Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The water was colder than he remembered it being. Cross curled up more in some vague attempt to keep warm. Part of him wants to find Dream. The goldfish was always somehow warm, like sunlight. But he really shouldn't bother him and he was too tired anyways. Maybe he should go back to sleep.

“Heya Crossy!”

He winced. Killer was loud and he was too tired to deal with the bull shark right now. He didn’t even feel up to getting up…

“Normally you’re up by now.” There’s a pause long enough for his consciousness to dirft. “Geez Crossy, you don’t look so good.” 

There’s something in his voice that makes Cross blink blearily at him. Killer looked… worried? Why was he worried? Did something happen? Killer never was worried.

Blessedly cool phalanges touch his forehead and Cross leans into it with a trill that he doesn’t even have the energy to be embarrassed about. This felt nice. He doesn’t even realize that he’s leaning on Killer until the bull shark gently (Killer doesn't do gentle) pushes him off. He whines pathetically at the loss of contact.

“I’m gonna go get Dream.” 

Killer’s tone was off somehow, like he was concerned about something. Cross hoped it wasn’t over anything important. He wanted to sleep.  

But the next thing he knows, something hot is poking him.

“Told ya ‘e had a fever.” Cross is too exhausted to discern who’s talking. It probably doesn’t matter anyway.

“bet i’s… cuz ‘e sleeps ou’side…”

“Maybe…” The poking stops. “Horror, could you help me lift him? We need to get him inside. Dust, could you…”

Someone cradles him. His consciousness slips away.

Colors and blurs and voices swirl around like schools of mackerel, thoughts too fast and too slippery for him to grasp.

They turn grey, morphing into the Lab. The Doctor stares at the thin metal board he carries around with him to hold his papers.

“Test results are unsatisfactory, Project X. I expected better.”

The Lab twists and dims and suddenly he’s sinking forever in an endless void of darkness and he can’t breathe despite being completely submerged in water and no one’s going to find him-

“C’mon, Angelfish. Breathe.”

So he did.

Chapter Text

Horror wasn’t expecting this to happen today. There wasn’t anything that made today different. They hadn’t missed a sacrifice or offended a Leviathan. (Nightmare was never mad at them these days, and he wouldn’t let another hurt his claim.) So why was Cross sick?  

He wasn’t supposed to be sick. He hadn’t shown signs of it earlier, and illnesses this bad didn’t appear overnight unless a Leviathan was involved. They festered and grew like a colony of copepods.

So either Cross had been cursed (unlikely as that was. Dream would’ve known.) or they’d been ignoring the signs. Neither one sat right with him.

“Hey, Horror?”

He turned to Dream worriedly.

“is ‘e… gonna be… okay?”

“Hopefully…” Dream shook his head. “I need to go up to the surface for herbs. Dust’s coming with me, and Killer’s hunting. Could you watch Cross while I’m gone?”

Horror nodded. “course.”

Dream gave him a thankful smile and swam off.

Herbs. Not a curse then. Horror suddenly felt sick. They hadn’t noticed anything was wrong-

No. Regretting their negligence wasn’t going to make Cross well again. He’d just take care of their little guard until he was better and then think of ways to make it up to him.

Horror nodded, determined, and swam to the Quarantine Den. Killer made it some time ago, once Horror remembered how disease spread. As much as he’d rather Cross be with them, it wouldn’t do to have them all get sick.

He snatched a grouper from their dwindling prey stash. It wouldn’t do to have Cross go hungry while he’s ill. Granted, eating it meant he’d have to be conscious, but Horror was prepared just in case.

The water surrounding the Quarantine Den felt heavy, like it was trying to keep him out. Maybe it was. Nightmare tended to be overprotective. And yet Cross was still sick.

Horror swam in anyways. Leaving a sick shivermate alone didn’t sit right with him. Cross was curled up in the corner rather than the nest of seagrass and kelp. That wouldn’t do, he decided, and picked up Cross. 

The little guard chirred, and Horror froze in shock. Cross almost never made any vocalizations other than words, and the ones he did make were cut off in embarrassment as soon as he noticed. Horror never really understood why. It was so much more effective than words.  

He huffed in amusement and pet Cross’ skull. The little guard leaned into the touch with a sleepy warble. Horror warbled right back as he set Cross down in the nest. He settled in with little fanfare.

Cross didn’t wake, but that was fine. He’d get well sooner if he slept, and Horror didn’t care much for time anyways he could wait

And wait he did, ‘til suddenly Cross’ breathing grew quick and his quiet chirrs turned to whimpers. 

“... guard? are... you okay…?”

The only response was his increasingly distressed whimpers until suddenly he shot up gasping.

“cross…?”

“Don’t make me go back! Please don’t make me go back-!”

“go... where…?”

Cross’ babbling only grew more frantic and tears bubbled up in his eyes.

“I don’t wanna go back! It hurts! Please don’t make me go back! I- I can’t-”

“hey... we won’… force ya…”

“I don’ wanna go back…”

“we won’... make ya.”

Horror had no clue what Cross was talking about, but it made him upset. Horror didn’t like it when Cross was upset. He hugged the little guard and purred. He just wanted him to calm down.

“Don’t make me go back…” Cross mumbled

“ya don’... ‘ave ta… leave…”

More whimpers. Horror wrapped his arms a little tighter and purred a little harder.

It took more time, more purring, more reassurances that they’d never make him go back. To where, Horror didn’t know, but he promised nonetheless. Finally though, Cross quieted his whimpers.

“Whatcha doin’...” he slurred drowsily.

Horror chirped in confusion.

“di’ja mean… purrin’?”

“Mmhm.”

“i’m... purrin’.”

“Wha’z tha’?”

“purrin’?

“Mmhm.”

Horror paused. He wasn’t sure how to describe purring. It was simply purring.  

“i don’... know… ‘ow ta… ‘plain it…” he rumbles. “it's jus’... purrin’.”

“Oh.” Cross seemed satisfied with that answer. “Why?”

“...why…?”

“Mmhm.”

Another odd question. How did Cross not know what purring was? Someone had to have done it for him!

“... ‘cuz yer… upset… ‘n’ purrin’... makes it… be’er…”

“Oh.”

There’s a pause as Horror grabs the grouper.

“No one’s ever done that for me before.” Cross mumbles.

Horror feels his soul crack. No one?! There had to have been someone, like the Guardian of his Nursery, or his littermates, or his Youth-Shiver!

… Had Cross really been alone his whole life?

Horror decided he didn’t want to think about it, and shoved a piece of the fish’s flesh in Cross’ face.

“Ya need… ta eat…”

He expected a fight, like Cross usually did when they offered him food. I didn’t hunt it, so I shouldn’t get any. But Cross obliges surprisingly easily. Horror simply tears off another strip to feed their little guard.

The fever is probably too fierce for Cross to really tell what’s going on. Cross probably had a normal puphood and wasn’t alone all his life, Horror told himself. It’s just the fever.

He looks down and realizes the fish is gone, except the heart. Either an offering of devotion or a nutrient-rich get-well-soon present. Horror plucks it out. Cross could use the energy.

The guard sleepily licks the blood off Horror’s fingers when the heart is gone. It’s clear that he’s close to passing out again.

That’s okay. He needs to rest.

A happy shrill comes from outside. Killer’s back then. Horror absentmindedly patts Cross’ head.

He’ll need to tell Dream about this. Even if it’s just the fever, it’s still concerning.

He hopes Cross will be okay.

Chapter Text

Killer hadn’t prepared for this. The image of Crossy feverishly shivering on that rock he claimed is enough to distract him from a proper hunt. He growls to himself, startling away the minnows he’d been stalking for the past minute.

Whatever. He’ll just… find something else. Yeah, that’ll work. He just needs to stop thinking about how Crossy was sick because there’s nothing Killer can do about it except hunt effectively. He swims a little faster to get a little more water circulating through his gills.

He does manage to catch a few fish, even if it was with the skill and grace of a pup still in Nursery. He picks out the best-looking one and buries it with a hasty prayer. Killer knows that Nightmare won’t mind him rushing through the sacrifice, and he hopes that the other Leviathans won’t either. He doesn’t think they could handle anything else going wrong.

The hunt helped ease his mind though, and Killer was feeling better enough about things that he announces his return with a shrill. No one comes out, and he’s confused for a second before remembering that Dreamykins and Dusty-boo went out to look for herbs. Nightmare looks like he’s asleep, though Killer knows he isn’t. Leviathans don’t truly need to rest.

“I have food!” he calls, and he’s spared a half-lidded glance from the eerie, cyan searchlight of an eye.

Hor responds with a thumble. Killer smirks as he deposits the prey in the stash. Guess he ended up watching Crossy after all. 

He darts to the Quarantine Nest as soon as his arms are free and he snacked on a guppy or two.

“How is ‘e?”

“...hmm?”

“Cross! How’s he doin’?”

Horror looked down at the mer he was cradling.

“... ‘e woke up… panicked… didn’ wan’ us ta… make ‘im… go somewhere…”

“Why would we do that?” Killer interrupted.

Hor pauses.

“don’ know…” he pauses. “‘e didn’ know… wha’ purrin’ was…”

That sounded awfully concerning. Killer’s parents never put his litter in a Nursery, and he still knew what purring was. How did Crossy not?

He wanted to say something, make Horror feel better, but he didn’t know how.

Instead, he smirked and flippantly declared, “Ya look tired, Hor. Why don’tcha grab some fish and get some sleep.”

“... but guard…”

“I’ll watch ovah ‘im.”

Horror nods and passes Crossy over. Crossy grumbles a tad, but doesn’t wake up. Killer didn’t know if that was a good thing or not.

“Bye-bye now.”

Hor rolled his eyelight and turrups at him. Killer gasps in mock offence. He’d’ve put a hand over his mouth to prove how scandalous that was, but he’s holding Crossy and he doesn’t want to drop the guy. So instead he playfully growls as Hor meanders off and prepares himself for sitting still ‘til Dusty-boo gets back.

…

No one told him that guarding a nest would be so boring. How does Crossy manage? Killer was already swimming circles around the crevice. And counting all the cracks in the walls.

Seventy-seven… seventy-eight… seventy-

“Kilz?”

He turns. Crossy is… almost awake. About as awake as he was when they found him yesterday. His eyelights are large and fuzzy, and he hasn’t really made a move to get up.

“Yeah?”

Apparently that was good enough for Crossy, because he went right back to sleep. Killer would’ve rolled his eyelights if he had any. Instead he got back to counting.

One… two… three… four…

He’s gotten to one-hundred and seven when Cross wakes up again.

“Kilz?”

He turns again. Crossy doesn't look any more awake than the first time, but he’s not quite as dazed.

“Hmmm?”

“‘M cold…”

...Was that… normal for fevers? Killer didn’t know.

“... I could add more seaweed?”

Crossy chuffs and curls up a little tighter. Killer frowns. It looked like Crossy was cold… Did the fever die that fast? He puts his hand on Crossy’s head. He’s burning up.

He leans into it again, and trills again. This situation is suddenly uncomfortably familiar.

“Just how cold are ya, Crossy?”

His face scrunches up like he’s been given a clam and can’t quite figure out how to get it open.

“I dunno…” he slurs. “‘M cold.”

Killer doesn’t bother to weigh his options. If he gets sick then he gets sick, and he won’t bother hiding it like Crossy did.

“Kay. Scoot over.”

Crossy obliges, and Killer snuggles up close to him.

“Better?”

Crossy chirrups in agreement. Up this close, Killer can smell his bitter sickness and the faint scent of blood on his mouth. Hor fed him then. Good.

Killer purrs a little, just to get Crossy to go back to sleep.

Hopefully Dreamykins and Dusty-boo would be back by the time he woke up.

Chapter Text

He’s too hot and too cold and too tired and too pent up. Everything feels slightly off somehow, like he’d somehow slipped into one of those parallel realities The Doctor kept muttering about. Maybe he was. That would explain the pretty octopus mer that looks so familiar but he can’t quite remember their name.

“You’re pretty…” he tells them, smiling.

“You’re delirious.”

Project X he considers this.

“You’re still pretty.”

They sigh and roll their eyes, but their face is now dusted with a pretty purple.

He chirrs. “Suuuper pretty.”

“Whatever.” they scoff. He frowns. 

…Did he make them uncomfortable?

“Do ya not wanna be pretty?” he asks, suddenly feeling like he’d failed again. “Cuz if ya don’ th’n I won’ call ya pretty.”

He blinks and his head is suddenly resting on their lap and they’re stroking his skull.

“No…” they murmur. “I don’t mind, Cross.”

Cross purls and snuggles into their lap. They’re soft. N… Ne… Night? chuckles.

“You’re so much more affectionate than usual.” Night comments.

“I am…?”

“Normally, you’d get flustered. Or upset.”

Cross mulls this over.

“‘M not used ta it.”

“Oh?”

“Mhmm. Th’ Doc’or didn’ like it.”

“The… doctor?” Night asks slowly. An odd look crosses their face, like they’re imagining ripping something to bloody shreds. The water churns around them.

“Mhmm.”

He’s dizzy all of a sudden. And hungry. He whines pathetically, snapping Night out of whatever daze they’d been in.

They delicately pluck a strip of flesh from somewhere and move it towards his mouth.

“Eat.” they murmur. “Then tell me about this… ‘doctor’.”

He’d already finished the strip before Night finished his sentence, but it was quickly replaced by another. And another. And another, until his hunger was properly sated and he was feeling hazy enough to talk about The Doctor.

“I hate ‘im.” Cross confesses. It feels strange to say aloud. “I really hate ‘im. A lot. ‘e’d poke ‘n’ slice ‘n’ cut me up ‘n’ inject me full o’ stuff tha’ made me feel weird. He’d use the collar ‘f I didn’ be’ave… I don’ like th’ collar.”

“Collar?” There’s something in Night’s tone that penetrates the feverish haze that enveloped his senses. Something deadly.

“It hurt. I don’ like it.”

Night strokes his face, hands lightly drifting over his nose and cheekbones. Something made it feel strangely intimate, but Cross doesn't know why.

“How did it hurt?”

Cross waves his hand vaguely.

“Zappy.”

And acknowledging that somehow makes him start talking about the other stuff.

“N’ then ‘e put me inna box ‘n’ th’ boat sunk ‘n’ I’s trapped ‘n’ it was really dark ‘n’ I couldn’t move ‘n’ I was upside down ‘n’-”

A hand strokes his cheek. 

“Breathe, jewel. Breathe.”

He’s not moving enough to get air-

Singing, low and melodious, in some lilting, long forgotten tongue.

ΚΟΙΜΉΣΟΥ ΑΓΆΠΗ ΜΟΥ, ΜΙΚΡΟΎΛΑ

ΧΩΜΈΝΟ ΜΈΣΑ ΣΤΗ ΦΩΛΙΆ ΣΟΥ ΤΌΣΟ ΣΦΙΧΤΆ

ΚΑΤΆ ΤΑ ΆΛΛΑ ΤΑ ΠΑΛΙΆ ΑΡΧΑΊΑ

ΘΑ ΣΕ ΑΡΠΆΞΕΙ ΣΤΟ ΠΛΕΥΡΌ ΣΟΥ.

ΘΑ ΣΕ ΑΡΠΆΞΟΥΝ ΑΝΆΜΕΣΑ ΣΤΑ ΔΌΝΤΙΑ ΤΟΥΣ

ΑΝ ΣΤΗΝ ΆΚΡΗ ΤΗΣ ΦΩΛΙΆΣ ΚΟΙΜΆΣΑΙ

ΚΑΙ ΣΕ ΣΈΡΝΕΙ ΣΤΗΝ ΆΒΥΣΣΟ ΤΌΣΟ ΒΑΘΙΆ

ΚΆΤΩ ΑΠΌ ΤΙΣ ΘΆΛΑΣΣΕΣ ΠΟΥ ΤΡΈΜΟΥΝ

He lets the tune lull him to slumber.

Chapter Text

Cross is just so adorable!  

Dream knows that’s not exactly the best thing to say about your deathly ill shivermate, but it’s the first time the poor thing’s looked vulnerable. He’s curled up in Dream’s lap and nibbling away at a grouper, making cute little whimpers.

Dream pets the poor thing’s skull, reveling the way Cross leans into it.

He’s been doing that awfully often, trying to get as much contact as possible with his shivermates. And it’s… good, really, Dream’s glad Cross has finally gotten comfortable enough for it. But…

But.

He doesn’t like how Cross had to be delirious for it.

As much as he enjoys this, loves the way Cross relies on them and trusts them implicitly, he knows with absolute certainty that none of this would be happening if Cross was fully conscious. Cross is self-sufficient, or he tries to be, and has ideas of worth so outdated that even Dream knows they’re old-fashioned. Cross would panic, and that knowledge makes tracing stars into Cross’ skull a guilty pleasure.

Cross is an enigma, in the sense that everything about him would’ve made sense when the world was new and mer hadn’t quite evolved for socialization or cooperation. If he existed in the kind of ocean where only the strongest survived and the delicate balance of ecosystems swung violently on the hour, neither Nightmare nor Dream would’ve blinked twice. But Cross doesn’t exist in the bloody seas of ages past. He lives here, in the now, and mer aren’t made to be solitary anymore.

Sometime during his thoughts, his hand stilled. Cross lets out a whine.

“Oh,” Dream coos. “Have I been neglecting you? I’m so sorry, darling.”

He scratches the little space between the skull and the first vertebrae, and Cross melts into Dream like hot magma. A teensy rumble starts up in his chest, and while it’s not enough to be a purr, Dream is proud of causing it nonetheless.

Perhaps that is the issue. Millions of years of evolution have made mer dependent on each other, and Cross, for whatever contrite reason, hadn’t had that. Maybe it’s like when Dream is low on sunlight, and there’s a never-ending itch in his skull, all curled up and writhing. Maybe it’s been there for so long, he doesn’t know what to do without it, and so his conscious brain panics, but when consciousness dulls out and his instincts take over, like now, his hindbrain is left with the understanding that something deep and primal has been righted.

Mer are a lot like humans in the sense that they can get used to anything, no matter how terrible.

Or perhaps, he muses, trailing his thumbs over Cross’ fins, Cross simply doesn’t like to be touched. Maybe he’s like Error. Dream would feel even worse if that were the case. But, well, he thinks if that were true, his little mershark wouldn’t be soaking up Dream’s warmth the way he does, pressing into Dream’s hands and lap and everything like he needs more of it.

Cross is adorable. And Dream hopes that once this sickness lifts, he’ll get to keep this.

Chapter Text

There is something so uniquely beautiful about the storms cast by the Leviathans. Perhaps it comes from the waves, stained with magic as they thrash about wildly. Or perhaps it comes from the clouds that gather like battle, tumultuous, thick, and violently endless. But this storm…

This storm has been stewing for days now, creeping steadily further and farther. These waves do not move, rather they rest in unnerving stillness. The clouds still hang, but instead of the battle, they march ceaseless onward. Sparks crackle through them as if stretching a limb, as if testing one’s sword arm before the war. This is the only movement in the storm. Not even a breeze dares blow through it.

This is… unusual, for this domain.

This domain belongs to the One Who Lurks Beneath, the Shipwrecker, the Kraken, the Terror of the Deep. This domain is filled with the graves of vessels lost to primordial rage. This domain ravages as it tries in vain to consume itself, an ouroboros of fury.

The Kraken’s wrath is swift and lethal. It is not quiet. It is not steady. It does not simmer under a masquerade of tranquility.

Perhaps this is not born of temper.

But then of what? What is it that even Leviathans fear?

Chapter Text

“Today on Wolf News, we’re reporting live once more on the strange weather phenomenon in the Bermuda Triangle, more locally known as Kraken’s Rest. As the Fog grows, more and more reports come in of hysteria and paranoia, apparently caused by breathing it. The more conservative folk in the surrounding area have begun to blame this on the release of monsters from Mt. Ebott, claiming the Fog is Godly retri-”

The TV clicks off. He sighs. Nothing new.

He’d hoped for… Well, he doesn’t know what he was hoping for. He does this sometimes, longs for the ocean even as it threatens to swallow him whole. Maybe that’s why the sharks keep coming back. Maybe that’s why he keeps letting them.

Except they haven’t been back in weeks, not since the Fog came. No warning, no passing mention, nothing. They were just… gone.

He tries to ignore the growing sense of dread their absence brings.

Maybe… Maybe they’ve moved to better waters, less cursed ones. Everyone does eventually. Kraken’s Rest isn’t for mortals; the One Who Lurks Beneath makes well sure of that. 

Maybe he should move along too, but he spent decades fishing on these waters and he owns his little islet outright. ‘Sides, there’s still work to be had here, from meteorologists and marine biologists and journalists all needing a boat out or a local guide. Even if there wasn’t, he knows he can batten down the hatches and weather through this. Call it hubris, call it pride, but he’s never been one to uproot himself come bad weather.

Stubborn old fella he is. It’s probably why the sharks like him so much.

Today, there’s not much to be done, and he’s gone lazy in his age anyhow, so he meanders off to the wharf with a rod and a bucket of bait. Fishin’ like this’ easy; you just sit down and let the fish get hungry. He probably won’t get any bites, not with the Fog making everything antsy, but he never really cared about that. It’ll be a great way to pretend to be productive should his brother come ‘round.

 The sun can’t pierce the Fog, so he sits under lantern light. The waves rest still, unmoving and unbroken, more like a fishbowl than the ocean. The birds all flew off weeks ago after the bugs left, so there’s not a sound ‘cept for the plunk as his hook hits the water and the song he hums absentmindedly.

A noise. Something surfaced the water.

He looks down to find a singular red eye.

A smile tugs at his face. Guess the sharks haven’t left just yet.

Chapter Text

What little sunlight managing to reach the grotto is already faded by the time Horror returns. He carries with him a bucket—rusted old junk, reeks of blood and rot—and a frown that bodes something awful.

Maybe we’re finally eating him, Brother simpers, darts away from Dust’s teeth as he snaps at the wretched thing. Can’t survive for long not like that not all soft and hazy.

“Shut it,” Dust grumbles. “He’s not dead yet.”

He will be you know I’m right brother I’m always right aren’t I? He doges another bite. Odd little thing isn’t he? Wonder where he came from can’t be anywhere decent.

Dust doesn’t bother to answer, swims closer to where Horror’s talking to Nightmare, slashes idly in Brother’s direction when the dolt tries to follow. Brother ignores it like always, doesn’t even stop talking. That’s fine though, Dust’s good at tuning him out, can focus on better things like Horror’s voice, all low and grumbly and savory-sweet.

“—a… a theory,” Horror is saying, tail swishing agitated, claws flexing, “said… somthin’ ‘bout… immune prob’ms…? ‘n’ germs… ‘n’ stuff. ‘e thinks… guard… wasn’… wasn’ ‘round other mers… ‘n’ i’s makin’… makin’ ‘im sick…”

Told you he wouldn’t make it too soft too strange.

Dust swipes at the sordid fish and startles when his claws hit flesh—wasn’t actually trying to hit the wretch, just wanted to warn him—and accepts the ensuing beratement with only a scowl.

“How could that make him sick?” Nightmare’s voice is too level, too calm, to really belong to him, especially with how the weather up top’s been, but it comes from his mouth and it lilts in his mesmerizing, sirenic way, blots away all the rough edges in Dust’s brain like nothing else.

“antibodies?” Horror’s voice lilts too, confused rather than an accent. “kelp didn’… no, ‘e did… i don’ remember…”

“I suppose Dream can go up and double-check tomorrow.”

“I can do it!” Dust blurts before he thinks the words in his mouth, ignores Brother’s chastisement.

“Tomorrow.”

Dust accepts this condition with a nod, why do you want to talk to that landweller brother you know he’s not good for you for them for anyone , swishes his tail in Brother’s general direction.

Horror seems satisfied with this, shifts which hand holds the bucket, swims off to Cross’—to the Quarantine Den. Dust debates following, wants to see how his— Wants to see how the thresher shark’s doing. But Brother is at it again, hasn’t gotten bored yet, snides and simpers and dodges Dust’s claws and teeth. He doesn’t want to be around his Cross like this. No, not his , just Cross. He doesn't want to be around Cross like this.

You know he can’t be nope never you’re too rough too ragged not right.

“He’s not right either,” Dust points out. “You said so yourself.”

Wrong in all the opposite ways you know this he’ll crack he’ll break he’ll die. Bubbles froth around them. You don’t crack or break or die even when you should and isn’t that so sweet? You can soak up all the soft bits and leave them for dead because you know they will die not like you never like you—

Big strands of abyssal blue wrap him and Brother, encase them, keep them separate.

Dust can’t help the whine spilling out of his throat, not when Brother is gone and he’s all cushioned up by Nightmare’s grasp. Can’t move here—jolt of panic swifty crushed—but that’s okay, he hasn’t needed to breathe in years, in forever. Flexes his claws anyways, just to let Nightmare know he isn’t happy about this.

“I wish you would let me kill him,” Nightmare murmurs in that huge, quiet way.

Sometimes Dust agrees. Sometimes he hates the damned thing. But Brother is a fixture, a stagnant constant of eternity. Brother has been with Dust since he got cursed, since Ghost died and dusted and left the writhing wraiths in his wake. Brother hasn’t left him, not when Dust left a trail of red and grey in his wake, not when he tried to have the abyss consume him, not when he became Nightmare’s First. Brother is not his brother but Brother is his .

Dust’s lack of an answer is answer enough, and abruptly he is shoved back into the chill of the grotto. Brother twists and turns and tries to scream like the wraith he is, but Nightmare has silenced him.

It won’t be forever. Dust knows Nightmare wishes it was forever.

“Go visit Cross,” Nightmare commands. “See how he’s doing.”

He will. Has to, while Brother’s still quiet.

And so he swims away.

Chapter Text

She twirls a piece of hair in her fingers while she walks, still undecided on whether she likes the blue. Maybe she should’ve done it deeper, more vibrant. Or paler, for a better gradient. Or maybe she should’ve done purple for the depths.

 For all her musings, she does like her hair, the way it starts seafoam-pale and darkens into navy. It looks like the ocean, the one she used to be able to see from her mother’s house when she was little, the one she left before she could remember much more than the view. It seems fitting too, with this internship and all.

The receptionist greets her when she comes in, says Miss Frisk when they see her pink bracelet. A giddy feeling blooms in her chest. She returns the greeting joyously. After months of her mother complaining about how she needs to stop changing it so often, needs to pick one or all and stop bouncing between they and star and she, it’s exhilarating to have a fellow human affirm it unbegrudingly.

It’s also kind of sad.

Almost none of the monsters have thought twice about it, not when she started questioning her gender after being referred to as them instead of him all the time in the Underground, not when that them expanded and pingponged to other things. Not that her mother wasn’t mostly normal about it; she’d called Frisk them or star or her when asked and humored the embarrassing phase where she wanted to be called Fairy-Nebula at thirteen, which is more than her father ever did. There’s a reason Toriel replaced him as her second parent.

Still, after freeing the Underground at a mere eight years old, Frisk is pretty happy to have normal problems, like her mother not really understanding her or university requiring internships or not being entirely sure if she’s known the receptionist long enough to ask if Candy Cane is their actual name or if they put that on their name tag as a joke. 

The internship’s pretty nice, honestly, even if it is required for graduation. Mostly, she just takes measurements and writes reports. Hasn’t seen her boss since the interview, but the rest of the team’s lovely and only asked about Mt. Ebbot twice.

She got into Marine Biology as a joke back in high school—thought it would make pranking Undyne easier—but she genuinely liked it in ways she hadn’t liked anything since the whole Savior of the Underground thing. It kind of spiraled off, and she got a full-ride scholarship (several actually, but most were for freeing the monsters) for a really prestigious university.

She plops her bag into her locker and changes into her lab uniform, the itchy one with the fun stripes. She talked her supervisor into letting her keep her pronoun bracelets, so she only needs to ditch a ring. Lanyard goes on, lets people know she works here and didn’t like, break in to free the lion seal or something. People actually do that, because they think getting sent to baby jail for gorging on endangered salmon is unjustified. There’s a petition. (Frisk signed it.)

She steps out into the break lounge, half expecting to finally be assigned to the children's section of the aquarium like Candy Cane's always threatened, but stops dead when she sees her boss. He's staring, hands clasped behind his back like a general, at the tiny TV in the corner, showing a Florida News Report. They've been having weird fog for ages now; it's been all over the news and Toriel even called to talk about it, said it reminded her of something bad. Maybe it was that thing, because from the look on her boss’ face, this is fascinating.  

“Ah,” he says, voice gravelly like iron dragged over bone, “You're the first one here.”

Frisk's always had a hard time talking when she's nervous. She swallows and nods.

He gestures to the screen. “Do you see this? Unusual weather phenomena are changing the migration paths of so many sea creatures. Species we haven't been able to study for decades will be suddenly easily accessible. Perhaps we'll even find new ones!”

Frisk sucks in a breath, terrified at the way he speaks and not sure why.

“I lost a specimen in that area about five years ago,” he muses. “Perhaps it is still there. Perhaps not. No matter. You're the intern, correct? Do you have classes this week?”

She shakes her head. The semester ends tomorrow, and there's a month break before the next one.

“Would you be amenable to an… educational field trip?”

Chapter Text

He checked his mail for the first time in months under flickering lanternlight, figured his brother might’ve written. He did, blocky letters and splotchy ink, vaguely stained with something red, but something else was there too. From a doctor of all things, X. Gaster, typeset, impersonal, ferry request. It isn’t all that different from the other ferry requests he’s gotten, but the crisp white paper feels tainted. Heavy. Cursed.

He’s half a mind to drop it into the ocean and pretend he never got it, but he was never one for littering and Kraken’s Rest is a terrible place to start. He’d burn it, but that’s too much effort. He’s lazy, always has been.

He sighs, grabs it to take with, figures he’ll have a good few weeks before he’ll have to answer. Passes by the wharf on his way back to the house. Stops. Stares at the mismatched eyes poking out of the water, red and purple, glowing dim but steady.

He wasn’t expecting them back so soon. Wasn’t expecting anyone, really.

Visitors seldom come and often go. Most his company’s been the Fog and the occasional scientist. His brother hasn’t stopped by in ages, thinks he needs to go inland, “do the smart thing instead of the easy thing” if his letter’s anything to go by. Rest of his family, he hasn’t talked to in years. The sharks come, sure, but it’s usually just the one, and those visits are sparse.

This one’s worried, he decides, glancing at the thrashing tail and the way only their eyes leave the water. Bubbles froth around them. Can’t blame him; between the Fog and sick family, he’d be more concerned if they weren’t worried. 

He changes his path.

He waves, tries to smile, be easy-going. It somewhat works: the shark unfoils somewhat, but doesn’t creep closer. Won’t at all, probably, not with how thick the Fog’s gotten. Might be easier to breathe water than air right now. He wonders, briefly, if it might be easier for him too.

They don’t bother with pleasantries, as much as he wants to. Makes things seem okay, even when they aren’t. Instead, the shark launches into an explanation of how much was missed from his explanation. He nods, expecting it. Then the shark says something that makes him pause.

Something incredibly close to fear creeps up his spine. 

He hadn’t known…

The sharks were close with that?

He exhales softly, lets the motion take the prickling with it. He does not stare across the water. Does not mutter wardings or move his hands to repel the evil eye. 

He does not fear. He cannot fear. The Terror of the Deep eats fear.

He inhales, though no relief comes with the action.

The shark’s family is sick. He can help. 

Perhaps this kindness will sway the Kraken’s anger. Perhaps not. But Sans was never the kind of guy to turn away a friend in need.

“a’ight,” he says. “so diseases get stopped by this thing called an immune system…”