Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ve been called worse,” you shrug.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

••••

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

You blink. “Hi.”

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

The living room is—Loud.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You tilt your head. “I don’t—?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Chapter Text

There’s a soft knock at Sans’ door — one of those polite, featherlight knocks, like the person on the other side thinks they’re doing you a favor just by being gentle. Sans, half-asleep and wearing slippers with little cartoon bones on them, lets out a sigh and shuffles over. His sweatshirt reads Bone Tired in faded letters, and his left eye socket glows faintly with blue light as he opens the door.

Vicky stands there, all sweet-smiling edges and delicate posture, her hands folded neatly in front of her. She tilts her head just slightly, the corners of her mouth curling up — but the smile doesn’t touch her sharp, calculating eyes.

“Hey, Sans... got a sec?” she says, her voice soft, like she’s here out of concern, like she’s already sure she’s doing the right thing.

Sans leans against the doorframe, a lazy grin on his face. “sure, babe,” he says, waving her inside. “what’s up?”

Vicky steps in lightly, glancing around like she’s reluctant to speak. “I didn’t want to say anything at first...” she breathes, pressing a hand to her chest, “but it’s about Y/n.”

Sans’s grin tightens just a bit, his eye flickering. “they causing trouble already? did they hurt you?”

She lets out a delicate laugh, shaking her head. “No, no, nothing like that.” Her voice drops slightly, as if she’s afraid the walls might overhear. “I just... I think they might be going through people’s stuff.”

The room seems to still. Sans doesn’t move much, but the atmosphere shifts — a pause stretches out between them, thick and heavy.
“you see ‘em do it?” Sans asks casually, but his glowing eye dims a little.

Vicky bites her lip, eyes wide with a show of guilt. “Well, no. But I saw them near Stretch’s room last night, just kind of... hovering. And Stretch wasn’t even there. They looked really jumpy when they noticed me.” She gives a small, sympathetic shrug. “I know they used to live out of their car, and I feel for them, I really do. But maybe they’re just... desperate, you know?”

Sans shifts his weight, crossing his arms loosely. “so, just to be clear... you’re worried they’re stealing?”

“I’m not accusing,” Vicky says quickly, reaching out and lightly touching his arm. “I just think we should be careful. I’m only telling you because I care. I’d hate for anyone to get hurt.”

Sans nods slowly, the edges of his grin softening. “i’ll keep an eye out.”

Vicky beams — all warmth and careful affection — and leans up to press a light kiss to his cheek. “Thank you, babe,” she murmurs, before turning and gliding away down the hall, leaving Sans standing there, thoughtful and silent.

••••

You don’t know any of that, you’re focused on your next mission. The lodge is loud this morning—someone’s playing a bass-heavy song from a Bluetooth speaker upstairs, and you hear dishes clinking in the kitchen. You’re holding a rag in one hand and a list in your head: wipe, sweep, vacuum, repeat.

You live here now, a fact you still have to remind yourself of out loud sometimes. “I live here,” you mutter as you pass the hallway mirror. “I live here. This is not a long sleepover.” Cleaning helps, it makes your presence feel earned, besides you’re good at cleaning. Great, even. You have systems.

So you drift like a Roomba with better hair, sponge in hand, looking for targets. The dining room hits your radar, the table’s greasy near the edges, and the floor has a gritty layer of...something your processors can't make out. Toast crumbs, and something sticky under one chair, maybe syrup...or sin.

You peek into the kitchen and spot Blue, adorned in a cobalt blue apron and wielding a spatula. Flipping something that smells like eggs and fire.
He notices you before you speak.

“I’m gonna clean in here,” you say.

He hesitates. His posture stiffens like he wants to say no—but then he nods. “OKAY, JUST STAY OUT OF THE KITCHEN PART.”

“Copy that.” You kneel beside a chair and start wiping down its legs, your movement’s focused, controlled. Cleaning is like playing Tetris, there’s a rhythm. Grime disappears and you replace it with a nice shine.

Blue goes back to cooking, glancing at you every now and then. It’s quiet except for the sizzling. He doesn’t say much, but you don’t either. You hum under your breath, it's a self-soothing thing. You always hum when you concentrate, a pattern, a loop, a comfort signal for your own software.

By the time you’re sweeping around the table, Blue’s eyes linger longer than before. “YOU'RE, UH... PRETTY GOOD AT THAT HUMAN,” he says.

You blink up at him, startled. “At cleaning?”

“YES, I THOUGHT YOU'D, I DONT KNOW, JUST...SWEEP AT STUFF. BUT YOU'RE ACTUALLY VERY DETAILED!" You pause, unsure how to reply. “I like cleaning, it gives me XP.”

He tilts his skull, confused. “WHAT DO YOU MEAN?”

“Like a game, I gain points for effort. Scrub a surface, gain experience and eventually I'll level up into Domestic Godform.”

He stares for a second, then chuckles, it's small but it’s real. A few Mweh heh heh's, reach your ears making you beam at your accomplishment. 

Then you hears shuffling near the entrance and you catch sight of Stretch, the mood sours instantly. He walks in slow, tall and visibly less laid back than the last time you saw him. His eyes go from you to Blue to the broom in your hand.

You straighten, smile unsure. “Hi.” He doesn’t smile back. “Why’re you in here?”

“I'm Cleaning?” You didn't mean for it to come off as a question. 

“No one asked you to.”

“I live here,” you remind him, voice polite. “And the floor had a film on it.”

Stretch scoffs. “You live here now, so you get to do whatever? Wander into any room, get cozy with whoever’s available?”

You blink, the words aren’t just rude—they’re confusing. “I’m just cleaning,” you say again, slower, maybe he didn’t understand.

“I saw you earlier near my room,” he snaps.

Your chest prickles, confused expression exchanged for a frown. “I wasn’t near your door, I was in the hallway, I dropped a sock.”

He crosses his arms. “Right. How convenient.”

“STRETCH—” Blue starts, but Stretch waves him off.

“No, someone needs to say it. We don’t know 'em and they just moved in out of nowhere. Vicky was kind enough to invite 'em, but nobody else voted.”

“Was there a vote?” you ask, genuinely confused.

Blue sighs. “BROTHER—COME ON.”

You can feel the heat rising in your neck, not anger but genuine confusion. You’re trying to find the thread. What did you do? You didn’t touch anything, you didn’t go in any rooms. You even used your own cleaning supplies because the house mop seemed exceptionally fragile.

“I don’t understand why you’re mad,” you say, voice too soft.

Stretch stares at you. “I don’t trust you.” The words hit like bad code in your chest.

“Noted,” you say quietly. You back up, broom in hand, and look toward Blue. “I can finish later.” Blue doesn’t stop you, he doesn’t say much of anything. You step away from the table, leave the room with your hands full of soap and silence.

The hallway stretches in front of you like a tunnel made of eggshells. You walk fast, broom held tight, sponge at the mercy of your tightening hand. 

You don’t go to your room, not yet. The room is too quiet when you’re upset, too echoey. You sit on the stairs instead, halfway between floors. A middle space, not retreat but not returning either.

You stare at the grain of the wooden banister, letting your brain spiral in bullet points:

* You cleaned. That’s good.
* You didn’t go in anyone’s room. That’s neutral.
* Someone thinks you did. That’s bad.


Why do you feel like you’re glitching? You’re not crying, your tears would materialize into a crystal and that would be hard to explain. The buzzing doesn't go away though, deep in your sternum, like a silent alarm going off.

You whisper to yourself, “I live here.” And for the first time since you unpacked your things, it doesn’t feel so true.

••••

You’re lying on the rug in the living room, arms sprawled out like a starfish, watching the ceiling fan spin like it’s trying to hypnotize the entire house into a relaxed state. It’s working for you, at least.

Until you hear the front door unlock with that sharp click-THUNK and the slow creak of weathered hinges.

Your ears perk up like a cartoon dog’s. "Edge," you say aloud to no one. Then louder, to the hallway: “Edge!”

There’s a pause, then a grumble that might be a greeting or might be him questioning his life choices. You hop up, socks skidding slightly on the hardwood, and peer around the corner. There he is—tall, tired, scarf slightly uneven, and eye sockets half-lidded like a warrior returning from a long, unnecessary war. The battlefield? Customer service.

“Welcome back,” you say cheerily, stepping into his path like a non-aggressive NPC. “You’re thirteen minutes late. I thought maybe you got eaten by that raccoon that's always in the alleyway.”

His brow ridge arches faintly. “THE ONE WITH THE LIMP?”

“Yep, he looks like he's committed a few crimes.” 

Edge doesn’t immediately answer, just shrugs off his coat, slower than usual. His spine’s doing that thing where it’s still trying to act like he's at work, but his bones want a nap. You squint at him, “Your energy levels are down,” you announce. “You should sit, or sprawl your choice.”

“I’m Making Dinner,” he mutters, heading toward the kitchen with grim resolve. You block his path like a spongey, secretly metal wall. “You don't have to, Blue already cooked. He said, and I quote, ‘IF EDGE GOES NEAR THE STOVE AGAIN, I'LL TAPE HIM TO THE BED MYSELF.’”

Edge pauses, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “I'D LIKE TO SEE HIM TRY.”

You shrug, “It wasn’t a threat, it was concern if I'm not mistaken.”

He exhales through his teeth, tired, not irritated, just... spent. You get it. You're always somewhat stiff after work, but you guess having a fully magic or flesh body would make someone even more exhausted. 

Although, you're starting to question if he's only exhausted once he comes home. He's usually a lot more active and way less worn out while at the Café.You gently put your hands on his back and begin nudging him toward the stairs. “Go upstairs, be horizontal. I’ll bring you a plate.”

“I CAN CARRY MY OWN—”

“You could, but then I wouldn’t get to see what your room looks like.”

He stares at you for a second, before releasing a defeated sigh. “FINE. FIVE MINUTES, NO LONGER.”

“Roger that, General.” He doesn’t smile, but he also doesn’t not smile, so you count it as a win.

The plate is already made, Blue had it covered with foil and labeled 'FOR EDGE, DO NOT LET MUTT TOUCH.' You peel it open reverently, like a treasure chest, and carefully walk it upstairs with the concentration of a bomb squad.

You realize something terrible halfway up the stairs. You don’t know which room is Edge’s. There are 10, you stare at them like they’re part of a game show challenge. Behind one door: a small white dog. Behind another: chaos. Behind a third: Mutt, probably sleeping with his shoes still on.

You take a lucky guess and knock gently on the third door down for you own room.  “Edge?” you whisper. A quiet grunt, warrants your attention and you open the door.

His room is the very epitome of “Edge”, you think that as soon as you step in. Everything’s symmetrical and organized, like it was set-designed by a very serious director with ocd.

You walk in with the plate balanced on your palms like a holy offering. “I brought sustenance!”

He’s sitting at his desk now, coat off, scarf neatly draped over the chair. His eye lights flick toward you, and then the plate. “YOU MADE THIS?”

You blink. “Oh, no Blue cooked it I’m not allowed in any kitchen. Last time I tried to cook, the toaster made a noise it wasn’t supposed to. A scared noise.”

Edge hums, a knowing sound. “I’VE BEEN TOLD NOT TO LET YOU NEAR THE STOVE AT WORK.”

“Valid, I respect fire it just doesn’t respect me.” You offer the plate. He takes it with a little more gentleness than usual and sets it on the desk beside him.

You don’t sit, you wander, eyes take in everything. "Your room's really nice," you say, drifting past his bookshelf like a curious cat. "Balanced, uniform. You've got a real sense of theme. You ever thought about being an interior designer?" 

Edge snorts, lifting a brow. “FLATTERY WON'T GET YOU ANYWHERE.”

“Good, I'm bad at it. All my compliments are just very detailed observations.”

He tilts his head. “IS THAT SO?”

You nod. “Like, I noticed you always arrange your utensils before you eat. Fork on the left, spoon on the right and napkin folded triangularly."

He pauses mid-chew; looks like he’s trying not to have an emotion about that. You turn slowly in the room, his crimson red drapes catching you attention before he spoke. "YOU'VE BEEN TELLING ME TO GET A NEW JOB SINCE DAY ONE," he says. "NOW YOU'RE SUGGESTING IT AGAIN. TRYING TO GET RID OF ME, ARE YOU?"

"I just think you're overqualified," you explain, flopping down onto the edge of a chair. "You're too skilled to be working at a laidback place where the biggest crisis is whether someone spilled oat milk or the cats are screaming to be fed.”

His expression doesn’t change much, but his eye light shifts like he’s storing that thought for later. He doesn't respond, but the set of his shoulders eases. The compliment lands. It doesn't spark giddy delight, but it settles into his bones, like a weight he's been waiting to lift off.

You watch him for a few seconds, studying the angle of his cheekbones, the way his fingers tap against the glass plate after each bite. He’s winding down, you can tell. Then you lean forward slightly, head tilting. “Are you still thinking about adopting Doomfanger?”

That gets him.

He chokes slightly, hand raising to knock on his chest as he clears his throat [that's something you'll be thinking about for a while]. “I—WHY WOULD YOU ASK ME THAT?”

“You were talking to her again at the café, the other day. You used your ‘I’m pretending not to like you but I do’ voice.”

Edge turns slowly away, staring at the window like it might offer a portal to escape the conversation.

“I’m...Gathering Supplies,” he mumbles, his cheekbones are dusted with red. "I Need A Scratching Post, A Proper Bed, Multiple Perches And A Water Fountain. THE HOUSE NEEDS ADJUSTING, IT MUST BE PERFECT!" 

You tilt your head. "Perfect for Doomfanger?"

"OBVIOUSLY, HER STANDARDS ARE INCREDIBLY HIGH." He glances back-probably to make sure you're not laughing at him-but you're not. You're smiling, warm and beaming, like a child watching fireworks. 

"WHAT'S THAT LOOK FOR?" he grumbles.

You rest your chin on your hand, "You must really care about her."

The red blush on his face explodes. Bright, practically glowing like LED strips on a gaming
PC. "I—! THAT'S—!" He fumbles, trips over words, scowls at the floor, and finally shouts, "GET OUT!"

You giggle, actually giggle. The kind of small, wheezy laugh that only escapes when something is both funny and precious.

"I'm going, I'm going." You rise and tiptoe toward the door. "But for the record? Doomfanger's gonna love you."

Edge doesn't answer, but his blush doesn't fade either. And as you slip out of the room, you hear the softest little sigh.

••••

The next morning, you get the call you weren’t really expecting.

“Y/n, can you come in? We’re short-staffed today.”

You sit up on your bed, blinking. You had planned to spend the day quietly — repairing a few faulty wires your left arm you’ve been meaning to fix, maybe sketching, maybe just watching your favorite show while eating yogurt. But you can’t say no, you never say no.

So you tug on your café uniform, make your hair presentable to your standards, and head out. The café is busy, filled with the cozy aroma of roasted coffee, warm pastries, and faint hints of catnip. The cats, as always, surround you the moment you step inside — two, three, sometimes four brushing your legs or hopping onto tables when you pass. 

You’re not sure why the café cats like you so much. You just know they do, and pretty much always have. Maybe they can sense the soft humming in your chest, the faint mechanical undertone under your skin. But they treat you like a walking sunbeam, curling around your ankles, lounging on your shoulders, occasionally hitching a ride on your back when you crouch.

Today, as you bounce lightly between tables, you’ve got one cat perched on your left shoulder (Slushii, the plump white one), one twined around your calves (Mao Mao, the black one with long fur), and one stubbornly riding in your apron, that was conveniently shaped for cats. (Basquiat, the grey tabby, who kept crying to be picked up).

“Wow. You’re like a cat magnet.”

You look up from the register, blinking. There’s a young man standing at the counter, leaning casually with a crooked grin. He’s conventionally attractive: soft brown hair, warm hazel eyes, that easy posture you’ve seen in movies when the male lead is trying to look effortlessly cool. He gestures to the cats clustered around you.

“They love you,” he chuckles. “I’ve been watching for, like, five minutes, and they won’t leave you alone.”

“Oh,” you say. “Yeah. I guess so.” You glance down. Two cats rub against your ankle. “I’m not sure why, but I love them too.”

The man chuckles. “Yeah, I can tell. You’re, like, glowing when you talk about them.”

You frown faintly, tilting your head. “Am I?” You touch your cheek, wondering if one of your circuits is leaking faint warmth, but no — he’s just being metaphorical. Probably.

“I’m Liam, by the way.” He flashes another grin, resting his chin in his hand. “So, what’s your secret?” Liam teases. “Are you secretly wearing perfume made of catnip?”

You laugh, a small, tinkling sound. “No, but that’d be funny.”

“Are you a new higher?” Liam leans casually against the counter. “I come in sometimes, but I’ve never seen you before.”

“Ah, no I usually work the afternoon shift,” you explain, hand raising to dust of a corner of the cash register. “I wasn’t supposed to work today, but we were short-staffed.”

“That’s lucky for me, then.” He winks.

You blink, 'That’s a strange eye movement.' You tilt your head, trying to remember if winking is a common conversational tick. Maybe it’s a social quirk or his eye is just dry.  

“Are you okay?” you ask, voice gentle. “Your eye just did a thing.”

He laughs, leaning in slightly. “Yeah, I’m okay. So, uh, you got any plans after work?”

You pause, you do have plans: going home, charging your internal battery, feeding your tamagotchi app...you realize this is a rather strange conversation to be having with a customer. 

Behind the counter, a pair of glowing red eyes narrow slightly. Edge — tall, sharp, perpetually scowling Edge — watches the scene unfold. His bony fingers tap against the countertop rhythmically.

“YOU ARE HOLDING UP THE LINE, HUMAN," Edge steps up, towering, arms crossed, eyes locked on Liam with the precision of a hawk. Liam blinks, glancing over his shoulder. There are only two people waiting.

“Oh, uh, sorry,” Liam says, chuckling nervously. “Didn’t mean to—”

“I'LL TAKE YOUR ORDER,” Edge says flatly, his crossed arms tightening slightly. 

You look between them, puzzled. “Edge, it’s okay, I can—”

“No, You Are Busy,” Edge mutters, glancing at you without meeting your eyes. “TABLE THREE NEEDS YOUR ASSISTANCE.”

You obediently bounce off, feeling a small twinge of confusion you can’t quite place. Edge seems… tense? But you don’t question it. You rarely question anyone’s tone; you learned a long time ago you’re not great at reading the undercurrents. By the time you return, Liam is scribbling something on a napkin.

“Hey,” he says, smiling up at you. “Here’s my number. In case you ever want to go out sometime.”

You freeze. Your brain takes a second to click the pieces together. He’s not just being friendly. He's flirting!

“Oh,” you say softly, holding the napkin like it’s a delicate glass figurine. “Oh, um… thank you, but I’m not… I’m not looking for a relationship right now.”

Liam’s face falls just slightly, but he covers it with a good-natured laugh. “No worries, just thought I’d shoot my shot.”

You nod, pocketing the napkin anyway, out of politeness. Your mind already drifting back to the strange, cold tug in your chest — that flicker of something you can’t name. You can’t date, not when you’re…what you are.

Edge watches from the corner, jaw tense, arms folded so tightly his shoulders ache. He tells himself it’s nothing. He shouldn’t care. You’re just a housemate, a human, a coworker he's unfortunately grown particularly fond of. You’re strange, yes — too soft, too gentle, too trusting. But that’s your problem, not his.

Except…

He finds himself glaring at the door long after Liam has left, silently chewing himself out for stepping in like that. What the hell is wrong with him? He doesn’t care, he shouldn't care.

You work through the rest of the day, quietly focused, trailing cats at your heels, your mind a gentle buzz of thoughts. You think about Liam, and about how you could have said yes — but you didn’t, because the part of you that’s hidden under soft, synthetic human skin, knows the truth: you’re a cyborg. You’re not normal and you can’t fully pretend you are.

Chapter Text

You’re curled up in the corner of the living room, cross-legged on the couch, notebook propped on your knee. The room is quiet — a rare, delicate kind of quiet, the kind that only happens when all seven skeletons and Vicky are somewhere else. 

You like the soft afternoon light across the floor, the faint ticking of the old wall clock. Your pen scratches steadily on the paper. You’re working out a series of mechanical equations — routine maintenance for your right ankle, which has been making that soft whir noise again. 

Nothing alarming, just something to adjust when you have the time. Your handwriting is neat, blocky, each line calculated, each symbol clean. You don’t notice Papyrus approach until he’s almost over your shoulder.

“WOWIE!” he says, voice loud and cutting straight through the quiet. “THAT’S VERY… NEAT PENMANSHIP, HUMAN!”

You blink, frozen mid-stroke. “Oh,” you say, voice soft, flat. “Thanks.”

Your fingers twitch, and flip the page a little too fast, nearly tearing the edge, hiding the diagrams you were working on — wiring, hydraulic sensors, tiny component sketches. Your eyes dart up at him, searching for any sign he saw too much.

Papyrus beams down at you, hands on his hips, towering. “WHAT ARE YOU WRITING? POETRY? YOU SEEM VERY FOCUSED!”

There’s something just under his tone, a faint bite, like he’s genuinely surprised you can even write at all. You squirm slightly, pulling your notebook tighter against your knee.

“Just…notes,” you mumble quickly, the words tumbling out too fast. Your eyes flick away, down to the page, anywhere but his face. You don’t know how to explain it without lying, and lying isn’t something you’re good at. You’d need at least a day to rehearse that properly.

He leans forward slightly, his grin sharp and a little too wide. “OH? NOTES? HOW IMPRESSIVE! I DIDN’T TAKE YOU FOR THE WRITING TYPE.”

Your stomach knots. You shift, unsure if he’s teasing, mocking, or just filling the air with words. You can never tell. Passive-aggressive tone: flagged, confusing. 

You squeeze the pen tighter in your hand. Before the tension can twist further — before your brain locks up entirely — you hear the familiar, heavy thud of boots.

“LAZYBONES,” comes a sharp voice.

Edge stands at the doorway, arms crossed, red scarf glinting in the afternoon light. His tall frame is all sharp angles, and his orange-red eyelights flicker over you with faint disapproval.

You blink up at him. “I’m not a skeleton,” you say simply, confused.

He snorts. “I DON'T CARE, YOURE STILL LAZING AROUND. UP." 

You tilt your head, like a curious cat. “Up… where?”

“WE'RE GOING ON A JOG, NOW.”

You open your mouth, preparing a soft, “No thank you,” but before you can finish, he’s already walking over.

He moves carefully — not rough, not careless — and you notice it. Edge strides across the room, grabs you around the waist like you weigh nothing, and lifts you up under one arm.

“Wha—!” You make a small, startled noise, but you don’t squirm. You just dangle there, arms hanging loosely, watching the room sway as Edge hauls you off like a sack of potatoes.

Papyrus’ jaw drops.

Edge doesn’t even glance back.

“Edge?” you ask faintly, tilting your head to peer up at him.

“Are we doing a sports movie montage?” you ask softly, head tilted against his shoulder. “Because if we are, we need music.”

He huffs a faint, dry laugh, "GET DRESSED FOR OUR RUN.” 

You blink, realizing you’re already in front of your bedroom door. Edge nudges it open with his foot and sets you down — carefully, almost gently — on the floor.

You glance up at him, calm and flat-toned. “If I do the jog, will you watch a movie with me later?”

Edge crosses his arms. “WE'LL SEE.”

You grin softly to yourself. You’ll count that as a win. He gives you one last look — sharp, assessing — and then jerks a thumb toward the porch. “IN TEN MINUTES, MEET ME OUTSIDE.” And with that, he’s gone, boots thudding away down the hall.

You stand there, arms loosely at your sides, eyes half-lidded in thought. Inside, you feel a flicker of warmth. Not in a bad way, just a little tight, a little warm. You shake your head softly, turning back to your closet. Time to get ready for a jog.

You rummage through your dresser, pulling on a loose tank top and a pair of fitted shorts — clothes you don’t usually wear around the lodge because, well…you’re new, and it still feels like you’re under constant quiet scrutiny. But it’s hot outside, and you figure Edge won’t care.

When you come back to the door, Edge is waiting, but his gaze lingers this time. His eye-lights flicker down your arms, down your legs, pausing just briefly on the toned shape of your calves, the subtle strength in your shoulders. 

You don’t look overly flashy — your body is normal, your skin warm and human, the light seams of your synthetic parts carefully hidden. But now, with more skin showing, Edge notices the definition that hints at something more. 

Before he can say anything, you smile softly, tilting your head. “You ready?”

Edge stiffens — just a bit — his cheekbones flickering red. “T-TOOK YOU LONG ENOUGH,” he grumbles, turning sharply and motioning over his shoulder. “LETS GO.”

You follow without hesitation, a quiet bounce in your steps, your excitement subtle but there. Edge knows you well enough by now to see it, even when you don’t say it out loud.

The air outside is warm and crisp, the sun slanting lower, golden light stretching across the fields behind the lodge.

Edge leads at a steady pace, long legs cutting confidently through the trail, and you match him easily, your steps smooth and measured. You’re lighter on your feet than most people assume; even though you’re mostly all machine, you’ve always kept your movements soft, deliberate.

For the first few minutes, neither of you talks. Edge steals a glance at you now and then, his expression unreadable. You’re not grinning or bouncing or rattling off stories the way you sometimes do when you’re nervous. Instead, you look… Relaxed. Enjoying yourself, even if it’s not loud or showy.

The afternoon air smells faintly of pine and damp earth, the trail behind the lodge dappled in dusky light. You keep pace beside Edge, your steps light and even.

He doesn’t speak at first — which isn’t surprising. Edge is a man of very selective words, he doesn't find the need for small talk unless he has something meaningful to say. His energy sharp and focused, like every breath is calculated. But then, after several long minutes of silence, he glances sideways, his stride never faltering.

“SO,” he says, his voice carrying through the warm air, “HOW ARE YOU LIKING YOUR STAY AT THE LODGE?” 

You blink, surprised by the question. “I…” You hesitate. “I’m grateful.”

Edge arches a sharp brow ridge, you'd usually have a lot more to say than just, “GRATEFUL?”

You nod, eyes focused on the path ahead. “Yeah. Grateful that I have a place to stay.” You tuck your arms in slightly, feeling the faint edges of self-consciousness. “I mean… not everyone would offer a room to someone like me.”

Edge snorts faintly. “SOMEONE LIKE YOU?”

You glance at him, a small, lopsided smile tugging at your mouth. “Yeah, you know. A stranger, a...weird stranger.”

He huffs, shaking his head, but doesn’t push. For a few more minutes, you jog in comfortable quiet. The sun dips lower, shadows stretching long across the ground. Then, without realizing, your pace slows. Your arms drop, your head lowering slightly as your thoughts start to spiral. 

Edge notices immediately. His steps halt, sharp and deliberate, turning to face you. "OI,” he says, firm. “WHAT'S WRONG?”

You stop, eyes wide, caught off guard. Edge has never seen this expression on your face before — the unsure set to your mouth, the flicker of hesitation behind your eyes. Usually, you’re steady, if a bit quirky. Sometimes mellow  or blunt but now…now you look uncertain.

You rub at your arm, glancing down. “It’s just…” you start quietly, “I feel like I don’t fit in here.”
Edge’s gaze sharpens.

You shift your weight from foot to foot, voice softening even more. “Vicky offered me a place, but…I feel unwelcome. Like the others are waiting for me to mess up.”

Edge makes a low, sharp sound in the back of his throat, looking down in thought. Then he scoffs, turning his head sharply to the side. “That Damned Snake,” he mutters under his breath.

You blink, frowning in confusion. “What?”

He turns back, crossing his arms tightly. “VICKY,” he says, voice edged with disgust. “SHE'S A LYING, MANIPULATIVE SNAKE!”

You stare, mouth slightly open.

Edge gives a low, humorless laugh. “SHE'S BEEN RUNNING HER MOUTH SINCE BEFORE YOU CAME. TELLING THE OTHERS HOW THIS NEW HUMAN WAS AN OLD FRIEND OF HERS. A WRECK OF A HUMAN SHE WAS 'Trying to help straighten out.' " His teeth click faintly as his jaw tightens. 

"OF COURSE, I DIDNT TAKE HER WORD FOR IT. ESPECIALLY ONCE I REALIZED I ALREADY KNEW WHO YOU WERE. I'VE ALWAYS KNOWN SHE WAS A WOLF IN A POORLY CONSTRUCTED SHEEP DISGUISE, BUT THE OTHERS..." 

He scoffs again, waving a hand dismissively. "THEY'RE TOO BUSY GROVELING AT HER FEET TO NOTICE HOW SHE'S TOYING WITH THEM...I'm Embarrassed To See My Brother In Such A Predicament.“

You frown harder. “That’s stupid, why would they believe her without actual evidence?”

Edge smirks, crossing his arms smugly. “THAT'S WHY I'M CLEARLY SUPERIOR.”

You let out a small laugh — a genuine, surprised sound. “You really are.”

His eyes widen slightly and he quickly looks away, the faintest dark flush creeping up his cheekbones.

The wind whispers through the trees, ruffling the edge of Edge’s scarf. He stands there, backlit by the pale gold of the setting sun, eye sockets narrowed slightly, something thoughtful pulling at the sharp lines of his face.

The air between you hangs still, heavy, just for a moment. Edge’s boots click faintly on the gravel as he slows, turning slightly. His tall, sharp figure catches the fading light, his red scarf rippling faintly in the evening breeze. You watch him glance back towards you, the tilt of his skull just enough to let one glowing crimson eyelight sweep over you, locking you in place.

His voice drops low — a tone you’re not used to hearing from him, smooth and serious, edged with something that makes your chest flutter.
“If Any Of Them Bother You, Or Give You Trouble…” he murmurs, voice rumbling low like distant thunder. “You Are To Come To Me, Understand?”

Your chest tightens — not with fear, no — with something else. A surprised, shaky warmth prickles under your skin. You shift awkwardly, fingers brushing the back of your neck as your gaze drops to the dirt path underfoot. “I don’t…I don’t wanna be a burden, though…” you murmur, voice smaller than you mean it to be.

There’s a faint sound — the soft crunch of his boots as he takes a few deliberate steps forward.
You look up.

Oh.


Oh no.

He’s tall.


He’s always been tall, you know that, but standing this close — his imposing figure looms over you with a sharp, deliberate focus, like a blade balanced just above your skin. You can feel the heat of his gaze, the sheer weight of his attention pressing down, and your breath hitches faintly in your throat.

His eyes, usually cold and calculating, soften just a touch, glimmering faintly with something warmer, something teasing, almost playful. The edge of his grin curls slow and sharp at one corner, a flicker of amusement lighting his features.

Before you can even flinch, you feel it — the light, careful brush of his glove against your cheek. Your breath catches. He touches you gently, fingers trailing just barely over your skin, the warmth of it sending a rush of heat right up your spine.


“They’re Protecting Their Human,” Edge murmurs, voice dipping softer, edged with an unfamiliar tenderness that makes your heart leap wildly. “I'm Just Trying To Do The Same, Little One.”

Little one?!


Your heart practically launches out of your chest.

Oh no.


Oh no.

You can feel the heat rise fast, spreading across your cheeks, flooding your ears, creeping hot down the back of your neck. You’re sure you’re system is overheating at this point.

Your mouth opens, closes. Opens again, no words come out. Your fingers twitch faintly at your sides, curling and uncurling like your brain has momentarily lost connection to the rest of you. 

You try to focus, to force out a sentence — any sentence — but everything feels jumbled, fuzzy, like you’re trying to juggle live wires in your head.

“S-s-so—uh— we should— we should get back to jogging!” you finally blurt, voice high and uneven, the words tumbling out in a rush like you’ve tripped over your own tongue.

Edge leans back slightly, the grin on his face deepening, sharp and knowing. A low, deep chuckle rumbles in his chest, soft and rich, sending another wave of heat straight to your ears.


“Hmm…I SUPPOSE YOU ARE RIGHT.” His tone and volume returns to normal, but it laced with something that makes your knees wobble just a little.

You don’t wait — you dart forward before you can embarrass yourself further, jogging ahead with slightly-too-quick steps, heart pounding furiously in your chest.

Behind you, you can hear it — his gravely, and surprisingly low laughter, following you like a shadow, warm and amused, wrapping around you even from several paces back. Your face is still burning, you can feel every inch of it.


Oh circuits.


You press your hands faintly to your cheeks as you run, hoping the cool air might calm the warmth, but no luck. In your head, you try to analyze, breaking it down like you do with movie scenes or show characters:


That was teasing, right? Flirting? His tone, his touch, the grin… it wasn’t just friendly, was it?
No, no, too much to just be friendly. But you can’t be sure — you’re not good at this part. Reading between the lines.

You glance back once, catching a quick glimpse of him — Edge jogging smoothly behind you, his tall frame steady, his eyes locked on you with a glint you can’t quite place. Your heart does another strange flip. He notices, of course he notices.

His grin widens slightly when your eyes meet — a sharp, knowing little tilt that sends you scrambling to face forward again, nearly tripping over your own feet.

“CAREFUL, LITTLE ONE,” you hear him call lightly, his voice carrying easily over the distance between you. “WOULDN'T WANT YOU GETTING HURT ON MY WATCH." 

Oh no.


Oh no, no, no.

You nearly choke on your own breath, fumbling your pace as you wave a shaky hand back at him, your brain spinning uselessly. “i—i’m fine! totally fine!” you call back, voice high and rushed.

He chuckles again — you can hear it, low and velvety — and picks up his pace just a little, falling in beside you now, long legs keeping easy stride.

You risk a tiny glance sideways, catching the faint smirk still curving at the corner of his mouth, his glowing eyes flicking to meet yours again, sharp and amused. Your stomach flips so hard you almost stumble again.

Without another word, you surge forward in a tiny burst of speed, desperate to put a little space between you, your face burning so hot you can practically feel steam rising.


Edge lets out a quiet laugh behind you — soft, low, and unmistakably pleased — his eyes glittering faintly in the fading golden light as he watches you run ahead.

••••

You’re halfway through the front hallway, mind pleasantly blank, when you hear it —
“hey. you. hold up a sec.”

You pause, blinking slowly, turning to see Sans. He’s leaning against the doorframe, one hand tucked into his jacket pocket, the other lifting lazily to scratch at his skull. His grin is sharp and lazy at once, teeth glinting, left eyelight dim while the right flickers faintly, almost like a spark.

“yeah, you,” he says again, pushing off the frame and strolling toward you with slow, heavy steps. “got a minute, kid?”

You blink again, head tilting slightly, brain flicking through your mental schedule. You had been on your way to the kitchen for tea, but this seems… new.

“Okay,” you say softly, flatly.

Sans chuckles faintly under his breath, stopping just in front of you. He looks relaxed, but his grin doesn’t quite reach his sockets.

“lemme make this real simple,” he says, voice low, smooth. “you’re stayin’ here, yeah? under our roof? free food, free wifi, all that?”

You nod calmly. “Yes.”

His grin tightens. “then don’t get funny ideas.”

Your head tilts. “Funny like jokes or funny like trouble?” you ask sincerely.

He snorts softly. “both. don’t steal, don’t mess with anyone’s stuff. and don’t go poking around the basement, got it?”

You stare up at him, expression blank, voice soft. “You know,” you murmur, “when you tell someone not to do something, especially with a threat, it just makes that person want to do it a lot more.”

You meant it as an idle observation — a small, passing thought, like noting the weather or the softness of a cat’s fur.

But Sans’ grin sharpens, and then his hand is on your shoulder, fast. You feel the weight of his grip tighten, sharp bones digging slightly into the fabric of your sleeve, his right eye flaring bright and hot with a flash of warning light.

“I ain’t jokin’, kid,” Sans murmurs, voice low, rough, no humor left in it. “Stay. outta. the basement.”

For the first time since you’ve been here — since you met them, since you stepped into this loud, chaotic house — something tightens in your chest.

Your face, usually soft, mild, open, twists. You frown, brows drawing low, eyes narrowing, lips pressing into a thin, sharp line. Your fingers twitch slightly at your sides. Without thinking, without effort, you lift your arm — and slap his hand off of your person. 

Sans’ eyelights flicker slightly, caught off guard. You look up at him, meeting the burning blue-white of his gaze.

“I know how to show basic decency,” you say quietly, voice calm but edged now, the faintest spark of anger curling under the words. “Do you know how to do the same?”

His hand hovers in the air for half a second, frozen. You scoff softly under your breath and turn, walking away without another word.

The hall feels colder as you walk through it, your footsteps are soft, steady. Your mind, usually filled with mechanical notes, song lyrics, movie scenes; flickers instead with the faint hum of irritation.

You don’t like being threatened, you don’t like being assumed to be dangerous, or untrustworthy, or naive. Sure, you’re not the most social, not the most outgoing. You miss cues, you misunderstand jokes, you take things literally more often than not — but you know how to be decent. 

You know how to respect someone’s home, respect other's personal space. Your fingers flex absently at your sides as you walk, feeling the faint, mechanical buzz under your skin, the subtle hum of systems quietly calibrating, readjusting.

It’s funny, you think idly — no one here knows what you really are.To them, you’re just… soft.

Normal.

Human.

Yet, they still perceive you as a threat.

••••

Behind you, back in the hallway, Sans stands frozen for a long moment. His grin has faded slightly, the edges of it no longer sharp with spite but slack with something closer to thoughtfulness — or maybe unease.

His hand still hovers faintly in the air, fingers slightly curled, where it had clamped down on your shoulder just seconds before. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he lowers it.

He rubs his fingers together absently, the rough scrape of bone on bone faint in the quiet. He flexes his hand once, twice. There’s still that faint zing, that weird little prickling feeling in his palm, as if something had bit at his magic — not enough to hurt, but enough to really register as a threat, but… enough. Enough to leave a ghost of sensation.

A crackle, a buzz, like static, like the feeling of being too close to a charged spell — except no one had cast anything. No one should have been able to.

“Huh,” Sans mutters under his breath. He shakes his hand once, flicking his fingers, brushing it off casually against the side of his jacket. “weird.”

With a little hum under his breath, he turns, shoving both hands deep into his pockets. His boots thud softly on the floor as he walks away, but his steps are a little heavier than usual. He tells himself it’s nothing, just static.

••••

You keep walking, the edge of irritation smoothing slightly as you move through the house, past the long hallway, past the empty living room.

It’s strange, you think, how loud this place usually is — voices overlapping, footsteps pounding, laughter or shouting echoing through the rooms — and how quiet it can suddenly feel. The lodge has been your home for a month now. 

One whole month.

And yet…

You pull your arms in closer around yourself as you walk, the mechanical hum of your inner systems faint beneath your skin. You can hear it, feel it, like a whisper under the surface — the faint whir of gears, the soft spark of circuits aligning. You know no one else can tell, not unless they go searching deep. 

The skeletons (except for Edge) all seem wary of you, or just flat out despise you. You can see it in the way Blue’s smile is a little too tight, the way Red’s gaze hardens when you enter a room, the way Stretch scoffs at your appearance. Black, sharp and sly, watches you with narrowed sockets when he thinks you aren’t looking. 

Vicky, sweet-smiling and sharp-eyed, seems to want something from you, you don’t quite understand. You can feel the small tension lines when you’re in the room with her, like threads pulled just slightly too tight.

You don’t know why she invited you here. You don’t know why the others let you stay. But you know you’re tired of feeling like an intruder in a place that’s supposed to be home.

You slip into the kitchen quietly, the old floorboards creaking faintly under your steps. You put the kettle on, your fingers moving automatically, muscle memory guiding you through the motions while your mind ticks faintly over the earlier interaction.

The weight of Sans’ hand on your shoulder still lingers. You can almost feel it, the sharp grip, the warning glow in his eyelights, the cold edge to his voice when he told you not to steal, not to snoop, not to step out of line. You don’t understand why he's acting the way he is.

Was it something you said?

Your brow furrows slightly as you wait for the kettle to boil, your fingers tapping lightly against the counter.

No.

You were just making a joke, your not going to blame yourself for the reaction of someone else. 

You refuse to let yourself spiral into that — to be gaslit into thinking you could have possibly done something wrong. Sure he may not have liked what you'd said, but it was nothing to get physical over. 

The kettle whistles softly, steam curling up in graceful ribbons, and you make yourself a cup of tea, cradling a ceramic cat mug carefully between your hands. You stand there in the quiet kitchen, sipping slowly, letting the warmth seep into your fingers, letting it soothe the faint, prickly edge of your thoughts.

You’re not going to steal nor break the rules. You’re not here to cause trouble. You just… wish Sans hadn’t assumed you would. 

Somewhere in the house, you hear footsteps — Edge’s heavy, purposeful boots moving across the floor. You smile faintly to yourself, feeling the tension in your shoulders ease slightly.

Maybe after your tea, you’ll find him, you're always in a much better mood around him. With enough pestering, you can convince him to watch a movie with you.

You finish your tea quietly, standing by the window, watching the sunlight soften as the afternoon fades slowly toward evening. Your mind drifts, soft and light again, mechanical notes slipping back into place, thoughts of cartoons and jogs and ceramic cat trinkets replacing the irritation from earlier.

But even as you think it — even as you tell yourself you’re okay, you’re calm, you’re in control — you feel it. A little spark, a faint, electric prickle under your skin, starting in your fingertips and crawling up through your hands.

You glance down, startled, watching as a faint shimmer dances along your knuckles, like static, like lightning trapped under your skin. It zaps once, twice — a little crackle, harmless but bright.

Your heart lurches and you press your palms flat against the countertop, breathing carefully, deliberately, until the faint sparking begins to subside.

You stand there for a moment longer, hands shaking, eyes half-lidded, feeling your systems hum softly as they settle. You don’t like being angry, it's a rare thing for you — usually you’re mellow, easygoing, floating through things in your own gentle way.

But… you’re angry now.

Angry at the way they’ve treated you. Angry at the way you’ve been walking on eggshells for a month, trying to be small and soft and safe so you don’t scare them, so you don’t push too hard, so you don’t make things worse. Angry at Sans, with his passive aggressive grin and his sharp grip, assuming the worst of you.

You exhale slowly, closing your eyes. It’s okay, you’re okay...you’ve survived worse. You’ll survive this, too. When you open your eyes again, the sparks are gone. Your hands cease their shaking, and return to a normal temperature, warm from the tea.

You flex your fingers once, twice, feeling the mechanical glide of the joints beneath the synthetic skin. You smooth your palms over the counter, grounding yourself.

You know you’re strange to them. You know you’re not like the people they’re used to. But you also know — deeply know — that you have every right to be here, to take up space, to exist in this home just like anyone else.

You’re not going to let them scare you into shrinking. You’re not going to let them push you into anger you don’t want. You take a slow breath, exhaling softly, keep your promise and stay out of the basement. You know how to be decent...for now. 

••••

Sans finds his thoughts return to the interaction from earlier,  his mind won’t leave it alone. They pulled away too easily.

He chews on that thought, brow furrowing faintly under his hood. Sure, you don’t look like much — a typical human, kinda spacey, wandering through the house like you half-live in your own head. Not the kind of person you expect to just… shrug off a monster’s grip.

Sans isn’t the strongest physically — that’s more Edge’s or Black's thing — but when he grabs someone, they usually feel it. Monsters, humans, doesn’t matter, he knows the weight his magic carries.

Except…you didn’t react, didn’t flinch, you didn’t even try. You just pushed his hand away, smooth and effortless, like brushing off a stray leaf. Sans exhales slowly through his teeth, skull tilting downward slightly, sockets narrowing faintly in thought.

What are you?

No — that’s stupid, you're human, he knows you're human. Vicky introduced you, vouched for you, said you needed a place. The others grumbled, but he let it slide — he figured, what’s one more? And yeah, you’re odd, sure, but lots of humans are odd.

And yet…

His fingers twitch slightly in his pockets. That little zing still lingers faintly in his palm, like the memory of magic. A tiny part of his brain, the part that still remembers old stories and underground whispers, murmurs: Mage.

Humans who can wield magic, who are dangerous,  who shouldn’t exist anymore, if history played out right.

“Nope,” Sans mutters quietly, shaking his head to himself.

Nope, that's just paranoia talking. He’s been on edge since they moved topside. Too many humans, too many unknowns, too many little things that could go wrong. 

He’s imagining things, you’re not a Mage, you're not anything. You’re just…quiet, weird, a nuisance sure — but harmless, harmless to them; he's sure of it.

He flexes his hand again, feeling the slight, lingering heaviness in his bones, like something tugged faintly at the edges of his magic when you looked at him like that — sharp, clear, and angry.

He hadn’t expected it, he expected you to wilt, maybe. To apologize, or get scared. Not… look at him like he was the one crossing a line. That glare, soft as it was compared to his, still carried weight.

How the hell…?

Sans lets out another long, slow breath, shoulders sagging slightly. Maybe he’s just overthinking it, he's good at that, after all. He rubs his hand once more against his jacket, trying to shake off the last ghost of that odd little spark. It's probably just static.

Probably.

Chapter Text

The lodge sat unusually quiet, a stillness draped over its creaking old beams like a held breath. Outside, the trees shivered faintly in the cool wind, light slanting pale gold across the porch and filtering through the old, smudged windows. 

Inside, Black paced slow, measured circles in front of the fireplace, arms folded tight, boots clicking sharp against the worn floorboards. His black jacket shifted with every turn, casting restless shadows across the room. The faint morning light from the window sliced across his skeletal grin, turning it into something more sinister.

On the couch, Mutt sprawled lazily, legs kicked up, one foot bouncing rhythmically over the armrest. His purple eyelights flickered as they followed his brother’s tight, agitated movement. He didn’t say anything at first. He knew Black well enough to wait, let the storm break open on its own.

“SHE CAME TO ME LAST NIGHT.” Black’s voice cut the silence, his sharp grin was thin, agitated. His porcelain white teeth catching the faint light as he paced near the living room fireplace. Black stopped pacing just long enough to glance sharply over his shoulder. “SHE SAYS THE OTHER HUMAN'S BEEN TAKING HER THINGS.”

Mutt’s foot stilled, hanging in the air. “...Y/n?”

Black turned fully now, his sharp-toothed grin flashing. “MM. FUNNY, ISN'T IT? YOU BRING A HUMAN INTO THE HOUSE, YOU GIVE THEM A LITTLE SPACE AND SUPRISE, SUPRISE — THEY START CREEPING INTO SPACES THEY DONT BELONG.”

Mutt’s fingers drummed absently on the couch arm. He wasn’t sure what reaction Black wanted from him. Agreement? Anger? His brother had to know that we wasn't the most fond of Vicky. He huffed softly through his nose. “I dunno, they seem…normal enough.”

Black let out a sharp, humorless scoff. “NORMAL ENOUGH,’” Black echoed mockingly. “HAVE YOU EVER KNOWN A HUMAN WHO STAYED 'NORMAL' FOR LONG, MUTT?”

“YOU GIVE THEM A FEW MONTHS,” Black continued, voice low, sharp, “AND THE CRACKS START SHOWING. THEY ACT HARMLESS, CLUELESS, SWEET. THEN THEY START PUSHING — THINKING THEY CAN GET AWAY WITH MORE. ITS ONLY A MATTER OF TIME.”

Mutt yawned faintly, teeth flashing, then adjusted his shoulders against the cushions. He had to admit he couldn't see how his brother could say these things, and still not correlate these same attributes with Vicky. “You think they’re dangerous?”

Black’s grin widened, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I THINK WE'RE OVERDUE FOR A LITTLE CAUTION.”

Mutt’s purple gaze flicked toward the window, where, outside, You were sitting cross-legged on the back porch, notebook balanced on your knees.

You were oblivious to the situation. Your brows furrowed in quiet concentration, tongue sticking faintly out at the corner of your mouth as a pen scratched steadily across the page. Occasionally, you'd paused, staring upward at the trees as if calculating something private. 

Mutt’s gaze flicked lazily back toward him. “You want me to scare ‘em, or something?”

“NO, NO.” Black waved a hand, grin still sharp. “NO NEED FOR BRUTE FORCE, YET.”

Mutt’s brow quirked slightly. “Yet.”

Black’s smile thinned. “I WANT YOU TO WATCH THEM, KEEP AN EYE OUT. FIND OUT WHERE THEY CAME FROM. WHO THEY ASSOCIATE WITH, WHO THEY REALLY ARE.”

Mutt’s sockets narrowed faintly, “You want a background check.”

Black’s grin stretched wide. “AN EXTENSIVE BACKGROUND CHECK.”

For a moment, Mutt was quiet. He let his fingers tap thoughtfully against the couch, head tilted slightly, listening to the faint creaks of the old house, the muted laughter from the kitchen where the others were gathered.

He understood why Black felt the way he did. He understood, deeply. They had been burned before, he just wished he could aim his energy at the right person.

Mutt’s eye narrowed faintly, but he gave a slow, easy nod. “ Of course, M'lord.”

••••

The café was quiet currently, quiet but definitely not unpleasant. Sunlight filtered through the tall windows, casting golden patterns across the polished wood floor. The usual hum of conversation was absent, replaced by the soft purring of cats and the occasional clink of porcelain. 

You stood behind the counter, meticulously aligning sugar packets, your movements precise and deliberate. Edge was nearby, his tall frame leaning against the counter as he sipped his coffee. His usual stern expression was softened, the tension in his shoulders eased.

"DO YOU ALWAYS ORGANIZE SUGAR PACKETS BY COLOR?" he asks, his voice low and steady.

You looked up, meeting his gaze. "Yes, it creates a visually pleasing gradient. It’s calming."

He chuckles, a rare sound that caught you off guard. It was warm, genuine. "I SUPPOSE IT IS," he says, watching you for a moment before turning his attention to the cats lounging around the café.

Mochi, the plump white cat, was sprawled across a sunlit patch on the floor, while Nori, a sleek orange tabby, perched on a windowsill, tail flicking lazily. Socrates, a mischievous ragdoll, had claimed a spot on the counter, his blue eyes half-closed in contentment.

That made Edge glance sideways at you. His gaze lingered—not in the appraising way others often looked, like they were trying to figure you out or decide how to categorize you—but in a way that felt… present. Like he wasn’t waiting for you to say something clever, or fix yourself into a more familiar shape. Just watching. Noticing.

You didn’t notice right away that you were mirroring his stance. Both of you stood with a stillness that wasn’t forced, backs relaxed but upright, feet planted. You liked the way Edge existed. Grounded. Solid. 

Not like the other people you met who said one thing but meant another. Who laughed when they didn’t find something funny, or spoke in ways you couldn’t quite decode. Edge said what he meant. Sometimes with blunt force, yes—but it made things easier for you. You liked easier. And he was surprisingly good at not talking just to fill the silence. You liked that too.

“Y/N,” he said, your name low and quiet in the space between you. You turned slightly, enough to give him your attention without stepping out of the moment.

He seemed to hesitate, something rare for him. Edge didn’t usually hesitate. But now, he did—just slightly, just enough for the pause to feel real. “DO YOU EVER FEEL...OUT OF PLACE?”

You blinked. Once. Twice. The question wasn’t complicated, but the answer was. Your eyes dropped to Socrates, who had stretched one long front leg into the air and was now licking it like it was the most important task in the world. 

You watched his small movements, your fingers twitching faintly at your sides as you tried to gather your thoughts into something less abstract. “Yes,” you said, your voice unfiltered, even. “But not here.”

Edge didn’t reply right away. You continued, feeling no pressure to say the right thing—just the honest thing. “Sometimes I feel like I’m… tuned to the wrong frequency. Everyone else is on one station, and I’m on another. And I can hear theirs, but it’s all static.” 

You let out a small breath through your nose, the corner of your mouth twitching at the imagery. “But here, with the cats and the coffee and you—it’s like the signal clears up.”

That made him look at you. Really look. His gaze carried that quiet weight again. Not pity or curiosity, something steadier. Understanding, maybe. Or something close to it.

“I UNDERSTAND,” he said finally. No embellishment, just those two words. You liked that about him, too.

The light pouring through the window shifted as the afternoon wore on, staining the café floor a warmer gold. Outside, the city moved as always, unknowingly passing by your quiet little bubble of stillness and sleepy cats.

You let your eyes drift to the side again, watching the way Edge stood. Still, alert but not rigid. With others, he always seemed like he was bracing for something. Waiting for the moment he’d need to raise his voice or shield himself from some kind of offense. But here, with you, he looked… not relaxed exactly, but less defensive. Like he’d put his armor down, just a little. You appreciated that and you didn’t take it for granted.

A comfortable silence settled between you, filled only by the soft sounds of the café. After a while, you turned to Edge, a curious expression on your face. "Do you ever feel like you're pretending?"

He looked at you, surprised by the question. "PRETENDING?"

You nodded. "Like you're putting on a mask for others."

Edge was silent for a moment, then sighed. "YES. MORE OFTEN THAN I'D LIKE TO ADMIT."

You tilted your head. "But not now?"

He met your gaze, something unspoken passing between you. "NO, NO NOT NOW."

You smiled, a warm, genuine expression that reached your eyes. "I'm glad."

Edge felt a warmth in his chest, unfamiliar but not unwelcome. He realized, in that moment, that he valued your presence more than he had acknowledged. With you, he could be himself, and that was a rare gift. As the afternoon sun cast long shadows across the café floor, you and Edge stood side by side, sharing the rest of that quiet moment, needing no words.

••••

The lodge's front door creaks open as you step inside, the familiar scent of aged wood and faint smoke greeting you. The warmth of the interior contrasts sharply with the chill that clings to your coat, a reminder of the long day you've had at work. Unfortunately the quiet tranquility of the cafe hadn't lasted long for you or Edge, with far more troublesome customers piling in the cafe. 

If seemed like the universe was hell bent on ruining the calmness you'd both felt previously. Your steps are quiet as you make your way past the living room, seeking the solace of your room and the comfort of solitude. But the tranquility is shattered by an unpleasant voice.

"Seriously, Y/n? What the hell is this?" Stretch stands in the middle of the living room, arms crossed, his expression a mix of irritation and disbelief. Vicky stands beside him, her expression a mixture of pity and kindness that doesn't quite reach her eyes.

The room is in disarray—snack wrappers litter the floor, a half-empty soda can teeters on the edge of the coffee table, and a pink leopard-print blanket is draped haphazardly over the couch.

You blink, processing the scene. The mess is chaotic, uncharacteristic of your meticulous nature. Your mind races, trying to to rewind the day in your head. But there’s nothing. You were at the café. You and Edge, working the early shift. You didn’t even come back here for lunch. You stare. Then slowly, you turn back toward Stretch and Vicky.

“I was…at work all day,” you reply, confusion lacing your voice. “There’s no way I left that mess. I wouldn’t…” You trail off, trying to piece it together, words fluttering like fragile paper in your mind. “I wouldn’t let myself leave a mess like that. I’m pretty sure.”

Stretch snorts, unimpressed. “Yeah? Well Vicky saw you leave it. She said you left this disaster before heading out."

“I saw you,” Vicky echoes smoothly, stepping closer with that same little smile. “It’s okay, Y/n. You don’t have to lie, just clean it up and we'll forget about it."

You feel something cold and unsettled flutter in your chest. Your brow furrows, the gears in your mind turning. The timeline doesn't add up. You left early in the morning, and the mess wasn't there then. The wrappers are from snacks you don't eat, and the blanket isn't yours. 

"No. I didn't do this," you state firmly, your voice steady despite the growing unease.

“You’re seriously gonna keep this up?” Stretch’s sockets narrow. “Come on, don’t make it worse.”

The edge in his voice feels like it slices right through your confusion. Your heart flutters harder, trying to piece together the right response, the right words, the right combination to unlock understanding. But it feels like nothing fits.

Before you can respond, a familiar voice cuts through the tension. "WHAT'S GOING ON HERE?"

The sound of boots on the stairs echoed in the room. Edge appears at the bottom, arms crossed, shoulders squared, looming just slightly behind you. His red eyelights flicker between you, Stretch, and Vicky, his frown already carved deep.

Stretch huffs. “Y/n’s making excuses about the mess in the living room. Vicky saw them leave it.”

Edge scoffs, loud and sharp, the sound cutting through the tension like a knife. “DON'T BE RIDICULOUS,” he snaps. “Y/N WAS AT WORK WITH ME ALL DAY."  

Vicky’s eyes narrow, her smile twitching. “I saw them, Edge. I know what I saw.”

Edge laughs, the sound cold. “I'D SOONER BELIEVE THE SKY WAS FALLING BEFORE I BELIEVE A WORD THAT FALLS OUT OF YOUR MOUTH.”

Vicky's smile falters, a flicker of annoyance crossing her features. You blink, heart skipping. Something warm blooms faintly in your chest, a little puff of startled relief.

Stretch frowns, clearly thrown. “Wait, you’re defending them? Why?”

Edge rolls his eyes, stepping forward until he’s at your side. His large, clawed hand drops onto your shoulder for a moment—solid, grounding.
“BECAUSE YOU'RE YELLING BASELESS ACCUSATIONS LIKE A CHILD,” he snaps. “AND YOU CLEARLY DIDN'T LOOK AT THE EVIDENCE.” He sweeps an arm toward the living room.

“LOOK AT THE SNACK WRAPPERS, ALL HER FAVORITE.” His voice sharpens as he points one long, red gloved finger toward Vicky, who stiffens visibly. “LOOK AT THE BLANKET, IT CLEARLY BELONGS TO HER.”

You glance too, your eyes following Edge’s gestures, your brain slowly catching up. He’s right. The hot pink leopard-print blanket definitely isn’t yours. The empty soda cans, the snack wrappers—none of that’s yours either.

Edge's default sneer grows even more judgmental. “IF IT BOTHERS YOU SO MUCH, STRETCH, MAYBE STOP BEING LAZY FOR ONCE AND CLEAN IS UP YOURSELF.”

Stretch’s frown deepens, and his mouth opens like he’s about to protest—but Edge isn’t giving him the chance.

You feel the gentle pull of fingers around your wrist, and then you’re being guided away, tugged up the stairs. You stumble slightly, legs dragging with exhaustion, brain buzzing with confusion and quiet, stunned relief.

Behind you, you hear Stretch’s frustrated sigh, Vicky’s sharp exhale, the faint rustle of someone shifting their weight.

Edge leads you up, his hand steady on your wrist, his pace slow enough you can keep up without tripping. When you reach the top of the stairs, he turns toward his room, nudging the door open with his boot.

Inside, it’s just as neat as the last time you were in here. His bed is made sharply, the corners tucked, the pillows aligned. His desk is clean, only a single notebook and pen laid carefully at the center. The faint scent of black tea lingers in the air.

You’re still trying to catch up mentally, words hovering on the tip of your tongue, when Edge finally lets go of your wrist. His heavy gaze drops to you, his frown softening—just a little.

“ARE YOU ALRIGHT?” he asks gruffly.

You blink up at him, shoulders hunching slightly. “I was… really confused,” you admit softly. “I didn’t know what I did wrong. I thought maybe I forgot something, but I know I didn’t, but they weren’t listening, and…” Your voice drifts off, hands flapping weakly at your sides.

Edge snorts faintly, his arms crossing again. “YOU DID NOTHING WRONG,” he says firmly. “THEY'RE JUST IDIOTS.”

You laugh softly, a tiny huff of sound, more surprised than amused. “Thanks,” you murmur, blinking rapidly. “Y'know for helping me.”

Edge grunts, looking faintly embarrassed. He shifts slightly, his broad shoulders rolling as he glances away. “YES, WELL. I TOLD YOU BEFORE, YOU ARE UNDER MY PROTECTION NOW.”

You nod faintly, still feeling the tired weight of the day settle into your bones. You supposed you hadn't taken him as seriously before, but for all the time you've known Edge, he's never said something he didn't mean. 

Your body hums faintly—not pain, exactly, but the constant low buzz of your synthetic parts, the quiet fatigue of systems running under the surface. You press your hands together, focusing on the gentle pressure, the soft give and resistance of skin over metal.

Edge steps toward you and gently pushes at your shoulder—not roughly, but firmly enough to guide you. You blink up at him, confused for half a second, until you realize he’s nudging you toward his bed. It’s not a question; you hesitate for a breath. 

He says nothing else, just turns away after the push, heading across the room toward his desk. You hear the chair creak under his weight, the soft sound of a drawer sliding open. A pen clicks.
He’s writing.

Like this is routine. Like this is what happens now—you’re exhausted, and Edge handles it. You toe off your shoes with slow, clumsy movements, then line them up neatly by the wall. Your limbs feel like they’re running on half-power, systems warm and whirring from the long day. 

There’s a gentle electric hum behind your eyes—feedback from sensory overload, probably. The lodge is always too loud. Too bright, and confusing but not in here.

In here, the lamp on the desk casts a golden glow. The shadows are soft. The room smells like clean rain, old leather, and something faintly smoky—sharp, but comforting. You move toward the bed.

The blankets are already pulled back. You wonder if he did that without thinking, or if he did think, and just didn’t say it out loud. Either way, it’s waiting for you.

You climb in slowly, easing your tired frame onto the mattress. It’s firmer than your own. Or... it would be, if you had one. You lie on your side, curling your hands close to your chest. 

The synthetic lining in your arms pulses faintly beneath the skin, soft and rhythmic. Like a second heartbeat; the pillow smells like him. You blink slowly. Once. Twice. The hum in your head begins to settle, like dust caught in sunlight.

Across the room, the scratch of Edge’s pen continues. You think about thanking him again. But you don’t want to break whatever this is. The silence here isn’t uncomfortable. It’s... calm. Heavy, but not crushing; and you feel eyes falling shut.

For the first time in what feels like weeks, you’re not replaying conversations in your head. You’re not trying to decode someone’s expression. You’re not worried that tomorrow you’ll wake up and everyone will hate you a little more for something you didn’t do.

You’re just... resting.

Breathing.

Existing.

Safe.

Edge doesn’t look up from his journal. But his eye lights flick toward the bed once, just to check. You’re already asleep.

Chapter Text

The garage smells like oil, rust, and a long history of poorly thought-out decisions, you like it. Not in the “let’s live here forever” way, but in the “this is quiet and everything makes sense if I squint just right” way. There’s a hum to it, a whirring pulse beneath the concrete. Familiar, mechanical...almost like home.

You nudge the garage door open with your shoulder, arms full of supplies, toolbox wobbling on top of your pile like a daring acrobat. The door creaks like it’s trying to warn someone of your approach, which… fair. You’ve been told you’re “sneaky,” but really you've just trained yourself to walk softer and don’t think to announce yourself.

There’s already someone inside, a skeleton, of course; but it's Red. He’s crouched in front of Edge’s car, wrench in hand and scowl carved deep into his face like a tattoo. Grease stains splatter across his hoodie and smudge the side of his cheekbone. His fingers twitch, then slam the wrench down with a sharp CLANK.

You pause mid-step, he hasn’t noticed you yet. You wonder if he’s about to punch the car. That’s what you do when the vending machine eats your change. Punch it until it cries candy, it’s a pretty solid method. Beside the more than obvious dent in the side of the poor machine.

You clear your throat, not loudly—just enough to be polite. Red jerks up like he’s been electrocuted. "The hell?! How long you been standin’ there?"

“Thirty-seven seconds,” you say helpfully, shifting your load. “Would’ve said hi earlier but you looked like you were having a private moment with the radiator.” He narrows his eyes at you. The expression is sharp enough to shave with.

You blink, wait, that was probably annoyance. Or...not? Maybe he's just angry? Sometimes those look the same.

“Why are ya here?” he snaps.

“I live here?” You gesture vaguely toward the ceiling. “Also my car has a weird knocking sound and it’s not supposed to do that. So I thought I’d come fix it.”

He snorts. “Fix it, huh?” His gaze slides down to your toolbelt like it personally offended him. “What, you gonna glue it together or somethin'?”

You consider this seriously. “No, glue’s a poor conductor. Epoxy might work, but only if you give it time to cure properly.”

He stares at you. Blinks. Looks back at Edge’s car. “Tch.” You step around him carefully, adjusting your load and setting your stuff down on the bench with a series of soft clinks and thuds. You make sure everything’s in its designated spot.

Organization makes the process go smoother. And also your brain gets itchy when things are out of order. You glance at Red, he's still glaring at the engine like it told him his hoodie’s ugly.

“…You want help?” you ask after a beat. “You look like your going to explode.”

“‘M fine.”

“Okay. It’s just... I fixed something in Edge’s car before.”

His skull jerks up again. “You what?”

You frown, confused. “His power steering was misaligned last week. I adjusted the pressure valve and replaced the line. I left a sticky note so he’d know.” Red’s sockets flicker, then narrow. “You messed with Edge’s car without tellin’ me?”

“I told him,” you reply, gesturing vaguely. “Sticky note.”

“You seriously think a damn sticky note counts as tellin’ someone you’re screwin’ around under the hood?”

You tilt your head. “Well, it was a neon sticky note. So, like, very visible.”

He looks like he’s about to pop a vein he doesn’t have. “Why the hell are you even touchin’ his car?”

“…Because it was broken?”

“You think I wouldn’t’ve fixed it? You think I don’t know what I’m doin’?”

You freeze, confused. The conversation has derailed and you’re not sure what track it was supposed to be on in the first place. “No?” you say slowly. “I just noticed the leak and thought—oh. Oh. You think I was implying you’re not good at this.”

His silence is confirmation. His clenched jaw, the sudden lack of eye contact, the way his whole body turns away from you like he’s trying to become part of the engine block.

You frown, thinking. He’s defensive now, closed off. This is when people don’t want more words. You’ve learned that, too many explanations just make it worse.

“Okay,” you say gently, stepping back. “I won’t touch his car again.” He doesn’t respond.

You nod, more to yourself than him, and retreat to your own car. It’s parked in the far corner of the garage, away from the natural light, coated in a thin layer of dirt that’s starting to look like a fashion choice. You pop the hood, the engine wheezes in protest like it’s on its last wheel.

“Same,” you murmur.

You’re careful not to use the scanner built into your palm. Too risky. You’d have to roll up your sleeve, and you’ve already caught Red watching you like you’re a walking red flag. The last thing you need is someone noticing two feet of intricate wires imbedded into your arm or that your veins don’t pulse unless you simulate the rhythm. So you grab a standard multimeter instead, sure it's old school in your books but, it's normal.

You mutter under your breath as you work, cataloging everything in mechanical shorthand. "Wire's burnt out, probably needs a re-solder; manifold’s loose; belts are holding but barely," and flicking through each tool in your kit with absent precision. There’s a rhythm to this, a kind of peace.

You feel more human when you’re repairing machines than when you’re talking to people. Machines don’t lie, or give you weird looks. Nor ask why you “don’t smile more.” You’re elbow-deep in the engine when you hear footsteps.

Red again.

You don’t look up, not until he speaks. “…What was the thing you said you fixed in Edge’s car?”

You blink. Glance at him sideways. “The power steering valve. It was leaking, and he was struggling to make sharp turns. That’s why he clipped the trash bins last week.”

Red makes a face. “Thought he was just distracted.”

You shrug. “Nope. Physics...and also hydraulics, poor ones.”

He mutters something under his breath and shifts awkwardly. “And what else?”

“Hm?”

“You said you fixed more than one thing.”

“Oh. Um. His spark plugs were corroded three weeks ago. I replaced them while he was fixing dinner last week, it was good timing. Then his A/C filter had mold in it, so I swapped it. That was just gross.”

Red stares. His jaw flexes. “You just…did that?”

You nod. “Yes.”

He crosses his arms. “You got some kinda hero complex?”

You blink at him, genuinely confused. “What does that mean?”

He sighs. “Means you think you gotta fix everything for everyone, even if nobody asked you to.”

“Oh.” You pause. “No. I just like fixing things.” He watches you work in silence after that. Not leaving, not speaking. Not even fiddling with Edge’s car anymore. Just... hovering.

You go back to your engine. It needs rewiring, but you have to do it with actual tools instead of the cool laser scalpel you built from an old toaster.

Tragic.

You sweat, you curse. You drop a bolt down into the engine block and spend ten minutes fishing it out with a magnet and a very long screwdriver. Red snorts once when you smack your head on the hood.

You don’t mind, you're used to laughter. Even the mean kind. Especially the mean kind. It’s still noise. Still a signal.

He leans against the wall eventually, watching you like a hawk disguised as a skeleton in a hoodie. After a while, he grumbles, “You always talk to machines like they’re people?”

“Yes,” you say immediately. “They listen better.” He actually chuckles at that, just once. A low, rough noise like a lawn mower trying to start.

You file it away like a rare species sighting. Silence settles in again. Comfortable, but tense. Like an old blanket full of static.

Eventually, he mutters, “Edge said the car felt smoother this week.”

You nod. “Good. I adjusted the transmission’s timing, he kept skipping gears.”

Red grunts, he doesn't thank you. Doesn’t apologize either, but he doesn’t scowl quite as much when you walk past him to grab another tool. You’ll count that as progress. After an hour, your car grumbles to life, still sickly, but breathing better. You pat the hood. “Good job, buddy. Don’t explode.”

You turn, ready to leave. Red’s still there, watching you. His sockets flick down to your hands, your stained shirt, the grease on your cheek. “…You know,” he starts, then hesitates. “You ain’t as useless as you look.”

You smile. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all week.” He blinks, startled. Then scoffs, looking away. “Don’t get used to it.” You won’t, but still.

You think maybe next time, you'll use a bigger stick note. Just to be sure he sees it... maybe he'd appreciate it.

••••

You don’t realize how quiet the lodge can get until you’re the only one awake in it. Not silent, not really, the house is alive in its own way: wood creaking, pipes sighing, the hum of your internal systems syncing to the refrigerator’s low mechanical drone.

You sit cross-legged on the kitchen counter, the hem of your pajama pants brushing your ankles, head tilted at the rhythmic tick of the clock.

Your cup of tea is steaming on the counter beside you; chamomile, or what passes for it after Edge reorganized the cabinet. You take a sip, legs swinging idly, pretending not to hear the faint shuffle near the doorway.

Someone’s been standing there for about four minutes now. You already know who it is, you heard the faint scrape of bone on tile earlier, the way his shoes pause between steps. Hesitation dressed as stealth.

So you speak without looking up, “You can come in, you know. It’s weird pretending not to see you.”A low grunt answers you, followed by slow footsteps. He appears in your periphery; tall, broad-shouldered, lavender colored jacket resting over his figure, Mutt. He was on the one who's sat next to you, willing, your first night at the lodge.  He looks like he’s waiting for you to ask what he’s doing there, but you don’t. You just sip your tea again and gesture vaguely toward the kettle.

“You want some?” That makes him blink. “...Tea?” You nod, “Yeah. It’s hot leaf juice. You look like you could use it.” He stares at you for a few seconds, as if trying to determine if you’re mocking him.

He doesn’t realize that subtle sarcasm isn’t your strong suit if it’s in your tone, it’s an accident. Finally, he grunts again. “Sure. Why not.” You slide off the counter and pad to the stove, pouring the liquid with a quiet focus.

He watches you move, efficient but oddly gentle, every motion deliberate, like someone used to taking care not to break things. He doesn’t know that you could easily crush a coffee mug with your bare hand without realizing it.

When you hand him the cup, your fingers brush his knuckles. He pretends not to notice the static tingle that jumps across the contact. You pretend not to notice him pretending. “Couldn’t sleep?” you ask, climbing back onto the counter with the unbothered ease of a cat returning to its perch.

He leans against the opposite counter, his sockets glowing faintly purple in the dim light. “Somethin’ like that,” he mutters. He doesn’t say that Black told him to watch you. Observe, report, analyze. Figure out what your angle is, what game you’re playing. But you don’t look like you’re playing anything. You just look...tired, calm. Honest in a way that’s almost eerie.

“Fair,” you say. “The house is noisy when it’s supposed to be quiet.” That earns a quiet snort,“Yeah, that’s one way to put it.” He takes a slow sip of his tea, grimaces at the heat, then looks at you again. “So... what’s your deal, human?”

You blink. “My deal?”

“Yeah.” He waves his hand vaguely. “You just... show up here, move in with all of us. Act like we ain’t givin’ you the cold shoulder.”

“Oh.” You pause, turning the question over in your mind like a puzzle piece you’re not sure where to fit. “I guess I just didn’t think too much of it?”

He huffs. “Really?”

You shrug. “I’m usually kind of busy thinking about something else. I notice things, just not... emotional things. Besides, people are usually off put by me when first meeting me, I've gotten used to it.”

He stares. It’s the kind of honesty that leaves him off balance, not defensive, not deflective. Just... raw truth. “You’re a weird one,” he finally says.

“Yeah,” you agree easily. “I get that a lot.” That makes him laugh, an unexpected bark of sound that startles even him. You blink, watching him like you’re trying to record the sound in your memory.

“Didn’t mean it as a compliment,” he says.

“I'll take what I can get,” you reply, expression flat. He takes another sip, head tilting. “So. What is your deal then? You said you didn’t notice people givin’ you the cold shoulder, that doesn’t bother you?”

You think about that. “Should it?”

“Well... yeah. Most people’d care.”

“I think I do care,” you say after a pause. “I just... don’t know what to do about it. So I make tea.”He laughs again, quieter this time. There’s something oddly soothing about your logic; strange, straightforward, harmless. He studies you for a moment longer, then his sockets flicker faintly purple. You feel the air shift, pressure tightening for a second, you tilt your head.

He looks at you,  really looks this time and his magic falters a little. Your soul flares visible for just a heartbeat, and it nearly stuns him.

Bright purple.

Perseverance.

A color most monsters don't see too often now. You blink, unbothered. “Huh. You okay?”

He forces his voice steady. “Yeah. Fine.” He drops the magic immediately, gaze flicking away as if burned, you don’t press.  He clears his throat. “So. Perseverance, huh?”

“Huh?” You tilt your head, before it clicks. “Oh, you mean my Soultrait. Is that a good one?”

“Depends who you ask.” He doesn’t tell you what it means, you don’t ask.

Instead, you hop off the counter again, rummaging through a drawer. “I have cookies.”

He chuckles. “You just... offer cookies to people spying on you?”

“Well,” you say, tearing open the bag, “it’s weird to pretend I didn’t notice you. Might as well make it less awkward.”

“...You’re real damn strange, human.”

“Thank you.”

“Not—”

“Still counts.”

He laughs again, a real one this time. You slide the cookies across the counter toward him, eyes bright with something soft, unguarded. He takes one without meaning to.

And as he eats, he finds himself thinking; against his better judgment, that maybe you’re not what Vicky said you were and maybe his brother was being too critical.

You’re too guileless, too transparent. The kind of person who’d tell the truth even if it got them in trouble. Still...orders were orders.

“So,” he says, voice casual, “what brought you here? To the lodge, I mean.”

You sip your tea, eyes drifting to the steam. “Vicky invited me, said she needed another roommate. It sounded nice and I needed a place to stay, although technically Edge offered me a place first.”

He hums. “You and Vicky close or somethin’?”

You consider that for a long moment, eyes narrowing slightly in confusion. “Not really, she’s nice though, I think.”

He can tell by your tone that you’re not sure. “She told us you didn’t like monsters.”

“Oh.” You blink. “That’s not true.”

“She said you called her names.”

Your brow furrows. “Also not true.”

He leans in a bit, “So you’re sayin’ she lied?”

“I’m saying maybe she misunderstood,” you answer slowly. “Sometimes people misunderstand me. I say things and they sound different to other people than they do in my head.”

He studies you, quiet for once. There’s something about the way you say it; flat, factual, but not defensive, that settles deep under his ribcage. You’re not calculating, you’re sincere. Painfully so. He looks down at the cup in his hand, the half-eaten cookie. “Huh.”

“Huh?” you echo.

“Nothin’. Just...thinkin’ maybe we were too quick to judge.”

Your eyes brighten a little, and the expression tugs at something he didn’t know he had left.“That means you’re gonna stop sneaking around?” you ask hopefully.

He snorts. “Don’t push your luck, kid.”

You grin. “I wasn’t. Just curious.”

He rolls his shoulders, pushing off the counter, stretching until his joints pop. “You’re somethin’ else.”

“Thank you.”

“Not—”

“Still counts.”

He groans, rubbing the top of his skull. “You’re impossible.”

You shrug. “So I’ve heard.”

He turns toward the door but doesn’t move yet. You’re still sitting there, sipping your tea like none of this is unusual, as if it’s normal to invite your spy in for snacks.

Something about that makes his chest ache in a way he doesn’t want to name. He pauses at the threshold. “You do this with everyone?”

“Do what?”

“Talk to ‘em like they’re not bad news.”

You think about it, then smile faintly. “Everyone’s bad news in some way. You just have to find the better parts.”

He huffs out a laugh. “You’re real weird, human.”

“Thank you.”

“...Yeah. I bet Edge likes that about you.”

You tilt your head. “He likes that I’m weird?”

“Forget it.”

You blink, processing. “That means yes.”

“Goodnight, human.”

You grin softly. “Night, Mutt.”

He leaves before you can see the way his expression flickers, not with suspicion, but something dangerously close to warmth. And later, when he’s lying awake in his room, pretending not to think about the way your laughter filled that small, dim kitchen, he tells himself again that he’s just doing his job.

That the only reason he stayed so long was because of orders. That it wasn’t about the tea, or the cookies, or the strange, sincere smile that doesn’t seem to belong in this house. He tells himself that, but even he doesn’t quite believe it.

••••

The garage was his, not officially, nor legally, and definitely not in any signed and sealed way, but Red had marked this space as his the same way a gang marks their territory; frequent use, a bit of blood, and a whole lotta sweat.

It was quiet today, a little too quiet for a house full of screaming chaos, snippy arguments, and the constant sugar-high shrieking of Stretch’s weird internet synth playlists. But out here? Peace.

Peace, and Edge’s annoying-ass car. Red crouched in front of it, jaw tight, wrench gripped like a damn weapon. He knew this engine better than his own magic. Knew the ins and outs of every finicky hose and bent metal quirk because he’d convinced Edge; his high-horse, no-one-touches-my-shit brother, to trust him with it. Had to practically beg for that privilege. Had to prove himself, time and again, because Edge didn’t even like letting people look at his ride, let alone tinker under the hood.

And now something was off.

Something was different.

He squinted at the steering system again. Rack and pinion had been replaced. Not by him. Not by Edge, but someone had done it. Perfect fit, exact model. Hell, even the tools used were precise, he could see where the bolts had been hand-tightened just enough to compensate for wear, a trick he’d learned from years of fixing old broken down machinery in the underground.

Someone had done this right, and that was the problem. Someone else had touched Edge’s car.

He slammed the wrench down with a sharp clank and muttered a curse, dragging his sleeve across his forehead.

That’s when he heard it.

The creak.

Subtle, soft, not like Edge’s stormy stomp or Stretch’s lazy drag. This was quiet, careful. His sockets snapped up.

You were standing there, arms full of tools like you were about to perform heart surgery on a washing machine. Just…watching.

Creepy.

“How long you been standin’ there?” he barked, instinct snapping like a whip.

You blinked, completely unbothered. “Thirty-seven seconds. Would’ve said hi earlier but you looked like you were having a private moment with the radiator.”

What the hell.

What did that mean? Was that a joke? Were you mocking him?

He scowled harder. “Why are you here?”

“I live here.” You gestured vaguely, like that explained anything. “Also my car has a weird knocking sound and it’s not supposed to do that. So I thought I’d come fix it.” You said it like it was normal. Like you had the right. Like the garage wasn’t sacred ground and you weren’t… you.

He snorted. “Fix it, huh?” His eyes scanned your belt like it was made of play-doh and glitter. “What, you gonna glue it together or somethin'?”

You frowned, dead serious. “No. Glue’s a poor conductor. Epoxy might work, but only if you give it time to cure properly.”

Oh, for—

He stared, you didn’t even blink. Where you always like this? Weirder than a bag of spiders and twice as hard to shake. You walked around him like he wasn’t radiating Do Not Touch energy, like you didn’t care if he bit your damn ankle.

Your hands moved with mechanical precision as you set everything down; each tool placed just-so, neat little rows, everything aligned like a neurotic shrine.

He hated how steady your hands were. Hated that he could tell you’d done this before. You glanced at him, head tilted like a confused puppy. “…You want help? You look like you're going to explode.”

“‘M fine.”

“Okay. It’s just...I fixed something in Edge’s car before.”

He jerked up, full spine-tingling alarm. “You what?”

You didn’t flinch, “His power steering was misaligned last week. I adjusted the pressure valve and replaced the line. I left a sticky note so he’d know.”

Sticky. Fuckin’. Note.

His sockets flared. “You messed with Edge’s car without tellin’ me?”

“I told him,” you said, confused. “Sticky note.”

“You seriously think a damn sticky note counts as tellin’ someone you’re screwin’ around under the hood?”

“Well, it was a neon sticky note,” you explained. “So, like, very visible.”

Red’s soul pounded like a jackhammer, he’d begged Edge to let him so much as wax this car. Had to prove, over months, that he wouldn’t scratch it, smudge it, breathe on it wrong. And here you were, cheerfully talking about swapping out precision parts like it was a craft project.

He growled, voice low. “Why the hell are you even touchin’ his car?”

“…Because it was broken?”

“You think I wouldn’t’ve fixed it? You think I don’t know what I’m doin’?”

You froze, gears spinning behind those strange, too-still eyes. “…No? I just noticed the leak and thought—oh. Oh. You think I was implying you’re not good at this.”

No shit.

Your voice didn’t change, but you tilted your head again, scanning him. That same look Edge gave him when he was about to lose a sparring match.

You were doing it now too, except your version was weirder. “Okay,” you said, voice even. “I won’t touch his car again.”

Red didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. Didn’t trust what would come out if he opened his mouth.

You moved away without another word. Like it didn’t matter. Like this whole conversation wasn’t ripping something raw in his chest.

He watched you walk to your car, it was a mess. Engine wheezing like a dying cat, frame dinged and crusted in dirt. You opened the hood with the same reverence some people use to open old books.

You didn’t pull out any fancy gadgets or useless modern crap. Just standard tools, old-school.

Slow.

Human.

But your hands moved like a surgeon’s, confident and exact. Red watched in silence as you muttered under your breath, cataloging problems like it was a goddamn grocery list. You stuck a multimeter into the system and nodded once, like you understood something the rest of the world didn’t.

He should’ve left, should’ve gone inside and let you be, but he couldn’t. Not after what you’d said, not after the part you knew to replace. Edge’s car had a custom rack and pinion system, something Red had helped design years ago.

It wasn’t a stock part, you wouldn’t have found it at a regular shop. And yet…it was there, perfectly installed, like you knew it needed to be. “…What was the thing you said you fixed in Edge’s car?” he asked, voice low.

You didn’t even look up. “The power steering valve, it was leaking. He was struggling to make sharp turns. That’s why he clipped the trash bins last week.”

Red’s sockets narrowed. “Thought he was just distracted.”

“Nope,” you said, focused. “Physics, also hydraulics, poor ones.”

He shifted. The words hung in the air like rust. “And what else?”

“Hm?”

“You said you fixed more than one thing.”

“Oh. Um. His spark plugs were corroded three weeks ago. I replaced them while he was yelling at Vicky. It was good timing. Then his A/C filter had mold in it, so I swapped it. That was just gross.”

He stared,  “You just… did that?”

“Yes.”

“You got some kinda hero complex?”

“What does that mean?”

He sighed. “Means you think you gotta fix everything for everyone, even if nobody asked you to.”

“Oh, no, I just like fixing things.”

You went back to your engine, calm as ever. Not a drop of grease on your nerves. Red didn’t know how to respond to that. So he watched.

Watched you fish bolts out of the block with a magnet, curse softly when you knocked your head on the hood, whisper comfort to the car like it was your roommate.

“Do you always talk to machines like they’re people?” he muttered eventually.

“Yes,” you replied without hesitation. “They listen better.”

He almost laughed, it came out more like a grunt. But it was… close. After a long stretch of silence, he murmured, “Edge said the car felt smoother this week.”

“Good. I adjusted the transmission’s timing. He kept skipping gears.”

He stared at you again, really looked. You were a weirdo, but a capable one.

“…You ain’t as useless as you look,” he said.

You beamed. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all week.”

He scowled, looking away. “Don’t get used to it.”

You wouldn’t, but he had a feeling he’d be seeing you in the garage again anyway. And maybe next time… he wouldn’t mind so much.