Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Paperjam woke up feeling like shit.  

The soft pillow and warm clean bedding were far too comfortable for his liking, far different from the hard uncaring ground of the Doodlesphere. 

He stomps down that little voice in the back of his mind that still missed it.

And the comforter was suffocating . It was too heavy for him to twist and turn under its oppressively mocking weight and unbearable warmth that made his pajamas all sweaty and clingy to his already sticky bones. And yet the cool morning air made his bones rattle like violent maracas the moment he threw the covers off his sweltering body. There was just no winning. 

Paperjam hated that he yearned for the familiar aching discomfort of rickety old park benches and the cold desolate alleyway corners, the reliable soreness those cramp and unforgiving spots pinched to the back of his neck and the numbness that flared up his tailbone reminding him that despite everything, he was anywhere but there. 

That stupid Doodlesphere. 

He was surprised he even managed to fall asleep in the first place. Either way, he still felt like shit.

Paperjam doesn’t realize that his sockets have fluttered shut again until he hears a quiet whimper from across the room. He bolts up immediately, ignoring the nauseating fatigue still weighing heavily in his bones, his garbled eyelights landing on the adjacent crib. 

The inky skeleton slides out of bed, nearly slipping on the dirty pile of laundry waiting at the foot of his bed. 

He scurries over to the baby crib. Peeking inside, he’s greeted with the delighted babbles of a ridiculously tiny skeleton. Gradient’s sockets crinkle as his stubby little arms and legs flail in absolute glee - although his movements are greatly restricted by the adorably cute bear onesie keeping him all nice and bundled up.

With how he squirms, one might mistake him for a wriggling moth trying to escape its cozy cocoon. 

“Hey, Grady!” Paperjam coos, forcing his voice despite how it strains his parched throat. He tickles the babybone’s plump cheekbones, who erupts into eager squeals.

He smiles down fondly at his jovial baby brother. 

The Guardian of Positivity - or rather Dream - had initially insisted on having Gradient sleep in his room in order to keep a better eye on the infant at night. However, after much persuasion - throwing a tantrum and screaming at the top of his lungs for a good solid fifteen minutes - they settled on keeping Gradient in Paperjam’s room until the babybones got older. 

Well, until they moved out, that is. 

“Come on, Gray.” Carefully hoisting the little skeleton in his arms, Paperjam wipes away at the spittle coating his brother’s chubby cheeks.

He was getting bigger every day. Even so, he was still so small. 

Carefully maneuvering the babybones into the crook of his arm, his free hand moves for the door knob. He takes a moment to mentally prepare for the unbearably awkward interactions that awaited him in the kitchen today before twisting the handle open.

Only to reveal a wide-eyed Palette standing directly on the other side of the door.

“Good morning!” 

“Fuck!” Paperjam shrieks with a startled jump, quickly scrambling to support Gradient against his chest. Thankfully, the baby skeleton’s used to unexpected jostling, simply letting out a startled mew at his big brother’s sudden jerk. 

“Have you been standing there this whole time, you creep?!”

“No,” Palette blinks, his colorful tongue sticking out in thought. “Maybe? I don’t know.” With a final shrug, he twirls around. “Come on, Mom’s making pancakes!” He announces, oblivious to Paperjam’s vindictive glare. 

Palette runs over to the staircase, his mismatched socks thumping softly against the hardwood flooring, only to come to an abrupt stop. Blopping his butt on the top step, he nudges himself a few inches forward, sending the young skeleton violently bumping down the stairs. His voice jumbles as he hits each step. 

“...weirdo.” Paperjam scoffs. “Grady, promise me you’ll grow up to be normal.”

Gradient shoves his clenched fist into his mouth, gnawing at it maddeningly.

“That’s what I thought.”

Descending the stairs like a normal person, Paperjam takes the opportunity to peek through a passing window. 

The young skeleton wasn’t exactly sure where they were, all he knew was that they were somewhere in the Omega Timeline. That and the guardian was a hermit, his home residing in the far outskirts of what Paperjam assumed to be the main hub of the Omega Timeline - if the huddle of buildings and infrastructures was anything to go by. 

The front lawn was rich with a healthy field of greenery - all sorts of colorful flowers and shrubbery that Paperjam could never hope to name generously littered the guardian’s lonely estate. 

But the sky, the pseudo blue sky left his skull racking with ugly throbbing pain; his sockets were welling up tears just by spending a measly second staring at the fuzzy listless clouds that hung over the endless horizon. He shuts his sockets tight as he twists away from the window. 

No matter how hard they tried to make this timeline an inviting sanctuary to desperate refugees, they could never cover up the surreal unnaturalness of a lifeless void.  

Hopping off the last step, the skeleton cranes his head, examining the dull house for what had to have been the hundredth time. Gradient gurgles inquisitively as his brother absentmindedly twirls in place. 

The guardian owned a fairly simple house, painfully bland. The only signs of life were toys new and old, filled-in coloring books, and whatever other garbage the older skeleton’s hyperactive tyke half-hazard tossed around the house for poor unfortunate souls to slip and break their backs on.

And no, Paperjam was not referring to any personal experiences.

Some of the dull-painted walls had a picture or two hanging along them, which served as a helpful reminder for Paperjam that this house was actually inhabited. Other than the unknown human and monster here and there, the majority consisted of small snapshots of Palette at different milestones in his short existence so far. 

His first birthday full of strangers he wouldn’t remember, him holding up a watercolor painting of a rainbow that looked like shit, and another of him sitting on the shoulders of a dumb-looking Sans in some dumb-looking battle armor; the photo was folded, leaving it centered awkwardly in the frame. 

Paperjam storms past the rest of the arranged frames, ignoring the hallway mirror positioned smack-dab in the middle.

He stops just around the corner before the kitchen, the pungent smell of smoke, bananas, and burnt sugar assaulting his nose. For a second, he heavily considers turning back and just starving in his room for the rest of the day.

The insistent chewing on his fingers reminds Paperjam that there are little souls that unfortunately need their nourishment. 

With a heavy sigh, the young skeleton braves into the kitchen.

Surprisingly, it’s only the kitchen counter and stove that’s a mess this time - a puddle of raw batter sits under what must have been an overflowing bowl. A crust-coated blender sits miserably atop a batter-soaked towel. 

The stove, meanwhile, is where the real culinary horrors lay. 

There the guardian was - having exchanged his usual attire for a simple sweater with messy sweats - furiously stabbing the spatula into an especially stubborn pancake. His clenched teeth just barely held back the barrage of colorful vocabulary he so desperately wished to unleash upon the uncooperative cake. 

Beside him, Palette stood by dutifully holding a stacked plate of pancakes that looked edible enough. It’s how they looked on the inside that scared Paperjam the most. 

With one final jam, the elder skeleton finally managed to plunge the spatula under the batter. Flipping it over revealed a perfectly charred pancake, blackened and all. 

“Hurray!” Palette cheered, throwing up his arms… inadvertently letting go of the plate in his hands like the idiot that he was.  

The guardian nabs the salvageable plate midair, sadly sacrificing his trusty spatula in the process. It tumbles along the kitchen tile floors before skidding right before Paperjam’s feet, drawing the attention of the two skeletons right to him.

…what joy. 

“Good morning,” Dream greets, shaking off his brief surprise. He’s trying too hard to force his enthusiasm. Why even bother?  They both know they don’t want to deal with each other. “Did you two sleep well?”

“No.” He answers without a beat. He’s not in the mood to play this stupid game of forced niceties with some stuck-up god, not today. He’s got better things to do. 

“Oh,” The older skeleton blinks, completely caught off-guard by the break in their benign script. “I’m sorry to hear that, Paperjam.” He ultimately settles, passing the plate to Palette. The boy eagerly reclaims his duty. 

The inky skeleton rolls his eyes. Paperjam beelines to the table, where a highchair has been permanently situated. He pays no mind to the disassembled smoke detector on the table, it’s become a staple of the kitchen table. 

Carefully securing in Gradient, the babybones coos, his unique little eyelights dance around the kitchen, always finding something that catches his wandering attention span without fail. 

With a satisfied hum, Paperjam turns to prepare Grady’s bottle. The skeleton freezes when he nearly walks into an already prepared bottle held out to him. 

“Here you go,” Dream offers with a smile. “I made sure to prepare it for you earlier this morning.”

Skeptically, Paperjam accepts the bottle. He scrutinizes the diluted formula through the clear plastic, tilting the bottle as he raises a brow. The inky skeleton unscrews the cap and, after giving it a suspicious sniff, gives it an experimental lick. His sockets narrow, his glower a striking resemblance to that of a brooding cat. 

Without another word, he makes a beeline past the guardian and promptly dumps the bottle's contents down the sink. 

“You used too much water,” He explains bluntly, oblivious to the fleeting wince of hurt crossing the elder skeleton’s shabbily practiced mask. “Gray’s not gonna wanna drink it.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Seems I am out of practice…”

With a huff, Paperjam heaves himself up against the countertop, grabbing at the air until he successfully nabs the formula container. Looking in, his glare hardens. 

“We’re out of formula.” He frowns, peeking into the empty container again, childishly hoping that it’d magically be full. 

“I thought we still had enough,” Dream deflates, approaching Paperjam to check the higher cabinets. His frown tightens when the little skeleton stiffens at his approach. With a tired sigh, he closes the cabinets. “I must have forgotten to get some more last time I went shopping.”

“Joy…” Paperjam drawls, slamming the empty container on the counter. 

Tapping a finger to his chin, the older skeleton clears his throat. “Can Gradient eat soft foods yet?” When the inky skeleton looks up at him, Dream can’t help the hopeful smile that inches across his face. “I can cut some banana slices, get him used to more solid foods. It’ll help him hone in on his motor skills.”

“...yeah, I guess that’s fine.” Grady deserves something new for a change, he’s probably tired of drinking the same old same old every day.

“Why don’t you sit down and have some breakfast while I prepare Gradient’s breakfast, hmm?” Dream suggests, reaching into the overhead cabinet for a small plastic bowl.

Paperjam scowls. “I'm not hungry right now.” 

His stomach betrayingly grumbles on cue. 

Damn it…

Defeated, Paperjam plops himself down at the table. He watches the guardian prepare Grady’s bowl, cutting the peeled banana into small biteable bits for the babybone to gum at.

So engrossed in his quiet observations that he doesn’t notice Palette’s dumb face slowly rising from the other end of the table. And no, Paperjam does not yelp and bang his knee into the table when he finally does notice the little weirdo.

“Pancakes.” Palette chants in an eagerly hushed whisper, pushing the droopy plate of pancakes onto the table. 

He glares at the younger skeleton before he eventually realizes to back the fuck off. Sighing miserably, Paperjam begrudingly grabs the least raw-looking pancake while Palette runs off to the overfilled pantry. 

Palette digs around for a bit - nearly getting a bag of flour dropped on his head - before grabbing what he needed and skipping to the drawer right under where Dream was working. Crawling under the elder skeleton, he weasels his way up toward the handle, blindly snatching whatever silverware his sticky little hands could find.  

The energetic little skeleton returns to the table with a torn bag of paper plates just barely holding together and a fistful of kitchen utensils he proudly tosses onto the table. Only four forks tumble to the floor in the process, leaving only a fork, three spoons, and a can opener to choose from.

Tearing the plastic bag open into ruined shreds, Palette grabs himself a plate as he jumps into the opposite seat next to Gradient, piling on a greedy helping of greasy and burnt pancakes. 

Grady gurgles, his little phalanges slapping on the highchair’s tray. Palette smiles at the babybones, affectionately poking his fat little cheeks, blowing obnioxusly loud raspberries as he does so. This childish move earns him a whole wave of adorable giggles from Gray, the small skeleton bouncing lively in his confined seat. 

Paperjam fumes, dropping his pancakes on his bent plate. No one’s allowed to poke Gray’s cheeks but him. 

“Here you go, Gradient.” Dream coos, approaching the table, oblivious to the potent air of envy emitting from the inky skeleton. He places the bowl of banana slices on Grady’s tray, the babybone’s attention immediately transfixed on the new and exotic meal. 

And of course, Grady loved them. He was never a picky baby. Paperjam thanked the gods - creators? - for that every day; made life that much more easier when breakfast, lunch, and dinner was based on whatever least-expired thing they managed to find on a day. 

Paperjam blinks out of his thoughts when he notices the guardian staring at him, expectantly. Hopefully. With creeping dread, his eyelights drift to the sad lone pancake on his plate. 

…come on.

He looks over to Palette. The little skeleton was busy tearing into his sticky stack, a gross heap of maple syrup having been dumped on by the greedy little tyke. 

The little shit had also taken the one and only fork. 

Just get this over with already…

With a grimace, Paperjam crams the now-cold pancake into his mouth. As he bitterly chews, his face predictably scrunches in disgust.

“These taste like shit.” He grumbles with stuffed cheeks, but swallows the indescribable slop nonetheless. While terrible, it was at least edible compared to the things he’d scavenged out of the trash before.

“O-Oh, I’m sorry…” Dream deflates, although he seemed to have expected this outcome. “I thought I followed the recipe…” He mutters thoughtfully. 

Paperjam had to restrain himself from slamming his head against the table. If he had to hear one more sorry today…

“I think they’re good, Mom!” Palette spouts. His face is just caked in syrup.

“Palette, please don’t chew with your mouth full.”

“Sorry,” The skeleton loudly gulps before continuing inhaling another abominable pancake from his endless stack. 

The guardian smiles affectionately before he bends down, gathering the forgotten forks and bringing them over to the sink. Paperjam watches him move about the kitchen, piling the sink with dirty dishes that he’d dedicate a good hour to thoroughly cleaning later on in the day, after his Guardian duties.

Paperjam groans, lounging himself against the table. While he was still hungry, he couldn’t bring himself to eat another pancake. He’ll just wait until Dream eventually comes back later with some takeout. If not today, then definitely tomorrow after this disaster of a breakfast. 

He’s used to being hungry anyway, it doesn’t hurt to wait a little longer. 

As long as Gradient’s getting fed, he can deal with this. 

Sure, their “caregiver” was an incompetent god with self-esteem issues and he was stuck playing nice with the god’s socially-inept kid, but honestly, things could be worse. Things used to be worse. 

So for now, this was fine. Not like it was a permanent thing, after all. 

Dream eventually returns to the table. Slumping into the remaining open seat, he nurses a steaming cup of coffee that must have been waiting for him under the coffee machine. Without adding any sugar or milk, he takes a long sip of his coffee. He finally pulls away from the lip with a satisfied hum.

Paperjam winces. The strong whiff of dark coffee offended his sensitive nose… that and a stronger, more domineering stench of black smoke in the air.

“...isn’t there still a pancake on the pan?”

“Shit!”

Chapter Text

Dream woke up feeling like shit. 

The soft, clean bedding did little to ease the stubborn soreness reverberating throughout his stiff bones. Neglected bruises and cuts burned with each soft prod of the sheets, leaving him in constant discomfort. 

Weakly pushing himself off his pillow, the skeleton blinks dazedly at the dingy clock with its maddening ticking. 

3:32 A.M.

He got home an hour ago. 

He was still in his guardian garbs, only his boots having been kicked off his calloused feet before he collapsed face-first into his unmade bed. 

With a drained groan, the guardian plops back down on his drool-stained pillow, curling into the cool covers for any form of reprieve for his aching joints. Dream greedily slips back into the comforting embrace of listless sleep. 

It takes his exhausted mind much too long to register the feeble wailing that has only been growing in desperation. 

He bolts up, ignoring the protesting pain that flares up in his spine at the sharp movement. Fumbling for the table lamp - nearly knocking it over in the process - weak eyelights groggily land on the squirming babybones in the crib pushed against the bed. 

A mess of snot and wet tears paints the little skeleton’s face - you might mistake it for a messily done watercolor with how the child’s peculiarly colored fluids blend messily together. The babybones’ weak little arms flail in the air, desperately searching for comfort. Shrilled cries soften to longing coos when it finally opens it’s tear-filled sockets, muted eyelights momentarily lighting up at Dream’s exhausted face; the babe’s flailing arms strain to reach for it’s parent. 

“Shhh…” Dream hushes softly, his joints screaming at him as he reaches for the feebly weeping infant. “I’m here, I’m here.” 

The baby skeleton gurgles miserably as Dream brings it to his chest, a weak cough racking it’s little frame. Although clearly drained from it's crying fit, if the low whine building up in the young monster was anything to go by, it didn’t seem like it intended to calm down anytime soon despite the strain it surely had on it’s young vocal cords. 

“I’m sorry, I’m here now.” Dream kisses the skeleton’s wet little face, cringing at the stickiness that clings on after. “It’s okay.” He shushes again. 

His child answers him with a sour scowl, a fat stream of tears leaking from it’s tightly clenched sockets as it kicks it’s stubby feet about. 

“Are you hungry?” Dream tries, immediately feeling like a fool for asking. Children had to eat a lot at a young age to conserve necessary energy as they grew older, a Toriel from an Outertale timeline had once told him, especially infants. 

Did he forget to feed it when he got home? 

A loud grumble startles the small skeleton. It stares up at Dream with a comically bewildered expression, blinking away large globs of tears before a muffled whine starts to build up in it’s abused lungs. 

He’ll take that as a yes. 

Maneuvering himself off the bed without the aid of his hands, Dream makes his way to the kitchen, cooing and coddling the infant all the way there to push off the inevitable crying tantrum for just another minute. He makes it to the kitchen without incident, but he can’t help but grimace at the state his past self has neglectfully left it in.

The sink was full of dishes he’d assured himself he’d have clean before it got out of hand, the lingering schmutz no doubt having dried up onto the silverware; cleaning them now would be a nightmare. Most of them were coffee mugs, thick coffee stains ingrained in the porcelain. 

The countertops were no better, caked in a fine layer of baby powder. A few baby bottles here and there were scattered about, most dirty. A carton of milk had been left on the counter for who knows how long. 

Throwing out the foul-smelling carton first, Dream scrounges through the baby bottles, searching for the least dirty one. The babybones’ needy whines picks up, slowly creeping in volume like a ticking time bomb. The guardian juggles bouncing the little monster about as he continues his search, eyelights widening in delight when they spot the most suitable candidate. 

It was by no means clean, a dry water and powered mix clung to the lid of the bottle that stubbornly held on - the rubber cap had been considerably gnawed on with some unpleasant dry spittle still wet to the touch. But compared to the other bottles, it was nearly spotless. 

He’d just have to give it a good rinse. 

Preparing the bottle one-handed was rather difficult, but not impossible. The small monster heavily protested any subtle movements by the guardian with the relentless squirming of a slug drowning in salt. With how it twisted and turned, it was a miracle it didn’t pop out of his hold right then and there. 

The waterworks, however, were a whole other story. 

The babe’s pitched cries heightened in intensity, aggravating Dream’s already stressed state, which welcomed a new onslaught of missteps and mistakes in what should have been a simple and easy task for the guardian. A particular shriek startles Dream with a jolt, resulting in an egregious waste of powder scattering on themselves and the flour. 

Dream was certain he’d join the babybones right then and there. 

But just as the crying was about to reach another ear-grating octave, the little skeleton coughs again, temporarily stalling it’s insistent sobs, relieving the tired skeleton's throbbing headache for now. The infant buries it’s face into Dream’s chest with a needy whine, small phalanges digging into the guardian’s drool and powder-coated shawl for comfort. The little thing seemed to have finally tired itself out. 

Well, there goes the entire right side of his body. 

Thankfully, Dream is given a moment of peace to finally finish the bottle, eternally grateful that he managed to pour the boiling kettle into the awaiting bottle without burning himself or the babe. 

He checks the teat of the bottle every other minute, giving it another vigorous shake each time to help speed up the cooling process. 

A sense of pride floods over Dream, although a heavy wave of shame quickly snuffs it out. 

All the lives he’s been able to save, all his accomplishments, all the work that had gone into building the very foundation of the Omega Timeline - and the only real pride he’s ever genuinely felt worthy of was preparing a stupid baby bottle?

A shaky, tired laugh crawls its way out of Dream. 

Fuck… how pathetic was he?

The impatient babybones murmurs audibly. Worming around, it stretches out it’s stubby arms - tiny hands motioning for the bottle taunting it from the counter. 

“...let’s get you fed.”

Cradling the young monster upright so it wouldn’t squeeze out from under his arm, he brings the bottle’s teat to the babe’s gaping maw. They latch on with a vigorous hunger, nearly pulling it out of Dream’s hands. It dug it’s little teeth into the teat so tightly as it sucked, the older skeleton was worried the babybones would rip the rubber latex right off. 

Dream finally lets himself relax, taking the momentary peace to lean against the powder-coated countertop - his exhaustion-riddled body already beginning to sway in place. He paid no mind to the baby formula that dug into his already stained clothes; the guardian would deal with that later, preferably after he slept in for the next few hours, five if he was lucky. He was ready to crawl back into bed as soon as the baby was all nice and fed.

Unfortunately, it seemed like the babe had other ideas. 

It's content little face quickly twisted into disgust. Dream wasn’t even given a chance to react before the bottle was smacked out of his hand. A bottle explodes when it hits the ground, projecting lukewarm formula all over the kitchen floor. The leggings of his unitard are not spared from the carnage. 

And neither is his top, as the babybones simultaneously hacks up a good portion of the formula it’s guzzled, all of it gushing over itself and Dream. The unpleasant sensation of being covered in our own projectile vomit was no doubt the final straw to the young monster’s piling distress of the day, as one raspy inhale signaled the inescapable crying fit that quickly followed. 

And as this small thing wrung its little lungs out - an ugly cacophony of pain and mounting displeasure - Dream could only stand there, staring down at the pathetic little soul, caked in its own vile, that screeched and writhed in his arms.  

He isn’t sure how long he stands there for. It could have been a few minutes, maybe even an hour. What Dream does know is that he’s slid himself down to the floor, back pressed against a nearby countertop, sitting in the puddle of formula; the baby still somehow in his hands. The undying cries have bled into the back of his mind, nothing more than white noise. 

He’d pulled something from his inventory, Dream noticed. Looking down, he sees his phone in his free hand, dry formula sticking to the phone’s case. 

Blinking numbly, he scrolled tirelessly through his phone, finally finding Ink’s contact number. Or at least, one of them. The soulless monster had lost his phone however many times that he’d had to get countless replacements throughout the years. 

Dream reads the numbers over and over, his frown tightening. 

Fuck, he couldn’t even know which phone this number belonged to.

With a wet sniff, Dream dials the number.

And he waits anxiously with bated breath as it rings…

And rings… 

And rings some more. Until the ringing is cut off with an automatic voicemail. Ink must have forgotten to set up a voicemail for himself. 

Dream is sure they’ve made one together at least once. 

For one of them. 

Letting the phone slip out of his hand, not finding the energy to keep scrolling through his short contacts, his eyelights settle on the monster in his lap. 

The tantrum has eased up some, the baby having screamed its little throat hoarse. It’s face was still soaked wet, sockets clenched tight as its mouth gaped like an impatient baby bird. 

“Please stop crying.” Dream croaks, his frown twisting into a bitter scowl.

What was he doing? 

Dream was a guardian. He had duties and obligations to the Omega Timeline - to the Multiverse! He’s not some glorified nanny! Why was he still putting up with this dumb game? 

Why did he listen to Ink?

Dream heaves in shakily, his brows crossing intensely. His vision blurs as his sockets water.

The monster stirs in his arms, moaning in displeasure. 

Was it desperation, the need for validation from his only real friend - his idol? Ink trusted him enough to approach him with the proposal. He should have been honored that Ink would want to start a future with him, a family - something neither has had for quite some time now. 

Ink made it sound so easy, so picturesque. Dream had been taken back to Dreamtale, seeing the neighboring families with the smiles and laughter and perfect lives; something he had craved for the longest time for himself and his brother to have with their absentee mother. 

He wanted that still, even if it wasn’t like he’d initially expected it to be. 

Dream had been accustomed to hardships early on in his life. From watching his brother destroy their home, tearing apart countless worlds and timelines, and relentlessly torturing the souls of the innocent to further flood the Multiverse in inescapable despair; he should be used to every obstacle life had to throw at him. 

But this? This was nothing like what Ink said it would be. It was… 

A frail wail breaches the small monster.

Suffocating. 

“Shut up!”

The sobbing stutters to a stop, the monster stares up at the guardian with shocked, wavering eyelights. It’s mouth still trembles as fat tears continue running from its sockets, and yet it doesn’t dare to creak its mouth open. 

Dream huffs, angrily wiping away the persistent tears welling from his own baggy sockets. 

Why did he go along with this?

He should have expected this from Ink, he always came up this his ‘great ideas’ on the spot - this was just one of his latest fixations. 

Ink didn’t even give it a name before passing it to him!

And neither did Dream…

He looks down at the babybones, its sockets clenched tight as it sobbed quietly to itself.

“…p-please?” He stutters dumbly - Dream doesn’t even know what he’s trying to beg for anymore. An ugly pit of shame twisted in his soul. 

He’s supposed to be a guardian.

And yet he can’t even take care of his own child. 

Eventually, the cries of the guardian reverberated from the kitchen, drowning out the child’s hushed wails.

Chapter Text

With each day that passed in the Omega Timeline, listlessly loitering in the guardian’s home, the more anxious Paperjam became. 

Waking up each day under an actual roof, having a full dresser of fresh, clean clothes to choose from, not having the constant pressure of finding some edible food to momentarily delay the lingering hunger pangs reverberating throughout his runny bones - the dreading reminder that even a single mistake on his end could cost him the life of his baby brother; it was more than they’ve ever had on their own.

But still, the tiny voice in the back of his mind kept prodding him, reminding Paperjam that the longer they stayed here, the more it was going to hurt when everything would eventually get pulled from under their feet.

And it all depended on when the guardian would get bored tired of them. 

Just like He did. 

Although admittedly, while Dream was nowhere near as neglectful, the supposed Guardian of Positivity was still incompetent in his own right.

For starters, he couldn’t cook for shit; not if Paperjam wanted to deal with a smoke-filled kitchen or ruined taste buds for the rest of the day. It’d gotten to the point that the elder skeleton returning with takeout in lieu of a home-cooked meal called for a celebration, assuring Paperjam that he wouldn’t go to bed either on an empty stomach or the threat of food poisoning. 

How his son had survived off his cooking for this long was a mystery, though Palette in of himself was an enigma Paperjam wanted to stay far away from as he could. 

Dream would disappear for hours to tend to his duties, returning with egregious injuries that left Paperjam wondering just how he was still standing and smiling like the tool he was. 

Granted, Paperjam knew Dream was a god, but how was he just fine with missing a whole ass arm?! 

He was still trying to figure out just how the elder monster managed to supposedly replace his missing parts the next day. It might just be some god magic for all he knew. 

Oh, and how could he forget the guardian’s superb social skills? 

If Grady were fully cognitive yet, he’d for sure be cracking up. 

Any attempts Dream had made to start a conversation with Paperjam ended quicker than it took for the older skeleton to finally muster the courage to open his dumb old mouth. He’d stand there like a mumbling idiot until Paperjam scurried off into his room. 

And Paperjam tried his best to avoid these awkward conversations as much as he could, because one of these would eventually be the tipping stone for Dream. Though he was anticipating it, Paperjam still needed time. 

As long as he wasn’t smothering him, Paperjam could tolerate his presence, even though he’d wanted nothing more than to be left alone. But Gradient always took precedence over his own wants. 

Creaking the bedroom door open by just a smidge, Paperjam’s eyelight bounces around the corridor, searching for a certain little troglodyte that liked to stalk the halls. 

Dream hadn’t left his room since he returned from his latest outing, and Palette had seemingly disappeared alongside with him. 

This was his chance. 

Slinking down the stairs, his socked feet thumping quickly along each step, he makes a beeline for the kitchen. Paperjam grabs the bottle balancing precariously atop the pile of dishes on the drying rack, and gets to work. He’s sprinting back up the stairs as fast as his legs can take him before he knows it. 

Grady’s wide awake by the time he returns, attentively pulling at the lime green blanket he’s sitting on, confused yet determined to pull it from under him. His attention immediately drops from the task when the door closes with a click behind Paperjam; the little babe reaches out with a groggy squeal, excitedly bouncing on his rear. 

Gradient guzzles down the formula with such haste that Paperjam worried he might throw it back up again. Thankfully, the little skeleton only lets out a wet burp when Paperjam gives him a few good pats on the back. He immediately settles down when placed back into the crib to sleep off his hearty meal, snuggling into the soft bedding. 

Paperjam watches the babybones for a good minute, making sure that the little monster is fully asleep before hunkering down for the day himself. He lets himself collapse onto his bed with a relieved sigh. A part of him hates that he’s finally getting used to the unnatural softness of the bed, but he lets himself indulge in the bouncy mattress and fresh sheets regardless - not that the guardian would ever be able to pry that information from his cold, dead hands. 

Feeling in a drawing mood, Paperjam reaches for his sketchbook sitting on the nightstand to his right. Or at least, he would have, had the inky skeleton’s phalanges not patted around atop an empty wooden surface missing his treasured sketchbook. 

Reluctantly rising from his comfortable spot on the bed, he stares daggers at the empty nightstand. Mismatched eyelights quickly scan the floor and even under the bed, hoping that it’d simply tumbled off in a moment of clumsiness. 

Nothing. 

It only then dawns on him that he’d left his sketchbook downstairs, having forgotten to bring it up after preparing Grady’s bottle. 

Meaning he’ll have to leave the sanctuary of his room to get it.

Fuck… 

The inky skeleton makes sure to triple-check both ends of the hall before even considering stepping foot out his door. He’d just be in and out. 

But of course…

“Jammy!”

“Oh my god,” Paperjam spins around to where Dream’s brat decided to just magically spawn from. “What?!”

“Shhh!” Palette quickly pushes a finger up to his and Paperjam’s face.

Paperjam fumes. “Don’t you fucking shush me!” He bites back, slapping the offending hand away. 

“I just got Mom to bed,” He whines with a pout. “You gotta be quiet!” Idiot wasn’t even being quiet himself.

“Ugh, whatever,” Paperjam grumbles, slumping toward the stairs. “Just leave me alone, just need to grab something…” 

“Oh, are you going to the kitchen?” Palette's seemingly innocent question makes Paperjam freeze.

No way this little shit was doing this on purpose…

“So am I!” Palette beams, excitedly bouncing beside him. “I’m making Mom some soup to feel better. Wanna help?”

Paperjam quirks a brow skeptically. “You can cook?”

“I know how to use the stove.” Palette quips, bounding down the stairs ahead of him.

“That’s more than Dream can, I guess…” Paperjam reluctantly follows, the promise of actual potential food making him consider tagging along with the other skeleton for just a bit longer. 

Upon reaching the empty kitchen, Palette gets to work, snagging a decent-sized pot from the cookware cabinet and slamming the door with enough rehearsed experience before any of the cluttered pots and pans could tumble out and bury him alive.

Paperjam watches from the kitchen table, having finally found his sketchbook resting flopped open by the far right counter, way too close for comfort by the still messy stove. He quickly gets bored with Palette watching and decides to flip open a page, one filled with incomplete doodles of trees and rockets and whatever else caught Paperjams' wandering attention the last time he opened his sketchbook. 

Today, he finds himself drawing some chickens. 

A big cheeky one there, a scrawny mean one over there. 

And maybe a little fat chick down here. 

Palette’s hard at work dragging the wobbly footstool over to the pantry closet. As he passes by Paperjam, he sneaks in a brief look, which is immediately blocked off by the inky skeleton quickly hunching over the table. 

Footstool set, the smaller skeleton hikes up, reaching for the taller cabinet. Dodging the plastic bag of alphabet pasta, he digs his hand further back. He rummages around for a bit until he finally feels what he is looking for, based on the stupid smile that balloons on his stupid face. 

“I knew we still had some!” He cheers, pulling out a dented can of chicken soup.

“Wha– you guys had canned food this whole time?” Paperjam yelps, his inky form boiling. 

This whole time, he could have whipped himself up an easy and digestible meal instead of surviving on burnt meals and snack rations? But nooo, no one bothered to tell him any of this. 

Make yourself comfortable, they said, feel free to grab whatever you’d like, they said. 

Wish he could strangle the brat, but alas, he’s pretty sure that’s the one thing the guardian would actually but his foot down on. 

“Huh,” Palette turns, unbothered by the other’s disjointedly morphing form. “Oh yeah. You just gotta dig around for it is all.” With a shrug, he hops off the stool and skips to the stove. It takes the skeleton a good minute to remember that he, in fact, still very much needed the stool's assistance for this as well, and went to drag it back with him in tow. 

Paperjam breathes in slowly, forcing his form to fix itself as wood slowly scrapes against the tiled kitchen floor. Never had anyone managed to get under his skin like the guardian’s pest of a son. 

The two skeletons settle into relative silence, confined to their own little corners of the kitchen. Only the soft clicking of the stove’s burning sparking to life and the soft scribbles of lead on paper sneak into the momentary reprieve. 

That is, of course, until a certain little nuisance decides to bring back his migraine. 

“I like your drawings!” Palette blurts out, finally dumping out the contents of the can after many botched attempts to pry it open with the dented can opener. “Especially the dragon, dragons are so cool!”

Paperjam bolts up, getting some satisfaction at the way the smaller monster flinches at his digging glare. 

“I didn’t touch it!” He sputters, squeaking as the footstool wobbles under his weight, desperately gripping onto the countertop to stop the stool from teetering. “It, it was open when I got here!” Palette whines, his force contorting as he bit his nonexistent lip. 

Palette’s eyelights nervously dart everywhere but at Paperjam, who still watches him with a bitter scowl. 

“...but then I did touch it when I turned the page, sorry.” He finally folds abashedly. 

To both of their surprise, Paperjam just snorts. 

“Whatever,” He ultimately settles on. “Just don’t touch my stuff without asking.”

There’s a pause before Palette loudly humphs with an enthusiastic nod, a stupidly wide smile smeared across his stupidly wide face. 

Paperjam expects them to go back to the comfortable silence, but of course, the little brat still has more to say. 

“C-Can you teach me?” There’s some clattering by the stove as he clumsily stirs the broth, having forgotten to do so in the past few minutes. “I wanna draw like you!”

“Didn’t Ink teach you?” Paperjam exasperatedly hisses out, more so at having to say the name than anything else. 

“Uh, he tried but… I had trouble keeping up.” Palette eventually answers, seemingly ashamed as he speaks. “And Dad was already always busy, and sometimes he’d forget when I’d ask and then…” 

Paperjam knew what was coming next. 

“He stopped coming home. Mom said they got into a fight - a bad one.”

Now, Paperjam wouldn’t describe himself as an emotionally smart person -  far from it, actually. Well, it only made sense as a being created out of destruction and quickly disregarded in lieu of something more interesting. If you asked Paperjam, he’d say he deserves the medal for world's most emotionally constipated monster. But, to be fair, he had Gradient, so that might dock him some points as a contender. 

Short answer to these inane ramblings: Paperjam did not know how to do comfort. He didn’t even know what it was supposed to look like besides the short glances he’d seen on his and Grady’s travels.

So, safe to say, Paperjam had no idea how to handle the situation he now found himself in. 

His mouth twists in thought, the inky skeleton’s leg bouncing as he scrambles for something to say as the awkward air of anticipation drags on.

Palette, back still turned, seems to be lost in his own thoughts as he aimlessly stirs the spoon. 

…fuck it.

“It’s not your fault, kid.”

He cringes when he meets Palette’s expectant eyelights, already regretting opening his mouth. 

“Ink, he…”

He got bored with you. 

He forgot about you.

He didn’t really love you. 

They were all on the tip of his tongue, ready to gush out at the little brat. But something was keeping his mouth locked into a bitter grimace. He ground his teeth, anger beginning to boil behind his sockets. 

A tiny little voice in his head was holding him back, poisoning his throbbing skull with the sickening thought that maybe, just maybe…

It was neither of those things. 

Maybe it was just…

“Ah, soup’s done!” 

Tapping the wooden spoon at the pot's edge, Palette rests it on the grimy spoon rest. Paperjam watches him strain across the counter, his small phalanges grasping at the ladle just out of reach. 

Feeling pity, Paperjam uses his magic to nudge the ladle a smidge closer, just in reach for the smaller monsters to snatch with his grubby little hands, ignoring the ink smudge over the handle. The beaming smile after is too nauseatingly bright that Paperjam has second thoughts about helping the brat.

Pouring a generous scoop of chicken soup into one of the colorful plastic bowls tucked away in the cupboards, Palette hops off the stool and quickly makes his way out of the kitchen. He stops by the edge of the staircase, patiently waiting for the other moody monster. 

With a sigh, Paperjam begrudgingly grabs his belongings at a much slower pace compared to Palette, before lumbering behind the hyper little skeleton who keeps narrowly spilling the soup with each speedy step. 

Palette leads Paperjam to the far left door, facing it with an abrupt stop. They stand like that together for a good minute until Palette looks up at him with his big dumb eyelights. 

“Help, please?” He mumbles, motioning to the door. “My hands are full.” 

Oh, right. 

Ignoring the pink discoloration of his inky cheekbones, Paperjam twists the knob open. He just narrowly dodges the little skeleton running past him to squeeze through the semi-cracked door. 

“Mom!” Palette announces, scurrying into the dimly lit room. 

Which left Paperjam awkwardly standing at the now-opened door, his mouth twisting in a sour pout. How did he let the guardian’s brat order him around like that, so embarrassing… 

Whatever, he was free now - no better time than to run back into his room. Not like they needed him anymore. 

But despite his self-assurance, the inky skeleton’s eyelights still linger heavily on the guardian’s door. And before he can stop himself, Paperjam is already inching closer. Craning his head, he peeks inside. 

The guardian’s room is… not what he expected it to look like. He certainly didn’t expect the elder skeleton to be a, well, he wouldn’t outright call him a slob.

Paperjam honestly expected Dream to have a spotless, nearly untouched, artificial-looking room. But his room was just… normal. A little messy, sure, but nothing that would signify that a god-like entity resided within. 

The windows were drawn in, the only glow of light emitting from the faintly lit fairy light that just barely made the room navigable. The wooden desk pushed to the far right corner of the room was absolutely drowning in papers, only being kept weighed down by the towering stack of ancient-looking books - they looked to be a dated collection of fairytales. 

With how much his eyelights flickered throughout the room, he nearly missed the ravaged pack of cigarettes that sat innocently on the dresser. They were nearly empty.

Paperjam would have never suspected the guardian of all people to have a stupid addiction. Admittedly, he hid it pretty well. 

Inky eyelights ultimately settle on the center of the room where the bed had been pushed into, the one spot he’d been actively avoiding until now. 

Palette had crawled onto the messy bed, huffing and puffing after having flipped his little body over to grab the soup he’d set on the nearby nightstand.

Dream, smiling sheepishly at the little skeleton’s shenanigans, weakly pushes himself up, carefully nursing the bowl Palette shakily brings to him. 

“Oh no!” Palette squawks, startling the dazed older monster. “I forgot the spoon, I-I can go get—”

“It’s fine.” Dream shushes coolly, carefully guiding the boy back up on the bed. “Thank you, Palette.” 

Breathing in the soup’s rich aroma, Dream brings the bowl up to his nonexistent lips, slurping away. He breathes out a hearty sigh, taking in the warmth of the bowl against his sore phalanges. 

Palette snuggles up to the guardian as he eats, struggling to hold back the long yawn that pries his mouth wide open like a popped clam. He ultimately settles against Dream’s side, a satisfied smile creeping on his face as his sockets flutter to a close. 

Paperjam slips away from the doorway before the guardian might notice, nearly falling over himself as he stumbles back. He quickly made his way back to his room, slamming the door with a bit more force than he intended. 

He lets himself flop onto his bed, grasping the covers and twisting himself into the tangled sheets. Paperjam waits for sleep to take him, but it never does. He glares as the sun sets from the window and the fake night sky rises up - obnoxiously showing off the tinkling of the nonexistent stars. 

Stupid guardian, idiot couldn’t even take care of himself. 

Chapter Text

Palette just couldn’t get it right.

He pouts at the paper, ugly frustration boiling in his sockets. He hastily wipes away at any threatening tears lest he ruin the drawing even more. 

It just wasn’t coming together the way he wanted it to.

Dad made it look so easy… 

Maybe he should use a different green? Palette examines the forest green crayon in his hands. It was darker than the rest he had.

But which green? The box came with at least five…

The little skeleton’s deep musings are cut short by the click of the front door. Palette scurries onto his feet, nearly slipping on the precariously scattered pile of crayons as he makes for the living room; an infectiously wide smile quickly replacing his previously gloomy face. 

“Mom!” He turns the corner and skids into the lounging area, nearly running face-first into the opposing wall. 

The little monster’s smile falters as he comes to an abrupt stop. “Mom?”

The older skeleton is facing away from him, clenching a hand onto the old armchair closest to the front door as he sags into himself. Dream doesn’t seem to notice him as he slowly stumbles over to the nearest couch; his short yet sharp breaths sound wet. Palette doesn’t think breathing is supposed to sound like that. It sounded wrong. 

Dropping his splintered bow, the guardian collapses onto the cushioned furniture, his back facing Palette. The little skeleton notices the many rips and tears in his mom’s usually pristine attire. He perks up when he sees a lot of red on the older skeleton’s arm that hangs off the couch’s edge.  

“Mom, did you visit Dad?” Palette saunters forward. “You’re covered in paint.”

Dream stirs. Palette gasps. “Were you guys painting - without me?!”

“...now’s not—” Dream groans, though it’s cut short with a sudden yelp as he curls into himself. Palette flinches, slapping his hands over his mouth.  

The guardian eventually settles down, but Palette is too scared to move - worried he’ll make Mom mad again. 

He keeps forgetting that Mom doesn’t like talking about Dad anymore. 

Dream lets out a shaky breath, this time not as wet as before, thankfully. He deflates, clearing his throat. 

“It’s okay, Palette. Just,” There’s a pause, the red-stained phalanges of his hanging arm twitch ever so slightly. “...just need some rest.”

Palette frowns, blinking away the wetness stinging his sockets. He fumbles with his hands as he bites his nonexistent lips. 

Mom sometimes got hurt when he went out, but he could always fix himself, and he never cried, no matter what! But it was never this bad.

Palette remembers when he cracked his femur once, having fallen off the tree he was climbing to follow the pretty bird flying around the backyard. It was really bad; it was one of the only times Mom cried. Even with healing magic, it took a while for Palette to get better. That’s why Mom made him a lot of soup - not only did it have healing magic, the older skeleton said, but it also made you feel all nice and safe and cozy, even on a bad day. 

“I—I,” Palette swallows before straightening himself. “I’ll make you some soup, so you’ll get better!” 

Dream doesn’t respond. His chest steadily heaves up and down, only occasionally interrupted by a sharp, pained hiss. 

“Okay! Okay.”

Palette scurries over to the kitchen, determination keeping his anxiety at bay for the time being. 

He pilages through the drying rack, securing a mostly dry spoon and bowl. Setting them aside in the meantime, Palette makes for the snack cabinet - that’s where Mom stores all their canned food and everything else that doesn’t go bad in a day. 

Now, if he remembered correctly, the chicken soup should be…the fourth shelf! 

Palette hops up, his short arms reaching up. It takes a few more hops and flailing for Palette to come to an unfortunate conclusion. 

He couldn’t reach it…

With a shaky whine, Palette’s watery eyelights dart around the room. Hope bubbles up within him as he spots the wooden stool pushed off to the side of the kitchen. 

He drags it over to the closets with giddy excitement, nearly slipping over his own feet. Unfortunately, the stool is of no use. His phalanges just barely brush against the shelf's base - he can’t even see the cans, no doubt tucked further back on the shelf. 

Palette sniffs, his throat feeling clogged as his vision blurs and his sockets burn with bubbling tears. Mom needed soup, but he couldn’t even get him that. 

What was he supposed to do now?

Cereal! It was like soup, just colder and sweeter! 

Perking up, the little skeleton peeks into the lower shelf, his smile growing as he eyeballs the wide array of options. Should he use Coco Bombs or Sugar Puffs? 

Oh, did they still have Fruit Pops? Mom loves those!

Snatching the near-empty bag, he scurries over to the fridge to get— 

Oh. He forgot they were out of milk since yesterday. 

…but they had orange juice! That’d work, right? 

With orange juice and cereal in hand, Palette convenes at the kitchen table, preparing to create this new, unorthodox concoction. And besides almost spilling half the carton of juice all over the floor, it goes relatively smoothly. 

Palette beams proudly at his fruit-scented concoction. 

“Mom!” Palette calls, hopping off the stool and hurrying into the living room, though he quickly drops to a peppy speedwalk when remembering he was carrying an easily spillable bowl of orange-soaked cereal. 

“Mom, I made you cereal, but we ran out of milk, so I used orange juice instead! Hope that’s okay!”

The little skeleton’s smile drops when he hears no response. “Mom?” He cautiously rounds the corner, peering into the living room with furrowed brows. 

The older skeleton was asleep, though it looked anything but peaceful. A light yet steady shiver continually made the guardian’s old bones together; the restless sleep was accompanied by the occasional barely audible mutterings, something under his breath - his words too hoarse for the young skeleton to properly make out. 

“...m-mare?”

“Don’t worry, Mom, you won’t have any nightmares with me protecting you! I’ll be right here when you wake up!” He plops a wet kiss on the older monster’s forehead - or at least tries to. Mom was curled up on himself, so he just managed a smooch to the side of the older skeleton’s skull. 

Mom said kisses were the best medicine; he was gonna need a lot of them!

He puts the bowl on the coffee table for now - Mom could have it when he was feeling better - and carefully climbed onto the couch, curling himself into the small gap between the sofa and Dream’s chest. 

With his skull pressed against the other, Palette can hear the faint rattling of bones with each breath Mom takes; he can’t help cringe at the way his throat hitches occasionally, it almost sounds like cardboard being scratched. Clinging onto the guardian’s torn garments, he snuggles closer, wiping the prickling tears against the stained cloth. Eventually, Mom’s light shivers help rock the little skeleton off to sleep.