Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Inhale, exhale.

"you're doing perfect, love. Just a few more details and you will show off in the exam."

Inhale. Exhale.

Dream forced a smile on his face at his father, letting him fix his hair as he saw fit and put makeup on his face to cover up his freckles and heavy eye bags. Minutes early when he asked him why, he said it was "very inappropriate, people are not going to think well of a hero if he seems one step away from falling asleep", But well, he is one step from falling asleep, the last thirty hours he was preparing for the long-awaited (not for him, never for him) hero-sidekick exam, where novices will have to show themselves not only to the public, but also to the agents of hero's agencies, and the most fortunate ones will be called by one to start their path of heroism. Dream trained more extreme than ever, polishing every movement he was taught and pushing his body to the limit, he practiced all the smiles and acts for the public with his father, and after a little over five hours, he took a bath to get ready and made his appearance shine, all details were subject to his father and father only. 

Now he was sitting with his tutor in front of him, both next to a makeup vanity in his room that he never asked for. Sam kept giving retouches to his face (or hands, or neck, or any part of his body where it needed to hide the purple bruises that haven't healed yet) for the next thirty minutes, muttering praises every time he allowed himself to be moved like a puppet on strings, his dark green eyes deep in love and affection. Dream kept his face impassive avoiding looking at his dad as much as possible, keeping his view on the wall or the roof or the floor. anything that wasn't those eyes with emotions that he couldn't stand. 

Sam left the brushes on the makeup vanity after a sigh, petting his head with care to not mess up his hair and getting up from where he was sitting. He looked at him from above (Dream doesn't have any other memory that isn't like this; Sam looking at him from above like some doctor watching a lab rat, examining, examining, examining, examining-) from head to toe, searching any imperfection or detail out of place. But after a few seconds where Dream held his breath, a smile was drawn again on his face and his gaze lost the coldness it had (Dream didn't want to admit that this caused him immense relief, being able to breathe without feeling that his lungs were being squeezed). He left behind his posture of The Warden, returning to the kind father. He put a hand on his shoulder and nodded for him to stand up, an action that Dream obeyed without any objection. 

The feeling of warmth was a complete surprise to him. It intoxicated his body better than alcohol. Sam (dad) was hugging him, squeezing him between the four arms he had. Dream couldn't help but sigh at the warm display of affection he was showing, letting his head rest on his shoulder and returning his embrace with a limp grip. Dream couldn't help but appreciate moments like this, where neither of them was fighting or proving anything, but acting out what he remembered was a true father-son relationship (whatever he wished it was, because all of this couldn't be normal, could it?), without the extremist training, the tutoring, the punishments; just enjoying each other's presence. 

With his head resting on his shoulder, Sam lightly tightened the embrace.

"I love you, son, you don't know how much" he murmured, his voice muffled by having his lips against his hair. He seemed embarrassed to admit that confession (he ignored that part).

Dream didn't have to answer him, there would be no punishment for that, he could just stay in the embrace and then separate in complete silence. But his lips parted before he could even stop himself. 

"I love you too, pa."

A shaky exhale against his hair was all he heard after that. Sam abandoned the embrace first after a few seconds. He shifted the position of his top two hands putting them on his shoulders, bending his body down until he was at the same visual height as Dream. His other pair of hands took over his hands in a warm grip, his thumbs caressing the back of his hand in circular motions. 

At all that display of affection, Dream felt himself losing the ability to breathe, lost in his father's gaze with his mind filling with white interference, his thoughts covered with cotton and stuffing. His eyes couldn't peel away from him, not that he tried. 

"You'll do perfectly on the test, Dream. I trained you more than any other candidate in that place, you'll fight better than anyone, and you're going to shine, Dream. Do you understand me? Let's not let your gift fall into the wrong hands."

Aand, shit. 

He wanted to ignore that the smile on his face was now impossible to maintain, that the burning in his eyes was from the makeup applied, that the unbearable pain in his stomach was from the bruises. He wanted to ignore it all, and yet Dream knew he couldn't. Not when he understood perfectly why he was feeling like the most miserable person in the world, as if God himself was grabbing him by the feet to pull him out of heaven, dragging him mercilessly to the very gates of Tartarus. 

The question why-whywhywhy- kept repeating in his head over and over again, in a second his father's physical touch turned to ice water on his bare skin. 

He forced himself to swallow the lump in his throat to the bottom of his heart. He didn't want to cry in front of him. He loosened his hands until they dropped, Sam put up no opposition letting the grip disappear.

He could not cry in front of him, he couldn't, he wouldn't. 

"Yes, I understand, my gift will become a great help to society," Dream repeated drained of life the phrase he heard so many times. 

Sam smiled pleased with the response, and in a final squeeze of his shoulders, he released him raising himself to his full height, turning to leave his room. Dream held his position without moving an inch the entire time, waiting with bated breath for him to leave at once. 

It only took a "you have five minutes before you leave" from Sam without looking him in the eye for him to break down in an ugly cry as he heard the soft click of the door close. His legs shook unable to support his weight and he dropped without much of a struggle onto the white floor, hugging himself in a stupid attempt to comfort himself. His breathing was heavy filling the empty room with shuddering exhalations and gasps for air, or pathetic moans waiting for comfort that would never come. The screams he wanted to let out were kept in his throat, his hands deciding to claw at the floor like a rabid animal (everything Sam didn't teach him to do) to let off relief in some way that wouldn't ruin his clothes or voice. He couldn't do that after all the hour's Sam spent grooming him (like he was a dog, a weapon).

He didn't mind dehydrating his eyes or getting his face wet, after all the makeup was waterproof. 

He spent the four minutes crying his soul out, showing his deepest misery to the naked eye in a limbo where time disappeared and only pain was with him, accompanying him like the most faithful of shadows. He knew crying wouldn't help at all (that's what Sam says), but his mother's words are something that even his father couldn't get out of him with the most devastating blows. 

"Crying soothes the soul, son. It can help you express sadness when words no longer work." Cooed his mom as she stroked his wet cheek. "It's not wrong to cry, it's never wrong to cry. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise." She murmured, hugging him against her body until his crying died down, hiccups escaping his throat every so often. 

His tiny hands tried to cling to his progenitor's arms, her lip quivering with fear that he wasn't able to say out loud. 

Still, his mother needed no words to understand.

"Oh Dream, you are no worse son for this, or less strong. Strong and brave people are the ones who cry the most, did you know about that?" 

He dried his tears without anyone's help, wetting his eyes with a damp cloth (nor gentle hands nor soft words), and got up to go to the bathroom. His lifeless look confronted him in the bathroom mirror, he forgot when looking like that became normal for him; when crying silently, hiding worse than a rat became an every week thing. He can still remember fragments of his youth, where bright green eyes were always his reflection along with a crooked-toothed smile. Now all that remains is the imprint of a man with no reason to live (When he stopped being a child?), scars covered up under layers and layers of stupid expensive makeup, perfect teeth hidden under sealed lips. He doesn't smile unless it's necessary (unless his father sees it necessary).

The five minutes were up, it was time to go to the exam.  

Sam was waiting for him at the front door. He would not be going with him (not like most participants supported by his family) to the exam, he would be staying home watching his demonstration on TV. He said this was something he had to do alone, to learn how to deal with situations with a mass audience without problem (the part about no one knowing he is the son of the famous hero The Warden did not enter the discussion), as almost the entire country will be glued for the next five hours to the display of future heroes or helpers, both behind the screens and in the stands, in the large stadium belonging to the Hero Crew commission, watching from every plane every move they make. 

It was not something he wanted to do, a situation he would like to be in, but he has to do it, for his father, for his gift, to prove that things like him can be an exemplary individuals for society, and not a monster destined to self-destruction like all the previous ones like him. Sam gave him a second chance (he always repeats it), he has to make use of it and please him. Just like always. 

This was routine, he didn't have to be nervous, he would pass the tests without breaking a sweat and soon he would be back home with Sam beaming with pride. Right?

Dream focused his gaze on his father, anxiety pulsing under his skin making everything harder than it should be. But Sam was calm, with the happiness of his perfection in the last few hours present on his face, he didn't understand why he still felt so (distraught, tearful, helpless, useless) anxious. He just had to follow orders as he always did. He just had to comply with whatever Sam asked of him -complycomplycomplycomplycomplycomply-.

A hand on his collarbone brushing his neck interrupted his racing mind.

"You'll be perfect, Dream, don't forget," Sam mentioned, not in the form of encouragement or warning, but as a matter of fact, as if any other chance outside of that simply didn't exist. 

Although, well, that's the way it was for him. Perfection or nothing. Sam always repeated. 

...

There are days when Dream finds it hard not to believe Sam's words, his teachings etched in his bones after all, but at least his words still didn't pierce deep into his brain, the memory of his mother being the only line that separated Dream from becoming-whatever Sam wants to turn him into. 

Dream doesn't want to stop being him. He doesn't want to stop crying silently, stop dreaming silently, stop missing. He doesn't want to see civilians as a commodity in need of protection, villains as scum that need to be transformed and 'confected', or heroes as allies that will aid in his goal. He doesn't want to see the world in the static, impersonal way Sam sees things, regardless of the actions he must take for the greater good (Really that kid was supposed to die?). He wants to be able to still maintain his humanity.

But oh God, he's so, so afraid of Sam, and shit, he loves him so badly at the same time. He doesn't want to but he wishes and dream, but if Sam wants to turn him into a version of himself... Dream doesn't think he has the strength to stop him, no matter how much he wants to. 

Ah. 

The urge to cry is back, he has to get out of his house as fast as possible. 

Chapter Text

Being away from his father's eyes felt like breathing again after having his head submerged underwater for a long time (he doesn't like to think he has experienced that feeling). The tension left his muscles, with no white spots in his sight due to the lack of air in his lungs, being able to wipe the sweat accumulated on his hands with the peace in his mind that they wouldn't get wet again in a matter of seconds.

Dream walked in a hurry looking to get to the stadium as soon as possible. Because even if he didn't want to participate in that exam, anything was better than staying longer in the same room with Sam. At least today he would have a full day in solitude, even if he would be surrounded by strange people in a couple of hours. 

The streets he walked down were long and wide, typical of a neighborhood far from the city, where there weren't any shops for miles and every house was huge. It wasn't a place where Dream would live on his own, but Sam declared it "away from crowds," and the discussion ended there for them. If he could he would have moved elsewhere years ago. The absence of public transport was particularly annoying if you didn't have your car (something Sam wouldn't let him have no matter how far he had to walk to - practically - anywhere), and the silence at night was so annoying, it was like a ghost town. It allowed his thoughts to be the only thing he could hear at night when he couldn't sleep.   

Dream sighed, looking behind his shoulder, to his sides, and in front of him. There was no one outside. It was desolate (no surprise, everyone would be at home watching the TV or in the stadium itself, watching the big annual contest).

Knowing that all those people would soon see him and his power made him feel sick. He just... He couldn't. Using the power that was his from birth felt worse than contradicting his father. 

... He was good, he was a good person, Dream knew it, his mother said so, Sam repeated it every day. But Dream also knew that the root of his gift wasn't good. He remembers when Sam spent countless nights looking for the twist to his power, looking for something to turn it into something other than absolute destruction. Dream remembers the times Sam reminded him how dangerous his gift was. How damaging it could be without care. And he just... started to believe it at some point, even if he felt his soul being torn in two by the very thought.

After all, he inherited his gift from his mother.

A sob escaped from so deep in his throat that even he was startled. He blinked the wetness away from his eyes several times, surprised at his own state. His vision blurred and he fumbled desperately for the phone in his pocket, his clumsy fingers unlocking the device and reaching for the only contact he had when he held it in his trembling hands.

No, no, no, no no no. Why was Dream calling Sam?! He wanted to get out of the house in such a hurry! Why?! Why why why why why why-

"Hello, Pa?" he muttered in a broken voice as soon as Sam answered the call, unable to speak louder than a whisper.

"Dream, did you get to headquarters yet? Something happened?" his father spoke alertly in a second. Caution washed over his voice slightly. 

"No, not yet, it's just that... I-" He closed his eyes tightly at the words he was about to say. He hated himself for wanting to hear them, but at the same time, he needed them so much. "Can you, can you, please-tell me I'm good? Please, it's just that-" Another sob cut his sentence short, but he didn't try to speak again. He just waited for the answer on the other line.

He kept walking straight ahead, realizing that he had already left the neighborhood where he lived several streets back, the city streets now surrounding him. Fuck , he didn't even seem to notice.

The silence on the other side was worse than any strangulation. Dream felt unable to breathe (as always) as he continued to wait.

" Oh , son." And Dream ignored the repulsion he felt at hearing the absolute  pleasure  in Sam's voice, like a trainer watching his dog finally do the perfect trick. "You're one of the sweetest people I know. You're perfect love, one of the kindest and most considerate men in this town. Of course you're good, you're always good Dream. Is this because of your gift?"

"Y-yeah, I just, eh-uh, I just wanted to know-I wanted to hear, that. You know, with how dangerous it is and everything... Thanks, I didn't want to bother you. 

"You'll never be a problem to me Dream, remember that. Don't be late for registration, okay? I'll be watching you."

After that, the call was cut off. Dream honestly didn't know if he was better or worse off than before, but the numbness he usually felt when he was feeling too much (when he was thinking too much) appeared in his mind like a dense fog calming his senses. He turned off the phone and put it back inside his grey jacket, deciding to enjoy the (false) calm and pay attention to where he was walking for once.

The streets were narrower, some cars driving at moderate speed generating an unceasing background noise. The limitations in the capital city were surrounded by blocks of shops and low-rise houses, where one could spend an entire afternoon window-shopping for all kinds of products. The number of people there always seemed to be (except for today) gave him a sense of strangeness and joy at the same time. 

Dream longed for the moments in common areas with all his heart. Never knowing when Sam would next let him leave the house so freely. 

-If the streets were littered with rubbish and some signs were too bright it was someone else's problem because Dream cherished it like someone who cherishes an old toy about to break-  He quickly got used to the exhaust fumes and hot air coming out of engines and buses. It was such a drastic change from his neighborhood that he seemed to be walking into a completely different life (something he wishes with all his being).

Now, Dream would have to turn right and walk about ten minutes until he reached Simmons Street, where the train station was, take the train straight to the capital, and then catch a bus that would leave him only one street away from the huge stadium -but a man walking in his direction stopped him in his tracks . A man covered in blood.

People moved out of his way with shouts or exclamations, and the civilian (at least he was dressed as a civilian, black trousers and a cream-colored sweater dripping red) continued without stopping for two seconds to look behind him or to his side as he crossed the street like a walking corpse. 

His desperate, bruised face looked like he was running for his life, but it was clear from his clumsy, exasperated movements that he was about to drop dead on the floor (Dream didn't know whether literally or figuratively).

His walk came to an end less than ten feet from where Dream stood, the man's labored breathing coming from his parted lips with a faint squeak (broken ribs, if his experienced ear did not misrecognize), and forced him to bear down on the walls of buildings, smearing blood on old bricks or worse, clean glass. Dream decided to get in the way before the angry owner of the shop could go out and put the poor devil out of his misery, going close to him and catching him before he could fall on the next step. 

The man's gaze, despite his deplorable state, was fully lucid. His haunted eyes followed Dream's every second as he slipped one of his arms over his shoulders, grasping his waist carefully to not aggravate any wounds (he didn't want to make it more painful than it already had to be for him).

Dream could feel the confusion radiating from the civilian, his head cocking to the side as he kept looking at him. He guessed it was the loss of blood that made him accept the contact without resistance, for soon his whole body slumped against Clay's. Breathing heavily he seemed to leave his life in his arms.  

Dream was mentally grateful for the strength of his arms, otherwise, they would have both fallen to the ground the moment the stranger's legs failed and became dead weight. He secured his grip, trying to steady him a little, his mind blanks as to what to do next. Call an ambulance? He looked at him sideways, couldn't turn his head too much if he didn't want to move the man, and saw the wrinkles of fatigue on his face and dark circles under his eyes. The bruises on his cheekbone and nose didn't indicate an ordinary fight. He didn't look like the kind of person who could go to a hospital. 

Dream shook him a little wanting to keep him awake. Luckily he was and the man turned up his face covered in a blanket of paranoia. He tried to grab his shirt - with a hand that seemed to have all its fingers broken - without much success, anguish clouding his eyes as he tried to bring his face closer to Clay's. A desperate attempt to be heard? Perhaps.  

As Dream expected, the man spat a couple of times (thank God towards the ground) before speaking. He had the raspiest voice Dream had ever heard, it was painful to listen to. 

"boy, plea-, please, please, let me go, don't let 'em-let 'em get me... I, I don't-I don't want to... don't let 'em-" he pleaded brokenly, coughing again before he could finish the last syllable.

Clay remained static, the weight on his left side and the wet blood staining his clothes fading for the moment. His world fell into the silence he only felt underwater when the pressure clogged his ears and didn't hear his own voice calling for help. 

He felt stupid for standing still, holding the man without helping him. His bain seemed stuck, with so many questions and reactions to process that it simply decided to shut down. 

Who was he running from? The police? A killer? A group? Could he get help from a hospital? Could Dream call the heroes to take care of this? ... 

Could he call Sam? 

Dream glanced sideways at him, thinking for a few seconds in silence, (Why was it so quiet? they were on a street), until he carefully grabbed his phone from his jacket pocket - he decided to ignore the sickening feeling of dampness he felt transferring to his shirt - and unlocked it, thinking about calling his father. 

Fuck, he didn't even make it to headquarters (but a man was dying in your arms). Sam would be so angry. How much more time would he waste?

His thumb was already on Sam's number when he felt the man stir in his grip, his breathing becoming heavier and more erratic than before. Dream tightened his grip wanting to call Sam as soon as possible, but that only seemed to scare the man more.

"No! Not the-cops. No, no, no. No..." he murmured desperately into his neck, his body falling further against his. Dream grimaced, trying to ignore the bad smell the man was giving off, focusing on something else. 

He put his mobile phone away and started walking towards a quieter street, looking to get away from the people (who were thankfully already doing their job of ignoring them like a pest) while he remembered all the lessons Sam had given him on how to deal with someone in shock. 

"Shh, it's okay, you're okay. No police then. Shall I call you an ambulance? You need to go to a hospital. I can't just-just  leave you  here." He said keeping his voice serene as much as possible. Trying to sound calm, under control. 

(His fingers were trembling, he knew it wasn't from physical exertion).

"N-no... just... my house, please..." he paused, taking a big gulp of air, a shriek and a bad smell coming from his mouth. "Highpains, 1550... please." He begged. His voice sounded so broken and cracked. That Dream simply, he just couldn't say no.

"Okay, I know that street. I can take you there." He answered in a whisper. He was afraid that if he spoke any louder, his voice would crack too.  

Chapter Text

By the time Dream realized, he started walking, dragging the man with him, in the opposite direction to the train station. His mind after all... that,  was in a strange calm from which he couldn't leave, not allowing him to react normally. Dream should be worried, scared, sick even. Maybe a man might die in his arms; it might be too late to enter the competition; he might defraud Sam. And yet, his eyes were blank of emotion, and his mind was empty as he walked down the street.

Everyone else avoided looking at them, pretending they didn't exist. 

Walking to the man's house felt like swimming in the sea, the waves helping to propel him and the tide rocking his body gently but firmly. Making him forget the outside world as if it didn't exist, reducing it to waves and foam, the salty wind blowing his hair everywhere. It was calm. Dream's body wasn't heavy for the first time, going with numb steps without feeling anything. In some part of his mind, he knew it was a bad signal, but he didn't care enough and pushed those thoughts away, preferring a calm ocean to a dark storm. 

Dream didn't know how long it took them to arrive, if it was three minutes o three hours. But he knew that for a moment he was looking at a jewelry shop with blood-tinged glass, and the next he was facing a door. A simple metal door, too simple to be honest, it was completely smooth, of a matt black color. His eyes lingered on the door for a second until a loud cough forced his head to turn like an ungreased machine. Dream heard behind all the white noise, his neck cracking from the sudden movement. 

Even though his mouth felt drier than a desert, he licked his lips and forced himself to speak first. Dream didn't want to oblige the man to talk when he clearly shouldn't. 

"Is this your house?" Dream asked, but his voice sounded from miles away. 

The man raised his head slightly, looking at the spot where they were before nodding. His hand pointed to his right trouser pocket. 

"K-keys."

Dream didn't need more words. He held the man with one arm and, maneuvering to keep him from slumping to the floor, and grabbed the set of keys from his pocket. 

It was harder than he thought, having to support the man's whole weight with one arm. So far, he didn't realize how much the man was leaning on him, that he was the only thing that kept the man from kissing the floor. But it didn't matter. It wasn't the first time Dream had to carry a lot of weight. It was more important to help the man than to complain about the pain he was feeling (after all, the bruises were hidden, they didn't disappear).

The seconds were short and tense, but he managed to have the keys in his hand and didn't wait to open de door. Even though before entering, he turned his head as far as he could to the sides. Watching for anyone wanting to call the police (or worse, heroes). 

Luckily no one looked concerned enough to follow them or do anything. They were all alone, with no one watching from a window or balcony. Dream guessed that maybe it was the area where they were, already deep in the city where no one meddles in affairs that aren't theirs. 

The man sighed in relief when they stood in the darkness of the narrow entrance hall, recognizing his own home even in his last threads of consciousness. (Dream could feel his body losing heat rapidly, there was no way the man could live another day without immediate help. He didn't want to think about the end of that scenario).

The house was simple, bordering bland, with no decorations or personal things. It looked like anyone could have walked in and declared it to be their home. Dream dragged the stranger into the dining room, seating him in the only chair there accompanying the small, cheap wooden table.

With the weight off his shoulders, Dream sighed thundering his bones, relieved that the haze was leaving his mind, letting him return to reality. He could already feel his hands stained with fresh blood, the smell hitting his nose and making his eyes sting, how disarranged his jacket had become, stretched too far back and choking his neck. 

He focused on the sensations, focusing on what was happening, going over to the man who was about to fall with no intention of wanting to help himself. He pushed him gently against the back of the chair and lifted his face from his chin.

Dark unfocused eyes met his. The man saw him before dropping his face again. This time Dream allowed the gesture, but squeezed his shoulder a little with his hand. He wanted him to stay awake as long as possible. 

"Don't you want me to call an ambulance, the police? Or I can treat your wounds. Maybe I can stop the bleeding." Dream spoke clearly with his face inches from his, wanting his attention focused on him and him alone.

The man, whose name Dream still couldn't get, was about to shake his head but he stopped him, grabbing his chin again and forcing him to maintain eye contact. 

Dream had to admit that whoever this man was, he was strong in one sense; he managed to look at him with the lucidity that someone bleeding to death shouldn't have. His eyes held something Dream couldn't understand. Something heavy, unreadable. 

The shriek of the man's breathing was heard much louder than before, the inverse silence of the house amplifying it five times more. Dream tried to ignore it, waiting for his response.

"Go a-way." the man whispered, seeming to force his eyelids to stay open, looking past Dream's eyes.

Dream couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"What?" the surprise in his voice slipped from his lips helplessly. "No, no. How can I leave you here? You're losing blood, too much blood. It's my duty-" Dream opened his eyes wide, cutting off his own words. He stared at the man entranced for a few seconds, feeling a lump in his throat. He smacked his dry lips and swallowed, gathering his breath before speaking. "It's... my job to help you. I have to help you, I can't leave you here." He whispered. 

He ignored that his voice sounded weak and seemed to beg rather than affirm. 

Dream didn't stop looking at the man even though everything in him demanded it. Too weak (too trained) to simply ignore the dying man (ignore a duty, a mission, a task). 

The man shook his head weakly, a pained expression on his face stronger than before. Dream was about to shake him again, thinking that maybe the pain was about to knock him out, but soon the man's eyes met his and his irises glowed a toxic gold for a second. It was so quick and fleeting that Dream thought it was a play of his imagination, but it was too bright in such a dark place to be a lie and Dream trusted what he had seen.

The man maintained eye contact, his gaze finding something Dream couldn't quite grasp.

"Boy..." the man sighed, saving too much emotion for one word, it stunned Dream. "You..." He shook his head again, this time more resigned and tired than before. "Give me, y-your hand." He asked in a whisper so low that if it weren't for the silence in the house, Dream wouldn't have been able to hear him. 

Dream frowned at the man, not understanding the request, before looking down at his hands resting in his lap. The man's right hand, covered in blood and fingers twisted at wrong angles, was writhing in small tremors as if he was having small shocks of electricity, palm facing upward. 

He didn't quite understand the reason for the request, but anything to help the man and do something. Dream wiped his hand as best he could on his pants (they were already ruined anyway) and carefully took the man's hand in a gentle grip, careful not to squeeze the broken fingers or skinless knuckles. 

The man just took another gasping breath. Dream didn't know what else to do, but his vision went dark before he could think of anything. 

What?

[A tiny bathroom with only a cubicle and a urinal, a small sink, and an even sadder mirror. The white marble floor was dirty with footprints marking a meaningless path, the walls of a light blue-gray giving a depressing atmosphere to the whole place. 

Him? Was about to head for the sink when a man in office clothes came in, locking up the door behind him. He was tall, stocky, and with little hair to show off. It looked like the fifties were hitting him harder than usual if his grimace said anything. He turned with a fake smile showing yellowed teeth. 

"Mr. Jason, you're a bigger asshole than I thought. Your death is solely your fault." He said with mock, approaching in short strides cutting off any attempt to escape, his body towering over -Who is Jason?- and cornering them against the wall. 

A fist bathed in rings struck, taking out their stability, and before anything else could happen, more punches bathed their sight relentlessly. 

The face or torso were the most attacked areas, soon the 'sight' was aimed at the ceiling of a single yellowish bulb, watching the hitman sweat on top of them and continue to beat them relentlessly, bathing parts of the 'sight' in red.

Punch after punch, screams and whimpers seemed to come from -Jason- without stopping, until his voice cracked at the crack of a rib, and the thug seemed at last satisfied. He grabbed greasy black hair, pulling it closer to his face. The grimace looked more like that of a dog than a human. 

"for next time, think carefully about who you're investigating, you stupid fuck." He spat, stamping his head against the floor, another muffled scream was heard, and he stood up to his full height. He watched him for a couple of seconds before stomping on something hard, grunting annoyed each time a shriek echoed through the bathroom. He kicked again one last time before leaving, washing his hands before. 

The clouded view did not change for several minutes, static from the floor watching the closed door (though this time unlocked). The cries continued at a lower volume, but then a grunt louder than the rest echoed and Jason tried to get up. His legs failed in the attempt and his hand clutched at the first thing he could grab, which turned out to be the urinal.

Between coughing and vomiting only bile, Jason emerged from the bathroom to find a gas station, empty of any customers or vendors. The view went up and down in what appeared to be stumbling, walking to the street in the middle of town -Lore Street, Dream recognized it, was a few blocks before Simmons Street-, people passed by quietly, until they saw the state he must be in and watched in horror as they walked away.  

He ran stumbling, bumping into poles, garbage cans, or buildings, unwilling to stop. Until -it was him- a young boy looking about 17 years old who was walking on his same street, caught him before he could fall. His green eyes were lost on his figure (did he really look like that?). He didn't seem to be present in whatever was going on, seeing it but not looking.] 

...

Dream let go of his hand as if it were acid to the touch, rising to his full height and retreating steps without realizing it. His breathing sounded too loud and labored even for him. But he wasn't able to care when he couldn't tear his eyes away from the man in front of him (Jason, his name was Jason), who made no objection to the loss of contact, throwing his head back with his shoulders slumped. 

Dream swallowed saliva taking control over himself, opening and closing his right fist just to feel confident that his fingers weren't broken by a stomp. 

"That. Was that your gift?" he questioned, again breaking the space between them with careful steps. "Why would you show me your...memories? Why?" he questioned not understanding anything the man was doing.

Explain why he ended up the way he did? But he asked him not to call the police, so he wasn't looking for a witness in case he...

What did he want? 

The only response he got was the rise and fall of the dying man's chest in a slow back and forth, and his right-hand opened again waiting for another to complete the grip. Dream watched him silently without moving, but Jason did nothing more. If he wanted answers he would have to accept another handshake.

Dream muttered between his teeth returning to where he was before, next to him. But before returning to take the link that his gift needed to manifest itself, he brought his face close to Jason's, with the idea that he would listen to him with all the attention he could muster at that moment. 

"I have to help you. Why are you doing all this? I need you to agree to at least stop your bleeding. I don't want to force you."  Please  was left unsaid but implied for both of them, his voice weak and pleading.

Jason just sighed, looking at him pitifully,  as if it was Dream who was suffering in that situation . He stretched out his palm as far as he could, his fingers trembling unceasingly, waiting for him to accept the connection again.  

Dream sighed and put his questions and issues on the back for the moment. He took Jason's hand just as gently as before, again feeling his sight fade to black and losing control of his body. 

This time he accepted it without complaint, preventing the feeling of loss. It felt just like dreaming, with no weight or control over his actions, just a spectator in the movie. 

[The world was reduced to a simple room, with unpainted walls and mushrooms on a grey ceiling. A square TV played an old children's program on a wooden countertop. The light from the television illuminated the room along with the streetlight coming in from a small window on the left wall.

There was a round table in the middle of the room, with several open notebooks with pages full of ink and a single mug of hot chocolate. You couldn't get to read what was in the notebooks, but the beautiful cursive handwriting, with the letters too rounded... It was a blow to Dream's memory.

It couldn't be. It was...?

A woman in her early thirties, with a full head of white curly hair, came into view. She set about closing each notebook and stacking them before facing the "view" directly, bending down a bit to close the height difference. 

Her somewhat burned face from hours in the sun had wrinkles of fatigue, making her look much older than she really was. She had dark circles under her eyes and lines between her eyebrows -from her habit of frowning most of the time in the last few months-. Her costume, reminiscent of a movie pirate with a leather trench coat, white shirt, and black pants with high boots, was the last thing Dream needed to confirm any suspicions. 

Before his thoughts could begin to run over each other in a race destined for a horrendous crash, Jason's omniscient voice was heard above all else, outside of what Dream was seeing and hearing up to that second. As if coming from behind his back. Someone talking behind him in the movie theater as the film played ahead.  

"This is your memory" Jason confirmed. 'Here' his voice sounded much clearer without that faint stutter where you could hear the blood rushing down his throat and the screeching of his lungs every time he breathed. It was something low, fluid, and cutting. It was reminiscent of an arrow breaking the silence. 

No matter how much Dream wanted to, he could not move his "sight" from its place. Nothing moved, her mother's face or posture didn't change at all, as if she hadn't heard Jason (which made sense, it was just a memory, nothing more than an old memory he had buried after so many years).

Even if he had agreed to shake hands with Jason again, Dream wanted nothing more than to disappear and be swallowed up by the earth. He wanted to stop seeing this, to pretend it didn't exist. He just wanted to wake up and get out of that house, either by helping Jason or by leaving him there. He just wanted to leave to take that -stupid- test and go home.

"Why are we watching this?" Dream didn't expect to be able to talk just like Jason, but it seems this really was like watching a movie. 

He didn't focus on how tense he sounded. Anxious for the man's response.

"This is a turning point for you." 

Dream didn't comment on how that didn't answer anything, too mesmerized watching as his mother grabbed the five-year-old Dream's hands, wrapping them in a tight grip as she watched him... In fear. 

Dream didn't remember that night very well, but he was sure the image of his frightened mother wasn't what he had. 

He does not want to see this memory.

"my gift allows me to see a person's memories with just a handshake."

His mother kissed him on the forehead (Dream remembers this) before murmuring—oh. His mother's voice never sounded so clear in his vague, fuzzy memories. In his mind, it was like trying to remember a song without rhythm or lyrics, but here—here it was completely different, it was having the song orchestrated live. Her voice was so steady but sweet at the same time, with a tinge of weariness at the end of each phrase that she wasn't unable to hide. saying sweet things about Dream as if they were the truth of the universe itself.

"but of course, that only works in certain situations. I also have to give something in return. Exchange of equal equivalence."

The sound of the TV was ignored by them. But when his mother straightened up to turn it off with the remote control, a small arm stopped her, pointing at the TV with strong gestures.

Dream remembered the question he asked her mother. He also remembered the answer. 

—Why don't you use your power, Mom? 

Her mother's face distorted for a second -so quickly that only now seeing it again did Dream notice it- before she smiled without showing her teeth, wrinkles accentuating the corners of her lips and the corners of her eyes.

—ah. I just don't want to become lazy! If we use our gift for everything, we'll soon forget how to live without it. You should do the same son. Or do you want to be just as lazy as your mother?

His mother's playful voice (how could he not realize it was so forced?) was able to make the young Dream laugh, who got up to grab his mother's arm and rock back and forth. She gladly let him.

—No! I'm not lazy! But I don't want to let— more squeaky laughter was heard as his mother tickled his side, she giggling a little too (though looser, weaker) —Okey! Okey! I stop being lazy, I stop being lazy! I'm not going to-I'm not going to use my gift anymore!

A relieved sigh was heard from his mother, and she finally left young Dream alone, wrapping him in a tight hug. Her fluffy hair obscured his view almost completely, only being able to see the corner of the television and the gray wall clearly.

—Thank you, honey. Remember, I don't want you to stop using your power. Just... Do it when no one is looking, okay? We don't want them to think we're lazy. What kind of sailors would we be! 

Laughter full of innocence was heard loud and clear, the desperation in his mother's thanks going unnoticed by young (stupid, stupid, stupid) Dream.

Her mother could be heard sighing one last time before it all disappeared.

Terror-filled Dream's soul. Almost screaming, No! to see his mother at least one more second, to hear her one more time before returning to the lonely reality. 

But reality didn't come either.

Their senses didn't return, nor did they return to the room. They were in a black void. With nothing to see or feel. 

Dream couldn't cry in that state. But why did it feel like he could?

"Why, the fuck, did we see this?" All but snarled, Dream said. Vitriol and anguish in his voice oh so clear.

"I already said it, an exchange of equal equivalence."

"What does that even means? I-God,-me. Why? That has to-you, agh, why that-"

"Boy."

Dream stopped his meaningless words when he heard how tired Jason sounded, like just before he grabbed his hand for the first time.  

"That memory is important, not to your waking consciousness, but to you. I don't just see memories, I see the people. And even if you don't know it, that moment of yours is just as important as mine." He replied, his voice carrying the weight of whole wisdom to tell, but he didn't bother to elaborate.

Both remained silent. Dream simply didn't know how to react to Jason's response (and if he was honest, he still didn't understand what the fuck this man was trying to tell him). 

 There was so much he didn't understand and he had so many questions.

He chose the simplest one to ask.  

"After all this, you... Do you plan to stay at home? Without having called anyone? Not even a relative?" he questioned carefully.

"Yeah, sort of."

"...Why?"

"I... I don't want to bring any more people into my problem. I think you understand."

Oh, Dream understood. Of course he understood. How could he not when his whole life was spent pushing his problems away from Sam to deal with them alone, when the one chance he had to talk to someone (he still wonders what would have happened if he talked) he avoided them with a 'nothing, nothing's wrong'. Sure he understood, but this was different.

Jason didn't have a gift like Dream's. He didn't deserve to deal with this alone. He didn't deserve to-to fucking die here. He deserved help. 

Dream let himself be carried away by the silence (or rather the annulment of sound, because even in the silence there was something other than just emptiness), trying to sort out his thoughts. The stillness stretched on for he doesn't know how long, all lost in an amorphous amalgam without form. It could have been seconds as well as hours. There was no way of knowing. 

"Of course, I understand. But please, I can't just leave you like this. I'm supposed to leave you...alone in your house? like nothing is happening?" Dream felt his voice crack as he spoke, so he paused to calm the whirlwind in his head. "Jason, that's your name right, please. Is it that I can't help? I, I'm not a relative of yours. I can help you. I would never say anything to anyone, I would stop your bleeding, and then I would leave, I promise. Please, you can't just..."  -Die. 

He didn't want to admit it, but no matter how much Sam trained him, taught him, showed him his own records and tapes. Dream never saw a person die in front of him -so close to him that he could smell the blood without a problem, notice how the light in their eyes disappeared- he doesn't think he's ready to see it either. 

... Fuck.

He had to find a solution, or else he would prove that all this time he trained (suffered) was in vain. And he couldn't help himself with that statement. He has to help HehastohelpHehastohelp-

"God, you're so desperate, kid... And you're so young too, I-" a silence cut through his sentence, his presence seemed to have disappeared for a few moments. "No matter how much you want to help me, there's no case anymore. But... I think, God, I think you can do something for me."

"What?"

"that no one will find me. Is there any way you can do that?" 

Ah.

Dream swore to feel his heart pounding for the first time in all of this, his mind going to a stop where everything seemed to stand still in time. It felt strange, he wished the only answer that came to him wasn't so horrifying.

"Yes, there is... something I can do with that." He admitted, ignoring the tremor in his voice perfectly. It was horrible to sound so pathetic.  

Another silence ruled between them and the void, and then:

"I really appreciate it, Dream. Thank you"  

The emptiness disappeared, sensations, sounds, images, all came back in less than a second.

Chapter Text

Dream felt his body again in an instant, every sensation coming back fast and strong. It was like a blow. 

Everything in the house was still the same. Nothing had changed since he was sunk in that void. 

As he opened and closed his right fist, relieved not to feel broken bones, he saw Jason on the chair, too immobile to be...

The screeching sound Jason's lungs made every time he breathed stopped. Just as his hands stopped shaking uncontrollably. Most importantly, his chest stopped rising and falling in that trembling back-and-forth motion it did before.

It was official, Jason was-had died (and Dream offered to hide his corpse). 

Dream wanted to get close enough to check his pulse, just in case, to confirm that Jason had passed away. But when his index and ring finger barely touched his stiff, cold skin. Dream felt his breakfast coming up through his throat with alarming speed.

Shit.

Dream got away from the bodyJason like his life depended on it. He tried to walk to the kitchen without throwing up on the floor (just seeing all the blood that was already staining it made the job of not spitting out the toast and eggs much more difficult). But before he could grip the sink, his mouth opened wide, the muscle drives pushing in his throat unintentionally. He threw up into the hand covering his mouth. 

He tried to stop retching until he reached the sink, where he finally could vomit up the rest. His whole body trembled as he felt his hand, now covered in blood and vomit, grip the counter with an iron grip.

Dream hated throwing up. It was disgusting, he could not control it, and the taste that remained in his mouth was horrible.  

But being in a house with a corpse all bloody only served to spew out whatever his stomach may have had (is that yellow thing yesterday's dinner?).

After insufferably long minutes, Dream's stomach seemed to have finally emptied, no longer feeling the tug at the back of his throat, forcing him to open his jaw as wide as possible. He coughed a couple of times, taking in big gulps of air, and turned on the faucet washing his hands (finally). He saw all the grim leave his skin and vanish down the drain in a red and brown stream. He scratched under his fingernails, pulling out anything that might have been left, too focused on wanting to see his hands clean that he didn't hear his cell phone ringing that same old tune. It was only after rinsing his mouth and spitting five times that his mind was calm enough to realize the melody above his panic, and blood flowing through his ears (the silence was so big, no shrieking, no coughing, no whimpering, no-). 

Dream grabbed his phone, not caring that his hands were still wet, seeing Dad's incoming call without having the courage to answer it. He sighed, glancing behind him, at Jason and the floor covered in his blood, at the memories he showed him, at the favor he agreed to ask, before turning his gaze back to the phone.

What could he possibly say? It was already... What time was it? He strained his blurred vision to focus on the small numbers in the corner of the screen. 

Ten past one. Dream squeezed his phone as if he wanted to break it and leaned his sweaty forehead against the cold glass of the device. Of course Sam was calling. He should have entered the exam more than an hour ago. 

He sighed, holding back a growl-whine in his throat, trying to calm himself as he tried to think of what-

"Dream? Dream. You finally answer."  Sam's voice echoed in the kitchen. Dream almost dropped the cell phone on the floor from the shock. He bit his tongue to keep from letting out any screams from the fear that stuck in his chest. 

He had accepted the call by accident. How stupid was he? "Dream! Why aren't you talking? What happened? I know you aren't in the exam. Your name is not registered." He spoke, the beginnings of a hiss heard at the end of each sentence. That only happened when Sam was furious.

Shit. Dream was dead (okay, no, it is wrong to say that now). "You were not supposed to do  this  again. Just-stay where you are; I'm coming to get you. And do-not-move. I will know if you do." he ordered. He said nothing more, and the call was cut off, the beep ringing until Dream turned the phone off. His fingers were shaking so much that he let the phone fall against the floor with a loud thud.

I'm coming to get you . The phrase floated in Dream's head for a few seconds...

Oh God, Sam was going to look for him. Sam was coming to where he was. Dream spun on his feet so fast that his vision blurred. Sam was coming to a house with a dead body and Dream inside. Oh no, oh no, no no no. This can't be happening. How could he forget that Sam always knew where he was? Having a phone wasn't just about calls and texts.  There was no way Sam would let him leave the house alone if he didn't keep track of every fucking step he made. Not with how paranoid and cautious he was. 

Damned chip. Dream had forgotten he had it (so used to Sam's trust,  how long ago did he not have to use it to drag him back home? ) all this time. Sam knew where he was and would arrive at any moment, finding him red-handed at what was literally a crime scene. 

His labored breathing could be heard clearly in the house.   Dream walked in circles around the kitchen, clutching his head as if that would help.

He didn't-he didn't know what to do. Sam would realize how bad he was being all along, disobeying again and again (But didn't he try to help? He only wanted to help Jason. He swears it, he really swears it) every rule he taught him.

What did you do? Did you kill a civilian? Did you let your gift turn you into the monster you really are? 

God, he could already imagine Sam's voice saying all those things. Dream was more than dead; he was already in the coffin. 

Tears welled up in his eyes. It was the same as before, always the same story. Dream disobeyed Sam, did something he wasn't supposed to do, and in the end, he paid for the broken dishes by putting each piece together with his tongue.

Only now, only now, there was not only Dream but there was also Jason. That although dead, Dream didn't want Sam to do anything to him (Not like all those bodies that ceased to be bodies. Just machines, pieces of meat, prostheses for experiments with that doctor without an arm that Sam always seems to want close by).

No, Dream didn't want Sam to do anything to Jason. The more he thought about it. The more he was terrified of what might happen, either to himself or Jason's body.

A week without food, forbidden to leave the house, back to being locked in the  box . The more he thought about it the more he wanted to just  run-run-run-run  away from there, where no one could find him. 

Dream, he, he promised to be good,  he promised!  And he tried,  God he tried his hardest and he thought trying to help Jason was being good but now it was obvious it wasn't and now Sam was so so angry. 

Trying to escape again?

No! No!  Dream stopped doing such childish stupidities (Trying to get back to his mother?) years ago. He did  not  try to escape. He just-had a stupid and useless way of trying to help someone who needed professional help, not Dream. 

Yes, he-he would say that, and Sam sure would understand. He would comprehend and he would just tell him that he was an idiot to haven't called him, but sure, sure the consequences wouldn't be so ugly. Not going to the box or anything like that.   

Right?

...

Dream watched Jason's body from the kitchen, feeling the tremors in his hands get worse. They were so sharp it looked like his whole arm was shaking. 

It was stupid to believe that Sam wouldn't punish him for this. But the box, the box. Dream couldn't go back there. He hadn't been in that room in years, and the last time was when he ran out of the house after a severe panic attack during one of his training sessions.

He remembers how furious Sam was when he found him, how he didn't give in to his cries and pleas and pushed him into that small room. Sam only kept him locked up for a couple of hours, but it was hell itself, and he doesn't want to feel that hell again. for anything in the world. Dream no longer cared if he deserved it or not. He couldn't bear to be there again. 

His feet moved of their own accord, leaving his phone lying forgotten on the kitchen floor, taking him close to Jason. His wide-open eyes couldn't take his sight off the body and the front door, terrified that Sam would arrive at any moment (and Sam means box, disappointment, punishment, reprimand, box-box-box-box ). He sweated as if he were inside an oven, and whispering a hundred apologies, he raised both hands. He hated that his fear of  Sam  was driving him to this. 

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Jason, so much. I hope you rest in peace." He murmured. Because Dream knew that the deceased deserve respect, sometimes more than the living.  

And what he was about to do because of his selfishness, cowardice, and absolute terror, violated all of that. 

He stretched out both hands horizontally in front of Jason, seeing already the tips of his fingers were beginning to tremble from the force his gift needed. He took a deep breath looking at the entrance one last time before concentrating entirely on Jason. 

He inherited his gift from his mother, partially. She could control any object without physically touching it as long she was strong enough. It wasn't physical strength that limited his gift (although it did need a small part of it), but something more intangible. She had defined it as the "strength of one, of their soul." While doctors usually said something like 'strength of mind'. Whatever was true, she could manipulate anything without having to be close. Something that proved very useful in her life as a captain, handling the sails or the rudder without having to move away from Dream. Or cooking dinner while sitting next to him, helping him understand a book or some homework.

His mother used her gift to multitask, to help him or someone else. 

But Dream. Dream, for some reason, modified that already perfect and beautiful gift into something more morbid. He could control the blood of people or animals. The pressure, flow rate, velocity, anything as long as it is blood. But not only did he need that 'mental or soul' strength to use it. He only could control blood when it was inside something that was (or is) alive. So handling blood samples or donor bags was out of his service. As well as blood spilled on any surface. Only when it was inside a body could it be under his control, generating artificial hypertension and causing a brain hemorrhage; or controlling the person like a puppet.

Or, if he strained, he could try to gather all the blood in the body at one point, forcing the muscles to contract so much that they break bones and deform everything in their path. 

Dream's shoulders flinched every time he heard the  crack, crack, crack ; that Jason's body was making as he forced him to bend at an unnatural angle.

Dream closed his eyes tightly after seeing Jason's knee turn 180°, blood traveling through exposed flesh like red vines with a life of their own. He was guided entirely by the sensation that pulsed in his fingers. As if he were pulling invisible threads connected to his cuticles.

If Dream destroyed Jason's body first, then Sam could do nothing. He wouldn't be able to seek information from him or use every organ as a scientific specimen. Jason could pass away without alerting his family, just as he wanted. 

Yes, maybe Sam will find it, but no one will be able to identify it after this. Dream would comply with the request. Oh well, he hoped so. Because he couldn't stand that after transforming a human into a ball of broken flesh and bones, breaking the skin and creating a grotesque sculpture (he will have nightmares from this if he lives to tell it). They find everything he tried to hide. Or worse. They find Jason's family, and they have to watch this--this atrocity that Dream committed.

Dream frowned and tensed his hands further. 

No, that was not possible. Even if Sam could tell just by entering the house that it was Dream's doing, he would not let Jason be identifiable. He would just have to finish and-

Dream turned his head like a deer in headlights. 

Maybe it was his imagination. He was too deep in his head. Silence (if you ignored the crack, crack, crack, and blood flowing) reigned in the house. Nothing that was heard sounded suspicious. Yeah. Sure it was his ima-

Toc Toc. 

Someone was knocking at the door. Someone was knocking at the door!

"Excuse me. Is anyone inside? I'm the hero The Warden. Could someone open the door? I'm here to help. There's a lot of blood out here." Sam's voice was muffled by the distance, but it was undeniably him. 

Dream's world came crashing down. His breathing suddenly quickened as he dropped his hands to the side of his body. He looked at the door where  Sam was standing behind,  what was left of Jason, and the whole room (a room covered in blood-blood-blood).

"If no one comes out in three minutes. I have permission to break in." Sam warned? Sam threatened? Sam stated, causing Dream's blood to freeze. He retreated step after step until his back hit the wall.

He had to get out of there, fast. There was no way he would stand there and wait for his  father  to come in, meeting him like  this . Dream had for the first time to listen to that little voice in his head screaming; Run-run-run! And escape far from there even if it means leav-aban-  disobey  Sam.

His delirious eyes darted around the whole house before moving his feet, stumbling into the only corridor as he listened to his father continue talking (he just wanted him to shut up!), leaving Jason behind. 

He opened every door he saw, searching for a window that could lead him away from Sam (a room containing only a bed and a bedside table, no window). Away from torturous training (a bathroom too small for one person, with nothing more than the basics, a single toothbrush, no window). Away from days without food (an office with a desk and a library. It was full of papers and-). Away from indoctrination (there was a window).

Dream paused for a few seconds, surprised to find a way out ( was he really escaping? ) for real. He would have stayed longer looking at the number of folders that could be seen occupying the entire desk, papers sticking out of diaries and notebooks, but the banging in the front door forced him to run to the window in front of him. It was big enough to fit and had no bars, so Dream stopped wasting time and almost broke the latch trying to open it. He tried to be as careful as possible, but a gasp that turned into hiss made his hands shake and his movements jerky. Outside his quick breathing and poorly concealed whimpering, he could hear hurried footsteps around the house. Sam was-he was looking for him. Maybe Dream should-

"Dream! I  know  you're here. What the fuck did you do?"

Dream screamed, and half of his body was already outside the window, both arms on the frame to propel himself and jump to the other side. His muscles- he  was acting under pure adrenaline and fear. Nothing more than that. His eyes stung with tears, and he seemed to choke on the very air.  

 "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry dad !" 

His body smashed face-first into the grass of a garden. But he stood up still crying and didn't wait to see green out of the corner of his eye before running away, jumping over a fence and landing with a heavy fall on the street.

Several people had gathered around Jason's house at the sight of one of the city's most famous heroes. Curious onlookers, trying to understand what was going on, talking in isolated groups. But they all screamed as soon as they saw him straighten up, quickly noticing the blood still fresh on him. 

Shit , Dream thought looking behind his shoulder, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. Sam  definitely  heard that. 

He cursed through his teeth and started running again in no particular direction, just looking to generate as much distance as possible while dodging people in his path. 

He didn't stop until his footprints stopped marking a bloody path behind him, slowing down to catch his breath. He looked behind him and on both sides before wandering into a desolate alleyway, hiding in the shadow of a dumpster and sitting down on the dirty ground, taking his first deep breath for the first time in hours. 

...

Dream cried. He hugged his knees hiding his face between his legs, crying his eyes out. There was no one or time against the clock to stop him this time. 

The dampness of the floor was getting through his pants, the cold in his jacket was giving him chills and the smell of sweat and blood was killing him. But he simply couldn't find anything in himself to move and do other than drown in his own misery. 

He just wanted to... He just wanted to cry. 

Was it so hard to have gone to that stupid exam? 

Chapter Text

The only thing that prompted Dream to move was the passage of time, the cold blood in his clothes giving him chills, and the sun slowly lowering. 

He rubbed his face, trying to dry his tears and stood up, hiding behind the dumpster as he glanced down the street. 

No one else could see him after the scandal he made at Jason's house. Dream had to find a change of clothes and get out of this area as soon as possible. 

What if he returned home? 

...

No, there was no way, it was too stupid and dangerous. He had to find another way. 

Dream saw his body, with all his clothes ruined, and inhaled deeply, he took off his jacket and threw it into the dumpster.

It didn't make much difference when he saw the blood on his T-shirt too. He lowered his arms alongside his body, defeated and disgusted.

Jesus, The blood of Jason was touching him him all this time, which makes sense! His hands were covered in his blood less than an hour ago, but having Jason's blood touching his torso, such a defenseless part of his body, feels different. It doesn't feel like when he worked with Sam, and maybe he stained his hands and arms in the worts cases, no, Here his whole he  was stained (like the killer in the movies, covered in the blood of their victims), it felt incriminatory.

Crap, Dream was throwing up again.

Dream put both hands on his knees, as he hunched over and vomited on a garbage bag -It was the second time that day, not even an hour apart for god's sake-, his throat ached from the acid in his stomach coming up, it burned and dried his mouth. 

He just wanted this day to be over. 

"Oh my goodness." Someone whispered above Dream, loud enough that his voice was not carried away by the wind.

Dream coughed a couple of times when he forced himself to stop gagging, trying to look above his head at whoever found him, though that only made him choke even more, the burning in his throat and eyes getting worse.

"Oh no, no no. You have to let it out muffin-head, otherwise, it will be worse." Said the same voice again kindly, now beside him. 

Dream's body tensed when he saw a clawed hand approach his face. He was ready to straighten up even if it means throwing up in that person's face and running away, but the only thing that person did was move his hair out of his face, while their other hand stroked his back in comforting circles. Dream decided to do nothing until he could speak normally. 

Luckily the retching ended much more quickly than before, and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he looked at the person next to him for the first time. 

His eyes opened wide, saliva stuck in his throat.

A man, who looked older than Sam, with dark skin and eyes more white than snow itself, was looking at him from above (he was tall, really tall. Dream had never seen anyone like this before. He must have been more than two heads taller than Sam, and Sam is  tall). His gaze, something Dream did not expect at all, showed only sadness and concern, one of his hands was still on his back while the other retracted to the side of his body.

Despite his appearance (with wings so large that they almost touched the ground, they reminded him of a bat; his eyes pure white without pupils and horns on the sides of his head), he didn't look like a hero (not at least one that Dream knew), a special or federal force. He was dressed in a casual way, in a red and black hoodie, matching pants, and high boots. Dream could not overlook the golden ring resting at the base of one of his horns, glinting when the sun reflected just at the right angle.

"Are you good? I-I mean, of course you're not well. You're..." the demon-like man put a hand on his shoulder as he looked past Dream, to the street, before leading them further into the alley, away from gossiping eyes. 

Dream didn't know if it was his shock, at such kindness and gentle way of pushing him without having to grab his arm and just drag him along; his stupidity, or his exhaustion. But he didn't object and wordlessly let himself be carried away by the stranger, even if it was a terrible idea. He was so tired to try to wriggle out of the grip, and this person just looked so friendly. Dream never remembered seeing Sam like this, touching him gently just for the sake of it, not to take care of makeup or not to disturb wounds, just affectionate treatment. 

(If seeing Dream so scared, tired, leaning over to be close to  him  without even realizing it, and he slightly moved one of his wings to wrap it around the boy, well, that was between him and no one else.)

Dream did his best to keep his head in the present as he looked at the man, having to tilt his head to look him in the eye.

"Who are you? What do you want?" Dream asked, without really wanting to know the answer. Because everyone wants something. As nice as the man looked, surely there must have been a reason why he came closer to Dream. 

Right?

Dream ignored how the sadness in the white eyes deepened. For having no pupils and just being a white void, his eyes were expressive. 

"I think Sam is looking for you." He whispered, the hand on Dream's shoulder feeling heavier than before.

Wait. What? How did he-? Dream watched in terror as he took a step back, but the wing that had previously only grazed his shoulder now wrapped around his entire back, preventing him from moving away.

His vision blurred, and he didn't even bother to stop his tears, let alone hide his whimpers. Fucking-Dream was so stupid. Obviously, this powerful but kind looking man was here on Sam's orders. But, hope be damned, he looked so kind, so much so, that for a second Dream thought maybe he was just helping for no particular reason other than his concern for a complete stranger.

Dream really didn't deserve help, did he? In the end, he was right.

Dream's body was enveloped by bat wings while clawed hands dried the tears on his cheeks. Totally surrendered, he just shook his head, trying to walk away without success. His legs ached from exhaustion as did his arms. With no more adrenaline running through his body he felt ready to collapse to the ground at any moment. Maybe he will, Sam already found him anyway, surely this man (with such a kind look) was just waiting for Sam to arrive. He was just making time.  

"Oh sweetheart, don't worry, it's okay to cry, Sam's not going to find you. I sent him on the wrong way."

Dream, did he hear that right?

His gaze that had fallen to the ground, looking at the man's boots, suddenly went up, looking him in the eye.

"What?" Dream said no louder than a whisper, confusion, weariness, and hope in his tiny voice. 

If it was possible, the demon-like man only watched Dream with more empathy than before (and some pity), while his gentle hands caressed his injured cheek and arranged his hair. His touch felt so comforting, so good. It reminded him of the time Sam did his hair with the same care and gentleness, but better. 

"that I distracted Sam, I was able to give you more time to escape, but you have to go now."

"I- But-why? Who are you? You sure work with him, so, why?" 

the friendly-looking demon sighed, pulling his hands away from Dream for the first time, he did his best not to lean on him, already missing the warmth they emanated.

"I'm Bad. I worked with Sam for a while, and I knew he was hiding something- someone , from everyone. I didn't know anything else and never investigated-" he said that with so much guilt that Dream was prompted to say 'I'm sorry,' even if he didn't know why he was apologizing. "-until now. Sam is looking for you right now, you need to leave fast  before he realizes I took him anywhere." 

Bad's words bounced off the walls of his mind like a ping-pong ball. Dream wasn't able to believe what Bad was saying, it sounded so surreal, the situation of someone wanting to help him.

He was right? He was wrong?

He deserved help?

Ugh-

Everything hurts. He just wanted to sleep and forget about this, stop this day or just delay it, pretend none of this is happening. It was too much.

"I just... Where? Where can I go? I don't have anyone, Sam is-Sam is-... Where am I going to escape to? I have nowhere." He said with his heart in his throat, covering his face with both hands, breathing hard and heavy.

Because it's true, outside of Sam, Dream has no one, he would be out on the street with nowhere to go, with no one to ask for help. He has no friends, the only constant person in his life is Sam, and sometimes Dr. Ponk, but Dream doesn't like Ponk, and the relationship he has with Sam is too strange  for his taste (he could never quite believe how after having his arm dismembered Ponk could still maintain a relationship with them).

Dream was alone without Sam, just as he said. 

Strong arms wrapped around him, wings covering everything but them, letting the outside world disappear. Dream trembled in Bad's grip as if an earthquake was happening inside him before loud whimpers escaped his chest. He couldn't stop. He clung to Bad's back like it was the only thing keeping him alive, burying his fingernails in the fabric of his hoodie, afraid he'd regret the hug and let him go. 

Bad's hand went up from his back to his head, gently pushing it so that Dream would hide in his neck (he also thinks to silence his cries, after all, they were still on the street). Dream gladly allowed it, even pushing his forehead against the cowl collar and a gray plaid scarf he hadn't noticed before. 

"I'm sorry, I'm so-sorry!"

"It's okay, it's okay." Bad cooed, his voice trembling a little in restrained anger. "...You can stay at my home for a few days. Sam can't find you there, and I don't think Skeppy would mind."

The two continued in the embrace until Dream's cries lowed down, now just crying with a severe headache and his eyes burning, hiccups cutting off his breathing sporadically. Bad continued to say soft words doing his best to soothe him, one of his hands stroking his back in repetitive circles. 

Dream let himself be absorbed by the affection, taking it as much as possible  just in case , his knees shaking from fatigue and wanting to just let himself fall against Bad, but he refused to do that, to cross a line that would make him walk away and leave him alone in the alley. Dream just clung to him, breathing in the woody smell he had (nothing like the gunpowder and oil Sam always seemed to emanate), with something akin to wet earth.

"... Who is Skeppy?"  

"Oh! 

He's my husband."  

Chapter Text

The day of Bad started like always, with half of his body out of bed, no blanket covering him. One look to his right was enough to put his husband on the blame, who was sleeping tangled with all the blankets to himself, no guilt at all on his calmed face. It was an old habit of Skeppy, Bad believed to keep his body temperature warm because of his lack of regulation (a disadvantage of having diamond in his body). 

Not that it bothers him, too used to even bat an eye at it. Bad only yawned one last time before stretching his limbs and sitting up in his round bed (really comfortable for his wings), dropping his feet on the cold wooden floor. He extended his wings, careful not to hit Skeppy, and grabbed his phone on the nightstand, turning off the alarm that had wrenched him from his dreamless night, checking the time as he did so. 

"It's already eight o'clock, Geppy. You are gonna be late again if you don't get up." Said Bad getting up. He walked around their room, searching for a change of clothes for the day. 
He chose the usual, grabbing the red and black clothes and heading to the bathroom to take a shower.

Bad's showers were quick, only to wake him up and start the day fresh. He headed to the kitchen, still with his damp hair, ready to prepare breakfast for them, quick and easy. It didn't take him long, and soon he was carrying things to the table in their dining room. In time Skeppy came out of the bathroom, shuffling his feet and grumbling about how sleepy he was. 

His husband, despite the laziness that weighed on his steps and droopy eyelids, only looked at the round table for a second before sighing and getting closer to him, his hand going for a hold familiar and warm. 

"You made another plate again, love. " Skeppy commented as he tightened their hold, kissing him briefly before leaving to another part of the house. 

Bad stayed in place, registering what he had done.

"Oh." He said, laughing as he always did at his foolish mistake. Even if sadness appeared in the corner of his lips and eyes, he only shook his head, grabbing the third plate to leave it in the fridge. He closed the door of the electrical device with a small sigh, returning to the table to take a seat in one of the chairs.  

His wings that were still behind his back until then, rose up on his shoulders by instinct, covering his shoulders and arms like a black cloak that trembled on its own. Bad muttered as he forced himself to relax, leaning his back against the chair and taking the first sip of his coffee. 

Skeppy emerged from their room already changed, taking a seat beside Bad and preferring to eat before drinking something. He looked at Bad for a few seconds, swallowing noisily and pointing at the winged man with his toast. 

"Sap isn't out of your life, dumbass. He loves us too much for that." Skeppy commented, taking another bite of his food.

Bad sighed with a little chuckle, looking at his husband with mock anger.

"Geppy! I know that, is just..."

"Yeah, I know. That being in that hero school is dangerous and that he hardly ever sees us since he left. You already told me and also mentioned it to Sap about, what, a hundred times?" Skeppy joked. But when he saw the still indecisive look in Bad, he sighed looking at him in the eyes (with so much affection that Bad felt better just from that), more seriously than before. "He's sixteen love, and you know how it is. He wants to be a hero since he burned his first backpack. Sooner or later he would leave to achieve that." He said softly, leaving his hand open on the center of the table. Bad didn't hesitate to take his offer, leaving his mug forgotten for the moment.

It was okay. It was matter of time. Every father feels like this at first, knowing it will happen but never ready for the moment. Bad only wished it didn't happen so fast, hoping his little flame wouldn't leave until at least his coming of age.

Besides, a hero? Bad had waited that after so many times he spoke in the kitchen, mumbling to himself and sometimes speaking directly to Sapnap, he wouldn't choose to be a hero of all things. Bad remembers all the times he talked about how he didn't like the agencies, how he didn't like the heroes starting so young, and how he didn't like the attitude of old heroes in general.

But... If his Sapnap wanted to be a hero of all things. Bad wouldn't stop him.

"I... I just wished Sap would be anything, study or do anything he wanted, except..."

The look Skeppy gave him only showed understanding and compression. 

"I know,  we  know. But you don't know how happy Sapnap is now! That you support him even if you don't, eh- like, the agency. He told me once when you weren't around. I wasn't supposed to tell you." Skeppy admitted, raising his shoulders. He devoured the rest of his food and drank his coffee at an alarming speed.  

Bad's ears twitched, and his eyebrows rose up. He was surprised and (if he admitted it) ashamed of what he had just heard. Did his little flame though he wouldn't support him? It was no way. Bad was weak. There was no nightmare in the world where he denied something to Sapnap. His son could burn to ashes his house, and although he would be furious, he would forgive him without a doubt. Sapnap was his pride, the little fire he treasured and cared for with all the power he had. Allowing any wish he has as long as it is within reach of his claws.

But, being inside that dirty agency, there is not much Bad could do to keep Sap close, under the protective care of his wing. He had no choice but to accept and wish the best for his son, following him in whatever way he could. 

The warm hand of Skeppy wrapping Bad's made him look up. White, blank eyes staring into blue ones. 

"Don't worry. Sap never thought that you wouldn't let him go. Yes, he was nervous, but he  never  thought you would say no. Personally. I believe you prefer to curse in front of children that saying no to Sapnap." 

Bad laughed from the bottom of his core, not having the heart to deny Skeppy words. He squeezed his hand before letting go, feeling relief fill his chest. 

They finished their breakfast after that, ready to go out. 

Bad drove through the streets, talking cheerfully with Skeppy, dropping him off in front of the jewelry store where he worked before heading to his own.   

Bad's job after he quit as a jailer of Pandora Box (and quit anything related to heroes) changed to being a cook in a well-known bakery near the center. It's a beautiful building with brick walls and a sweet smell of muffins and chocolate. It was in a strategically located corner, close to a high school, the Red Stadium, and the main street. There was no time of the day when the bakery was empty, always someone going in to try something new or place their usual order.

Bad sighed, thinking how busy the day would be, worse than usual. The stupid exam of new heroes (or exposing all young people who didn't know how to use their gift to perfection) would attract a lot of people into the establishment. Like every year, groups of people would invade the bakery, leaving Bad and his coworkers with numb hands and sore ears from all the noise. 

It's not something he's not used to, though, so he'll handle it without much trouble. Besides, Sapnap this time will stop by when he can, as he will be in the Red Stadium from the beginning of the event (but not participating, thank God, he's too young for that). 

Sapnap is not old enough to enter these "testing exams" according to what he said weeks ago. Bad didn't say anything about maybe, just maybe, having a little influence on that.

(there was no way he would expose his little flame to this dirty, bloody world, not yet).

The start at work was as Bad expected, fast and heavy, people coming from all over the country making time in the bakery with big breakfasts. He was moving from one place to another in the kitchen doing whatever, muffins, pancakes, waffles, sandwiches, without stopping for a moment. 

It continued at the same pace for the next few hours, until Bad felt his phone buzz. He hummed curiously, usually he didn't get calls unless Sapnap had done something at school. Burn something or someone.  

But what he saw was the plain letters of Muffinhead:D. 

His wings pressed against his back like black armor. Something was wrong. He turned to another baker, taking off his gloves and keeping his face calm.

"Uh, Niki! If someone asks please say I'm in the back. I have a call to answer."  

Niki raised her head up at his call, giving him thumbs up. 

"Don't worry about it! Take your time."

Bad didn't even wait for her to finish, already grabbing his phone and going to a more quiet place. He took the small room they had to leave their personal things or take a break, closing the door behind him and accepting the call. 

Calls didn't happen often. Sapnap never called on general, preferring to chat, and Skeppy hated making calls. Mainly because he had enough experience to hate having to talk to someone this way. He prefers to type than say things aloud, where 'everyone can hear'. The times Skeppy called him can be counted with one hand.

And every time it was for some worrying reason. So yeah, Bad also hates calls, and he is heavily worried. His mind already made up scenarios, one worse than the other. 

"Skeppy? Are you okay? What happened?"

"It's Sam." Said Skeppy without a hint of emotion, and Bad's world stopped. 

"What?"

"The Warden-motherfucker. That motherfucker is gonna- I think he is gonna  kill  a child, for God's sake." he spat with so much hatred in his voice. Bad didn't hear him like this in years (the memory of an abandoned factory on fire came to his mind, but he pushed it away).

Bad didn't care the insults or venom in Skeppy's voice, too busy processing what he heard because- What? Bad knew (shit, it was one of the reasons he left that damn place) that Sam was a bad person. Sam acted too cruel to the inmates, too cold with people, and too methodical and practical, reaching the point of ethical immorality.  

But it was one thing to strike a prisoner, and another completely different was killing a  child . 

Bad never thought (he did) that Sam would go to such a... disgusting level. As sickening and unforgivable as what he was hearing.

He had so many questions to ask (One of them being, how the fudge did Skeppy found about this?) but he knew it wasn't the time. No with how rushed and tense Skeppy sounded.

"Where is he? Do you want me to take care of it?" He asked, leaving the anger and concern out of his voice. Putting emotions aside again felt too much like being in Pandora's Box for comfort, but Bad ignored it.

"Please, he's going to the street Highpain, so I was told. I send you the exact address."

"I'm on my way."

"Be careful, love. Don't let that son of a bitch see you."

"Of course, take care too."

Bad didn't cut the call, just putting the phone in his pants pocket and leaving the room. He felt his fingers twitch, going to his boss with his uniform already folded in his arms. This day maybe is the worst day to leave mid-work, and maybe his boss wasn't the most comprehensive man for things like this, but Bad didn't care. 

He made his best attempt at a smile and excused himself by telling a quick lie, saying sorry at least five times before going off. 

Niki saw him with a worried glance as he apologized for leaving her alone, only saying:

"No, don't worry. I can by myself, just go, ¿Okey? Don't waste your time."

Bad seriously was thankful to have Niki as his closest coworker. She was always so kind and helped him on more than one occasion. He almost was able to forget she worked alongside Techno sometimes, with her sweet voice and gentle way of being.

When he slammed the back door, walking into the street, he only prayed that they wouldn't need her help this time. He didn't want more people involved. 

Worry clouding his mind, Bad began to head for empty streets, wanting to just use his wings and go, but his footsteps stopped on their own as he realized it wasn't the best idea. In the middle of the day, anyone could see him, and it wouldn't be an ideal fly while carrying a kid if needed. Not if Sam could see them and use his stupid weapons as if it was only a hunt of birds. 

So the car ride was. 

Bad put the call on speaker the second he was in the pilot's seat, starting the car. He didn't do anything else though, pressing his forehead against the steering wheel, grateful that his windows were tinted. 

"Skeppy, please, I don't really understand what's going on. Why would Sam kill a child? I understand that he-I know he's gone too far before, but-" he didn't finish the sentence. His scowl and slow breathing the only things that gave up his state.

Bad wanted to beat up something,  someone . 

"I can't say it like this, Bad, sorry. I'll explain all to you later, but you have to go to the address that I send you ASAP. The fastest you can." Skeppy pleaded, and Bad straightened in a second, turning the steering wheel and heading out onto the street as if something possessed him for how quick and mechanics his movements were. He mumbled through his teeth at seeing the heavy traffic, searching for other access more empties while he looked at the map on his phone. The travel was about fifteen minutes. It could be less if he avoided a few laws. 

"Bad. I-" the voice of Skeppy sounded unsure and scared. Bad couldn't control his tight grip on the steering wheel. "I think the reason Sam left Pandora was this child... I think-I think we were wrong all this time."  

Skeppy's voice sounded broken and lost. Bad felt numb, a blank veil over his face, but his fingers were slightly trembling. 

"What."

"Yeah, eh, he.- I'll tell you everything later, I promise. You only, be careful, love, be very careful." and come back home is left out of the sentence. But neither of them needs to say it out loud.

"I will, Geppy. Love you." 

"Love you."

Bad didn´t hear the dial tone at the end of the call, his eyes glued to the front, passing cars and ignoring some traffic signals. According to his phone, he was only five minutes away, but it still felt too long, too much time where Sam could be doing anything without anyone to stop him. 

And what Skeppy just told him? 

He turned the steering wheel to the right, hearing some muffled swears of others drivers.

Years ago, soon after he quit Pandora, Sam also did it. With the burning paranoia and fear of the moment, he and Skeppy (with some help of Techno) searched why the face of Pandora would leave home. Expecting him to show up at their door at any moment. But instead of finding a Sam wanting to close accounts, they found him changing his beloved prison for open field work, passing his large shoes to Ant, his second in command (Sam left a shadow impossible to cover. Who could have the same coolness, practicality, and logistics?).

After intensive spying (at the request of Techno, because he could not rest until he knew his friend was safe from that 'bloody killer with a medal') and information gathering, they found out that the real reason for his step down from Pandora was the finding of something. A weapon, they thought, like stupid bastards. But what else could it be? Never, not in a million years, would they think that Sam kidnapped (imprisoned, confined, trapped. So many words and Bad wants to vomit with every one of them) someone. 

And hat same month, to make it worse, a woman (Bad couldn't remember her name. Was it Susy?) who worked in the country's arms trade disappeared along with all her cargo. The government never gave clear answers and was covered up by more mediatic news. Everyone forgot about it to soon, to easy. That had sealed the case for them, everything having connected so perfectly, that it never occurred to them, they never thought it was a person that Sam took under his power that month.  

Bad felt sick with everything that was happening, but he pushed it away as he got closer to the place, slowing down. His worry only grew at the number of people gathered around a house and- his breath got caught in his throat. 

It had been years since the last time Bad saw Sam. He looked different and like time had not passed at all at the same time. His eye bags disappeared, his skin regained its color, and his hair never looked so soft. But his eyes were the same cold Bad remembered, posture tense like the old days inside Pandora. Right now, Sam looked ready to pounce and kill, pushing people away from him, turning his head in all directions before stomping in a particular way. 

"Oh my goodness, oh my goodness." Bad mumbled as he left his car. He waited until Sam was outside his sight to go closer to a random woman, who was talking in loud whispers with a small group.

"He couldn't be a villain. He was a child!"

"So? Kids are brats these days. Look if he murdered his family like the black and white killer and escaped. Better if The Warden catches him." 

"It's weird they send a hero for that. The police would have solved it. He had to be a villain or something. An Allie of villains, perhaps?"

"But here? In this part not even shit happens."

Bad heard enough. He moved away from the group walking back to the house whose door was wide open, some people glancing inside but thankfully without going into. Everyone that was close to the open door had grimaces on their faces, some even walking away looking sick. Bad understood why soon, no one needed to be inside the house to smell the awful reek of blood. It seemed to come out in waves. 

He kept his face passive as he went into the front door as if he owned the place, everyone else moving out of his way without a word. Sometimes he was glad of his appearance, it helped in situations like this. 

Before he closed the door, he looked at the people who were still there.

"Do not call the police. Everything here is handled." Bad said with an iron voice. He closed the door when he saw them nod their heads. 

Having the door closed made the smell feel ten times worse, the living room under darkness and light coming from the only hallway. Everything was covered in blood, the floor, walls, table, chairs and-

"Oh my-." 

Bad was not a stranger to blood. In his previous job, he saw plenty of blood for more than a lifetime, being surrounded by villains and all. Accounts to settle, hatred, mutiny, problems within gangs; a lot of things caused death inside (and outside) of Pandora. He saw burned bodies, stabbed, drowned- but whatever this is- is something on a different level. 

He turned his head away, wishing to never see it in the first place. The flesh and bone weren't even human anymore, and Sam did this? Or...

Bad pulled up the collar of his hoddie to cover up the smell as much as possible, he saw the body again even if it was the least he wanted to do in the world. It was a mess, too rough, meat shredded instead of cut, and did not seem to have a point more than destroy everything. It didn't look like something Sam would do. Sam was destructive, yes, but he always had an order to it, a beginning and an end, a method. He would kill someone, but not like this (Bad hates that he knows Sam well enough to recognize it).

He felt his shoulder drop, being able to breathe without feeling like is the end of the world. (For a second he thought the mess of flesh, bones, and blood was-he thought Sam did that to a fucking kid.

But if Sam didn't do this, that means it was the kid?)

A phone call forced him to move away from the corpse, wanting to get away from the stench. He went to the kitchen, noticing bloodied footprints and handprints. 

He accepted the call.

"Halloo, Bad. Long time no see ya, isn't it?" The monotone voice of Technoblade (The Blood God) echoed in the silent kitchen. It is true, they haven't talked in a long time. Bad wanted to keep it that way, but unfortunately, not everything could be as he wished. 

"Techno, hi, I hope you're doing well. Look. It's not a good moment right now, frankly. You need something important?" He said, trying to keep his voice as calm as possible. Bad still remembers how wary (scared?) Techno was around him and didn't want to make him uncomfortable on his first call in years.

"...Of course he's too paranoid to say anything-" The Blood God mumbled to himself, so low that Bad overheard him by luck.

"Wait, what-"

"I was hoping you would know the basics, but whatever. I presume you are already in the house, right? Right, well. I need you to find a tracker, it must be a chip or something." Technoblade said, making total sense, but Bad was experienced enough to act without asking many questions, even if his wings twitched for how annoying it was to not know anything.

He looked around in search of this chip. The house was in chaos and the darkness didn't help, but he saw a phone on the floor quite easily, its screen broken and stained. He grabbed it and inspected it, realizing it was a really old model, from years before. Bad remember it was one of the first phones he bought for Sapnap when all he needed was a couple of messages for when he went out with his friends.

The phone was old but well maintained, with handmade stickers of-smiling faces? and cats. It was so childish, the drawings with irregular lines and colors that once should have been strong, now worn out. It just screamed that it belonged to a child. And if Sam kidnaped someone, having a tracker on their phone sounds the most efficient thing to do.

He put his phone between his head and shoulder to keep his hands free, wanting to open the phone's carcass.  

"I found a phone. I believe it belongs to the boy."

"Perfect, he must have left it behind, smart of him. Try to leave the house, we'll see if the tracker still works." the noise of a keyboard could be heard behind Techno's voice, quite loud. He was always a loud typist.

He opened the phone cover just when Techno finished talking, finding a small chip glued to the integrated circuit board. He heard him without a doubt, throwing away the phone cover and left the house with long strides, his wings hunched over his shoulders, not wanting to touch the dirty floor. He slammed the door open, scaring some people by the loud noise, and left the place, ignoring everyone else, avoiding questions or glances in his direction.

His wings were about to start trembling for how bad he wanted to fly, to bolt and go searching for the kid, but he refrained from doing so. He needed to be away first. 

"Oh, perfect." the smug voice of Techno sounded far away as if he had moved away from the microphone, and more keyboard noise could be heard with more force than before. "The tracker is working unless you are not the one moving." The joke fell flat at Bad's silence. "difficult audience I see, okay. Heh, I wonder how Skeppy ended up raising a son with you." 

"What the muffins that mea-"

"-And back to the important. Find the kid first and use the tracker to mislead that kidnaper. We will take care of him later"

"I am sure of that." retorted Bad, ending the call. He turned a corner and stood behind a parked bus, putting the phone in his pocket. 

He looked at both sides before making a small jump and spreading his wings, flying high at incredible speed without anyone seeing him. His dark wings and figure were a disadvantage in plain daylight so he flew high, hiding in the white clouds of this beautiful day. He was lucky to have his perfect (advanced) sight, being able to see the streets without any problem.

He didn't know what the kid looked like, but with what the house was like, he doesn't think it would be hard to find him. A little youngling scared, and surely, covered in blood. He just hopes to be faster than Sam. 

He flew over the blocks on the lookout for anything suspicious, and just when he was about to go down, discretion be damned, he found him. It was easy to overlook, a figure oh so small and hunched over themselves, sitting next to a dumpster. In fact, he almost ignored it, thinking it was another person with a hangover or something, but the glimpse of red on them was too alarming to be ignored.

He breathed in relief at not seeing Sam close, but that wouldn't be for long. He grabbed the phone from the kid and ripped the chip off with his claws, throwing it away with all his strength. He got down to a roof and typed to Skeppy and Techno before facing the boy, descending on the dirty alley just behind him. 

And oh, only now, seeing him up close, was obvious how small he was. He must not even reach his shoulders-And the poor boy bent over himself and threw up.

"Oh my goodness," Bad murmured, not waiting to go and help the poor kid (that appears to be the same age as Sapnap, his little flame. Sam kidnaped and did God knows what to a kid that could have been his son? He felt sicker every passing minute. It just couldn't be how Sam had gone so far.)

Bad did his best effort at comforting Dream (he was so scared for the love of God), saying sweet things while he tried the impossible to keep the anger and venom out of his voice. It was kinda hard-scratch that, it was very hard to keep his voice calm and warm when he saw Dream flinch so easily (like no kid should do), apologize so fast, and panic at the simple mention of Sam. It broke his heart the entire state of this kid.

And if he didn't have a place to stay, who was Bad to deny him? Of course he would accept him. 

Bad cradled the boy under his wing, wanting to block the outside world as much as possible. They walked away from the alley, leaving behind a bloodied jacket inside the dumpster. 

The demon looked at the boy glued to his side, so small and flinching at every sound, his hands shaking slightly. Bad didn't want anything else than kill Sam and protect this kid. He wanted to say 'it's okay, Sam won't hurt you anymore, you're okay now' until he believe it. But Dream looked so frightened, that saying anything would surely only scare the boy more, so he opted to be silent and only say what was necessary.

They walked through the streets fast, Bad wanted to reach his car soon as possible to leave him out of the public eye.

After a few minutes he stroke Dream's shoulder softly, pointing with his wing to the black car parked in the front street. 

 "That's my car, soon well be in my home. I am sure you will like it." He said trying to calm him down, Dream only nodded his head, clinging to him without noticing. If he's honest, the boy looked a second away from a mental breakdown. Bad wishes he could do more.

"Are you sure Sam won't find us?" Dream asked, so, so quietly, that Bad had to tilt his head to hear him, his ears twitching. God, he sounded so scared, looking over his shoulder and hugging himself. 

A child should never look or sound like this. 

Bad sighed to not hiss, cursing Sam in his mind, and caressed Dream's shoulder, opening the car door for him. "I swear it. He never found me before, we'll keep it that way." He said waiting with the door open, but Dream stood still in his place, not making move to enter his car. Bad thought of all the reasons why the kid wouldn't want to go with him, but when Dream looked at his shirt, it was clear. "Don't worry. I don't care, it can be washed." He muttered, giving Dream a little push of encouragement.

The boy didn't look convinced but fortunately didn't object and got into the car with all the care in the world, trying not to touch anything. 

Bad wanted to call Skeppy so bad. He wanted to tell him everything, but leaving a frightened child alone in his car while he stays outside talking with someone Dream doesn't know didn't sound like a good idea. It was better to get home as soon as possible, only then Bad could fully calm down and Dream can get a shower, the poor kid needs it. 

He entered the car and sighed when all the external noise faded away, leaning his head against the back of the seat. He took a few minutes to breathe properly, processing everything and sorting out his thoughts. He saw Dream through the rearview mirror in heavy silence, looking for his phone to at least tell Skeppy and Techno that yes, Sam did kidnap someone, and yes, the kidnapped boy was now okay and with him. 

"Let's get to my house, right dear? I am already telling Skeppy you're with me."

Dream only nodded, his eyes never staying in the same spot more than three seconds. "Okay. Thank you so much for... For, all this." 

Chapter Text

Dream's mind was in chaos. He felt a knot in his stomach that didn't let him breathe, and his knuckles turned white from how tense his hands were gripping his pants. 

As he watched the streets pass by through the car's tinted window, he felt the knot grow more and more. It was like a nightmare in broad daylight, stealing his breath with a tight hold over his chest.

It was on the tip of his tongue: No, stop, open the door. All of this was a stupid mistake.  But his mouth wouldn't open. For the worse, the distance they had taken from the alley, where he'd been for the last half hour, only made the urge on his tongue stronger and more uncomfortable. It was insufferable. Not only were they moving away from Jason's house, but they were moving out of the area where Dream lived. 

When he saw how the streets were smaller and less crowded, the houses bigger, and how people were walking on the street instead of the sidewalk, dressing differently from his zone, his mind reached its limit. He wanted to speak up and yell at Bad (even as nice, as nice as he was)  I have to get off! I have to get off! . But his mouth just-wouldn't-fucking-open. The only thing that came from his lips was an embarrassed, high-pitched snort reminiscent of a child's whimper in the existing silence. 

He immediately caught Bad's attention, who turned his head to look at him, concerned, before turning his eyes back to the front. 

Dream could only avoid eye contact by looking back at the window, even if his neck hurt from having it bent for so long. 

"Did something happen?" consulted Bad, looking at him in the rearview mirror in a kind and concerned voice, which Dream was already becoming familiar with, no matter how strange. (He never thought anyone could sound like that. Concerned but thoughtful and so fucking honest. It was as if he cared about Dream, a killer he hadn't known for over an hour. And that reminded him so much of Puf-. 

No, no. 

He couldn't think about that about her now. 

Damn Jason for making him remember things he should have already forgotten). 

Bad waited for him in silence, not rushing or forcing any response, just continuing to drive on, his eyes on him and the street. 

The silent patience that didn't feel suffocating just made him feel worse. Sam never waited for Dream, ever. Bad shouldn't be so quiet as if they had all the time in the world, glancing at him every so often only to see him and not rush him. It didn't make sense for Dream to be so kind.

Not when all Dream had done since finding him was cry, babble, and talk in whispers without even being able to look him in the eye. 

—A hand around his neck pulled his head back, hard.  

"Keep your head up when I talk to you. Am I going to have to put a needle in your neck to make you straighten up?" 

As if he had an invisible thread pulling on his head, Dream straightened his posture suddenly, trying to look Bad in the eye. Although he couldn't maintain eye contact for more than a second (his eyes were literally white, with no irises or pupils. How could Bad look so gentle? So different from Sam?). He decided instead to look at Bad's ears from his position in the back seat. It was the closest thing to eye contact he could do without risking too much. 

"No-" the knot in his belly, the pain he felt in his chest, and well— everything cut off his words. As if his vocal cords decided to stop working, killing his voice. 

But Dream didn't want to make Bad angry. He didn't want the kind looks and hands to disappear into ice silences and palms that twisted his arm. So he forced himself to take a breath (no matter how much it cost him) and speak as calmly and firmly as he could. "It's okay. my throat is just dry." Bullshit, it's not just that. He had so many things to say, to ask him, but demanding too much never ended well for him. 

He did not see the expression Bad made, but the trip continued in silence.

Only after they parked in front of a beautiful house with a nice front yard did Bad turn to look at him. He smiled, even when it should be painful to have his wings smashed against the door like that. The car was big, but Dream thought Bad would be better off driving a truck or something with how he was. He remembered how Sam would complain about the size of the cars, and he'd do it without having a pair of wings that would smash into everything if Bad wasn't careful. 

"We're here, you can take a shower, and then I can look at your wounds if you want—only if you want! To make sure they're clean and there's no infection. Or I can give you the stuff. Do you know how to do it?" 

"Yes, I have, ah, I have experience with this. I can do it myself." 

Was that the right thing to say? To prove that he wasn't useless, that he didn't need as much help as it seemed (that Dream wasn't as weak as he showed himself to be), and that he could treat his wounds like a professional doctor and not a resident. 

But then, why did Bad look so sad? As if he had given the wrong answer. Bad didn't look satisfied or happy with Dream's competence. What did he say wrong? What did Bad expect from  him ? Because nothing he was doing seemed to be working and he didn't know what answer Bad expected, he didn't know what to do to make him happy and not upset him or—.

"Well, that's... Right, I guess." Bad said, but nothing seemed right. "We'd better get out. Skeppy got home before us. He's waiting for us." 

Bad turned off the car before getting out, and went straight to the door where Dream was. He discreetly looked around before opening the door to let him out, pulling him close to him and covering him with his wing as soon as he was on his two feet. 

"Sorry, we'd better not draw attention to ourselves. You can get all that blood out of you now." He said, and they both walked towards the house. It was a pretty house. Dream stood looking at the well-maintained garden and the front door (was the doorknob burnt?). 

They entered the house quickly, Bad's hand on his shoulder for a second too long before he let go and walked out of his sight. He left Dream standing in the entrance hall, feeling like a bloody intruder in such a nice, clean, well, almost clean place.

Bad's house was as beautiful as it looked. The living room where he was now was large, with no furniture to get in the way (Dream supposed for more comfort for Bad and his wings). There was a round table with four chairs in one corner, near the entrance to what appeared to be the kitchen. A couch against one wall faced a flat-panel TV. Different shelves lined the walls, with books, gemstones (a nice collection of rocks that Dream didn't recognize, but their colors were beautiful), or decorations. The windows would let in plenty of natural light, as big as they were, but now they were covered with thick blue curtains, leaving the place to be illuminated only by a white spotlight. 

Dream stared at everything, but a small portrait hanging on the wall just above the couch caught his eye. He couldn't quite define the small details from where he stood, but it was certainly a picture of Bad, a dark-skinned man with bright blue eyes (his husband, Skeppy?), and someone else. 

The third person was smaller than the other two, with black hair and eyes of the same color, smiling with all his teeth while showing a small flame in his open hand. It didn't appear to be burning him at all. All three were smiling with different levels of excitement, Bad looked tired but his ever-kind look was still there, one of his hands on the boy's shoulder. 

Was he Bad's son? 

That hit Dream in the stomach harder than he expected, but he didn't understand the reason. It made sense that Bad and his husband would have a child, and it made sense that Bad would have a family. With how little he knew, he saw that Bad was kind, caring, and simply one of the (surely) best people he'd met in his life so far. That Bad had a beautiful home and a family made more than sense. 

This meant that the portrait Dream was staring at was a-what was it called? A family keepsake? He was sure he'd seen it in some movie, a framed picture of the whole family somewhere in the house. He remembered those pictures always appeared above the stairs or someplace. 

He never thought it was something people did in real life. Huh. It was weird, but it made him want to throw up. He didn't want to think about it too much.

A hand on his shoulder snapped him out of his head. He turned to see Bad a step ahead of him, looking calmer than before. Dream didn't even realize Bad was tense, but his posture now was much more relaxed than when they were in the car or before that, and his eyes were more open as if a weight over his brows had disappeared.

Bad began to lead him down a small corridor until he stood in front of a white door. Wordlessly he opened it and a spacious bathroom appeared before them. It was nice, but Dream supposed there was no part of the house that was not. Bad pushed him (gently) until he was inside the bathroom, he too entered and immediately began pulling different things out of a medical kit, leaving everything around the sink. 

"I want you to take a bath before you do anything with your wounds, you can take as long as you want. Do you need help bathing?" he asked matter-of-factly, finishing getting everything settled before turning to look at him. In the back of his head Dream noticed that the tips of his wings missed the ceiling by inches. 

Dream stared at him, feeling the shame burn on his face and the knot in his stomach. 

Needing help taking a shower? What did Bad expect? To help him get into the tub and wash his hair like a baby? He shook his head before even thinking about it. For a moment, he imagined Sam in the same position as Bad, offering him a helping hand like a child after a bad day of training. The mental image alone made him want to vomit. 

"No, no, thank you. I can manage on my own." He replied, trying to push his thoughts away. 

Luckily Bad didn't take it with annoyance and just nodded, heading for the door. He paused before stepping out, pointing to the shower. 

"The right faucet is hot water. The left is cold. You can use anything freely." He pointed to the cabinet next to the mirror. "In there are the towels. I'll get a change of clothes. When you're done just call." He looked at him as if to make sure he understood everything and left after a 'good' from Dream. 

When the door closed and Dream was left alone in the silence of the bathroom, he dropped his shoulders and exhaled a whimper (much like the beginning of a cry.

But no tears came from his eyes). 

His body felt leaden, and he thought about sitting on the floor for a few minutes to rest, after all, he could take his time. But just as he had both hands on his knees and was about to sit down, Bad's voice was heard again. 

"Oh, and call for anything!" 

Dream sighed, letting himself fall slowly to the ground, ending up hiding his face in his knees even if the blood on his pants stained his forehead and hurt his nose from the strong smell. 

He took his time bathing, as Bad put it. He spent maybe fifteen minutes scrubbing every part of his body, especially his arms and face, wanting to vigorously remove any traces of blood. He didn't stop scrubbing his skin until it began to look reddish again, the water ceasing to be tinted red minutes before. The dirty feeling just wouldn't go away, and when Dream closed his eyes his hands felt the same as before. As if he had never stepped into the shower. 

He couldn't shake that feeling, but having his hair clean of sweat and other things did help a lot, the light steam covering the whole bath and the smell of berries and soap helping to relax his muscles. 

There was a moment when he didn't want to go out at all, wanting to stay in his bubble of hot water and rich smells. To ignore everything outside the bathroom door, but he knew that wasn't possible, so he took a deep breath and decided to take another fifteen minutes in his steamy bubble before facing the world again. 

He stepped out of the shower in silence, feeling like a stranger in his own body, so clean, heavy, and light at the same time. He never thought not having blood on him would feel like a luxury, but it did. He took a deep breath, just smelling his shampoo and soap, walking towards the cabinet where the towels were, wanting to end the problem of his wounds as soon as possible. 

When he opened the gray plastic cabinet with a little squeak of the hinges and reached out to grab the first towel, his whole body froze. His hand ended up clutching onto a blue towel, his knuckles shaking and turning white in seconds. 

The entire time he was in the bathroom, Dream never had a chance to look in the mirror. Either Bad was in front obstructing the view, or he was sitting on the floor or he was directly in the shower. It didn't matter much what the reason was, but the point was that Dream didn't see himself once in the mirror since the morning.

And God, what an awful sight it was. 

The makeup ran off with the hot water and steam, leaving his face bare. The dark circles under his eyes were there for anyone to see, as were his freckles and some yellow bruises on his cheek. There was no blood, no dirt, but there was something so wrong with his face that he just- he took a deep breath puffing out his chest. 

It was never a nice thing to look in the mirror. 

His mind wandered through memories of him this morning, standing the same way in front of a mirror. In just a couple of hours so much had changed and yet the feeling towards his reflection remained the same, something of normalcy among so much uncertainty. It was a bittersweet feeling. 

He had a feeling that if he wasn't so exhausted at the moment, the urge to bang on the mirror and bury his knuckles in the broken glass would be irresistible. 

He covered his face with his hands, wanting to scream but lacking the courage to do so, only opening his mouth in a muffled howl. 

"Hey kid, Dream, right? I'm Skeppy, Bad's husband. I've got your change of clothes if you want them already" Said a high-pitched voice from behind the bathroom door. Dream startled with a small jump at the interruption of silence. 

He just opened the door a little to accept the clothes, silently. He noticed Skeppy's hand was full of little scars, straight pale lines on his skin, weird. "When you're done just call Bad." 

Dream heard footsteps walking away as soon as he closed the door. He looked at the clothes he had been offered with curiosity. It was simple and a little big on him, but not too big to be uncomfortable. A pair of black knee-length pants and a white t-shirt. 

He didn't like how his bruises-new and old-were in such plain sight, but he suspected that whoever, Bad or Skeppy, had chosen the clothing had done it on purpose. 

He didn't want to guess either, but he believed the clothes he was given belonged to the third person he saw in the photo in the living room. That boy with white teeth and a flame in his hand. He didn't want to think how wearing the possible clothes of Bad's son made him feel, so he put all that away and opened the bathroom door even with his hair dripping, calling out to the tall demon. 

In the blink of an eye, Bad was with him, asking one question after another as he made him sit on the toilet. His attention switched back and forth between Dream's wounds to the things over the sink. His hands gently but firmly took his arms to move him in different directions, watching everything with a critical eye. He seemed to have fallen into a doctor's role. An experienced doctor. 

His gaze lingered on some parts of his body at times, but he kept checking without saying much for minutes. He just asked how much some scrapes hurt or how well he could turn his shoulder as he explained what he was or was going to do. 

Sam never did that. Dream ignored it. 

Bad's way of speaking was equal to his way of disinfecting cuts. Gentle, caring, and firm. Minimal burning that could not be avoided and nothing more. Plasters, band-aids, and cold creams applied with experience and knowledge.

Dream let himself move as Bad needed him to, turning his head to the right or left, extending his arm or leg, all silently, but it felt different than with Sam. Bad, despite his firmness, still saw him worried, his big white eyes looking into his face every minute. 

He couldn't understand what all the worry was about when he was feeling surprisingly well, for all this. 

It was-, cute how Bad was treating him. He never thought being moved around non-stop, having things put on his body by someone else could feel so... Relaxing. 

Dream hated it when Sam "fixed" him after workouts, it felt wrong, out of place, and weird (even if he ended up getting used to the feeling later). But with Bad it was even calming, he'd say. For the first time, he wasn't making a list of what could be done to him, silently guessing, prostrate on a metal table; as Bad left no room for doubt, he said every little move before he did it. 

It was like... it was like he was giving the strings of his body to Bad, freely giving up control of his body, instead of being taken by force. 

The feeling was so nice that he let his mind wander blankly for the next few minutes. His consciousness was in a relaxed sea. 

A warm hand on his arm brought him back to reality, not knowing how much time had passed for sure. A couple of minutes? An hour? It didn't matter much when he looked at his body, arms, and legs with creams, band-aids, or bandages. It seemed as if he was a child again, with no control over anything and broken every time Sam wanted to experiment with his gift... At least the pain subsided, though the tiredness did not.

He looked up at Bad, who straightened up, stretching his arms and wings with care. It was amazing how the muscles in his wings tensed before relaxing. Bad's wings were beautiful and strong. What he would give to have such a gift... 

"Dream? Are you feeling better?" asked Bad. 

Suddenly, the feeling of wanting to hide from Bad's gaze was strong. Wanting to hide in some dark corner where no one could see him and where no one could expose him in the spotlight.

"Yes, I feel better. Thank you." For some reason, guilt heated his chest like burning iron, and his gaze lowered unable to meet Bad's eyes. 

Staring intently at the white tiles on the floor, he only listened as Bad sighed softly, opening the  door with a slight creak. They both left the bathroom, Bad walking back towards the living room and Dream following, not knowing what to do with himself now that everything was 'done'. 

Was it about time that—God, was it time to go back to Sam? (What else could he do? He had nothing). He didn't want to go back to him there was a reason he fled when he heard his voice.

But as nice as all this was, it wouldn't be long before Sam would find him. Dream didn't know how, but Sam always find him and no matter what Bad said, Sam would. 

Jason was already one person who died at his hands. He didn't want Bad, kind, kind Bad, to end up on the tip of Sam's trident. He didn't want that. 

Take a deep breath and talk. Take a deep breath and talk! 

"Bad, I-" 

"Bad! I've finished what you asked for and by the way Sapnap-" 

"Skeppy!" 

Everyone fell silent at Bad's cry, two pairs of eyes, green and blue, watching the tall demon in the middle of the room. His wings were tense and his gaze was fixed on Skeppy, Dream was surprised he wasn't startled by the steadiness and anger in his eyes, even if it wasn't even directed at him. Bad with his appearance could easily intimidate even the most fearsome of villains, but neither Dream nor Skeppy flinched, the latter only mumbling a quick apology before returning to the kitchen. Only slight guilt and annoyance in his eyes, not fear. 

Dream stared at Bad even as Skeppy left, being able to see his posture relax again as he turned to see him. An apologetic smile showed on his face, one of his hands following the path of his horn as if trying to relax. "Sorry about that Dream, what were you about to say?" he encouraged, going to sit next to the table. Dream followed him without taking a seat, just standing next to him. 

The courage he had gathered vanished as he had 100% of Bad's attention, who was watching him without missing a single detail. 

No. I had to say it, I had to say it. For Bad's safety.  

"Oh, I'm so sorry, I'm sure you're hungry, aren't you? After everything that happened you must be starving, sorry I didn't notice sooner." Said Bad getting up from the chair, it seems he took Dream's silence for the wrong reasons. "Or would you rather sleep? If you're too tired to eat we can wait until tomorrow. Whatever you choose is fine." 

Dream stood dumbfounded listening to Bad, processing what he said. His white eyes looked at him with concern, as if choosing between dinner or sleep was the hardest decision that had to be made all day. It made him wonder how Bad could have worked with Sam, it looked impossible, and yet for some reason, he didn't believe it was a lie. 

HIs tongue felt heavy while trying to deny Bad's words.

"I... I'd rather sleep. I'm not hungry." He said at last.

At least Bad seemed pleased with his response.

He said nothing when Bad took him to a room (which obviously belonged to his son, it was now obvious), giving him new sheets and a pillow. He said nothing when Bad explained that he could use the kitchen as he pleased, food and drinks being at his disposal. Nor did he say anything when he gave him total freedom in the small library that the half-empty room held. But as Bad was about to leave, half out of the room and his hand on the doorknob, guilt loosened Dream's tongue. 

He turned to meet his gaze, squeezing his wrist to keep from shaking. 

"Bad, how am I, are you, are we going to make it so Sam won't find me? How are you so sure he won't find us?" his voice was low but firm, the tension palpable in every syllable. 

His worries and anxiety felt stupid when all Bad did was smile, showing him sharp teeth. He didn't move when Bad reached over to put a hand on his shoulder and crouch down until they were at the same height (he crouched down quite a bit). 

"When I said earlier that I sent it the wrong way I was being literal, Dream. When I went looking for you the first thing I found was not you, but a tracker." He seemed to spit out that word. "I left it far from where we are now. Sam doesn't know you're with me and he doesn't know where you are. Right now there's no way he can find us, but let's save tomorrow's problems for tomorrow, okay? Now just worry about getting some rest. You need it." 

He straightened up and looked like he wanted to say something else, but only squeezed his shoulder before walking away again.

Dream stood still watching his every move, it seemed that around Bad he lost track of what he was supposed to do.

"Good night Dream." was the last thing he said before closing the door. Dream stood there in the middle of the room. He didn't understand where Bad got such confidence from. Sam was a genius, he was the kind of person who had a plan of the plan of the plan, and he never left anything to chance. No matter what Bad believed or told him, he'd better get away from them as soon as possible. Before Sam could found him. 

A yawn escaped his lips. He lost his balance and had to hold onto the wall to keep from falling. Shit. 

Dream looked at the bed for several seconds. Yes, he could stay at least one night. If he decided to escape now with how tired he would be easy prey for Sam. 

If he didn't even stand a chance against him when he was at his peak, leaving now would just be giving himself away.

With the decision made, he turned off the light and went to bed. He lay there looking up with his arms close to his body, not wanting to touch anything more than necessary. He looked at the smooth ceiling, and even with the tiredness weighing on his body, he couldn't close his eyes. He felt that if he did, Sam would appear to drag him back home (Home?). 

He did nothing for the rest of the night. He just stared at the ceiling with exhaustion weighing on his eyelids, unable to sleep. His thoughts wouldn't let him sleep. He clutched his head with both hands, turning to hide his head in his knees. 

"Shut up, shut up, shut up." He muttered into the silence of the room, pressing his palms against his ears as if that would help him quiet something that was on his mind. 

It was going to be a long night. 

"Shut up, shut up."

Chapter Text

The dining room was as quiet as a Sunday morning. The TV was off, and there was no stereo to play music. In the immense room was a small Dream, sitting in a chair too low for him. His shoulders were just starting to go over the table, which made little difference at the time of eating, still too awkward and uncomfortable for him.

 He wasn't looking forward to the Warden's breakfast. Dream could hear him in the kitchen. Scraping the pan with the spatula. Taking out the toast and putting it on a plate. How the Warden opened a bottle and served orange juice in a glass cup (that was too heavy for him).

It was the same breakfast as yesterday, the day before yesterday, and the day before, before yesterday.

The Warden came out of the kitchen with the plate of toast in one hand and a glass of orange juice in the other. He left them in front of Dream on the table with a slight noise that stunned him amid the silence.

Then the Warden left without a word, without even looking at Dream in the eyes, and walked away down a hallway.

Just like yesterday, just like the day before yesterday... Dream said nothing and began to eat, tasting the toast that made him force his jaw and taking the cold juice that caused sensitivity in his teeth no matter how long he waited for it to warm at least a little.

After what felt like years, in the silence of the dining room, save from the noise of a glass being dragged across the table, the Warden emerged from the hallway where he always disappeared, walking towards the kitchen. But he stopped halfway when he saw Dream's plate still half full.

The silence was so thick that it made Dream feel sick,

"I told you. You have to eat everything I give to you." The Warden remembered, without turning completely towards him yet. Giving Dream the chance to redeem himself.

But Dream didn't have the energy to eat the whole toast. From the moment he saw the date on the calendar this morning he knew he wouldn't be hungry all day. But he couldn't tell that to the Warden, so he just lowered his head and focused his eyes on the edge of the table. He felt pain in his neck from the tension of not releasing the tears that flooded his eyes.

"Sorry," he whispered, unable to speak louder without evidencing his eminent cry.

The Warden did not respond to his apology, and Dream only heard his resonant footsteps approach him. He couldn't help but bend his head even further, as if he could hide from what would come with it.

It wasn't like that. Dream was exposed and had no way out, sitting in that chair too big for him in that empty, gray dining room. The Warden covered the light with his immense height, leaving Dream in the shadows, making him feel even more tiny than he already was.

A hand the size of his head grabbed his shoulder and forced him to straighten his back. Dream couldn't control his tears, and now they were coming down uncontrollably. His eyes faced the Warden with the same fear a lamb faced the wolf. 

Looking at the guardian was like looking at a cliff. Empty, dark, and endless in sight. Dream didn't feel like he was looking at a person at all.

"Don't cry. All you have to do is follow my orders. I'm just trying to keep you healthy, and I can't do that unless you listen to me." the Warden's hand moved behind Dream's back to push him toward the half-full dish. 

"Finish your breakfast and then wash your face. " He said, his voice leaving no room for argument.

Dream continued to cry as he grabbed a toast with a trembling hand. His throat seemed to have closed, and if he ate one more crumb, he would vomit. The smell of oil and flour only got knots in his belly. He didn't want to eat anymore. He didn't want to.

But the Warden's hand was still on his back, an uncomfortable weight that could not be ignored. Dream brought the toast to his mouth, smelling the burnt bread, seeing the small cracks and the glow left by the expensive oil the Warden always used. He could feel the warmth it still had on his fingers, and Dream knew there was no way he would eat it without vomiting first. 

His lips were sealed shut. His cries were heard with renewed force in the house.

But they were not high enough to cover the Warden's annoying sigh.

Dream covered his head with one arm, raising his feet to the chair and pressing his knees against his body.

"Sorry! I'm sorry, but I can't, I can't," he repeated until the words stopped making sense. He didn't want that man to hit him. He was scared. He wanted his mom.

The Warden grabbed Dream's arm that was still holding the toast. His cold face showed no pity to Dream's tears.

"You've been eating your breakfasts without any problem so far. Why can't you now?" He inquired, shaking his arm a little. 

Dream felt like the Warden wanted to rip it out of place.

"Today is-today is my birthday," Dream revealed stuttering. He had a feeling he just made things worse by saying that.

"Your birthday? ...And? That forbids you from finishing your breakfast?"

Dream could only wail at that, wanting to hide his face again but was prevented by the strong hold of the guardian. He wanted his mom. He missed her. Today he was supposed to eat the homemade spongy bread that she always baked in the shape of a star, open his present and take a picture with her. 

She would paste that photo into the album they had, and they would spend the day playing together.

"Your mother is no longer here with you," the Warden said abruptly.

Dream jumped in his place, looking up scared. He had almost forgotten he was still there. The Warden let go of his arm to grasp his shoulder with heavy softness.

"You have to finish eating. I need you to be okay, and to be okay you have to do everything I say, you hear me?"

Dream realized he never had a chance to ignore the Warden, so he nodded, admitting defeat.

Even though he tried, he couldn't stop crying at the end of the stupid toast and orange juice. More than once he felt the food rise his throat, but the Warden's shadow was there to keep him at bay. It looked like he wasn't going to leave now and would stay to confirm that Dream wasn't cheating. 

What if he started doing this every day? Maybe by his mistake, the Warden would now see him at every meal like those monsters in his mom's stories. Waiting for the perfect opportunity to jump and sink their claws on him. He didn't want that.

Dream couldn't let go of that thought. He got out of his chair tormented when he finished. 

Perhaps he ruined the little confidence the guardian seemed to have in him. He always ruined everything.

“Go and wash your face. ” The Warden ordered.

Dream did not want to be with him, he thought strangely furiously. He wanted his mom. he nodded and waited for the hand on his shoulder to disappear before heading for the bathroom. his nose, head, and tummy hurt. He walked with his head down and wiped away his tears, feeling horrible.

After getting his face wet a little, he went straight to his room. Although privacy was good, loneliness and oppressive silence did not make things better. This room was big too, with no colors or any of his old things. He missed his stuffed animals and toys, his padded rug, and soft quilts.

All he could do was lie down in bed and cover himself up to his head as he became a ball, wishing that his mother would appear to sing and hug him, apologize for leaving. She would stay with him, tell him that they were going home and the Warden would go away forever.

Dream would always forgive her, he hoped she knew, because if his mom knew he forgave her then maybe she'd go back to him.

Dream wasn't mad at her, he just wanted her back.

He didn't know if making wishes without a cake and candles would count, but he wished with all his might that his mother would be with him, that she would make him feel better. Maybe if he wanted it with all his soul, it would come true.

Minutes after making his wish, Dream heard the door open.

Hope exploded in his chest like an uncontrolled hurricane, and he let out a small gasp. Maybe his wish did come true! 

-But he didn't want to spoil the surprise (and was afraid of-), so he didn't move the sheets out of his head.

He waited with his heart beating in his mouth and heard footsteps approaching the bed. Soon, he felt a hand shake him slowly. A hand much bigger than his mom's.

Tears of rage burst into his eyes with renewed force. Dream felt like he was going to explode. He didn´t know if someone could die from rage. But at that moment, he was ready to perish. 

He wanted his mom. Not the Warden. He was tired of him.

His disappointed cries were heard in the room. He felt stupid to have believed even for a moment that his wish would be heard. No one listened to him now.

His anguish, hatred, and so many emotions he could not name caused his tongue to loosen:

"Get out of here! Get out of here! I want Mom! I want my MOM! I want Mommy! MOM!" 

The sheets were torn off, and four hands took his body with an iron grip.

"I don't love you! Get out! I want my-- m-my mommy! MOM! MOM!"

Dream cried and cried, but no one came. He didn't understand why his mom didn't show up. It was his birthday. His mom was always at his birthday.

"Dream." the Warden didn't shout, but he didn't need it to shut him up.

"No, please, Warden, please. I want to see Mommy. I want to see her. "

The hands that imprisoned him seemed to freeze suddenly. The Warden seemed to have become a statue. He didn't say anything and didn't move. 

Dream just kept crying for his mom.

"How did you call me?" said the Warden, cutting his tears like a butter knife.

"How did you call me?" 

It was such a weird thing to say that got Dream to stop screaming for a moment.

"Warden," he answered, his tears subsiding a little. But the fear was still there, he didn't understand the question.

The Warden said nothing for several minutes, clutching Dream in his arms as he looked at him. . . weird. It was different from all the times before, something in his eyes was different, but Dream couldn't say what.

A hand approached his face doubtfully, as if the Warden didn't want to touch him. 

Dream tried to move away but the other arms stopped him, and soon a thumb was drying his tears gently, with a touch so light that he could hardly feel it.

Even though it was the first comforting touch he received since he stopped seeing his mother, Dream was surprised when he continued to cry so hard that he was quickly tired. His body lost all weight and turned into jelly in the arms of the Warden, who never ceased to dry his tears. He stole them even before they could fall from his eyelids.

Dream doesn't know how long it went on, but he ended up lying completely against the Warden's chest when his tears stopped, sitting on his lap and his arms wrapped around him like an octopus.

“My name is Sam,” the Warden murmured, after an eternity of silence. 

Dream's head hurt as if he were being hammered, but he swore the Warden's voice sounded strange. Creepy.

"My name is Sam Nook. . . You never said you didn't know my name."

A hand began to accommodate Dream's messy hair. He made a weary noise of protest. Of course Dream didn't know his name, the Warden never told him, and he was too scared to ask if there was any other way to call him.

"Shh, shh, it's okay," said the Warden so softly, like a loving whisper, never stopping stroking his head. “I know it’s hard to get used to all this, but you’re going to do it. I am sure of that. ”

Her mother used to stroke his hair. Dream relaxed in the Warden's arms without even realizing it, tilting his neck so that the Warden could reach each part.

"From now on, I want you to call me Sam. Okay, Dream?"

Dream made a noise from the bottom of his throat, but the hand caressing so delicately and lovingly stopped. He complained loudly about it.

"I need you to answer, what do you call me?"

"Sam, I have to call you Sam," he murmured, waiting for the nice message to come back. Luckily it did, and Dream sighed happily. he was so tired. But being hugged was nice and the massage was good.

Sam started rocking him slowly. It was becoming an impossible task to stay awake.

Somewhere far away (or at least he felt it far away), Dream heard someone laughing.

“Sleep, Dream. We’ll celebrate your birthday later. ”

He didn't have to think twice this time to listen.

Chapter Text

{what chapter 9 was going to be}

Dream didn't sleep a wink all night, his mind not shutting up for a second. He tossed and turned in bed until the sheets ended on the floor. Without enough energy to pick them up again, even when guilt made him feel like an ungrateful piece of shit, Dream stared at the ceiling. 

He fell asleep when the light began to enter the only window in the room. At five or six in the morning, exhaustion knocked him out.  

He woke up on his own after what seemed like a whole year, an imaginary tug on his chest forcing him to open his eyes, his heart beating a hundred per minute. He felt his hands tremble, and the cold sweat on the back of his neck made his hair stand on end. He looked around the empty room, hoping to find some danger to justify the fluttering heart and fear he was feeling. But there was nothing. Everything was fine, in order, yes, quiet.  

Nothing was fine.

Dream grumbled under his breath, grimacing as his throat felt dry, and he took several minutes to calm down. He kept looking around the room, wishing he could find something out of place, but everything was still in the same place as it had been in the night. He hated feeling this way, so terrified. 

If he closed his eyes, he could feel the immersive smell of blood and enclosed air, the sensation of his gift pressing into his fingers so real that he had to press both hands against the mattress to try to stop it. 

Dream felt his eyes moisten with tears and decided he'd better get up before it was too late (late for what, even he didn't know).

His morning (Noon?) was already starting to suck. 

Dream looked down at his feet with a frown for he didn't know how long, the tiredness he felt was like he hadn't slept at all. He hadn't felt this way in a long time. 

Vaguely, like a gentle breeze that didn't lift a leaf, he thought of different plans to leave the house. The window seemed to face the front of the house. Would Bad come out looking for him if he decided to jump out and run away? He'd like to think not, but Bad seemed like such a good person that he was sure he would, even though it was unnecessary. Neither he nor Skeppy deserved to be burdened with his annoying presence. 

It would be best to leave this part of town and go somewhere far away. 

Dream sighed, covering his face with his palms, putting pressure on his closed eyes until he saw colorless smudges. It was a bad day, and he had only been up less than five minutes. 

Footsteps approaching the room got him to move his hands away from his face. The person who opened the door when the footsteps stopped was Bad, to Dream's zero surprise. Although the only distinguishable thing on Bad's face was his eyes (and his mouth when he opened it, then it was as if it disappeared), it was easy enough to read his emotions, but Dream didn't understand why he looked surprised.

"Dream! Uh, good to see you awake! Did you rest well?" Bad asked, not giving a cue to enter the room. His wings on his back took up the entire door frame, making him look much bigger than he already was.  

Dream looked at him, not knowing how to respond. Sam never questioned how he slept.

"...Good, thanks." That was a good answer, right? Yes, it should be. 

Bad looked pleased with the answer, good. 

"I'm glad. Do you want breakfast? I think there's still cereal left if Skeppy didn't eat it all." Bad said, walking away from the room, and disappearing from Dream's sight.

Dream stood without recalculation for a few seconds. He didn't react until he heard Bad make a noise in the kitchen, and then he came out of his stupor to follow him in a hurry.

Bad actually pulled out a box of cereal and a bowl, that he left on the counter. Dream didn't have the heart to tell him that there was no need to give him more than he deserved, but he wouldn't deny that he could use something to eat. He'd only had breakfast the day before. He was starving, now that he thought about it. 

Dream stood in the doorway of the kitchen, not knowing what to do, just watching as Bad took the milk out of the fridge, and grabbed the cereal and the bowl (with only one hand, his palm could cover almost the entire bowl) before turning away. 

Again, he seemed surprised to see him.

"Ah, Dream! You don't need to stand there. You could have waited for me in the dining room."

"I'm sorry."

"No, there's no need." Bad grabbed everything in one hand (impressively) and used his other hand to grasp his shoulder lightly.

Dream couldn't help but look around the rest of the dining room. He couldn't see Skeppy anywhere. Maybe he'd gone to work? Or maybe he left to deliver him to-- No. They wouldn't do that after all the trouble they went through to get him away from Sam. It was stupid just thinking about it. 

Even so, Dream couldn't help but worry as he ate copious spoonfuls of his breakfast. He really was hungry. He looked at Bad, who was focused on his cell phone, typing something. 

Dream ate his breakfast in silence, with his worries weighing on his shoulders. But he wasn't complaining. Everything that Bad did was appreciated, he shouldn't have to bother with someone like Dream. 

Just as Dream set the spoon down in the now empty bowl, Bad's gaze flicked away from his phone to stare at it intently, as if the fact that he finished his breakfast was the most important thing in his life. He grabbed the bowl and got up to take it to the sink. 

He didn't come out of the kitchen, so Dream could only hear his voice when he spoke:

"Would you like something else to eat? We have fruit." 

Dream denied before he could even process the question. Seriously, Bad was killing him with his kindness. He wasn't... 

He took a deep breath, trying to ease the lump in his throat. He didn't deserve all this.

Dream looked up at the smooth ceiling, hoping to find answers among the old stains in the worn paint. All he knew was that he couldn't stay with Bad, that much was more than clear. But he didn't know where to go or what to do, he was stranded. 

A treacherous voice in his head was muttering all the mistakes he made so far, ' Better get back to Sam. What can you do after what you did to Jason? Someone like you can't be out on the streets. You'll just get yourself killed, like everyone else. ' 

Dream flattened his palms against his eyes. He would like it if  for once , his own mind wasn't against him.

---

{An idea of Dream, after killing Jason, stayed in his house, stealing his identity and trying to live like him, finding what Jason had to die. In this "alternative reality" let's say, Bad doesn't show up until way later)

Being in an unfamiliar house, without Sam over his shoulder controlling every little thing and calling out orders back and forth, was certainly something. Dream didn't know if it was good or bad for sure, but it was something. It was the first time he didn't have a meal done on time, an alarm going off signaling that he should be in bed, or clothes ready for each day of the week. 

Yes, certainly not having anything of that was different. Sometimes it felt like the best thing in the world, a freedom he never felt, a weight fading from his shoulders; other times however, it was like drowning in a glass of water, anxiety causing his entire body to shake without the ability to control it. 

Dream had no power of choice for so long that he had even forgotten the basics, and now alone, he didn't even know what to do to eat. 

Sure, it wasn't that he didn't know how to cook, Sam taught him enough so that he could manage without any trouble (sometimes, when he was in a good mood, Sam even used to help him cook while they listened to music in the background, it was so cute), but he just never had to. So he stood in a tiny space that didn't cover half of his old kitchen, flickering light over his head illuminated everything in yellow shadows, and the stove in front of him unlit. 

Dream with the lighter in his hand, he felt like the castaway on the island, without the slightest idea how to take the first step, and a lump suddenly formed in his throat that he couldn't control. He stood still in front of the stove for several minutes, until he could muster enough courage to turn it on and put a cheap pot of water to boil.  

And it wasn't just cooking he was lost with. It was everything. Being alone there was like jumping into murky water without knowing how to swim, just hoping for the best and trying to not drown in fear. He couldn't do much else. Dream used the computer or television to always have some sound in the background, a movie or music didn't matter, but he didn't want to hear his thoughts alone and his footsteps echoing all over the place or even his clothes brushing or clinking the fork against the plate or the creaking of the bed stand or-.....

Dream was always looking to have some background noise, anything but the news. He couldn't even imagine what the hero exam was like, he didn't want to see it even in paint, and he was also afraid of encountering any news close to Sam. He was avoiding anything related to him like a cat to water. He was terrified to think how Sam was doing now that he was missing. Would he be furious? Worried? Looking for his corpse or looking to kill him? Dream didn't know which thought disgusted him more, a Sam worried about his return, or an apathetic Sam polishing his best weapons to drag him home; both options terrified him, so he sought to keep them away as much as he could, even if they always ended up coming back. 

Now Dream was finishing organizing all the papers in the office that the house had, he locked himself in that room since ten in the morning and hadn't come out since. Opening, reading each sheet, and dividing them into different piles all over the desk. He didn't know what he would do with all those papers, but he figured that before he made any decisions he would at least sort them out and read them, so he had a notion of what he was throwing away or keeping. 

He couldn't help but feel like a squatter and gossip doing all that, but to be honest, he had no choice. Jason's house was the only place he could stay until he knew what to do. Without Sam he had nothing, no other family, no friends, no one could offer him help or shelter, nor did he count on telling the police or seeking community service for homeless people, that would bring up too many questions he didn't need to answer right now. 

So, even if Dream didn't like it, for now, he would be the only guest in Jason's house, although he honestly didn't think this was his real home.

The first time he came he thought it was too impersonal, but going through each room he realized it wasn't just a feeling, there really wasn't anything here that tied him to any place or person. There wasn't a favorite meal service, family photo, clothes that weren't his, or credit cards, there was nothing. The only papers he had were from his work or the house itself, which appeared to have been purchased less than a year ago. 

It seems that Jason was beyond desperate at the end of his life, running away from everything to keep his family safe from whatever he investigated. Dream didn't find out what it was that Jason knew so much about, only reading common allegations or isolated disturbances in heavy folders, but he longed to find out what it was that Jason researched so much that ended up taking his life. 

After all, what would make a man give up everything, even his home and family, his personality? Dream wanted to know what it was that drove Jason to such extremes. 

Dream sighed as he finished reading the latest report of theft, cracking his neck and back as he settled into the plastic chair as much as he could. He dropped the report in the appropriate pile and looked at what he'd done in the last few hours.

He grabbed everything related to Jason's work and got up walking towards the kitchen, the papers weighing on his arms for what he was about to do and the guilt closing his throat, but he knew it was the best thing to do if he wanted to completely erase Jason's trace from the house, from life in general. 

Dream stopped in front of the sink, and carelessly dumped everything in, already watching the leaves soak through the dampness of the sink. He took a deep breath to mentally prepare himself and turned on the hot water faucet, wetting all the papers equally. 

He stirred with his hand to wet them all and squeezed the buns that were created in his fist, watching as the ink spread and the words warped, each text of information slowly disappearing. 

After a few minutes what had been left of Jason vanished, wet gray buns accumulating in the dishwasher. Dream pressed his lips into a still line, feeling guilty, but shook his head and gathered everything up to throw it in the trash can, drying his hands with a towel. 

Now what? He thought, looking around the kitchen. He had already cleaned, tidied, checked every shelf and piece of furniture, and now thrown away the unnecessary. There wasn't much more left to do inside the house. 

Dream went to the living room where the computer was, looking at the yellow post-it stuck to the monitor. It was a to-do list he had made the first night when he had one of the worst anxiety attacks of the last few months, "Look for a job" being the only thing that wasn't crossed off yet. He tore off the slip of paper to crumple it in his fist and put it in his pocket, taking a seat in the chair and turning on the PC.

Looking for a job doesn't seem impossible. Maybe being a janitor at some store could help him survive the first few weeks. Dream needed something that wouldn't draw attention to himself and wouldn't require too much personal information, or degrees, since he never finished high school. 

But that idea died when every page he found demanded a long list of requirements that he couldn't meet. There was nothing there that could help him. 

Hope faded the more time he spent staring at the screen, perhaps it would be better to give up and look for work in another way.

His eyes caught a link that almost went unnoticed, and he entered without thinking twice. It was a common post, not a page, of a woman asking for help in her family bookstore. Dream read the few poorly worded sentences and without helping himself a smile formed on his face, his eyes sparkled at the opportunity before him. The woman was only looking for an assistant to help with cleaning the shop and carrying boxes of new seasonal books, leaving a number downstairs for whoever was interested. 

Dream wouldn't find anything easier than that anywhere, so he got up from his spot looking for the landline phone that was in the kitchen. He grabbed it and went back to the computer to dial what he hoped would be his future job. It was barely one o'clock in the afternoon, he didn't think it was a bad time to make a work call. 

Dream took a deep breath affirming the soles of his feet to the floor, and dialed the numbers on the screen as calmly as possible. It was the first time he had ever done anything like this without Sam. 

He put the phone close to his ear and waited for the other line, listening to the beeps as he looked at anything to get his nerves out of his head. He waited for three, or four beeps until-

"Hello," a young woman's voice, loud and determined. 

Dream swallowed, settling the words in his head before speaking. "Hi, I'm calling about the job you said, as an assistant in the bookstore. Is this the right number?"

"Ah, yes! yes, it is. Look--no, wait. First, can you give me your name and phone number please?" she asked. She sounded rushed and the noise of moving papers could be slightly identified in the background. 

Dream caught his breath, the fact that they asked for a number was a big breakthrough, wasn't it? It means they might contact him later. Dream didn't have his phone anymore though, so he gave her the one from Jason's house, it's the one he'd been using so far anyway. 

"Thank you, I'm already writing it down, and you said your name was...?"

Dream kept his name on the tip of his tongue. All these years he used Sam's last name (awkwardly at first, then longingly), but now he didn't think it was the best idea. Saying his full name on a job, no matter how low-key, was still risky, and he didn't want to put himself in unnecessary danger, no matter how paranoid it sounded...

"Jason Smith, I'm Jason Smith, although I go with Dream! usually, uh, most people call me that. Jason is... just a formality." 

Dream never wanted so much to break his forehead against the desk. 

"Okay "Dream". Listen, my mother is the one who owns the store actually, and she was running it excellent years ago, but she can't get to the top shelves anymore and needs help carrying the boxes to the warehouse, and I can't help her like I used to. You don't have to handle the cash register or the customers, just help my mother with whatever she needs. You would work Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays only, from ten until fifteen with a break in the middle so you can have lunch. If you want the job, I'd like to discuss the salary in person. Is that okay with you?"

Dream stood, his brain not processing what he was hearing. It all seemed too easy, he couldn't believe he was actually doing it. He really was about to get his first job. It felt strange just thinking about it. 

"Sounds perfect to me, when would the meeting be?" he asked before the silence on the call could become awkward. 

"How about... Next Tuesday? Eleven-thirty if you can. I'll text you the address of the bookstore."

"Yes, no problem, perfect. I'll see you there on Tuesday."

They both said their respective goodbyes and the call cut off shortly after that. Dream set the phone down on the desk with trembling hands before releasing the air held in his lungs in a slow sigh, leaning his forehead against the cold wood of the desk. That had been too much. 

--

Well, in a short way, I had the idea of making this story in two big parts. The first is the one I have been doing, with Dream being seventeen, running away from Sam, and learning how to live without him. The second was with an older Dream, after a time skip, with his life formed and trauma somewhat healed, being friends with the whole SBI family and George and Sapnap. 
I had different ideas of how Dream meets the SBI, but the one I most liked was with Dream moving into a shady department, inside SBI's territory, and clashing with Tommy or Tubbo by accident, helping them or just- being nice to them, and then they would be like 'wow, this random, jumpy guy was awkwardly nice to me, I will kill for him!" and yeah, that's it. 
The thing between Bad, Skeppy, and Techno is like this: Techno and Skeppy have known each other for a long time. Skeppy was a villain and worked as a dealer (of guns or jewelry, or both), he helped Techno cover his tracks and vice versa, they're friends. 
When Bad leaves his post as a guard in Pandora, Phil finds him and is like 'Hi, see that these heroes are trash, let's go and kill them' and helps him to disappear from Sam. Bad's connection to Phil is how he meets Techno, and then Skeppy. They develop a relationship and when the factory incident happens (something I never quite got clear, just think of Skeppy killing a lot of people who tried to scam him), Bad helps him and convinces Skeppy to leave his dangerous career behind for a more civil life style. And then Sapnap happens! how don't ask, but they are a happy family. 

With George and Sapnap I wanted to go with the trope "I fought on the wrong side all this time". They make friends with Dream not knowing his backstory, or that he is friends with real villains. Sapnap and George are already friends cause they're heroes and work for the same agency, so when they meet Dream, and start to trust him and become close to him, bum, they find out he is on the SBI no-touching list, and that he is Sam's adoptive (kidnaped) child. Everything goes to shit, and George and Sapnap start to see all the dirt the heroes hid under the rug. 
(here, something directly out from my notes: 
Skeppy and Bad accept Dream into their home, but after a while Dream runs away out of (fear, guilt, or something). that's where it gets back to the idea of the beginning, since Dream doesn't want to worry Bad and Skeppy, he uses Jason's name and moves in, near SBI, with SBI, work for them? I don't know. but he moves in, meets SBI, and starts doing the Jason investigation, which he had left abandoned with all that was going on with Sam and everything. While investigating Jason he gets into the world of heroes and villains, and there he meets Sapnap, who doesn't connect that Dream and "Jason" are the same person.
(Sapnap never meets Dream in person, but Bad tells him about him, that's how he knows Dream).
Sapnap and "Jason" start fighting. Sapnap is a hero and Dream is not an official villain, but he comes close. )

I didn't have the chance to write it, but in this, Schlatt is some kind of corsair. A drunk man who, in his prime, did all the dirty work the heroes didn't want to do in exchange for money, lots of it. Now he is just an alcoholic abuser towards Tubbo, who escapes and finds his way out with the SBI. 

With the whole Sam and Dream backstory is like this. Sam "adopts" Dream around seven or six. Puffy was a captain of arms merchandise ships. Dream spent his first years of life travelling a lot, but when his gift awoke (it doesn't have a solid year when a gift or power manifest in someone, it varies) and Puffy realized how dangerous it was, she cut the sailing short, passing to a sedentary life, because she knew how people looked at those who have powerful, deadly gifts. and wanted to train Dream to hide it (not the way Sam did, of course, Puffy was all about control to not injure others and to prevent discrimination against her own son). Sadly, that time Sam didn't work in Pandora yet, but as a hero in the streets. After a disastrous accident or something, he finds out about dream and his gift, and tries to talk to Puffy to cede her child to the biggest agency. She of course says no, so Sam, obsessed as he is, just kills her and takes Dream. 

Sam is a control freak, manipulative, who abuses his power. The first thing he thought to do when Dream was crying and trashing was to kill him too, but his gift was to rare to waste. The idea of Sam raising Dream, leaving his work as the warden of Pandora and turn into the worst father figure came in the idea of Rapunzel, just, what would happend if mother Gothel manipulated more, made the sole idea of hurting her or betraying her trust unbearable. 

Sam raises Dream with the plan of only using him, but slowly, without even realizing it he gets attached to him. He cannot empathize with the emotions of others, he understand them of course, but doesn't empathize with them, as if they were separated by glass. All except Dream. He doesn't realize his disconnection with other's emotions, or his obsession with Dream, Sam thinks that all he does is "necessary" or "useful" or "a means to an end". His and Dream's relationship evolution is so slow, so slighty, that he didn't realizes his "genuine" paternal love. But Dream does, and that just makes everything worse. Because Dream knows first hand how bad Sam is, but he also know that in some cruel, mad way, Sam really loves him, truly considers him as his son. 

through the years of living together, Sam does things to make Dream more "his", trying to erase Puffy from the picture once and for all. Like making Dream dye his hair brown, to make them look more similar. Dream has white hair (like Puffy), but by dyeing it brown he and Sam look more like father and son. Both of them with brown hair and green eyes. 

I love the idea that Sam really loves Dream, just that in the most unhealty way, and Dream loves him back, because no matter what he did, or what he does, Sam was the man who was there with him for almost all his childhood and teenage years.

For the end of the story, Dream would work with the SBI, Bad and Skeppy; George and Sapnap to bring down Sam and kill basically a bunch of heroes they hate. I didn't want them to crash the whole sistem down because that's like impossible, but I wanted to shake it a little bit. They'd make people ask questions, or the young heros themselves ask what they were doing. It would end with Pandora closed for good.