Archive of Our Own ^beta

Ink’s sockets blink open slowly, blurred with exhaustion. As he comes to, the more his body aches, pulsing through his bones until it forms a piercing headache that has him groaning. It stabs at his skull, blobs of red and white in his eyelights, scattering across his fuzzy vision. He runs a hand over his face, pulling at the bottom of his sockets and wincing when his elbow stings. 

When his eyesight clears, he notices he’s not asleep in his Doodlesphere, the sight of a colorful yellow sky vacant from his view. Rather, he’s greeted with a simple wood ceiling, smooth and carved. Little indents dig into the wood, showcasing a bunch of small designs. 

They look familiar. It all feels familiar, but he can’t remember a thing. 

But he knows his own work anywhere. 

With a glance, he looks over to his side, spotting a nightstand. On top are his vials. All are hollow and missing paint, with specks of remains clinging to the bottom. That would explain why he wasn’t empty right then, though it has him furrowing his brow bones. He doesn’t remember taking them— though he doesn’t remember much of anything right now. That was typical when he woke up from naps, which he made sure to hardly ever succumb to unless he was hurt—

Oh. Huh, so he was hurt. 

He tries to sit up, mostly to figure out where the injury is when a sharp pain courses through his leg. He sucks in a quick breath, bony fingers stabbing into the mattress— oh, he’s on a bed— and bracing himself. He manages to lean his back onto the bundle of pillows behind him, helping him prop up to a better look at the room. 

The walls are painted, with details of flowers and suns drawn along the surface. It has Ink tilting his head, realizing that some of those weren’t his designs. No matter how scatter-brain, he could always recall the finest traits of his art, all possessing something similar that rings as his. 

He's somewhere….safe? At least it feels like it. It feels familiar and warm, something that he only experienced at his Doodlesphere and one other place. So if this wasn’t his home, then this had to be—

A loud creaking sounds through the room, and Ink snaps his skull to the side, spying a door opening. In steps a stranger, long skirt swishing with each step. They are a skeleton with yellow eyelights that, for some reason, has Ink’s ribs warming, as if there was anything to warm in the empty cavity. Yellow is a common sight in their outfit, and it’s even more pronounced with their simple crown that rests on the crook of their skull, rounding about their forehead and staying snug. 

Ink’s first thought is that the stranger is beautiful and that in itself has his mind whirling with confusion. 

The person doesn’t take long to notice him, eyelights flickering from the floor to hone in on Ink, brow bones furrowing. 

That face— that slightly miffed but concerned expression has Ink linking who it is. 

With a faulty gasp, he widens his sockets. “Are you an Angel? Oh, stars. I thought if I died, I would be meeting Reaper. Seems he’s got a new coworker, though.” The words come out smooth and coy, a tone that Ink doesn’t like using often. It usually leaves him feeling sick to his gut, bile threatening his tongue, rendering him nauseous and just…wrong. But when a bubble of giggles threatens to escape his throat, held back by a grin, he knows the uncomfortable feeling he’s used to won’t be coming around.

It’s so worth it— especially when he catches the person’s eyelights rolling with annoyance, arms crossing while popping their hips to the side. The motion is so dramatic and over the top— so lovely and endearing— that it has Ink chuckling, even if it stings the soreness in his bones. 

“Cut that out, Ink,” they sigh, shaking their skull left to right.

Ink’s smile grows. “My apologies, Angel. Please don’t take me to the underworld and make me suffer for all eternity.” 

And when they tilt their skull, a hand coming up to wipe at their face, Ink knows they’re hiding a smile. Perhaps even a blush. But knowing Dream, that isn’t very likely. 

She’s like me, a voice softly reminds, and it has Ink’s yellow paints draining from too much use. 

Dream makes her way to Ink’s bedside, pulling a chair up and settling down. Ink watches the movement carefully, not because he doesn’t trust her, but because he isn’t quite sure why she’s annoyed with him. 

There’s more than just the terrible flirting attempt bothering her-has her staring at the rumbled sheets, mouth a thin line, tightly strung. Her hands are released from her gloves, Ink notices. He can see the way they bawl and shake. She’s angry about something, which, usually, is a hard task to achieve. The guardian of positivity isn’t one for fury or annoyance— at least, that’s what people assume. And maybe she was like that once upon a time, but after meeting Ink, any trace of that was thrown out the window.

He tilts his head, wondering just what he did this time. “You look happy to see me.”

A bit of the tension in Dream’s shoulders disappears, and a small smile gets shot at Ink, grateful in every way. “Ha. I am happy to see you. Alive. I was worried I wouldn’t.” She glances towards the window on the other side of the bed, staring out at the white backdrop with a faraway look. Ink turns just a bit, listening to the sound of laughter and footsteps, catching snatches of color running by, little kids tripping after each other just a couple steps from the room. 

“We’re in the Omega Timeline, right?” Ink asks, the memories coming back as the words form. He hears Dream hum in agreement, and his body relaxes, finally knowing where he is now. “Why’d you put me in your room?”

Dream, to her credit, doesn’t falter too much. Although she does flush a tad, glancing at him with a small frown. “Surely you remember what your room looks like.”

He does, and it has his smile falling to a thin-lined smirk. Paints of all kinds crowd his bedroom, splattered on the walls or swirling in buckets. All are stacked on the numerous bookshelves he keeps. His bed is covered in clothing from failed outfit ideas, tossed and forgotten. No matter how many times Blue scolds him to either give them away to the inhabitants in the Omega Timeline or at least get rid of them, Ink always seems to forget as soon as he leaves. 

That, and the fact that the task has his body filling with dread and reluctance anytime he attempts it. But he’s sure he’s not the only one who looks at cleaning like it’s a punishment rather than a way to better his environment. Perhaps Blue treating it as such, shoving a mop and bucket into his hands anytime he fucks up, conditioned him into thinking such a way. 

He hums, delighted at a new way of guilting Blue to avoid his chores. Though most don't work, it’s always good to have new material just in case it does. 

“Stop that,” he hears, and he pops out of his scheming, eyeing Dream’s disgruntled expression. She definitely isn’t happy with him about something. The fact that even his thinking face has her on edge is concerning. Though, he can’t blame her distrust when it comes to his thoughts. This is different, though. It’s deeper, more prominent. Something she’s keeping at bay for reasons Ink can’t figure out. 

“What did I do,” he finally questions, and Dream’s brow bones furrow deeper. “You’re angry.”

“I’m not angry,” Dream immediately defends, and Ink resists the urge to roll his eyelights, knowing deep down that Dream is still used to pretending- pretending not to feel anything besides happiness. It’s a habit of hers— to act like she’s the perfect positivity machine, incapable of being like everyone else, saying no to anyone who asks if she’s upset. 

Ink knows her, though. He can read the worry etched on her face like a book, used to the slightest changes that indicate something isn’t right. 

Dream can’t hide from him. And she knows that more than anyone, evident by the heavy sigh she eventually lets out as she keeps eye contact.

“You’re hurt,” she starts, and Ink refrains from teasing her for her blunt start. Instead, he nods along, pushing her to continue and to speak her mind. He hopes to pry the fear of being an annoyance from her soul one day. She deserves better than that mindset. “Because you…took the hit for me.”

Ink blinks. Tilts his head. Memories of the previous fight rush through his skull. He remembers Horror rearing back a large thigh bone, preparing to nail Dream in the head. Ink remembers how he ran over, shoving her away as Horror slammed his torso with the bone, sending him flying into a couple of rocks before everything went black. 

It wasn’t a hard decision to make back then, and Ink knows he’d do it again in a soul beat. “Yeah? I didn’t want you to get hurt.”

Dream stares at him. Her eyes are blank while her fists curl tighter and tighter. Ink doesn’t understand— doesn’t get the anger on her face.

“You could’ve died,” she says, and the room falters into silence. 

Ink chuckles. Then laughs. And soon, he’s doubling over, holding his aching gut as he giggles and squirms, eyes closed with tears budding in the corner of his eyes. “You…ha! You think I could’ve?—“ He can barely get the words out before he’s giggling some more, covering his teeth with his palm. 

“Ink! This isn’t funny,” Dream growls, but Ink doesn’t stop laughing. Pain starts to build around his stomach. “I’m serious!”

“Ink!”

 Ink stops laughing. He glances over, breathing ragged, spotting tears flowing down Dream’s cheeks. He gasps, and though the action hurts, he can’t hold it back. Surprise and regret ooze from his bones. “Dream…I—“

“-no! This isn’t funny, Ink! I’m not joking. You could’ve died right then and there.”

Ink grits his teeth, unsure what to say to make those tears of hers stop. They don’t suit her pretty face. It physically pains him to see such a sight, especially knowing he’s the reason for them. “Even if I did, I would’ve come back.”

His words don't seem to comfort her. A sob bubbles out of her chest, forcing her head down into her hands as she cries. Ink freezes. He doesn’t know what to do— what to say. What can he say? The knowledge that anytime he opens his mouth, she gets worse, digs into his skull. It makes him sink into his confusion and guilt. 

He’s not used to being the source of Dream’s tears. A part of him wishes he had no paint in him because the uncomfy feeling has his gut swirling and threatening to rise the back of his throat. 

“That’s the problem,” Dream finally mutters. “You have no care for your own well-being!”

“It…wouldn't have been a big deal—“

“—not a big deal,” Dream snaps, rising from her seat. The rapid switch in moods has Ink tensing, especially when she grabs at his wrist and pulls down his sleeve. He winces and whines about how it hurts, but Dream ignores his cries. She points to a scar along his hand, and Ink doesn’t quite get it, which only makes her groan in frustration and sorrow. “That’s a scar, Ink! Each time you die, you get a scar.” She twists him around, grabbing his other arm, disregarding his hisses of pain as she rips away his other sleeve. “There,” she says as she points to one, repeating the word each time she finds another, growing more and more ragged and intense. 

She yanks his skull, hooking her bony fingers under his jaw. With her free hand, she jabs a pointed phalange at each faded scar on his cranium. “There, there, there! They are everywhere! They cover you!” Her aura weighs heavy— like a heat wave that makes Ink sweat. She releases his jaw and moves her hands to his shoulder, digging her claws into his bone.

Ink closes a socket in pain. “Dream, that—“

“—how much longer can you go, Ink? Each scar just gets deeper and deeper. How long until you shatter on me?” Dream’s intensity falters, worry replacing the fury. “How much longer until I lose you,” She asks, voice quiet and broken up. 

Ink stares into her eyes, surprise overtaking him, leaving him still. “You won’t lose me.”

Dream shakes her head, sorrow pressing her mouth into a thin line. “ You can’t promise that when you keep doing stuff like this. I can’t lose you, Ink. I just can’t.”

Ink doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t know what he could say to help those fears of hers. All he manages to do is pull her into a hug, wrapping his weak arms around her upper back. She wastes no time burrowing her skull into his shoulder, silently sobbing. Each time her shoulders shake, Ink rubs his hand up and down her back, hoping the gesture will be enough to melt her worries away. 

She soon relaxes into his hold, enough for him to shift over in his bed, allowing her to rest alongside him. Though she tries to fight against it, he manages to cover her with the blanket, pulling her down against the mattress as he holds her close to his chest. He knows she can’t feel the steady soul beat in his ribs, as there’s nothing to find. Even so, his breathing seems to be enough of a reminder that Ink is alive and here. 

“I love you,” Ink mumbles and the words feel foreign on his tongue. Dream shifts, moving away enough to meet his eyes. Ink rubs at her tears with his thumb, pushing the golden liquid away as she watches him. “I do. I promise.”

“I know you do,” Dream reassures, words soft and caring. “I will always believe you when you say that.” 

Ink smiles gently, and with the rush of happiness, he feels safe enough to lean in and press a kiss to her teeth. It’s short-lived, as neither of them want their uncomfortableness to overtake the sweet moment, preferring to make it as fast as possible so Ink’s fears can’t keep up. He leans away and rests against his pillow, grinning loosely as Dream smiles back. 

“I love you too,” she whispers, and Ink melts at the words. “And even if you fight against me, I’m going to keep you alive.”

It’s Ink’s turn to fix her with a soft stare. “That isn’t your problem.”

“No, it’s not. But I want it to be.”

And Ink can’t argue against that. Dream is stubborn to a fault. 

Instead of starting a battle he knows he’ll lose, Ink drags her back in, wrapping his arms around her shoulders tightly, securing her close enough so he feels her breathing on his shoulder, pressing his face against the top of her skull. Dream returns the gesture, coiling her limbs around him like he’ll disappear if he doesn’t.

“I’ll have to get up soon,” she mumbles into his shoulder. Ink frowns.

“If Blue tries to fetch you, I’ll just drag him down with us.”

“What about Core Frisk,” Dream adds, and Ink knows she’s teasing at this point. For her, though, he doesn’t mind playing along. 

“I’ll drag them too. They could use the sleep.”

“You know full well they don’t.”

“At the end of the day, Core is still a kid. A nap won’t kill them. Besides, it’s only one of their forms that will be sleeping. We’ll get 'em all to ourselves.”

Dream giggles, smacking his shoulder. “You make it sound like we’re plotting to kidnap a child.”

“Aren’t we,” Ink asks, grinning, earning himself another smack. “Ow! I’m kidding! I’m still hurt, you know?”

“My apologies,” Dream sings in a way Ink knows isn’t genuine, and he adores her for it. 

He doesn’t banter back, exhaustion taking over. At least, a part of him assumes. The rest knows that Dream is using her aura, covering him in a thick blanket of joy that has him growing more, and more sleepy. The warmth is like another blanket, and he fully relaxes, sleep washing over him.

They’ll talk more when he’s better. Or maybe they won’t. Maybe they’ll pretend the conversation never happened and continue with their lives, a silent understanding of worry and distrust between them.

Ink doesn’t know. And that’s what he loves about her. Every day is unable to predict because Dream herself is unpredictable. 

He thinks he'll adore her forever for it.