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The room still smells like magic discharge.
Dust sits with his back against what used to be a couch, legs stretched out through a thin layer of gray powder that used to be people. He doesn’t brush it away. It shifts under his slippers every time he moves. He pays it no mind as he drinks, thumb tracing the grooves of the glass bottle through his glove.
The whiskey burns on the way down. He welcomes the feeling like an old friend.
Killer hasn’t stopped talking.
They’re waiting to be picked up. They're forced to, having no way home on their own. They’d finished the mission early, filled their quota fast, and now there was nothing to do but sit in the aftermath.
The wailing still echoes in his skull. Children, herded and cut down once they were close enough. They had been so gullible. Iy had been so easy.
The grief that followed hit the denizens hard, turning into rage almost immediately. Rage at the Royal Guard for being useless against them, and unable to apprehend the pair. Rage at how fast it had all gone wrong.
It was more than enough for Nightmare's purposes.
Horror and Cross were still out there, mopping up. Which meant Dust was stuck waiting. With Killer.
A special kind of hell, just for him. Especially when Killer wouldn't shut up.
But, its not like he’s not used to tuning it out. Killer’s mouth running is usually just noise—bait, provocation, a way to drag him into reacting.
And this time it’s almost too easy.
Killer isn’t trying to get a rise out of him. He isn’t angling for a fight or gossip or some half-assed attempt at camaraderie. He’s not even really talking to him.
He just… doesn’t stop.
The words spill out aimlessly, filling the room like static, like silence scares him worse than Dust ever could.
He takes a slow drink and watches him over the rim of the bottle.
Killer is sitting across from him in the dust, legs crossed, elbows on his knees like they’re just killing time. His SOUL hovers in front of his chest like always.
But something’s off.
The threads that usually hang in lazy, controlled arcs are pulled thin, trembling faintly like wire under tension. It’s spinning a little too fast.
Killer’s skull keeps angling a few degrees toward the doorway every few seconds. Like he’s checking something.
Everyone in this area is dead or gone. There's nothing to check for.
Determination runs heavier from his sockets than usual. Thick drops of black sliding down his cheekbones and falling into the dust between them.
He doesn’t wipe it away, doesn’t seem to even notice.
He keeps talking.
“Y’know,” Killer says, staring just over Dust’s shoulder, “this is kinda cozy if you ignore the broken furniture.”
Dust stares at him.
Killer smiles wider when he doesn’t get a reaction.
“You keep watching me like that and I’ll start thinking you’re interested, Dusty.”
Dust takes another drink. He’s not getting paid enough to deal with this.
You’re not getting paid at all, his brother points out helpfully from his other side.
Dust exhales through his teeth. “Stop.”
Killer tilts his head a fraction. “Stop what?”
“Shut up. Stop looking.” Dust jerks his chin toward the doorway. “There’s no one there.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Killer says smoothly.
Dust is a Sans. He can smell a boldfaced lie like that a mile away.
“Yeah you do.”
Black determination pours from his sockets like a faucet left open. Killer’s SOUL picks up speed, turning hard enough that the threads start to blur.
“I think you need to stop projecting,” Killer says. He doesn’t raise his voice, but there’s an edge under it. His grin stretches wrong, tighter than usual. “Not all of us are your brand of psycho.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
"Ooh, did I hit a nerve, Dust-Bunny? You really—"
He doesn't hesitate to move, twisting fast to put Killer down. Anything to shut him up. “Look at me.”
Killer seems surprised, taken aback. But not necessarily displeased. Dust is sitting on him, pressing his weight on his pelvis to lock him in place. He knows what Killer thinks is going to happen. “Damn, Dusty. If you wanted me on my back you could’ve just—”
"Shut the fuck up," He repeats. Dust's grip tightens on Killer's wrists, pinned to the floor. "And look at me."
“I am looking at you.”
“You’re looking past me.” Dust spits, "Don't play fuckin' stupid. You're bad enough normally."
Killer laughs but his grin becomes brittle. He looks cagey. He tests his limbs, subltly looking for a way out of Dusts hold. He called feel the way Killer's SOUL wobbles at his words, it all but pressing against his ribcage.
Dust leans closer, voice low and sharp. “You’re here. On the floor. You feel that?”
Killer swallows. “…Yeah.”
“What’s under your back?”
He flexes his hands for a second, as if to feel the floor instead of escape. Good. "Dust.”
“What’s holding your wrists?”
Killer hesitates. “…You.”
“Yeah,” Dust says. “Me. Not the door. Not whatever you think’s standing there. Its not real.”
Killer laughs, shaken. Embarassed, like he was caught doing something bad. "Fuck, am I that transparent?"
"You act like I don't know that you're fucked in the head." He replies flatly, "Like I Wouldn't know what it looks like."
"...Its just dark in here." He manages after a beat. He listens, and keeps his sockets on Dust. They drip.
Killer goes quiet for a beat, then, carefully, like he doesn’t want to trip a wire, he says, “You ever see the kid?”
Dust doesn’t pretend he doesn’t know who he means. “Yeah.”
“Me too.” Then Killer adds, lower, “You hear them?”
Dust huffs a humorless breath. “All the fucking time.”
Killer exhales through his nasal apature. Not quite a laugh. He stares at the ceiling as he talks, “Its always the same shit,” he says. “Smartass comments. Play-by-play. Like they’re still holding the controller.”
Dust doesn't need to reply. Killer keeps going.
“‘Do it again.’” Killer’s voice goes flat. Mocking. “‘You know you want to.’ ‘You’re good at this.’”
Dust feels disgust and revulsion, as fresh as the day he snapped. “Mine laughs,” he says. “Says it finally stopped being boring.”
“They ask me if I’m having fun,” Killer continues. “Like I didn’t beg them to stop. Like they didn’t keep going anyway.”
He keeps talking, not leaving a single space for Dust to respond. There’s something wrong in his voice now. The hysteria starts to leak through, brittle and sharp. “I see the rest of them too,” he adds, words coming faster. “And Pa—”
Dust moves.
Whatever slack he’d given while they were talking snaps clean in half. He lunges forward and shoves Killer back into the dust hard enough to knock the air out of him, forearm pressing across his chest, pinning him flat.
“Stop,” Dust snarls. “Stop talking.”
Killer freezes, startled.
Dust leans down into his space, voice low and furious. “Don’t you fucking say his name.”
Killer audibly swallows. His sockets flick to somewhere behind him.
Dust tightens his grip just enough to keep him still. “Hey. Eyes on me.”
Killer’s head jerks back toward him on reflex.
“Good,” Dust says. “Now listen. We're going to do this again.” His tone shifts to something demanding, leaving no room for refusal. “Tell me three things you feel.”
Killer opens his mouth. Nothing comes out.
“Now,” Dust snaps.
“…The floor,” Killer manages. “It's cold. Gritty.”
“One.”
“My back hurts,” he says, breath hitching. “From you.”
“Good," He replies without a drop of remorse. “Two.”
Killer’s gaze drifts for half a second, before seeming to refocus. “…Your hand,” he murmurs. “On my shoulder.”
“Three.” Dust doesn’t move it.
Killer’s breathing isn’t so ragged now. His SOUL is trying to settle, not entirely successful but no longer deteriorating at a rapid rate. The drip from his sockets slows to an occasional drop that darkens the dust under his head.
Killer stares up at Dust.
Dust keeps his hand planted on his shoulder.
“When we get back,” he says, voice flat, “you can go let Nightmare do whatever fucked up shit he does to ‘fix’ you.”
Killer lets out a shaky breath that almost turns into a laugh.
“…Bossy,” he says. Then, lighter, trying to slide back into the act, “So what, you gonna pin me down every time I lose my grip, or is this a special occasion?”
Dust bares his teeth, immediately getting off him. The insuation isn't lost on him. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
That earns a weak huff of laughter, but it fades fast. Killer goes quiet again, gaze drifting up to the ceiling. After a moment, he speaks. Its low, but audible in the dead silence of their borrowed shelter.
“…Thanks.”
Dust snorts and reaches for the bottle. “Shut up while we wait, and we can call it even.”