Work Text:
Killer had dealt with a hefty amount of blood in his god-forsaken life.
The blood of his ex-loved ones, the blood of Frisk or Chara or whatever the demon called themself, the blood of his enemies…
Back then, the monsters would normally dust so quickly after he drew blood that he could never really feel the heat of it. That’s why he cherished whenever he could torture the human—that demon could have more blood outside than in, have their guts spilling out and still try to stab him. Better yet, they’d come back after dying!
He almost misses them, if only for the challenge that came with killing them.
If almost meant not at all, of course.
Back then, he would’ve gotten ridiculed for basking in blood, in the pure misery of others.
Here he…still does but at least his boss approves!
Now, he can dole out however much blood he wants.
So why, when he turns that on himself, is it a problem?
Maybe because he was sitting on the floor of his messy bedroom, crumpled in a puddle of his own blood and his arms were covered in cuts.
Boss did say he tended to go overboard sometimes. Not on himself of course, but to others. Boss didn’t know the full extent of his “bad habit” other than picking at his arms (where open wounds and scabs were, but that was neither here nor there—they were covered by his turtleneck and jacket anyway).
Blood usually comes with the addition of negativity, unless the owner of said blood was dead.
Killer found some facsimile of joy in killing (obviously), so that was a thing he’d encountered an immeasurable amount of times.
He couldn’t feel though, so maybe that was why Boss wouldn’t let him cut himself.
…
Welp, what he doesn’t know can’t hurt him.
Maybe he wasn’t cutting deep enough to feel anything.
Slice
A new flow of his black blood sprang out from a cut that was halfway in his humerus.
He didn’t find it very funny.
Maybe if he did he wouldn’t be in a puddle of his own blood, but again, neither here nor there.
This was where his (very little) logic normally came into play.
Killer had already struggled to find a spot on either of his arms that was unmarred for him to cut deep enough.
Every other time, he still had enough sense to stop so that he could (somewhat) function within the next few hours.
Now, though…
Maybe if I start feeling again it won’t matter.
Very backwards thinking, he knew, but hey, he could always pop a monster candy and call it a day if he couldn’t deal with the pain…
…
…Who was he kidding, pain was never the problem.
Slice
Back into that same cut.
His humerus was starting to creak dangerously.
Maybe Dust would help him out when he was done. Killer had told Dust about his habit, psycho to psycho, because he was pretty sure Dust knew anyway—
“What the fuck are you doing, Killer?”
“Uh…” Killer’s nonexistent eye lights darted around the kitchen, trying to find an excuse as to why he was currently holding a knife to his already marred and bloodied arm at 3:42am. “…Experimenting,” He settled on.
“Fucking knew it,” Killer heard Dust mutter a string of obscenities under his breath before said skeleton sighed and closed the distance between him and Killer.
“Give me your arm.”
“And why should I—“
“Look,” Dust snapped, rubbing the sleep from his sockets. “It’s too early and while you’re not subtle in the slightest all I wanted was a glass of water—not one word, Paps. Now what you’re gonna do is give me your arm so I can clean it and we can both go back to our rooms and pretend to be asleep.”
—Yep, pretty sure.
Plus, it would be easier to see how in-the-know the others were if he had an inside man.
Killer doubted it though.
Dust only had one request when Killer told him, and that was to tell him whenever Killer decided to cut. Killer didn’t know why, and he didn’t really care (not like he ever does). All he knew was that Dust had also told him that while he’d help him clean up, he wasn’t going to help him with the aftermath.
“You need to face the consequences of hurting yourself,” He said, wrapping up the last of Killer’s wounds. “Maybe then you’ll stop.”
Yeah, sure, and look at him now.
Sitting in an ever-growing puddle of his own blood.
Killer was starting to feel lightheaded.
Probably from the blood-loss.
Surprising, really.
Normally he doesn’t let superficial things like that get to him.
Eh, maybe he could go for one more cut.
Just to see.
Slice
His humerus was bent, hanging at an angle and gushing blood.
Reminds him of when Cross broke his arm. Heh, too bad for the prick, he didn’t know Killer had already put his arms through hell. That break had barely hurt.
…
He felt disconnected from his own body.
He‘d been feeling like that for a while now, if he was being honest with himself.
Weird how being about to pass out can give you a moment of clarity.
This was nothing more than an experiment. A failed one, anyway. He couldn’t even feel anything, not even pain.
His last thought before he passed out was that he’d have severed his humerus from the rest of his arm, if he cut just one more time…
“Stars-damnit, Killer,” Dust muttered, not quite sure what to do with the scene before him.
Well, no, that was a lie—he wanted to smack the stupid skeleton across his ashen skull.
The idiot had been acting weird during dinner (which was just microwave macaroni and cheese because Horror was back in his AU), all his tells on display for when he was about to do something stupid.
They’d established early on that Dust wasn’t supposed to reach out to Killer unless he “accidentally” stumbled across him (little did the dumbass know it was never accidental), so Dust waited.
However, Nightmare ordering him to go “inspect the suspicious lack of a presence”, gave him enough of an excuse to go snooping other than his own concern curiosity.
So.
Here he was.
Watching Killer bleed out from his mangled arm.
Arms, actually. The fatal more severe wounds were on his left though.
YOU’RE TOO LATE, BROTHER!
“Shut up, Paps, I’m not,” Dust growled. If he was, Killer would be dust (heh) by now.
KEEP TELLING YOURSELF THAT.
Unfortunately for Papyrus, his words spurred Dust into action.
He took a step forward…
…and winced when his slippers were ruined by Killer’s DT-filled blood on his second step.
Yeah…
He couldn’t just clean Killer up this time.
Cringing at how awkwardly Killer’s arm was bent, Dust secured his own arms around his waist and under his legs—
THAT’S GAY, BROTHER!
—lifted him up, and teleported to Nightmare’s office.
The response was immediate.
“Dust,” Nightmare hissed. “Why is Killer bleeding out in my office?”
“You’re asking me like I did it,” Dust muttered, then looked up. Bad idea. Nightmare looks pissed. His cyan eye light, although a pinprick in his anger, still bore into the depths of his soul. “I didn’t do it.”
With that, he teleported himself and Killer to their “infirmary”, which was really just an extra room they had and shoved their healing supplies in. Nightmare ordered them to call it an infirmary though, so infirmary it is.
YOUR BOSS WILL HAVE YOUR HEAD, BROTHER! YOU NEED TO KI—
“Boss-man’s a big boy,” Dust cut him off, not entertaining that train of thought. “He’ll be right in front of me in three, two, one–“
Sure enough, black tar appeared and solidified into his angered boss.
“Do you forget I can sense where you are, Dust?” He snarled.
“Nope, just didn’t feel like explaining or having Killer bleed over your precious carpet any more than necessary.”
Everyone knew how much of a bitch it was to clean Killer’s DT out.
“Of course,” Nightmare said, saccharine sweet. “Now explain.”
Yeah, not happening.
It didn’t matter how much Nightmare put in to intimidate them, they all knew he really was a big softie, and the explanation of “Killer’s been cutting himself and I’ve been helping him keep it under wraps” (heh) would hurt more than just his boss’ pride.
“I plead the fifth,” He simply said, adjusting Killer’s still bleeding form.
Stars, how much more blood did he have?
It’s been what, at least five minutes?
Shit, he should’ve wrapped up The Wound as soon as he saw him.
Really, both his arms at this point.
Hesitant to give an order to his boss, Dust practically dumped Killer onto their med-bed and started scrambling for the bandages and healing gel.
Fortunately, Nightmare was an astute individual and handed both objects to Dust with his tentacles as Dust found alcohol pads and rags.
Dust soaked up the blood with the rags (he went through three), then thoroughly cleaned The Wound (the fatal most severe wound on Killer’s left arm), shoved half the jar of healing gel into the damn thing (the idiot really had almost severed off his own arm), then wrapped it up.
He’d unwrap it when he was done with the other wounds to see if it even made a difference how much more he’d have to tend to it.
He found his body just going through the familiar motions of bandaging up Killer as he faintly heard Nightmare ask if he required any assistance.
He heard himself ask if he could bring Horror so he could make some healing food.
He sensed Nightmare and Horror speaking to each other and Horror rushing to get the healing food…Dust had asked for..?
“-ust. Dust! Dust!” He heard Nightmare call Dust. He slowly turned his head towards Nightmare. “You have been wrapping the same area of Killer’s arm for the past three minutes. I cannot even see the blood anymore. What more do you need to do?”
Huh.
He- Dust must’ve dissociated for a bit. That’d explain the suspicious lack of Paps.
He looked over his work work, because he is not acknowledging that this is Killer and his gaze focused on the dark patch of blood soaking the bandages around The Wound.
That’s.
Fine.
It’s probably old.
It must’ve stopped by now.
WHATEVER YOU SAY, BROTHER.
Dust scowled.
He slowly unwrapped the bandages around The Wound he was scared to look at as to not aggravate it and processed that it was still bleeding, though it was slower now.
He quickly replaced the bandages and processed Horror rushing in with food and held his hand out.
He gave him a bar.
Ripping the thing open with more aggression than probably necessary, he pried Killer’s jaw open and shoved the bar in his mouth.
It didn’t dissolve.
Fuck, he didn’t have enough magic in him to dissolve food.
He needed a direct deposit of magic.
“I…” He heard himself say. “IV.”
He heard Nightmare rummaging through the cabinets as he unwrapped the bandages and shoved more healing gel into The Wound. The Wound was only about a third deep into his arm now, just barely scraping a major mana line. As the healing gel he’d just applied worked, he watched and waited until The Wound started to look like the other wounds before stabbing an IV needle into a rare unmarred patch on Killer’s upper arm and taping it down.
Now, he stood.
And watched.
And waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Until they ran out of healing gel…
Until they ran out of IV…
Until…
The bar dissolved in Killer’s mouth.
Dust wasted no time in prying Killer’s mouth open yet again and Horror shoved snack after snack into it.
Then, they waited.
And watched
And watched.
And watched.
Until Killer’s sockets started to flutter open.
Dust smacked the idiot across his stupid skull.
Dust backed up before Horror or Nightmare thought to restrain him.
“He’s up.”
Killer really wouldn’t have minded if he was able to wake up on his own, but nooo.
His cheek stung from where…Dust? Yeah, Dust, the asshole, slapped him.
“He’s up,” Killer heard him say. It was quiet, but not really because honestly you could’ve heard a pin drop in the…
Infirmary?
Shit.
Killer looked around the room and found Horror and Nightmare (shit shit shit—) staring at him like he was a ghost or something.
So, naturally: “Jeez, who died?”
He almost winced at the sound of his own raspy, broken voice.
If almost meant not at all, of course.
He didn’t have any shame, after all!
He didn’t have much of anything.
Horror looked like he was restraining himself from shoving some healing food down his throat while Dust looked like he wanted to smack him again.
“You almost died, you idiot,” He snapped.
Well, damn.
So close and yet so far.
“But I didn’t,” He said slowly, hiding his disappointment(? Okay experiment, that’s new!) with a smirk. “So..?”
Everyone let out a collective, exasperated sigh as he trailed off.
Boss rubbed his nasal ridge as Dust rolled his eye lights and Horror tugged at his socket.
Oh, maybe if he got the attention off of himself—
“Horror, stop it,” Boss ordered.
Damnit.
“Now that everyone here is of sound enough mind,” He continued. “would either of you two care to explain what happened?”
“Eh, not really,” Killer replied.
Boss’ gaze settled directly in Killer’s sockets and Dust, the traitor, pinned him with a look.
Killer released an exaggeratedly put-upon sigh, which really just sounded like a wheeze in his condition.
“I was cleaning some of my stuff and fell on my backup knife collection.” The lie rolled smoothly off his tongue(? Huh. He got the feeling that wasn’t there for a hot minute).
Dust raised a brow bone and Horror started looking at him again too.
He looked mad, but mostly just hurt.
“You think we don’t know…” He rumbled. “What those are..? Nothin’ cuts that. Precisely…”
Oh.
Well, damn.
“Yes,” Boss added. “Horror and I both recognized the wounds for what they were upon looking at them. We simply want to know why you would do this and why to this extent. Your lies do us as well as yourself a disservice.”
He was running out of options.
“Yeah, uh…” He tried pushing himself up on the med-bed he was laying on. Shit, he could barely feel his arms, particularly his left one. Legs it is then. “I’m, uh… I appreciate the help, but I’ll be good from here.”
He teleported…
Right back to the med-bed.
Actually, he didn’t think he moved at all.
“Starsdamnit,” He cursed as he hit his head against a pillow with a wry laugh. “Look, I’m not having a soul-to-target with any of you guys, so could I please just go to my room and heal or whatever?”
“No,” Boss replied. “I’m confiscating your knives as well.”
What.
“Wait wait wait!” His knives are basically an extension of him, Boss can’t just take them! How was he supposed to cut even attempt to feel without his blades? “You know what, fine! Dust can tell you! Just. Not my knives. Please.”
He had told Dust his reasons in the dead of night one time he’d had a particularly challenging break, just not in detail.
“No,” Dust, the asshole, and Boss said in unison.
“While I will be asking Dust some questions later,” Boss continued with a pointed look in said skeleton’s direction. “This is not for Dust to share, and I would prefer to hear everything from you.”
Killer started testing how strong his legs were at the moment. Maybe he could just make a run for it—
“However,” Oh, Boss was still talking. He was always a long-winded individual. “I will not force you to share until you are comfortable. Although,” He paused. He’s letting me keep my knives, he’s letting me keep my knives, he’s letting me keep my knives— “You are not allowed your knives or any sharp object unless we are out on missions, which,” Boss gave him a once-over. “you most likely will not be participating in for a while yet.”
Damnit, damnit dammit!
“Boss,” Killer wasn’t above begging. “Boss, boss, please, I need them, I need them I need them—“
He started choking.
Choking on his DETERMINATION..?
When the hell did that even start to overflow?
He couldn’t breathe.
He was paralyzed.
Big hands hefted him up and started clapping his back.
He kept hacking up DT, but it didn’t matter.
It wouldn’t matter if he choked and turned to dust right now.
Boss was taking his knives.
Killer stared at the doorknob.
Maybe time would go by and he’d die faster
Eventually, his coughing stopped.
It left a suffocating silence.
He stared at the doorknob.
Eventually, the big hands holding him up retreated.
Those and something black exited, obstructing his view of the doorknob.
He stayed staring at the area.
Eventually, fingers snapped right in front of him, and he jumped back out of reflex.
“Finally,” Dust muttered. “What, are you trying to be a statue or something?”
Killer narrowed his sockets at him.
“Look, I didn’t tell them anything,” Dust tried to placate him.
He went back to staring at the doorknob.
The skeleton—Dust—sighed. “I think I already know why you went this far this time, and I doubt you’d tell me anyway, so I won’t bother asking.”
He stayed staring at the doorknob.
Dust made an aggravated noise.
Heh, sounded like he was debating something internally.
Killer could just read people like that.
While staring at the doorknob.
“Just,” Dust said, pulling something out of his pocket. “Don’t do any stupid shit with this. I don’t know how you could, but you’d probably find a way.”
With that, he held up a plastic butter knife in Killer’s field of vision.
Heh, fuck the doorknob!
He yanked the utensil out of Dust’s grip before the skeleton could take it back.
“I’m only giving you this because you looked like you’d bash your head against the wall until your skull looked worse than Horror,” He said, making his way toward the door. “I’ll leave you alone now.”
He could keep experimenting!
Oh, what was this? Anticipation?—
“And, uh, Killer,” Dust said, poking his head through the door.
Killer grunted in acknowledgment.
“Happy birthday.”