Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Cross wasn’t sure what he thought would happen.  

Everything is a mess in the Original Universe, he doesn’t know where Ink is, and after confronting his brother he is sure that he is going into unknown territory. Nobody is how he remembers, and XGaster surely will be not much different. Time was running low, and he couldn’t waste it now. 

He was running, but for some reason, it really caught his attention when he heard someone in a nearby alley, a scream, specifically from a monster child. He stopped, going straight to it.  

He saw a kid at the end of the valley, only embracing their knees. Tears rolled from their face as they looked at the two monsters. He would jump straight to the danger, he was still a guard for god’s sake, of course he would try to protect a child, until.  

“Shut up.”  a shiver got to his spine, the familiar guttural voice, fragile, but still intimidating. Nightmare.  

The child seemed scared enough to not scream, they runned off with despair, without problems, they were too hurt from the last battle to care enough.  

Cross hid himself before a dumpster in reaction. Still wanting to see what would happen. 

Killer was holding his broken arm while leaning against the wall. Heavy breathing.  

“Fuckin– Ugh, fucking big ol’man, controlling some–” he took his arm and forcibly put it back in place, groaning in unspeakable pain. “Some shit-ass X with legs that seemed to come from– a stupid manga or some shit.”  

Now that the adrenaline was over, anger was coming more to the surface, and with that, he closed his eyes, as he tried to focus on another thing other than pain.  

“If I was fighting fair with that emo, I surely would win.” He chuckled. 

Nightmare and him stayed quiet for a couple of seconds, nightmare seemed to slowly get to his humanized form. He turned his gaze to Killer. Staring emotionless. 

When finally formed at least one of his tentacles, he immediately yanked Killer to the wall by his neck, firmly holding him. Not even smiling anymore. 

“Do you think this is funny?” The grip in the tentacle became stronger, along with Killer's despair, struggling sounds coming from his mouth. “I gave you an order to do the only, single thing you're good at, and you couldn't even bring yourself to do it.” 

Nightmare's voice is serious, quiet. As if not wanting to waste energy in useless anger. But deception. It brings familiarity to Cross. Killer’s smile is more unstable, maybe even nervous.  

“As if that’s solely my fault.” 

“What are you implying?” 

“Cross was folded like paper, and that little sunshine was with his light just buzzing, we would have had the victory. But no.” Killer smiled more. “Admit it. you can’t win Dream even at his lowest”  

Nightmare nothing said. He could feel the air changing, not in a metaphorical sense, Nightmare’s negative energy impacting all the surroundings. 

“I’ll give you the threat, few had the courage to speak to me like that. Maybe you and Cross had more in common than I thought.” Nightmare smiled. the grip tightened. and Cross could see Killer struggling in pain. “So I can’t let the same mistake happen.”  

Cross didn’t know what came to him. Maybe it was a guard instinct, maybe it was his fight or flight mindset. But, at the moment, he really, really, wanted to punch himself for not just daring to think this was a good plan, for not just having the impulse, almost automatic instinct of saving someone, but that someone being Killer.

His ideas were not always the brightest. 

He came out of the place he was hiding, wanting to save someone who definitely wouldn't do the same for him. 

He pulled his daggers and used as much precision as he could to cut though Nightmare’s tentacles, Killer fell into the ground, coughing while holding his own bruised neck. Nightmare hissed and looked at Cross, anger boiling his insides so much he couldn’t even bring himself to say anything.  

Cross stranded in front of Killer. Daggers ready for the attack. He took Killer's hands and pulled him out of that valley, Nightmare wouldn't waste time when he recovered himself fully, Cross is sure he just got up in Nightmare's hit list, higher than he already is atleast. 

Nightmare screamed, a guttural, aberrational scream, agonizing to hear, that neither a human or monster would be capable to get out of the their lungs. He tried to walk, his goop sticking to the ground, acid, burning in rage. He was slow, but Cross wouldn't underestimate Nightmare, especially in a negative universe as it is right now. 

He runned off as fast as he could, going though the streets and trying to calm the fear in his soul. He could still hear Nightmare's voice following them, loud stomps on the road. He entered a building, hiding to the side and peaking though the gap of the door. Trying to be stealthy, quiet, putting a hand in Killer's big mouth. 

Silence. The voice was going to a different way. 

Cross sighed in relief. 

He relaxed enough to put both arms down.

"...What the fuck did you just do." 

Oh right. Killer. 

"Saved you. You're welcome" Cross said sarcastically. He tried to open the door to exit, only for Killer to pull his arm and slam his back against the wall in such a fast way that certainly a injured person shouldn't be capable of doing. 

He took his knife, pointing directly at Cross face. His arm was trembling.

"Why would you do that" Killer's voice sounded confused, trying to keep the serious facade. 

Cross noticed his hoarse voice, forcing to come out from his throat, but his attempts only seemed to make it more weaker. He didn’t seem to care.

Cross tried to struggle to get away, only for Killer to keep the knife directly at Cross neck. He really didn't have time for that. 

"Get off me." 

"Answer the fucking question" 

"I don't know" 

"that's not an answer" 

"I don't care, get off me." Cross demanded, staring into Killer's empty sockets "Before I make you do." 

The way he said it made Killer's soul boil, like it was more for Killer's sake and security than his, like he wasn't enough of a challenge, like he was moking him. It was more irritating the fact that he was right.

Killer seemed to consider the option. Both of them knew Killer wasn't in any condition to fight right now, and Cross would easily beat him if he wanted. 

Killer hesitantly lowered the knife while moving away, feeling his legs shaking, he throwed himself to the ground. He breathed heavily, groaning in pain while holding his arm. 

Cross peaked through the door, when going though here, he was sure he was hearing not only Nightmare but innumerous voices in despair, and now, it was quiet, a weird silence, something was wrong. Severely wrong. 

"What is it?" Killer noticed. 

"I don't know...There's something that just ain't right" 

"Yeah, maybe its the fact that the Original Universe turned to be monochromatic and corrupted by your problematic crew?" 

"They're not–" He turned to look at Killer with a disgusted face, only to notice his grin. He sighed, resignated. "There are more to that. We will stay here for the time being" 

Killer groaned dramatically in insatisfaction. Whining while Cross rolled his eyes. 

"Good to be with you too." 

"I seriously will have to be there, with you?? just because your gut say so??" 

"It's more than it. I know I'm conected, somehow, with the rest of– Xgaster...Creations." Cross grimaced, the sound of that tasted horrible in his tongue, but there was a better way to say this? "And is possible for one of them to be near." 

"And what? We could just kick their asses" 

"You couldn't even bring yourself to kick mine" 

"You–!" Killer tried to get up in an impulse, only to stop when a sharp pain came to his bruises, groaning in pain but rapidly trying to get an answer out of his throat. "Yeah?! Well, when you're cheating it becomes easy" 

"And XGaster doesn’t play fair, and will not, with none of them. If we can avoid any of them, better." 

For a second, Killer was surprisingly silent. 

"Coward." Killer spat at the ground by his side. Smirking at Cross, prepotent. "You're just scared of confronting the ones you brought shame"

Cross stared at Killer, his gaze perfuring him as he smiled. He sighed. 

"Yeah, maybe I am." 

Killer smile fell apart, looking annoyed, with deception when the answer wasn't the one he was looking for. He just threw his head to the side, more out of spite, avoiding looking at Cross. 

Cross still wasn't sure why he did what he did.

...

Chapter Text

Cross gazed Killer sleeping, he was recovering from the injuries. 

Most of the observing came from a place of habit, being vigilant of a murderer wasn't being paranoid, and he couldn’t be framed as a creep for it, if it was just for his own security...Mostly. 

He couldn't lie that he felt a little bit of envy, it had been so long since he had a rest. A real rest, because sleeping for him just consisted of stress until he was unconscious, or maybe not even sleeping at all. 

Not something he wasn't already used to though. Even after all that happened in X-Tale, he tried to use Undyne's methods to keep a calm soul, to imagine his brother hugging him after another night of nightmares, tried to remember how sometimes, Muffet would bring sweet threats in the middle of the night when he was awake — even if she still requested money, and in the end he would always be in debt with her, also, he was pretty sure he was just the test subject for the taste. 

How Frisk would chat with him about deep topics, when they tried to do sleepovers together in the palace, but then both of them couldn't sleep, he usually would bring his music box and put it in his room, playing a calm melody.

Or even how one time, and he never forgot that, he was just a kid, awake in the middle of the night because of a nightmare, he couldn't even remember what it was. XGaster was on the couch reading, Cross sat beside him. His dad asked with a frustrated tone, not getting his eyes out of the book. 

"Shouldn't you be sleeping right now?”

And tiny as Cross as, but wanting to be seen as a grown up so bad, he gave an answer filled with shame.

"Had a nightmare." 

With a silence, he dared to stare at his dad with his tired look. XGaster sighed. 

If Cross wasn’t so wary of his past memories nowadays — They usually held more hope then he could allow himself to have —, he was sure he could see a glimpse of compassion in XGaster's face, but he couldn't be sure if that's what he wanted to see, or if that was what really happened. 

He appeared for a moment, like he understood. Like he wasn't so distant from whatever pit Cross was born in, like he could see and feel as an equal.

He didn't know why, really. He deeply, very deeply, wanted to hate XGaster for everything that happened, really wanted to destroy and rip apart with his own phalanges every fragment of any, even if little, sympathy he had for that old man. 

However, it never got out of his mind. The moment he patted Cross lil' head, the moment he could feel the pressure of his hand allowing himself to feel secure, how it gently led it to lie in his lap, how it felt better than any pillow he had, how he didn't even feel he needed a blanket to tuck his tiny body. How he missed something he never even had.

XGaster was never a good father, but for some moment, he could swear he saw a figment of a life they could have had if they were both better, if Cross was close to being enough, maybe he would be better too. Those tiny moments were what moved all his will to try for some years.

Sometimes, when he woke up from any nightmares, he imagined his father giving him the same treatment. He never asked again, of course, however, he enjoyed it enough while he could. He would cling to that memory every once in a while.

Then again, he didn’t think seeing Killer sleeping would bring that many memories. Maybe he was just nostalgic, maybe relieved, from seeing everyone again, even if it wasn't the best of the re-encounters. 

He stared outside. Some time ago — Maybe 3 or 4 hours? He wasn't sure — a music box started playing, echoing through all this area, it was low, but Cross could recognize it. 

He could remember Frisk, singing along with whispers. Cross isn't sure if he wanted others to hear, but he knew how the music would go, "Make nightmares go away, make dreams stay", the same innocent, ignorant smile. 

He would hide it, because he was ashamed of how after so many years, he would still cling to that music box Toriel gave him. 

It was just a secret from them two.

That made him sure on what challenge waited for them past this door, who was past this door. He groaned in pure dissatisfaction, how perfect. 

He heard a groan from behind him.

"Hey. Can you bark lower? Some monsters are trying to sleep here." Killer interjected. And even if Cross felt inclined to apologize — Primarily because he knew Killer had to rest to heal his injuries — his pride was always intervening. 

"Does the princess need a queen sized bed too?" Cross mocked. Killer got up in the meantime, cracking his back 

"Maybe I need because this fucking ground is killing my back." 

A silence. 

Killer tried to contain a smirk, along with a giggle. 

Cross stayed annoyed. 

"...Are you serious right now?" 

Killer tried to put his two arms to the air in surrender "What? I swear it wasn't on purpose— Ouch!", only to remember how broken it was. 

Cross sighed deeply. He turned his stare outside again, thinking. 

Killer paused, he supported his back against the wall, looking around. He hated his brain when he woke up, innumerous things to process, and, even if he didn't appreciate how loudly Cross woke him up, Killer wasn't pleased by the silence. 

Killer started to play with his own finger to distract himself. Looking at Cross, analysing, getting clues on the past hours.

Old clothes back somehow, even if Killer was sure he ripped a good chunk of them apart.

Not a single trace of scars, broken bones, blood, dust, nothing, he was in such a perfect state that it was uncanny.

Daggers back, stained by black goop.

He didn't liked how everything seemed to become more clear to him. 

He betrayed Nightmare. 

—No, he didn't, he would rebember something like that— 

That was familiar. 

—You said he was weaker than Dream— 

Nightmare was gonna kill him, until Cross appeared.

His head started to get louder. 

He could still feel the tentacle, the grip in his throat, he didn’t noticed how he was still with a hoarse voice.

The noises becoming more and more like static of a TV. 

His soul was flickering, agitated, trying to change. 

He slowly brought his hand to his chest, trying to hold his own soul and squeeze it. Distort it. He couldn't think too much about it right now. 

Where would he go now? 

The tips of his fingers touched superficially the soul, it hurted, the thumb was behind, and they, with a hesitant act, painfully, cautiously — Necessarily —, interlocked together. 

Was Color still out there? 

Killer got a strong grip in his own soul, trying to remember how Nightmare — The one he betrayed, the one he should devote his pathetic, useless, without purpose life — would do. 

Waiting for him? 

He was remodeling, fixing the sensible. An indifferent soul was a perfect weapon, moldable, adaptive, useful. One to never abandon. 

When Killer — Killer, that was his name. — opened his hand, his soul continued to be the target. The determination continued to drip from his eyes. 

You will stay that way. 

Did he owe Cross his life now? 

He indeed held a debt with him for saving his life.

Not that he needed to know that.

“Hey.”

Killer was taken back from his thoughts by Cross voice. He didn't notice how he sat beside, meters away, wary.

“Maybe we will need to get out of here.” Cross says, as staring at the violet sky through the window, as if waiting for something, he turned to look at Killer again. “You don't need to keep up with me.”

Killer stared at Cross. He felt as numb as a simple object, unable to process correctly what Cross said, he should agree. He didn't feel like talking, he expected Cross would understand his silence.

Cross waited, Killer nodded. 

Cross squinted his eyes, trying to decipher while staring directly at Killer, as if he was planning something. 

“Why are you so quiet?” He asked in an accusatory tone. “You usually are much more talkative than that.”

Killer shrugged, still not looking Cross directly. Killer didn’t have any pupils, but he knew he seemed lost, not exactly paying attention to any place but the ground, not doing any big reactions or actions as he was always expected too.

Cross seemed to get his own conclusions based on that, as he crossed his own arms and supported himself on the wall, tired, he just gave up trying to analyze Killer intentions. 

Killer couldn't care, he had enough to be preoccupied right now.

“We will leave by the time your injuries are healed.” Killer didn’t have enough energy to nood.

Killer felt like he was about to pass out again. He heard Cross muttering something about how they couldn't reach the Omega Timeline right now, how Geno's timeline wasn't safe either, trying to think about a safe place to leave — abandon — Killer. He didn't have enough time to process the rest, his eyelids were too heavy.

…

By the morning — It was already morning? They couldn't exactly pinpoint a time when the sky was all in purple —, they both got to leave the building, Killer felt his arm was better, so he didn't had any problem when playing again with his knife.

Cross seemed nervous, he always was looking around, always adjusting his clothes, always reaching for his weapon. 

They both runned around the city for a couple of hours, Killer was sure he could hear a music box sometimes, tingling in the end of alleys or in an abandoned road, maybe even calling him, but maybe it was just a thing from his head, it wouldn't be the first time he has hallucinations! Who knows.

Heh, he just remembered a funny joke with hallucinations and powder.

Cross would look over his shoulder regularly, he was tense, eyes concentrated, he had a mission in mind and didn't look like he would lose his focus.

Killer just followed Cross whatever he decided to go, he tried to touch his shoulder to call him and ask where they were going, but Cross would just shrug him off with a grunt.

Eventually, when they reached a road, Killer recognized it.

“What– what are we doing here?” Killer looked at Cross, searching for answers.

Cross stayed staring forward. And then at the ground, pondering, maybe still deciding.

“We are going underground.”

Killer was hearing his own soulbeat.

He could feel his own clothes getting tighter. 

Killer didn’t felt angry. But maybe his grip on his own knife turned stronger.

“Of fucking course we are, I noticed that. I'm asking why would you want to get us there.”

“There's still something down there.” Cross sighed. He looked at Killer for a moment, that was resignment? Melancholy? A plead?

He was asking for Killer to go with him? — No, no, why would someone ask something like this for him again? —

Was he asking for him to stay? — He wouldn't be so careful of Killer's safety, would he? Was he mocking Killer's strenght? —

Was he waiting for Killer to decide?

Killer stayed quiet for a couple of seconds, until he laughed, putting his hand in Cross's shoulder, patting it before he started walking right to Mount Ebbot. “Welp, then here we go back to the ground where skeletons belong” 

Cross didn’t said anything, but Killer knew he did acknowledge the joke when he did a minor reaction, a mix of “wanting to find it funny” and “there's something deeply wrong about you” that in the end just resulted in an awkward face without much control of which features move to form a proper face reaction. 

Killer did appreciate it anyway.

Chapter Text

Most of his memories felt like a dream, like something he could have created out of nowhere. When he would ask Nightmare, “Hey, you remember this?”, he normally would simply respond, “This never happened.”, and Killer would believe him. Of course he would, because who else could he believe?

However, Killer remembered exactly, most of his memories are distant, like decades ago, sometimes he would lose track of the time. But this one. This one he held so close to his chest.

He held like it was some precious item, one that made him sure of his decisions when it came to Nightmare. 

Killer loved animals. Loved cats more than anything, peaceful, delicate, indifferent from the world and its changes if it didn’t impact them, at least his ones were like that. He liked how one of them, the one with blank paws — he remembered that because they seemed like gloves —would be at his lap and suddenly decided it would be more comfortable to lay in Killer’s neck, purring. 

He never complained, because he felt better, warm. 

He knew he could tell his cats how bad of a monster he actually is, and they wouldn’t care at all. Maybe they would even see him as a valent parent instead, protecting them. 

He never had enough time to name them. 

Nightmare took the one from his neck, and for the first time in a long time, things were so slow, and he was so aware of everything, he could hear things so well, he felt stuck in a moment, he felt so sure that this was real.

He remembered perfectly how Nightmare squeezed the cat between his tentacles, Killer couldn’t get his eyes out of the cat, he didn’t want to remember that, why must he remember that with such perfection? He remembered how he could see the cat being thrown away to the wall, the audible “crack”. 

How Nightmare smiled wide, teeths, his orbs expanding in pleasure from feeling Killer’s pain, his agony, his joints nervously trembling, trying to catch anything, anything.

He couldn’t make himself walk, see, everything was a blur, and at the same time, Nightmare was in the focus, the only thing that mattered. 

“It's things like you, that don’t carry belongings, incapable of such. Not like beings, not worthy of earthly chains.” He stared at Killer. ”Don't flatter yourself, daring to think you're more than that.”

Nightmare looked at him. Not prepotent, impossible to be arrogant, he wasn't like Killer, too innocent to think he was more than he already was. No, Nightmare knew how much higher he was from the rest of the beings, especially from a simple object like Killer. 

Killer knew how he held no value in comparison to, not just the one who was omnipotent as a guardian of the negative feelings, but as the one who gave him a purpose, the one who was benevolent enough to offer a, even if insignificant to an eternal being, time and space.

Killer held just so little, so little, and he should be grateful Nightmare even dared to look down on him, because he could do worse. He could ignore him. And that wouldn't be hurtful, but what means when something is, instead of horrible, nothing? 

A simple null.

…

But Killer didn’t know why his head decided to remember this.

Maybe Asgore's abandoned throne room was bringing him such a sentimental part of him that it was disgusting. 

He reached the throne with his phalanges, looking around, flowers that aren't even cared anymore. Nobody can water them anymore.

Cross was at the door, crossing his arms, supported by the big door frame. He seemed concentrated in such a specific thing that Killer couldn't see. Killer got closer with his classic, sharp smile.

“Troubled by something, Criss-Cross?”

“Criss–?” He looked dubious, but gave up in the middle, just sighed and accepted. “I– I still hear that music box.” He closed what were supposed to be his ears, as if testing if he was really hearing. “There's something that calls me.” He stares at Killer.

Killer tried to hear it, a faint silver sound, but so low he isn't even sure if that's the music box Cross is hearing. 

“Did you come all the way down there because of…A unknown sound?” Killer sarcastically asked, an expression to look like arching an eyebrow. 

Cross rapidly took the defensive. 

“I'm not crazy, okay? Just…curious.”

“I'm pretty sure there are bigger problems than your curiosity to be satisfied. Like, y’know, your old man way up there?” Killer emphasized “your”, causing Cross to seem a bit tense.

Killer's smile widened a little more.

“ This is connected with XGaster, somehow. I know that.”

“Uh huh.” Killer sarcastically agreed, he nodded, not believing for a single second. 

Of course, Cross seemed the type of dog who would only follow his instincts or other's orders, and Killer could see so clearly how he badly wanted to be right, maybe he was just running away from his issues, maybe he was crazy, maybe he was desperate enough to any method. 

It made this journey to be so much more interesting, so fun.

His soul flickered, how far could he take this game?  

Cross started walking, corridor after corridor of uncertainty towards something he wasn't even sure what it exactly was, and Killer followed behind him, curious about his next move. He seemed so paranoid about Killer backstabbing him, always looking back, always with his hand in his dagger, almost losing attention on his original mission. 

Killer laughed at how many times Cross almost hit his head against a wall.

And Cross still looked back, eyes always so open, and Killer would always just innocently wave.

“Wow~ Soooo anxious, c'mon Crossy, we're partners now! Give me a little bit of credit, maybe even some trust…” 

He grunted, Killer was sure he even maybe growled. Stopping to look behind to look at the front again.

“Not happening.”

Killer shrugged. 

They continued their path until Asgore's House and its entrance. Killer started to hear the sound in a more continuous, unpleasant way. It started to ring inside his head, bringing a damned headache to screw his senses.

Cross, however, didn’t seem affected at all, he sometimes would put his hand on his head, hesitantly, but nothing more. 

Lucky bastard.

…

Cross felt like he was gonna vomit.

Cross had a headache so strong with this music box sound, that he thought his head would explode. His senses seemed so messed up, he could just faint at any given moment.

This incessantly sound was making him so mad, and he didn’t even know where it was coming from! His paces started to be more aggressive, impatient, and he couldn’t bear the thought of Killer noticing. Because Killer wasn’t to be given trust, he wouldn’t be a dog on anyone's leash again.

Not again. 

So he did what he could to keep his head tall, even if the dizziness kept making it spin, and maybe he felt weak in the knees, and maybe he thought he was hallucinating with voices, but who cared. 

In Asgore’s house, they could just search around, Cross did a signal for them to split, — And then he could throw up in any place he wanted, without Killer’s voice being just another reason for how sick he already felt. — Killer did go directly to the kitchen without any complaints, while Cross was sure he heard something in the bedroom. 

His feet walked towards the hallway, his body felt more and more heavy, as he reached closer and closer. 

He felt so weak. But he needed to know what was past these doors.

He reached the handle, maybe even supporting himself in it, pulling it down while trembling. 

Why he even tried?

The door opened. 

The echo of the door groaning resonating through the walls, a brain fog that made Cross unable to rationalize what exactly was happening. 

Nothing at all. 

No sound, no music box. 

Just the old, paranoid, Cross.

Of course he would let his emotions take the best of him.

He was always the one who did this. 

Calm soul.  

The one who couldn’t even control his magic, who’s thoughts, his own imperfect body, made his soul unstable enough. Biting at the hand that feeds him, like a damn dog who doesn’t know his place. 

Why did he think he could change anything? 

Calm soul.

That’s why it happened more, they knew how easy he is, how unstable he is, how he wouldn’t notice, he was nothing more than what they made him to be. 

A folded, white paper, made to be used, scratched, scribbled, written and rewritten until satisfaction appeared but it didn’t matter how many times they tried, it wouldn’t reach a perfect point. 

It didn’t matter.

Calm soul.

Chapter Text

He didn’t wanna sleep, didn’t wanna wake up, didn’t wanna get out of the bed. 

These types of days were…Annoying, to say at least, where not even this could be fulfilling enough to make a single movement to accomplish a single thing. 

He didn’t want to brush his teeth, didn’t want to shower, didn’t want to clean his room, didn’t want to take out the thrash, and in all honesty, just being alive seemed to drain so much energy that it didn't even seem worth it. 

Sans hated this. — Was this really his name? — He felt pathetic. 

He would remember so much, at the same time he couldn’t remember a single thing.

Was this day repeating itself, again and again?

…

“Hm– Croffy fis–” Killer tried to say, mouth full of pie, swallowing before continuing. “taking a long time in that room, isn’t he?”

— Heh, disgusting —

Maybe you should check him…

Killer stared at the hallway. Maybe Cross was taking a nap, the sound stopped some time ago and they should have time to relax a little before continuing.

“Yeah, maybe.” 

…

Sans looked at the window, the sun stayed at the same place, as he was in the morning, as he was at night.

Time didn’t seem to pass, time didn’t seem to matter. 

He was pretty sure Papyrus — That is right? — Should have already come to his room, but it didn’t matter how much he waited — Excuses, excuses, just say you don’t want to come out of the bed —, he didn’t come.

He used one hand as support to get up, sit, and stare at the door. 

He then got up, the fatigue getting through all his bones, making them heavier.

But he still got up. 

He walked to the door, hesitantly putting his phalanges to pull the handle. 

He saw his —That was right? — house, saw the hallways, walked through them, until he got to the living room. Papyrus, his father and Alphys. All of them, blurred faces looking down. 

He walked out of the house, everyone that appeared in his way was blurred, a picture, a painting the artist was unsatisfied, and just by looking at it, the artist felt such remorse and stress, that they felt the need to cross out the mistake. 

And the days wouldn’t pass, and the hours would continue to be the same. 

And the objectives would be pointless, and nothing would matter.

And whose fault was that?

Maybe it was mine, Sans thought. 

Maybe I did this. 

…

Killer reached to open the room, he first knocked for his own sake, Cross didn’t say anything, and not one sound came out for him to even know if Cross was really there or not, and that was clue enough for him to enter. 

There was a melody. A symphony. 

…

Frisk reached his side, his face was not blurred, it was clear as day, his eyes were open, and a fine red line below his eye claimed Sans's attention. 

Sans asked, and it sounded more genuine than he intended. “Are you happy with what you did here?” 

Frisk stared at him, purple eyes filled with sorrow, unable to undo the wrong in this miserable world, unable to stop the cycle, unable to stop, but confused at the statement. “You did this” 

“You did, because you are equal to us” 

“I’m nothing like you.” He grimaces in disgust.

“Maybe not, if you were, you could have stopped on your own terms.” He blinked, looking to all of the city, melancholy of a long accepted fate.  “You maybe wished, sometime in the past, that you were me. Maybe in admiration, maybe in a reflection of his need for control, but you wanted this.”

Frisk —?— said nothing.

“Do you ever miss me?” Sans —Maybe he wasn't Sans — asked.

He was trying to ponder, and he pondered, quietly, as time didn’t pass, he could think for a long time.

As the sun didn’t come down, as the moon didn’t come up, he stayed for a long time.

And Frisk wished he could contain the answer in the tip of his tongue. Because he missed, missed a lot, but he couldn’t give that satisfaction to Sans, because it would mean admitting he made a mistake.

Because that would mean admitting he doesn't quite like this life now, didn’t? But he likes it. And in the end, it doesn’t matter. 

“Everyday.” He looked up, a mirror to himself. “I miss the ignorance, I miss my brother, I miss my sister, my friends, my even if so agitated routine. I miss being Sans, but I can’t live now without being Cross.” 

Cross — Yeah, that was him, no Sans, no Frisk. — looked at Frisk, a resigned, understanding look. 

Days passed in this place, and he noticed someone else was there. All his attention diverged to another entity, one that was looking at them, not by far. It was a skeleton, a Sans, classic clothes and face. Just right in front of Frisk and Cross.

He stared at Cross, trying to hide a surprised, wide eyed, irritated face, not achieving much. 

Cross tried to walk towards him, but Frisk reached to Cross, grabbing his hand. 

“Stay.” 

“I can’t” 

Frisk stared at his orbs. Cold, apathetic, seeming to change completely as the person he was before, seeming so familiar.  

“don't mistake it for a plea.”

…

The place changed. 

They weren’t where they were anymore. 

It felt like a fever dream.

And now, Killer was by his side. 

He didn’t have time enough to identify the place, because Killer was pushing him to the wall, again.

He created a fine and sharp bone, rapidly stabbing Cross between his ribs. It brought a pain that made him vividly aware of his surroundings, the familiar taste of the adrenaline, the feeling of warm blood crawling and dripping to the ground, staining his clothes. Ah yes, he didn’t miss this feeling.

Unfortunately for him, Killer clearly missed it by a lot. He could see his soul agitated, his smile growing, determination flowing, gaining form of tears and falling from his eye sockets. 

His face came close to what was supposed to be his ears, whispering. 

“Are you satisfied, rubbing on my face that you reject what is my deepest wish?” He giggled, digging deeper into his ribs, moving in an agonizing way that made Cross groan. “I should have known, you just wanted to humiliate me.” 

“Wha–” Killer didn’t give the chance for Cross to talk, moving the bone, Cross screamed in pain. And Killer seemed so pleased by that, looking deeply into Cross.

“Were you just envied by how loyal I was to Nightmare?” Cross could hear how Killer’s voice was torn by rage, controlled, precise rage. 

He got the bone out with brute force, Cross breathed heavily, taking all the air he could, until Killer stabbed him again in the femur, he fell to the ground screaming in pain, while Killer still looked down on him. “You just wanted your own dog too? To retribute your favors? To be grateful to you?” 

Killer stepped on the top of the bone, stucking Cross’ leg to the ground. He kneeled to be face to face with Cross, smiling widely. 

Too familiar, this is too familiar. 

“I’m not at your service, you’re just pathetic as me.”

Killer continued to stare at him as Cross fought his own body, his own pain and breathing. He stared as this lunatic was taking pleasure from all this, he liked to see him in pain, of course he liked. Why did he save him? Why did he even accept Killer to come with him? 

He hated this jerk so much. He knew Killer wouldn’t do the same to him. He didn’t know what he expected from all this. 

Cross tried to pull his dagger, only for Killer to take his foot out of the bone and step in his hand. 

He continued to stare, his soul flickering, moving.

“I could kill you right now.”

He continued to breathe heavily, his body starting to process more and more the pain. The wrath became more clear, he wanted to take his dagger, he wanted to shut Killer up, wanted to make him not forget his place never again. 

His face came closer to Killer’s, challenging tone. 

“Then do it.” 

They continued to stare at each other.

And only after some seconds in this same position, giving up trying now, did Killer get his foot out and sit by his side on the pillar. 

A pillar. 

Judgement room. 

He heard something outside. 

Birds were singing, flowers were probably blooming too, and the day seemed so beautiful. 

Killer’s deep breaths flooded the place, his own rapid breaths and groans, the sound of blood dripping to the ground, and the melody continued echoing. 

He tried to put pressure on the wound, not that it would matter anyway. 

The silence pendured for some time. 

Cross sighed.

…

Killer hated Cross guts.

Hated his face, hated his personality, hated his fight style, hated his stupid AU, hated how familiar he was. 

And he hated how he couldn’t quite put a finger on why he doesn’t end his miserable life now. Maybe a payback, maybe his — already fucked up — conscience saying it wouldn't be fair to do it just now, or maybe he wanted Cross to suffer more.

He knew he could, he was in control now. 

No more Nightmare.

No more Nightmare.

This was real.

Killer looked at his own hand, touched the ground.

Real.

Judgement room.

Real?

No, he wasn't in his AU again, no more Chara, no more timelines.

He was in control now.

But everything seems the same.

Killer got up, he wouldn't be like this by Cross side, this ungrateful arrogant will rot in this place just like all the sanses should. Will turn into just dust and ashes and Killer will flourish with all the XP and LOVE he has. 

And it will be fantastic.

Killer looked one last time before leaving the room.

Cross still was breathing heavily, eyes closed, holding a grimace and groaning from the back of his throat. Terribly satisfying Killer's soul.

He hated how hesitant he was.

He hated how much he wanted to leave, and how much he wanted to stay for god knows why.

He hated how much he hated, he wished he could be indifferent, more apathetic. He wishes he couldn’t care less.

He knows Color would stay too.

He stayed, so Killer should stay too.

He will stay with him, only because he has nowhere else to go, both of them don’t have nowhere else to go. Will stay just for a favor, and that's it, no more services, no more being a dog or right hand man, he was out of market.

He sighed.

Killer sat just by the opposite pillar, crossed arms. Observing the one he hurted and expecting it would be enough, to fulfill his deepest wishes for him to burn, to freeze to death in snowdin, to be stabbed again and again, to rot. 

But it didn’t matter how much Cross complained about the pain, how much he urged to scream at Killer, how he tried to get the bone out just to get his head back in the pillar, because taking out was draining too much of him, it still wasn't enough.

He could see how exhausted Cross was, how both of them were. And, for some reason, maybe an illogical sense of security, maybe just arrogance of thinking it wouldn’t bring consequences, maybe he knew Killer wouldn’t kill him just now, but Cross felt safe enough to fall asleep. 

He hated how much Cross peace brought him just wrath. 

A wrath he couldn’t do anything to satisfy it.

…

Chapter Text

Killer would kill himself if that would mean getting rid of that awful sound ringing in his head. 

And he knew what that sound meant, what that melody was getting louder and louder was signifying. As he observed the entrance of the judgement room, waiting for something to arrive, what his memories already were showing, what would happen, and how exactly it would happen. 

He remembers, by exactly 177 times, a human entering the room, a heart locket — Just like the one Cross has. —- shining, as the light shimmers through the window, as the knife in their hands. He waits for his end again, fighting without a care, without even knowing why he is doing this again. 

He stares at this corridor, resentful of what his life could be if that human never appeared again, if they just gave up instead of offering “something new”. 

A voice, singing the symphony. He recognizes it, as the first day he heard the temptation of that demon. it sings about a doll, an abandoned toy without any more strings. How could the doll move without strings no longer? It wishes it could be more, that it could decide for itself, that it could pull its own strings. But a doll without an owner is useless, no longer cared or appreciated, no longer serving its purpose as it has to entertain. It wishes it wasn’t a doll. It wishes to be more, that it could return to the tissue and buttons, to no longer have form, to no longer be defined. 

Killer wishes that human have never appeared by this entrance, wishes he could breathe without a weight in the world, wishes he could go back to before turning into this, wishes he could live being Sans again, wishes for autonomy, wishes for just this, casual life. And that would be more that he could eat for? That would be asking too much? Would he be ungrateful for the chances the multiverse gave upon himself? 

He wishes Killer couldn’t exist anymore.

…

Cross woke up, pain still tingling though his bones, he was still pinned to the ground by his femur, remembering being stabbed by Killer. The song is still in the corner of his head, playing. 

He took the bone out, getting up and looking around, looking at the other skeleton in the room. He expected Killer, just to find Sans, just common, simplistic, Sans.

He goes to the skeleton, throwing the bone to the ground beside him, covered in purple blood. He expected a reaction, something that would bring any familiar impression. The question at the tip of his tongue, even if he, somehow, already knew some kind of answer.

“Who are you?”

Sans opened one of his eyes. Classic smile adorning his face.

“Sans, Sans the skeleton.” He said, as if obvious. “I would give you a handshake, but–” He shrugged. Indifferent. “eh, not quite feeling like it buddy.” 

Cross stared at him. He goes to support himself against the pillar, while he takes a piece of his own clothing, pressing against his femur, tying in a knot, the pain makes him hisses, and it stings still, but at least it's not bleeding so much. 

He crosses his arms, he starts to keep his gaze at the Sans at his side, thinking, dubious.

“So, that’s your deepest wish?”

“I don't know what you're talking about, pal.”

“You don't have to play pretend now. I know you are more observant than what you show to others.” Sans stayed quiet, observing the windows though the room, Cross continued “This place, this song’s and illusions, especially the music box—”, keeping in mind his own experience when he heard the music to be louder, closer, with another image to look in the mirror. “gives the illusion of, not just random things, as I thought it would be at first, but the deepest wish of someone.” Cross stares at sans, squinting his eyes. “I just didn’t think yours would be– this.”

Cross pointed confused, why someone, when they could wish for anything, would wish to be someone like this, it was ridiculous, comical even. Sans, from all he learned from the alternative universe, was nothing more than just a pathetic, lazy man. 

Sans observed outside, his eye sockets without orbs to show. He shaked his head. Avoiding Cross gaze. More ashamed than any Sans would let themselves be in public. He looks at the ground.

And Sans should give himself to his urges, urges that don’t exist anymore, urges that belonged to another someone shouldn't exist anymore. His soul is the same, his soul is calm, his soul doesn’t have determination. And his soul is free from the red cage.

And he isn't Killer anymore.

“Maybe you're wrong, why would someone wish what they already are, buddy? That 's crazy.” 

And he closes his eyes, in a calm delusion of reality. Because why would he admit that is his deepest wish? Because why would that be his deepest wish? He has so much to wish, and wishing for that would be just sad.

Cross looks at the exit, noticing something, he gets tense. A sensation of being observed sending a chill down his spine, he was sure he saw something, a figure.

Cross signs, impatient.

“We don’t have time for this, let’s go.”

Sans do not move a single phalange. 

“Nah, I’ll stay.”

“...What.”

“I’m too lazy for this, why go after something we aren't even sure what it is? Nah.” 

Sans could hear Cross gritting his teeth, could see from the corner of his orbits him clenching his fists.

“I'm going to continue, we are in danger, and if you wanna keep feeding those hallucinations of yours, damn yourself alone.”

Cross started to walk off the room, sometimes looking back at Sans. Waiting for him to regret. He could understand somehow, but it didn’t matter how pitiful he thought it was, he understood better than anyone that pity wouldn’t bring anything but guilt to his already heavy soul. He expected something, expected hesitation, maybe doubt.

In the end, he gave up, continuing his way out. 

And right now, all Sans wanted was for sleep. He was pretty tired. 

…

Why don’t you follow him? 

Sans uncomfortably moved his head. 

“Why should I? I have all I need right here. Just a good ol ground to sit and be lazy, just like I should.”

They stayed quiet, seemingly agitated about the decision. Sans noticed that. 

“This is the life I want”

Why do you think that?

“They aren't here, and never will be, I can just…Exist, without the blame of a future that will never happen ”

And why would you want that?

“Sans didn’t mess up anything. Don’t try to convince me, I will be here, in this place where they can’t get me anymore. This is the life I deserve, that I wanted.”

He felt his feet sink on the ground. to his bones to get colder. 

You decided this, or gave up trying to escape? Aren’t you tired of just having to escape these things all the time?

“Of course I am. But this is what I want. I Don't need to escape”

Are you sure? Sans. 

The name tastes weird in his tongue, to be heard, to be referred to, maybe even wrong.  

Maybe you are here because even if you make the decision to escape, you don’t think you can.

Killer stays quiet, thinking, feeling his body engulfed by his own darkness, by his own shadows and pain. When was the last time he allowed someone to save him? Was it Dream, was it Color, was it Blue?

What do you really want, Killer?

“Don’t call me that.” He warned, sharp, cold orbs staring at the nothingness of the void. A calm sigh. looking at the substance sticking him to the ground, keeping him, sinking, accepting this fate. “I want to be Sans again.” 

Why?

“Because that’s who I am, Sans is not the one who vanished with all his friends, his family, Killer did that.”

Until when, will you be mourning for the life you could have, instead of running to the one you want? 

He felt tears start to form, falling from his eye sockets, combining itself to the dark liquid on the ground. dark grief, rage at the statement. 

“I’M NOT MOURNING! I just want peace, I just want to LIVE instead of surviving, am- am I wrong for wanting that?” He cries, louder, wanting to be heard, to his wishes to be seen, for someone to come save him. But no one seems to know he's here. 

The liquid takes him, everything is dark, so dark. What’s taking him down at a deep ocean, is the liquid in his eyes, his determination, is something that invaded his soul and senses time and time again in the past, is negativity, is something he can’t ever escape. He tries to reach something, anything, someone. He hates it, he hates how cold, how lonely, how all his senses seemed affected, startled, he knew he was sinking and couldn’t do anything but try to resist, to move his arms and legs and nothing happening. 

You can’t escape who you are now, and you can’t come back to who you were before.

When the liquid reaches his shoulders, he sobs, trying to hold anything.

“WHO SHOULD I BE??”

But no one hears, no one will respond to his cries. The silence is filled with loud hiccups. Hiccups that meant nothing, cries and tears that fell and still, Killer couldn’t feel a single thing about it. He could feel that sadness, that regret and sorrow in his soul, but deep inside, it still was empty, hollow. He felt like something was missing, and he tried, tried so much to find that missing part in the past. 

But it didn’t exist anymore. 

He feels the air leaving his corpse.

He isn’t the monster he ought to be. Something changed him and he couldn’t decide, couldn’t fight for that not to happen. 

He feels his body being engulfed by the black, viscous liquid, his face getting cold too.

Time, because it was inevitable that it would end like this, the one who robbed him again and again, who forged him to become hollow, and for what? How amusing was his inability to do anything?

He feels everything around him, and he feels so light.

How should he fill that gap? 

If being unable to get what was taken from his own soul, made him who he should be, putting it again wouldn’t fix him, he couldn't just fill this grave after opening it, the dirt, the worms and the wood of the coffin have witness it, the shovel was put in his hands by someone and it is still dirty. His sins have been confessed before, and the stars have seen what he has done.

He didn’t want to be who he is right now, but what can he do now, if not to live as this new person?

This body was of his now, wasn't it? 

His mind was his, and his soul even if changed it was still the culmination of his being, the wood of the boat was changed, but it was still the same boat, wasn't it?

Someone with a new life, a new purpose.

And he opens his eyes, it was dark, blurry by the liquid, but he sees something up there. A light, even if low.

And Killer wants to live, he wants to choose what he wants, he doesn’t know what yet, but he knows he can. And because he can, then he should.

His hand reaches out to the light, to the outside of the liquid, he balances his legs, extends his arm, he can feel it, the temperature colliding with the cold.

He is still falling deep inside the ocean, he moves furiously, he fights for air, his other arm moving to swim, the same motion again and again.

Killer's phalanges crawl outside of the deep ocean of viscous goop. He touches something solid, weird format, little, feels like metal, no, maybe glass, porcelain?

Killer takes it, gripping it like it depends on his life, he pulls it.

And he wakes up. Wide eyes unknowing of where he is until he finally recognizes the image.

The judgement room.

He feels sweat dripping from his chin.

He feels air coming back to his lungs.

He feels the determination flowing through his eyes.

He feels he is grabbing something, he looks to the side, to be found with Cross’ heart locket in his hand.

Killer stares at it. 

He sighs, a ghost of a smile forming in his face, simply. Eyes closed while clenching at the heart locket.

Good, old, sentimental Cross. 

…

Cross walked down the halls of the castle, wandering with the melody still singing in the corner of his head without a certain place for the music box to be, guided only by his instincts. 

He really didn’t know why he did what he did, why he came back, why he gave his locket to Killer — That now just refused that name, stubbornly — he didn’t even know what unknown force made him gravitate towards Killer, to give him something that important, to care about him, of all people. 

And he refused to give any more thoughts to it, he had more important things to be done now. He knew something was observing them, by the time they were at the judgment room, and probably far before that. And if he doesn't find that observer soon, it will find him. 

He tried to check the bedroom from Asgore’s home again, but there was nothing to be found there. Tried to check all the rooms, to analyze, but he still didn’t find anything, and that sensation of someone looking just at him didn’t stop for a second. 

He then decided to wait. Cross sat down in a room with a single door, knowing that if there’s anyone else here, it’ll come by that way, he stared for what seemed hours, but maybe it was just minutes, his perception of time was never really that great, but he is patient enough. 

Just when he was close to falling asleep again, he heard something. And it was already too late as he felt a gloved hand wrapping around his mouth, unable to scream, he struggled to get out of the arm involving his body. 

“Stop– stop squirming!!”

The familiar voice got him distracted enough to stop, not the familiar voice he expected though. His paralyzing inaction was enough for his captor to feel secure to free him again, and looking back, it was not the dark long hair with closeted, calm eyes figure waiting for him, but a white messy hair, with red, sharp and determined eyes, staring at him.

“Kid?”

His surprise pendured for seconds before reaching for the dagger. A prepotent look of Chara was before him, along with a complex grimace he couldn’t identify exactly the emotions behind it.

“Nice to see you again, Cross.”