Chapter Text
Ink isn't a real person.
They can't love people-- only characters. They only need to love characters to protect the multiverse. That's their purpose, they don't need anything else. They weren't made to have friends.
Dream isn't his friend. Dream is his teammate.
Error and other threats to the AUs cause negativity-- Nightmare and his minions ruin incode scripts. It only makes sense that Dream and Ink should fight them together.
They have a little house to use as a base, hidden in a peaceful, abandoned underground. They help each other fight their enemies, and they help each other clean up afterward.
Nothing more than that. Ink isn't capable of a real relationship, no matter how he feels about the character. And Dream isn't looking for friends, either-- he's busy. He helps the AUs, and he's always happy about it, and he doesn't need anything else. He can't want anything else, and neither can Ink.
So there are no feelings of yearning or loneliness for Ink to be pushing away as he sits alone in the Doodle Sphere, sketching out some characters for a found family story he might never finish writing. They're even more fake than Ink, but something about creating them makes him feel a little less hollow in a way even his paints can't do.
Still, he feels empty, and doesn't quite understand why-- he's taken all his paints. He doesn't need more-- he knows from experience, too much will only make this feel worse.
Nothing he can do, then, except work on his story until Error or Nightmare decides to go on a murder spree and he'll have to go get Dream and go beat them up.
He realizes he'll have to go to the base sooner than that, though, when he remembers a character he made earlier that would fit well into his story. He left the sketchbook he drew them in somewhere at the base, if he remembers correctly-- so before he has the chance to forget again, he lets himself melt into ink and teleports there.
He reforms in the living room, through the murky storage bin of paint water left in a corner as an easy destination. He ignores the splash of water he tracks onto the hard floor as he steps out, magically dry and paint-stained as always.
Amber streetlights shine faintly through the windows, still glowing even though the monsters that lived here reached the surface years ago. Maybe the Core will power them for a few more years-- or maybe their Creators have left them on for the aesthetic forever.
The lights in the house are mostly off-- dim, unnaturally white lightbulbs occasionally flicker in the ceiling lamps in the kitchen and hallway. Even as dull as the scene is, it looks a little more cool than it does with the lights on, so Ink leaves the switches alone.
What was Ink here for again? Right, that one sketchbook. He checks the couch first-- he doesn't remember sitting on it and sketching recently, but that doesn't mean he didn't leave the book there.
Not there-- they turn to try the kitchen next, but freeze when they hear something down the hall.
Someone else is here. Dream? Dream is usually quiet.
Sketchbook forgotten, Ink walks into the hallway. They go silently, wanting to find the source of the noise before it finds them.
The hallway isn't long, so they quickly find the right door. A bedroom, the door ajar. He can hear harsh, shaky breaths from inside. They push open the door slowly, quietly.
It's Dream.
He lay curled up on the floor, even though a bed is right there. His bones rattle violently as he curls in on himself, looking as small as Ink has ever seen him. He faces away from Ink, so they can't see his face. His body glows with a dull golden light-- weaker than usual, barely even making him visible in the dark room.
It takes Ink a few moments to realize Dream is crying. Even then, they can't be certain-- Dream has never even looked disappointed in front of them. Surely, that's not what he's doing there?
He's always said he can't feel anything but positive. As another not-quite-monster that doesn't feel the way everyone else can, Ink had believed him. Sure, his unnatural cheer is uncanny-- but so is Ink. They get it.
At least, they thought they did.
Dream doesn't notice Ink walk into the room, with no soul to sense.
"Dream?" Ink calls, and suddenly Dream is on his feet.
"Hi, Ink!" he says, that same warm smile back on his face like always. "W-what do you need?"
It might have been convincing if Dream had been able to stop shaking. He looks like he's about to fall over, and his skull is wet with tears.
This is a new side to his character-- yet Ink feels something they don't recognize, something they never feel for the other characters. It's... like they want to help him.
Must be because Dream is one of their favorites.
Ink steps forward, and Dream noticeably represses a flinch.
"Dream, what's going on?" they ask.
Dream's mask of an expression seems to crack-- his smile stays frozen, yet strained. His eyelights go fuzzy and wobbly at the edges.
"Nothing!" Dream says, sounding cheerful except for the broken gasps in between his words. "Nothing is wrong, I just-- it's okay, I should go--"
He turns away and starts to open a portal, and even it struggles to form, the golden edges dull and the window flickering in and out of existence.
"No," Ink says, and Dream instantly drops the attempt at a portal. It hadn't been intended as a command-- they had only meant to ask him to stay.
"What-- what do y-you need," Dream tries, turning back to face his teammate politely, even as new tears run from his eye sockets.
"What do you need?" Ink asks.
Dream hesitates, then breaks.
"I can't," he says, and for the first time Ink sees his smile drop. He instantly forces it back up, even more fake than before.
"I can't need," he continues, "what I need is to go back, I didn't-- I didn't finish helping, they're still--"
Ink stands still and listens, concerned yet unsure how to comfort his teammate. Dream stares down into Ink's eye sockets as he speaks, his own eyelights fuzzy and fragile, as if he thinks constant eye contact is helping even though he clearly isn't enjoying it. Ink can't look away.
"I shouldn't be here-- Nightmare-- he did so much damage," Dream sobs, still grinning uncannily. "I-- I have to fix it-- I shouldn't--"
He starts to tightly wrap his arms around his own ribs, and Ink reaches out to offer a hug-- which Dream takes immediately, though the way he pats comfortingly at Ink's back leaves them wondering if he even wanted to.
Ink remembers a minute late that they should be the one doing that, but they're not sure how, so they just start to pet Dream's back like he's a cat. It seems to work-- he finally relaxes, just slightly, just enough to notice. Still, Dream continues to shake so violently Ink can hear his bones rattle.
Ink doesn't know what to do. He... doesn't think he's ever held anyone like this. He's certainly never had to comfort anyone like this. His hands run down Dream's spine, and he hopes it brings his teammate some comfort, even though he doesn't quite understand how.
They should say something. They don't know how. They should... tell him he deserves better? That he can rest, that it's okay to feel? Ink had thought Dream was like themself, not needing such things, but that... doesn't seem true anymore.
But that's okay-- if Ink has to be tireless enough for both of them, he will be. It won't be that bad-- that's what being tireless means, after all. They've been alone before.
They... don't need him.
They're not sure why the thought makes them hold him a little closer as he shivers in their arms. Has it been too long-- should they have said something already? Or does he need more time, should they not say anything at all? Stars, they don't know anything, this is just one of many reasons they can't get too close.
If Dream is real, Ink shouldn't think they can be near him.
But... they're supposed to be teammates. Not more. But there must be some reason Ink is allowed to sit in on this character arc. Maybe they're supposed to help him. Maybe they actually can...
"It's okay," Ink whispers.
"It is!" Dream instantly agrees, way too cheerful, and Ink realizes their mistake.
"That-- that's not what I meant! It's okay that you're not okay, Dream, you're-- you're allowed to feel, you don't have to be fake like me. Take a break."
Dream whines into their shoulder, unable to come up with a verbal response. He's so different today, it's like he's a whole different character.
Or maybe they just didn't notice how tired his eyes have always looked until now.
Dream's hands on Ink's back slow down, then stop moving, clinging weakly to the back of their shirt.
"You deserve better," they try instead. It feels like they're just saying nonsense, anything vaguely reassuring that might fix this situation-- and it seems like they've screwed up again, the way Dream tenses again in their arms.
"I can't," Dream repeats.
Ink replies without thinking first. "Then don't worry about what you deserve, just-- take a rest, Dream, you obviously need it."
"But... I can't..." Dream whispers, though despite his words he sinks deeper into Ink's arms, like his body has only just realized it can't hold itself up any longer.
"Don't worry about that right now," Ink says, voice soft. "You did good, you always do good, it'll be okay."
Dream's only response is a soft noise as Ink guides him to the rarely-used bed. They pull the covers over Dream's shoulders, then linger awkwardly for a minute or two before they turn to leave him to rest alone.
His hand around the bones of their wrist stops them. Dream hardly looks awake enough to notice them leaving, yet he holds on to them like he actually wants them there.
Ink isn't sure why-- there's no warmth in their undead bones, no affectionate soul to sense, no relationship before... whatever they were just doing. But it's the first time they've been able to tell what Dream actually wants, so they're happy to sit down next to him on top of the blankets, leaving their hand in his. Slowly, Dream's shivering stops.
They use their magic to summon a new, blank sketchbook (unfortunately not the one they were looking for, but it'll do) and a pencil, preparing to be there for a few hours. They rest the book on their legs and the pencil in their free hand, positioned a little awkwardly but as good as they'll get without waking their teammate.
But despite the hours of free time, they can't focus on the sketches that usually make them feel a little closer to whole-- only on the unfamiliar feeling of a hand in theirs.