Chapter Text
No matter how careful he is, Cross always ends up with dough stuck between his phalanges.
It doesn't matter how much flour he coats the dough with, or if he uses a rolling pin for the entire process - somehow, bits of it wind up between his bones everytime, no matter what. It's rather uncomfortable to deal with, even if it only lasts for duration of putting the crust in the pan.
Still, the feeling of dough in one's joints isn't pleasant, and though Cross has been making pie for many years (and many timelines), it's still one of his least favorite parts of the process.
("Your intent will not reach the dough if you do not use your bare hands, Sans," the queen had told him once or maybe more than once, spread across a timeline or ten. He hadn't begrudged her the species difference, because when his hands and his brother's hands came away with dough in their joints, her own paws would be suffering the same fate, with the dough clumped up in her fur.)
(He tries not to think of Toriel too often.)
The hot water feels nice on his bones as he holds his hands beneath the faucet. Plenty of dough runs off as it gets hit with the spray, but he'll need to scrub a bit to get all of it out of the smaller areas between his phalanges.
Nightmare has bought some pleasantly-scented soap this week, though Cross can't pick out exactly what that scent is as he lathers up his hands, and then rinses them. And then again, and again.
"Rinsin' and repeatin', huh, Crossy?"
Cross feels his face fall into a scowl before he cranes his neck to look at Killer. "I'm making a pie."
"Well, that can't be right," Killer snorts, leaning on the counter beside the sink. "Because it looks like you're washing your hands."
The asshole is asking for it, so Cross splashes him with the soapy water. His fingers are mostly free of dough now, so he shuts the water off before Killer can retaliate.
"And now," Killer narrates with a grin, impervious to the water sliding down his temples, following Cross as he grabs a dishtowel. "It looks like you're drying your hands."
Cross rolls his eyes, throwing the towel back to the counter before turning. "Is your only purpose in life to piss me off?"
"Nah. Sometimes i piss night off, too." A sudden burst of thunder interrupts them, and Cross jumps. Killer clearly catches it, because his grin widens ever-further. "And sometimes I let you guys use me as a teddy bear when a big, scary storm rolls through…"
He steps closer, pressing their chests together, and Cross's scowl deepens, expecting an innuendo. But even he laughs when Killer instead whispers in a sultry tone, "Do you need a teddy bear right now, Criss-cross?"
"I - I absolutely do not," he replies through laughter, and Killer snickers a bit too, backing up an inch or so to give Cross a bit more space. "Dream - Dream might."
"Oh, true," Killer agrees. "Fucking raining cats and dogs, and he doesn't like thunder anyway. Probably holed up in his room."
"I'm sure." There's another crash of thunder outside, and Killer waves before darting towards the bedrooms, probably to annoy Dream and whoever is already keeping an eye on the little astraphobic guardian.
Once Killer disappears from sight, Cross opens the pantry. Horror had canned the fruits and vegetables from their garden once their growing seasons had ended, and Cross has plenty of berries to choose from now to make filling.
Blueberries, blackberries, raspberries, strawberries…
He decides on blueberries, pulling out a jar full, as well as the jar of sugar. Hopefully, in the time it takes for him to make the filling - especially with the distraction Killer has already provided - the crust will have chilled enough, even though he still needs to make the top.
(Toriel had taught him to make lattice tops, even if she herself often defaulted to just poking holes in the rolled-out dough. Lattices are all he ever makes now, though - the weaving is relaxing, and the end result is usually nice.)
The blueberries that Horror canned already have a little water in with them, so all Cross needs to add is sugar. Horror scratched out a rough conversion chart a few months ago, and it's still on the fridge. Cross only has to glance at it, and then at the size of the jar, to know how much sugar to add.
He's measuring out two cups carefully when someone bumps into him, and it's only due to his sturdy stance that the sugar doesn't fly everywhere.
"Sorry," Dust says sheepishly, fingers twitching as he holds his hands in front of him. "Lil' distracted."
"It's fine," Cross sighs, dumping the sugar into a pot with the blueberries, and sticking it onto the stove. The rain beating against the windows muffles the soft hissing from the stove once it's lit, and he settles himself against the counter to keep an eye on it.
He hears Dust move away, and then return, leaning on the other side of the stove with a granola bar in his hand. "Pie?"
"Yeah," Cross affirms, grabbing a wooden spoon from the container beneath the window. He crushes some of the blueberries, stirring to make sure he doesn't accidentally end up with blueberry-flavored caramel.
"Smells nice," Dust mumbles, sliding down the cabinets to sit on the tiles. "Can I stay?"
Cross doesn't look him, but he raises a browbone at the pot. "'S your kitchen too, you don't need to ask," he replies, trying to decide if the heat needs be turned higher.
Dust snorts. "Yeah, but will you mind?"
"Nope," Cross says, cranking the heat up a notch.
Dust leaves eventually, quiet as a mouse, as Cross is waiting for the filling to cool.
He doesn't mind; Dust isn't exactly a conversationalist at the best of times, and today is no exception. The silence is always companionable, though, and so Cross has never complained about it.
He's busy rolling out the extra portion of dough into a flat sheet for the pie top when Nightmare wanders in, looking half asleep. "Hey boss," Cross greets, the nickname more affectionate than deferential. It had never been a deferential nickname, really; not when Killer was the one who used it most.
"Good morning," Nightmare replies, though it's barely morning anymore. "Pie?"
"I've been asked that twice now," Cross snorts, cutting the dough into long strips. "Do I ever make anything else?"
"Killer asked you twice? His memory must be going." Though his face is deadpan, his tone is tinged with amusement. "And he says I'm the one reaching old age."
"Killer didn't ask me at all," Cross says as he starts arranging the dough. "You asked, and Dust asked."
"Ah," Nightmare sighs as he pours himself a cup of long-cold coffee from the pot. "I suppose I've 'played myself', as Killer says."
Cross snorts again. "Yeah, you have."
Nightmare wanders off with the same determination he'd wandered in with, and Cross pretends not to notice how his tentacles list to the right, keeping him from bumping off the walls. He must be awfully tired to be visibly keeping his blindside protected, Cross thinks, but he supposes it's nice to see Nightmare let his guard down once in awhile. He's been better about it since they'd left his home universe - Cross is sure that hadn't been helpful for moving on.
Personally, Cross couldn't imagine trying to recover from his own… issues in the universe he'd grown up in. The wounds would feel too raw.
They still feel too raw to deal with, so he ignores them instead, carefully weaving the dough into a lattice, exactly the way Toriel had taught him no less than ten times, in ten different timelines.