Chapter Text
To say Nightmare is mad would be an understatement. He envisioned this exact scenario countless of times, contemplated what to say and how to say it. This moment is supposed to be simple.
But reality and simplicity don’t mix, they rarely do, and the landlord has enough experience to know this. It shouldn’t surprise him that — instead of reaping the fruits of his preparation — there are a million words and none in his head. The walls he built to separate himself from his past become paper-thin.
“Cross! Oh stars, you haven’t changed one bit,” Dream says with an audible smile in his voice. The shallow observation helps to shove the chaos in his mind into a dark corner. Expected or not, this is a visit from his sibling, nothing more.
Cross steps aside to let the visitors in. “It’s nice to see you again, Dream,” he replies, more polite than friendly, then looks at the tall monster. “Officer.”
The member of the police holds up a hand. “Just Edge. I came here as Dream’s companion.”
Concerns regarding an arrest disperse. By whatever means his brother gained the favor of this irritable individual, Nightmare needs to keep their connection in mind when he’s inviting their next ‘guest’. Later. Right now, his uninvited visitors require his undivided attention.
When said visitors walk past Cross, Nightmare’s gaze locks on Dream.
Even without expectations, his soul convulses with emotions he has no names for. First impressions matter, but when the detective considers this attire suitable to wear on a Sunday — nonetheless, at a family gathering — he’s confusing impression with attention.
As if sensing his presence, Dream’s gaze shifts away from Cross and up the stairs. The yellow eyelights, so big and round only a second before, shrink.
But next, his face lights up.
“Night?” he asks, looking as if his birthday just came early. “Look how handsome you’ve become!” He drops the shiny golden suitcases and speedwalks to the staircase, eyes glued on the darker skeleton as if averting his gaze would make him disappear. Nightmare knows he should mirror the joyful reaction, but anything besides holding on to the stair-rail is beyond his motoric capabilities.
By the time Dream reaches his step, he is glowing with excitement. His face is rounder than his own, and the pearly white bones have a yellow tinge. Is he blushing, or are the princely pure-white clothes with all these golden accents a bad contrast? No wonder everyone sees him as their knight in shining armor; his regalia is a combination of a noble’s attire and a uniform worn by guards.
But there’s nothing of a powerful guardian in his smile, shy and hopeful as it is. “I missed you,” Dream says softly. It’s almost believable.
“I must admit, it has been a while-” Nightmare can barely finish his sentence before a hundred pounds of bones in fabric crashes into him, and it’s only thanks to his appendages that they don’t fall down the stairs.
Nightmare wraps his arms around the small waist, despite everything inside him screaming to get some distance. He feels the other’s soul thrumming within this ridiculous costume, slow and calm. It betrays the displayed excitement. The star detective can fool the entire universe, but not him.
With no option left, he surrenders himself to this situation, shutting his eye socket and putting his chin on the plushy shoulder pads. What a circus.
After a while, he pulls away, or tries to, because the clingy sibling doesn’t let go for another ten eternal seconds.
“Where are my manners?” the landlord says as soon as he regained precious freedom, hiding his discomfort underneath an apologetic smile. “I hope you will join us for tea?”
“We’d love to,” Dream crushes his hopes of an early leave, “but can I put my equipment in my room first?” ‘former room’, Nightmare’s mind corrects. His brother points at the two suitcases for clarification and giggles at his bemused face. “I trust you more than any hotel or office.”
“Or the police,” adds a surly voice downstairs.
Nightmare unglues his attention from his brother to glance down at his second guest. One heavy brow-bone is slanted in disapproval. How Dream ended up befriending such a grumpy person is beyond his understanding. But then again, his grasp on friendship is… lacking.
What is not lacking, however, is his courtesy. “While I consider our police fully capable of guarding your possessions,” he notes with a respectful nod towards the officer, then looks back at his brother, “you are welcome to hoard as many treasures here as you like. We both know this house loses nothing.”
Something flickers in Dream’s eyes, too quick to catch, and he leans closer, regarding him with curiosity. “His words fit eerily perfect in your mouth,” he whispers as he studies his face. “You even nail his smile. Bravo, little brother.”
It takes all of Nightmare’s self-control to not push him down the stairs.
The invasive skeleton grabs his hand and takes one step downstairs. “Come on, we have so much to talk about before duty calls.”
As if he had a choice.
When standing near Edge, the intimidating features become more apparent. Piercing red eyelights, sharp teeth, and a height that surpasses his ranger’s. Not the ‘friend and helper’ demeanor, but certainly a beacon of insurance in times of serial killers roaming the streets. The grey, tame looking police uniform softens his face. It suits him.
“And you must be Sans, right? The one who danced with Night yesterday?” Dream says, looking to the left.
Stars! He forgot about this minor predicament.
Tracing Dream’s line of sight, Nightmare spots the killer leaning on the door to the left wing, grinning like a wolf that found its favorite prey. His new ‘assistance’ doesn’t give an answer, instead comes closer. His unhurried and soundless steps make Nightmare antsy. Why should Sans be willing to play along with this charade? What would hold him back from stabbing Dream right here and there? Nightmare is hard pressed to hope he does; one quick stab in this bright attire and this ordeal would be dealt with. He’d even visit him in prison once or twice a month.
Fortunately, or unfortunately, Sans halts in front of the detective without a sign of criminal intentions. “Uh-huh. Nice to meet ya.” Sans offers a hand, not knowing that proper etiquette says the person in the higher position should be the one to initiate a handshake. “Night told me a lot about ya.” And of course, the silly nickname stuck.
“Oh, he did?” Dream goes for the handshake, although merely takes the fingertips. Weird.
Sans’ grin widens. “Sure, just yesterday he told me how awful your dance skills are.”
A jolt shoots through Nightmare’s spine. “I did not-”
Dream’s hearty laugh interrupts his denial. “I remember the dance lessons! Our teacher despised me because I only ever wanted to dance with Night.” He looks down, rubbing his neck. “No wonder I didn’t get past the basic steps.”
Two tentacles grab the suitcases to cut their conversation short. “Let us bring your luggage to your former bedroom before we start chatting.” Despite his poor senses in his appendages, he can tell they are heavy.
“Wow!” Dream exclaims as he watches his belongings getting lift off the floor. “I didn’t know they could do that.”
Nightmare swallows a clump of bitterness, together with several snappy responses, and says in Cross’ direction, “Would you and Sans lead our other guest to the dining area?” It’s unwise to include Sans in their little tea-party, but excluding him when he’s already standing there, obviously not busy like his other employees, would raise questions.
If Cross isn’t pleased with the order, he doesn’t show it.
“Alright, sure thing, boss,” Sans answers, as if he had any say in this.
As soon as the group parts, Dream starts commenting on every painting, retelling every smidgen of family lore this mansion offers, like they’re walking through a museum. In all honesty, it’s impressive how many useless stories are stored in the other’s mind.
He thinks of his office, of the cup of coffee he left there and the requests waiting for an answer. And the undisturbed peace. Never in his life did he look forward to Monday so badly.
“… And remember this one time we had to chase the purple lizard I brought inside that ran off… to… your room…?”
Did something catch his interest? Nightmare follows his gaze, but only finds the end of the hallway.
“Is something wrong?”
Dream walks past their intended destination and… stares at the wall. “Are you sure we took the right way?” he asks, brushing his fingers along the painted facade, exposing the layer of dust that has gathered over the years. What game is he playing?
“Of course,” Nightmare assures him. When the doubt in his brother’s eyes doesn’t vanish, he unlocks the door to Dream’s chamber and opens it all the way. “Verify for yourself.”
One last glance at the wall, then the visitor tears himself away from it and enters his room with unnecessary caution. Perhaps the years as a detective made him paranoid. Or his survival instincts sense the blood and dust this house has seen, like a pig that roams a slaughterhouse.
Playing the empathetic brother, Nightmare stays near the doorframe and lets his sibling have this moment. Dream, although grown up, fits perfectly in this miniature wonderland that could be best be described as a mosaic of chaos born of too much money and too many interests: human and monster figurines, stuffed animals, different cars, puzzles, board games, books and magazines.
To Nightmare’s own surprise, he doesn’t mind being the witness of this sentimental reunion; in fact, a sense of pride swells in his chest. This all belongs to him now, and his brother will forever be obligated to ask him for entry in his former home, his birthplace. It’s a childish and self-complacent thought, but it makes him smile.
Soon, the famous detective flops on the bed and studies the tree-paintings decorating the ceiling as if he has never seen them before.
After a solemn minute, his brother faces him with glassy eyelights. “This is so therapeutic. Thanks for leaving everything as it was.”
Does his brother really think he would fall for this poor trap? Even though Cross did his best to restore this room, and despite having pictures to remodel everything after Nightmare destroyed it in an — admittedly rash — desire to do just that, the detective surely noticed slight changes.
Nightmare focuses on the forest outside, feigning discomfort. “I hate to disappoint you, but we did not leave your room untouched.”
Dream doesn’t even twitch. “Why not?”
“We left the windows open during a storm,” he begins hesitantly, entering the room whilst keeping his eyes focused on the window, as if recalling a distant memory. “It happened about a year after you left, a time where I thought you would visit more often, or maybe even come back, so I wanted to make sure the room smelled fresh, just in case.”
“So, a storm destroyed my room? Like the one last night, or rather a personal one?”
The sudden shift in tone lets him pause before he reflects the icy smile right back. “There are no personal storms in my life.”
In a matter of seconds, it gets so quiet one could hear the snow melting outside.
Without a hint of his intention, Dream rolls off the bed. Did he anger the detective? Such a reaction would be a welcome change.
If it wasn’t for the swift approach.
Taken aback by the unexpected closeness, Nightmare steps back, trying to maintain a comfortable distance until his appendages bump against something icy and solid. The window, he realizes, since he pressed his face against the smooth surface enough times to recognize the material. Frowning, he is about to ask what’s wrong, but Dream beats him to it.
“None of this makes sense,” Dream says, frustration filling his gaze as he tries to find the answer in Nightmare’s face. “Dad’s testament, your behavior. What happened? What did I do to you?”
The landlord should take offense by the disregard of his personal space, but the mention of the damned testament and seeing his sunshiny brother bothered by something which plagued his own mind so many times is waking a part of him he didn’t know he had. They are both victims. He inhales to speak, to tell him he doesn’t know and doesn’t know if he even wants to find out why he inherited the mansion - and by extension the curse to follow his father’s path - while Dream only got a measly million G. But common sense kicks back in. Why not let him believe he did something wrong? Perhaps it would mitigate his hero-complex.
Nightmare cracks a pitying smile.
Dream grabs his shoulders, squeezing. “Please.”
Images of past victims cross his mind. The tone, fueled by desperation and confusion, the expression imploring and anguished. This is a masterpiece.
“With all due respect, my boss doesn’t enjoy being trapped against a window,” a voice frostier than the glass he’s more or less cornered against shatters the situation, “I have to ask you to back off.” Only one can weave politeness into a subtle threat so perfectly.
Dream stiffens and realization dawns on his face. “Of course,” he says under his breath, before his expression resets to his everyday sociable front. A small step backwards, just enough to tilt his body, and they can see Cross standing at the door, his phone in hand. Dust must have alarmed him. Moments like this remind him why he allowed all those cameras to be installed.
“I’m sorry,” Dream tells them. “I didn’t want to look threatening, promise.” Not 'threat', but borderline harassment is the better term.
No matter the word, his attempt to defuse the situation bounces off his bodyguard. He looks at Nightmare, waiting for validation. As much as the landlord enjoyed their private time last night, seeing such flawless professional behavior lets his soul vibrate.
“My brother was a little overzealous, is all. Thank you, Cross.”
Cross regards them for a moment, then nods and is about to leave when Dream tugs at his brother’s hand, “Let’s go together. I can’t wait to see what you did to the rest of the mansion.”
He slips from the loose grasp. Enough touching for today. “You will be disappointed by the lack of improvement.”
“Aww, no. My cute little brother could never disappoint me.” His appendages flick at that.
On their way back, he braces himself for the afternoon. Conversing with Dream is like crossing a minefield: every question is a bomb, waiting to destroy the whole fortress of lies. Speaking of bombs: he prays Sans didn’t make a fool of himself in his absence.
Cross holds the door to the dining room open for them, and Nightmare motions his guest to enter first.
Contrary to most other rooms, this one is designed to appear warm and welcoming, with a fireplace and expressive paintings of trees. But today, the warm colors pale in the sobering winter’s sun. He could turn the lights on, but why ruin a fitting ambience for this reunion?
His attention lands on the round table in the middle. This proud piece of furniture has witnessed every emotion imaginable, from silent contentment, when the only sound is cutlery clinking against plates, to anger over a broken agreement. Through all of it, the marble in mahogany-look remained unperturbed, looking as flawless as ever.
Currently, six chairs are evenly positioned around the table, two more are stored at the corner. And there is his first pleasant surprise on this day: Sans and their other guest are both still very alive. Furthermore, the catering company has already prepared the usual afternoon tea. He eyes the various pastries as he approaches the table. Five pieces, as always. Looks like the animals roaming the forest won’t get their snack today.
Dream sits down next to Edge while Nightmare takes the seat between his brother and Sans.
“Can you order your watchdog to sit?” The officer is as charming as they all say.
Nightmare glances over his shoulder, finds his ‘watchdog’ in his usual position, and decides to challenge animosity with logic. “Arrogance may be a weakness of mine, but I will not presume to tell my bodyguard how he has to do his job.”
“He’s doing it wrong if he can’t tell a police officer from a threat.”
“He’d do it wrong if his boss was dead,” Sans notes. “He’s not. So, good job, Criss Cross.”
Cross doesn’t dignify the praise with a response. The stoic reaction seems to sway Edge, because he gives his bodyguard one last glare before pouring himself more coffee without another word.
Time to get this over with.
“How was your travel?” Nightmare asks anyone who is willing to answer.
“Stressful,” Edge states through knitted brow-bones. “Your residence is a nuisance to get to during the winter.” That’s one reason the landlord finds snow endearing; people think twice about visiting him.
Dream reaches over the table to take the two cinnamon rolls, puts one on his plate and the other on his friend’s. “You’re just mad you had to drive slower than usual,” he teases.
The lengthy skeleton ignores the food, instead leans back and crosses his arms. “Naturally. It defeats the purpose of a surprise visit when we arrive at snail’s speed.”
“My apologies. During this time of the year, keeping the driveway snow-free poses a challenge.” Nightmare shifts his attention toward the window-front, at the snow-covered landscape. When he looks back, Edge is still peering at him. What does he want to hear, an apology? He just smiles over it. “Well, you did surprise us, so consider your goal achieved.”
“Yeah, we barely had enough time to hide all the corpses,” Sans adds, then taps a finger on the table. “But we’ll be fine as long as nobody’s looking under the table.”
On cue, the officer bends down to check what’s under the table. It’s almost comical to watch his sharp face switching from shock to confusion to realization, and lastly to annoyance in a matter of seconds, which lets Dream burst out snorting.
“Sans,” Nightmare’s voice barely cuts through the laughter, “murder is not something to joke about.” The smirk on the killer’s face turns into a full-on grin, and he hates what this cocky smile does to him. He hides the growing smile behind a sip of lukewarm coffee.
“Don’t be so strict,” Dream says as he heaps some whipped cream from the bowl next to the sweet pastry on his plate. “Humor is just what this house has been missing.”
“Not every sense of humor is suited for every occasion.” Especially not with a police officer on the table. “People might get the wrong impression.”
“The things I do to see you smile,” Sans chimes, which renews his brother’s giggles. At least one is enjoying this.
“Wasn’t there something important to discuss?” Edge asks in his brother’s direction, not impressed with the dubious humor.
“Oh, right.” Dream puts the cream-smeared cutlery down, right on the clean table. “Do you remember my missing secretary?”
The secretary! He forgot to ask if the human is alright. But this is only a minor oversight; the worst conclusion Dream can draw from his missing inquiry is that he doesn’t care. Which couldn’t be further from the truth, since he very much cares about his victims, in the same way a cat cares about the mouse between their paws.
“I remember.” He inclines his skull. “The local news did not mention another missing person, so I thought your team member was alright.”
Dream shakes his head, eyelights dimming. “He’s still missing, and maybe even dead by now. We haven't released the information to the public yet.” He averts his gaze and balls his fists, creasing the silky fabric of his trousers. “They all put so much hope in me and my team, what would they say if one already...” his voice thins out as grief overwhelms him.
The silence that follows sounds like Nightmare’s own personal anthem of victory.
“He did not deserve this,” he says darkly, the night still too fresh in his mind for a more convincing display of sorrow. The urge to glance at his partner in crime is overwhelming, but without a valid reason to look at him right now, he can’t take this risk.
“What do you think, what kind of person are they?” Dream whispers after a while, staring gloomily at his half-eaten pastry. The dedicated detective was never able to separate his job from his private life, not even during unsecured phone calls. He just loves sharing recent cases.
The younger sibling, on the other hand, was never good at sharing, so he deflects the question. “I am not qualified to characterize a serial killer.”
“Drop the formalities,” Edge’s sharp tone cuts through the somber atmosphere. “Everyone and their dog have an opinion about the murderer.”
“This may be true, but I fail to see why the thoughts of a citizen matter in this regard.”
“I don’t ask you as a detective. I ask you as your brother.”
Not this again. The hardness on Nightmare’s face leaves, a reaction honed over many years of tough negotiations. He leans back and crosses his legs, thinking. “To me, the Nightfall Harvester is a sociopath who sees killing as a hobby. He is without a sense of morale or dignity, judging by the victims he chooses, which makes him quite dangerous.”
The policeman scoffs. “Error was a sociopath. This person is nothing but a coward.” Does irritation ever get a break from his face? “Kidnapping and slaughtering defenseless people is deplorable. If they are seeking the thrill of a fight, they should join the military.” He aims his scowl at the group, one by one, challenging everyone to oppose.
“I don’t think they enjoy the fighting part,” Dream dares to disagree. Both assumptions are only half-right. Since he prefers guests who struggle and scream, a lively spirit sweetens the sessions, otherwise he could as well torture a puppet. “Also, some victims have never been found, while others are just being… discarded.” Dream rubs his forehead. “So many things don’t add up.”
“What if there are more than one?” Sans inquires, then bites into a fluffy bun dripping with cherry marmalade. Did he just give their adversaries a hint? “One who likes it wild and bloody, and doesn’t care about the aftermath, and the other,” he makes a vague hand gesture, “gets off by dying people or something?”
Nightmare’s neutral expression almost slips at the last part. Is this why Sans thinks he enjoys torturing? Because it ‘gets him off’?
Dream’s face lights up at his employee’s words and he sends a triumphant smile in Edge’s direction. “See? I told you, my theory isn’t crazy.” How clueless they must be if they’re taking suggestions from a civilian.
His companion remains unimpressed. “Two serial killers in one city at the same time? Unlikely. I need more leads to change the profile. But if you value the input of an outsider so much, why don’t you go ahead and ask what we came here for?”
There is a hidden agenda to this visit. Of course there is, why else would Dream drag the police officer along? The unalike siblings look at each other. Nightmare dislikes his brother with a burning passion. So, where does this twinge of disappointment come from?
“... Well?”
Dream fully turns towards him, chair and all. “The idea came to me after my secretary went missing,” he begins slowly, as if to get every word right. Sounds like the beginning of a prepared speech. “Working with me is dangerous, and I want to reduce this danger as much as possible.”
“Like any sane person would,” Edge comments.
“I should have thought about it beforehand,” he continues, “but so far, the Harvester has targeted random people on the street. I was wrong, and now, our current office isn’t safe, especially since we’ll probably stay there till late at night.”
Nightmare doesn’t like where this is going, but nods in understanding. “Relocating is a sound decision. But why are you telling us this? Such information is best kept a secret.”
“Because after some research, I figured the safest workplace is here,” he stretches his arms out to encompass the entire building, “my home.”
“What-”
“Please hear me out first! How many burglars tried to rob us, and how many succeeded?” No need to reply to the question everyone knows the answer to. “There are security cameras everywhere,” he points at the fake one at the ceiling. “Even if the killer was trying to get us, there’d be no way he could slip past all the cameras.” When Nightmare’s face doesn’t soften, he adds in a smaller tone, “I promise we won’t take up much space.”
“Space is not what I am worried about,” he leans forwards, supports his forearms on the desk. His coffee has long grown cold. “Have you spared any thoughts on the safety of my team?” Or the safety of his sanity.
“I know I’m asking a lot.”
He wants to laugh at the absurdity, but can’t break character. A loving brother wouldn’t deny such a request right away. He shakes his head. “I cannot make this decision on my own.”
“Yes, you can.” Edge leers at him. “You practically own your staff. All they do is work their asses off. Few people have seen them not working, or seen at all, for that matter. Don’t act like you care about them.” What a funny accusation, coming from a high-ranking member of the police who wears his uniform in his spare time.
“Contracts are by no means-”
A barking laugh interrupts his opposition, drawing their attention to Sans. One hand supports his skull, the other toys with the last crumbs of pastry. As a potential victim, he should show more concern. “Just because Red’s work environment’s shitty doesn’t mean ours is.”
Edge tenses. “And how do you know about him?”
“Eh, seen him around twice or thrice.” The smirk stretches. “Someone oughta get this poor bastard some help. If he only had a caring family or a boss to look after him.”
And suddenly, like in all those drama series, a chair tips over as Edge rises to his feet, prompting Cross to take a step forward, his forearm brushing against Nightmares’ shoulder.
“Don’t you dare call him a bastard!” Burning red eyelights jump from Sans to Cross, then back at Sans. He’s vibrating with anger, but there’s something else beneath. Grief, perhaps? Nightmare doesn’t know grief, but he recognizes the emotion when it shadows one’s features. “I don’t want to know from what hellhole your owner pulled you out of.”
Unperturbed by the loud conversation, Nightmare studies Sans. The smirk doesn’t reach his eye sockets, so he has to have some sense of decency. He and the police officer have one thing in common: they both know next to nothing about Sans’ past.
Dream tugs on the hem of Edge’s uniform. The tall skeleton looks away, aiming his glare outside of the window, probably melting the snow out there.
How close with the police is his little star detective going to work? In all honesty, their law enforcement is underwhelming, since the overall crime rate is well below average in this town. So, what benefit does his brother gain from working with them? Control over public media, or access to confidential files?
“I know it’s scary, but could you ask your employees?” Dream asks in his direction.
Ha! Scary hardly describes the cocktail of problems. How are they supposed to invite new ‘guests’ if the detective and his rookies are loitering here half the day?
“I’m all for it,” Sans tears him out of his thoughts. “Could be fun. Maybe I’ll catch the serial killer myself.”
Two appendages swish along the polished floor. Aside from the poor choice of words - he already caught him last night, no need for a second demonstration - the eager consent alarms a mistrusting part of Nightmare. Doesn’t he understand the consequences? “Noted.” He looks up at Cross, but his gaze is not met in return.
“No,” his bodyguard says, steely eyelights focused on the policeman. “I promised to protect the owner of this mansion, to avert harm by any means necessary. I can’t accept this.”
“Are you serious?!” Edge, still standing, leans over the table, places both hands flat on the spotless wood. “You’d rather risk our best hope of catching the killer?”
The Reaper himself could not have more cruel eyes. “Just because the police aren’t capable of doing their job doesn’t mean I have to neglect mine.” Nightmare can hardly believe his ears. Cross isn’t prone to verbal jabs. From the corner of his eye, he sees Sans’ face lighting up in amusement.
Unsurprisingly, their guest doesn’t find it amusing at all. “I should arrest you for denial of assistance.”
Nightmare swallows a request for seeing the specific paragraph which states he’s obligated to surrender workplaces to public authorities and stands up. “Allow me to speak with my bodyguard in private.”
“Take your time,” Dream says cheerfully, since he already knows the outcome, and turns his head toward Sans, “I’ll just grill your new employee about the charity event~”
The killer smiles. “Can’t wait to share my adventure.”
Edge produces the suffering sound Nightmare feels in his soul, but still picks up the ornate chair and sits back down, legs and arms crossed. The untouched cinnamon bun bleeds its sticky icing onto the plate. “Go get your watchdog back on the leash so that we can finally move on,” he rumbles.
As soon as they leave the room and its charged atmosphere, breathing is easier. The thick walls ensure privacy in every room, but Nightmare heads for the stairs. His office is a more suited place for their conversation, and the minute it takes to get there helps with sorting his thoughts. This circus turned into a horror show.
Silence pounds in his ears, loud enough to muffle their steps. He’s not sure if the sudden contrast or the impending discussion let his soul race. Cross won’t be convinced easily. Not that the landlord wants to; he just does what is expected of him.
Finally, in the safety of his office, he walks up to his workplace, not bothering to turn on the lights, and lifts his cold cup of coffee. After a brief inspection, he lets the bitterness enter him.
“What in the world has gotten into you to react like this?” he asks, while focusing on the circular coffee stains on his desk. Over the past weeks and because of overdue cleaning-efforts, the brown stamps have formed an aesthetic mandala. If office work had a picture, this would be it.
“You’re asking me this question?” Cross almost sounds betrayed. “Have you listened to him? We don’t know what’s going on in his head.” Funny, one can discern the person he’s talking about by the way his voice sharpens at the pronouns.
“Is this so unusual? Most of his thoughts are beyond logic.”
“He’s dangerous,” a pause, “and I don’t like to see you in danger.”
“Every single one of us is dangerous, Cross,” he puts a little more strength in this statement. His attention shifts to the window, the cold light source. “If he ends up killing my brother, so be it. He will suffer the consequences, not us. There is no evidence that points toward us- toward me.”
They still won’t look at each other, and it’s better that way. Discussions remain professional when he can’t see the face of his longtime friend.
“And what about the Nightfall Harvester?”
“I can find ways to cope.” He looks over his shoulder and finds Cross leaning against an antique file cabinet. “Are you doubting my abilities?”
No more than two seconds pass until their eyes meet, and only one until Cross’ adamant glare melts away. “I trust you more than I trust myself. It’s-”
“-Sans whom you distrust.”
A nod. “We don’t know how he’s going to act, or for how long he’ll stay compliant.” His posture crumbles a little. “I know he... caught your interest. But he’s still a stranger.”
He knows it’s true. Against reason, against all promises to be careful, against the situation grinding his soul, against all common sense, he wants to keep the enigmatic monster around, wants to see what will become of this failed individual.
But this is neither about Sans nor about wise decisions. He turns to hold eye contact more comfortably. “Do not force me to choose between my bodyguard and my brother.”
Cross stares at him with eyes that speak an unblinking devotion. He wonders if his father has seen this expression, too. “I would never do that, but please tell me you prepared for this.”
If only. “I will be prepared.” Not a satisfying answer, but it's the best he can give his worried bodyguard friend. “Will you see this through with me?”
A hint of a smile brightens the serious face. “Last time you asked, we ended up on a desolate highway, without fuel, in the middle of the night.” They share a soft chuckle. Cross pushes himself off the cabinet and closes the distance between them. “I’ll always be by your side, Nightmare.”
Dream is still out there, and he knows things won’t be as easy as they used to be, but as long as he knows Cross on his side, here, there, or somewhere else entirely, they will win this game.
“Thank you.” Nightmare holds eye contact for a soulbeat longer, then sighs and reaches for the phone on his desk. He needs to inform his other employees about this development.