Work Text:
There’s a feeling bubbling inside of Dream.
A feeling that’s somewhat familiar, something he hadn’t felt for a long time.
His throat hurts from the shouting.
He’s sore from all the bruises that litter his body.
He’s sure the blood that stain the walls are his.
Is this how Tommy felt?
No, surely not. Not even Dream was this cruel.
Was he?
He stares at battered yellow wings, almost golden, stained with his own blood.
The feeling comes back.
He’s felt this way before.
He remembers now.
He’s afraid.
Dream is afraid of Quackity.