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It’s late.
Undyne went to bed without you because you told her that you still had some work to finish up, and you guess that excuse hasn’t worn thin yet, since she believed you. The kids have been asleep for hours, too. So you have peace and quiet and the television turned on and low to a channel that you don’t actually get, so that the screen is covered with snow and the room is filled with the low sound of static.
You’ve turned all the other lights off, so that you’ll blend in with the sofa you sit hunched on, pressed against the armrest so closely it’s almost uncomfortable. The flickering lights remind you of the lab, the real one, and even in your fuzzy pajamas you feel that vague phantom sense of cold.
You shouldn’t be able to forget. That’s a luxury that you frankly do not deserve.
The soft sounds of rustling and scraping, too, remind you of the lab—of your charges pacing and skittering through the hallways—and they’re so neutral and familiar that by the time you realize they’re footsteps and they’re drawing closer to you, you about jump out of your scales, belated a reaction though it might be. You manage to restrain yourself to whipping your head around, pulse like a drum in your chest, as a small figure seats itself beside you.
A small human figure. You blink and push your glasses up on your snout, waiting for your eyes to adjust to the dark. It’s Chara.
What on earth are they doing up like this, you want to ask, except—their awful dark circles, their mouth tight and small, the way the fold their legs up to their chest as they sit, a ball of bad things just like you. No, you decide, what you really want to ask is why they’re here with you instead of still in bed with Frisk and Asriel, because it ought to be more comforting with their best friends, right, even if they can’t bear to wake either—
Except that you think you might understand that, too, without having to ask. It’s probably for reasons like why you’re out here to stew in all your mistakes instead of having gone to bed with Undyne, who at the best of times is sort of a shield from them—a tall lanky fighty loud shield.
Chara goes on staring straight ahead, the television snow flickering on their pale face. They don’t seem to be in the mood for talking either. That suits you okay. You turn forwards again, only giving them an occasional surreptitious glance from the corner of your eye.
Your brooding subroutine has been well and truly derailed, though. They’re breathing softly next to you, and although they’re not touching you, they’re warm—their body heat takes the chill out of the air around you both. You’re still miserable, of course. They are too, you don’t doubt it. But there’s something companionable about it—you and them and your secrets and theirs thick in the air, awful thoughts milling like clouds of gnats.
There was a time, not so long ago, when they were one of the secrets you kept. Old tapes that only the prince’s voice was recorded on, but that spelled out their misguided plan all the same. As if their death could have bought anything but heartache for their loved ones. But that wouldn’t have occurred to them, even if it’s obvious to you. (You know this because—you mean. It’s apparently obvious to everyone but you that the world is better with you in it, or whatever. That’s what Undyne and Sans say, and, okay. It sounds fake. But okay.)
(Sometimes it’s nice even if you can’t quite believe them.)
You get as far as opening your mouth before you realize that you don’t know how to put all this into words so that Chara will believe it, and also that it would be pretty awkward to bring up you hoarding Asriel’s home videos too, even though—god, they and Frisk probably saw them when they followed you into the lab, didn’t they? One of the keys was in that room and even if the kids hadn’t decided to play the things Chara might still have recognized them. You mean. They were Asriel’s and all. Oh god.
Anyway, you’re no mind reader, you don’t even know what Chara’s brooding about, you could be getting ready to remind them of all kinds of things they don’t need to think about right now. So you shut your mouth again and—god you wish they’d just say something; their presence has gone from comforting to awkward in about five seconds and that might be your stupid hamsterwheel brain’s fault but that doesn’t make it any easier to handle—
Something warm and a little clammy fits itself around your hand, and you’re too busy being gobsmacked to leap off the couch in a panic. You turn back to Chara.
They are definitely holding your hand, all right. This is a thing that’s happening to you right now. They’re still not looking at you—they’re staring fixed and stubborn at the TV—but they hold on to you fiercely all the same.
Their hand’s shaped a little differently from Frisk’s, you realize. Their fingers are longer, thinner; the angles of their knuckles are sharper. It’s not as soft. Scar tissue interrupts the flesh of their palm over and over, bumpy and rough where it’s pressed against yours.
They squeeze your hand, just a little, like a cat kneading. You think they’re quivering, some. You squeeze their hand back. They breathe out, a little louder than they have been, and they squeeze your hand again.
They don’t seem able to talk to you, any more than you are to them. But their hand in yours feels like—like guard rails, or a safety net. Something to hold you back. Probably—it’s the same on their end too.
You stay like that for a long, long time.
The next morning, you wake up with a couple of blankets tossed over you, Chara’s forehead mushed into your shoulder, and no memory of falling asleep.
There’s something itchy on your face. You frown and slap at it. It’s a bright blue post-it note. You peel it off and squint, then try to adjust your glasses with one hand because Chara is asleep on your other arm and you’d feel like a brute to wake them.
Gone to take the other 2 out to the park, says the note, in Undyne’s handwriting. Asgore and Toriel are supposed to call to say how things go with the mediator but I’m taking the phone so don’t worry about it. There’s instant noodles but you can only eat them if you drink tea too!! If it’s cold make Chara show you how to fix it!!! Love you nerd
You fold the post-it over and pinch it, adhering the sticky strip to the flat end. Thank you, Undyne.
The television’s off. Chara’s shoulder is pressed into your side, and it’s pointy and uncomfortable. You should probably take a shower or something, and instant noodles sound like a good idea.
But you spend just a little while longer blinking into the noon light. Chara needs their rest, and, well, the blankets are nice and warm.