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Three mollies sit outside Killer's door, one wailing pitifully at the closed door. Her meow echoes throughout the stone hallway, and Cross has a feeling that this is part of the reason that Killer's room is so far removed from everyone else's.
In fact, every room in this hall is, as far as Cross knows, a guest room, with their beds made but unused. Every room save for Killer's, that is.
When Cross approaches the door, all three cats get up — one darts down the hall, while the other two wind around his legs. He'd pet them if he could, but his hands are full, so he settles for making small cooing noises as he tries balance his laundry basket of supplies on his hip.
In Cross's own opinion, he's well-prepared to deal with whatever he finds in Killer's room. Thankfully, Nightmare — certainly more practiced with this sort of thing — had agreed after giving his basketful of supplies a onceover.
It takes a few minutes for Cross to finagle things to free up one hand, but he manages it eventually. By now, the quieter cat has gotten bored, leaving to join her startled friend in the depths of the hall.
The loudest molly is still winding around Cross's ankles, looking up at him with big eyes, and meowing when she's acknowledged.
"I don't think he's going to want you in there," Cross murmurs, maneuvering his ankle to rub against the cat's flank. Her hair is long and white; a perfect canvas for the messy blackness that's surely spilled from Killer's sockets the entire time he's been holed up in his bedroom.
It hasn't been that long — in the past, Killer's been allowed to hole himself up for weeks before Nightmare decided to take action. By comparison, three days is nothing.
The thing about Killer, though, is that he's restless, and three days is more than enough time for the determination from his sockets to stain the room. Which means it will stain the white cat waiting at the door, too.
"Shoo," Cross grunts as he struggles to hold the basket, and quickly knocks. The cat doesn't listen, though he didn't expect it to.
There's no indication that Killer has heard him or plans to acknowledge him, but Cross knocks again, harder this time, just to be sure.
Again, nothing.
"Killer, I'm coming in," he calls finally, nudging the cat aside with his foot before trying the doorknob. It's unlocked, surprisingly; either Killer had forgotten to lock it, or he'd damaged it himself by picking the lock.
Not quite surprising, considering he'd damaged most of the other doors in the castle that way.
The cat skitters in at Cross's heels, but just as quickly darts back out, perhaps because of the smell. The room smells like battery acid, a result of the determination leaking onto Killer's face. It's usually bearable — usually isn't this bad, and usually Killer's room smells like the wood he's always carving anyway — but if Nightmare hadn't warned him, Cross probably would have flinched from the smell.
It's pitch-dark once he shuts the door, save the soft red glow of Killer's soul. It doesn't penetrate the darkness well, however, and not even the eternal moonlight of this universe shines through Killer's curtains, presumably shut. All of these rooms are similar, thankfully, so Cross feels his way towards the bathroom.
With his hand on the switch, he warns, "I'm turning the light on."
There are three bulbs in the light fixture above the sink, though only one turns on immediately. After a moment, a second flickers on, and Cross narrows his sockets at the state of the bathroom.
The third bulb clearly needs to be replaced, and the second seems like it will go out at any time. The medicine cabinet between the sink and the light fixture is missing one of its mirrored doors; the top shelf is full of black-stained washcloths, The lower two hold an assortment of migraine, pain, and sleep medications, along with a toothbrush and toothpaste.
The counter is stained with black splotches, though there are two half-full, black-stained prescription bottles on it, next to a plastic cup that probably needs to be replaced. At the very least, it seems like Killer has been keeping up with his medication.
The only other thing of note is a black-stained towel resting on the closed toilet. It might have been white, originally, but the old stains are gray now, and the new, unwashed ones are still black.
Cross turns back to the bedroom, visible now from the bathroom light. Killer's face is barely visible in the far corner, his head tilted to stare at Cross. The entire bottom of his face is black, and there are streaks around the rest of his skull that look suspiciously like handprints.
There's a messy, dark path in the carpeting, leading from the bed to where Cross is standing. He looks down, and sure enough, there are wet, black splotches leading up to the sink.
The bedsheets and the comforter are black, though some places seem to shine with wetness in the red glow created by Killer's soul, twitching sporadically where it hovers above his sternum.
The rest of the room is pristine — or at least, it's normal. The cat trees in the corner, the knife cases, and the unfinished carvings on the desk are all unstained. If Cross had to guess, all he's been doing is laying there in bed, and getting up to take his medication.
It's honestly more than Cross expected, knowing of Nightmare's own past experiences helping Killer.
He supposes his first order of business is to free up his arms, so he deposits his basket onto Killer's nightstand. There's a lamp on it, but as he contemplates pulling it, Killer's sockets narrow — a seemingly involuntary response.
"I won't turn it on," Cross assures him, just in case. "The bathroom light is fine, I think."
He doesn't open the curtains either — no need to, with no sunlight — but he does reach behind them and push the window open, to hopefully dispel the smell of battery acid. On a good day, the smell (...and taste.) of Killer's determination reminds Cross of overripe fruit, on the verge of spoiling. It's not great, but it's much more bearable compared to battery acid.
There's a cool breeze almost as soon as Cross leans away from the window, and Killer makes a noise that might be a sigh.
"You've been taking your meds, huh?" Cross asks conversationally as he searches his laundry basket of supplies.
"...Yeah," Killer croaks, his head craning to watch Cross rummage.
"'M proud of you," Cross replies, as he finally pulls his prize from the bottom of the basket. It's a gray towel, not yet stained, but dark enough that it shouldn't matter if it does get determination on it. He lays it near the head of the bed as Killer stares, and then sits on it, folding it to cover his lap.
"C'mere," Cross beckons. "I'll clean your face off."
Killer stares for a moment longer, before lifting himself on one elbow. His soul is flickering on the edges, like it can't decide on a shape, and determination drips down his arm as he gapes.
"Y'don't have to do that," he rasps eventually.
"I don't mind."
Killer's gaze is hard to follow, considering his lack of eyelights. Cross is patient, though — he was a soldier, after all. He could wait for days. He's just glad that Killer seems responsive enough that he doesn't need to keep up a monologue. Killer has always been the talker between the two of them, after all.
"Why," Killer says finally. There's no inflection, nothing to indicate it's actually a question.
"What, am I not allowed to care?" Cross snarks. It won't kick Killer out of his depression-induced funk, but it might make him more comfortable than Cross talking to him like he's a babybones in need of coddling.
Killer chuckles dryly, before responding, "Guess I can't stop you, no matter how terrible of an idea it is." As his body shakes slightly with the laughter, more determination drips onto the sheets.
"Whatever," Cross says. Frankly, he's not prepared to touch Killer's self-deprecation with a ten-foot long pole. "Now get over here, I have a towel to keep my clothes clean and everything."
"Night gave you pointers, huh?"
"He said you wouldn't let me help if I didn't protect my clothing," Cross rolls his eyelights. "Something about guilt."
Killer's expression changes slightly, though Cross finds it unreadable. Finally, he settles his head on Cross's lap, sockets staring upwards. "...I mean, you know what I'm talking about. Feeling useless. Being the problem."
Cross cups his jaw, heedless of the sticky determination there. "You're never a problem," he tells Killer honestly.
Killer doesn't verbally respond; instead, he just closes his eyes and sighs, like a weight has been lifted off of him. Cross doesn't move, afraid of disturbing him, until Killer finally says, a little wetly, "Thanks, Cross."
No nickname. Just 'Cross'. It speaks to how out-of-sorts Killer is; how serious he is about feeling useless.
"Of course," Cross murmurs. He leaves one hand on Killer's jaw, and reaches with the other to rummage in the basket beside them. "I'd - I'd do anything for you, Kills, you know that." He pauses as he grabs one of the packages of baby wipes he brought. "I mean, I hope you know that, 'cause it's true."
"Alright," Killer says quietly, and Cross doesn't comment on how his voice breaks slightly. Instead, he simply pulls a wipe from the package, and gets to work.
They're both silent as Cross works — first on the stray fingerprints near the top of Killer's skull, then on the smudges near his forehead and temples. He tries to be gentle, and it helps that the black substance comes off easily when wet; it's harder if it's already dry, and plenty of it is. Killer doesn't seem to mind if Cross has to scrape at his skull with his distals through the wipe, though, if his lack of complaining is anything to go by.
Cross goes for the area around his nasal ridge next. Killer's face, unlike the rest of his skull, is absolutely soaked in determination. It makes it easy to clean, since much of it is still wet, but it only takes a few passes for each wipe to turn black. But as the pile of blackened wipes grows, so does the amount of Killer's skull visible. It's not quite a pristine white, but it's not coated in slick black anymore, either.
"Close your sockets," Cross orders once the rest of Killer's face is clean.
"They're just gonna get dirty again in half an hour," Killer argues half-heartedly, even as he dutifully closes his sockets to let Cross work.
"So I'll clean your face again in half an hour."
Killer makes no argument against that. His sockets twitch every time Cross passes a wipe near them, as do his fingers, which are laced together at his waist.
Cross tosses a final wipe aside, mumbling "I'm done," once Killer's sockets are rid of the determination for now. His arms and hands are another story, but first, Cross needs to figure out what to do with the pile of dirty wipes.
Luckily, he came prepared. Somewhere in his basket, there's a garbage bag.
He reaches for it, and fortunately manages to grab it without jostling Killer too badly. Then, he scoops the pile of dirty wipes into the bag, bit by bit, until the nightstand is clean again.
Finally, he can focus on Killer's arms and hands. Cross takes his left hand first, running a wipe along the phalanges and carpals. Killer lets him, his arm following limply as Cross maneuvers him.
It will take more than a few wipes to get the determination out of his joints, Cross notes as he scrubs at Killer's forearm, but it's better than being completely coated in the stuff.
The right arm is easier — it's Killer's non-dominant hand, so it's less dirty.
"You're gonna need a shower," Cross says as he throws the last blackened wipes into the garbage bag.
"...Not right now," Killer replies, twisting to lay on his side, rather than his back. "Don't wanna move."
"Fine," Cross sighs, though Killer's unwillingness to move isn't exactly a hindrance to him; his hands are tired from scrubbing at the other's bones, after all. "We should change your sheets at some point. And clean the bathroom —"
"Don't you dare suggest steaming the carpet or some crazy bullshit like that," Killer interrupts sleepily. He rolls back onto his back, and when he exposes his soul, Cross can see that its erratic twitching has calmed; perhaps in a few hours, it will manage its normal inverted heart-shape.
"You have to do something about it," Cross grumbles as Killer twists once more, landing on his pillow. "Otherwise you'll live in a pigsty."
"I'll change the sheets. And figure out how to clean the bathroom, I guess," Killer replies. "If —"
"Why is there an if?"
"If you get in the bed with me instead of… whatever it is you're doing," Killer finishes with a flippant wave of his hand, and Cross snorts. He tosses the towel from his lap back into his laundry basket, and then makes his way under the covers with Killer.
"Black clothes," Killer observes. "No white today?"
"Black sheets. Black blanket," Cross shrugs, though it's true that he'd deliberately worn only black, knowing the state Killer was in. "No worrying about stains."
"Heh." Killer snuggles up into Cross's chest, his newly clean face pressed against one of Cross's shoulders. "...Thanks, Cross."
"'Course."
Killer's not better yet — not by a long shot, Cross fears, considering he already feels something wet seeping through the material of his sweater where Killer's sockets are — but arguing against his silly quips as he sleepily holds Cross feels normal. It feels like Cross has actually managed to help.
And he wasn't kidding when he said he'd do it again, no matter how long it took for the determination to cover Killer's face this time.