Chapter Text
Dust was an observant skeleton.
Quiet, too. The kind of quiet that made people forget he was even in the room unless they were directly looking at him; or unless they knew him, really knew the way he moved, the way he watched. That was the thing with Dust. He didn’t waste words or motion, which made it easy to slip under the radar. Blend in. Be overlooked.
But that’s neither here nor there.
What mattered was this: Dust noticed things. And it didn’t take him long to figure out what the hell was going on with Killer.
The signs were so fucking obvious it hurt. The squinting. The almost running into shit, like he was trying to rely on senses that weren’t holding up anymore. The way his movements had shifted, overcompensating, just slightly, like he was trying to mask how often he missed something until it was too close. And then there was the silence. The way Killer shut down after the last mission. Not loud, not angry, just… closed off.
Yeah. Dust had seen that look before. That mix of fear and shame and isolation. Killer thought he was being left behind.
The idiot honestly believed he’d be disowned.
Like Nightmare would toss him out the moment he stopped being sharp on the field. Like they, he, wouldn’t give a damn once he wasn’t combat-ready.
And it pissed Dust off more than he cared to admit.
Because they weren’t just a team anymore. They hadn’t been for a long time. Whether any of them said it aloud or not, they were family now, fucked-up, dysfunctional, stitched together from trauma and half-trusts, but family all the same.
And no one got left behind.
Not even Killer.
So no, Dust wasn’t going to sit Killer down for some emotional intervention. That wasn’t his style; too many words, too many emotions, and Killer would just shut down or crack a joke to deflect. No, Dust would stick to what he could do: show he cared without making a damn scene out of it.
The first thing he did was mess with the lights. The ones in the hallway near Killer’s room, the rec room, and even the kitchen, anywhere Killer might pass through. They were dimmed slightly. Smoothed out. No more flickering overheads, no more glaring reflections. He didn’t ask permission. Just rewired the control panel himself late at night when no one was around to notice.
The second thing Dust started doing.
He stopped being quiet.
Not completely; he was still Dust, still the guy who barely spoke unless he had to, but he made a point now. Every time he entered a room Killer was in, he announced his presence. Loudly. Deliberately. He’d clear his throat. Knock on the doorframe. Slam a cabinet louder than necessary. Drag his boots just a little when he walked.
He even started stomping down the damn hallway, heavy-footed like some kind of grumpy thunderstorm, just so Killer wouldn’t be caught off guard when someone approached.
Because Dust knew, Killer wasn’t ready to admit what was happening to him. Wasn’t ready to talk about it. But he’d been flinching when people got too close without warning, shoulders going tense like a trap ready to spring. Losing sight didn’t just mean blindness, it meant vulnerability, and Killer was trying to pretend he wasn’t feeling it.
So Dust made sure he was never surprised. Never snuck up on. Never left guessing who was in the room with him.
It was stupid. Clunky. Unnatural for him.
But he did it.
Not that Dust was clueless; he knew Nightmare had found out by now. Of course he had. It made sense, especially with Cross getting sent off on some solo mission. Dust didn’t know the details, but it wasn’t hard to connect the dots. It probably had something to do with Killer, whatever the hell was going on with him. And as much as Dust hated getting involved in things that smelled like feelings, he figured… he’d try to help. In his own way.
“We could just dust him and collect his XP,” came the dry mutter from a voice that wasn’t supposed to be there.
Dust didn’t even flinch. Just let the words slide off his mind like ash in the wind.
“Fuck off, Papyrus,” he muttered under his breath, more tired than angry. That ghost wasn’t helpful; never was. Not now, not when Killer needed reassurance.
Dust let out a slow, tired sigh as he sank into the couch, the fabric giving a quiet groan beneath his weight. The room was dim, just the flicker of the TV in the background and the soft glow of Killer’s phone lighting up his face. Too close to his sockets. Way too close.
Dust squinted at him, unimpressed.
“Hey, dumbass,” he muttered, resting an elbow on the armrest. “You know you can just go into settings and bump up the font size, right?”
Killer didn’t look up right away. Just gave a lazy grin without taking his eyes off the screen. “What, and ruin my aesthetic?”
“Your aesthetic is ‘walking health hazard,’” Dust shot back, but there wasn’t any heat behind it.
Killer chuckled, but it sounded thin, strained around the edges. He lowered the phone slightly, just enough for Dust to catch the faint stiffness in his posture. Like even holding the damn thing up was starting to wear on him.
Dust didn’t say anything else right away. Just watched him for a beat too long. Killer noticed, of course he did; but didn’t call him out on it. That was the thing about them. Neither of them needed to name it. Didn’t need a big talk or dramatic confessions.
Just being there was enough. Throwing barbs instead of pity. Quiet presence instead of noise.
So Dust let it go, leaned back, and kicked his feet up on the table with a grunt. “Let me know when you’re blind enough to walk into traffic. I’ll paint a target on the floor for you.”
Killer snorted. “Aw, you do care.”
“Shut up,” Dust said.
But he didn’t move away.
And neither did Killer.