Work Text:
Blood. Covering his bones, glueing his joints together, staining his clothes, getting in his Stars’ damn mouth. Fucking disgusting. He hated killing humans. Why couldn't they just turn to dust, like any reasonable creature would? Nooo, humans had to go and be all unique and bleed everywhere and then drop to the floor to lie in everyone's way because they just had to be inconveniences even when dead. Fuckass blood, fuckass corpses, fuckass humans.
Killer shivered, peeling yet another layer of his blood soaked suit off of his body. Fuck Nightmare for insisting on that one. Fuck this entire mission, actually.
He'd been supposed to meet with some sort of surface MafiaSwap AU to negotiate setting up a supply chain from their AU to another, in exchange for multiversal protection, kudos of Nightmare.
But the mission had very quickly escalated, seeing as the second he'd walked into the agreed upon meeting location, he'd been jumped by around twenty humans. The Sans from the AU must’ve set him up to fight a rival mafia for him, by tricking them into thinking Killer was him. They, and with they Killer meant him and Nightmare, had been played like a fucking fiddle. Killer ended up having to kill those fuckass humans first, and then hunt down the Sans to drag him to Nightmare. He'd been shot at, stabbed, punched, and hit by a fucking car all in one day. He was done. At least he’d managed to escape with only minor injuries, easily healed by Nightmare when he’d been dropping the Sans off. A Stars’ damned miracle, really.
Whatever happened next was Nightmare's problem now.
Killer cursed as his blouse got stuck in his ribs, tangling with the bones and refusing to come off normally, as blood soaked and sticky as it was. Embarrassingly, he could feel his soul waver, a wave of upset crashing through him all of a sudden.
Fuck. Not now. Please. Not fucking now, when he was still covered in blood from a mission. Not now, when he was already running on fumes at best. He couldn't fucking deal with this right now.
He finally got the blouse off, throwing it against the wall of the bathroom with as much force as he could muster and a muffled cry of rage. Fuckass mission. Fuckass Nightmare. Fuckass soul. Now he was probably going to suffer through a breakdown later. Fun. Just how he'd wanted to spend his night.
It only takes a few more moments of struggle to get his pants off and throw them in the pile of bloody clothes steadily amassing in his bathroom, leaving him bareboned.
Which is of course the moment he realises he forgot to turn the fucking water on to fill the tub. That'd take at least another ten minutes.
He sits himself down in the empty tub anyway, plugging up the drain and turning on the water. It's cold, because the pipes haven't warmed up yet. He feels like crying. Which is stupid, really, but with the way his soul wavers again it's becoming more plausible by the minute.
A knock on the door is enough to startle him back into reality from where he’d been drifting off into his head. “Killer? Heard'cha yell. Y'alright in there?” Horror's voice sounded through the door, which just made Killer want to cry even more. Horror was going to have a fit if he came in, seeing the fact that there was blood absolutely fucking everywhere. Not because he was a clean freak or anything, but because it'd probably trigger at least one flashback for the guy.
“D'nt come in. 's Blood everywhere.” Killer called back, cursing the way his voice wavered in time with his soul. He quietly prayed Horror hadn't heard it. Unlikely, but he could hope.
“Yours?” Horror sounded alarmed, the door creaking suspiciously. Almost as if Horror'd walked into it in his hurry to get inside. “N't mine. Human.” Killer reassured quickly, his voice cracking again. Damn it.
He leaned back against the edge of the bath, the shallow layer of cold water shifting as he did so, then pulled his legs up to his chest so he was sitting in some sort of half-assed fetal position. The water was already colouring red with blood.
"..'m Comin' in. Al'right?” Horror said after a few moments, ignoring Killer's small mutter of “Please don't.” Or maybe he just didn't hear it. That was more likely, seeing as Killer could barely make out his own voice over the sound of the faucet.
Horror gently opened the door, closing it behind him before shuffling deeper into the room. Killer could see the way Horror's pupil flicked over the various blood stains around the room, as well as the pile of bloody clothes, before finally landing on him.
Killer knew he had to look like a mess right now. And not in the usual purposeful way either. He was still covered in blood, with only his ribcage and pelvis being vaguely spared from the gorefest, kudos of being covered by his clothes, and he was fairly certain his soul was visibly wavering. He tried to force a smile, but it felt off on his face.
Horror approached slowly, coming to a stop in front of the bath and kneeling down so they were at the same level. “Heya Kills.”
Normally, Horror's sudden soft tone of voice and cautious approach would make him laugh, at the very least. Now it just made him finally start crying, his soul firmly snapping into stage one as the silent tears started running down his cheekbones, leaving tracks in the blood. He didn't even know why he was so upset. It's not like the mission had been that big of a deal. He'd dealt with worse.
(Like when he'd killed all of his friends. And for what? A taste of something new?)
He buried his skull against the side of the bath with a dull ‘clink’, ribcage silently stuttering in time with his shaky breathing. A large hand came up to rest on his skull, a thumb gently rubbing over his acoustic meatus.
He felt more than heard Horror lean over and mess with the faucet, and a few moments later the water in the tub started to heat up due to the new influx of warm water, rather than cold. Had he really forgotten to turn the tap to the warm option? He wouldn’t put it past himself.
“Bad mission?” Horror rumbled quietly after, presumably, sitting back on his heels. Killer couldn't bring himself to reply verbally, knowing his voice would crack again and make him sound pathetic. So instead, he just shrugged half-heartedly. He didn't know. He didn't want to think about it anymore.
Horror seemed to take notice, because of course he did. Killer didn't think he could hide much from the big guy at this point even if he tried. And he didn't try, not really. Horror continued to rub his skull idly. “Y'know th'mission me 'n Cross went on a while back? Th' one Cross refuses t' talk 'bout?”
Killer shifted slightly so he could look at Horror without dislodging the hand still petting his skull. He... did remember that, actually. He'd taunted Cross about it for ages, trying to get him to fess up what happened, to no avail. Horror'd been tight lipped, despite not having any lips, about the whole situation too, more than likely a result of Cross asking him to keep quiet.
He tried to make an affirmative noise, but his ribcage stuttered at just the wrong time, and all that came out was a sob instead. His skull burned with embarrassment. Great going Killer, alert the rest of the castle to your meltdown.
“We were helpin' Crop out with th' harvest, 'n checkin' on th' supply line t' my AU.” Horror continued, completely ignoring Killer's sob other than giving him a quick, worried glance, which he was grateful for.
“Crop thought it'd be funny t' scare Cross w'th his blaster. He does it t' every'ne 'cause his blaster looks funny. Kind'a like a cow.” Horror rubbed one of his phalanges over the ridge of Killer's brow, which startled a strange, wet sounding purr out of him. Leave it to Killer to even mess up having normal emotional responses. He was pretty sure purring while crying wasn't a normal thing, which just made him feel worse. Stars, what he wouldn't give to just be normal.
Horror paused, leveling him with a worried look, before moving on, probably sensing Killer's humiliation. “Turns out, Crossy's afraid of cows. Th' poor guy was so terrified h' nearly passed out. Lost 't, really. Was bad 'nough to alert th' Boss.”
And Killer couldn't help the bark of laughter that forced its way past his teeth, because cows? Really? The big bad soldier was afraid of some farm animal? Cows weren't even the scary ones! Now horses, horses were the real threat.
Which was then immediately followed by a wave of guilt. Because who was he, to be laughing at another's misery? Some sort of psychopath? (he probably was). What kind of monster enjoys seeing others afraid? (he did).
(He didn't use to enjoy those things. He thinks. Everything is blurry, before.)
His ears are ringing. He doesn't even have ears. Not anymore? He can't see. What even is he? Human or monster or something in between? Was he even a person anymore?
(He's nothing but a thing.)
Faintly, he can make out Horror's voice, quiet at first, but then growing louder. He can feel himself getting picked up and lifted out of the bathtub, then resettled against a warm chest and wrapped in a tight embrace moments later.
Eventually, he can hear what Horror's saying again. “Shh. Easy. I got'cha. Y'aint goin' anywhere. I have ya.”
Something wet is dabbing at his face, cleaning away the tar from his sockets and cheekbones. His vision slowly starts clearing as more and more tar is removed, and he can make out the thing cleaning him as a ripped piece of his suit that'd been dabbed in the water. His socket must've started leaking excessive amounts of the stuff if it'd clogged up his vision like that.
“...S'rry.” He manages to slur after a few more seconds, because the more of his senses return to him, the more he can make out the situation he caused.
There's water all over the bathroom floor, probably from Horror picking him up and lifting him out of the bath, and he's sitting in Horror's lap, staining his clothes with his still bloodied bones, as well as soaking him with water. His suit pants lie next to them, ripped into pieces by Horror's claws, and both of Horror's sleeves are wet. He can't see Horror's face from the way he's sitting, his spine to Horror's chest and Horror's arms around his ribcage, but he can imagine the expression. He hoped Horror wouldn't be too pissed. Another wave of guilt sweeps over him.
“W'lcome back to the land of the livin'.” Horror chuffs quietly. Fondly. Which stirrs feelings in Killer's soul that he doesn't want to touch with a five foot long pole. The hand that'd been using the improvised rag to clean off Killer's face falls down, depositing the rag on the floor, then wrapping back around Killer. “ 'm not mad at'cha, Kills. Happens to th' best of us.”
Killer manages to tilt his head up just far enough to catch a glimpse of Horror's expression. And-
He doesn't look mad. In fact, he looks somewhat sheepish. Guilty.
“Sorry. Thought th' story 'bout Cross would cheer ya up, not send'cha spirallin'.” Horror's apologizing. Horror's actually apologizing. To him? And for what? Just because Killer apparently couldn't handle his own emotions didn't mean he had to make that Horror's problem.
He wants to protest, to tell Horror he shouldn't apologize, that it's all his own fault anyway, that the story had been funny, really. But he doesn't. Because he knows Horror won't like him blaming himself like that, and he doesn't have the energy to fight him about it right now.
“S'alright.” Is what he settles on instead, trying to fight the guilt that sweeps over him when that makes Horror purr.
The faucet is still running, and that seems to remind Horror of something, judging by the thoughtful noise he makes. “Y'wanna... continue yer bath? Or d'ya want me to take ya t' bed? We can just change the sheets t'morrow.”
And Killer? He doesn't know. He wants to go to bed. To sleep off this entire thing and hopefully wake up back in stage two so he doesn't have to deal with any of this anymore.
But the thought of sleeping with his bones still so gross feeling and blood wedged between his joints, which would feel even worse tomorrow when it was fully dried, makes him shiver.
“T'bath. Please.” He manages to croak out, his words fighting back because it'd be so easy to just let Horror take him to his bed so he doesn't have to bother him anymore, but he knows that'd upset Horror if he ever found out Killer chose the option that'd be easiest for him, instead of what was best for himself.
“Alr'ght then. Tub's full by now anyways. Would be a waste o' water.” And then Killer is being lifted again, startled by how easily Horror just gets his feet under himself and shifts his grip to accommodate Killer's weight.
He's carefully lowered into the bath, sinking into the now warm water with a quiet, vulnerable noise he would rather die than acknowledge. Embarrassed shoots through his system, and he's fairly sure his face flushes with magic.
Which is of course the moment he takes note of the fact that he was naked for that entire exchange. His cheekbones burn hotter. It's not that he'd call himself a modest, he was quite the opposite really, but nothing like suddenly realising your bathroom meltdown has been performed entirely in the nude. Great. Fun. Dust'd have a field day if he found out about this.
He doesn't notice Horror kneeling down next to the tub again, too caught up in his sudden realisation, until a washing brush gently taps him on the skull. Horror must've retrieved it from his shower cabin. Judging by the fact it smelt like his soap, he must've grabbed that as well.
“Turn 'round, 'kay? Let me get yer back.” Horror requests once Killer's singular eyelight focuses on him. And so, Killer does, carefully turning around to keep any additional spillage of the red-tinted water to a minimum because he's already dreading having to clean this up tomorrow, he doesn't need to make it any worse for himself.
And then his back is to Horror. And momentarily, he tenses. Because his back is exposed and vulnerable and his spine is right there, it'd be so easy for Horror to summon a weapon, or just use his hands really, and snap his spine right in half.
But Horror doesn't do that. Wouldn't do that. Because he's Horror. And Killer, for some stupid fucking reason, trusts him. To watch his back, to protect him when he goes down during a fight, to not poison him during breakfast or dinner or any of the other meals they have as a group.
Trusts him to wash his back without reaching out and snapping his spine like a twig.
The tension leaves Killer's shoulders, and the brush touches down to gently start scrubbing the blood off of his bones. And, without Killer's consent, his purr starts back up, rumbling quietly through his ribcage and filling the room with the rhythmic sound of it.
A few moments later, Horror's purr joins in, and Killer kind of wants to laugh at how much the room suddenly sounds like someone turned on an old car, but instead he just starts crying again, tears quietly running down his cheekbones because what had he ever done to deserve this?
Nothing. He'd done nothing to deserve this. And he'd gotten it anyway.
The steady movements of the brush and the quiet sound of water combined with the sound of their purrs is enough to start lulling Killer to sleep. By the time Horror has him turn back around he's downright seconds away from conking out right there in the bathtub.
So Horror cleans the rest of his bones too, without any complaints other than a fond chuckle that makes Killer feel warm and fuzzy, which really doesn't help his struggle to stay awake.
He probably actually does drift off at some point, judging by the fact that one moment Horror is carefully holding his skull up in one hand while using the other to carefully clean his neck vertebrae, and the next he's being lifted out of the tub of suddenly cold water.
He's vaguely aware of protesting the movement, and Horror's answering laughter, before he's being wrapped in a towel and tucked against Horror's chest again. And he can't complain about that, really, so instead he just drifts off again, assured in the fact that he will more than likely wake up in his own bed, dressed in Horror's clothes and covered by one of his blankets.