Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Four months.

He’s been here for four agonizing months.

Where is “here”?  Oh, nowhere special. Just a dim and dusty reflection of the home he’s known for the last six years – or maybe longer than that, depending on how long ago Papyrus died –, like a twisted funhouse mirror that he’d really like to put his fist through.

Despite that traitorous hope he’d felt the day that he ended up here, the world spinning out under him wasn’t the sign of a Reset. Why the hell would he have that kind of luck?

No. It was just universal causality as a whole giving him yet another middle finger for the road, because of course it was.

It’s been…

Well, it’s been an adjustment, to put it mildly.

When he ‘came to’, so to speak, he’d been in the snow in front of a very tall skeleton. A skeleton who, as it happens, was named Papyrus, although he hadn’t found that little tidbit out until later. After the guy had already hauled him up by the hood of his jacket and dragged him into the reflection of he and Papyrus’ house.

Admittedly, checking him hadn’t been the first thing on his mind, considering that he was a little busy trying not to throw up, and also trying not to instinctively kill the guy just because the judge had opinions about his LV.

(Fuck, does the judge have opinions about that.)

The very tall skeleton’s brother is named Sans, a fact that he became privy to pretty much as soon as he was dropped face-first into their dusty carpet. The judge has some opinions about him, too.

In fact, the judge has got some serious fucking opinions about every single person he’s met in this fucking hellhole of a universe. Mostly, y’know, because he’s yet to meet anybody not still in stripes who isn’t rocking at least 2 LV. He can’t really be surprised about how many opinions the judge has about that, but he can sure be a little irritated that it never seems to shut the fuck up anymore.

He’s generally just a little bit irritated about almost everything, these days.

This place, as a whole, is a violent existential mindfuck on the very best of days, and that’s honestly putting it pretty fucking mildly. Not that he thinks there’s a way to describe it that isn’t, mind. How else can he describe it? How does one put into words just how horrifying this reality is for him on a day-to-day basis without understating it?

Most of the folks he knew from Snowdin died when the kid came through. The few that didn’t did, admittedly, end up putting on some LV in the following months. Usually just one or two, a reasonable amount when pretty much any person you come across might just try to permanently stop you from breathing.

Some, also somewhat understandably, went totally bugfuck once the initial bloodshed was over. They wracked up more EXP than the average joe did. Sometimes they’d hit LV 3 or 4 before he had to deal with the problem. He usually dealt with them before then, though. They tended to make it his problem.

At least this place has that going for it: none of this is his problem.

The judge has got opinions, sure. But its opinions are based solely on the whole ‘murder is wrong’ side of things, rather than the ‘protecting his people’ side that would have pushed him to act back home. These aren’t his people, they were like this before he ever showed up, so the judge just bitches mightily and he mostly ignores it.

Still, the point is, he lives here now, whether he likes it or not. There’s nothing left to go home to, so no point ever trying to go home. He may as well just get used to it.

He’s really, really good at getting used to shit.

Nine-tenths of his coping mechanisms come down to him just grinning and bearing it.

Plus, given that things had been devolving rapidly into an outright civil war, a power struggle to gain control of the Underground and unite the few living monsters into a military force…

Well, this is probably a better place for him to be. He still hasn’t gotten around to starving himself to death, and his instincts refuse to let him stand idly by and let somebody kill him in a fight, so he’s obviously not dying anytime soon, and ‘tense, dusty reflection of his home, where most people are honestly more likely to rob you than they are to outright kill you’ is a damn sight better than what he was working with before he came here.

… Of course, all of this is just shit that he thinks about to pass the time until one of his new housemates shows up to give him a hard time.

There’s only so many times that he can recount his little stash of gold, or sort his stash of food, after all. He gets bored.

Thinking is just what he’s got to work with, in terms of activities to occupy himself with. Going outside is a no-go, unless he feels like potentially having to fight somebody – sure, he could one-shot some of these jerks without breaking a sweat, but it’s still a fucking hassle.

Mostly, that’s because he’s been pretty careful not to kill anybody if he doesn’t absolutely have to. Some of them have gotten it through their heads that he’s no less dangerous than the resident Sans is, and they leave him be. Some have decided that the fact he hasn’t tried to kill them yet just means that he’s a coward and he can’t, despite all the dust he’s carrying around on his conscience already.

It’s, like, this whole thing.

Then again, it’s not like anybody else realizes or cares that his current survival setups suits him just fine – if he doesn’t cause trouble, the local skeletons don’t kick the shit out of him for causing trouble. If he keeps his nonexistent nose out of their business, they keep theirs out of his.

He sleeps in their basement, and they let him hang out in the house, and they pointedly leave food where he’ll find it so he doesn’t dust in their house out of terminal stupidity, but I’s not anything more than that.

If he dies, they aren’t going to mourn him. If he ends up in trouble, they aren’t going to save him. Outside not wanting him to dust in their basement, they don’t give a shit about him. His safety, happiness, and overall well-being are of absolutely no concern to them.

It works out.

Not to put too fine a point on it, but his safety, happiness, and overall well-being aren’t really of any concern to him, either.

“Hey, asshole.”

If he hadn’t had a pretty frank conversation with his housemates about what his new name is when they gave it to him, he could probably be convinced that it’s “Asshole”. He certainly hears that more often than his new name, after all.

When he tilts his skull forward, shifting his gaze from the water-stained ceiling to acknowledge the comment, he finds the other Sans standing a little ways outside of his personal space, hands in his coat pockets. He’s got the usual grin on his face, no fresh EXP, no extra tension in his frame. His gold tooth glints a little in the light as he shifts on his feet.

Probably nothing major, then. Maybe he’s just going to tell him to move so he can sit down without touching him.

“Hey,” He greets, neutrally, “need somethin’?”

Red – his nickname for the other Sans, because apparently being bad at names is contagious and he caught it from Asgore – snorts in reply, amused. His grin tilts a little higher on one side.

“Need’s a strong word.” He answers. “Boss wants to talk to you. He’s out by the Ruins. You know where the sentry station’s at, yeah?”

Huh, that’s weird.

Usually this world’s Papyrus – he nicknamed him ‘Edgelord’, or just ‘Edge’ – waits until he’s finished patrol for the day before he bothers to unload a lecture on him. He’s never called him out to join him mid-day for a lecture before.

This oughta be interesting.

Either he’s dying, getting kicked to the curb, or getting an earful for being a freeloader. In any case, it’s probably fair. Probably been on its way for a while, too.

“Right.” He says, rather than dwelling on it, “Guess I oughta get off my ass, then. Damn. I just got comfy.”

Red snorts again, followed by a chuckle, as he heaves himself up. “Yup. Good luck, he’s in a mood.”

He doesn’t quite manage not to roll his eyes as he steps through a shortcut to the sentry station near the Ruins. He can’t help it. But if Red notices, well, he doesn’t really care, and Red probably doesn’t either.

It’s a little weird being out by the Ruins, if he’s honest. He doesn’t leave the house much, these days, and when he does, it generally isn’t because he really wants to. Even then, he avoids places like this: places that bring back too many goddamned memories.

He’s not uncomfortably numb nearly as often as he’d like to be, anymore. Some feelings are duller than others, but grief isn’t one of them. His gut clenches when he looks in the direction of the door, today.

He misses the Old Lady a lot.

(He wonders if she’d be able to forgive him for what he did to the kid. He promised he’d protect them, and instead he killed them so many times he lost count of it. Would she be able to forgive him because of the circumstances, or would she be angry?)

(… He doesn’t want to think about that.)

He shakes it off and turns away, finding Edge waiting at the sentry station. His arms are crossed, face set in his usual scowl as he surveys his surroundings. Nothing immediately sticks out as being unusual, and the judge’s general bitchiness is little more than background noise to him at this point.

Situation normal: all fucked up.

“Ah, there you are, Judge.” Edge says, when he spots him, “I must admit, I was expecting to be kept waiting for a while longer.”

Judge.

Ha.

Yeah, that’s his name now, per Red on his first day here. Ostensibly, he’s been so named on account of his, quote, “judgmental fucking personality”. It bothered him a lot more in the beginning – in four months, it’s become another one of those things that just is.

Flowers bloom under the right conditions, monsters are trapped in the Underground, his brother is dead, and now he has to carry around his old job title as a name.

He’s used to it.

“Not like I was doing anything important.” He answers, mildly, shuffling over to him so they can talk without him needing to raise his voice. “Red said you wanted to talk to me?”

Edge doesn’t bother to correct him about his brother’s name. No point – he’s smart enough not to call either of them by his stupid nicknames in front of anyone else, so there’s no harm in it. Edge and Red both gave up on insisting he use their given names less than a week in.

“Yes.” Says Edge, beckoning him closer. He shuffles closer, little more than two feet between them when he stops. Satisfied, Edge asks, “How much do you understand about the significance of collars in this universe?”

The question catches him off-guard, admittedly. For a second, all he can do is blink.

That’s, ah…

Well, he just wasn’t expecting that to be what Edge wants to talk to him about, that’s all. It’s completely out of the left field.

“… Not much.” He admits, warily, “Nobody’s really brought it up. And, heh, just between you and me Edgelord? We didn’t really do collars where I came from.”

“I expected as much.” Edge sighs, lifting a hand to pinch the space between his sockets, “Particularly seeing as you’re uncollared. Considering your stats, I can’t imagine that would be the case if collars were standard in your universe.”

Well, sure, depending on why they’re standard here. That’s probably a pretty safe assumption to make.

People wore them back home, he won’t deny that. It’s just that it was usually just a fashion statement, or a kink thing.

Imagine his surprise when he’d processed that Red, Dogamy, and several of the bunnies, especially the kids, wear collars at all times. It’d been weird at first, but he’s gotten used to it. He’s never bothered to ask about it. Red would probably have bullshitted him even if he did, anyway.

They get along better than he was expecting, sure, but they’re not exactly each other’s favorite people. Not even fucking close. Most of their interactions can be best described as conversational sparring matches. They fuck with each other on purpose, just for fun.

It’s their thing.

He keeps all of those thoughts to himself, of course. There’s no point bringing any of it up to Edge.

Instead, after a moment of moderately tense silence, he asks, “So… Why do you ask, anyway?”

Edge sighs again, lowering his hand and meeting his eyes. He looks tired.

Another silence.

He doesn’t let himself show how anxious this whole thing is making him.

Finally, Edge carefully says, “A collar… Symbolizes protection. A collared monster is not to be touched by anyone without either their or the one who collared them’s explicit consent. If they are attacked, it is understood that whoever collared them will become involved in the conflict.”

He pauses again while those words digest. He’s still meeting Judge’s eyes, but he looks like he’d rather be doing calculus than having this conversation. Judge can relate.

In the silence, Judge takes a moment to consider Red’s ever-present collar, and Dogamy’s, and all the kids.

Yeah, that makes sense. Protection makes sense.

“I am telling you this,” Edge finally continues, like a man on his way to the judgement hall, “because you are receiving a great deal of… ‘Attention’ from the locals. I have no doubt you can handle them, you’ve more than proven your capabilities, and you would not have survived long enough for me to bring it up if you couldn’t. However…”

As he trails, he pulls something from his inventory.

Turns out he doesn’t need to say anything else, because Judge gets the gist as soon as he processes what he’s looking at.

In Edge’s hands is a collar, simple black leather and a simple silver buckle. It’s a totally innocuous on its own, but the context…

Judge’s brain stalls out completely.

Part of him is already walking away, trudging off into the forest or shortcutting straight into the Core.

“There is no need for you to give me an answer immediately.” Edge explains, very calm and unusually gentle, “You are, of course, free to tell me no. I simply wanted to offer a solution to an issue I have seen.”

Judge nods, slowly, as his brain boots back up. It’s only when he does so that he realizes he’s gone tense, metaphorical hackles raised at the very sight of the object in Edge’s hand. Given Red’s absolutely sunny personality, it’s unsurprising that Edge both noticed his reaction, and that he didn’t bother to mention it or react to it in turn. He’s seen Red bristle like a pissed off alley cat for far less important things.

He forces himself to relax, although it’s difficult.

He considers the collar, then Edge’s expression – patiently blank, just staring him down and waiting for Judge to stop freaking out over an inanimate object.

Okay.

So, collars are a symbolically protective item here. Something to tell any ill-intentioned monsters who might still be stupid enough to fight the person wearing it that they’ve got backup. To an extent, he’d imagine it also symbolizes a certain level of ownership over a collared monster, but that might just be conjecture on his end of things. Still, it’s a possibility.

Red’s collar was definitely given to him by Edge, no questions about that. Dogaressa probably gave Dogamy his, and the kids were probably collared by their parents as a failsafe.

Makes sense.

Red’s got shitty stats, Dogamy and Dogaressa are almost concerningly and openly in love even here, and kids need all the help they can get to survive into adulthood.

Very, very careful to sound more neutral than suspicious, he asks the one question he absolutely needs to have answered: “Why?”

Edge’s expression twitches.

Between the two brothers, Edge is the more physically imposing. He’s higher-ranking, too, if you don’t know that Red’s the Judge. He’s loud and authoritative, the very picture of the perfect First Lieutenant in a kill-or-be-killed world, with a baker’s dozen LV to prove his capability. He’s hard to rattle.

Sometimes, it’s hard to see him as another version of Papyrus. Hard to imagine that his kind-hearted, earnest, and slightly goofy little brother could have turned out like this if the circumstances had been a little bit different.

But sometimes, it’s very, very obvious.

Now is one of those times: there’s an uncertainty in how Edge holds himself after being faced with that question. Something in him wants to give an honest answer, but that answer doesn’t mesh with the mask he wears. It is almost certainly something emotional, something that Judge has learned over the past four months that both brothers try to avoid outside of the house.

“You live in my house.” Edge tells him, after a pause so brief he could reasonably say it wasn’t intentional, if he didn’t see the micro-expressions that flicker across the guy’s face in the four seconds between the question and his answer. “As such, I consider your safety to be my responsibility.”

It’s not a lie, Judge will grant, but isn’t the whole truth, either. There’s more to it than that.

Edge doesn’t have to say it.

He can read between the lines just fine on his own.

… Huh.

And here he thought Edge didn’t give a shit if he died or not. He was literally just thinking about that.

He eyes the collar again, nonexistent stomach clenching.

“I’ll think about it, then.” He says.

It’d take a judge to see the way that Edge relaxes at the answer. It’s a subtle thing, just a minute easing of the tension in his shoulders and the pinch in his brow.

He’s not lying to him, either, not exactly. He will think about it; there’s no way that he won’t end up thinking about it now that the subject exists. He’s got very little else to do with his time, after all. It’s just that his answer, which is an instinctual and resounding “absolutely the fuck not”, isn’t going to change just because he gave it more thought. That doesn’t need to be said. Edge doesn’t need to know.

“Good.” Edge says, with an air of finality. Thankfully, he puts the collar away before he continues, and Judge relaxes a little. “Undyne will be stopping by the house tonight. I’d recommend making yourself scarce – she is not going to be in a particularly friendly mood.”

Well, that explains why he brought up the collar now, of all times, at least.

They’ve done a lot to make sure Undyne doesn’t find out about him, seeing as he’s basically an undocumented refugee of dubious origin, and he doesn’t have any interest in coming up with a convincing backstory to explain why there isn’t any record of his existence prior to four months ago. From what he understands of how shit works around here, that’s the sort of thing that could land him on the other side of the judgement hall from Red and ‘The Tyrant’.

Most folks who go in don’t come back out.

So, no collar and no records means no protection. If she sees him, and she’s in as unforgiving a mood as Edge is implying, Edge isn’t going to be able to do anything to save him.

“Gotcha,” He says, instead of calling Edge out on just how transparent his motives just became, “I’ll find somewhere else to, heh, chill until she leaves.”

Edge groans in annoyance at the pun, and Judge suppresses the urge to laugh.

“See that you do.” Edge tells him, again with that air of finality, “My brother will text you when the coast is clear.”

It’s pretty clear that he’s not planning to say anything else. He crosses his arms again, but continues watching him. Judge saves him the discomfort of having to give him his back so he can get back to work – he gives him a little finger-wave and steps backwards through a shortcut back to the house.

Red’s already gone when he gets back to the house. No surprises there, he probably jumped at an opportunity to nab some disgusting, greasy food from Grillby’s while Edge is too busy to yell at him for it.

Can’t really blame the guy, if he’s honest.

(He’s never been to this version of Grillby’s. One existential crisis at a time is plenty, thanks.)

He doesn’t bother lingering on the subject, just heads down into the basement.

It’s not that different from his own back home, except there’s no annoying dog building shrines to his brother’s greatness anywhere. There’s also a washer and dryer that look like they’re held together by duct tape and a dream shoved against the wall. The shabby appearance is utterly intentional, of course, something Red did so that, if somebody raided the house, they at least wouldn’t take the seemingly non-functional laundry facilities.

Off in the corner to the left side of the stairs is what constitutes his ‘room’, a contained mess that eats about six square feet of the basement in total. A little nest of threadbare blankets and old pillows dominates the space, mostly stuff he pilfered from the abandoned houses scattered about the fringes of Snowdin Town. The few belongings he doesn’t just keep in his inventory take up the rest of the space – his old t-shirt and shorts, a couple of pieces of inoperable tech he keeps just to play with when he’s gotten tired of thinking about nothing all the time.

There’s really not much.

Well, that makes this an easier undertaking than it could have been.

He spends a moment tucking the pieces of tech into his inventory, then dismantles his nest piece by piece and neatly folds the blankets and piles them atop the dryer, followed by his mostly flat pillows. Plausible deniability. Just a completely normal pile of extra bedding, nothing to see here.

Sure, Undyne isn’t likely to come down here for any reason, but if she does, he’d prefer to save Edge the trouble of trying to explain his nest.

His clothes are a different matter, since his inventory is a little full at the moment. They’re very obviously not Red’s – he doesn’t own anything white. Tossing them straight in the washing machine, or into the hamper, is an option, but they’re clean already and it’s another thing he’d rather save Edge the trouble of explaining.

Eh, fuck it.

It’s been a couple of days since he rinsed off, may as well just do that and change back into that old, dust-stained white t-shirt and black shorts.

He nabs them off the floor and heads upstairs.

He tries not to meet his own eyes in the mirror, but it’s unavoidable. He sees his own tired, sallow face, his bruise-lined sockets, his not-quite-white-anymore eyelights. He sees his own LV written into his very fucking bones.

LV 8.

What a fucking joke.

(He knows the names of most of the folks that gave him all that EXP.)

(He had to kill a couple of them twice, even – once in his home universe, and again when their counterpart tried to kill him here.)

He shakes it off, but then he finds himself looking at his spine. His gaze lingers.

He can’t help but imagine the collar, since the subject is still so fresh.

The really troubling part about the mental image is that the idea of waring a collar doesn’t actually bother him. He wouldn’t care to wear the damn thing. It’s just that, well…

He doesn’t want or need Edge to protect him. He doesn’t even want Edge to care about him at all. He’d have honestly preferred it if the guy just dusted him when he got here, but he’d have settled for it not ever being an issue if he died anyway.

Edge giving a shit if he dusts or not, outside of not wanting to have to clean up his dust if he dies in the house, complicates things.

He wasn’t supposed to care.

He scoffs, shaking it off as he strips out of his borrowed clothes, some of Red’s stuff that he was willing to let Judge borrow today. He dumps them into the hamper and gets in the shower so he won’t keep looking at himself in the mirror.

No point dwelling on any of this shit, after all. He’s not the boss of how Edge feels, he’s not going to make him not care by just thinking really hard about it.

More to the point, he just doesn’t have it in him to push Edge away in a way that will actually make him care less about him. He’s just going to have to get used to it.

He’s sitting on the bottom step of the basement stairs when Edge gets home from patrol, just sort of waiting. It’s not like anybody bothered to tell him when Undyne was dropping by, after all, so he can’t exactly clear out until he knows he won’t bump into her by mistake while he’s trying to make himself scarce.

He hears the front door open, then close. He can sort of mentally fill in the sounds of all the locks clicking.

Edge’s voice carries easily when he calls, “Judge?”

He sighs to himself, stands, and trudges up the stairs, “’Sup?”

Edge is still standing at the door when he peeks out of the kitchen to survey the front room. Red is lounging on the couch, midway through lighting a pipe that’s no doubt full of whatever weed he’s managed to get his hands on today.

They both seem to relax when he emerges, oddly enough.

He chooses not to think about it.

“Undyne will be along shortly.” The taller explains, “I wasn’t certain you were still here.”

“Thanks for the heads up.” Judge answers, carefully mild. He’s got a couple of unauthorized feelings about the idea that Red could also possibly give a shit about whether he dies or not, and it’s better for everyone if he ignores them. “I’ll be gone before she gets through the front door, don’t you worry.”

“Good plan.” Red snorts, “The fishbitch might just kill ya herself if she thought you were squatting in her bestie’s basement.”

Another one of those weird little funhouse mirrors he wants to put his fist through, that. Even with everything that’s different, Papyrus and Undyne still ended up as pals here. Sure, Red’s being partly sarcastic when he calls them besties, but he and Edge obviously both care about her. Living on the fringes of their lives, skulking around the house in silence, means he hears a lot of shit they’d probably prefer that he didn’t.

(Fuck knows he’s heard a lot of shit that he wishes he hadn’t, just by virtue of living in the same house. He doesn’t even have to be skulking around to overhear them going at it.)

(Ugh. He doesn’t want to think about the sounds.)

“Not too far off from what the one I know would have done, then.” He says, instead of any of that. Red snorts again in amusement, and he tacks on, “Believe me, clearing out when she swings by is standard operating procedure. Can’t speak for this one, but her n’ Paps tended to break shit when they hung out back home.”

Red laughs outright, at that, then takes a deep draw off his pipe at last. Edge’s expression twitches, the tiniest indication of both amusement and relief.

“You should eat first.” Edge advises, while Red breathes out a cloud of smoke. It smells very, very green. “She may be here for quite a while.”

“I got stuff in my inventory if I get snackish.” He dismisses, waving him off, “Don’t worry about it.”

Edge frowns like he wants to argue, then stops short and glances at the front door.

Judge can’t hear anything yet, but he’s got it on good authority that Papyrii have better hearing than he does. No doubt someone’s approaching, and no doubt on just who, exactly, is coming.

He’s gone before Undyne ever even knocks, slipping through a shortcut without a word of farewell.

He lands in a pile of snow by the Ruins door, and that’s where he stays.

Out of sight, out of mind.

Chapter Text

The text comes an hour later, sooner than he was expecting, a simple ‘shes gone’.

No frills.

Typical of Red, really.

Judge sighs, dropping his hand back into the snow. His fingers are numb from the cold, but it’s nothing he’s not used to. He stares up into the darkness above him, the cavern ceiling too far away to properly see. Admittedly, up until his phone vibrated in his pocket, he had sort of just been dozing off.

He’s slept in much worse conditions. This one is really just inconvenient by comparison.

After a moment, he lifts his hand again, replying with a simple ‘k’.

He’s in no real hurry to scuttle on back to the house. Aside from the fact he’s freezing and probably not far off from taking HP damage from the cold, there’s really no reason at all to rush. It’s not even his house.

… But Edge will, apparently, worry about him if he doesn’t come back fast enough. That’s going to take a little bit of getting used to. It feels like it’s been a long, long time since anyone actually cared about him enough to worry. Even the assholes back home who wanted him around after everything went to shit didn’t actually care what happened to him.

Edge shouldn’t either, frankly, but he’s not the boss of what Edge is allowed to feel. He’s just going to have to get used to it, and deal with the fact that he’ll have to adjust his stupid internal rules about being a burden to include the fact that he isn’t allowed to die or get hurt until he figures out a way to do that without it upsetting Edge.

It’s fine.

He’s done a pretty bad job of getting himself killed, so far, so it’s not like he’s in any hurry.

He doesn’t want to care that Edge gives a shit, either, is the thing. He’d rather be numb to the entire concept, but he can’t really ignore it. It slots in too well with his reluctance to be an inconvenience. Worse, it makes it pretty damned clear that trying to stay out of the local skeletons’ way as much as possible hasn’t done him any good, and is probably more inconvenient to Edge than if he was taking up too much space.

“This is stupid.” He says, out loud. No one replies, of course, because he’s alone. “Completely ridiculous. I’m supposed to be dead. This wasn’t ever supposed to be a problem.”

The silence stretches out around him.

Snowdin Forest was always quiet, even back home, but it’s worse here. Quieter. Utterly, deathly still, just the same as his had become by the time that he got dumped through a tear in the fabric of reality. You know, when the so-called New Guard weren’t trying to recruit folks, at least.

The quiet is suffocating.

He sighs, heavy, and heaves himself up out of the snow. It takes a minute, on account of the stiffness in his limbs, but he manages. It takes him a few more minutes to brush the snow off of his back and sleeves, and another couple after that to work up the nerve for a shortcut back to the house.

He doesn’t have to go back, does he?

Well, no, not really. Edge may want him in a collar, but he doesn’t own him. He can’t force Judge to come back.

… Despite it all, he mentally flinches away from the idea of leaving Edge not knowing if he’s alive or not.

He curses, under his breath. Then curses again, harder, just for good measure.

And then, with another sigh, he steps through a shortcut back into the basement. The house is quiet, aside from the sound of Red talking, and Edge replying. The words are indistinct. Mostly, he just gets a vague impression of tension in their discussion, based on the volume and speed of the sounds.

As of right now, Judge prefers to let it stay that way.

He doesn’t really have anything to say to either of them, anyway, and whatever they’re discussing isn’t his business, even if they do care about his well-being. He’s going to have to get used to them caring, sure, but it doesn’t mean he has to care. It doesn’t mean he needs to get involved.

(He does care, is the real bitch of the situation.)

(Sure, the judge has got some opinions about them, but that means a lot less to him these days than it used to. He doesn’t have any room to complain about Red being LV 8, or Edge being LV 13, which makes it easier for him to see them as they are: two supremely messed up dudes who could probably use a nap and a couple hundred sandwiches.)

(Red is an asshole, yes. But Judge has it on good authority he would be too, if he’d grown up here. Just look at him now.)

(Edge is kind of an uptight jerk, yeah. But he can see why.)

He eyes the neat pile of pillows and blankets he left on the dryer, then the still-open basement door at the top of the stairs. He’s not sure he cares enough to put his nest back together right now. He’s not sure it’s worth all the effort. He’s slept in worse places than the bare floor of a basement – at least it’s not a New Home alleyway, and he’s not ten anymore.

… And there’s no Papyrus for him to worry about the comfort and safety of, either, so there’s that.

Actually, he’d rather go find out what those two are arguing about than sit here thinking about this. The last thing he needs is to break down crying where he can be easily heard and seen. His soul aches.

He creeps up the stairs, stalling at the door. He can hear just fine from here.

“That’s hardly the point, brother.” Edge is saying, clearly tired of the discussion. “If he doesn’t want to take the collar, that’s his prerogative.”

“So you’re just fine letting him run around without one?” Red counters, “It was your idea, boss. Since when do you just give up?”

“I am not giving up.” Edge snaps in reply, “If you’ll recall, however, you did not respond especially well to having your collar forced on you. This situation is far less dire than that. I’d rather avoid forcing his hand on the matter unless that changes.”

Ignoring the rest of what Edge just said, Judge appreciates the word choice of ‘unless that changes’. Nice of him to leave probable deniability on whether the situation will become dire enough to try and force him into a collar or not.

Taking the rest of it into consideration, however, he has to grimace.

Good to know that’s an option – having the choice taken from him, he means. If he gets into a big enough shitstorm, Edge might just hold him down and slap that collar on whether he wants to wear it or not.

Note to self: stay out of any shitstorms if he wants to stay out of the collar.

He wishes he could be more resentful of the possibility, but… Well, he gets it. It’s a very Papyrus line of logic. Edge wants him safe, and if Judge won’t protect himself to his standards, then, dammit, Edge will do it for him. It’s kind of sweet, really, ignoring the loss-of-autonomy aspect of the whole thing.

Edge was right earlier, after all – given his stats, there’s no way Papyrus wouldn’t have collared him, if collars were standard back home. And, in that hypothetical universe, he probably wouldn’t have really fought Papyrus too much about it, as long as it made him worry a little bit less.

“Okay, sure,” Red says, after a brief silence while Judge considers that, “but fucking look at the guy, Papyrus. He’s not going to let you collar him unless he’s already fucking dying, and you can’t put a collar on a pile of dust.”

“No, I can’t.” Edge agrees. Another brief silence. Then, a heavy sigh, “Be that as it may, it’s not our decision to make. He can defend himself adequately enough that I have no excuse for forcing it, at present. Foolishly, I’ve decided to have a little patience on the subject. He may surprise us.”

That’s doubtful, Judge thinks.

“Un-fucking-likely.” Red snorts, derisively. At least they’re on the same page on his likelihood to change his mind without having his hand forced. “But fine, whatever. If he dies, he dies, right? Nothing we can do.”

There is a distinct thump, and a grunt that is obviously slightly pained.

Edge’s voice is very, very calm when he next speaks, each word carrying a great deal of weight, “For now, brother, what we can do is ensure that he doesn’t starve to death. Make yourself useful and find out when he’s coming back. I am going to make dinner.”

Another thump, the scrape of furniture across the carpet, and another pained grunt.

If Judge had to wager a guess, he’d say Edge probably yanked Red off the couch by his collar, shook him down, and tossed him back on the couch. He’s seen similar exchanges go down before, after all. He was a lot more concerned the first time, but he’s also seen them actually fight, so he knows that if Red wasn’t fine with being manhandled like that, Edge wouldn’t get away with doing it.

It’s not what he’d call normal, but it’s normal to them. And, frankly, their arrangement seems to work for them. Red always seems to relax afterwards, like being reminded that Edge is bigger and stronger than he is makes him feel better or something.

(Plus, you know, he’s heard them going at it. Red seems to like being hurt.)

(He doesn’t want to think about that.)

His phone vibrates in his pocket.

He’s pretty sure he knows what it is, but he looks anyway. Sure enough, it’s just a text from Red: ‘u coming or what?’

Rather than texting back, Judge just shoves his phone back in his pocket and makes a point of letting his slightly-soggy slipper squeak on the kitchen tile as he emerges from the basement. Edge has just stepped into the kitchen. He looks surprised, slightly wary, too.

“I’m already here, dickhead.” Judge calls to Red, as if he heard none of their exchange at all, “Oh. Hey, Edgelord, mind if I sneak past you?”

Edge steps neatly out of the doorway. “On your way, then.”

Judge slips past him into the living room, where Red is still seated on the couch. The couch is closer to the wall than it was earlier, but only on the end he’s sitting on. He’s sprawled like he was tossed there, which, you know, he probably was. He flips Judge off when he sees him. Judge returns the gesture.

Red’s grin ticks up a bit. “Heh. You fall asleep in a snow pile or something, asshole? You look like the fucking cat.”

“What can I say?” Judge shrugs, nonchalant as he trudges over to the couch. He doesn’t sit, partially because he’s soggy. “They’re awfully comfortable to sleep in.”

Speaking of the cat, though, here comes Doomfanger now, meandering down the stairs and surveying the living room with his one big, yellow eye. He’s as scraggly, grey, and pissed-off-looking as ever. At least he’s mostly stopped hissing at Judge every time he sees him. Small victories.

Papyrus always wanted a cat. It’s hard to be surprised Edge managed to find one to keep.

And it’s incredibly fitting that he named the damned thing ‘Doomfanger’, all things considered. The little hell-beast is stronger than some of the people around here, and far more likely to claw somebody’s eyes out. He is, in essence, a little ball of feline doom, and Judge has certainly seen those fangs end the life of a small animal, here or there.

(Papyrus always said a cat had to have a dignified name, like Firepelt or something. Judge isn’t sure where he got that idea from, but since they’d never had a cat, it never really came up. And they both just called the dog, ‘dog’, or ‘freeloading stinkhound’, so he guesses that dogs don’t need dignified names.)

Both he and Red seem to be waiting to see what Fang will do. Not surprising – Fang adores Edge, but he’s less affectionate with Red. He barely tolerates Judge. Better to keep an eye on him to make sure he isn’t going to decide to bloody one of them for the grievous crime of existing in a place he didn’t want them to. After all, Red is in his favorite spot on the couch right now.

Stupid cat, he thinks fondly.

Doomfanger eyes them both, then apparently decides they aren’t worth his time. He continues on his merry way ambling across the living room to go and hassle Edge in the kitchen.

Judge returns his attention to Red, only to find that Red is already watching him.

He raises a brow. “Something on my face?”

Red snorts. “Yeah, a couple of designer-brand eyebags. Siddown before you fall over or something, dumbass.”

“Oh, no,” Judge replies, deadpan, “I might crack my skull on your shitty carpet if I fall over. Oh, the humanity.”

He sits down anyway, but only after waiting for a second. You know, just so Red doesn’t get any ideas about being able to order him around.

“Prickly bastard.” Red tells him, as he curls up on the other end of the couch. He sounds more amused than annoyed. Then, he lowers his voice, little more than a murmur, “… Boss offered to collar you, huh?”

Judge glances at him sideways, eyeing the way he’s still watching him even now that he’s sitting down. His expression… Doesn’t really give anything away. Judge isn’t sure if he’s fishing for a sign that he was listening in on their conversation, or if he really just wants to check in with him. The first is less concerning, so he chooses to pretend that’s what’s going on to spare his own nerves.

“Sure did.” He answers, turning his own gaze on the powered-off TV across from him. For Red’s sake, he matches his volume. “That a problem?”

Red snorts. “Nah.” He says, still quiet, “You already live in my fucking house, dude.”

There’s definitely more to it than that, but Judge is going to keep on ignoring that little detail.

That damn conversation with Edge has him twenty kinds of fucked up, mentally. He doesn’t need to make it worse by letting himself process the fact that Red also apparently gives a shit about his well-being. It’s easier to let Edge’s feelings slide, since he can brush it aside as misplaced fraternal affection if he really has to. He doesn’t have a convenient excuse where Red is concerned.

“… You gonna take it?” Red asks, after a silence.

Judge fights to keep from reacting.

Mildly, he says, “I dunno. Maybe, maybe not.”

Red snorts again. Knowingly, he says, “That’s a no, then.”

He doesn’t sound upset about it, definitely not as upset as he’d sounded when he was arguing with Edge about it. Judge can only imagine he’s just still fishing to see if he was eavesdropping on their conversation. Better if he just continues to pretend he didn’t hear anything.

“Pretty much, yeah.” He shrugs. Shrugs are great when you’re trying to appear unbothered. He shrugs all the time. “I don’t need to be protected. Sweet of him to try, though.”

Red huffs a laugh, but doesn’t respond otherwise. Judge can still feel him staring, but it’s hard to tell if he’s actually looking, or if Judge is just being paranoid, without glancing over to check. He almost wants to ask what Red finds so damned interesting about him tonight of all nights, but… Well. Something, possibly his eternally overtaxed survival instincts, tells him to hold his tongue.

He has a harder time than he’d like, trying to ignore his instincts. He guesses that isn’t surprising, considering they’re instinctual and all. Not to mention the fact that they and his brother were the only things that kept him breathing for six long, agonizing years before the kid showed up. He wishes letting go of the urge to stay alive was easier.

Oh well. He already made peace with the fact he isn’t dying anytime soon.

A silence stretches out between them. Judge ignores the prickle of instinct telling him to look at Red – a quiet Red is often a dangerous Red, he’s learned. For one thing, he’s just not scared enough of the guy to worry, and for two? Red probably isn’t going to shank him on the couch now that Edge has made it excruciatingly clear that he’d prefer Judge alive.

Finally, rustling from the other side of the couch.

“Wanna smoke?” Red asks, casual as anything. Like that tense little conversation never took place at all. “It’s on the house this time.”

Judge finally gives into the urge to glance over at him. Red pointedly shakes a bag of weed, lifting a brow.

“Well,” Judge says, “I guess I can’t turn down pity-weed.”

Red laughs, but he clearly takes it for a yes as he starts packing his pipe.

He’s never actually offered, before. Not really. There’s a pretty big difference between an actual offer and the little bag of weed he pointedly left in the basement on Judge’s fifth day here. This is direct. And, moreover, it’ll actually get him high, unlike the bag of weed. He hasn’t ever gotten around to trying to find a pipe or a lighter to smoke it with. It’s still in his inventory.

Once the pipe is ready, Red hands it straight over, then offers his lighter. Judge tells himself there’s nothing to notice about the fact that Red is giving him the first hit. He accepts both items and focuses on them, instead.

There’s nothing remarkable about either item. The pipe is a simple aluminum one-hitter, nothing special. It’s not new by any measure, scratched and dinged. There’s obvious black staining around the tip. And the lighter is just one of those disposable plastic lighters he’s fished out of the dump for most of his life, which is probably exactly where Red got this one.

He lights up and breathes in.

Red looks pleased. Judge ignores it.

They smoke while Edge is busy cooking. Judge can finally feel his toes again, the relative warmth of the house finally seeping into him, by the time Edge emerges from the kitchen to shove a plate into Red’s lap. By then, he’s starting to think it might be worth the effort to track down a pipe and lighter of his own, after all.

His mind is always moving, these days. He has nothing else to occupy his time with, most of the time, unless he wants to socialize. It’s exhausting, never having anything constructive to think about. Always just thinking about the past, in some form or another. It makes relaxing impossible.

His mind is still moving, now, but not as fast as it usually does. He’s actually pretty sure that he managed to keep his head clear of any thoughts for a solid five minutes, there.

It’s a welcome reprieve, truth be told.

If he’s stuck in the land of the living for now, he may as well not spend the whole time miserable. It seems like smoking might help with that.

“Thanks, boss.” Red says. He’s kinder, when he’s high. Less guarded, too, giving Edge an openly fond look without immediately throwing out an insult to cover the moment of weakness. “Looks good.”

Edge looks satisfied. He turns his gaze on Judge, instead, and Judge can’t bring himself to mind the fact Edge is clearly checking him over for injuries. It doesn’t bother him as much as it should, right now. He thinks he’s okay with that. At least until he sobers up, Edge caring about him is just something that is, and he’s too mellow to get worked up over it.

“You want another hit?” Red asks, and Judge tears his eyes from Edge to eye the pipe instead.

“… Nah.” He decides, “I am… Thoroughly stoned.”

“Yeah, you look it.” The other snorts. The pipe, lighter, and bag disappear into his inventory.

Yeah, he’d wager that he probably does look thoroughly stoned. He’s pretty acutely aware of the fact that the usual ache in his spine has receded, and his mouth is dry, and his sockets are actively fighting gravity just to stay halfway open. He doesn’t argue or comment on it as Red tucks into his dinner. Just not important enough to warrant discussing.

“There’s more on the stove, should you be hungry.” Edge tells him, after a brief silence.

Standard fare, that – Edge won’t ever directly give him food, or even directly offer, but he’ll very strongly imply that Judge should help himself to whatever’s for dinner. Judge has noticed that Edge goes to the trouble of preparing a third helping of food. Usually he prefers to imagine that the extra is really just for Red, but now that Edge has shown his hand…

Hm.

Well, that’s something he’ll analyze to death, later, he’s sure.

“Cool.” He says, instead of any of that, “Thanks, edgelord.”

Satisfied, Edge turns on his heel and walks back into the kitchen to dole out his own serving of food.

He always feeds Red, first. Judge wonders if there’s a specific reason for that – Papyrus always doled out both of their servings at once, but he only gave Sans his plate first because it was on the way to his own seat at the table. Red and Edge don’t use the kitchen table at all, and Edge always brings Red his plate before getting his own.

(And, when Edge first started indirectly offering him food, a few weeks after he got here, Edge had always waited for a few minutes after giving Red his plate before he went to get his own. It was lost on Judge, then, but now he’s pretty sure Edge was trying to let him feed himself before Edge ate.)

(Edge caught onto the fact that he doesn’t eat much pretty quickly, though. He stopped waiting around for Judge to serve himself, because he rarely did.)

Could be a collar thing, he figures. If the collar symbolizes protection, it probably also symbolizes that a collared monster is being taken care of – considering the food situation here isn’t much better than it was back in Judge’s universe, food is definitely a feature of taking care of someone. If Edge wants to collar him as a show of protection, he probably also wants to ensure he’s fed.

It makes sense.

It’ll probably freak him out, later, of course, but it makes sense.

Now that he’s thinking about the collar again, though…

“So, hey,” He says, when Edge returns. He instantly has both of their attention, which feels a little disconcerting, “about the whole collar thing.”

Edge goes faintly tense. “Yes?”

Judge considers that reaction. He considers the way Red’s eyelights sharpened, too. Interesting.

“Is there a time limit on how long I can think on it?” He asks, anyway, “Or are you in a hurry to get that question answered?”

More subtle tension, but Edge answers anyway, “Feel free to take all the time you need to go over the particulars. The offer isn’t time sensitive.”

Judge nods, says, “Cool. I figure I probably oughta give it some real thought, y’know, in case I change my mind.”

“As you like.” Edge says, neutrally.

He doesn’t seem upset. If anything, he seems a little relieved that Judge is at least actually going to consider the offer before outright telling him no.

His answer probably isn’t going to change, and Edge probably knows that, but it’s the fact he’ll really think about it that seems to matter.

As far as keeping him alive goes, weed may also help with his tendency not to eat unless he’s in danger of actually starving – he’s suddenly got a case of the munchies. Convenient timing, that. He wonders if Red getting him high was a ploy to make sure he actually eats dinner for once, but finds he really doesn’t care what the answer is. He doesn’t mind losing to a good dirty trick, from time to time. Keeps life interesting.

He heaves himself up off the couch and ambles over to the kitchen. No doubt Red and Edge are both expecting him to retreat to the basement, but… Nah, not tonight, he thinks. He takes the last serving of surprisingly un-scorched pasta and meanders back into the living room. Edge has taken a seat in his absence, and he looks surprised to see Judge coming back with food in hand.

He seems like he might get up, but Judge just plops himself onto the floor next to the couch and tucks into his plate before he can. No reason to kick him off the couch. It’s his couch. Judge has eaten dinner in much worse places. It’s fine.

There’s a conspicuous silence from the couch. He doesn’t look over. Admittedly, he’s too busy enjoying the fresh, home-cooked food to care. It’s been a while. Even when he eats Edge’s food the rest of the time, it tends to just be leftovers. Cold, day-old leftovers, which, as it turns out, do not do Edge’s cooking ability justice.

After a moment, he hears Red start eating again. He knows it’s Red because his fork scrapes the plate and Edge hisses in annoyance. But Edge soon follows suit and starts eating. The TV switches on.

Judge is only half-watching it.

What a surprisingly cozy scene he’s found himself in. He thinks he could get used to this.

He’ll have changed his mind by the time he sobers up, of course. He’ll be right back to wanting to stay out of the way, keep the eventual disappointment of his inevitable death as mild as he can by being generally unobtrusive enough that Edge can’t get properly attached. But he’s not dying tonight, and he probably isn’t dying anytime soon, so…

He enjoys it, for now. He knows he’ll enjoy it if it happens again.

… Tomorrow is going to be difficult. Based on today, he’s probably on his way to a rash of apathy that’ll be tough to shake for a few days. Either that, or he’s going to wake up crying.

Oh well.

That’s tomorrow.

When he does, eventually, find his way back into the basement, he’s still floating along on a buzz. He’s not nearly high enough to just pass straight out, not anymore, but that’s fine. He imagines he probably won’t have much trouble getting to sleep, once he’s gotten his nest put back together. Or, hell, even before then. Still seems like a lot of effort.

It’s pretty cold down here, tonight, though. Tomorrow’s already gonna suck even without him getting stiff from sleeping on a cold floor. May as well make it a little easier on himself.

He puts his nest back together, layering blankets and half-flattened pillows until he’s got something passably soft. It’s no mattress on the floor, but it works for him.

He curls up, yanking one of the thicker blankets over himself and burrowing down into it.

He’s out like a light before he can get pulled down one of his usual late-night thought spirals.

Small mercies.