Chapter Text
Cross didn’t talk very much. It was something Killer thought was rather… strange . Now, Killer was not one to stay silent, continuously rambling on about anything he thought until somebody (Nightmare most often) stopped him. That's just who he was and he was fine with that. However, the scar-faced skeleton’s silence often bothered him— irked him in a way that he couldn't quite figure out. It felt like talking to a brick wall, or like he wasn’t really all there. Killer simply chalked it up to a weird quirk and moved on. It couldn’t be helped anyway, Cross wouldn’t even answer the question if he asked.
….
Cross liked listening to Killer. He envied him–almost. Killer said anything and everything, carelessly throwing out words like he would never run out. It’s not that Cross didn't want to talk, he just..couldn’t. Maybe it was a trauma thing. Nightmare had approached him early on about it, about a month after he agreed to join. He just simply shrugged and dismissed the question. So he listened, focusing his time on observing tone and behavior.
Killer was a rambler, that much was obvious to anyone, but he also spoke quickly and directly. Nightmare was straight to the point, often sounding moody and irritated, but his tone shifted slightly sometimes. His scolding and attitude were often misconstrued with anger, but oftentimes it was out of concern and worry. He admired and cared about his team. Dust and Horror were similar to each other, they didn't talk as much but added feedback when necessary. Horror spoke gently, and Dust liked to emphasize his points with hand gestures. Each one of them had something specific about their speech, and Cross liked that.
Maybe he was jealous? Or maybe it was admiration? Neither of those sounded quite right to him. He had tried to say more than a few words at a time before, but it always ended with him sounding awkward. However, the more he seemed to try to talk, he could see their silent encouragement, hear it. His silence was comfortable (at least to him)– protective even. He couldn’t say something wrong if he didn’t speak at all right? Naturally, the group often teased him about it. Sometimes he thought he wished he could talk, other times he didn’t care enough to dare to say a word. It didn’t seem like much of a problem at all in his mind.
There were times he physically couldn’t speak, not just his mental fear of it. Most times left him in silent tears– too far away from his own body to get a sound out. He had known Dust struggled with dissociation, something the group had picked up on silently. But Cross felt it was different. It was obvious when Dust had those episodes, for him it was just how he normally was. He couldn't figure out how to explain it right either. “Sorry, I just barely feel real half of the time so I can’t talk right now”, didn't sound like the best way to word it. Eventually, he stopped caring if they noticed. He found comfort in the fuzziness of his skull and let himself simply exist. There wasn’t any harm to that…right?
…
Killer was having trouble sleeping that night, tossing and turning until he became overwhelmed and annoyed. He decided to go to the kitchen, grab some water and maybe a few snacks, then bundle up and watch movies until his mind would shut off. It sounded like a decent plan. As he got close to the kitchen though, he heard hushed voices– quiet and concerned murmurs through what sounded to be the boss. It was odd, Nightmare was never that quiet. Needless to say, he was very intrigued by whatever was happening.
If anyone told Killer that he would find Nightmare comforting Cross of all people during some sort of breakdown, he would've just laughed. Cross never seemed emotionally there. Yes, he helped them while they were struggling and, yes, he always somehow could figure out what was wrong and how to fix it, but Cross never showed any sort of emotion other than bored. The scene made him freeze a moment, somehow seeing the monochrome skeleton like that..felt wrong. Normally Killer wouldn't have thought twice about it, he was no stranger to walking in on someone having a breakdown, but that didn’t feel right to do now. Instead, he watched from the other side of the wall, trying to decipher what the hell was going on.
Cross shook violently, a completely blank stare on his face. Nightmare seemed to be trying to bring him back (?). It reminded him slightly of how they handle Dust’s dissociations, but normally they just talked to him until he could focus, not try to magically will him back to himself. Killer noticed it then– the distant look, the fuzzy eye lights, the way he barely even moved. It was the same look Cross carried nearly every day. He tried not to think about that too closely. He watched Cross blink slowly, before squeezing his eyes shut as if the light was burning them. Nightmare quickly dimmed the lights before asking Cross if he could hear him. Did he not hear him before? Killer didn’t know exactly what to make of it. He was confused, sure, but there was a feeling he couldn't recognize either.
He knew Nightmare would have felt his presence, but the other made no move to act on it. When Cross started crying, he instantly took his turn to leave. Was he angry? Sad? Killer couldn’t define what he was feeling. Why wouldn't Cross tell them? Why was Cross so reserved? Realization dawned on him, it was because Cross wouldn’t talk at all. These thoughts would all loop back in a circle to the same, one question. Why didn’t Cross talk anymore?
Killer was going to get to the bottom of this. No matter what.