Chapter Text
Clover was trying.
They had been trying since the first day of the week. Since Ceroba had dropped them off and Dalv let them camp out in their room. They’d been trying since he brought them food. They’d been trying every day and minute and hour since and it wasn’t enough.
It was never enough.
They weren’t enough.
They had been making an effort to wake up on time for meals. To actually stay awake and get out of their room at reasonable times, no matter how much the weight settled in their bones threatened to drag them down.
Their bed had never seemed so comforting, so warm. So tempting to stay in and rot the days away.
But they couldn’t, Clover knew. Dalv was already looking at them like they were a kicked puppy every time they walked into the room. He was trying to keep some sense of normalcy, clearly, which some part of them might have appreciated, but they were getting so exhausted that all they could feel was pure despair.
It had been four days of it. Of dragging themself out of their room, finding chores around the house and small tasks to help with. They had been trying to keep themself busy and useful but none of it seemed like enough.
Dalv just kept giving them that sad look. Clover wanted to make it go away.
They didn't know how. They were working hard, real hard, but none of it ever seemed like enough and it was only making them feel worse. They didn’t think they could keep going on for much longer.
“Clover?”
The gentle call of their name pulled their gaze back, their head turning.
Dalv stood at the counter, a soft click sounding as he turned off the stove, steam filtering out through the cracked window. “Could you set the table, please?”
Clover looked back down at their sleeves, the fabric worn and mussed, string weaved through caramel-colored buttons starting to fray. They quickly stopped fidgeting, nodding.
“Of course,” they said, just for good measure, shaky hands fumbling for the cabinets.
That was one of the things they had noticed. Dalv had been trying to keep them busy, too. Not just with chores, but with fun things. Little tasks. He’d ask for their help around the house, things that they knew he knew they liked doing.
Clover thought that once upon a time, they would’ve found it sweet. But now every little nice gesture he did felt like daggers stabbing into their skin, the mere thought of it threatening to bring tears to their eyes.
They blinked hard. Pushed their emotions down. They grabbed two plates and passed them to Dalv, before moving to grab silverware and some napkins.
Something had changed ever since they reached the surface.
Clover knew that sometimes change was for the better. Change was good. Bad people could learn to be better and circumstances could sway for the greater good. They prided themself on self-improvement. They loved learning. Loved bettering themself and bringing out the best in others.
Things changed. People changed. They changed.
They had never changed like this, though, and they didn’t like the direction they felt like they were heading.
All of the confidence they had spent years building was slipping through their fingers. All of the friends they had made were looking at them more like they were a child, like something to be pitied and looked down upon rather than an equal. A friend. They were looking at them like they were broken, and…
I’m not broken, Clover’s thoughts whispered pitifully, as they straightened a row of forks, knives, and spoons on either side of the table, but even their inner voice sounded small.
Feeling small didn’t fit them. Not at all.
They had traveled through the Underground with their chin up and their head held high, keeping their sights on something. Their one goal. Finding their sister and all of the other unfortunate kids who had found themselves down there, too.
That goal had changed. Just like them. But it had been for the better, back then.
They wouldn’t have been able to do nearly as much as they had without changing. Without being brave, and kind, and confident, and all of the things their friends said they loved so much about them.
They weren’t brave anymore. Weren’t confident, or funny. They didn’t think they’d made Dalv laugh a single time unless it was out of pity. And were they even being kind? Would being kind result in all of the frowns and subtle looks Dalv sent their way?
Clover swallowed thickly, a hand coming up to subtly swipe at the tears gathering in their eyes. They sniffled silently, drawing in a steadying breath, before moving to the cabinets again.
“Dalv?” Clover asked, fighting hard to keep their voice steady. “What do you want to drink?”
“Hm?” Something clattered behind them, making them stifle a flinch, then, “Oh! Just, um… some water is okay. Thank you, Clover.”
Clover nodded. They plucked two glasses from the cabinets, carrying them over to the table, setting them down with a soft clink on the edge.
They forced themself to breathe, to focus on the movement and cool weight of pulling the fridge open, a wave of cold air washing over them. They reached for the pitcher of water, sending a short, longing glance towards the bottles of rootbeer on the top shelf. They were sure Dalv would let them have some if they asked– they didn’t even have to ask, really, but…
No. They knew better than that. They’d been off all week, and if they started pushing their luck just to get some soda, then he was going to get mad.
Clover pushed the fridge shut, shifting the pitcher into one hand and reaching to hold a glass with the other. They listened to the sound of pouring water, of ice clanking in their ears, the cool drip of condensation through the cup doing wonders to ground their frazzled mind.
Kind of.
The cold reminded them of a lot of things. Of Snowdin, for one. The friendly faces and the Honeydew Resort. Of Martlet. Of her home and her cottage and the brush of her feathers against their face as she fussed at their hat, their jacket.
It reminded them of Starlo’s. Of sitting at Dina’s tavern under a cool fan, sweat dripping down their face at the sweltering head outside.
It reminded them of home.
Not real home. Not the one with Ceroba, or Starlo, or Martlet or Dalv. It reminded them of the home they shared with Melody. With windows that didn’t block out the cold and doors that wouldn’t latch, and blankets so thin they didn’t do anything to keep in any heat.
A cold splash of water against their hand snapped them back to the present, water overfilling and spilling over the glass.
Clover yelped. They leapt back, the pitcher slipping from their hand.
Their face paled, a gasp slipping past their lips. “No–!”
Glass shattered against the floor.
Dalv whirled around out of the corner of their eye, plates clattering. “Clover? What was–”
A loud, harsh sob tore from their throat.
Ice bled into their socks and seeped into their skin, a puddle of water spilling out across the floor. Glass shards peppered checkered tiles. Dalv’s nice, new pitcher, completely shattered into thousands of pieces.
“Clover?” came Dalv’s voice again, closer and more urgent. “What’s wrong? Are you okay? Did you hurt yourself?”
Clover didn’t have it in themself to do anything but shake their head frantically, emotions bubbling to the surface in the form of burning tears and heat building in their face, gagging around another sob.
What would their dad have done? What had he done? What would Dalv do?
Dalv reached. Red eyes glinted under warm lighting, sharp and predatory and angry, with outstretched claws sharpened into fine points.
Clover reeled back, their heels slipping against glass.
Dalv’s hand faltered. Dark eyebrows drew together, rocking back. “Clover?”
“I’m sorry,” Clover gasped, backing up until their shoulder blades bumped the fridge. “I’m– I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry, I’m–”
“Clover–”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
It was the only thing they could think to say. The only thing they could manage between the ragged sobs that tore from their throat and the way their breaths hitched, hiccups breaking up chunks of sentences and vowels.
Logically, they knew they were fine. Logically, Dalv wouldn’t hurt them. Logically, no one else would let him.
But no one else was there.
No one was there to see it. To stop it. If Dalv really wanted to, what was stopping him? Who said they wouldn’t be the same? Who said that he wouldn’t be just like–
Pressure rocked through Clover’s knees, down to their ankles and up through their shoulders. Through blurred vision they could see the ground, looming closer, and the edge of the fridge at their side. They could feel the cool and sharp press of glass into their knees, and the fridge against their side, thrumming against their ribs.
Dalv made a strangled noise, holding the edges of his cloak as he skirted around the edge of the glass. Distantly, they could hear his voice, calling their name. Asking questions. Worry dripped from each word, practically pooling in his eyes, reflected in sharp rubies. But they couldn’t bring themself to speak.
Clover sobbed harder.
Hands reached. This time, they let them make contact. There was nowhere to flinch or scramble away to as the warm fabric of Dalv’s cloak enveloped them, pulling them away from the growing puddle of water and soothing balm of the fridge against their side.
“Clover,” Dalv was saying, repeating their name. Trying to get their attention. A hand came to hesitantly hover over the side of their head and they pressed into it, letting him tuck them into his shoulder. “Clover, what’s wrong? What happened?”
Clover squeezed their eyes shut, shaking their head. They were sure their expression was ugly, harsh sobs ricocheting through the kitchen. They were sure their tears were ruining Dalv’s nice cloak and making him uncomfortable but the fabric draped warmly over their shoulders, arms wrapping around them in a secure, hesitant hold.
They shouldn’t have been trusting it. They should’ve been fighting and scrambling to push away. They should’ve been running for their room. Their gun. For the front door to get far, far away from all of this.
If Dalv was going to hurt you, he would’ve already.
The thought wasn’t reassuring. It might’ve not been true.
Clover couldn’t bring themself to pull away.
“I’m– I’m sorry,” they gasped again, fighting to choke down another sob, scrubbing their tears away furiously. “I’m sorry, the noise– it just– it was loud, it scared me, I didn’t mean to–”
Dalv hushed them, just a whisper of breath against their hair. “It’s okay. Mistakes happen,” he said, voice tentative but reassuring all the same. “I’ll clean it up.”
Clover scrambled to pull back, their eyes widening. “What? No, no, I can– I’ll–”
“I need to sweep up the glass,” Dalv interrupted gently, but his brows were furrowed, gaze sweeping over the mess they had made on the floor. “Why don’t we eat on the couch tonight? I can take care of this later. After we eat.”
“Are–” Clover sniffled. “Are you sure?”
Dalv looked back, finally, meeting their eyes with a soft look. The unsureness in his eyes faded as his expression set into something more firm, nodding. “I’ll handle it. Why don’t you go sit down in the living room while I finish up in here?”
Clover stared. Studying his eyes. His face. His expression.
A fresh wave of tears spilled down their cheeks as Dalv guided them to their feet.
They ate their meal in silence.
Clover watched through teary eyes from the living room as Dalv threw paper towels over the water. As he fumbled through the closet for a broom and dustpan, sweeping up the remnants of his fancy new pitcher and dumping it in the trash.
Once he was done, he only spent a few moments fretting over Clover and their potential injuries before letting them go back to their room.
Now, their eyes fluttered shut, their back against the door as they slid to sit on the ground. Their arms wrapped around their knees, cheek pressed into the fabric of their sleeve as the faint sound of music filtered through the house.
It didn’t sound like one of Dalv’s records. There wasn’t enough static or brass instruments and it wasn’t a melody they had heard before. Instead, they could hear the familiar, soothing lilt of his out of tune piano, courtesy of Starlo (though really it was Dina’s, one from the bar that she finally had enough funds to replace).
Clover didn’t think they had the right to be listening to it after breaking Dalv’s things. They didn’t have the right to be sitting there and taking comfort in it after they had ruined his night, but they had already laid down in bed. They’d paced around the room and done their nightly routine, but they just couldn’t bring their brain to shut off, no matter how tired they found themself to be.
Dalv was mad. They knew that. He had to be, no questions asked.
But he didn’t seem to be mad, did he? He hadn’t yelled, or shouted, and he’d even given them a hug after all of it was said and done. He’d taken it upon himself to clean up the mess that they had caused, and while they were still waiting for the other shoe to drop (it always did), they thought that maybe, just maybe, they would be safe for tonight.
If they had made it four days, they could make it three more. Three more until Martlet would be welcoming them with open arms and any anger that Dalv harbored, they would be sheltered from by her wings.
They would be safe. They would be fine. Everything would be okay.
That’s what Clover told themself as their hand slid down, gently flicking their door’s lock. The doorknob creaked as they slipped outside, padding across the hallway.
The music grew louder. It was a slow, melodic piece, some sort of old waltz that made them– ironically– think of some vampire in a big, old, dark castle. It was a little sad, but it was soothing, and they wanted to hear it clearer than the walls and their door would allow.
Anxiety fluttered in their chest, crawling up their throat as they approached his study. They peeked through the cracked door, warm eyes sweeping across the room.
Dalv sat on the piano bench, violet hands gliding over pristine white and black keys. His cape draped neatly over the floor, shifting as his heels moved to press over the pedals, his posture straight though his head was bowed.
Slowly, carefully, Clover weaseled their way inside, easing the door back into position once they were through. They crept closer, watching warily out of the corner of their eye as they took their usual place at the foot of the piano, leaned against the bench.
Dalv visibly startled, doing a double take as their weight settled against his leg, but his playing only stuttered briefly before picking back up. His expression twitched, like he was going to speak, but he seemed to think better of it as the piece crescendoed.
Clover sat there for some time, letting the music wash over them. There was more they could think about. More they should think about, and more they could say, but they were too tired to make their brain keep working.
Instead, two simple words left their mouth.
“I’m sorry,” Clover whispered, their cheek pressing into Dalv’s cloak as they rested their head against his leg, bleary eyes watching the movement of his hands. “I didn’t– I didn’t mean to…”
To what? To break the pitcher? To be so upset all week? To be such a downer? To be such a mistake?
They didn’t even know anymore.
Dalv slowed his playing, notes ringing softly in their ears, his foot pressing down on the muffler. “Don’t worry about it, friend,” his voice low and soothing, with a confidence that was so unlike him it made the tension drain from their shoulders in a rush. “You can relax. You’re safe here.”
Safe.
Clover wanted to believe it.
They didn’t think they could.