUR DEFAULT OPINION OF ALL HUMANS?”
Red shrugs. “Especially the ones Vicky insists is her friend yet is constantly stealing from her. Didn’t you offer to let someone stay here last month?”
Edge stirs the Alfredo with more force than necessary. “YES.”
“Ohhh,” Red grins. “Someone you picked, not glitter-bomb approved.”
“EXACTLY.”
“Figures.”
They lapse into silence, save for the soft bubbling of sauce and Papyrus humming the Super Mario Bros theme now. Red stretches, spine popping like knuckles. “Anyway, we ignoring this one or what? Let ‘em fend for theirself.”
Edge scoffs. “THEY'RE A HUMAN, NOT A RACCOON.”
“Could be both. I’m just saying—after what Vicky told us? Sounds like they’re trouble.”
That stirs something in Edge. He slams the pot lid down harder than he means to. “GO GET THEM.”
Red blinks. “What? Why me?”
“BECAUSE IM ELBOW DEEP IN COOKING. GO, I'D RATHER GET THIS MEETING DONE AND OVER WITH.” Red groans but slinks off, muttering under his breath about how he’s not the house butler.
Left alone with the now simmering pasta, Edge stares into the pot like it might offer answers. He doesn’t trust Vicky, never has. She lies like it’s a hobby, like it’s cardio. Whatever she told them about the new human, it’s probably twisted half-truths and personal projections. Still.
A small part of him hopes—stupidly, irrationally—that it’s the same human, the one from the café. The one with the soft voice and the mismatched socks. The one who kept talking about their collection of ceramic cat mugs like they were pets. The one who smiled like they didn’t expect anything back.
••••
The knock isn’t really a knock, it's more like someone trying to punch their way through the wood with an emergency. Rhythmic, loud, and violent—like a warning siren with fists. The door shakes under the impact, your neatly folded socks on the floor quivering from the vibration. You freeze mid-task, one knee on the bed, a travel-sized conditioner still in your hand. You were organizing your hair products by height and color value. Now you’re being summoned. Probably.
You place the bottle down—careful to line up the label—and approach the door. There’s no fear in you, only curiosity. The knock was aggressive, sure, but maybe that’s just how people here greet each other? You are new, after all. There could be a cultural component, lodge traditions or even Skeleton Monster customs. You pull the door open with a bright, expectant expression.
Standing on the other side is a very short, very irritated skeleton in a red hoodie and black shorts. His grin—or what might’ve been a grin on someone else—is more of a permanent grimace, like he’s chewing invisible gum and hating every bite. It's Red, you congratulate yourself for remembering; narrowing his eye sockets at the sight of you.
“Dinner’s ready,” he grumbles. His voice is gravel and rust, coated a in annoyance you'd piked up in when first meeting Edge.
You brighten at the news. “Oh, nice!”
He stares at you like you just agreed to be arrested. Then, under his breath, just loud enough for you to hear as he turns away, he mutters, “don’t know why the hell he wants you at the table, but whatever.”
Before you can ask who he is, or clarify if there’s a seating chart, or whether dinner is buffet-style (which you secretly hope), the skeleton vanishes in a flash of red light. Teleportation, you conclude, you weren't as suprised since Monsters having magic was common knowledge.
You’re left standing in the hallway, considering returning to finish lining up your shampoos—but dinner seems like a communal activity. A bonding activity. The kind of thing you’ve only seen on sitcoms and occasionally in bakery commercials where everyone laughs over bread. You’ve never had a dinner like that, so tonight is the first one.
Your steps are light as you navigate the hallway, hands brushing the textured walls for reassurance. You pass a dusty painting of a singular bone. A shoe rack with only one actual shoe. A floorboard that squeaks in Morse code. Then you find the kitchen, or, more accurately, the dining room-kitchen hybrid.
It’s loud with light and smells, a cozy clash of warm surfaces and clattering pans and garlic-scented air. There are already a skeleton seated at the dining table, which is long, wooden, and just slightly too big for the room it occupies.
A large bowl of pasta sits steaming in the middle. Garlic bread is stacked like golden bricks. A ceramic ramekin of what you’re pretty sure is crème brûlée gleams from the sideboard. You barely take in the food though, because your eyes lock with him. And his eye lights lock right back.
Edge.
Tall. Broad. Sharp. Wearing an apron that says “Kiss the Cook and Die,” his gloves abandoned as you catch a glimpse of his hands dusted with flour, his cheekbone smeared with something cream-colored. You recognize him immediately, like he’s a save point you thought you lost but never did.
He stares at you. You stare at him.
The silence falls like a curtain on the room, and for a few seconds you’re all alone in a sea of glances and shifting chair legs. Then he breaks it.
“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING HERE?” he blurts, voice stiff and shocked, like he wasn’t prepared to run into you in his own home. Your mouth twitches. You try to keep it together, but the surprised-panic expression on his face is too much.
You laugh, a tiny snort slips out before you clap a hand over your mouth. “I live here now,” you explain gleefully. “Surprise!”
He doesn’t say anything right away. His head jerks slightly, like you glitched his brain. “I Thought You Said You Weren't Going To Take My Offer,” he finally mutters, glancing toward the stove, like it might rescue him from this moment.
You smile sheepishly, hand raising to smooth the back of your neck. “I didn't really plan on it, as much as I appreciated your offer. Although I didn't account for one of your roommates offering me a place either, so inadvertently I took your offer anyway.”
His sigh is explosive, like someone dragging gravel through a leaf blower. His shoulders slump, already used to your rambling. You don’t miss the faint red glow flickering at the tips of his cheekbones before he turns away sharply and stomps back toward the kitchen counter. You beam.
“Is there assigned seating?” you ask the room, genuinely.
Stretch, already seated near the far end of the table, blinks at you. “...No.”
“Oh. Cool.” You move to sit down, but your mind is still processing his appearance. You like his sweater—it has a soft kind of look that makes you want to press your face into it like a sleepy cat. You don’t, though, you’ve learned some boundaries.
You scoot your chair in, your hands folded neatly on your lap. The dining room is warm and a little too bright in spots, thanks to the overhead chandelier that blinks slightly every time your internal systems flare with a minor heat warning.
You don’t think anyone notices. Hopefully. You’re still getting used to being around so many people again. Real people. Living in a real house with a real kitchen and smells that make your stomach whir in anticipation. The food is still being brought in—big platters of steaming broccoli, golden garlic bread, and a shining silver tray of chicken Alfredo that practically glows. Papyrus—you remind yourself—buzzes around the table with the energy of a holiday parade float.
Edge follows suit, more grounded, but with an undeniable pride in the way he presents the food. He’s got a towel slung over his shoulder like he’s on a cooking show. It suits him. You catch yourself smiling again.
The others shuffle in, one by one. Sans yawns as he takes a seat as far from you as possible, Slumping into his chair, and appears to fall asleep. Blue sits beside him with a humored huff, shaking his head at his antics. Black takes the seat on the far end of the table, flipping through the same book from earlier. He doesn't even glance at you.
Red stomps in, looks at the others, glares at you, and dramatically takes a chair three seats down like your existence offended him personally. You offer him a wave. He pretends not to see it. You're not offended, not really. It’s like being the extra in a sitcom again. Someone’s always got to be the “weird new roommate” character, it's a role you can handle.
The last to enter is Mutt. His hood is still up, hiding most of his face, and he stands in the doorway like he’s trying to decide if dinner is worth the effort. Everyone else is seated now—except Papyrus and Edge, who are still making the final rounds with serving spoons. You watch as Mutt scans the room. His gaze stops on the seat beside you.
Oh.
Oh?
He slides into the chair without a word. You keep your posture neutral, but inside your processor whirls a little faster. He sat next to you. On purpose. He didn’t seem disinterested like earlier, or at least, he didn’t give off that same…cold feeling. You sneak a glance at him from the corner of your eye. Still silent, face half-shadowed, but definitely sitting. Next to you. You take that as a win.
Finally, Edge places the last dish in the center and wipes his hands on a towel with a satisfied grunt. The chair—on your other side—is still empty. Your eyes follow him as he approaches, expecting him to veer off and take a seat somewhere else, farther, more… well, not next to you. But he doesn’t. He pulls out the chair beside you, clears his throat, and sits down.
There’s a second of silence. A visible shift in the air. You feel it the way animals feel earthquakes before they happen. Across the table, Vicky freezes, halfway through biting into her bread. Her happy go lucky expression doesn’t falter, but the gleam in her eye turns sharper. Still, no one says anything.
Papyrus sits across from you with his usual radiant energy, too caught up in how perfectly golden the bread turned out to notice the tension buzzing in the air like a faulty ceiling fan.
“DINNER IS SERVED!” he declares, clapping once. “BON APPÉTIT, EVERYONE!” A few of the others chuckle at his words, although you don't know what they're laughing at. Chairs scrape. Plates clink. Everyone digs in—well, most of them do. There’s a rhythm to it that you don’t quite catch in time. You reach for the broccoli at the same moment as Blue, then immediately pull back.
“Oops! You go first. Alphabetically, you’re ahead of me.”
He blinks. “WHAT?”
You smile. “B before Y. It makes sense.” He just nods slowly, like he’s unsure if you’re joking.
You’re not, but you’ve learned that explaining your logic sometimes makes people confused instead of enlightened, so you don’t elaborate. Edge drops a spoonful of Alfredo onto your plate without comment. His movements are precise, almost surgical. You say, “thank you,” and he gives a small grunt in response. You interpret this as “you’re welcome.”
Dinner carries on in that quiet, clinking way, punctuated by little arguments about seasoning and someone (you think it’s Black) muttering under his breath about “sauce ratios” like it's a moral issue.
You try not to look at the subtle way some of the others angle themselves away from you as they eat, as if proximity might be contagious. It does sting, a little, but then you take a bite of the Alfredo and all systems go quiet.
Your eyes widen. “This is really good,” you say, probably louder than you meant to. “Like, this tastes like it was made in one of those competitive chef shows.”
Edge scoffs. “HMPH! OF COURSE IT DOES, I MADE IT.”
“You’re a crazy good chef,” you say, nodding rapidly. “Did you use heavy cream or just milk? The texture—wait—is this handmade pasta?”
He puffs up, just slightly. “CORRECT, IT TOOK ME A FEW WEEKS TO PERFECT THE RECIPE. THAT CHEAP STORE BOUGHT CRAP ISN'T GOOD ENOUGH FOR MY RECIPE.”
“You should sell this,” you say seriously. “Package it, build a franchise and start a pasta empire.”
“IM GLAD YOU ACKNOWLEDGE MY EXPERTISE.” He leans back with a smirk, visibly pleased. “I HAVE BEEN PERFECTING MY TECHNIQUE SINCE COMING TO THE SURFACE. EVEN SOMEONE AS GREAT AS I, CAN CONTINUE TO IMPROVE.”
You nod, mid-chew, already working on another bite when—
“So,” Vicky cuts in, her tone sugar-sweet with arsenic undercurrents. “How do you two know each other?” You pause, blinking at her.
“Oh! We work together,” you say brightly. “At the Catfé Lounge café. I help with taking care of the Cats, repairing the electrical equipment, and sometimes the register when we're short on staff. Edge—he trained me, I guess. But mostly he yells a lot and makes amazing coffee.”
Red scoffs from down the table. “Dunno how someone like you’s workin’ with my brother. Doesn’t seem like you’re… qualified.”
You turn to him with your fork halfway to your mouth. “I’m not. I lied on my resume.” Edge nearly drops his fork.
You blink. “Oh, was that not a joke moment?” Red narrows his sockets.
“I mean, I didn’t really lie,” you explain. “I just didn’t correct the manager when they thought ‘biomechanic engineering’ meant ‘fixing espresso machines.’”
There’s a beat of silence. Then you add, “But I do fix them, so I think it counts. I’m more of a learn-as-you-go person. Like a rat in a maze, but with better hair.”
Red opens his mouth, then closes it. Black’s eyes flick toward you, briefly, as if trying to rearrange his internal data on you.
Vicky scoffs. “Well, that’s not very responsible. Some of us don’t appreciate liars.”
“I’m not a liar,” you say. “I’m just on a different… narrative timeline. You’re watching the movie, I’m reading the book, and someone else is probably editing the wiki.” It’s meant to lighten the mood. You smile as you say it, but Vicky’s lips twitch with annoyance.
Then—like an unexpected seismic shift—Mutt laughs. A real one, a low, breathy chuckle that actually makes him shake a little in his chair. You turn to him slowly, surprised.
The room falls quiet.
Stretch’s head lifts from his leaning perch. Blue stares in mild surprise. Papyrus blinks once. Even Red’s eye-sockets widen just a little. Mutt doesn’t seem to notice, or maybe he doesn’t care, because he just shakes his head and mutters, “That was so weird.”
You hesitate, your programming isn’t sure if this is the right time, but social cohesion indicates laughter is contagious, so you try to replicate his tone with your own awkward laugh. It comes out more like a soft wheeze but you try.
Edge’s shoulders are shaking too, but his face is turned away. You think he’s hiding a smile, or maybe he's just malfunctioning. You can’t tell, either way, it makes you feel warm.
Vicky slams her fork down. “Well,” she says, standing up so fast her chair screeches. “I’ve lost my appetite.”
Red mutters something and pushes his chair back too. You don’t catch what he says, but the scowl he gives you is sharp enough to qualify as a weapon. You wave a little as he follows Vicky out of the room. They don’t wave back.
The silence that follows is heavy, but not in a bad way. Just… quieter. Less performative. The tension slowly drains from the air like steam off the pasta.
You look around the table. Stretch has gone back to watching the ceiling. Black’s still reading, and Sans is no where in sight. Blue's finished his food, and collected his and Stretch's plate. But Mutt is still beside you, relaxed. Edge’s still there too.
You glance at him. “This dinner’s great.”
Edge snorts again, but it’s not annoyed. “COULD HAVE USED FAR LESS DRAMA.”
“I liked it,” you say honestly. “The food and the company.”
“EVEN WITH ALL THE SCRUTINIZING GAZES?”
“They were medium side-eyes compared to what I'm used to,” you say thoughtfully. “But the Alfredo’s a solid ten out of ten.”
He smirks. “YOU ARE VERY WEIRD.”
“I get that a lot,” you reply, beaming.
Eventually, the others begin to drift off, leaving their plates stacked and their chairs askew. Papyrus hums a tune as he starts collecting dishes. You offer to help, but he waves you off with a grin and an apron flourish.
You sit there for a few minutes longer, savoring the fading smells and warmth of the dining room, and the way your chair creaks just a little when you shift. The garlic bread is gone. The crème brûlée’s surface has been cracked and devoured. The warmth in your chest hasn’t faded.
You think to yourself—this was a really good first dinner. You don’t notice the way some of the others looked at you like a puzzle with too many pieces. You don’t pick up on the bite in Vicky’s voice or the suspicious glances shared between Sans and Red.
You just remember the way Edge’s voice softened when he bragged about his cooking. The way Mutt laughed. The way the seats beside you weren't empty for once, and that, to you, means everything.