Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

As a rule, Cross Villalobos never let Nightmare enter a room without first checking it for potential threats. This practice had proven sound on many occasions, and perhaps could even be credited with saving the man’s life. He was capable, most definitely, but he was not infallible, a fact proven rather handily on the day they met.

Unfortunately, Cross wasn’t infallible either. He wouldn’t care, not really, if not for the fact that bodyguarding was rather difficult to do from a damn hospital bed, and especially the grave.

This is what he thought about as he bled out on the ludicrously expensive hotel rug, deep purple irreparably staining what very well could’ve been real fur, snow white and incredibly soft. Not a bad place to die; it was certainly comfortable, save for the six and a half stab wounds all missing his Soul by sheer luck. Oh, and the fact that his death buddy was the corpse of the guy he’d been taking care of when he was ambushed from behind, a humiliating thing to let happen to himself. The obnoxious red string he could never get rid of was starting to fade, no longer such an eyesore. It was kind of a relief, but he couldn’t quite make peace with his own demise when Nightmare was still outside, still in danger.

“Get outta here, boss,” he gurgled as loudly as he could, dimly setting off a spark of annoyance as he realized his limbs were going numb and his chances of living were, while technically nonzero, much much smaller than his chances at dusting right here in this hotel suite that had cost a fortune even for a single night. 

Dying’s gonna suck. Nightmare’ll have to find a new bodyguard…

Cross thought back to when Nightmare had initially offered him the job, explaining his difficulty with finding good protection in spite of the substantial paycheck he wasn’t shy about offering. Cross hadn’t cared about the money, happy to do just about anything if it meant staying off the streets… and just about anything he did, now touting a not insignificant body count among other things due to the choice activities of his employer. None of his few hard morals had been violated thus far, though, which was truly all he could ask for. He… he wasn’t sure what he would do if Nightmare told him to do something he was absolutely against. Well, he supposed he would never have to find out.

He blinked away the fuzzy call of unconsciousness(maybe the permanent kind) when Nightmare fucking ignored his instructions and entered the room, heels clicking against the hardwood floor as he strode towards Cross’ assailant and near-effortlessly disarmed them, one hand grasping their throat none too gently.

“You have ten seconds to tell me what you want with me,” he said coldly, twisting their arm hard with his free hand. They laughed, a mistake, seemingly uncaring of how their voice came out in a bit of a wheeze.

“I couldn’t give less of a shit about you, little mafia wannabe,” they sneered, “All I’m interested in is your rabid attack dog. Leave us here, and I can make it worth your while.”

“Nothing anyone of your ilk could offer is ‘worth my while’, you insolent pig,” Nightmare snapped, “now, be eternally grateful that I am in a hurry. Under better circumstances, I would give you at least a month of worse torture than you could possibly imagine… as it stands, I simply don’t have the time for that.”

Without further ado, Nightmare snapped their neck, dumping their body to the ground rather unceremoniously before kneeling to take Cross in his arms. Ridiculously, ridiculously, his fight or flight instincts kicked in now, instead of when they would’ve actually been useful. Even the adrenaline was muddled, making it hard to think straight. He froze almost completely as his body screamed conflicting signals at him through a closed door.

“Your fancy clothes’ll get ruined,” Cross managed to protest, hardly more than a mutter, earning a scoff in response as they made their way out of the hotel and into the still waiting limousine rather swiftly.

“Hardly of any consequence when my favorite bodyguard has nearly gotten himself killed,” Nightmare retorted primly, pressing his hands firmly into the deepest wounds once they were properly situated in the vehicle. He didn’t need to tell the driver anything; they peeled out of the extravagant parking lot fast enough to smell burning rubber, continuing at that breakneck pace and violating more traffic laws by the second.

Cross thought, not for the first time, that Nightmare just might be the biggest idiot he’s ever met. He’d never in his right mind say it out loud, of course, but while Nightmare didn’t get attached to many people, when he did it happened far too quickly. For all he claimed to be a heartless crime lord, he sure was worried… even enough to put himself at risk for someone he truly hadn’t known all that long in the grand scheme of things.

“You’re kind of stupid,” he giggled, decorum out the window as blood loss made him woozy. Ordinarily, Nightmare would handle such blatant disrespect swiftly and violently— he had, on numerous occasions, when dealing with arrogant potential business partners, after all. As it stood now, he just smiled down at Cross, adjusting to support his head as best he could.

“That’s right, keep telling me how much of an idiot I am,” he encouraged, much to Cross’ amusement. The adrenaline was gone, and those weird mixed signals felt more like an echo now, leaving nothing but delirium and exhaustion in its wake.

“Well f’r starters um. Uh. Yoooou are… so silly,” Cross slurred, trying and failing to lift his arm so as to poke Nightmare’s cheekbone, “annnd… you’re breaking th’law! Shpeeding’s, um, unlegal. Silly.”

Nightmare said something to the driver, sharp and commanding, but Cross couldn’t quite make it out over the high pitched ringing he was just now noticing.

“M’sleepy,” he muttered, “I’ma just… take a little nap.”

“Not yet, dear, you’ve got to stay awake a bit longer,” Nightmare commanded, though the order felt fuzzy in Cross’ head.

“M’kay,” he said agreeably, eyes sliding shut.

“No, no, open your eyes— Cross, stay with me, I can’t- I cannot lose you— drive faster, dammit! What the fuck do I pay you for, worthless wretch?”

Nightmare kept talking, but the words sounded nothing like him. He never spoke so informally, never lost his composure. Blearily, Cross determined that he must be hallucinating. It was the most logical explanation, really.

…Fuck, he was tired. Just a little nap couldn’t hurt.

Having never woken up in a hospital before, Cross’ first instinct was panic, but years of experience taught him to stay calm in unfamiliar situations. 

First order of business: assess your surroundings.

Flat pillows. Scratchy sheets. Beeping machines. Invasive wires and tubes and whatnot. Tight bandages. Bright lights. Nightmare.

“Boss,” Cross rasped, irritated at how dry his mouth felt. Nightmare perked up from the rickety plastic chair he sat in, book quickly discarded. Cross frowned at the sight; such shitty furniture would be hell on Nightmare’s back, not to mention it was unfitting of a man like him. Blinking against the fluorescent glare of the room around him, Cross noted with annoyance that his ugly red string hadn’t just regained its original hue, but in fact seemed brighter than ever. He didn’t want to think about what that might mean. He never wanted to think about anything related to that stupid overhyped piece of magic yarn.

“How are you feeling?”

Cross didn’t let the question hang in the air. 

“Fine,” he said dismissively, “what happened?”

“What do you remember?” Nightmare asked, and if Cross didn’t know better he would think his boss sounded almost hesitant. He took a moment to think, turning over the previous events in his mind and digging for details.

“The… the hotel suite,” he started slowly, “there were two intruders waiting for you. I dealt with the first one, but the other one caught me by surprise and stabbed me a bunch. It’s all pretty fuzzy from there, but…” Cross trailed off, narrowing his eyes.

“But?” Nightmare prompted, leaning forward in his stupid hospital chair.

“But I distinctly remember telling you to leave for your safety, and you proceeding to ignore me and come in anyways,” Cross finished, not bothering to conceal the accusatory tone from his voice. Nightmare just shrugged dismissively.

“Perhaps you should have considered that I am not in the business of abandoning my associates,” Nightmare retorted, “and more importantly, you’re missing a crucial detail.”

“What am I missing?” Cross asked, humoring him.

“Those miscreants were not there for me.”

What.

“What?”

Nightmare stood and strode across the room to the side of Cross’ bed, deceptively calm.

“I took the liberty of conducting some research while you were unconscious.”

Fuck. Nightmare had never pried into Cross’ past, a favor Cross had happily reciprocated, but recent events might have changed that.

“As fate would have it, there is a rather elaborate group scheming for your demise.”

Elaborate… Cross had pissed off his fair share of people, but those people were all either dead or behind bars! Besides, all those events had taken place over ten years ago, and he wouldn’t describe any of these people or organizations as elaborate. Anymore . If any of the living ones wanted him dead, wouldn’t they have taken their chance when he was weak and alone, rather than wait until he was a capable fighter working for the most influential mob boss in the continent?

“It seems as if these… people have been gathering information on you for quite a while,” Nightmare continued, depositing a manila file into Cross’ lap.

Opening it revealed pictures upon pictures upon pictures, some even taken of him huddled up on some grimy sidewalk or other. The older ones were shitty, grainy and far away and out of focus. As the pictures got more recent, though, they got closer. Crisper. It was as if this photographer(or photographers, plural) started on a cheap flip phone, and steadily upgraded their equipment until they possessed a high end camera, capable of capturing even the most minute details of his face. Cross felt vaguely sick.

“Looks like I’ve got a fan club,” he joked, putting the pictures back where he couldn’t see them. Nightmare didn’t laugh, but he didn’t scold him either, so Cross counted that as a win.

“Unfortunately, it would not be wise for you to continue being my bodyguard,” Nightmare sighed, sounding genuinely regretful. Cross nodded solemnly.

“I understand,” Cross said, “I wouldn’t want to run the risk of you getting caught in the crossfire—“

“I also took the liberty,” Nightmare interrupted, “of finding you your own bodyguard.”

Cross blinked, wondering if he’d heard him right.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I arranged protection for you. The two of you are to go into hiding, supplemented by a small monthly stipend from me, until I can tell you with certainty that the danger has been resolved.”

“No, I—“ Cross shook his head, clenching his hands into fists despite the twinge of pain from putting stress on himself. “Nightmare, I don’t need a bodyguard. I’m perfectly capable of dealing with this myself, and having someone else around will only slow me down!”

Nightmare didn’t even have the good graces to look guilty, not that Cross ever expected him to. 

“I assure you, the man I’ve selected will not slow you down in the slightest. His methods are different from yours, but I have every confidence in his ability to keep you safe,” Nightmare said, unfazed. “Besides, you will not be dealing with anything. I will be utilizing my resources to handle this situation, and you will lay low for the foreseeable future. Call it a sabbatical, if you like.”

“Come on, this is ridiculous—“

“Cross.”

He found himself face to face with his boss, inches apart. Nightmare looked… desperate, an expression that quite frankly did not suit him at all.

“Not as your employer, but as your friend… please just let me do this for you. Do not make me lie awake fearing for your safety. You have saved my life many times in the years I’ve known you; allow me to return the favor this once. Allow me to be selfish in this regard.”

Cross didn’t… Well, he didn’t really have the slightest clue what to do with that. He found himself fidgeting with his stupid red string, winding it around his fingers, as he often did when nervous or at a loss. 

The thing was, in the five years since meeting Nightmare, Cross had gotten to know the man pretty well. He knew his hobbies(mainly reading and writing, poetry specifically), he knew his favorite color(purple, despite dressing mostly in black and blue), he knew his little quirks and eccentricities that no one else really noticed. He knew that Nightmare had a strong sense of right and wrong, who was a good person and who wasn’t. He knew that Nightmare viewed himself as a bad person, and Cross as a good one(though he couldn’t say he had any idea where he got that particular idea). He knew that Nightmare had a secret sense of humor. He knew that before just now , Nightmare had not once said the word please.

All this in mind, it was pretty fucking difficult to stay stubborn in the face of such vulnerability from someone he knew to be anything but.

“Fine,” he said, after a long moment of silence. “Just let me refer you to a competent and trustworthy guy to be your new bodyguard. His husband is the only reason I didn’t starve to death while I was homeless.”

“Thank you,” Nightmare said earnestly, eye softer than Cross had ever seen. Cross looked away, embarrassed by the uncharacteristic tenderness from his soon-to-be ex boss.

“Yeah, well, you would’ve sent someone to protect me whether I agreed to it or not,” he replied, coughing a little.

“Speaking of which,” Nightmare segued, glancing down at his phone, “He’s just arrived. Are you ready to meet him?”

Cross sighed, “as I’ll ever be, I guess.”

Chapter Text

“I changed my mind,” Cross announced, “absolutely nothing about this is fine.”

“I can think of one thing,” his new bodyguard said unhelpfully, grimy looking jacket slung over one shoulder.

…While Cross would rather strangle himself and die than admit it, the guy wouldn’t look half bad if it weren’t for the dirty clothes and the asshole vibes and the immediate flirting.

Dinner and a movie first, jesus.

“Nightmare, this cannot be ethical,” he tried, practically begging for a way out of this. Silently praying for a magic pair of scissors to snip that overglorified piece of magic yarn that was determined to ruin his life.

“One could argue that having a soulmate bond would provide more motivation to keep you out of harm’s way,” Nightmare pointed out, and oh god he had that fucking look in his eye.

If Cross knew anything about Nightmare, it was that the infuriating twinkle in his eye screamed isn’t it romantic?

It’s the exact opposite of romantic, he tried to convey with expression alone, not that Nightmare would listen to him if he shouted it from the rooftops anyway. Unbeknownst to the world at large, the crime lord was an utterly hopeless romantic, infatuated by the idea of fate and destiny and love at first sight. Awfully cruel of the universe to make him without a soulmate, especially considering how Cross didn’t fucking want one and got one anyway. Very funny, universe. Keep laughing.

His bodyguard— Killer, his name was Killer— was grinning like he was the offspring of a dope that fell in love with a shark.

“I’m definitely arguing that,” he said cheekily, winding the string around his finger much like Cross had earlier and interrupting the silent conversation he and Nightmare had been having with their eyes.

“Yeah, well, I’m arguing that this whole thing is stupid, and I’d be better off without him,” Cross insisted.

If he didn’t know any better, he’d say Nightmare somehow planned this. He knew how Cross felt about soulmates, and he knew that he’d never go out looking on his own if he could help it. This whole situation made his super awesome hobby of avoiding his soulmate pretty impossible, considering the nature of bodyguarding.

“You’ve already agreed,” Nightmare reminded him, because of course he did.

“Thanks so much, I almost forgot,” Cross snarked. “When can I get out of here, anyway? I don’t wanna spend another minute in these damn hospital scrubs. Shut the fuck up,” he added, glaring over at Killer in anticipation of the moronic comment he was obviously thinking about making.

“We can get the discharge process started whenever you like,” Nightmare said placatingly.

Not too much later, Cross was back in his own clothes, left arm in a sling to keep him from aggravating his wounds. 

“For the record, I still think this is a terrible idea,” he griped as they stood in the elevator.

“Well, I think it’s fantastic,” Killer smiled at him, entirely too sharp around the edges.

Cross scoffed, “What, for the money? Because—“

“No.”

Killer crowded into his space, way too close for comfort, pressing him right up against the elevator wall.

Cross would never, never admit it, but the contact satisfied a starvation he’d convinced himself he didn’t have.

“I thought it would be obvious, but it’s the fact that we’re soulmates, babe.” He brought his hand up to Cross’ bad side, holding his jaw just a little too tightly for it to count as a caress as he forced eye contact. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve been looking for you?”

“Tough luck,” Cross growled, “that’s not my thing.”

With that, he used his free arm to shove Killer away, which wasn’t that hard considering their height difference.

“Touch me like that again and I’ll shatter your skull,” he added for good measure, right as a little ding went off to tell them they’d arrived at their destination. Cross moved to storm out, but Killer caught his arm before he could go anywhere.

Fire. The starvation, the malnutrition… it burned like fucking fire.

“You’ve gotta kick that habit, hon. Don’t forget, you’re the one in need of protection here.”

Thankfully, he let go after that, stepping out to do a quick scan of the area before gesturing for Cross to follow.

Silently, Cross apologized to Nightmare for all the times he considered him dramatic whenever he would roll his eyes at being asked to stay back for his safety. As it turned out, it was extremely annoying to be on the other end of it. 

He reluctantly followed Killer to a nondescript car, waiting (im)patiently for the doors to unlock.

“You’re sitting in the back, by the way,” Killer informed him, still adorned with that insufferable smirk.

“This is stupid,” Cross muttered, but he didn’t argue further in the interest of getting everything over with as soon as possible. Killer snickered as he climbed into the driver’s seat.

“I don’t think you’ve said that enough. Maybe tell me a few more times?” he teased, glancing back to make sure Cross was buckled before starting the car.

“Maybe I will,” Cross snapped back, glaring at him through the rearview mirror.

Things were blessedly quiet for a little while, giving Cross the opportunity to look out the window and watch the surrounding city turn to suburbs turn to open fields as they made their way out to whatever safehouse Nightmare had picked out.

He sort of hoped it wouldn’t be anywhere too remote, like a cabin at the peak of a heavily wooded mountain or something. No way could he handle being completely alone with Killer for that long, for one, but he also just wanted to see people. While he’d never been one for making lots of friends, he’d always been in proximity with at least a handful of people, to the point where the absence of such a thing was deeply uncomfortable and disconcerting. Cross had always done better on a crowded street than in an empty library, and he really wasn’t interested in spending any period of time in isolation. Yeah, they realistically couldn’t go to a city , but surely it wouldn’t cause too much harm if they ended up in a little town or something like that.

“So,” Killer said, breaking the comfortable silence, “you don’t like the whole soulmate business, huh?”

“No shit,” Cross scoffed, firmly keeping his gaze out the window.

Ah yes, corn. Very interesting. So cool.

“Okay.”

Cross looked up in surprise, “Okay?”

“Yeah!” Killer met his eyes in the rearview mirror. Maybe it should’ve been hard to tell, what with his lack of eyelights, but in actuality it was impossible not to know, with how Cross got the overwhelming sense of being scrutinized every time they made eye contact. It was like Killer was trying to find everything Cross was hiding and then some. “That just means I have to woo you the old fashioned way, right?”

“I wish Nightmare had just let me bleed out in that hotel room,” Cross said blithely.

Killer grinned, “I’m not hearing a no!”

Cross pinched the bridge of his nose, praying for whatever virtue would let him get out of this situation with his sanity intact. Most of it, anyway.

“You’re not hearing a yes, either,” he pointed out.

Killer only laughed, a distinctive sound, sharp as the rest of him.

“He’s in love with you, you know.”

The statement caught Cross off guard.

“Who, Nightmare?”

It was the only answer that made any kind of sense, considering the fact that he was literally the only person he was sure they both knew. And… it would explain that weird half-memory of him calling Cross dear, which he’d written off as some sort of drug induced fever dream until this very moment.

Killer snorted, “Who else?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Cross snapped, only barely noticing as they passed the first sign in miles and miles and miles. “What even gave you that idea in the first place?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Killer asked, taking the next exit off the freeway without using his blinker. “Man, you should’ve heard him when he called me. He was so distraught, I probably could’ve convinced him to do anything if it meant you’d live.”

Cross ignored the absurdity of Nightmare being distraught in favor of the more pressing matter, “I swear, if you try—”

“Oh, calm down, I would never. Probably. I owe him too much to justify making demands, anyway.”

Killer’s words didn’t calm Cross down in the slightest.

“You’re a piece of shit, you know that?”

“I’ve been told on occasion. Anyway, if the way he talks about you is any indication, I’m willing to bet it just eats him up inside having to keep quiet about it. He doesn’t want to ruin your chance at a perfect life with your soulmate, though,” he continued, unfazed.

“Who says I like him back?” Cross asked, unsure why he felt the need to defend himself. Outside, a little town(more like a handful of buildings, really) came into view as they crested a particularly tall hill. The ocean glinted in the sun, nearly blinding in its brilliance. Clearly, they hadn’t been paying any mind to speed laws if they’d gotten all the way out to the coast this quickly. Inwardly, Cross cursed his lack of awareness of just how fast they'd been going.

“I mean, no one,” Killer shrugged a little as he navigated the car down the winding pothole-filled road, “but I am saying you wouldn’t reject him if he decided to confess.”

Cross would be lying if he said Killer wasn’t right on the money. Luckily, he’d never staked his identity on being honest.

“You’re full of shit,” he blustered, “you think you’re so smart, psychoanalyzing people you barely know, but—”

“Hey, I’m not saying it’s a bad thing,” Killer interrupted, “Nightmare’s a great guy behind closed doors. Can’t blame him for falling for a catch like you, either. Too bad for him, I’m not interested in sharing.”

“Oh, I get it,” Cross scoffed, “you’re incapable of finding anyone willing to give you the time of day, so you figured you’d go all in on the one guy who’s stuck with you!”

Killer got quiet for a second, slowing down as they drove through the streets of the sort-of town. Then, he turned back to look at Cross properly, smile unchanged and yet somehow much more unsettling. Empty, almost.

“So what if that’s true? One person is all I need to be happy, and that person is going to be you.”

“Eyes on the goddamn road!” Cross decidedly did not yelp, leaning forward to shove at Killer’s shoulder. The car swerved, narrowly missing a stray cat with a lackluster survival instinct and hitting a rather large pothole head on. Cross flinched at the audible ka-chunk of the bumper scraping against the pavement, taking a moment to be thankful that the tire didn’t burst.

“Fucking hell,” he breathed, “we’re supposed to avoid drawing attention, idiot. Try not to do literally everything wrong next time.”

For once, Killer didn’t have a witty quip locked and loaded. He stayed quiet, both hands on the wheel, posture straight. When Cross looked closely, he saw that Killer’s hands were shaking, just a little.

Rather than comment on it now, Cross filed this event in the back of his head for later, getting the feeling that having this tidbit of information would be useful at some point. He settled back in his seat, just barely hissing at his aggravated wounds, and kept watching for anything else of note.

Killer stayed in that strangely proper state for the whole rest of the ride, right up until they pulled into the driveway of a modest but well-maintained two story house and the car rumbled to a stop.

Chapter Text

Cross shivered as he stepped outside, unprepared for just how biting the cold ocean breeze was. Killer looked him up and down before his smirk returned, striding towards him.

“Chilly? We can’t have that,” he said half seriously, “here.”

And then there was a soft and warm but very grimy jacket being draped over Cross’ shoulders, and god dammit it was kind of sweet how Killer carefully adjusted it with his sling in mind. He couldn’t help but feel kind of grateful, thinking to himself that this might not be the worst thing in the world.

that moment of contact burned, the same way too much food after a period of time without it would inevitably cause illness.

“This thing is disgusting,” he said aloud, earning a rowdy but genuine sounding chuckle.

“You can take it off if you want, my feelings won’t be hurt,” Killer promised, leading the way up the pavestones towards the front door.

“Do you want it back? You’ve gotta be cold too,” Cross offered, doing his best to frame it like an insult through his tone. Killer shook his head, holding up a hand to stop him from getting too close to the house.

“Nah, I tend to run hot anyways. This weather is just refreshing for me.”

It was true; the crisp air felt so much nicer than the city smog Cross had grown so accustomed to, even with the teeth-chattering wind. He took a better look at his surroundings as Killer went through the process of making sure the safehouse lived up to its name, and… okay. He could live with this, actually. The vast ocean merely a light stroll away, the cute little shops and houses making up the place the locals called home, the windswept trees with leaves fluttering like butterflies; it was all pretty lovely, honestly.

“All good,” Killer announced, “and I’ve got good news! You’re gonna love this place, I swear.”

He took Cross by the hand and led him inside, lightly guiding him rather than dragging him along as he might’ve been expected to. (Complete inferno. How was he meant to live like this?) The surprise of such tender gestures was enough to keep Cross from protesting at the indignity, though he was humiliated to realize his face was heating up. It was unfair; how was he meant to keep his composure with Killer’s thumb rubbing light circles against his palm, likely subconsciously? Ridiculous, unfair, absolutely embarrassing.

“Hello? Earth to Cross,” Killer dragged out his words, almost in a singsong tone of voice as he turned to look at him, still holding his fucking hand.

By all rights, he should be nothing but remnants of cinders by now. A forest fire after a long drought was sure to cause devastating effects.

“Huh?” Cross snapped back to reality, realizing he hadn’t been paying attention at all this entire time. “Were you saying something?”

Killer shrugged, “Yeah, but don’t worry about it. I don’t mind; not when your thinking face is that cute.”

And then he winked, like the jackass he was. Cross glared at him, resisting the urge to slap that stupid grin off his face.

“You’re a jackass,” he said instead, vocalizing the first part of his thoughts. Killer laughed, then tightened his grip on Cross’ hand and pulled him closer. It wasn’t much, he only stumbled forward a step or so, but it was still enough for them to be mere inches apart. Not quite as close as in the elevator, but still far too close for comfort.

not nearly close enough for comfort.

“I’m your jackass,” Killer said smugly, and now there was no way he wasn’t caressing Cross’ hand on purpose. He was going to drive him fucking insane if he kept touching him, and he was going to do it all with a smile.

Cross would also go insane if he stopped touching him.

“You’re not my anything,” Cross snapped, pulling away, and he just had to ignore the horrible ache left behind, nestled far in his chest and stabbing deeper than his would-be assassin’s blades did.

“I’m your bodyguard,” Killer pointed out as he stepped back into Cross’ space, though he didn’t make a move to grab his hand again.

Cross growled at him, turning away to march further into the house.

“And that’s all you are,” he said coldly, not bothering to look back and see if his words had affected Killer at all.

After a moment of silence, Killer made his way to Cross’ side, leaning over to smile serenely up at him.

“For now.”

“I should strangle you with this goddamn over-glorified piece of yarn.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re pretty when you’re mad?”

Cross stopped to level Killer with a flat look.

“Pretty. Really.”

“Really,” Killer said earnestly, and suddenly it felt like he wasn’t just teasing. “You get all stormy, like the kind where the thunder rumbles and it reverberates in your chest. You’re cute when you’re thinking, ‘cause your brow furrows a little bit and you have this tiny little frown, but when you’re angry?” He leaned in, suddenly exuding a strangely manic energy. “It’s electrifying.”

“You’re so fucking weird,” Cross told him, because what the fuck else was he supposed to say? Thanks? Cool story?

“Maybe, but you’re stuck with me either way,” Killer reminded him, as he was wont to do, “so you might as well enjoy it.”

“I should call Nightmare. I bet he wouldn’t want my bodyguard to be someone who suffers from delusions.”

Killer laughed, because of course he did. “Come on, you and I both know he’d just agree with me. He’d say you’re so lucky, Cross! That’s so romantic!”

He slung an arm around Cross’ shoulders, continuing, “Besides, can you really call it suffering? I’m having the time of my life.”

“Ow,” Cross said pointedly. Immediately, Killer let go, moving to stand in front of him as he looked for any signs of his condition worsening. Cross rolled his eyes, “Calm down. It’s not like I’m gonna bleed out or anything.”

“You never know,” Killer sing-songed, back to his usual antagonizing self as if he’d never been worried at all. “I wouldn’t want my beloved soulmate to be in pain, after all.”

“Get a grip,” Cross scoffed, pushing past him and barely suppressing a grimace as he aggravated his injuries all on his own this time.

Finally, he took a real look at the house around him. It wasn’t anything crazy elaborate, but it was nice; not as nice as the standard of living Nightmare insisted on keeping him at, but much nicer than anything he’d known growing up. Being honest, Cross vastly preferred this to the decadence and luxury Nightmare favored. It was less overwhelming, felt less like he’d ruin it by breathing wrong. As much as he still thought this whole thing was stupid, he didn’t mind living here for a while if it meant staying in a nice house in a nice little town bordering a nice ocean.

“See? I told you,” Killer said smugly.

“Nightmare picked it out. I’d be more surprised if it wasn’t like this,” Cross pointed out, wandering into the dining room to see an ornate envelope waiting for them on the table. Killer pulled a pair of gloves from his shorts pocket and put them on before picking it up. Cross snorted, as if he wouldn’t have done the exact same thing if he was in Killer’s position.

“What, you think there’s anthrax?” he said anyway, knowing full well that there could literally be anthrax in that thing. Killer just looked at him with a brow raised. He knew Cross was just being a little shit for the sake of it, that much was clear.

“It has Nightmare’s seal, and doesn’t show any signs of tampering,” he said, “not to mention there are several hidden failsafes around the house, none of which have been triggered. This was hand delivered by whoever set everything up for us, so the only way it could be dangerous is if the person Nightmare trusted so much turned out to be conspiring against you. It would have to be a years long operation, started long before you and Nightmare even met… who’d go to those lengths just to kill you?”

Cross felt a little nauseous. He and Killer looked at each other for several long seconds as they simultaneously remembered that yeah, the people after him probably would go to those lengths. Thinking back to the manila file, it’d already been established that they were keeping tabs on him for that long, too. The only real question was whether they could pull something like that off.

“The photos don’t increase in quality until a while after you started working for Nightmare, so they probably didn’t have the resources for that at the time,” Killer reasoned, “and besides, Nightmare’s a good judge of character. He’s not easy to impress, and I could count the number of people he trusts on one hand.”

“Do you have the name of the person who delivered this?” Cross asked, the question coming out much softer than he intended it to. He didn’t want Killer to know how… unsettled he was, but it was probably painfully obvious.

Unsettled, not scared. He wasn’t scared.

“He doesn’t work for Nightmare, so you might not know him,” Killer said, equally quiet. “All I know is that his name is Geno and he did it as a favor to Nightmare, who obviously trusts him.”

“Thank fuck.” Cross finally let himself exhale, forcing the tension out of his body. “I do know Geno. On paper he’s a normal, law abiding citizen, and he is law abiding, but…”

“But?” The envelope nearly forgotten by now, Killer perked up as his interest was piqued.

“But his capabilities are literally insane. He’s never been trained for anything besides maybe a coffee shop job, and yet every batshit insane inescapable situation he ends up in, he gets out of. One time he showed up on Nightmare’s doorstep at like, three in the morning, drenched in his own blood, and tried to make small talk before asking for a ride to the hospital. You wanna know what happened?”

“Of course I wanna know what happened,” Killer exclaimed, bouncing in place as he waited for the rest of the story. Cross considered not telling him, just because, but honestly? Geno was so cool. He would take any opportunity to talk about how cool he was, even if it was with Killer.

“He was tortured. For three days. He was hurt bad. Like, affects-the-rest-of-your-life bad. And yet he stayed totally awake for the entire drive, talking to me about video games! He barely even let the nurses put him on a gurney, he said he could walk! To this day he’ll talk about it like it’s a trip to the movies and the biggest effect it’s had on him is the fact that he can always win two truths and a lie now.”

Cross took a seat at the table, while Killer remained standing. Like a weirdo.

“Did I mention he got out of that situation without breaking a single law? No violence, no killing, he didn’t even jaywalk on his way back! He didn’t wanna tell us who was responsible, because he wanted to leave it in the hands of the law. I mean, we found them anyway, but he didn’t give us any clues.”

“Okay, so you’re friends with the most badass goody two-shoes in the world,” Killer summarized, “and he’s a real stand up guy in the eyes of the law. Great, he sounds super cool, I’d love to meet him. What makes him trustworthy?”

Cross had to remind himself that this was a totally reasonable line of questioning, and ‘Geno is the best, most trustworthy guy ever, yes more trustworthy than Nightmare’ was not a fact that everyone just automatically knew.

“Geno knows the letter of the law, and he never breaks it. Not even any misdemeanors. He’s always studying it to keep track of changes. If he’s been somewhere, he knows every law specific to that place,” Cross explained. When Killer motioned for him to continue, he rolled his eyes and slowed it down. “He knows his way around the law.”

Nothing.

“He knows his way around the law.”

“Ohhhhh.”

“Yeah.”

“And this makes him… more trustworthy?”

“It makes him a good ally,” Cross clarified, “he’s trustworthy because he’s honest. He sticks to his convictions, and makes it very clear when he’s got a problem with you. I wouldn’t call him loyal, because he keeps reminding us that he’s never gonna go along with anything we do just because, but his lack of devotion means he’s not doing anything to suck up or whatever. He only does things when he wants to, he never goes against what he believes in, and he never breaks a promise. In his whole life, he’s only ever broken one, and it’s the only thing that I’ve seen actually have an impact on him.”

“So because he’s the one who was in charge of it, you think it’s safe?” Killer confirmed, to which Cross nodded. “Sweet. Let’s crack this baby open!”

“Small monthly stipend my ass,” Cross exclaimed, openly gaping at the obscene amount of cash neatly stored in the envelope. Killer whistled, setting it back down on the table.

“He’s got it bad, babe.”

“Don’t call me that.” It was almost automatic at this point, like Pavlov’s psycho. Or something. “You don’t suppose it could be a lump sum?” Cross asked hopefully.

Mortifyingly, the accompanying letter contained an apology for sending such little money, a promise to send more next month, and a phone number that was apparently on a secure line.

“I don’t think it’s a lump sum,” Killer said helpfully. Cross didn’t even turn to glare at him, still busy trying to send the bills back into Nightmare’s account with his eyes alone. How was he supposed to even begin to spend this money? They couldn’t just donate it, that would draw too much attention. It needed to be spent slowly, which meant it would only accumulate more and more, which meant Cross would be stuck with a literal mountain of money and no way to do anything about it until he was clear to come out of hiding.

“Fuck, we have to do something . Um…” Cross looked around a little frantically, quickly landing on the wall clock. “Dinner, I guess?”

“Sounds good to me.”

Chapter Text

“Great.” Cross stood and made for the door, only for Killer to fucking tut at him.

“Not so fast, hon. We need to change your bandages first,” he explained, that goddamn teasing lilt back in his voice.

“We don’t need to do anything,” Cross snapped, “I’m perfectly capable of doing it myself.”

“Not without hurting yourself, you’re not,” Killer retorted, stepping forward.

“Oh, who cares?” Cross shouted, “It’s not like—“

“Listen.”

Yet again, Killer was in Cross’ space, but this felt… different. Dangerous.

“You think you can just throw your life away. It’s yours, right? You should get to do whatever you want with it, Right?”

His voice was so, so soft, hardly even a whisper, and his words were so, so obviously a trap. Cross walked into it anyway, because it was a stupid trap.

“Yeah, duh. You wouldn’t die, so why do you even care? You get your life, I get mine.”

“You’re wrong,” Killer murmured, taking Cross’ face in both hands and holding it tight. He couldn’t break eye contact if he tried now, not if he wanted to avoid a physical fight. “It’s not just your life, Cross. It’s ours. Mine. You’re not allowed to leave without my say so, ever. Not this house, not this town, and definitely not this world.”

Cross tried to push through the overwhelm, the burning-starving-feeding thing doing its damnedest to dictate his every move. It helped that Killer was pissing him the fuck off. He took a swift step back, trying to break the contact.

“That’s not—“

“No.” Killer followed him, crowding him up against the wall. One hand firmly gripped his wrist, keeping it held down by his side, while the other came up to rest on his neck. Not strangling, but just enough pressure to remind Cross of the possibility. By all rights, he was cornered. Trapped. “I’m going to talk, and you’re going to listen. And then, I’ll change your bandages for you, and you won’t fight me on it, and after that we can go have a nice dinner. Got it?”

Cross didn’t respond. He wasn’t intimidated, and he definitely wasn’t scared, but he wasn’t stupid either, and the most strategic move here was just to keep quiet until Killer snapped out of this… episode, or whatever it was. Whatever was causing that crushing, predatory aura.

Cross was not prey. He was not prey.

Killer took his silence as compliance, and gave him a thin, condescending smile. Just barely, Cross caught a glimpse of his fangs, which he hadn’t thought much of before. Now, they felt like a threat. Not that he was scared, of course, but he wasn’t exactly comfortable either.

“Good. Now here’s the deal, sweet thing. I’m yours, and you’re mine. That’s what it means to be soulmates. It is quite literally my divine right to have you.”

With no small amount of annoyance, Cross realized he had no idea if Nightmare’s idea of romance was this twisted. He hoped not, but with the types of books he liked to read it was impossible to be sure. He wasn’t sure if he was willing to risk telling Nightmare about this and getting an idealistic ramble about how wonderful it was, actually, isn’t Cross delighted? If it meant avoiding that conversation, he would keep quiet.

“You want to know a little something about me? I have had just about everything taken from me at one point or another… except you.”

Killer moved his hand from its not-quite-choking position to trace his index finger along the vertebrae on Cross’ neck, trailing up to ghost over the old scar beneath his eye, then further to caress the side of his skull. Cross shivered, unsure how to react. 

“You were the one thing they could never take from me. No matter what happened, no matter how bad things got, there was always that beautiful crimson thread waiting there to remind me of my promised salvation.”

He reached down to grab the aforementioned thread, bringing it up to eye level. All the while, he maintained his grip on Cross’ wrist, though he’d gentled it enough to rub his thumb along the inner part in time with his quiet, lilting words.

“This has always been my lifeline, and it always will be. How do you think it felt to see it start to fade? That effervescent, immaculate color, dulled almost to nothing? I almost lost you before I could ever even have you. If Nightmare was distraught, I was on the edge of insanity, Cross.”

You fell over that edge a long time ago, Cross thought drily, though he continued to hold his tongue.

“I’m not sure how to describe what I felt when, right as the barest amount of pink returned, Nightmare called me in hysterics to explain that his bodyguard and best friend had been subjected to an assassination attempt, and the best doctors in the hospital had had difficulty getting him stable enough to confirm that he would live,” Killer whispered. He dropped the string to hover over each and every wound, never quite making contact, identifying each one with perfect accuracy. “I was happy, to finally have found you. Ecstatic, even. There you were, right under my nose! Employed by the very same man to whom I already owe so many favors. My debt to him is absolutely insurmountable, especially after he’s given me you. But…” the hand around Cross’ wrist tightened to an almost painful degree, the other splayed firmly in the center of his chest, feeling the racing Soulbeat underneath. “I was angry, too. Who the fuck thinks they have the right to take you away from me? I deserve you. I went through so much, all to have you. I did not go through all that just for you to disappear , Cross.”

He carefully took Cross’ shoulder and pushed just enough to force him flush against the wall without hurting him.

“I’ve been patient. Patient before meeting you, and patient with your stubborn insistence that our connection means nothing. It certainly helps that you’re so unbearably endearing with everything you do, and you’re so beautiful when you’re angry, but…”

He leaned ever closer, so close that their mouths were mere millimeters apart, breathing the same air.

“No one gets to take you away from me. Not my demons, not some cowardly shadow organization, and definitely not you.”

Killer moved back to where he originally was, still far too close but at least far enough to breathe.

“Oh, fuck off,” Cross blurted, finally finding his words, “you’re acting like I stabbed myself half to death and I fought Nightmare all the way to the ICU. Do you seriously think I’m trying to die?”

“I don’t think you’re trying to keep yourself alive ,” Killer growled, and it was the first time he’d bared his teeth at Cross in anything but a smile. Cross growled back, at a loss for what to say in response to that. He wanted to bite him, wanted to tear his throat out and leave him to bleed. He wouldn’t, but the urge was there, rumbling low in his throat as he tried to convey the threat without speaking. Killer’s face softened a little then, a stark contrast to just moments before, and he finally let go of Cross’ wrist in favor of caressing his face with both hands, trembling minutely. His thumb brushed over that scar again, like he was trying to wipe it away. It was like he was an entirely different skeleton, changed in the blink of an eye.

“Just let me help you. Please. I don’t want to force you.”

Christ on a bike, talk about a heel turn.

What the fuck do you call the shit you just pulled, then? Cross thought bitterly. Out loud, he said, “Whatever. Do what you want, freak.”

Killer broke out into a full on purr at that, picking his hand back up to place a kiss on the palm. Again, a sharp contrast, suddenly cheerful and bubbly and downright giddy.

“Thank you.”

And then he stepped back and began to usher Cross towards the bathroom, where the medical supplies most likely were.

“This is better for both of us, I promise. You just wait and see, Crossy."

Sitting awkwardly on the toilet lid, Cross hunched in on himself a little as Killer busied himself with getting out and organizing all the necessary supplies.

“I’m not letting you take my shirt off, by the way,” he announced. Killer looked over at him. Opened his mouth, then closed it. Gave him an indulging grin.

“Tell you what: if you can do it without putting yourself in pain, I won’t interfere. How’s that sound?”

“You don’t have to speak to me like I’m a child,” Cross grumbled, shucking off his sling with a huff.

“It’s called bedside manner,” Killer said primly, and Cross got the sense that if he had eyelashes, he’d flutter them.

“Whatever it is, it’s annoying. Cut it out.”

“Hmm, alright. I’m feeling nice.”

Right, feeling nice. Nice like the completely psychotic and delusional monologue whispered at him while he was pinned to a fucking wall. In Cross’ humble opinion, Killer was entirely too giddy in the wake of that whole debacle.

His arm was stiff after so long being trapped in the sling, much to Cross’ annoyance. Carefully, slowly, he grabbed the bottom hem of his shirt, gingerly tugging it upwards. It was going just fine, well even… right up until he needed to get it over his shoulders. Before he could bite it back, Cross hissed, and that was all Killer needed.

“Okay, my turn,” he said, and that was all the warning Cross got before there were hands slipping under the fabric and infuriatingly, infuriatingly, after that it was a quick and easy affair.

Cross glared witheringly at Killer, who was cheerfully holding his wadded up t-shirt. He wrapped his arms around himself protectively as Killer leered at him completely openly and unabashedly.

“Oh, don’t mind me,” he said encouragingly.

“Get on with it already,” Cross grumbled, reluctantly dropping his arms and forcing them to remain lax.

To his surprise, the bandage removal went pretty smoothly, Killer looking up at him once in a while to make sure he wasn’t in any discomfort beyond what was inherent to the situation. Cross breathed relatively normally, doing his level best to ignore his Soul jackhammering in his chest. 

It was quiet, blessedly so, aside from Killer’s soft purring as he worked. Fucking weird, but not really obnoxious or anything, so Cross wasn’t about to make a big deal out of it.

Overall, it was fine, a word Cross couldn’t use to describe literally any of the prior events.

And then the bandages were off. 

Chapter Text

It was pretty reasonable that Cross felt more exposed now than he did with the bandages on. He was literally more exposed, after all. But it wasn’t just that he was uncomfortable, or even just that Killer was here; it was something else, and Cross refused to name it.

For once, he didn’t mind when Killer immediately went to flirting, grateful for any distraction from that feeling he (couldn’t)wouldn’t name.

Killer let out a low whistle, apparently impressed with what he saw.

“Battle scars, huh?”

“Something like that,” Cross half-answered, making a point to roll his eyes so that Killer wouldn’t think anything of the way he dodged the question. Even as he maintained his composure, he didn’t quite meet Killer’s gaze, didn’t scowl quite hard enough.

Okay, maybe it was kind of about Killer being here. No one had ever seen him bare-boned before, after all, barring doctors and family members. And Horror, once, as a result of a series of unfortunate events. But that was Horror, who didn’t have a judgmental bone in his body, and he had so many things in his own past it was just about impossible to feel insecure around him. That being said, it had still been years since anyone had seen him like this, period, and it was weird for that to change now. Sure, the doctors from earlier had probably seen him too, but he was unconscious, so it didn’t really count.

“Okay, this part’s gonna suck,” Killer warned, “we gotta clean your wounds before we can redress and rewrap them.”

“Oh my god, get it over with,” Cross snapped, “or do you want me to do it myself? Because I would much prefer that anyway.”

“No, no, I’m handling it,” Killer insisted, finally grabbing the damp cloth and leaning back in. He lightly braced one hand on Cross’ right shoulder as he started with the worst wound, a nasty one that had missed his Soul by about half an inch. Even as Cross grimaced, he kept his breathing steady, trying to ground himself with the comparatively neutral point of contact. Killer looked at him almost inquisitively as he went to rinse the cloth off before moving on to the next one.

“You’d feel better if you purred, you know,” he said, strangely earnest in his suggestion. “It’s soothing. Helps take the edge off.”

“I’ll pass,” Cross replied flatly. He hadn’t purred once since he was a child, and he wasn’t about to break his streak now. Killer frowned at him, an immature little pout that was stupid and elementary and just like him.

“Well, it’s never too late to change your mind.” His hand moved to rest on Cross’ other arm, sliding down from the shoulder and squeezing reassuringly as he moved on to the deep gash running across his clavicle and tapering off just before reaching the side of his neck, once again narrowly missing the vital leyline. It really was incredible just how easily any one of their stabs and slashes could’ve killed Cross, dusting him before Nightmare even entered the room.

He wasn’t scared. He wasn’t scared.

“I’m an adult, I don’t need to.”

“Everyone needs to. It’s a basic mechanism. If you can’t, that’s one thing, and you obviously don’t have to if you don’t want to, but you need to have some sort of regular exposure. It’s bad for your health if you don’t.”

As if to demonstrate his point, Killer purred louder as he moved closer, enough so that Cross could almost feel it in his own bones. At the same time, he went to gently dab at the next wound, which had bisected an old scar perpendicularly in such a way that it formed an ugly X shape, and—

“Stop,” Cross blurted, voice hoarse and much more high pitched than he wanted it to be. Rough, like he’d swallowed a handful of gravel. His whole body felt clammy, now, nervous system on high alert as it fired frantic signals this way and that. He was freezing to death, burning alive, strangled by some visceral terror that sent this intense buzzing through his face and his hands and his feet and wow, wow, it sure felt a whole lot like he was having an allergic reaction to his own fear.

 Killer dropped the cloth like it had suddenly caught aflame, instead taking Cross’ other arm oh-so-tenderly.

He didn’t ask what was wrong. He didn’t tease, or leer, or spout some horrifyingly accurate guess as to what caused this. He didn’t even speak at all.

No, he didn’t do any of that. Instead, he guided Cross to sit on the floor, taking advantage of his paralyzed state to situate him to his liking. He wrapped one arm around his shoulders, took him by the hand, and just kept purring, letting the sound truly reverberate through both of their bodies. He did that thumb-circle-caress thing on the back of Cross’ hand, and rested his chin on his head.

This was ridiculous. For one, Cross was taller, making the position a little awkward. For two, they were on the goddamn bathroom floor. Most importantly, Cross was acting absolutely pathetic, freaking out over nothing. His breath was coming in short, halting gasps, not quite supplying him with enough oxygen to function properly. He was shivering, bones rattling slightly as he looked far out at nothing. Something that wasn’t there. Something that was long gone.

He tried, he tried to pull himself together, to get over it already. To get up, finish this stupid wound care regimen, get dinner, and go to bed so he could pretend this was all just a bad dream, an inconvenience at worst.

He should’ve done it. He should’ve been able to do it. 

Come on. Get up. You’re being pathetic. You’ve never been this weak before, so what the fuck are you doing? 

He was humiliated, burning with shame even as he froze half to death. Choking on another failed breath when he felt a tear roll down his face, coughing and sending rivulets of agony through every single injury.

Killer purred through it all, holding him steady and keeping him from shattering completely.

The most humiliating thing, perhaps, was the fact that it was helping. The purring and gentle touches were sort of scattering that buzzing static, diluting it to the point where it wasn’t quite so much. Despite his inability to move or breathe or speak or properly think, Cross had the overwhelming sense that he was safe here, he was protected, a mantra whispered steadily through a closed door, conveyed by the continuous rumble washing over him. It shouldn’t’ve helped. He shouldn’t feel comforted by such a patronizing message, shouldn’t need to be comforted in the first place. It was pathetic, pathetic, pathetic. It was true all the same.

There was no telling how long it took for Cross’ breathing to even out. His face was numb, now, and a little tingly. Against his will, he slumped against Killer, who had  shifted their position again at some point so that Cross’ head was leaning on his shoulder, not quite in his lap as one hand rubbed his back and the other mirrored the action on his thigh. The first clear thought Cross had was that this was extremely embarrassing, especially considering he hadn’t even noticed Killer readjusting him such that he must’ve carefully manipulated each arm and leg to go where he wanted, all without making things worse. Especially especially considering he’d clearly been fine with it. Was still fine with it, sort of. 

The second clear thought he had was one that should not have been clear. It shouldn’t’ve been thought at all, actually. He was going to push that down and deal with it never.

The second clear thought he had was that the touch was so, so nice. All he’d ever wanted, even. Everything he needed.

Cross took a deep, shuddering breath, releasing the ache from his stiff joints as he finally let himself go limp. He didn’t want to be doing this; not here, not with Killer, of all people. Certainly not on Killer, of all people. He couldn’t exactly help it, though, so here he was.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Killer said softly, “are you back with me?”

“Don’t call me that,” Cross muttered, voice still raspy. If it was bad before, it was awful now, infuriatingly enough. Raw, pulverized by gravel and shards of glass and probably a paper shredder too.

Killer laughed, “I’ll take that as a yes, then.”

Cross told himself that he would’ve punched Killer in the face, if his limbs were responding to him. As it stood now, he was completely useless, forced to put all his weight on a guy he wanted nothing to do with. It was kind of impressive, actually, How Killer held him upright with seemingly very little effort, as much as he was loath to admit it. He supposed Nightmare wouldn’t have trusted somebody weak to be his bodyguard, but still! Cross wasn’t exactly light, and Killer was scrawny . He looked like it, at least. 

“As much as I’d like to sit here forever, love, we do still have to finish taking care of those nasty wounds of yours,” Killer informed him gently.

Cross groaned, “Holy fuck, it’s like you’re allergic to being normal.”

Graciously, Killer didn’t point out that Cross wasn’t exactly ordinary himself, especially with that stupid little breakdown or whatever it was. He just laughed and asked, “Do you think you can sit up on your own?”

It should’ve been mocking. Cross decided to treat it like it was mocking.

“Of course I can,” he snapped, though the effect was significantly dampened by his still weak voice, cracking a little as he spoke. The effect was also dampened by the fact that apparently, he actually couldn’t.

Despite regaining lucidity, and remembering how to breathe, apparently the rest of his body didn’t get the memo. It remained limp, refusing to move at all beyond a slight twitching in his fingers after an extreme amount of effort.

“You sure about that, babe?”

Killer was laughing, but he was still holding Cross so, so carefully, like something fragile that might break if handled wrong. Like something precious enough to want to avoid breaking.

“Don’t call me that, just- give me a minute, I—“

“Hey, shh, it’s okay,” Killer interrupted him, the hand previously on his thigh coming up to wipe off the tears that still hadn’t dried. “I’ve got it. I’ve got you. You’re letting me take care of you, remember?”

“There’s no way you just shushed me,” Cross said incredulously, “and no, that is absolutely not what I agreed to.”

“You’re letting me help you,” Killer amended, “sorry for getting it mixed up. Either way, that means you can just relax, and let me do this for you. If it makes you feel any better, there will be plenty of opportunities for you to be independent. I’m not asking you to let me do everything; just things like this.”

That was… kind of a relief, honestly. Cross had been half expecting Killer to insist on refusing to let him do anything for himself, so it was good to hear that wasn’t exactly the case. Hopefully.

“You’re the worst,” he said, but he stopped trying to force his body to listen to him. 

“Sure thing, hon,” Killer hummed, reaching up to the counter to grab his supplies and bring them down to the floor. He’d had the foresight to get out extra washcloths and a bowl of water, which made things a little easier. “I’m gonna move you again, okay?”

“Just do whatever you need to do,” Cross rushed out, face burning. This was the worst. Maybe it would’ve been better if the hyperventilation had caused enough oxygen deprivation to knock him out, so he wouldn’t have to be awake for this.

“Sounds like a plan,” Killer agreed, and the next thing he knew, Cross’ back was right up against Killer’s chest, and holy shit it would be great if someone could just shoot him now, thanks. There was a hand splayed out on his hip, holding him still, doing that goddamn thumb thing. Cross was going to die.

Killer proceeded to continue cleaning Cross’ wounds, and now he was struggling to breathe properly for an entirely different reason.

“You’re doing so well,” Killer crooned, making one final pass over everything with a fresh cloth, taking care to apply only the barest amount of pressure to that one spot in particular.

“Shut the fuck up,” Cross managed, only sounding a little strangled. A medium amount of strangled. Maybe more than a medium amount of strangulation. In his defense, how the fuck was he meant to handle this! He was going to die! He was going to die in Killer’s arms and his ghost would be stuck on earth forever because he could never make peace with this.

Killer purred at him, clearly delighted with how this was playing out. “It’s true,” he insisted, “this is hard, but you’re still doing so well.”

Oh, yeah. Having a completely unnecessary panic attack and losing control of my body is just soooo great.

Cross didn’t say anything, trying his best just to avoid losing his mind at the way Killer was touching him and why the fuck hadn’t he told him to stop yet. 

He didn’t want him to stop, that’s why.

“Good,” Killer murmured as Cross took a deep breath, resolutely staying still as the dressing was applied.

Yeah, a lobotomy would be great right now. Please and thank you lord jesus amen. He wasn’t the slightest bit religious, but he figured a prayer couldn’t hurt right now. Something about atheists and foxholes, or whatever.

The gauze turned out to be a bit more of an issue, as it had a tendency to catch slightly on the edges of the wounds prior to being bound in place. Cross spasmed a little in one particularly painful instance, but far worse was the way Killer just pressed his hand down on Cross’ hip a little more firmly to keep him in place, shushing him despite him not even making a sound.

“We’re almost done,” he promised, “just a few more minutes. You’re handling this perfectly, darling, I just need you to hold still for a little longer.”

“I’m going to murder you in your sleep,” Cross informed him flatly, wishing he could curl up in a hole and disappear. He could not fucking handle this. He was going to die. 

“Sure thing, once you’ve rested enough,” Killer said placatingly, patting Cross’ cheek before reaching to grab the bandages.

Cross didn’t know how Killer managed to effectively wrap his wounds one-handed in such an inconvenient position. He would probably never know, because the whole time, Killer was doing everything he possibly could to drive him insane. Massaging his hip, murmuring encouragements using endearments like honey, perfect thing, and precious, placing kisses on the top of his head every other word, and fucking purring. Despite his best efforts, Cross couldn’t even begin to focus, brain absolutely scrambled by all the affectionate words and gentle ministrations. He had absolutely no previous experience with things like this; hell, he could count the number of times he and Nightmare’s hands even touched on, well, one hand. The closest he’d ever gotten to something this intimate was when he was bleeding out and delirious, with Nightmare just trying to keep him alive. This was extremely different, to say the least.

He couldn’t handle this. He couldn’t handle this. He was going to fucking die. It took him entirely too long to realize Killer had even finished, because he was still doing all the other stuff, only now he was fully embracing Cross with his newly freed arm, holding him snug to his chest.

“You did so wonderfully, treasure, so perfect,” he purred, “you’re so good. Thank you for trusting me, sweetface, I’m so glad you let me take care of you. I love you so much, my most precious darling.”

Cross tried to say something, anything, but he choked on his words as Killer dipped down to place a long, gentle kiss to the nape of his neck.

“You see how nice it is? I knew you wouldn’t hold out forever, you’re so much better than that. So much smarter than that. Isn’t this what you want? It feels perfect, doesn’t it? You’re so good, honey, you deserve to let go a little. Just keep relaxing, keep trusting me, and you’ll be so much happier, I promise. I can make you happy, Cross, all you have to do is let me.”

This was weird. This was beyond weird . Cross knew that Killer was obsessive, it was impossible not to know, but apparently he had underestimated the degree of it. Which… previously, he thought Killer was the most obsessive anyone could ever get, but he was actively being proven wrong. The over-the-top pet names, the sweet nothings that felt like something off, it was just unsettling enough to let Cross think a little. 

“I—“

“Why don’t you go to sleep? You’ve had a long day, you must be exhausted by now. Really, when was the last time you truly rested? You can do that now, darling, I’m here to protect you. How about you close your eyes for a little while?”

Killer’s embrace tightened as the hand on Cross’ hip moved to rub along his thigh, a soothing, repetitive motion that threatened to steal his wherewithal all over again. The hand on his torso wrapped around a scarred rib, lightly massaging it in time with the motions on his leg and taking care to pay special attention to the chips and divots in the bone, long since healed over from old, old wounds.

“Not happening,” Cross finally managed, though it came out as more of a gasp as he struggled to catch his breath. 

Killer hummed, “are you sure? I think you’ve worked hard enough, don’t you agree? It’s time to take a break, love.”

“No,” Cross insisted, screwing his eyes shut like that could block out the overwhelming sensory input, “I need—“

“What do you need, dearest? I’ll—“

“I need you to stop doing that!” Cross exclaimed, head still spinning.

“Doing what?” Killer asked innocently, going back to massaging his hip. Cross tried to turn his head to glare at him properly.

“Fucking with my head,” he said at last, baring his teeth in a silent threat to snarl, to bite. He was seriously considering it now, and he just might’ve done it if he could convince his body to listen to him.

Killer laughed, releasing the rib to take hold of Cross’ chin, moving it in a way that forced him to further expose his neck. “Why should I?” he nuzzled into the space he’d made for himself, speaking his next words against the bone there, “You’re having fun, aren’t you?”

Cross bit back another gasp, turning it into a growl with a substantial amount of effort. 

“That’s not the point,” he snapped, and why the fuck would he say that, why would he admit that, “you’re trying to manipulate me. It’s not going to work, so stop.”

“Hm, if you insist,” Killer sighed, not even trying to deny it, “but you really should go to bed.”

He pressed one more kiss to the bottom of Cross’ jaw, right where it connected to his neck, and then he disentangled himself, letting his touch linger as he did so. A pat on his cheek, a squeeze to his hip, and then finally Cross was left to support his own weight.

“I haven’t even had dinner,” he pointed out, tugging his shirt on by himself before Killer could insist on helping again.

“Oh, how could I forget? Alright, let’s go get something to eat,” Killer agreed easily, reaching out to steady Cross as he stumbled a little while getting to his feet.

“Fucking finally,” Cross said pointedly, pushing past Killer to get out of that damn bathroom as soon as possible.

Glancing at the clock, he felt slightly sick as he realized they’d been in there for over two hours. maybe thirty minutes of that could be attributed to wound care, meaning…

“Oh, just one more thing,” Killer realized, following him out, “you still need to wear this.”

Cross stopped, exasperated, and begrudgingly let Killer help him back into the sling.

“The doctors say you’re healing fast, so you just need to wear this and take it easy for a few more days. A lesser monster would take weeks to recover, if they even survived.”

“Lucky me,” Cross muttered, finally walking away.

Chapter Text

Shocking absolutely no one, Killer insisted on cooking. Cross was thoroughly convinced by now that his little reassurance of no, don’t worry, I’m not asking you to let me do everything was complete and utter bullshit, a worthless placation to ensure his cooperation.

“I can cook one-handed just fine, you know,” he drawled, lingering in the doorway as Killer bustled around the kitchen.

“I already said you’ve had a long day,” Killer countered, “and it’s late. You can cook tomorrow, if you really want to.”

“Oh, bull shit,” Cross retorted. Killer paused to look over at him.

“What?”

“I said bullshit,” he repeated, “you’re gonna try to convince me to sit and relax, and promise that you’ll let me do it next time, like I need permission in the first place, and then you’re gonna do that again and again forever if I keep letting it slide!”

Killer giggled, “Busted! You’re too clever for your own good, hon.” He set out a few ingredients, smiling cheekily all the while. “But like, sure, maybe I should’ve been a bit more forthcoming, just like you should be a bit more cooperative. Really, I don’t see what’s so wrong about doing a few things for you. Don’t you want to take a break?”

“No.”

“Well, you should. You work too hard, sweetness.”

Cross rolled his eyes, “This is so dumb. I’m gonna go look at the rest of the house, try not to drown yourself in the sink while I’m gone.” He hesitated right before leaving, considering. “Or do. I don’t care.”

The second floor of the house was just as nice as the first, but there was one little problem.

The rooms on the second floor went as follows: a nice bathroom with a double vanity accessible from the hallway, a walk-in storage closet, one bedroom, and an office the same size as the bedroom.

They had absolutely zero need for an office.

It was extremely clear, based on the indentations in the carpet, that the office had in fact been a bedroom in the not-so-distant past.

Two relevant facts came to mind:

Firstly, Nightmare had not only picked out this safehouse, but sent Geno ahead of time to set things up according to his instructions.

Secondly, and most damningly, Nightmare was a huge sucker for corny tropes in the awful romance books he liked to read.

As an honorable mention, Geno had a mischievous streak, and he wouldn’t’ve followed this specific instruction unless he thought it was either necessary or funny, and it definitely wasn’t necessary.

“Awful. You’re both awful,” Cross said aloud, closing the door on the artificially singular bedroom with more force than strictly necessary.

Ignoring the fact that it didn’t need to exist in the first place, the office wasn’t half bad. two desks with comfortable chairs, various lamps and whatnot for a lot of control over the light level, a well-stocked bookshelf, plenty of stationery and whatnot. The fact that both Nightmare and Geno decided two desks was more important than two beds was absolutely diabolical, and Cross swore that he would figure out a way to get them back as soon as he could come out of hiding.

For lack of anything better to do, Cross grabbed a random book off the shelf and made his way back downstairs. Settling himself on the living room couch, he looked down to see what he was about to read and snorted.

“Real high brow literature, Nightmare,” he muttered, flipping it open to start a read that would certainly be entertaining, if nothing else.

It was a suspiciously short amount of time before Killer ushered him to the dining room and presented him with a heaping plate of spaghetti, but Cross was starving, so he didn’t question it.

Killer was staring at him intently as he ate his own portion, clearly waiting for his reaction.

Cross grabbed his fork, twirled up some spaghetti, stuck it in his mouth, chewed, and swallowed.

“This tastes like shit,” he deadpanned, “you’re lucky I don’t like to waste food.”

“I’m very grateful,” Killer said, a little too genuinely. Cross raised a brow at him, but didn’t press the issue when Killer didn’t elaborate.

“That being said, I refuse to let you ruin any more perfectly good groceries, so I’m cooking from now on. Try to stop me and see what happens.”

Killer pouted, “Can’t I at least help?”

“I wouldn’t even trust you to chop an onion,” Cross scoffed, struggling through another bite of food. It was edible, barely, and that was enough for him to be willing to choke it down. He’d never been a fan of wasting anything, but his time spent with Horror really drove that home.

“I don’t think you should be cutting any onions right now either,” Killer retorted, spinning his fork between his fingers once his plate was empty.

Cross rolled his eyes for the umpteenth time, “Oh, calm down. I won’t be doing anything like that until I can use both arms again, you dramatic shit.”

“Eloquent as always, hon.”

Killer was trying to get a rise out of him, but he wasn’t currently trying to talk Cross out of cooking, so it was a victory regardless.

Cross shoveled the rest of the aggressively subpar meal into his mouth before standing up, eager to get to bed. He wasn’t about to admit it out loud, but Killer was right; it had been a long day, and he was exhausted.

It took a little while to get up the stairs, grogginess weighing him down, but Cross managed to collapse into bed right as Killer caught up to him and came into the room without knocking.

“You can sleep on the floor,” he said preemptively, knowing there would be no convincing him to sleep on the couch downstairs.

“Fine by me,” Killer said easily, waiting until Cross was properly situated on the bed before flicking the lights off and making his way over to the side of the bed and sitting cross-legged on the floor, looking up at him cheerfully.

“Oh my god, stop,” Cross said immediately, “I cannot sleep if you’re sitting there staring at me like a lunatic.”

“Fine, have it your way, princess.”

Cross was too tired to protest the nickname beyond making a disgusted noise and pointedly closing his eyes.

Killer sat and looked at the wall, dutifully respecting Cross’ wishes to sleep without eyes on him…

until he heard his breathing even out.

Quietly, silently, he stood, leaning over his soulmate’s sleeping form. Cross was so perfect, so perfect, Killer didn’t understand why he thought his obsession was anything other than completely and utterly natural. His face was relaxed, peaceful in a way it never was while he was awake, and oh, he was positively ethereal with the moonlight from the window illuminating his features.

Killer wanted so badly to hold him, to caress him and kiss him and bite him until there was less than a doubt in either of their minds that they belonged like that forever. He wanted so badly to stake his claim right then and there, to make Cross understand his role in Killer’s life, but it simply wasn’t the right time yet. If he did all that now, Cross would never accept it, never stop fighting it, so he would have to wait.

But oh, it was so tempting, especially with how Cross’ strong and prickly exterior absolutely melted away the moment he was shown the barest amount of physical affection. Those little gasps he’d let out had been so, so sweet, and Killer wanted nothing more than to coax out more of those sounds. He knew Cross was holding back, doing his level best to appear unaffected despite how deliciously obvious it was that the opposite was true, and that only made him want to break down those walls all the more.

He gave in to the urge to reach out and caress Cross’ face, stroking over his cheekbone and watching in absolute glee as his soulmate, his treasure, leaned into the touch in his unconscious state. He continued to stroke over his face, his skull, his neck, not going further for fear of waking him. 

The more Killer observed him, the clearer it became that Cross needed touch in a way he wasn’t even fully aware of. At least, he wasn’t willing to name it, or admit it, but that was fine by Killer. He didn’t need to be asked twice or even once; he would gladly provide his soulmate with what he so sorely and desperately needed. He would intimately know every part of him, all the best ways to make him fall apart as fast as possible and keep him that way, with Killer being the only one capable of putting him back together again. In fact, he’d already gotten a wonderful start on that, back in the bathroom.

To be clear, Cross’ distress during his rather severe episode was not enjoyable in the slightest, and it broke Killer’s heart to see him hurting so. At some point, long ago, someone had done that to Cross, shattered him to the point that it affected him that strongly to this day. Someone had had the audacity to touch what was rightfully Killer’s, and they used that touch to damage him. It was worse than unforgivable; Killer was going to find out who was responsible, and if they weren’t dead before he got to them he would make them wish they were. He’d noticed a little X carved into Cross’ shoulder blade, and another on one of his lower vertebrae, the same shape incidentally formed by the injury that triggered the whole thing. The pieces were starting to come together in his head, and the moment it was safe to leave his soulmate’s side, he would follow those clues to their originator and deal with the problem as he saw fit.

Killer leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to the scar on Cross’ face.

Still, even with how much he detested Cross’ distress, it had provided that wonderful opportunity to touch him without protest. To take care of him, to treat him the way he deserved to be treated. To praise him the way he deserved to be praised. Killer didn’t like to see the tears streaming down Cross’ face, but he loved being the one to wipe them away. He didn’t like watching Cross break, but he loved being the one to hold all the pieces.

The way Cross fought him was adorable, more than anything. To Killer, it only made his inevitable submission all the more satisfying, and it was exceedingly entertaining to see him struggle to compute his conflicting feelings of hatred and attraction towards him. He was an exhilarating challenge, an absolutely gorgeous prize he needed to win.

Really, Killer had won from the moment they met. No matter what Cross did, no matter what he wanted or what he felt, he would still be Killer’s, still be with him forever.

He resisted the urge to kiss Cross on the mouth, reminding himself that it hadn’t been established whether or not that was desired. He could stick with what he already knew Cross wanted and needed for now, but any experimentation and boundary pushing needed to be done while he was awake in order to give Killer the necessary information.

However, he needed to satisfy his need to kiss Cross somehow, so he cautiously lifted a hand with his own two and brought it up to his mouth. Kissed his palm, then each of his knuckles. Kissed the back of his hand, then both sides of his wrist. Decided that it was in his best interest not to bite just yet.

Cross’ breathing got a little heavier, and his brow pinched together the slightest bit, but he didn’t wake. Killer put his hand back where he found it, then ran his fingers lightly up his arm. Danced across his collarbones, switched hands to stroke down his other arm. Avoided doing the same to his legs, for now, and settled for going back to his face.

Killer cupped that perfect jaw in one hand, thumbing over the intersection between it and his neck to see his breath hitch ever so slightly. It was astounding, just how much Cross slept through; a true testament to how deeply deeply exhausted he really was.

“You’re going to understand eventually,” he told him, hardly even a whisper, “but if for some strange reason you don’t, I’m okay with that. I have you either way, and that’s enough for me.”

And then he placed one last kiss on Cross’ forehead, settled himself back against the wall in preparation for a light night of sleep, and closed his eyes with a contented smile on his face.

Chapter Text

Chara Ramírez, orphan ward of the state turned respectable adult citizen, was a down-to-earth guy who liked to mind his business. He kept his head down, didn’t stick it where it didn’t belong, and stayed in his lane. It was a trait that served him well through his tumultuous childhood and into his adult life, allowing him to build himself a nice, stable place for himself in the often harsh and dog-eat-dog world.

Chara Villalobos, mildly feral boy with the messiest of family histories, was a nosy little motherfucker.

Chara Ramírez walked into the grocery store for some cereal and a carton of eggs, and Chara Villalobos lingered two aisles over when he overheard a familiar name whispered by a suspicious looking figure having a hushed phone call in the snack section.

Oh-so-casually, Chara Ramírez pulled out his phone to check his grocery list, and Chara Villalobos subtly started an audio recording.

“I’m sorry, sir, no one knows where he could’ve gone,” the shifty character stammered, “the last location anyone has on him is the hotel!”

On the other end of the line, Chara just barely caught the words hospital, incompetent, and losing my patience.

“It was supposed to be easy,” Mr. Incompetent protested, “two of our best men should’ve been more than enough to take care of both X and Moon without issue!”

Chara Ramírez scanned the shelf for the brand he was looking for, brow furrowed in concentration. Chara Villalobos was surprised when he didn’t have to strain his ears to parse the response from this mysterious boss:

“Get better men! Such imperfect agents cannot be tolerated!”

That voice was easily recognizable, especially when angry. A very distinct tone and cadence paired with exaggerated vocabulary, impossible to mistake for anyone else.

“Yes, sir. You have my deepest apologies, sir.” 

Chara Ramírez found the item he was looking for and didn’t waste any time grabbing it and making his way over to the checkout stand, buying the Golden Flower brand tea and setting back off for home, satisfied with his purchase and content with the somewhat slow speed of the bus as he rode along the familiar route to his apartment without a care in the world.

The moment his door was locked behind him, Chara Villalobos was a whirlwind, tossing the useless box of tea aside and dialing the only number he had memorized besides the emergency line one-handed as he launched himself into his desk chair and frantically typed his password into the crusty old laptop he did all his work on.

“What’s goin’ on, sugarplum?” Clover asked, southern twang accentuated by the static from the shitty phone speakers.

“I finally have a lead,” Chara rushed out, silently cursing his video editing program for not loading faster, “and if I don’t figure it out right now, it will have all been for nothing, and I’ll lose him forever, and—“

“Woah, slow your roll,” Clover interrupted, “it ain’t a waste of time to breathe. Now, isn’t a lead a good thing?”

Chara ran a hand down his face, heaving a sigh that his soulmate no doubt heard through the phone. “Yes, it is,” he said, “but I got that lead by finding out that I’m not the only one looking for him, but I am the only member of the search party that doesn’t want him dead.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah. So I have to find him first, and throw the others off the trail, and get to him in time to warn him.”

The program finally booted up, letting him open his cloud storage and drag the video file to its rightful place.

“I take it this means you won’t be callin’ for a while?”

“I’m sorry,” Chara said earnestly, cringing a little, “it’s just—“

“Come on now, hon, you know I understand,” Clover chastised, “it ain’t like I find the time to reach out much either.”

Like always, they knew exactly what to say to ease his guilt at being so distant, both literally and metaphorically.

“I know, I know,” he huffed, “but I’m allowed to miss you. Let me know if anything new comes up with your thing, okay? I’ve got a few connections, one of them might be useful.”

A moment of silence, then a sigh of Clover’s own.

“Thanks, Chara. It means a lot.”

“Any time, Four-leaf. I gotta go now, but don’t think I won’t still hunt you down if you don’t take care of yourself, okay?” Chara couldn’t help but laugh a little as he made the half-serious threat, hanging up before Clover could think of a good comeback.

With that out of the way, he set to work enhancing the audio, filtering through the background noise and boosting the volume of that damning conversation.

“Don’t do anything stupid, Cross,” he muttered, “I still have to kick your ass for leaving.”

Cereal and eggs long forgotten by now, Chara embarked back on his lifelong mission with renewed gusto and urgency. He’d gotten the clue he wanted, but now this whole affair had higher stakes than ever. Glancing down at the crimson thread tied to his finger, he smiled a little. He really had lucked out, finding Clover.

Shit, Cross would think that’s hilarious. Stupid prick.

He got up to retrieve that tea after all, deciding it might just help him get through the long night of work he had ahead of him.

Horror frowned down at the pot of soup simmering on the stove in front of him.

I hope he’s getting enough to eat.

Dust had never been very good at noticing when he was hungry, and Horror had no doubt that issue would only get worse when he was working a stressful job without someone there to remind him. Sure, he’d promised, but it wouldn’t exactly be his fault if he forgot…

Briefly, Horror considered packaging up some of this soup to bring over, but he quickly scrapped the idea. It didn’t make any sense to do that; lack of access to food wasn’t the problem, remembering to eat it was. All he could really do was text a few times a day and hope Dust got the chance to check his phone, but it didn’t feel like enough.

He turned down the heat, put a lid on the pot, and stepped back, closing his eyes to listen to the rain outside, and the hiss of the gas stove, and the buzzing of his phone—

Maybe Horror should’ve been embarrassed to fumble it several times in his attempt to get it out of his pocket and into his hands without dropping it onto the tile floor, but he was the only one home and he also couldn’t really care less.

3 meals 2day. things r slowing down a bit

Oh, thank fuck. Horror plopped down on their rickety couch as he typed out a response, slumping in relief.

Thanks, Dusty. Slowing down? is that good?

He watched the little dots dance around in their word bubble for a full two minutes before forming Dust’s next text.

not rlly

hit a wall so 2 speak

Horror frowned, curling his knees to his chest. That didn’t sound very encouraging.

Ominous

So no new updates?

The reasoning for Dust taking this job went deeper than needing the money, though it was true that they very much did. Receiving a phone call from some bigwig crime lord to request bodyguarding services had been odd, but his explanation for why he was reaching out to Dust specifically had put them both on high alert.

Cross was a private person, and he hadn’t told them anything about his new job besides the salary, which he had only disclosed in an attempt to convince them to let him ‘repay’ them. They’d firmly refused, insisting that they could never take money from him, and after that he would text them from his new phone now and again to let them know that he was still alive and doing well. They were happy for him, of course, but it sucked that he’d become so busy. In the past five years, he’d done his best to keep in touch, but it was obvious that he wouldn’t be able to come visit like he used to.

So, while they knew he was working a well-paying job, they never new what that job was, and they never really knew anything else that was going on in his life either. They spent five years assuming that their friend was leading a busy but successful life at some high end office job or other, something stable and safe.

Imagine their surprise when they found out that his job was protecting one of the most influential mob bosses in the world, and he’d suffered a near death experience not from protecting his employer against an assassination attempt, but falling victim to one targeted at him.

It was markedly less surprising that he’d recommended Dust to replace him while he went into hiding; it was just like him to use a situation like this as an opportunity to put Horror and Dust into a better one. 

To make a long story short, they had a very personal stake in the investigation Nightmare was running. 

dum photographers didn’t kno anything useful

hotel got scrubbed b4 any of nm’s guys could check it out

Well, fuck.

Man, that sucks. Any idea where to start looking next?

Prison phone records maybe? Cross has some incarcerated enemies, right?

Dust sent a thumbs down emoji.

either pigs these days stopped taking bribes or some1 else is paying more $$ :P

Horror growled a little, setting his phone down so he wouldn’t crush it in his hands. Cross was a good friend who had been through way too much before even hitting the streets, which hadn’t been kind to him either in the years before he met Horror and Dust. It wasn’t fair that this was happening to him of all people, when by all rights he should be done with going through awful shit for the rest of his life. Horror wasn’t the same monster he used to be, though, and running out to hunt down some trashbag assassins just wasn’t in the cards for him anymore. He forced himself to relax, and breathe. Getting angry wasn’t helping.

What about the news? Is there anything noteworthy from the year he lost housing?

I don’t feel good about prying into his past when he doesn’t wanna talk about it but it might be necessary here

He stood up and stretched, cringing as just about every joint in his spine popped rather loudly. The rain made his aches and pains all the more achy and painful, which was just what he needed right now on top of everything else. Regardless, things still needed to get done, so he shuffled back over to the stove to kill the heat and serve himself a bowl of soup. His phone buzzed again, but he was ready for it this time, waiting until he was settled at the table to open it and read the next message.

good idea thx

well do that

Horror smiled tiredly, bringing a spoonful of soup to his mouth.

Good luck

Keep taking care of yourself please, you know I worry

Dust sent him a thumbs up and a heart, and that was the end of it. Horror hunkered down to eat the rest of his dinner, taking comfort in the way his scarlet wedding band glinted in the low light. Sure, it didn’t have the same permanence as some magic string, but it was just as beautiful, and just as meaningful. It was theirs, and that was more than enough.

“So, you think he’s gonna make it?”

“I hope so,” Geno shrugged, hanging his coat up by the door. Like he always did, Reaper came up behind him to wrap him in a snug embrace. “He’s a good kid, you know?”

Reaper laughed at him, all but dragging him over to the couch to cuddle. 

“Come on, babe, you are not old enough to be calling thirty year olds kids.”

“I feel old enough,” Geno grumbled, “everything hurts all the time and I’ve taken a liking to looking at birds. For fun.”

He let himself splay out on top of Reaper, flipping over with a bit of finagling to give him a slow, lazy kiss.

“Birdwatching is a perfectly respectable hobby,” Reaper protested, letting his arms rest around Geno’s waist.

Geno snorted, “You say that because you’re old, too. You weren’t even a little bit interested in birdwatching until you turned forty, and now you’re almost fifty.”

“Fifty isn’t old!”

“It is when all your colleagues are in their thirties.”

“And do you think that colleague of yours will actually make it? From the sound of things, he’s got a lot of cards stacked against him.”

Geno rolled his eyes, reaching up to flick Reaper’s forehead.

“Careful, I’ll start thinking you want him dead.” He made a big show of trying to roll away, grinning when Reaper tightened his grip and pulled him closer. “But anyway, he’ll probably be fine. If anybody can get rid of the problem, it’s Nightmare, and in the meantime he’s got a very competent bodyguard-slash-soulmate, even if he isn’t happy about it.”

“Sounds like us when we were that age,” Reaper chuckled, “you were so sure you could get rid of me.” He nuzzled into Geno’s neck, placing a closed-mouth kiss on it.

“I still had a choice, though,” Geno pointed out. “Being stuck together all day every day, those two might destroy each other before they get the chance to work it out. I don’t know Cross super well, but he’s the type of guy that’d do just about anything to prove himself right, and I don’t even have to meet Killer to know that he’s the type of guy that will both do and put up with anything if it means keeping what he sees as his.”

Reaper hummed thoughtfully, melting into the couch.

“So do you think they will?”

“Destroy each other, or work it out?”

“Either works.”

Geno hesitated for a moment, considering.

“I don’t know.”

Chapter Text

The moment Cross began shifting around as he woke up, Killer opened his eyes.

“Good morning, sunshine,” he said affectionately, laughing when he earned himself a withering glare.

“It’s too early for your shit, Killer,” Cross grumbled, and despite the unhappy tone Killer absolutely adored the way his name sounded in Cross’ mouth.

“It’s never too early to show some affection to my darling soulmate,” he retorted cheekily, blowing him a kiss.

“God, would you stop that?” Cross snapped back, standing with some difficulty. Killer rose to meet him, making to grab his hand. Cross pulled it away, holding it protectively to his chest.

“Stop what?”

“Acting like you’re in love with me!”

Killer frowned, “But I am in love with you.”

“No, you’re not,” Cross hissed, “you’re just in love with the idea of having a soulmate. Obsessed , more like.”

“Au contraire, precious,” Killer purred, reaching out and grabbing Cross’ hand despite the resistance, “I really am in love with you.”

He rubbed his thumb over each of the places he’d kissed the night before, smiling fondly.

“It’s true, I did my fair share of fantasizing about what you would be like before we met,” he admitted, “but everything changed when I finally saw you. So beautiful, so fiery, so stubborn despite your condition. You’re so much more wonderful, so much more perfect than I ever could’ve imagined, Cross.”

He stepped closer, something he quite enjoyed doing. Especially when proving a point.

“You’re partially right, though; I most definitely am obsessed with you. And don’t get it twisted, I do mean you. Not some nebulous soulmate ideal, but you.”

He lifted Cross’ hand, coaxed those stubborn fingers open. Kissed his palm again, drawing it out, holding eye contact as he did so. Finally decided to bite, though it was more like holding the hand between his teeth. He didn’t press in hard enough to leave a bruise or even an indentation, but his sharp canines would most definitely draw blood if Cross jerked away now.

“You’re sick in the head,” Cross spat, though the effect was thoroughly ruined by the way his breath hitched as he spoke. It was beyond delightful to see his face flush bright, feel his almost imperceptible trembling, and know who was responsible for that reaction. It was immaculately clear how much he wanted it, how much he needed it, but was simply too stubborn to admit it. With no small amount of pride, Killer filed that information away for later: light biting was officially on the table. He released his teeth, but maintained his hold.

“I know you’re not exactly the biggest fan of my obsession,” he continued, ignoring the insult, “but you really can’t blame me. Just look at yourself, and you’ll see what I mean.”

“There’s nothing to see,” Cross insisted, tugging a little in a half-assed bid to get away. Killer tightened his hold, letting his grin sharpen to reveal just the barest amount of his hunger.

“You poor thing,” he crooned, “you don’t have the slightest idea how wrong you are. But don’t worry,” he adjusted his grip, one hand holding Cross’ with the other taking his forearm and pulling him forward to force him ever closer, “I’m very persuasive.”

“You’re very overdue for a visit to the nearest psychiatric hospital,” Cross scoffed, pulling away completely this time. “Get your head screwed on right before you come downstairs.”

As he walked away, Killer noticed a knot in their thread, but it slipped through his fingers when he tried to grasp it. Strange.

Cross hissed as he navigated the stairs; whatever drugs the hospital had him hopped up on had worn off, and now just about every movement including breathing was borderline excruciating. He couldn’t let Killer see, couldn’t give him another reason to try and keep him cooped up and docile, but it became increasingly apparent that it would be extremely difficult to hide. He was no wimp when it came to pain, and yet he found himself leaning hard against the wall and panting heavily once he made it to the first floor. Ridiculous. Pathetic.

I guess it has been a while since I’ve dealt with a stab wound. It’s not that unbelievable that I’d be affected.

Steeling his nerves, he pushed himself into action, letting a rather dusty mask fall back into place to straighten his posture and flatten his expression. He hadn’t needed to use this particular mask in a while, but unlike pain tolerance, this skill was much more akin to riding a bike; he could never truly forget how to do it.

He inspected the kitchen thoroughly, familiarizing himself with exactly what tools and ingredients were at his disposal.

Best to stick with something simple today. Fast and easy is the way to go.

Cooking was, shockingly, much more difficult with one hand. Not impossible; Horror had taught him many kitchen related skills, practical and impractical alike, but it wasn’t exactly easy either. Practicing with one hand behind his back while in good health was pretty different from applying it while injured, and it made everything just that much more tedious. By the time the food was made and the dishes were haphazardly piled in the sink, Cross felt unsteady on his feet, vision a little fuzzy. He blinked hard, downed a glass of water, and the mask was back on, right in time for Killer to wander into the kitchen.

“Here,” Cross said gruffly, and chucked a pancake in his direction, suppressing a snicker when it hit him square in the face. “Eat. You get to do the dishes, since you’re so eager to help.”

“Gladly,” Killer said, entirely too enthusiastic about the chore.

Killer finished eating first, and after putting his plate in the kitchen he stood behind Cross, looking over his shoulder.

“What are you doing now,” he asked tiredly, barely turning his head to glance back at him.

“I was on the phone with Nightmare for a bit, while you were cooking,” Killer said, not acknowledging the question. “He says there’s some prescription pain medication Geno can bring you.”

Cross shook his head as he swallowed a bite of pancake. 

“That’s nice of him to offer, but I don’t need that.”

Killer put his hands on his shoulders, “But aren’t you in pain? There’s no shame in it; anyone would be after an attack like that.”

Cross put his fork down, letting it clatter against his plate and the table.

“What makes you think I’m in such bad pain that I need drugs to manage it?” he asked, just a touch too defensive. 

“For one, you were shaking earlier,” Killer pointed out, “unless that was for a different reason?”

Smug ass, weird ass, clever ass bastard. Cross could hear his smirk; he was screwed no matter what he said.

So he didn’t say anything. He picked up his fork, took another bite of pancake, and nearly choked when Killer started to rub his shoulders.

“And you’re so tense,” he added, “are you sure you don’t want anything to help you with it?”

“I’m—“ Cross cut himself off, not trusting his voice not to betray him while Killer was… being Killer. “Yes, Killer, I’m sure,” he insisted, not quite managing to keep the tremor completely at bay. “I don’t want—“ fuck, this was difficult— “I don’t want your crazy ass drugging me. Stay away from my food, by the way.”

The reply was immediate.

“I wouldn’t,” Killer said harshly, moving over to Cross’ side and grabbing his chin, all but jerking his head over to look at him properly. “I would never do that, Cross. Not to you, not to anyone. I would sooner kill myself. Is that clear?”

When Cross didn’t answer fast enough, the grip on his shoulder tightened .

“Is. That. Clear?”

“It’s clear, it’s clear, Jesus fucking christ,” Cross shouted, “let go already, you’re fucking hurting me you psycho piece of—“

Killer all but jumped away, like he’d been burned, though he was back quickly to soothe his hands over where he’d held on far too tight. Then he just kept going, passing over Cross’ arm and the back of his skull and even his knee for some reason.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t’ve— Cross, you didn’t deserve that, you never deserve to be hurt, I- I’m so sorry, you- you’re too good to be treated like this, I—“

“Calm down,” Cross interrupted, instinctively reaching out and grabbing Killer’s arms to still them before he could turn them on himself, “it’s not dangerous to breathe. Just- chill the fuck out and look at me.”

Killer did just that, and Cross decided he hated the way panic looked on his face far more than he hated any of his smug or even predatory expressions.

“Did you actually injure me just now? Did you cause anything worse than maybe a light bruise?”

Holy shit, that dramatic little bitch was actually shaking like a leaf. There was some serious baggage there. Killer looked away, almost like he was about to cry.

“No, but—“

“I said look at me, dammit,” Cross snapped, resisting the urge to slap some sense into him, “you know what you’re supposed to do when you fuck up?”

Killer shook his head, reaching out to stroke Cross’ face again as if making sure he was still real. Cross let it slide, because clearly he was on the verge of a full on breakdown.

At least that makes us even, he thought sardonically, not bothering to resist rolling his eyes.

“Alright, I’ll tell you,” he said firmly, “so listen up, asshole. When you fuck up, you apologize, once, and then you commit to not fucking up in that way again, and then you move the fuck on. This anxiety attack shit isn’t helping anyone.”

Killer breathed, finally, and nodded. Waited until the shaking stopped. And then he surged forward, wrapping Cross up in a ridiculously warm hug and nuzzling into the crook of his neck.

“Thank you,” he said, kicking up a purr that took a couple seconds to reach its height, “you really are so good. Too good for anyone. I’m so, so lucky to be the one destined for you, Cross. I’ll make sure to take care of anything you need, love, and that’s a promise. You deserve it. You know you do. Deep down, at least. I’ll love you enough for both of us either way. You’re perfect, and somebody has to remind you of that, and that somebody is going to be me, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, pack it up,” Cross muttered, face entirely too warm for his liking. 

The truth was, he wasn’t perfect. He wasn’t even good, nowhere near so. Killer and Nightmare both seemed so convinced that he was this… angel, or something, when that couldn’t be less accurate. 

It wasn’t just that he wasn’t a good person, either; no, he was bad, awful even. He’d just yelled at Killer during a panic attack, and he didn’t even feel guilty about it. 

He sat at the table and considered this as Killer flitted into the kitchen to do the dishes, mood sufficiently lifted.

It left a bad taste in his mouth, just how little he cared. Sure, Killer was a creepy little asshole, but he was a person, and Cross shouldn’t think of him as anything less. Shouldn’t treat him as anything less. And yet here he was, calling him names when he was struggling. And he didn’t care.

He wanted nothing to do with Killer, and he wanted nothing to do with his wide array of episodes. He was stuck here, physically weaker than he’d ever been in his adult life, hundreds of miles away from his only friends, with a guy he met a day ago and hated already. Horribly, horribly, Cross wondered what it would take to push Killer away. How cruel would he have to be? Did he want his freedom more than he wanted his humanity? He didn’t know the answer. One thing was certain: the only way he could get away from Killer was to hurt him badly enough to keep him from following.

Would I be thinking these things about a stranger? Would I be willing to do that to a stranger? Would I treat a stranger’s pain as an inconvenience?

To be fair, most strangers didn’t view him like property; Killer was pretty unique in that aspect. Most strangers probably wouldn’t help him through his own episode either, though. Nor would they be willing to help him change his bandages when he couldn’t do it himself, or to sleep on the floor instead of a bed or couch, and especially not to protect him from a mysterious but very real threat.

The jury was officially in: Cross was a terrible person. And that was without counting all the times he’d murdered people who may or may not have deserved it. And all the times he let people think their loved ones were in real danger, just to settle a debt. And all the times he took advantage of Horror and Dust’s hospitality.

(And… well. And the worst thing he’d ever done.)

…At the end of the day, Cross didn’t really care if he was a good person or not. He tried to do right by his friends, but beyond that, he wasn’t the most concerned with his own morality. He was a little bit concerned with his lack of concern, but frankly that word was getting old by now.

(What would they think of me, though? Would they understand? Would they hate me?)

What he did care about was the fact that Killer and Nightmare both held this idealized version of him in their heads, and the person they saw him as didn’t exist.  One thing he really, really hated was false perceptions, incorrect and dishonest views of anything but especially himself.

Horror and Dust only cared about whether or not he associated with cops, which made his relationship with them a lot simpler. With less expectations came less guilt and/or general discomfort, leaving much more room for things like kicking each other’s asses in Monopoly. Meanwhile, Nightmare was doing his best to have a literal monopoly on the crime world, and Killer was doing his best to have a monopoly on Cross.

“There’s that cute thinking face again,” Killer observed, coming up to lean against the table. “What’s on your mind, hon?”

Cross wasn’t sure what possessed him to tell the truth.

“You’re wrong about me.”

Killer tilted his head to the side, “Is it the love thing? ‘Cause I can explain it again, if you need me to.”

Cross wrinkled his nose at him, assuring him, “No, I fully believe that you think you’re in love with me. That’s not it.”

Satisfyingly, Killer visibly resisted his clear urge to ‘correct’ him.

“So what am I wrong about?”

“Me,” Cross stressed, “you keep spouting bullshit about how good I am when I’m objectively not. You and Nightmare have that in common, and I don’t like it.”

Killer hummed, pushing himself off the table and sauntering over to Cross. He draped himself over his back, loosely wrapping his arms around him.

“It’s all about perspective, babe,” he said patiently, “you’re looking at it from a different angle than we are.”

“And what angle is that?” Cross asked, entirely incredulous. He did his level best to keep calm, even when Killer hooked his chin over his shoulder and looked up at him with the most idiotic expression of affection in the universe.

“Well, you tie your value, or goodness, or whatever you want to call it around things you’ve done. And you’re biased; I’m willing to bet at least half the things on your list aren’t even that bad.”

It was absolutely infuriating how Killer managed to correctly guess that Cross had a list. He didn’t deny it, instead opting to wait and hear the rest of what he had to say.

“As for Nightmare and I, we are looking at you, sweets.”

Cross scoffed, “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Just listen, darling. We look at your personality; the way you care so deeply about your chosen ones, the way you’d do anything to repay a perceived debt. The way you don’t want anybody to repay you, because you don’t want them to put themselves through hardship for you. We look at the way your face scrunches up the tiniest bit when you’re amused but feel like you have to hold it back for one reason or another. We look at your passion, and your many abilities, and while it’s important not to be shallow, your devastatingly good looks are definitely a part of it.”

If Nightmare actually felt that way, Cross thought he might just have to confiscate his entire book collection. It was poisoning his mind, if this was all true. Those books might need to be burned for the greater good.

He felt Killer’s mouth against his neck, grinning. He felt Killer’s breath, unnaturally warm and yet so very light.

He felt his own mouth go dry as he shivered at the contact.

“And then there’s the things only I know about you,” Killer added, disgustingly smug, “like the way you melt at even the most innocent touch, working yourself into a tizzy because you’re just not used to it. But perhaps most perfect of all…”

He actually sank his teeth into Cross’ neck. He actually fucking sank his teeth into Cross’ neck. Cross choked back a  humiliating sound, but half of it made its way out of his throat in spite of his best efforts anyway. When he didn’t protest, partially due to being completely paralyzed with shock(and something else), Killer bit down harder , only barely avoiding drawing blood. Cross was absolutely mortified when he whimpered completely against his will, breathing so hard it was painfully audible. He clapped a hand over his mouth in one final bid to silence himself, but Killer tugged it down, because of course he did. Preemptively, he pulled it up in such a way that had his one free arm pinned against his chest. The embrace was gentle, not nearly tight enough to cause pain or discomfort, but absolutely unyielding nonetheless. Cross wanted to say something, curse him out perhaps, but the only sound that came out was a pathetic gasp as Killer bit down just the tiniest bit harder right before pulling away and pressing a kiss against the quickly forming bruise.

“…The way you react when I do something a little less innocent.” 

He laved his tongue over the mark, probably just to hear the thin noise Cross made in the back of his throat.

Not a whine. Not a whine.

“You try so hard to hold back all those sweet, sweet noises, but you can’t quite manage it, can you? It’s not your fault, you’ve never felt like this before, but you’re so embarrassed by it.”

Unlike his unhinged, delusional, and psychotic rants and whatnot, this was entirely too honest. Killer wasn’t trying to convince him of anything; he was just making observations and doing things to prove his hypothesis correct.

“It’s so adorable, how you try to deny yourself. You try to convince yourself you don’t need it, but then I prove you wrong and you’re left craving even more. Lucky for you, I love to provide.”

Killer moved to Cross’ other side to nibble at the pristine bone there, a combination of sharp nips and almost casual scraping teeth. It was fucking impossible to think of a good rebuttal like this, a fact Killer knew very well.

“You know that makes us compatible, in that way. I’m the perfect person to hand feed you only the most delicious contact, Though of course the price is letting me devour you just a little bit, like this. A little further, if you feel generous towards both me and yourself. And there’s another thing; you’re absolutely delectable, and I just can’t get enough of you.”

Wrong. Wrong. Cross didn’t need jack shit, and he shouldn’t want it, either. Didn’t. Whatever. 

“You’re a creep and I hate you,” he hissed, pushing his arm out. To his surprise, Killer didn’t fight him, didn’t move to grab it again. “And you sound like a cannibal when you talk like that.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

Fuck.

Cross was silent for entirely too long, oh so aware of the light stinging from Killer treating him like a goddamn chew toy.

This is your cue to say yes, moron, he growled to himself, but his mouth stayed damningly shut.

Killer took mercy on him, though not without a large helping of amusement.

“Aw, it’s okay if you’re not sure yet,” he promised, “we can always just carry on another time, if you want.”

No, I do not want, he meant to say. He did not say it.

Killer laughed at him, kissed his neck one more time, and then he was completely out of his space, and he could breathe again.

He needs to get the hell out of my head before I do something stupid.

Chapter Text

“I’ve got Nightmare on the phone,” Killer said the next day, “he wants to talk to you.”

Cross was a little ashamed to admit that he didn’t really want to talk to Nightmare right now. It wasn’t his fault, he just… it didn’t matter. He grabbed the phone.

“Hey,” he said, because that was probably a normal way to greet your boss and best friend who lowkey fired you for your own safety and sent you off to live in a little seaside town with your crazy ass soulmate.

“Hello, Cross,” Nightmare said, and fuck, he sounded exhausted.

“Are you getting enough sleep?” he blurted, cringing at his own bluntness.

“About as much as you can expect me to, given the situation.”

That translated pretty directly to no, I literally haven’t slept since the incident, but I don’t want you to ask me about it.

“Don’t work yourself into the grave,” Cross said sternly, but he didn’t push the matter further. They could argue back and forth about Nightmare’s sleeping habits all day, and they’d never reach a resolution. “How’s Dust?”

“He is… very quiet. I forget he’s here sometimes. Very competent, though, so I see why you recommended him.”

Nightmare paused, like he was glancing over at something or someone, and god, did he say that with Dust in the room?

“He is worried about you, as well. It pains me to say this, but we’re having trouble sorting this out. Are… are you certain there’s no one you know that could be behind all of this?”

“I’m sure,” Cross insisted, “the only people who could’ve possibly been capable of this went on death row ages ago. Unless someone’s doing séances, I’ve got nothing. Sorry.”

Anyone who hated him enough to orchestrate a whole organization just to end his life was either dead or in prison, and anyone competent enough to actually pull it off was definitely dead. Cross wracked his brain to think of anyone, anyone— and came up short.

“I guess it could be like… a family member or a friend, getting revenge on someone? That would only really make sense for those bad business partners, but it could be something, right? I mean, they would definitely have the money.”

Nightmare sighed, and Cross could almost see him shaking his head.

“Perhaps if we were both targets, but it’s pretty clear that I am seen as collateral at worst. It would appear that we need to go back to the drawing board, unfortunately.”

Well, fuck.

“That… that sucks,” Cross said, and his gut churned a little. If Nightmare couldn’t figure this out, who could?

Things were painfully silent for several long seconds.

“So, how are things going with Killer?” Nightmare asked mischievously, partially as a distraction and partially because he was a romance-obsessed nerd who wanted to know if real life was anything like what happened in his books. Cross spared a moment to wish for a distraction from this distraction.

“He’s not a terrible bodyguard,” he said evasively, “so that’s good, I guess. He’s a shit cook, so I only let him in the kitchen to do dishes.”

“And?” Nightmare said expectantly, because of course he did, and it was too good of an opportunity to pass up.

“And he sleeps on the floor, because someone took the other bed out and he doesn’t wanna sleep on the couch,” Cross added. Then, before Nightmare could respond, “can you pass the phone to Dust?”

“Um, yes, I suppose—“

“Great! Thank you so much, I really appreciate it…” Cross continued on with his overly cheerful expressions of gratitude right up until he was absolutely sure that Dust was in possession of the phone. “Okay, Dust, listen to me carefully. That man is not going to get any sleep if it’s up to him, so here’s what we’re gonna do: if he doesn’t go to bed on his own tonight, and I know he won’t, I need you to literally drag him there yourself. Don’t let him look anything up or do any work or anything until he gets a full night of sleep, got it? I will pay you to do this.”

“…Keep your money,” Dust murmured after deliberating for a moment. His voice was soft, and a little hard to parse through the phone, but it was there all the same. “I’ll handle it. Say hi to Killer.”

And then he hung up, and Killer sauntered back into the room as if he hadn’t been eavesdropping the whole time anyway.

“Dust says hi,” Cross told him, passing back the phone. “How do you know him, anyway?”

Killer shrugged, “I get around. You know how it is.”

Cross did not know, actually. he used his life savings on bus fare to get across the country from his hometown, only got to know his way around the new city as a means of evading the police better, and then he started working for Nightmare, who made most of his business partners come to him. This was the third settlement he’d actually been to in his whole life. 

“Uh huh,” he said doubtfully, not even bothering to act like he could relate. “You said I’m still not allowed to shower?”

“That’s right, sugar,” Killer nodded solemnly, “doctor’s orders.”

Cross groaned, because Killer wasn’t just bullshitting, and he would have to just keep sitting in his own filth until his wounds closed enough unless he wanted Killer to help him, which he had made clear would never happen.

“I’m gonna at least put on some clean clothes. You should shower, you fucking reek.”

He didn’t, but his clothes were filthy, and that was practically the same thing. Seriously, why would he want to exist in filthy clothes?

“Sure thing, babe,” Killer said easily, “after we change those bandages. Then, how do you feel about exploring the town a bit?”

“Aw, you covered up my pretty little marks,” Killer pouted, referring to the bandana Cross had put on himself with a not insignificant amount of difficulty.

“Yeah, that’s the point,” Cross scoffed, “can we go already?”

They ended up wandering into an old video store first, intrigued by the excess of bright colors and loud banners contrasted with the surrounding storefronts.

The man at the counter didn’t even look up when they entered, door jingling behind them, much more focused on his knitting project.

“Wait here a sec,” Killer whispered, squeezing his arm, “I’m gonna make sure it’s safe.”

“Oh, yeah, because dusty VCRs are just so treacherous,” Cross hissed back, but he lingered by the counter anyway, picking up a random magazine and idly flipping through its pages.

The guy glanced up, then shot a look in Killer’s direction before scribbling out a note and sliding it over to Cross. 

Are you ok?  The handwriting was messy, but still legible.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Cross asked aloud, setting the magazine down to tilt his head at the stranger.

“Okay, fuck, I guess subtlety’s dead,” the guy grumbled, rolling his eyes and reaching out to crumple up the note.

“What do we need subtlety for?”

“I want you to think real hard about how you’d react if two new people showed up in your middle-of-nowhere speck of dust on the map, one of whom was beat to shit, and looked extremely uncomfortable around the other one, who grabbed their arm and whispered some shit at them before walking away?”

Okay. Random civilians suspecting domestic abuse was not on Cross’ small-town hideout bingo card. When it was put like that, though, he could see why it looked a little more than a little suspicious.

“I got mugged right before we moved,” he explained, opting for half-truths, “and he’s been paranoid ever since. Can’t go anywhere without checking for danger.”

The guy— Error, his nametag read— looked him up and down, shrugged, and leaned back in his chair, picking up his knitting.

“If you say so.”

“He does,” Killer chimed in, coming up from behind to snake an arm around Cross’ waist and pull him closer. Cross glanced back, and great, there was something dangerous lurking within his otherwise friendly expression.

Don’t, he tried to communicate with his eyes alone, stopping himself from shoving Killer away lest he further convince Error that something was amiss. The last thing they needed right now was a welfare check, and if they weren’t careful, Killer was going to make people think that one was nothing short of a necessity.

“I appreciate the concern, though,” Cross said diplomatically, exercising a skill he wasn’t particularly gifted in but needed to learn due to working with Nightmare, whose temper was even shorter than his own. Error looked skeptical, setting down his knitting once more.

“Not a problem,” he replied, squinting at Killer like he was waiting for any indication that Cross was just covering for him.

Killer nearly growled at Error, but Cross cut him off with a sharp elbow to the ribs before extricating himself and all but dragging Killer towards the door.

“Well, it was nice meeting you! I’m Cross, and this overprotective idiot is Killer. We’ll see you around!”

“If you see my nosy ass brother, tell him to quit running off to do random shit in the middle of operating hours,” Error called after them, and Cross was sure there was some sort of hidden message there, but he couldn’t be bothered to decipher it.

“I don’t trust him,” Killer grumbled, once the door shut behind them.

“You don’t trust anyone,” Cross retorted, letting go of him.

“I trust you,” Killer shot back, reaching out to tilt Cross’ head towards him.

Cross huffed, “Well, I don’t trust you. Did you even think about how weird you made us look? I’m not sure if you forgot, but we’re trying not to draw attention.”

“Maybe he should’ve just minded his business,” Killer scoffed, and they didn’t stop bickering until they went into the next store.

Error wasn’t the slightest bit embarrassed to admit he called Geno right away.

“I don’t trust that Killer guy,” he said right out the gate, drumming his fingers against the counter.

“Don’t antagonize him,” Geno reprimanded him, “I don’t think you want him as an enemy.”

“I don’t think you want anything happening to Cross,” Error pointed out, irritated, “I know a bad character when I see one.

He heard Geno sigh from the other end of the line.

“If it makes you feel any better, Cross is more than capable of defending himself if he needs to, and he definitely doesn’t want anyone fighting his battles.”

“Honestly? No, that doesn’t make me feel better,” Error snapped, “he’s in over his head. I’m telling you, Killer’s bad news.”

“I’m not saying he isn’t,” Geno said placatingly, “but Cross isn’t that much younger than Fresh, and he’s smart. Besides, I get the sense that he’s just as bad for Killer as Killer is for him.”

“I cannot stress enough how unhelpful that is.”

“Here, I can promise you this: Killer definitely won’t hurt Cross. He’s too attached for that. But if he decides you’re a threat, he might hurt you , so for the love of god, please be careful.”

“…Whatever. If I see any funny business, though—“

“I’ll take care of it. Don’t make Fresh have to dig you out of a dumpster.”

Error rolled his eyes, even though Geno couldn’t see it.

“Have a little faith, jeez.”

“I’m your big brother, it’s my job to worry.”

“Inaccurate,” Error said haughtily, “your short ass isn’t anyone’s big brother.” Then, before Geno could protest that a two-inch height difference was negligible, he continued, “But seriously, you wouldn’t be so calm if you saw how goddamn knotted their thread was.”

“They can fix it,” Geno pointed out.

“Only if they both actually want to,” Error retorted, “and I really doubt that’ll happen.”

One benefit to living in a town this small was how simple everything was. Most of the residents were either perfectly happy and content with their soulmate, didn’t know who their soulmate was, or didn’t have one. Along with the minuscule population size, there were hardly ever any knots and tangles in the threads constantly occupying Error’s vision. 

Of course, that changed when his brother’s acquaintance came to town for supposedly complicated reasons, accompanied by the world’s biggest walking talking red flag. 

Growing up in a city, Error had seen his fair share of messy relationships, chaotic tangles of red and pink crowding his vision for the first eighteen years of his life. Once he moved out to the middle of nowhere, everything got much simpler, and years of nice normal healthy interactions made him almost forget how nasty those city soulmates’ threads were. His head hurt just looking at it.

“Just stay calm and let me know if anything changes, okay?”

“Fine.”

They hung up after exchanging goodbyes, leaving Error to scowl at nothing in particular as he thought about these new additions to his town and the chaos they’d surely bring. Fresh always told him he got too invested in these things, but it was hard not to when people’s relationship issues were in his face all the damn time.

…My head hurts.

Chapter Text

A bell jingled as Chara stepped into the little coffee shop, eyes immediately locking on the man he was looking for.

“Wilbur! Good to see you,” he grinned sharply, taking a seat across the little table.

“Wh- Chara, you’ve known me almost your whole life,” Dream said, bewildered, “that’s never been my name.”

“You cops have no sense of humor,” Chara complained, propping his elbows up on the table and letting his head rest on his hands.

Dream frowned, “what’s the joke?”

Chara rolled his eyes hard.

“It’s not funny anymore if I have to explain it.”

“Okay, well, if you’re not gonna explain your joke, will you at least tell me why you wanted to meet me?” Dream huffed, crossing his arms. Chara let his jovial exterior fall away, leaving room for the business that needed attending.

“Coffee first. You’re paying.”

Dream rolled his eyes, but still complied, ever the pushover. Once they got their drinks, Chara all but dragged him outside, not saying a word until they were all the way out in a more thickly wooded section of the city park.

“Seriously, Chara, what is this even about?” Dream asked impatiently, coffee long gone. “Why bring me all the way out here?”

“We can’t be overheard,” Chara explained, “obviously.”

“But why?” Dream snapped, exasperated by Chara’s antics.

Okay. No going back now.

“I know he’s alive. No doubt.”

Dream’s face softened into pity, an expression he could never seem to get tired of when it came to Chara.

Self righteous asshole.

“Chara,” he started gently, “please. You know he’s—“

“Don’t you fucking dare tell me I know he’s dead,” Chara snapped, hands clenching into fists. “I know for a fact he’s alive.”

“There was an autopsy and everything,” Dream reminded him. “I know you miss him, but this has gone too far. I’m worried about you, Chara.”

“What the hell do you know?” Chara shouted, getting angrier by the second.

“I’ve been through this!” Dream yelled back, “I’ve been through this, and it sucks, and I can’t let you destroy yourself over some misguided hope of reuniting with a brother who will never come back! Why can’t you just let him rest?”

“First of all,” Chara hissed, “you weren’t there. Second of all, it was a closed casket. Nobody saw him, and the people who say they did are slimy little liars. Third of all, if you’d let me fucking finish, you’d know that I have proof, jackass! ”

He thrust his phone into Dream’s hands, but yanked it back before he could do anything. “You have to promise you won’t report this. I’m taking enough of a risk getting you involved; I don’t need any more stupid cops mucking everything up.”

Dream frowned, “If anything illegal is going on—“

“I’m not doing anything illegal,” Chara cut him off, “and the cops are worthless anyway. If we get them involved, it’ll take at least a year to get everything sorted, and he could be dead by then.”

He could practically feel Dream thinking he’s already dead, but at least he didn’t say it out loud.

“For the record, I think this might be the worst idea you’ve ever had,” Dream said, looking truly grumpy for once.

“Are you promising?” Chara pressed, stepping closer. Dream sighed heavily, shoulders slumping in defeat.

“Fine. I promise I won’t report this.”

“Great! Now we can get to work,” Chara said briskly, pulling up the recording on his phone to show Dream once and for all.

“…You think your dad somehow got off death row, got into contact with enough people to form a whole group of people dedicated to killing Cross, and did all of this under the radar?”

“That man has connections up the fucking ass,” Chara stressed, “I’m more surprised I didn’t consider that he’d pull a bunch of strings from the beginning. And he’s not my dad.”

“Sorry,” Dream said genuinely, “I’m just a little… you have to see how far-fetched this sounds, right?”

“No,” Chara hissed back, “because I know that stinking sack of shit. This is nowhere near beyond him.”

It was obvious Dream still wasn’t quite buying it, but at least he was willing to humor this.

“Okay. And what do you need me for?”

“I need you to be a middleman. I need two things, and you know the people who can get them done.”

“…Who?” Dream asked hesitantly, eyes scanning an invisible target as if he was mentally running through his extensive contacts list. Because of course he would.

“Well, Ink likes traveling, right? And he’s good at disguises. I need him to go around to some places I’ve picked out to plant red herrings. Throw those assholes off the trail, you know? And I can pay him.”

He pulled out a thick stack of bills and handed it to Dream, trusting his goody two shoes ass not to keep it for himself.

“You really think he’ll just drop everything to do this?” Dream asked, looking skeptically down at the money.

“You really think he won’t?” Chara snorted. “Anyway, I just need you to give me his number and bring that to him. I’ll contact him when I’m ready.”

“Alright,” Dream agreed, still sounding unsure. “You said there was something else?”

Chara nodded, pulling out a second stack of money and an envelope full of relevant information.

“Yeah. I figured out which city he was in when he had that last attempt on his life, but then I lost the trail, so I need someone to go poke around and look for potential leads. Someone with crazy sharp detective skills, who won’t lean on unreliable aboveground resources.”

“Absolutely not,” Dream said firmly, “I’m not putting him through that.”

“Oh, come on, it would be good for him,” Chara argued, “he needs to get out of the house. Besides, don’t you think he’ll like having an opportunity to apply his skills in a way that doesn’t support a corrupt system? He’s just gonna wither away if he stays purposeless forever.”

“I’m in no place to ask that of him,” Dream snapped. “He hates me, remember?”

Chara rolled his eyes hard. “Don’t you think it would be unfair to rob him of the chance to have a life again? Just give him the option. If he doesn’t want to, I’ll eat my foot and find someone else.”

After glaring at him for another few seconds, Dream snatched the money and pocketed it like the other one, then did the same with the envelope.

“Fine! Fine, I’ll ask Blue. But if you’re wrong—“

“I just said I’ll eat my foot and find someone else,” Chara interrupted, “Jesus Christ, you’re slow. Oh yeah, and make sure he knows this has nothing to do with you pigs, so he doesn’t have to deal with that.”

Dream’s brow furrowed as he processed that last sentence.

“Ohh,” he said, extremely belatedly, “seriously? That’s what you meant?”

“Oh my god, yes, moron,” Chara snickered, “took you long enough. Not like it was your mom’s favorite book or anything.”

Dream heaved a long suffering sigh, not even dignifying that with a response.

Dream swallowed hard as he reached up to knock on Blue’s door, biting his tongue nervously.

“Go away,” came Blue’s muffled voice, bitter as always.

“I’m here on Chara’s behalf,” he tried, “and it’s got nothing to do with the police, I promise.”

Several minutes passed. Enough time for Dream to second guess himself and get ready to leave, at which point the lock clicked and the deadbolt slid open and Blue stepped out to meet him, quickly closing and locking the door behind himself. He must’ve seen the disappointment on Dream’s face, because he scoffed, rolling his eyes.

“Come back with a warrant if you wanna see in my house so bad.”

“I wouldn’t do that to you,” Dream promised, wringing his hands. Blue looked awful, clothes wrinkled and frame abnormally thin and the heaviest dark circles beneath his dull eyes. Next to them sat a stack of tupperware, gifted meals left ignored. Blue also looked entirely unconvinced, his only discernible emotions being suspicion and contempt.

“What do you want?” he asked bluntly, folding his arms.

Dream shifted uncomfortably on his feet, “you know how Chara’s been searching for his dead older brother?”

“Allegedly dead. We only have the precinct’s words to go off of.”

“Well, Chara found some evidence that suggests he might be alive,” Dream continued bravely, “and if you’re okay with it, he wants you to investigate his last suspected location to look for clues about where he could’ve gone.”

To his surprise, a spark of something flashed in Blue’s eyes before they narrowed a little.

“And this has nothing to do with law enforcement?”

“That’s right,” Dream confirmed, “and Chara wanted me to give these to you.”

He held out the money and the envelope, unsurprised when Blue only took the latter.

“I’m not taking money from a kid. Make sure it gets back to him.”

He then walked past Dream, giving him a wide berth. His steps had a certain confidence in them that hadn’t been there in god knew how long, and Dream had to jog to catch up.

“Where are you going?” he asked, fidgeting with his hands.

“Off to catch the next bus over to the location you mentioned,” Blue deadpanned, “obviously. Leave me alone and take your tupperware back while you’re at it.”

Before Dream could come up with anything to say to that, Blue picked up the pace, leaving him standing helplessly in his driveway.

“…Okay.”

It was only fair. Blue had every right to hate him after what happened. Dream looked down at the thread connecting them, white instead of pink and hopelessly tangled. He wasn’t sure if he would ever get his best friend back, and it was all his fault.

Talk to me when you get wise and quit, Blue had snapped, the first and last time he’d opened the door for Dream after the incident.

I can’t just quit, Dream had protested, I have to honor my father’s legacy.

He would never forget the look of pure disgust Blue gave him.

As long as your swine of a dead dad means more to you than innocent lives, you’ll always be a piece of shit, he’d spat, now get off my property.

After that, Blue had locked himself in his house and refused to let anyone in besides his brother and occasionally Ink, who… well, it had come as a bit of a shock when even Ink told Dream he couldn’t look at him the same. He didn’t stop talking to him altogether, but he always seemed a little uncomfortable around him, and developed a habit of giving him copies of applications for various non-police jobs. 

Maybe they were right, but this was all he had. His parents were dead, his brother was dead, and the only words he had from any of them were his father’s adamant insistence that he continue his life’s work.

Dream knew there were too many rotten cops, but he was weeding them out, and he couldn’t help but think that sometimes the ends justified the means in his line of work. What was he supposed to do, let crime run rampant in the city he loved? The system wasn’t perfect, but it was better than complete chaos without anyone to uphold the law, right?

Blue’s words stuck in his mind.

The people you’re trusting to ‘uphold the law’ are the same ones committing the worst crimes. You’re no better than a mob boss, Dream; the only difference is your murders can happen in broad daylight.

He’d lost his best friend over this. He’d lost all of his friends over this. It was all he could do to hope that he wasn’t doing the wrong thing, but even if he was, he was in too deep to back out now. The city needed him. His father’s memory needed him. Blue needed him, even if he wanted nothing to do with him. Dream kept the lights on, the faucets running, the heat flowing. He would take care of his soulmate, take care of the legacies of those who passed away, take care of the city at large. He would take care of everything, and maybe someday Blue would understand. Maybe someday Blue would forgive him. 

…But maybe Blue never would. And maybe Dream would have to accept that, no matter how much he didn’t want to.

Chapter Text

Dust couldn’t help but be glad this was just a job for him. Being Nightmare’s friend would match his namesake, with how stressful it would be to deal with his nonsense while also having a stake in the game. As it stood, he was more than happy to drag the crime lord to bed and hover obnoxiously until he ate and whatever else he needed to do to make sure Nightmare didn’t completely waste away. His bodyguarding duties turned out to involve protecting Nightmare from himself far more than any external factors, which was just plain boring.

Today, Nightmare was pacing a hole in the floor, ranting about how ridiculous it was that they’d somehow managed to go this long without getting any new info. Unfortunately, Dust could relate, considering how unlike Nightmare, Cross was his friend, and he was the cause of no small amount of stress for him and Horror.

“How could I be so stupid?” Nightmare hissed, hands pressed against his head. “The longer I take to figure this out, the more danger he’s in, and he could die all because I am so horrendously incompetent—“

Dust watched as Nightmare became increasingly agitated, keeping his distance until he decided this had gone on long enough. Sparks were flying, magic flaring but too weak to manifest anything after generations upon generations of disuse, and Nightmare was oscillating between throwing things and clawing at himself as he ranted and raved. Dust could relate, sure, but this was getting kind of ridiculous.

“Boss. Enough,” he said, refusing to speak above his usual volume as he lightly swatted Nightmare’s hands away from their destructive activities. Nightmare rounded on him, furious, entirely too worked up now.

Whoops. Probably should’ve stepped in sooner.

“And who are you to treat me like a petulant child?”

“You’re acting like one,” Dust pointed out, rolling his eyes. Nightmare blinked, finally looked at his surroundings. Blinked again. Slowly lowered his hands. Still didn't seem any less unstable, if the persisting sparks and his stormy expression were anything to go by.

 “Cross is worried, by the way,” Dust added after a minute or so, raising his eyebrows ever so slightly when Nightmare’s head snapped up to meet him.

“What have you told him?”

Dust couldn’t help but snort at that. This guy really was an idiot.

“Nothing. He just knows you.”

That seemed to give Nightmare pause, more than anything else. He sighed, shoulders slumping a little.

“…Apologies. I do not know what came over me.”

I can make a guess, Dust thought drily, waving off Nightmare’s remorse and gesturing for him to follow. Really, he had no clue how Cross put up with this guy, let alone befriended him. When he took this job, he was expecting to protect the crime lord from external threats, which was apparently what Cross did, and he was almost excited to potentially see some action again. Instead, he found himself working as a glorified, overpaid babysitter, fielding Nightmare’s childish self hatred as he grew more and more frustrated by the leagues and leagues of dead ends they kept hitting.

Luckily, it wasn’t long until some guy named Red came to take his place for the night, bored but competent enough to handle his duties.

“Make sure he eats and sleeps,” Dust told him, shoving a twenty dollar bill at his chest and not checking to see if he managed to catch it.

“Uh. You got it, boss.”

Boss. Getting called that, as a bodyguard, by another bodyguard, was kind of hilarious. Red might’ve had a gruff exterior, but he turned out to be supremely nervous, at least around Dust. Actually, he seemed perfectly fine and competent so long as Dust wasn’t in the room, so it probably was just him. Whoops.

He pushed into his assigned room, locking the door behind himself and finding one of the corners to curl up in rather than letting his body get consumed by the stupidly lavish bed. Seriously, this was the exact kind of thing Cross hated; what possessed him to put up with this for five years?

Dust pulled out his phone to text Horror, the highlight of any given day they spent apart.

-hey

how goes it, hun?

-annoying. very annoying

ha, makes sense. leave it to cross to find the most ridiculous employer

Dust sent over a thumbs up emoji, then started slowly typing again as he always did.

-wbu

-anything interesting

-?

The little ellipsis text bubble kept disappearing and reappearing for a minute before Horror’s response came through.

Yes, actually

I made a new friend, he’s a determined little guy

I get the sense that he’d be a cheerful person, if not for whatever’s haunting him.

Dust snorted a little, trying to imagine a ‘little guy’ who also happened to be dealing with a ghostly tormentor.

-haunting?

Horror’s next text came pretty quickly this time.

ok not literally

I mean like, something happened to him at some point and now he’s mega depressed yk

he hates himself wayyyy more than your average joe, too, but I think he’s trying not to let that show

terrible survival instincts too, maybe on purpose

this might be his first time having a friend in a long while actually

Huh. Horror had a habit of being unintentionally vague sometimes, talking more about someone’s ‘vibe’ than any identifying factors. It was something Dust found endearing, but it did make it difficult to visualize new people he couldn’t meet immediately. 

Looking at his ring in the light of his cell phone, Dust sighed a little, letting himself wonder just how long it would be until this whole thing could be over and everything could go back to normal. For Cross’ sake, mostly, considering he was the one suffering the most in this situation, but it was stressing Nightmare and Dust and Horror out too, and besides! He missed his husband! He missed his husband, and he missed being able to go through life without worrying about his friend getting fucking murdered, and he missed not having to deal with this stupid job. Mostly, he was just worried about Cross and missing his husband, with anything else coming secondary.

He let his phone go dark, and thought back to his favorite times; selfishly, he much preferred when Cross had the time to hang out with them, despite all of them being dead broke.

Back before Dust and Horror could afford rings, Cross had come up with the idea of having a little ceremony and connecting them with a piece of literal string, and he had been so excited to help them cement their chosen bond in stone with a symbolic gesture, despite how much he hated the real thing. 

Magic soulmates might be stupid as hell, but you guys are the right kind of soulmates, he’d explained. I read in a book that couples used to call each other soulmates all the time, back before whatever higher power got bored and decided to tie a bunch of us together at random. Isn’t that cool?

Neither of them had really thought about how cool it was until Cross brought it up, but they sure were glad he did. Ah, fuck, Dust missed his friend so goddamn much. He thought about what Cross might be doing right now, stuck in that house with that guy he was apparently tied to. Hopefully sleeping, not too perturbed by the pressing issue at hand.

Okay, Killer really wasn’t trying to watch Cross sleep tonight. Honestly! He’d been dozing, and then he woke up and got bored, and he was gonna go read a book or something… but.

Cross started tossing and turning, breathing ragged, the tiniest little pleas cascading out of him in a way he never did before, helplessly appealing to some greater authority with no real faith of having it granted.

What was Killer supposed to do, leave him like that? Let him suffer through whatever thing was plaguing him? What kind of soulmate would just walk out at a time like this?

“Hey, Cross, you gotta wake up,” he said softly, lightly jostling his shoulder. Cross only curled up further, so Killer sat on the edge of the bed and reached out to try again, but Cross bolted upright and stared right at Killer with wide eyes.

…No, that wasn’t right. Cross wasn’t looking at Killer at all.

“What are you doing up?” he whispered, so very quietly, and Killer realized that while Cross’ eyes were open, they weren’t really seeing; he wasn’t really out of the proverbial woods just yet.

“Helping you,” Killer explained gently. Cross surged forward, took him by the shoulders, absolutely consumed with panic.

“Quiet down, quiet down!” 

Killer could barely hear him, even with how close they were. There was also absolutely no reason why they needed to be this quiet here, meaning he now needed to figure out where Cross thought they were.

“Why?” he asked, doing his best to match Cross’ volume. Cross looked exasperated at the question, like it was completely obvious. Killer reminded himself that it probably was, in this conjured scene of Cross’.

“This is no time for games,” Cross told him sternly, “now go back to bed before he hears us.”

He. Killer rapidly compiled all the evidence he’d gathered in his mind’s eye, rushing to connect one more piece of the puzzle. 

Maybe he should humor Cross, promise to go back to sleep, but he still needed to remedy his seizing fear and entirely too hoarse voice. Still needed to gather more information.

“Can’t we get some water first? I’m thirsty,” Killer lied, correctly assuming that Cross cared for whoever he thought he was and would therefore be more open to this kind of appeal.

“No,” Cross insisted, “absolutely not! You know the rules, Frisk, we have to wait until morning.”

There! Frisk, that was a name, and Killer was surprised to find that it rang a bell, though he wasn’t sure where. Sure, it was one of the most common names for human children, but he felt like there was a specific one that might be relevant here.

“It’ll be fine just this once,” he tried, but that only seemed to stress Cross out more.

“Absolutely not! He’s going to catch you, and he’s gonna be so mad—“

“What’s the worst that can happen?” Killer challenged him, taking a gamble. This was going to make Cross feel worse right now, sure, but this was a mystery that needed to be solved for his own good. 

“We are not having this conversation. We’re already really pushing it by talking at all, let alone for so long— Gaster’s going to hear you, and when he does he’s going to kill you, and I won’t be able to protect you because I already— wait.” Cross abruptly stopped whispering as he came to some sort of realization.

He looked down at his hands, then at Killer, then at the room around them, but his eyes still weren’t quite focused.

“He… he already did that. You’re dead. You’ve been dead. What are you doing here?”

“You’re dreaming,” Killer explained softly, “I’m not really here. You’re going to wake up without me.”

“Fuck,” Cross croaked, tears coming to his eyes, “Fuck. I should’ve known; how could I be so stupid?”

Killer sighed, “You’re not stupid, Cross, and this wasn’t your fault.”

Cross shook his head vigorously, clinging to himself with all his might.

“But it is,” he insisted, back to whispering, “it is my fault. Oh, god, you never knew— fuck, I’m so sorry.”

“You know I’ll always forgive you,” Killer whispered back, “no matter what.”

Cross stared at him for a minute, then softened. He smiled weakly, wistfully.

“You would say that, wouldn’t you. I guess it’s good to know I didn't forget you. I never will, okay? I’ll always remember you, Frisk, I promise.”

There was really only one thing to say.

“I know, Cross. I never once doubted you.” Killer put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s time to go back to sleep now.”

“…Okay.”

Cross fully crumpled back down onto the mattress, like a puppet whose strings were cut. Killer tucked him back in, stood up, and silently padded out of the room.

Sorry, Cross. I’m gonna find this Gaster person, whether you like it or not. He’s going to pay, because I’m going to make him.

Unseen through Killer’s tunnel vision, the thread knotted itself tighter.

Chapter Text

“Villalobos, huh?”

Cross stilled, unsure where the hell Killer was going with this.

“Yeah. What of it?”

“It’s a pretty unique name, right? I don’t think you could say it’s common just about anywhere in the world, let alone here.”

He found himself standing from the couch, facing a still sitting Killer who looked deceptively composed. Cross knew better, knew they were gearing up for some sort of explosion.

Why the hell didn’t I come up with a fake name?

Stupid, stupid, stupid!

“You can’t blame me for being a little curious. Cross Villalobos, where did such an extraordinary individual come from?”

“Killer.”

“Pretty far from here, apparently. Right at the other end of the bus line leading to Nightmare’s city.”

“Killer, leave it alone.”

“Out from the grave, if that little slip of paper is anything to go off of.”

“Cut it out, Killer. Now.”

“Whatever news might’ve come out about this tragic accident was pulled pretty quickly. Hardly even made it to print, and then those were burned too. Scrubbed off the face of the earth, never to be seen again. Much like that poor, fifteen-year-old murder victim. Even that autopsy was buried pretty deep, and it was pretty vague, don’t you think?”

“Shut. Up.”

Cross was letting out a persistent snarl, teeth fully bared and hands clenched tight. Killer looked up at him, unfazed, then just tilted his head before proceeding to do the exact opposite of shutting up.

“For anyone else, that would be where the trail ends. An unsolved mystery, a tragedy forgotten by the bustling suburbia that housed it.”

“Stop.”

“I’m not anyone else, though, am I? By some divine stroke of fate, I was hopping around from town to town by then, still bright eyed with the hopes of finding you on my own. You’ll never guess where I was when the local news caught my attention.”

“Stop.”

“A sting operation on a child trafficking ring gone horribly, horribly awry after the leader caught wind of it.”

“Killer—“

“A tragic massacre with one lone survivor, who passed from sepsis in the hospital within a matter of days. But there was another one, wasn’t there?”

“Shut your fucking mouth, Killer.”

“All that pain, all those innocent lives lost, all due to one despicable man. What was his name again? Oh—“

“I’m not gonna tell you again—“

“Gaster, right?”

Cross reeled back. Wound up, fist balled tight as could be. Swung.

…Stopped, not even an inch away from Killer’s face.

What the fuck am I doing?

Killer hadn’t so much as flinched, expression completely neutral until Cross stumbled back, arm turning to lead as it dropped to his side.

You’re the same. You’re exactly the goddamn same, you worthless piece of shit.

The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, does it?

You’re a disease. All you know how to do is hurt and infect and kill and fight.

Cross retched, crumpling to his knees as vomit spewed out, making a mess while he stayed paralyzed, clutching his stomach with his forehead pressed against the floor. It was a disgusting scene, but nowhere nearly as repulsive as what Cross had just done. Almost done. It didn't matter, not really. What mattered was how much he wanted to do it. 

“Hey, Cross, breathe—“

“Get away from me!” he shrieked, as soon as Killer tried to step closer. He should be running, he should be going somewhere far away from the horrid creature that wanted so badly to hurt him, he should at least be retaliating like he had every right to.

“Cross, it’s okay,” Killer tried, like the fucking moron he was. God damn, Cross was still thinking awful things about him, still belittling far beyond what was justified or necessary.

“It’s not okay,” he spat, “I was about to hit you! Don’t you see what’s wrong with that?”

“No,” Killer said firmly, “you didn’t do anything wrong. I’m the one who pushed too hard, I’m the one who ignored your feelings and ignored you telling me to stop. I’m the one at fault here, not you. I kept talking when you couldn’t have been clearer about not wanting me to, so I—“

“Don’t you dare finish that fucking sentence!” Cross screamed, scrunching up his hands and digging into the carpet, “Don’t you goddamn dare try to tell me you deserved that!”

Everything was silent for a moment or five or two hundred, save for Cross’ ragged breathing and the slight rattling of his bones as he shook.

He needed to fix this.

There was no fixing this, but he needed to try.

“I fucked up just now,” he rasped, fighting hard for a more measured tone, “So. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again, and I don’t expect you to forgive me.”

Killer tried to step forward again, freezing when Cross shouted incoherently like some sort of rabid animal. Still, he didn’t back away, didn’t flinch, didn’t recoil.

You might as well be one.

You might as well get put down like one, too.

“Cross, there’s nothing to forgive,” he said, and fuck. All his usual bravado, his typical flirtatiousness, his routine possessiveness, the constant psychosis and mania in the way he did just about everything… it was all gone. It had vanished, almost as if it had never been there, replaced by this earnest and genuine and worried man that was so much smaller than how Cross had always seen him. “And besides, even if there was, I’d do it in a heartbeat. You know I would.”

“Yeah, I do know,” Cross snapped, raising his head to meet Killer’s eyes and nearly falling back over when he saw a pinprick of light where there never was before. “And yeah, I can’t decide whether or not you forgive me no matter what I think. That’s up to you, even if you’re gonna be stupid about it.”

Oh. I just did it again.

He looked back down at the puddle of vomit, resisting the urge to puke all over again.

“That was mean. You should leave before I say something worse.”

Killer tried to say something, likely protest, but Cross bulldozed right over him, “I don’t wanna see you until you get enough self respect to see when you’re being mistreated.”

Killer did not leave, because of course he didn’t. No, he actually stepped closer, because of course he did.

“Do you need your ears checked? Get out,” Cross stressed, looking up again to meet Killer’s strangely lively eyes and seeing nothing but absolute sympathy there.

“Cross, please,” he said softly, taking another step forward.

Cross couldn’t do this. He couldn’t fucking do this.

“I said get out!” he screamed, a little shrill. “How many times do you need me to repeat myself before you get it through your monumentally thick skull? Get out! Get out! Get out, get out, get out, get out, get out! For once in your goddamn life just get over your stupid soulmate complex and let me clean up my own fucking mess, for once! For fucking once! Get out!”

He was left breathing heavily, worn out from the outburst. He was absolutely miserable, and despite how much he really did want it, Cross was surprised when Killer actually listened.

“Okay.”

He moved slowly as he walked towards the door, lingering in the frame whilst holding the handle as if silently begging for Cross to change his mind. When that didn’t happen, he bowed his head, and stepped out without another word.

Cross turned back to his very literal mess, tears burning in his sockets despite his best attempts to hold them back.

In his focus on the task at hand, the tangled amalgamation of thread attached to his finger completely escaped his notice.

Chapter Text

Cross found Killer sitting in the hall, right on the floor as he focused intently on the gnarled ball of thread in his hands. He was trying to pull it apart, untie the knots and separate the tangles, fix what the two of them had so badly maimed.

He didn’t seem to be making any progress.

“You know you don’t have to do that, right?”

Killer only nodded, remaining fixated on his self-appointed task.

“It doesn’t actually affect anything.”

“I know.”

“So why are you trying to fix it?”

Killer did look up at him then, something strange in his gaze. The light from earlier was gone, but Cross found himself no less perplexed.

“Don’t you think it’s worth fixing just for the sake of it?” Killer asked, tilting his head to the side. For the sake of us? went unsaid, but it was near deafening all the same.

“…Move over,” Cross muttered, plopping down next to him on the hardwood floor and taking another tightly bound segment in his hands. He did not turn to see Killer’s reaction.

Stepping off the bus, it dawned on Blue that coming here with nothing but his cell phone, house keys, and the clothes on his back was probably not the best way of starting this investigation. This whole thing was an impulse decision, spurred by some desperate desire to do something good for once instead of sitting on his ass all day and racking up the internet bill Dream paid by keeping the news on at all hours. He hadn’t asked for him to pay for those things, but he also wasn’t about to stop him from essentially throwing his money away. He also wasn’t about to delude himself into thinking his daily activities and lack thereof were the slightest bit productive.

Blue made his way to what looked like a somewhat acceptable place to loiter before pulling up his GPS and typing in the address of the hotel Chara detailed in his notes. He waited for the page to load, then nearly dropped his phone when the little preview pictures showed up.

To put it lightly, he was pretty severely underdressed for this job. Upon a bit of further research, every member of the staff was immaculately dressed, meaning he couldn’t just pretend to be one of them.

“You there, in the hat! Hold it!”

Blue was jolted out of his musings when a cop pulled up, pointing and shouting at some random skeleton wearing a slouchy beanie as he clambered out of his vehicle and slammed the door a little too hard before speed walking towards his target.

They really do let anyone join, huh.

“…What.” The skeleton’s voice was gruff, deep and gravely and very clearly not in the mood to deal with cops. Blue could relate.

“You wouldn’t mind if I asked you a few questions, right?”

“I very much would mind.”

Blue inched his way closer, keeping a close eye on the officer and the way his hand rested on his currently holstered gun.

“Then you wouldn’t mind taking off that hat for me.”

“I’m pretty sure he minds,” Blue chimed in, “leave him alone. We’ve all got places to be, mouths to feed. Is that something you can relate to?”

The cop— a human, gangly and reeking of insecurity— turned to appraise Blue, looking him up and down.

“This doesn’t concern you, sir. Move along, get to those places to be and mouths to feed.”

“Why are you even stopping him, anyway? He’s just minding his business,” Blue pointed out, ignoring the mocking remark.

The scrawny policeman looked him up and down again, incorrectly deemed him to be harmless, and smirked.

“Well, if you must know, this… man matches the description of a dangerous wanted criminal. I’d hate to scare you, but you’re not exactly safe standing so close.

Scare me. That’s cute.

Blue took a step closer to the stranger out of sheer spite.

“And what description is that?”

“Large skeleton with one red eye and prominent cranial damage. You may notice this particular individual is covering the top of his skull.”

The skeleton in question was looking between Blue and the officer as they went back and forth, as if watching a ping pong match. A somewhat high stakes ping pong match.

Blue scoffed, “It’s cold out. People are gonna cover their heads.” Then, looking around, “I see three more people matching your incredibly vague description. There, across the street— big guy, red eye, head covered with the furry hood of his jacket. And there, by the bookstore, another one! And sitting outside that restaurant! Are you gonna question every big, red-eyed skeleton you see? There’s a lot of them!”

The stupid pig just smirked at him again.

“I can see how it may seem nondescript to the untrained eye. And besides, I can admire the loyalty to your fellow skeleton. Even still, I assure you this is the wrong skeleton to be loyal to. As a gesture of goodwill, I’ll tell you one last time: for your safety, you should move right along, little guy.”

Oh, that was just plain insulting. Blue exchanged a glance with his new friend before shifting his focus back to the more pressing matter at hand.

“Your bodycam might be off, but that doesn’t mean you should speak like no one’s listening,” Blue said pleasantly, “is now a good time to mention the camera app on my phone?”

The cop’s expression changed, dropping from smug to alarmed. He made a grab for Blue’s arm, but the other skeleton stepped in, pushing Blue behind him. 

“Hands to yourself, stringbean,” he growled, “my buddy’s got a point. If you really thought I was your guy, wouldn’t you want as much evidence as possible? Doesn’t exactly make sense to switch off your little gopro.”

The cop’s lip curled, “Why, you little—“

“Someone just vandalized your car,” Blue interrupted helpfully, “you might wanna investigate that.”

“Wh—“

It was true. Someone had spray painted an obscene image right on the hood, and they were long gone by now.

Blue’s probably temporary companion took him by the hand then, taking advantage of the distraction to make a swift exit.

“Thanks for the save,” the stranger said, leading Blue through a variety of back alleys, “but, uh… did they stop teaching stranger danger?”

“Okay, no way am I that much younger than you,” Blue rolled his eyes, “and no, stranger danger is doing fine. I’m just not scared of you, and I don’t mesh well with law enforcement.”

The stranger barked a laugh, slinging an arm around Blue’s shoulders.

“And what makes you so sure I’m not that dangerous criminal the lawman warned you about?”

Blue snorted, “are you?”

They shrugged.

“Yes and no. Haven’t been caught for anything violent, at least.”

Blue hummed, incredulous. Sure, it was completely plausible, but he probably wasn’t in any real danger here. He’d gotten pretty good at reading people over the years, and despite the clear attempts to intimidate him, it was clear this guy might as well be harmless as far as intent was concerned. Harmless to him, anyway.

“Sure, buddy,” he said, “and remind me what you’re wanted for?”

“…Illegal guerilla soup kitchen.”

Okay, yeah, Blue was perfectly safe.

“I guess you really do have mouths to feed, huh?”

“You could say that. I’m Horror, by the way.”

“Blue.”

Horror grinned and offered him a hand with the other still around his shoulders.

“Nice to meetcha, Blue. How’s dinner sound?”

Blue found himself in a small first floor apartment, released from Horror’s one-armed embrace now that they were inside.

“This is nice,” he said politely, silently wondering what the house rules were.

“Thanks,” Horror grinned, “you can go ahead and take your shoes off.”

Blue complied, kneeling to untie his laces as Horror sat on a nearby chair to do the same. As he slipped off his sneakers, he couldn’t help but notice Horror’s eye on him, frowning with a furrowed brow.

“Uh, did I do something?”

Horror just rolled his eye and shook his head, standing with some difficulty and gesturing for Blue to follow.

“I don’t exist, you know.”

It’s an olive branch if Cross has ever seen one, offered information in exchange for what he’d so recklessly sought out before. He was still mad about that, even if he hated how poorly his first reaction was, so he should probably just ignore Killer.

“What does that mean?” he ended up asking; internally, he justified it with the fact that he was bored out of his mind sitting here on the hardwood floor and painstakingly attempting to unpick the snarled mess of knots their shared string had become over the course of just a few days.

“Legally, I mean,” Killer clarified, “you might be dead, but as far as the government’s concerned, I was never even born.”

That explained some things. Cross was curious now, so he gave up on the idea of ignoring him.

“So you just picked your name on your own?”

Killer shook his head, grinning, “Nah. I was a prodigy, you know? They loved watching a little kid stab the fuck out of whoever they pointed him at, and I wasn’t any good at anything else, so boom! Sick ass name!”

Cross had no clue who they was, but he didn’t think he really wanted to know, either. He did know he wouldn’t hesitate to torture them if he ever came across them, though. He… he didn’t really know how he felt about that. 

“And are any of… them… still around?” he asked quietly, a little unsure why he was even saying anything to begin with. Killer just laughed, a bright sound, grinning wider when one of the sections of the thread loosened a little in his hands.

“Of course not! It didn’t take me long to realize they were just as mortal as my other victims,” he giggled, “so I was still in my early teens by the time I got to jump town. Whole lotta hitchhiking… Until I realized I could just steal bus money and avoid the hassle, anyway.”

“…Huh.”

Cross let the conversation fizzle out; unlike Killer, he didn’t consider himself particularly nosy. If his hands shook a little as he turned the information over in his mind, that was nobody’s goddamn business, including his own.

Blue couldn’t say he’d ever experienced a windstorm before. It was definitely intense; rattling the windows, dislodging stray debris and sending it flying, throwing sheets of rain every which way on and off with no real pattern… shockingly, it didn’t exactly constitute safe weather for investigating or even so much as stepping outside.

“You better stay the night,” Horror rumbled, back turned as he worked on putting away the leftovers.

“I wouldn’t want to impose,” Blue said, mostly to be polite. He didn’t exactly want to brave the storm, but he didn’t want to overstay his welcome, either. 

Dinner had been an awkward affair; the food was great, and Blue had made sure to say as much, but the meal was otherwise spent in abject silence. Horror did try to strike up conversation a few times, but Blue… Blue was tired. This was more speaking and socializing than he’d done in years, and his throat was sore, and he was tired. He didn’t mean to dampen the mood— Horror was nice! He liked hanging out with him, at least so far, but he couldn’t overcome his current limits so quickly. Horror probably noticed the increasing rasp in his voice and the decreasing energy in his responses, because he didn’t press, instead just letting the quiet wash over the little apartment.

“…okay?”

“What?” Blue blinked, realizing he’d completely forgotten himself. Usually, he could zone out as much as he wanted, but usually he was alone, and that was very much not the case here, and he really hoped he hadn’t offended his new friend.

“Didja hear me?” Horror asked, frowning slightly.

“I’m sorry,” Blue said, which was plenty of an answer in and of itself. Horror sighed, but it didn’t sound particularly angry or frustrated, which was probably good.

“No worries,” he waved him off, “happens to the best of us. I said it’d be suicide to go out in that shit, and the couch folds out into a futon. Then I asked if you were okay, since you didn’t respond. Question still stands, by the way.”

Blue did his best to smile reassuringly.

“Yeah, I’m fine! I really appreciate your hospitality,” he said as brightly as he could, though it sounded strained even to him.

I never used to struggle with this, he thought bitterly. Before he could work himself into a pointless spiral, Horror put a hand on his back, and it was frankly a miracle he didn’t jump a foot into the air.

“You don’t look fine,” Horror said bluntly, “no offense.” He didn’t give Blue any chance to explain himself, continuing, “Not that it’s any of my business. We all have baggage, I ain’t about to grill you on yours.”

Stunned, Blue just kept standing there, thoughts grinding to a halt. He really didn’t know how to respond to that, honestly. What did Horror have to gain by pointing out his odd behavior and then letting it go just as quickly? Luckily, he didn’t have to come up with an answer, because Horror seemed to have decided to do enough talking for the both of them.

“How’s about a little tour before you hit the sack?”

Chapter Text

Cross dropped his still tangled mess of crimson thread rather unceremoniously, exhaling sharply.

“This is taking too long,” he complained, prompting Killer to look up from his own portion of the shared task.

“I think we just have to be patient,” Killer said mildly, shrugging a little. Cross threw him a withering glare before closing his eyes and pressing his hands to his temples.

“We haven’t made any progress in hours,” he pointed out, “this obviously isn’t working.”

Killer set down the section he’d been fiddling with and rolled his head, a practiced motion he’d developed at some point after his eyelights fizzled out.

“You got any better ideas, babe?”

“I do.” 

Killer was surprised; he hadn’t been expecting the answer to be yes, and he really hadn’t been expecting Cross to ignore the pet name instead of protesting like usual. Most surprising of all, Cross followed it up by getting up close and personal, taking the front of Killer’s jacket in one hand and his arm in the other. When Killer just sat shocked, he huffed again, as if his line of thinking was obvious.

“God, you’re dense. Let’s just kiss it out— that’s what normal soulmates do, yeah?”

Killer floundered for a moment, completely and entirely caught off guard. Was this real? Did he fall unconscious and find himself in the greatest dream ever?

“I mean- do you want to?” he stammered, “Last I checked, you didn’t want anything to do with soulmate stuff.”

“Well, I’m obviously not getting out of this anytime soon,” Cross rolled his eyes, still holding onto Killer, “and you’re the one who wanted to fix our shit. Now, are you down or not? I’m not gonna ask again.”

Killer let himself grin, fully accepting this golden opportunity.

“Oh, I’m down alright,” he purred, and that was all the warning he gave before tackling Cross to the floor full force and kissing him with all his might. Their teeth clacked together a little painfully, but Killer found that he didn’t give a fuck.

Cross growled at him, making a valiant attempt at pushing him over to turn the tables. Killer didn’t let that happen, of course, because he was a little shit and he liked to play dirty. Distantly, he was grateful for how quickly Cross had healed, which meant he could be exactly as rough as he wanted to be.

Smirking into the kiss, Killer slipped a hand under Cross’ shirt and grabbed a rib none too gently. Cross made a noise somewhere between a gasp and a shout, and Killer used that chance to shove his tongue in his mouth. Their teeth collided again, and Cross winced a little, but Killer didn’t slow down for even a moment. Breathing was overrated, he decided, digging his phalanges into Cross’ inner rib.

Despite his best efforts, Cross was far from unaffected, letting out a stream of those sweet sweet sounds Killer loved so much. His hands scrabbled for purchase, clawing into Killer’s back in an attempt at grounding himself. It didn’t seem to be working all that well, much to Killer’s delight.

“You’re so perfect,” he told him between messy kisses, “thank you for giving me this.”

“You’re the worst,” Cross snapped back, dragging him down again.

“Go ahead, Killer.”

A familiar knife was pressed into his little hands as he was not-so-subtly nudged towards his target.

“…Why is she so quiet?”

“What?”

No, really. What—

“They usually fight back or at least cry. How come she’s just lying there with her eyes open?”

A short sigh, followed by a crushing grip on his shoulder and a much more forceful shove forward.

“Your name is Killer, not Questioner.”

“I know, but—“

“So kill. You already know how.”

Seriously, where the hell was this coming from?

Killer did know how. He crouched by the not sleeping woman and looked into her eyes as he set the knife— his knife— against her unmarred throat. He nearly recoiled at the lack of focus there, the way she didn’t even look at him or register the blade on her neck. He noticed her lack of cuts and bruises, too, although her dress was definitely rumpled. Distantly, he wondered what this one had done. She looked so normal compared to everyone else whose lives he’d taken, so utterly unremarkable. She probably didn’t know what she’d done either; she clearly didn’t even know where she was.

“Hey, miss. What’s your name?” he whispered, a little surprised when she actually blinked a little at the sound of his voice in her ear.

“…Dunno,” she slurred, “but m’sister—“

Killer cut her throat. He held his knife there as he felt her pulse point with his free hand, waiting until her heartbeat completely stopped before standing back up.

“What did she tell you, Killer?”

He didn’t answer, feeling the weight of the knife in his hand. Glancing around the room, he didn’t see any guns, and he got an idea.

“Killer.”

A very, very good idea.

“Look at me, Killer.”

He weighed the knife in his hand, shifting his stance. Yeah, this could very well be the best idea of his life.

“Killer!”

“Look at me,” Cross said sternly, clearly not for the first time. Killer blinked, and he was back in the hallway of the nice house they were sharing in the nice little beach town that hadn’t made its way onto any digital maps.

“Sorry,” he said automatically, “how long was I out?”

Cross closed his eyes, leaning back against the wall. They were sitting up now, which probably made sense. If Killer didn’t know any better, he’d say Cross looked relieved.

“Just a minute or two,” he replied, “but I kinda thought you fell into a spontaneous coma or something.”

“Sorry,” Killer repeated himself, “I dunno where that came from. Won’t happen again, pinkie promise— shall we pick up where we left off?”

Cross’ face twisted a little, “is that a good idea? Shouldn’t you, like, go take a nap or something? I mean, I know this is me talking, but that shit is not normal.”

In a completely characteristic act of desperation, Killer leaned in close, lightly caressing Cross’ face with one hand.

“Please,” he whispered, “I could use the distraction anyway. Trust me, more kissing is exactly what I need right now. If you don’t want to, that’s fine, but—“

“Whatever,” Cross muttered, flushing, “it’s your funeral if you disappear again.”

Killer hummed, grateful that Cross decided not to press. That was one of many differences between them; Killer needed to know everything, dissect even the tiniest of mannerisms and interactions, while Cross just… didn’t. Maybe that could be chalked up to disinterest, but Killer had a feeling it went deeper than that. In any case, it was a blessing in this moment. He kissed Cross once, laughing when he followed after him, and then he took his jaw in his whole hand and tilted it to the side.

With Cross’ neck properly exposed, Killer was free to press a number of kisses against it, feeling more than hearing the way his soulmate’s breathing turned labored. It became increasingly audible as he went on, spare hand wandering his ribcage and dancing along his spine. He controlled himself for a whole two minutes before giving in to his urges and biting down hard. It was instantly worthwhile, eliciting the most addictive sound.

“Agh—“ Cross cried out, breath stuttering in his chest, “dickhead!”

“Sorry, love,” Killer said entirely unrepentantly, moving to give him a second bite mark and digging in even harder. Cross’ vocalization was louder this time, drawn out and quickly tapering into a helpless moan as Killer held on tight, squeezing his jaw and hip with an unmistakable air of possessiveness. This was it; he’d been fantasizing about this moment for so very long, building his expectations sky high, and yet it turned out to be infinitely better than he ever could’ve imagined. Cross was his, his, his, and he finally seemed to realize it as his body went slack.

Eventually, Cross remembered himself, pushing Killer away to snarl at him.

“Let’s see how you like it, jackass,” he snapped, digging his claws into Killer’s back and dragging him in to deliver a brutal bite of his own. 

High on euphoria, Killer pinned him right back up against the wall, straddling his lap to kiss him senseless and purring as he tasted his own blood on Cross’ tongue.

“I like it very much,” he said smugly, “even if I much prefer biting you. And I’d bet anything you feel the same.”

“Fuck off and die,” Cross shot back, somewhat weakly. Killer hummed, leaning back to appraise him. Cross ducked his head, trying to escape that scrutinizing gaze, but Killer only tutted condescendingly, hooking a finger under his chin and bringing it up to stare into those pretty eyes.

“Hey, babe,” he started, bringing his voice down low and soft, “what do you say we take this a little further? If you know what I mean.”

Cross rolled his eyes, grabbing Killer’s wrists and pulling them off him.

“No thanks; one first is more than enough for today.”

Ordinarily, Killer would get smug and say something along the lines of so you’re saying there’s a chance, but he was somewhat caught off guard by Cross’ admission.

“That was your first?” he asked excitedly, “I thought for sure you’d have a bit of experience— you’re so hot, for one, anyone attracted to men with half a brain would be falling over themselves for a chance with you— especially considering your stance on soulmates!”

“Jeez, way to make me feel like a piece of meat,” Cross grumbled, “don’t overthink it. I was never interested, that’s all— mostly because I’ve always had better things to do and worry about. I had a crush on Horror for like two seconds, until I watched him eat an alley rat to impress Dust. Other than that, jack shit.”

It wasn’t quite lost on Killer that Cross was rambling, going just a little too far to justify his lack of romantic and sexual pursuits, but he found himself fixated on one tidbit of information in particular.

“But no way you weren’t asked out a few times, right?”

Cross snorted. “Sure, but like I said, I never saw a reason to reciprocate. I didn’t like anyone, so I didn’t bother.”

“So you like me, at least enough to make out with me and have a hell of a good time with it.”

It wasn’t a question. Cross sputtered, denial ripe on his tongue, but Killer stole one more kiss to seal the deal. It was a long one, of course, leaving both of them breathless and a little bit dizzy.

“…Whatever,” Cross muttered, all the fight having been kissed out of him, “let’s just go take care of these stupid bites. If mine get infected, I’ll kill you myself.”

“Duly noted,” Killer said cheekily, getting to his feet and pulling Cross up with him.

“Hold still, moron,” Cross snapped, dabbing at Killer’s neck with uncharacteristic gentleness. Killer held still, kicking up a purr when Cross braced a hand against his shoulder, tongue sticking out a little bit as he worked. Killer had insisted on treating Cross’ wounds first, but now it was his turn to behave and let himself relax just a bit. Anyway, this was fucking adorable, objectively speaking, and Killer resisted the urge to say to hell with first aid and kiss him silly again. That had been the highlight of his entire life, right next to meeting Cross for the first time. Nothing could top that. Everything else was a direct result of it, after all.

“…I’m sorry. Again,” he said after a minute of silence, admittedly somewhat out of the blue. As perfect as the last hour or so had been, that didn’t erase the events of this morning. “You have to understand— I mean, you don’t, but I should at least explain— You’re the love of my life, and revenge is what I’m best at, and the fact that someone hurt you, beat and scarred and broke what’s rightfully mine… I got very, very angry. I focused on what I wanted, on revenge, when I should’ve been focusing on you. All that rage over someone hurting you, when I did the same thing! How hypocritical can I get?”

Cross looked away, and for once, Killer didn’t try to make him look back.

“I don’t wanna talk about this,” he said oh so quietly, “none of that justifies hitting you. Wanting to hit you. I wish you’d get that through your head.”

“You didn’t hit me,” Killer pointed out, “even though I wouldn’t blame you either way. You still chose not to; give yourself a little credit, love.”

Shrinking in on himself, Cross finished off by taping a gauze pad to Killer’s neck before retreating fully. Killer took his hands in his own, squeezing lightly.

“I also saw those scars,” he admitted, “the precise ones. And you couldn’t have done them yourself, not with where they’re at.”

“I already told you, I don’t want to talk about this,” Cross repeated himself, now so quiet he was near unintelligible. Killer brought their foreheads together, a motion he hoped was comforting.

“Okay,” he acquiesced, starting to purr again as strongly as he could. Cross relaxed minutely, and that was a victory in and of itself.

Killer wanted to keep talking about it. He wanted to apologize properly, he wanted to fix it, he wanted to heal the deep hurt he’d caused on fucking purpose.

He was starting to realize, though, that listening to Cross’ wishes was the real way to fix this. Listening to him, actually thinking things through rather than bulldozing ahead with whatever he thought was best.

It was a miracle that Cross was letting him have him, and he absolutely could not afford to lose that now.

Unbeknownst to both of them, their thread loosened further.

Somewhere across town, Error’s headache eased a little more.