Work Text:
Killer knew there was something strange about his boss. Nightmare’s food and drinks always had a weird taste, not bad, just different.
Killer noticed it the first week he joined the crew. Every time Nightmare took a sip of something, the smell in the room shifted a little, like the air got heavier for a second.
Killer pretended not to notice it, but he always did.
Nightmare never ate in front of anyone for long either. He took a few bites, then pushed the plate away like he was done. But the food always looked like it lost some of its color after he touched it.
Killer stared at it once when Nightmare wasn’t looking. The meat looked a bit dull, like something had drained out of it.
Killer didn’t say anything. He just kept watching. One night, Nightmare left his cup on the table. Killer walked over and sniffed it.
The drink smelled sweet at first, then a little cold, like frost or something close to it.
He dipped a finger in and pulled it back fast because the liquid felt wrong, almost like it wasn’t normal liquid at all.
Killer didn’t tell the others. He just kept the thought in his head:
Nightmare wasn’t eating like everyone else.
-----
Dust had seen Nightmare’s room exactly once. It wasn’t on purpose either. He had been looking for Killer and took a wrong turn in the castle halls.
The door was open just a crack, and Dust peeked in before he even thought about it.
The room was dark, way darker than anywhere else in the place. The blinds were shut tight, blocking out every bit of light.
Even the air felt heavier, like the room didn’t want anyone inside.
Nightmare’s bed was the thing Dust noticed first. It was big, way bigger than anyone needed, but it had a lid. A full-on lid.
It looked more like a casket than a bed, something you’d see in a grave instead of in a bedroom.
At first Dust didn’t pay it much attention. His boss was weird, everyone already knew that. If Nightmare wanted to sleep in a giant box, that was his problem.
But Dust kept thinking about it later. Why would someone need a lid on their bed? Why keep the room so dark all the time?
He tried to shrug it off, telling himself Nightmare probably just liked privacy. Maybe he slept better in the dark. Maybe he just had some creepy style he refused to drop.
Still, Dust couldn’t forget how cold the room felt. Not normal cold, but the kind that crawls up your spine and sits there.
He remembered the way the walls looked almost like they were pulsing, like shadows were moving even though nothing in the room was moving at all.
Dust backed out of the room fast that day and pretended he never saw anything.
But sometimes, when Nightmare walked by or when the castle got too quiet, Dust remembered that casket-bed and those shifting shadows.
And he wondered what Nightmare was hiding in there.
------
Horror had noticed it pretty fast. Nightmare never sent them to a surface timeline. Not once.
Even when the others asked, even when they had a real reason to go, Nightmare just shook his head and told them to pick somewhere else.
At first Horror didn’t think too hard about it. Nightmare had rules, and the crew broke enough of them already.
But after a while it stopped feeling like a rule and started feeling like something Nightmare was scared of.
Nightmare didn’t mind going with them underground. He walked through old halls, tight caves, towns, and didn’t complain once.
He even looked relaxed sometimes, like those places were normal for him. But the second anyone mentioned going above ground, he went stiff.
His voice got sharp. He always said no. No talks, no missions, no scouting trips. Just no.
Horror thought it was strange. Surface timelines were full of humans, way more than monsters.
More fear, more anger, more stress. Pretty much a buffet of Negativity if Nightmare ever wanted one.
It made no sense that their boss, who fed on that stuff, avoided the place where it gathered the most.
Horror tried to figure it out. Maybe Nightmare didn’t like sunlight. Maybe the open sky made him uncomfortable. Maybe he had a bad history with humans. Horror wasn’t sure.
Nightmare didn’t talk about his past unless someone forced him, and even then he barely said anything.
Still, the pattern was way too clear to ignore. If a mission needed sunlight, Nightmare stayed behind. If someone suggested a city full of humans, Nightmare rejected it before the sentence even ended.
Horror kept track of it in his head, building up a list of all the times Nightmare avoided anything above ground.
And every time it happened, Horror felt that same small thought poke at him:
Nightmare wasn’t avoiding timelines.
He was avoiding the sky.
----
Cross had come from a religious AU, even if he didn’t actually believe in God.
The small cross he wore wasn’t about faith. It just made him feel calmer, like a tiny piece of home he could keep with him. He didn’t think anyone would care about it. It was just a necklace. Nothing special.
He still remembered the first time he wore it outside his room. He’d been heading toward the kitchen, minding his own business, when Nightmare passed him in the hallway.
The moment Nightmare’s eyelight landed on the necklace, his whole expression changed.
He didn’t say a word, but the glare he gave Cross felt sharp enough to cut bone. Cold, angry, almost disgusted. Cross froze where he stood, not even sure what he’d done wrong.
Nightmare walked away without speaking, but the look stuck in Cross’s mind for hours.
He tried to convince himself it meant nothing. Maybe Nightmare was just in a bad mood. Maybe he was annoyed at something else. But the feeling in Cross’s chest said otherwise.
The next morning, when Cross woke up, the necklace was gone. He tore his room apart looking for it. Under the bed, behind the dresser, inside every drawer. Nothing.
It had vanished completely. And Cross hadn’t heard anyone come in during the night.
He never asked Nightmare about it. He didn’t even bring it up to the others. Something in him said not to.
Nightmare didn’t like that cross. He wanted it gone. That much was obvious.
Cross kept telling himself he probably just lost it. That maybe it slipped off or broke somehow.
But deep down he knew the truth. Nightmare didn’t glare at things for no reason.
And Cross was pretty sure Nightmare made sure that necklace would never show up again.
-----
Nightmare was calmly walking down the hallway of his castle, his footsteps echoing faintly against the stone walls.
He was full, having just eaten, and the heavy weight of satisfaction made the emptiness of the day feel even louder.
There was nothing he needed to do for hours, nothing pressing, nothing urgent. The usual chaos of the crew didn’t bother him today, and he liked it that way.
He decided to go to his private library. The door was at the end of a long, dim corridor, tucked away behind tapestries and shelves of old trophies he had taken from his raids.
It wasn’t a huge library, but it was quiet and perfectly arranged, just the way he liked it.
The smell of old paper and candle scent clung to the air, comforting in a way that only books could be.
Nightmare had recently taken a few new books during one of his raids.
He had a particular interest in things humans had written, even if most of it was silly or full of pointless drama.
One book in particular had caught his eye earlier that day when he had rifled through his stolen collection: something called Lights Out… something.
He hadn’t finished looking at the title before he shoved it under his coat, grinning to himself.
The human stories were strange, but that was exactly why he liked them.
He pushed open the library door and stepped inside. The room was quiet except for the soft flicker of the fireplace he had lit earlier, the flames throwing dancing shadows across the shelves.
Nightmare set the book on the table and ran a hand over the cover, feeling the texture of the paper.
He opened it slowly, turning the first few pages and scanning the words. Most of the letters didn’t mean much to him—he didn’t care about all the human drama—but the way the story moved, the emotions people poured into it, fascinated him.
Suddenly, a loud knocking came on the door. Nightmare let out a soft sigh.
He had just closed the door and gotten comfortable in his chair, the fire warm at his back, the book open in his lap.
“Come in,” he called out, his voice deep and strong, echoing slightly in the quiet library.
The door opened slowly, and Killer and Horror stepped inside first.
Nightmare didn’t move from his seat, just watched them approach, his eyelight calm but alert.
Behind them, Dust and Cross peeked in, careful not to make a sound. Their faces were curious, maybe even a little nervous, but they didn’t step all the way inside.
Nightmare could see them clearly out of the corner of his eye, and he made no move to chase them off. He had a feeling they were watching him more than anything.
“Yes, boys?” he asked patiently, closing the book with a random bookmark he had grabbed from the little coffee table next to him.
The book’s cover creaked slightly, but he didn’t care.
His voice had that smooth, steady tone that always made the room feel heavier, like even sound had to obey him.
Killer shifted, looking a little uncomfortable. Horror leaned forward, his hands clasped behind his back, trying to figure out how to start whatever conversation had brought them here.
Dust stayed pressed against the doorway, eyes wide, and Cross fiddled with the hem of his sleeve, looking anywhere but at Nightmare directly.
Nightmare didn’t rush them. He just waited, letting the silence stretch.
The fire flickered, and the shadows on the walls moved with it.
He leaned back slightly in his chair, resting one arm on the side, and watched the crew. It was the same thing every time they came into the library uninvited.
They didn’t know how to start, and he didn’t care to force them. He enjoyed the moment—the pause, the curiosity, the small tension.
Finally, Killer cleared his throat. Horror shifted, stepping a little closer.
Nightmare’s eyes narrowed slightly, but his expression stayed calm. “Speak,” he said simply. The word wasn’t harsh, but it carried authority.
He waited, letting the boys gather themselves, knowing that whatever they came to say would be half-formed, awkward, and probably more trouble than it needed to be. And yet, he liked watching them try.
The library was quiet again, save for the fire, the soft shuffle of feet, and the faint hum of the castle itself.
Nightmare didn’t move, didn’t blink too quickly. He just waited, patient, letting them come to him.
“Well, uhhh, we noticed some things?” Killer started, his voice shaky, looking anywhere but at Nightmare.
He chewed the inside of his lower jaw, clearly trying to find the right words.
Horror shifted his weight from one foot to the other, clearly waiting for Killer to finish.
Dust peeked a little further around the doorway, and Cross fiddled nervously with the edge of his sleeve.
Nightmare raised a browbone at them, still calm, his hand resting on the arm of the chair. He didn’t speak right away, just watched them carefully.
The silence stretched long enough to make Killer squirm, and Horror tried to speak, only to stop mid-sentence. Nightmare’s calm, steady presence had a strange effect—both unnerving and slightly hypnotic.
“What kind of things?” he asked finally, his voice smooth but holding a quiet edge.
He leaned back in his chair, closing his eyelight for a second as if savoring the anticipation.
His gaze flicked toward each of them, and they all immediately looked anywhere else.
He noticed the little quirks—Killer tapping his phalanges against his leg, Horror bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, Dust shifting weight from foot to foot, Cross wringing his sleeve like it might disappear if he just handled it long enough.
It made for a strange kind of snack, in a way. Nightmare could feel the tension radiating off them, a little bundle of nervous energy. Not enough to feed on properly, but it was there.
Still, he didn’t want it to go too far. He liked his henchmen—well, not in a normal sense, but that was the best word to describe it.
And he preferred that they didn’t feel too much negativity around him. That would make everything more difficult later, especially when he wanted them focused.
Killer finally swallowed and tried again. “It’s, uh… your… habits,” he said carefully.
Horror nodded quickly, trying to back him up, but neither of them could really find the right words.
Dust and Cross exchanged a glance, both of them silently urging the others to explain without actually explaining themselves.
Nightmare tilted his skull slightly, curious but still calm. He didn’t rush them. He let the awkward pause hang, letting their discomfort linger just enough to draw the truth out without forcing it.
“And what of my habits?” Nightmare asked, his voice sharper this time, low and commanding.
The room seemed to tighten around his words, shadows stretching just a little further into the corners.
He leaned forward slightly, the firelight catching the faint gleam of his eyelight, and the four of them stiffened.
Killer, clearly panicking, blurted out almost immediately. “Like… like how all your food has a weird metallic taste to them!” His words stumbled over themselves, his phalanges clenching and unclenching nervously at his sides.
Horror’s gaze flickered to Killer, but he didn’t stop him.
Dust followed, quieter, more composed, but the words still came. “You… you also sleep in an actual casket…” His voice was low, almost hesitant, and he averted his eyelights completely from Nightmare.
His hands were folded in front of him, tight and careful, like he was holding something fragile.
Cross, catching Dust’s words, whipped around with wide eyes. “Wait—he does?” he asked, sounding both shocked and a little incredulous.
Dust simply nodded once, quickly, without adding anything else, and Cross’s bonebrows knit together as if trying to understand it all at once.
Horror’s deep, rumbly voice piped up next, breaking the brief silence. “‘Ou avoid sunligh’ too…” He trailed off, as if the words themselves made him uncomfortable.
He shifted on his feet, but didn’t back down, and Nightmare’s calm expression didn’t waver—if anything, it sharpened.
Cross muttered something under his breath, quieter than the others, almost as if he were thinking aloud. “You hate crosses.” It sounded like an afterthought, but as the words left his mouth, he straightened slightly, putting together pieces of a puzzle he hadn’t realized he was forming.
His eyelights flicked to the others, then back to Nightmare, and he could feel the weight of it all pressing together: the metallic food, the casket-bed, the avoidance of sunlight, the destruction of his cross.
Nightmare didn’t flinch. He stayed seated, calm, patient, but there was a faint tension to him now, subtle but present, like a storm just behind his eyelight.
He didn’t interrupt, didn’t defend himself. He simply listened, letting each revelation hit the room, letting the awkwardness hang thick in the air.
Killer fidgeted again, glancing at Horror for support, but Horror only shifted, silent, letting the words continue.
Dust and Cross both stayed still, Dust with his eyes cast down, Cross turning his face slightly, unsure whether to look or not.
Nightmare finally spoke, his voice low, measured, but carrying the weight of authority. “You’ve noticed well enough,” he said, leaning back, his hands resting on the chair’s arms. “You see the truth, and yet, here you all are, still standing. Still here.” There was a quiet, almost amused edge under the sternness, like he was testing them, seeing how far they could go.
The room stayed still, heavy with unspoken thoughts and unease.
Each of them realized, maybe for the first time, that Nightmare had never tried to hide any of it—he simply didn’t care enough to explain.
Finally, Killer cleared his throat, Horror shifted his weight, Dust fiddled with his phalanges, and Cross muttered under his breath again.
Nightmare just watched, patient and calm, letting them unravel the mysteries of him on their own.
Cross finally asked the question they’d all been too afraid to voice. His voice was small, hesitant, almost breaking. “W-what exactly are you?” He cringed, glancing down at the floor, like saying it out loud might make it real.
Nightmare let out a deep, low chuckle that echoed softly in the quiet library.
It wasn’t a laugh meant to mock, but it carried the weight of something ancient and knowing, and it made the air feel colder, heavier. The four of them froze, listening.
“I am a mix between tree, skeleton, and vampire,” he said calmly, his voice smooth and measured.
His eyelight glimmered faintly in the firelight, showing nothing but quiet confidence. “Dream is much the same, although he doesn’t have as many restrictions as I do.” He leaned back slightly, resting one arm on the chair, eyelight scanning the four of them.
His tone was casual, like he was explaining the weather rather than revealing something that should be terrifying.
Killer’s jaw dropped slightly. Horror’s brow furrowed, his rumbly breathing filling the silence as he processed it.
Dust stayed quiet, staring at his phalanges, and Cross could feel the weight of it all pressing in his ribs.
Their minds scrambled to picture what that combination even looked like. A tree? A skeleton? A vampire? How could that exist—and live, and move, and speak so calmly?
Nightmare didn’t wait for questions. He simply observed, patient, letting them absorb it.
There was no threat in his tone, no rush to defend himself. Just quiet, unshakable truth.
Cross swallowed, his fingers curling around the edge of his sleeve. “I… I didn’t… I didn’t know…” His words trailed off, and the others just stared, each processing the revelation in their own way.
Nightmare smiled faintly, not cruelly, but with a kind of quiet dominance that reminded them all who held the power.
“Now you know,” he said simply, and the weight of the room seemed to settle back into its usual rhythm, only this time, heavier.
It was silent for a few seconds before Killer spoke again, his voice shaky with disbelief. “I had never expected Dreamboat to be a vampire,” he said, sounding incredulous, like he was trying to wrap his head around the idea.
Nightmare let out a low chuckle, deep and smooth, the kind that seemed to rattle softly in the corners of the library.
“He keeps it much more under wraps than I do,” Nightmare explained patiently, his tone calm, measured. “It also helps that he can actually access the sun while I… burn at it.” His eyelight glimmered faintly in the dim light, a subtle reminder of the danger he carried just by existing.
Horror shifted slightly, his eyesocket narrowing as he considered the revelation, still unsure how to feel.
Dust peeked a little further into the room, curiosity overcoming his usual hesitancy, while Cross fiddled nervously with the hem of his sleeve, trying to process everything at once.
One by one, they all trudged fully into the room, drawn by the strange calm authority of Nightmare’s presence.
It wasn’t just the words he said—it was the way he said them, the quiet certainty behind them, the way his calm could make even the weirdest truths feel… natural.
Killer leaned against the edge of a table, still staring in disbelief. Horror folded his arms, rumbly breaths breaking the silence.
Dust stayed close to the doorway for a few moments, then moved further in, hesitant but curious. Cross, finally, took a careful step forward, his wide eyes never leaving Nightmare’s calm, composed figure.
Nightmare watched them all silently, letting the weight of his explanation sink in.
He didn’t need to push further; their curiosity was enough to pull them closer.
The room was quiet again, only the flicker of the fire breaking the stillness.
And for the first time, the crew felt like they were seeing him—not just their boss, but something far older and stranger, something that didn’t quite belong anywhere, and yet commanded the room without effort.
Nightmare let them stare, patient and calm, as the truth settled over them like a shadow.
Nightmare lifted the glass in his hand, the red liquid catching the firelight as he brought it to his teeth.
He took a slow sip, savoring the taste, before lowering it again with calm precision.
The room was quiet, the only sound the faint crackle of the fire behind him.
“Would you all like for me to read a book to you?” he asked, his voice smooth and even, carrying a subtle weight that made it impossible to ignore.
His eyelight flickered softly, scanning each of them as the question hung in the air.
All four of them froze for a moment, caught off guard by the offer.
Killer’s eyesockets widened slightly, curiosity breaking through his usual nervous energy. Dust leaned a little forward, his skull tilting as if trying to figure out what kind of book Nightmare might read.
Cross’s phalanges tightened around his sleeve, and even Horror’s deep, rumbly breathing shifted into a lighter rhythm, betraying his interest.
Horror was the first to move. Almost instinctively, he stepped forward and handed Nightmare a book, as if he’d been waiting for this very moment.
The leather cover was worn, edges frayed, but it held the kind of stories Nightmare liked—strange, dark, and full of little mortal emotions that fascinated him.
Nightmare took the book, inspecting the cover briefly before setting it on his lap.
His calm composure didn’t waver, and yet there was a faint glimmer of amusement in his eyelights, as if he found their eagerness quietly entertaining.
He shifted in his chair, settling comfortably, and opened the book to the first page.
The four of them moved closer, sitting or standing around him, their eyelights fixed on the book and the calm figure reading it.
The firelight flickered over their skulls, casting soft shadows, and for a moment, the weight of the castle outside didn’t exist.
All that mattered was the quiet room, the story, and the low, smooth sound of Nightmare’s voice as he began to read.