Archive of Our Own ^beta

“You look like shit.” Killer wrapped himself around Cross from behind, resting his weight on the taller skeleton. “You should try not getting up at five in the morning for once! It’s a superb feeling,” Killer suggested helpfully.

Cross growled, pushing Killer off. He stalked over to the coffee machine, filling a nearby mug that may have been dirty, may have been clean, to the brim. He yanked it towards him, the steaming liquid splashing over and onto his hands. 

He dropped the mug in surprise at the pain, hissing softly. Killer let out a sharp bark of laughter. “Oh, damn, sucks to be you! And that was boss’s favourite mug, too, how sad.”

Cross blinked down at the glass shards and the spill slowly spreading on the floor. His hands were shaking, he could feel it.

His sleeves were stained. They were dirty. He was dirty. 

“Killer… Leave him alone.” Horror muttered, walking over to Cross. The larger skeleton cupped his hands, quietly examining the burns Cross hadn’t even noticed yet. “Are ya alright?” Horror’s calloused hands felt amazing against his, but the flour on them only dirtied his sleeves further. 

The laughter in the background faded, Killer walking over to stand next to Horror. “Cross? Did'cha burn yourself?” Killer set his hand on Cross’s arm, carefully guiding the other to the sink. Cross kept staring at his dirty, dirty, unclean hands even as Killer turned on the sink, even as Killer guided his hands under the stream of cool water, even as Horror left, even as Killer guided him to sit.

"What happened here?" A new pair of hands landed on Cross, more hands to make his uniform dirty, more touch he didn't want, was this his punishment for being dirty? 

The hands immediately left his shoulder. "Apologies, Cross, I should have asked first. Are you alright?" Nightmare stepped into his line of vision.

"'e's not been talking." Killer chimed in helpfully, leaning against Nightmare's shoulder. 

Cross scrambled to sit upright, he didn't want Nightmare to be mad at him, he already would be as soon as he noticed Cross had stained his shirt. He opened his mouth to speak, but Nightmare interrupted. 

"Cross. Pause a second." Nightmare sat down in a chair next to him, leaning forward slightly. "You're afraid. I don't want you panicking. So please take a moment and breathe before telling me what's wrong." Nightmare paused a second, "And whenever you feel ready to tell me, if you ever want to, just let me know." 

Nightmare sat back, leaning over to hold a quiet conversation with Killer.

Cross took a deep breath, following orders. Like a good soldier. Like an obedient soldier.

The burns on his hands were starting to ache, tingly sparks of pain flashing through his bones.

"I'm- sorry." 

Nightmare turned to look at him, confusion painted across his face. "What for?" 

"I- I broke your mug?"

Killer piped up, "Why the fuck would anyone worry about that? Cross, I was jokin' about the whole favourite mug thing, he's got like 20 of that mug!" Nightmare nodded sagely in agreement.

He didn't want to be here.

This was too much, their voices too loud, their judgment too harsh. He wanted to leave, escape before they could find out his uniform was stained, that he was dirty. 

He didn’t even want to imagine what kind of punishment Nightmare would come up with. 

A sob caught in his throat, resulting in him squeaking out an unnatural hiccup. Nightmare’s eyebrows narrowed at him, an unreadable expression on his face. 

Cross took a deep breath, “Sorry, sir. You were saying? Sir?”

Nightmare’s expression ticked downwards, and Cross flinched back. A blackened hand reached out towards him, and some part Cross broke. He felt a sound burst out of him, something pathetic and weak, cut off midway as Cross fell through a teleport. 

He wasn’t even sure where he ended up, just aware that the ground under him was cold and dirty dirty dirty dirty dirty- hard, digging into his bones. There was a pounding in his head as he struggled to untangle himself from the mess of straps that was his clothing, black and white blurring in his vision. His shirt got caught on his skull, exacerbating the pounding ache in his skull. 

He finally got his undershirt off, taking a deep gasp of air as he was clean. The fresh air lessened the slamming of his skull, allowing him to focus again. His room faded into view, the hardwood floor smooth under his hands. He laid back, his bare bones clacking against the floor as he shook like a leaf in a storm. 

Each breath he took was a struggle, but it got easier every time. The cold crept into his body. He felt cleaner without his shirt, but the chill was getting to him. He knew he should get up and put a shirt on, go face Nightmare’s wrath, but he couldn’t get the energy. 

The room around him was silent, his breathing the only sound. He could hear voices outside, but they were distant, near inaudible. The door was closed and everything was just as clean as he left it. Everything was clean except for him.

Cross felt his thoughts leaning towards that panicked blur again, and forced himself to regulate his breathing, stumbling as he tried to stand. The hard floor clicked under his knees as he collapsed back down.

Crawling to the attached bathroom became the only option, dropping his shirt in a clothes hamper as he went. It wasn’t clean, it might never be clean, but at least it was where dirty things went.

He had half the mind to simply try to climb in the basket himself.

Maybe somebody would pick him up and wash him with the laundry, coating what should be fresh clothes with his dust.

That would be nice.

He would get to be clean when he died. 

He sat back, looking longingly at the basket. It sat behind him, calling for him to come to it. He was dirty, he belonged with the dirty things.

Dirty, dirty, dirty. 

That’s all he ever was, wasn’t he? 

He was so tired of constantly being clean. It was so exhausting , hiding when he was dirty, constantly fixing every little dirty part of him. 

It was miserable. 

His skull rang with the quick movement of scrambling to the hamper, burying himself in the dirty laundry.

It made him dirty too, but it’s okay, he’s dirty anyways.

Cross dug his hands up into his exposed ribcage, grasping for his soul until he caught it. The very culmination of his being pulsed in his hands, the pristine white contaminated by dirty, dirty, red and purple, his own magic and the dirty, dirty, unclean determination swirling together into a muddy mess. 

It was disgusting.

He was disgusting. 

He felt his hands digging into his soul before he consciously realized what he was doing. It hurt, he knew it should hurt, but he was just numb.

Dirty things need to be cleansed. 

He was dirty, he needed to be cleaned. 

He needed-

Somebody was shouting at him. 

Another person was gently trying to grab his attention, and there were hands on his wrists, something guiding his soul back into his chest. 

They should have been dirty, the hands, but they felt cold and clean against his bones, so much nicer than the dirty cloth he was surrounded with. 

A blurry shape came into view above him. It was dark and constantly moving, covered in dirty , unclean corruption. 

“Cross.”

More touching. There were so many hands, more than could belong to two people. 

“ Cross.”

He looked up at the speaker, some hidden part of him screaming that he had done wrong, he had misbehaved. His boss was angry, he had ignored an order, he was dirty, they’d probably kill him and he wouldn’t even be clean. 

A few of the hands left him, a single pair of hands lifting him up. He held back the urge to sob, trembling in the other’s grasp. 

This was the part where they killed him, where they dragged him down to a torture chamber and ripped his body apart one bone at a time. The part where they lit him on fire, or dug out sections of his bones with a knife, or-

“Cross,” the voice was soft and calm, “You’re not in trouble. Nobody’s gonna hurt you. We’re just gonna get you a bath, mkay?” The gentle but dirty, oh-so-dirty , hands on him were warm, itchy against his own overheated bones. The cold air around them felt amazing compared to the warm body holding him up, and he gave into the temptation to try and escape, to squirm away to somewhere clean. 

He felt the hands grounding him disappear, and he was falling. 

He landed on something cold and soft, which moved under him. He heard a distant, forced chuckle, and words which sounded like they were spoken underwater. “Damn, Crossy, didn’t know ya hated me that much .”

“I don’t-”

“It was a joke, Cross.” Another underwater voice. Something creaked, and the two voices held a quick conversation. 

“Crossy? ‘ve got a nice warm bath set up for ya, we’re gonna have to take your clothes off though. Are you okay with that?”

He’d get to be clean? But- His clothes wouldn’t be clean, so he’d still be dirty, and- 

“We’ll do laundry for you,” The deeper voice spoke, “An’ fix up those burns on your hands.”

“C- Can- Bleach. Water. Can you?”

“...Which, water, Crossy?”

“Th’- Th’ bath. It’ll- It’ll be clean?”

“...Cross, we are not putting bleach in the bath. The soap will get you clean.” The voice sounded disappointed, a hint of anger slipping into their tone. 

“But-”

“No buts, Crossy. Aside from my fine ass.”

Cross blinked in confusion, sure he had misheard the other. 

The body behind him moved slightly, “Now is not the time for jokes, Killer.” Killer muttered a quiet apology, setting a hand on Cross’s shoulder.

Right. This was Killer. Killer was… Not. Clean. But Killer promised to make him clean, if not as clean as Cross needed to be. 

Killer was dirty, but Killer was safe. 

Another conversation was held over his head while he was facing this realization, quietly reaching a hand towards Killer. His arms felt like lead, and his hands ached with a pain he couldn’t quite place. 

He really wanted to sleep. 

A hand caught his, warm and gentle. “Yeah, hi Crossy. I’m gonna take ya now, and we can go get ya that bath. It’s probably a little cold at this point, but… It’ll make ya feel better? It’s nice and bubbly.” 

There was a slight jostling as Cross shifted between the two, feeling the last of his clothes get tugged off until he was just in his shorts. 

The feeling of water over his bones was a shock to his system, surprise forcing his fuzzed out vision to snap back into focus. 

He blinked at the water around him, filled with clean, fresh bubbles. The water was only lukewarm, but it was tolerable. Anything was tolerable if it meant he got to be clean.

A hand tapped twice on the rim of the bathtub, tugging his attention away from the bubbles. Killer grinned quietly at him, offering a small wave. “Heya, Crossy. Y’with me now?”

Cross nodded. A couple bubbles popped as Cross readjusted his position.

“That’s good. ‘Kay, can I see your hands then? You burned them earlier, I want to put some burn cream on ‘em.”

Come to think of it, his hands did hurt. A lot. 

Cross nodded again. 

Cross could feel every detail of the smooth stone bench beneath him as he shifted to offer Killer his hands. It came to his attention that this was Nightmare’s bathroom, not his own. 

That made sense, actually. Explained the lack of marrow stains on the edge of the oversized tub. 

Killer made swift work of his hands, placing a quick kiss on each knuckle after he was done bandaging them. 

“Alright. Are you doing better now? Not gonna try and rip your soul apart on us?”

…when had he done that? 

“I- Er- No?” Cross’s throat was dry, and the words stuck in it. Killer leaned off to the side and procured a cup of light brown liquid, passing it to Cross.

“Chocolate milk,” he explained briefly, laughing at Cross’s pleased expression. “Sooo, you okay? Up for telling your lovely boyfriend what happened?” 

“...no..?” Cross responded with a whisper, unable to shake the feeling that that was the wrong answer.

“Oh. That’s okay too.” Killer rubbed a thumb over Cross’s knuckles. “Anything else I can do to help, then? Night’s already doin’ laundry for ya.” 

“...No? I don’t think?”

“Alright, sweetheart. Whatever you need. If you need anything just let me know, okay? I love ya.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

“Anytime, darling.” 

Killer pressed a kiss to his cheek; and everything was right in the world, just for a little while.

Explaining this to the others later would be a mess, but for now he would just enjoy being clean.