Chapter Text
They did it. Error is hurt and crashed and back in his Anti-Void, and this AU is safe, for now. They did it. It's okay.
They don't really have the strength to teleport right now. It doesn't hurt, they're not exactly tired-- but their bones feel heavy and fragile and not quite solid. It feels... bad. Wrong.
That fight was close. So close. Their HP is very low, and quickly falling.
...They don't think they're getting out of this without dying. They don't feel as much as they should about that fact, dull from loss of paint.
Still, Ink hopes no one else is close enough to see them. They stop walking, let themself fall over into the icy slush. They land roughly on their shoulder and feel the bone squish unnaturally on impact. They don't make a noise.
There's no point in trying to heal. They're too weak, it's too late, they'll fall apart before they even get the first vial open.
They're sure they would have tried harder if they didn't know they'd come back good as new. But they can feel their skull flattened where they landed, like a dropped clay sculpture rather than bone.
All they really want to do is stop moving so they don't have to feel how their hands would smush, then liquefy, trying to hold onto the too-tight lid of a vial.
It's okay. They'll come back. They'll come home to Dream, a little late, but he'll hold them and they'll feel better and it'll be okay.
They curl up as small as they can, trying to think of that near future instead of the feeling of their body slowly melting.
-
Returning from death hurts. They used to avoid that word, knowing it wasn't theirs, they barely knew what it meant. But there's no other way to describe the feeling.
Every time it happens, they wonder if this is how 'pain' really feels. If they commit it to memory, could they understand? If they compare it to the feeling of a whole vial of fear, a ruined AU, the thought of losing Dream?
Is that pain? Are they allowed to say it hurts, after their skull caved in and they didn't even cry out?
Sometimes Dream winces with each step he takes.
His breaths sometimes sound shallow and labored, and he has no choice but to keep taking them.
It didn't feel like anything when Ink stepped on their broken leg, or when their ribs collapsed and stopped them from taking another breath. They didn't yearn for that breath.
...
It doesn't matter what they call this feeling. They won't be describing it out loud, anyway. They'll tell Dream they got distracted, or they had to clean something up.
As soon as their arms reform, they wrap their arms around themself tightly. A few deeply uncomfortable minutes later, they float to the surface of the Doodle Sphere's ocean, their bones finally starting to feel solid and numb again.
-
"Dream? Dream!?" Ink yells, rushing through the house. He's not in the fort, and he's not in the bedroom or the kitchen or anywhere else. They don't want to accept it, but the house isn't big enough for him to be lost here.
Dream isn't at home.
He could be distracted and helping people who don't deserve him, or he might have gotten hurt, or he could be searching for Ink after they didn't come home--
They're so late. They should have come back faster, somehow, now Dream is lost and anything could be happening to him.
He could be anywhere. The multiverse is nearly infinite.
If he's in an AU that knows about the multiverse, there might be news online when someone sees him. He hasn't been "working" for months now, and Ink knows people are theorizing, they would notice immediately if he showed up somewhere.
If he's somewhere that doesn't know him, Ink won't even know where to start searching.
No, wait. They have at least one lead.
Ink teleports back to where they died. Or, somewhere near there. They're not entirely sure of the location, but the half-melted snow is very familiar.
And there's Dream. He's standing still, his back to Ink, looking down.
Ink smiles and lets out a sigh when they see him, relieved (and maybe a little satisfied at guessing right so quickly).
Then they look at him. He's standing at the edge of a large black paint splatter, shaking with each breath like he's trying not to sob.
Is this pain?
No, stop, this isn't about Ink. Well, technically it is, but not like that. They don't hesitate any longer and rush over to him.
"Dream," they say, barely remembering not to run right into him. They stop short, but Dream startles anyway at the sound of their voice. He quickly turns to see them and takes their hands in his. His hands are slick with familiar black paint, and still holding a wet scrap of fabric, for some reason.
"Ink?!" he gasps. His voice is almost as strained as his smile. "Are you alright?"
Ink purposefully doesn't look at the paint stain behind him.
"Yeah, I'm fine, everything's okay," Ink quickly assures him. "Are you okay?"
"Yes," Dream says, gripping Ink's hands even tighter.
Obviously that's not true, but he's safe, that's what's important right now.
"Let's go home," they say. Dream nods, and Ink opens their arms, and he takes the hug without hesitation. He practically falls forward into their arms.
He's noticeably tired. And he's letting Ink notice. And he was searching for them, and now he's holding on to Ink like they're all he's ever wanted--
Ink takes a shaky breath, holds him tighter, and teleports them both home together.
They reappear in the living room, near the fort. For a minute or two, they just hold each other. Dream's arms are tight around Ink. Exactly where Ink wants to be. They relax a little bit. He's safe, he's here, they're home.
When Ink pulls away to look at him, they see just how much Dream looks like a wet cat right now. Their beloved wet cat.
He really is kind of wet, though. The legs of his pants are damp from running through snow, and he doesn't even have shoes on. He must have been so cold...
There are also smears of Ink's black blood all over Dream's hands, face, and pajama shirt.
And now also all over Ink's own clothes, probably. They can't bring themself to be annoyed at all.
How did he even get so much paint on him? Ink's eyelights follow the black streaks, and find that soggy, black scrap of fabric still gripped in Dream's hand.
"What's this," Ink asks, gesturing to it.
Dream holds it out for them, inviting them to take it. "I... found a piece of your scarf," he says, quiet and monotone. His hand shakes a little as he smiles at them.
"Oh," Ink whispers.
...He held on to it? Everything about this is making Ink feel soft and protective. Poor Dream. They kind of want to bury themself alive for letting this happen to him at all. More importantly, they want to hold him and comfort him and protect him from everything.
He's so sweet. He deserves better.
Gently, Ink takes the blood-soaked fabric away from Dream. They use their magic to gather the rest of the old paint-- at least, the parts that didn't dry yet-- from themself, and Dream, and their clothes and surroundings. They toss it all through a very convenient portal.
With their now-clean hands, they take off their new scarf and gesture for Dream to lean down. He does, and they wrap the scarf lightly around his neck.
"You deserve better," they say softly. Dream's smile gets a little softer as he reaches up to touch the fabric. Ink looks at him fondly, also smiling a little bit.
It's not what they meant, but it'll have to do.
/////
Dream sits on the edge of the bathtub, the legs of his pants pulled up to look more like shorts so they won't get wet. He kicks his feet in the warm water, slow so it doesn't splash.
Ink can't use magic to clean up paint that's already dried, so he's sitting here to finish cleaning up so he won't track it into the fort. Also because Ink worried he'd be uncomfortable having something that was once their blood on him. He's used to worse, but it did sound nice to not have that paint on him so he was glad to be able to clean it off.
Ink themself is sitting on the countertop, drawing cats on the foggy mirror with their finger. They were originally there to chat while Dream cleaned up, but neither of them could think of much to say, so now they're just kind of sitting together.
Dream watches them silently, twisted sideways so he can lean on the wall. He scrubs his own hands with a washcloth and bits of dried paint flake off. It's stuck uncomfortably in between the joints. He rinses his hands and the washcloth under the faucet and gets back to scrubbing.
The scarf is still wrapped around his neck, several times so it doesn't touch the floor behind him, though Ink said they don't mind since they let it drag on the floor sometimes anyway.
He hides the lower half of his face in it. Smells faintly like paint, as always. He usually likes the smell of paint but it didn't make him feel better when he found those suspicious stains.
He'd like to be done with this so he can go lie down and hold Ink.
It feels weird to want like that. And to know it'll happen, in just a few minutes. What happened to his patience?
Of course, he's tired. He really shouldn't be, he's barely done anything. And, even now that he's seen Ink safe, he can't shake off the overwhelming feeling of dread. They still haven't told him what happened. He thinks they would have, if it hadn't been something awful.
Still. He is more patient than this. He can handle anything. Any task, or pain, or fear. And just sitting here shouldn't be any of that.
A few months ago, even sitting here would feel impossible. He'd be just clean enough not to be stared at, and he'd get up as soon as he was physically able. It hurt, but in a way it felt right, like that was his purpose. He was miserable but he gave everything he had. It was certainly more noble than being watched over like a child, his Guardian circlet still heavy on his skull. Or, is that wrong to think, now? He can't help but feel useless.
He has so much free time now. Nothing but free time.
He used to imagine having free time, sometimes. And comfort. Now he has both. He didn't imagine it would be like this.
It's so quiet. And calm. And he's more comfortable than he's been in years.
And he doesn't know what to do with that.
He loves Ink.
They're a wonderful person. They're kind, and genuine, and he'll never forgive anyone who said Ink can't care. They're everything to Dream, at this point.
They're better to him than he deserves. They're the only reason he knows it's safe to rest. Probably the only reason he keeps going at all, now that he knows that.
He knows he's everything to Ink, too.
He just... can't help but feel like Ink deserves better. He feels broken. Ruined. He was only good for one purpose, and that purpose was never even real, and now he can't do anything else without breaking down over the smallest things.
He cries too much, now. Freezes up too often. It feels like every time he does anything except lie in bed or follow Ink's directions, he's "confused" and "hurting himself" and "doesn't have to do that." But if he only follows Ink's directions, they'll be sad that he doesn't make his own choices.
He doesn't know how to be good enough. For Ink. For himself. For everyone, except that "everyone" doesn't need him at all anyway so what was the point? Why is he still here? Why did he have to exist at all?!
...No one else was ever going to save Ink. They're important. Ink still needs him. And he loves them. Maybe they can still be happy together.
He shouldn't be thinking like this. He's supposed to be positive. He's supposed to be strong enough to keep going forever, and smile the whole time.
Smiling is also wrong now. And he still feels worthless.
Stop it. Stop thinking.
He finishes cleaning his hands and stands up. He makes sure to be quiet, stepping out of the water and drying his hands and feet on a towel. It does make a noise when he opens the drain and turns on the faucet to rinse away the bits of dried paint.
Ink turns to look when they hear him. They smile softly.
They care so much. For Dream.
Part of him feels intensely guilty about that. He chooses instead to smile back at them, not too much, and be grateful that they're here, safe, and they still care about him.
They'll go back to the fort, and they'll let Dream hold them. That's all he's been hoping for, for as long as he can remember. Love and comfort and rest. Ink needs him, he still has a purpose.
-
Dream idly runs his hands over Ink's skull and back and arms. They purr as he does. He's always loved that they do that.
They're lying on his chest, their skull under his chin. They seem peaceful, if a little more quiet than usual. It makes sense. They've both had a stressful day.
Dream pauses. He feels along Ink's upper arm again, putting his hand under the short sleeve of their shirt.
The bone is perfectly smooth. That's not right. That spot has always had a little bump, presumably from where they drank paint and healed before removing a bullet from their shoulder.
Dream always insisted on removing the bullets and shrapnel first, even before they were more than just teammates. Ink would always let him-- in hindsight, only because they wanted to feel cared for.
Left unattended, Ink is never that careful with themself. They brush it off, say it doesn't matter because they can't feel it anyway.
So they walk around with completely preventable scars, even though they're capable of healing perfectly.
Dream was always envious of that ability. As if he would have treated himself any better. No, he would have treated himself much worse, if he had truly been free from physical pain and fatigue. He really can't blame Ink for being careless about their own healing.
He's glad they didn't go as far as he would have. At a point, he was convinced he was above pain. If he really was... he might have never let himself rest again.
But, maybe it could have been enough. He was strong already. Even when it hurt. If his body hadn't given out on him so easily... He could have been perfect.
He could have been everything he tried so hard to make himself into. He could have been strong enough to fight Nightmare and win. He'd be able to heal everyone and rebuild everything that Nightmare damaged, if he could just keep working on it forever, surely someday he'd catch up.
...The idea of Ink going through that feels horrible. If they even considered such a thing, he'd have to hold them down like they do when he tries to fight Nightmare. Or work himself to death by their side. It's good that Ink likes to lay in bed and read so much.
His hand travels over their spine. The crooked spot from where they healed it wrong after a break is gone, now perfectly straight and smooth. Since only their back and arms are within reach, he doesn't check the spot on their ribs, like someone hadn't realized Ink couldn't be stabbed in the soul. He knows what he'd find, though.
They wouldn't have taken the time to fix every imperfection on their bones instead of coming home after that fight. They just wouldn't.
It's like their body reset.
"Did you die?" Dream asks.
He knows he's right when Ink gets tense, their purr breaking off for a moment before they start again as if nothing is wrong.
"No," Ink says. They say it a second late.
A few months ago, they could have fooled him easily. He would have accepted any answer they chose to give him. But now he knows Ink. And he's not too tired to keep his thoughts together.
"I don't believe you," he says. He keeps petting their back. "Your scars are all missing."
Ink hesitates for a few seconds.
"...You noticed that?" they ask quietly.
"Of course," he replies. Of course he did. He and Ink hold each other every day now. He would notice if they changed.
Ink's breathing gets weird, and then they stop doing it for a minute. Their arms around Dream's back get tighter.
"Yeah," they whisper. "Yeah, you're right. I died. Sorry."
Dream doesn't know what to say. They shouldn't have to be sorry, they're the one who died. He's never comforted the person who died before. Ink came back, and they say they don't feel pain, but they're clearly not okay.
"I'm sorry," Dream says gently.
"It's no big deal," they mumble, "didn't even feel it. Just made me late..."
He doesn't believe them, again.
"You're real," he reminds them. "Whatever it felt like, if it's important to you, it matters."
Ink doesn't reply immediately. They nuzzle closer to him, and Dream continues petting them, feeling how their bones are all perfectly smooth. It feels weird-- not a bad thing, just different-- that the damage can just... be erased one day. He wonders how it would feel if his own scars disappeared. Ink doesn't seem happy about it. Or maybe they're just shaken up from dying.
Dying. Ink died. It's easier to accept now that they're safe and in his arms, but the thought is still upsetting. They had to die, alone. If they didn't have the power to come back, he would have never seen them again. They would have been dead a long time ago, actually. Would they have even met? Would Dream have been able to remember them?
Finally, Ink sighs and starts breathing again.
"Thanks," they whisper.
Dream squeezes them a little tighter.