Work Text:
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
The words are carried with the guilt of a man who’s standing upon the gallows. Like a stone thrown into a river— or a body limp against the pull of gravity— Dream can feel the negativity settle into the depths of his marrow: deep, dark, and nauseously cold. It’s the kind of resignation that, at best, comes from someone way beyond their years. Someone who has lived life to the fullest; Someone who has accepted what can no longer be changed.
It shouldn’t be coming from the mouth of Dream’s closest friend.
“I didn’t mean to hurt them. B-But I did. I don’t know how— or why…” Blue babbles from where he’s cornered himself against a dumpster in this dark, dingy Omega Timeline alleyway. It… isn’t Blue, really. Not the Blue that Dream has come to know over these past few months, at least. That Blue is busy with damage control out on the streets. His strength is insurmountable. But, his true power lies in the honesty and command of his voice. If Dream concentrates hard enough he’s sure to hear Blue’s— his Blue’s— confident baritone shouting directions and assurances.
This Blue, on the other hand, is small and meek. Scared and quiet; Dust covered and so, so very afraid. All that Dream can think of is a mouse in the shadow of a predator: a deer on the trajectory of an arrow. A tiny thing that is prepared to meet its end.
When Blue speaks again, his words are very nearly inaudible against the sputtering galaxy that is his aura. “I don’t think you should come closer,” he whispers, voice catching on a glitch. He flinches. Shakes. And, slowly, presses himself even closer against the dumpster. The darkness of his now inverted bones almost melts into the shadows of this alley. “I didn’t want to hurt them. I don’t know… I don’t know. I-I don’t think it matters. I think I’m going to hurt you and I don’t want to do that. Don’t come near me. Please.”
Dream does not step forward. Slowly, with feet planted, he raises his hands.
His dual swords remain in their scabbards; His bow and staff remained unsummoned.
“You won’t be able to hurt me. I’m not a normal monster.”
It’s… not the full truth. Dream can be hurt: beaten, broken, and comatose. Pain has burnt like fire, and blood has flown as ichor. But, Dream cannot be killed. Not by normal means, at least.
Blue doesn’t need to know that distinction, though.
It isn’t like he holds his name.
Carefully, Dream gestures towards himself. “I have sedation magic,” he explains, subduing his voice into the depths of softness. His aura is as bright as he can manage. But, alas, the glitched nature of this Blue’s magic seems to be fighting back with each and every line of code. “If you allow me closer, I will be able to put you to sleep. We’ll figure out what’s causing your intent to glitch, and we’ll wake you up when it’s safe.”
Dream watches as Blue’s gaze traces his hands. His gloves are thick. Hunter’s made. Still, there is nothing that lessens the heaviness of dust and blood.
“…What’s the number?”
The smell of desecration lingers. Dream swallows.
“We don’t know.”
“How many people did I kill?”
Blue’s voice dips into the seriousness that Dream has come to know. He stands, solid and still. And despite the intensity of those wide, pleading, star stained sockets, Dream is able to hold his stance as well. “We don’t know yet,” he repeats, returning his hands to his sides.
It isn’t a lie.
The full number is still yet to be confirmed.
A moment passes. Blue looks down to Dream’s gloves; Blue looks back up to Dream’s face. It feels like he’s at the mouth of an open galaxy: stars shining and burning like they always have and will. But, he isn’t. Dream is here in this sad, dark dingy alley way; Dream is here with a version of his friend who is pained, distraught, and ashamed.
What Blue says next sends a chill down Dream’s spine.
“I think you should kill me.”
Ink stares out into the empty abyss of nothingness.
He would have to do something about it… eventually. It was his job, after all. His purpose. The Guardian of Fates; The Protector of Worlds; The One who Guides the Hand of Creation.
It doesn’t matter if it's empty and nothing; It doesn’t matter if it's painted in tones of crawling, vivid lilac: blossoming and freezing like an endless charcoal night. Ink is The Guardian. He is made of all that is and will ever be: there is not a part of the Multiverse’s palette that has not touched his own, for he is the palette in all its greatness and diversity. He is this endless. It can only be before him.
Ink stares out into the empty abyss of nothingness. He blinks, and takes a step back.
He hadn’t meant to leave it for so long. Everything to do with good ol’ Glitchy was weird and odd. That was kinda his whole entire thing. Being an error. A stain upon the code. Truly— what was a little more weirdness when it had to do with him?
A lot, actually.
A lot that has gone ignored for days, weeks, and months.
It would be fine. Ink would take a look within Error’s… abode. Poke around to see what had been searing the cry of disturbance within his mind. Find it. Take care of it. And, then, go about his life. It would just be another day. Nothing new; Nothing that would truly change. The Multiverse would remain painted with all the same colors that Ink has come to love and cherish.
Ink stares out into the empty abyss of nothingness. Ink ignores the creeping, violet frost that crawls up his spine. He takes a breath, readies Broomie, and faces the gaping, hollow, expanse of pure absence.
Ink jumps within.
It was a fine day, all things considered. Sure, it could have been better— monotone meetings and persistent busywork isn’t exactly the highlight of Dream’s existence. But, if it meant that those in need would be kept safe and sound, it was entirely and truly worth it. Dream would go to the ends of the Multiverse if it meant being the Guardian he was meant to be.
Dream isn’t currently at the end of the Multiverse, thankfully. Dream, instead, is sitting at his little desk in the spare bedroom of Blue’s Underground house, pouring over large, yellowed sheets of paper. Careful and practiced, he dips his quill into his inkpot. Dream hums in satisfaction as he adds another crisp line to his map.
The intricate webbing of what is always has a tendency of pulling a pleasant curtain over his mind; It all existed regardless: the fun was in the puzzle of finding what already laid beneath.
Lanny had initially meant for it to be a punishment. But, Dream had never understood what could be so cruel about cartography. He would sit for hours, basked beneath the warmth of the fading sun, as he would attempt to copy the large ancient books that would be set before him. He’d groan appropriately— afraid that one of few solemn comforts would be stolen in the name of ‘training’. But, deep down, he’d become lost within himself: lost within the beauty of all that was.
Footsteps rumble from beyond the hallway. The inkpot sputters, dribbles, and settles.
Dream sighs. He sets down his quill, takes another breath, and begins to wipe at the newly formed mess.
His living situation was… temporary. Hopefully. The Omega Timeline had been deemed too dangerous— his presence, while appreciated, could and would bring unnecessary attention. Whether he liked it or not, there was a clear target painted upon his soul. His aura was worth Worlds; His remains… he would rather not dwell upon it.
Blue’s Underswap was out of sight and out of mind.
It was connected to the OT, yes. But, most wouldn’t pay it any attention. It was but one of many universes that had been exposed to the greater Multiverse. For the inconvenience, it was granted the protection of Core and the opportunity of expansion: the denizens would have their own personal choice of ignorance or indulgence.
The Monsters of this land had found their way to the Surface. The ability to Reset had been rendered null.
That left an empty Underground. That left an empty house. That left an empty, spare bedroom for Dream to reside in while they worked out something permanent.
Again, footsteps rumble from beyond the hallway. Again, the inkpot sputters and dribbles.
Dream is already reaching out to clean the added stain, sigh buried deep within his ribcage, when the inkpot decides to settle on certainty.
The ink spills clean across the map.
If prompted, Dream may describe the splatter as akin to a galaxy: beautiful in its own, neverending right. But, sitting face to face with a day’s ruined work, Dream can only think of a rigged rorschach test. It’s so clearly taunting him, even if that is so clearly impossible. Despite, the puddle of darkness stares back up at him. There is nothing to do, as it begins to seep within.
Huh.
Dream narrows his sockets. The ink is, admittedly. staring back up at him.
…Huh.
“Well, that’s an interesting shade of yellow!”
The years of training have settled like fuel within the blazing heat of his marrow, and so, before he can process it himself, Dream finds himself poised to protect: swords drawn, chair discarded, and posture pulled perfect as he faces this boisterous intruder.
Casually, as if they hadn’t just been rebirthed through ink, the stranger jumps down from the desk and settles himself against the threat of Dream’s blade.
Something about this monster is… familiar. Dream hadn’t been traversing through the Multiverse for long, so to speak. But, it was long enough that he had begun to pick up on the scent of rumors and gossip. Dream trails the stain across the stranger's cheek: splattered like a fallen comet. It tugs at something within his mind. Something that is pulled forward into the light of realization as the stranger blinks— eye-lights swirling from orchid depths to sunrise warmth— and smiles a sharp, fang-filled smile.
“This… This is Blue’s house, yeah? Yeah,” Ink says, gaze flickering down to the blade that rests against his neck. Again, he blinks; Again, the colors swirl and morph. “Is Bluebell here? I mean, this is his house… are you an intruder? Should I be worried? Are we, like, double intruders?”
This is…
This is Ink.
Dream had heard of Ink, before. It would be hard to have not. Perhaps he wasn’t the loudest source of conversation. But, his name carried through whispers like a dandelion upon the breeze. To some, he was the hero of the people; The one who could save them all. With just his creation and hope, he was able to keep Error in line: risking his life for those who prayed and yearned. To others, he was the one who disappointed. The one who had not done enough: who had forsaken when they called. But, to most, he was nothing more than an urban legend. He came when summoned; He only ever appeared when willing. He would die for the people; He had let the people die. He could be found on the outskirts of any AU, watching and waiting: melody of flute following like the power of Creation itself. He was nothing more than a myth. A false sense of hope. A tragedy. He was a God. He was nothing.
He simply was.
Dream, once upon a time, had heard someone call him the True Guardian.
Now, standing before him, Dream isn’t quite sure what Ink is.
Dream pulls his blade back a bit; But, not enough to truly ease his threat. Ink, slowly, tracks the movement. He raises a careful, almost exasperated brow. His features are fox-like: sly and calculated. If Dream were back at his village— drenched within a world where myth could be— he may have mistaken Ink for one of his own. Or, something close to it, at least. A spirit seems fitting. A kitsune, perhaps.
Ink clears his throat. Almost idly, he adjusts the… person that rests upon his back? Dream’s gaze traces the cargo that he had ignored before. For a moment, he pauses. It… couldn’t be Error. And, despite the glitches that dance across the unconscious man’s body, Dream finds this to be true.
“...Can you get me to Blue? Or Core, actually. Anyone who can actually do anything. Preferably.”
The man that rests upon Ink’s shoulders like a bag of potatoes is Blue.
Or, a version of Blue, at least.
Dream, in a near panic, reaches for Blue’s existence. He’s fine, of course: bright and very much alive. He’s somewhere in the house; He’s somewhere safe and sound. The texture of his aura continues to breathe waves of sky-blue confidence, energetic and awake. He was as he had always been.
This other Blue… his texture, although similar, is painted in the hushed urgency of a brewing storm. The pain is clear, and the change is stark. For now, he is asleep. For now, he is safe. Dream doesn’t know how long that shall last.
Two auras; Three people.
Dream narrows his sockets.
There is nothing, when he grasps for Ink’s aura. It isn’t neutral. It isn’t quiet. It simply… isn’t. It feels akin to reaching through a wall. Impossible. Incomprehensible. Insurmountable.
Empty; Absence.
Dream… knows this feeling.
He thinks of flowers; He thinks of long since fallen children. He thinks of those who intrinsically lack.
Huh.
“You, uh, good there, pal? Or, is staring all stupid just your go-to thing?”
“You’re soulless.”
There is no aura to read from Ink. For, there is no soul that emanates. Dream doesn’t know how Ink is feeling as he stares, expression unchanged yet sockets dancing like an active tornado from color to color to color. He opens his mouth. He closes it. He continues to stare; The colors continue to dance and morph: an endless, infinite palette.
“Come. I apologize,” Dream finally speaks, clearing his throat. He settles his swords safely in their scabbards. Ink, still, continues to stare. “I’m a skilled healer. I can do what I can, and then bring him over to the Omega Timeline. Does that work?”
A moment passes. And, then, Ink nods.
Dream takes a breath, fights against the urge to sense which is not there, and gets to work.
Ink doesn’t know what to do.
Ink doesn’t know what to do, as he watches Dream heal the glitch-ridden Blue— plucked from Anti-Void like a solemn flower. Ink doesn’t know what to do, when Baby-Blue himself asks him if he’s okay: the answer clear regardless. Ink doesn’t know what to do, as he finds himself absently following along into the Omega Timeline, mind still a whirlwind of golden-sunrise-warmth and vivid, acrid lilac blossoms.
Ink doesn’t know what to do as Other-Blue wakes up. Ink doesn’t know what to do when things begin to go wrong.
Ink doesn’t know what to do.
But, maybe Dream does.
Ink wouldn’t want to lose someone so interesting so soon, after all.
It’s a stupid thing, really. But, Ink hopes for the best.
“I think you should kill me.”
It’s spoken like an epiphany and not the soul-crushing, drowning plea it truly is. The closest thing to a smile begins to work its way across Blue’s face, and Dream can only feel sick.
“I—“
“I wouldn’t be able to hurt anyone, anymore. Cause I’d, y’know, be dead! It… It would be for the best,” Blue explains, voice dipping into that knight-like-confidence that Dream has come to know. “I don’t want to hurt anyone anymore. I don’t— I don’t want to be like him. Stars, anything but him. Anything but— but…”
Blue trails off. He raises a hand, narrows his sockets, and then slumps against the wall like a corpse thrown into a river: stars dancing across his body like a final message. He spasms. Once. Twice. It’s like watching glass shatter; It’s like watching a brother die. Dream, unable to prevent himself from action, finds himself rushing forward.
Another sacrifice; Another solemn choice.
“Don’t!” Blue shouts, hand up with magic swirling. He breathes hard and heavy from where he’s revived himself: glitches still swarming like the night sky. “Don’t,” Blue repeats, voice pitched and breath wheezing. He looks at Dream, now steady and statue-like from where he stands. It’s hard to ignore the freezing nausea that has festered within Dream’s marrow. It’s hard to ignore the urge to allow himself to be taken under: to succumb.
Like frightened prey, Blue’s gaze flickers from where Dream stands to beyond.
Dream allows the weight of the situation to guide him. The aura is stronger, here. Sick and cold; Deep and swirling. It settles something heavy within him. Something that threatens. Something that he won’t be able to bear for long. He blinks. He ignores how, for a moment, he finds himself unaware.
He knows what he must do.
And so Dream pauses, still, and slowly nods his head. “Okay,” he affirms. “Okay.”
Blue takes another strained breath. Again, the supernova threatens.
“I’m sorry, if it’s a lot to ask of you,” Blue says, hushed. The silence breathes, and within it, Dream can pick up on the gentle radio static. In this distance, there’s a shout; In the distance, there is life. Dream swallows the reminder. He focuses on how Blue fiddles with the edge of his bandana. “I don’t… I just don’t want to be this.”
Changed. Irrevocably altered from circumstances beyond his own reach.
An apple; A choice; A consequence.
“You don’t have to be.”
It’s hopeful. He knows it's a fault of his. The naivety; The boundless positivity. But, it is who he is. A Guardian. The Day You Dream Of. The Hearth of Life. Dream’s voice, despite the situation, remains honest and true. Pleading, for what he wishes it all could be. “There are scientists. Healers. You don’t know what we could do for you. If you allowed us—”
“Can you bring them back?”
Blue’s tone is as heavy as a guillotine. His aura squirms and spasms.
“The people I slaughtered. Can you bring them back to life?” The way that Blue gestures to himself is… unfamiliar. There’s a solidity that Dream isn’t used to seeing. His hand splays in front of his chest, almost as if begging for his weakness to be shown. “What about their families? Can you bring back their mothers? Their children? Their brothers?”
“No.”
Dream, slowly, shakes his head. His gaze remains unbroken. “No,” he repeats, aware of what is, and shall always be. “We cannot bring back what has been lost.”
There’s a gust of wind that passes them by. It’s cold and chilly, in this section of the OT. The start of autumn has begun to blanket the land: crisp and airy in its presence. A moment passes; The tide settles. And, Dream is struck by the simple silence.
How much time did they have, before wayward justice struck? How much time did they have, until Dream lost himself within the depths?
Blue swallows. It’s a small movement, but Dream trails the action of his nod.
“Okay,” Blue responds, nothing more than desolate. “...Okay,” he echoes.
His gaze falls to the concrete foundation, and Dream almost thinks that he looks… disappointed. There’s a twitch of his mouth— a jerk of his neck. Like a performance, the stars that litter his body dance with each and every movement. It would look beautiful, if Dream hadn’t already guessed that it was painful.
Dream feels the pull of gravity. He allows it to straighten his back, as he stands his ground. With as much will as he can muster, Dream asks the question of, “What do you wish for me to do?”
“I… You know—”
“I need you to repeat it. There must be no hesitation.”
Blue stares at him. Dream makes no move.
“...I want you to kill me.”
The unsheathing of Dream’s blade is as much acceptance as he can muster. Blue watches the movement: gaze flickering from hilt to shining edge. It’s clear when he stiffens, fingers curling against the stone at which he rests. He looks at the weapon. He looks back to Dream.
“I need you to promise,” he mutters, voice akin to that of a child: small and meek within the presence of someone who can, and will, decide his fate. “I need you to promise me that you’ll actually do it.”
It’s a naive kind of honesty; Dream knows it well.
A promise.
How many promises, had he made?
Dream allows his hand to tighten against the hilt of his sword. He forces it to relax. It’s heavy— the duty. It burns like daylight within his soul. The rising sun; The fading moon. The language is a bit heavy on his tongue. But still, with the ease of childhood, Dream is able to utter the promise, “I swear to you as Dream, son of Nim, that I shall keep you safe.” He clears his throat. For just a moment, he closes his sockets. His voice is soft as he continues.
“I swear to you upon my name.”
The words are thick within the air. Blue opens his mouth, and closes it.
He nods.
“Is there anything that you would like to say?” Dream asks, careful to imbue his tone with as much summer-light comfort as he can. It doesn’t do much, as Blue continues to shake and glitch: solemn as stone.
This isn’t the first execution that Dream has witnessed. He hopes to everything that it will be his last. But, unfortunately, he knows deep within that it won't be. There will always be mistaken justice— death served as poisoned consolation.
Perhaps Dream will be able to stop it; Perhaps the cycle won’t repeat.
It is his job, after all. To guard; To save; To be the one They need.
“Last words,” Blue muses out loud. Again, he swallows. Again, he sputters. Just as the stars begin to dance and shine, he takes a breath: calming the swirling magic. When he looks back to Dream, he once more smiles that all too sweet smile.
It curves his mouth like the moon. And, in a way that is dearly familiar, he shines like the night sky.
“I’m sorry. It’s okay if you can’t forgive me.”
Like a passing storm— clouds parted— Blue’s magic settles down into the ocean depths. Finally, Dream can breathe.
Finally, Dream can act.
Like the sun, his magic blazes: warm and gentle, bright and burning. Carefully, Dream settles his blade back within its scabbard. There is no use for it, after all. The time had passed. His boots scrape against the ground as he walks forward. And, just as Blue finally and truly collapses, Dream is there to catch him within the safety of his arms.
The blanket of sleep has covered him like an eclipse.
Finally, Dream can sigh.
“I forgive you,” Dream murmurs into the side of his friend’s skull. He’s heavy as a star within his arms. Precious. The pain still squirms, and the blood and dust still sticks. But, at this moment, he is safe once more. There will be a path, ahead of him. The burden of survival doesn’t hesitate to swallow whole. And yet, there will be time. There will be chances. Choices. A day to look forward to; A day that has yet to come.
Dream holds Blue tighter. It’s a kindness that he deserves.
“I forgive you,” he repeats. An echo. Another promise. “I’m sorry. It will be okay. I forgive you.”
Even if shown within the shadow of a lie, it is true. Dream can only hope that Blue will forgive himself.
“I forgive you.”
“How many?”
Ink’s voice cuts through the subtle chill of the passing breeze. It was still a fine day, all things considered. Nature doesn’t take into account the lives that had been lost: the destinies marred, and the paths diverted. It was the way of things, after all. Death was but another fact of life. All would continue despite.
The courtyard of the OT lab headquarters is… decent. There are still trees that are begging to be pruned— flowers that are clearly suffocating within the abundance. Dream had once offered his expertise. But, it had been declined with false kindness. He frowns as he considers the creeping roots of mint. Even if poorly organized, the smell remains pleasant: earthy and familiar.
Ink shifts from where he stands beside Dream. He tilts his head, arms still resting out upon the oversized paintbrush that is his weapon. “How many dead?” he repeats, gaze sharp and still everchanging.
Dream clears his throat. Slowly, he leans back against the wall of the brick building. He’d like to say he’s careful, but he feels the thump of his own weight reverberate throughout his spine. The heel of his boot scrapes as he adjusts to balance himself. He ignores the breath that forces itself through him.
“Five confirmed on site. One missing, and one human in critical condition— poor outlook. There were a few with non-fatal injuries, but those have been treated since.”
“So…” Ink hums as he drums his fingers against the brush. “...Seven casualties? Five if you’re lucky, six to seven if you’re not.”
“Seven,” Dream repeats.
Seven lives lost; Seven that have returned to Balance.
Ink nods.
He had been an asset within the chaos. They had parted early on. But, without Ink’s quick thinking and action, Dream wouldn’t have found Other-Blue. He doesn’t know what would have happened, if that had been the case: how many more would be lost. There isn’t any point in exploring that reality. Ink and him worked well, together. It was a blessing in a moment of turmoil.
Ink considers him. The way he looks at him is critical: as if he doesn't care if Dream knows that he’s seeing him as a puzzle. Dream is used to being seen as less than, though. Ink narrows his sockets, tilts his head, and then raises a brow as he speaks.
“So… why didn’t you kill him?”
Dream blinks. He opens his mouth, and closes it.
The shift in his demeanor is apparently clear, as Ink is quick to raise a nonthreatening hand. “I’m not saying you should have,” he explains, voice unafraid in its clarity. “I’m just curious about your thought process. He was an active threat. Wouldn’t it have been easier to neutralize?”
“It would have been easier. And, it would have been another life lost.”
Again, Ink considers him: completely unabashed in the clear display. He hums, as he leans back. Dream feels the thud as Ink joins him against the wall.
For a moment, Dream allows his sockets to slide shut. It’s vulnerable. It leaves him weak and open. But, it’s hard to resist. Without the hum of an aura to guide his presence, Dream is able to convince himself that he is alone. He’s allowed to believe, even if false, that he is okay.
“...You’re interesting. Do you know that, Sunshine?”
When Dream opens his sockets, he finds that Ink is smiling at him.
The fox comparison still fares true. His grin is wide and sharp, cunning and calculated. The fangs that peak out from the corners of his mouth glint against the setting sun. Dream, once more, considers that he may be in the presence of fellow fae: a man who knows the way of things.
It’s a silly thought, really. To yearn for what cannot be. Still, Dream holds to the idea like a firefly within the darkness. A false hope.
Ink may not walk the middle path. But, despite, Ink is a Guardian.
“I—”
“You never gave me your name,” Ink says, shrugging his shoulders. “I mean— I know your name. I’ve been watching you for some time, you know. Interesting story so far. I think it would be weird if I wasn’t caught up on all your shenanigans. Good stuff," he says as if it’s the most obvious thing in the entire Multiverse. He raises a brow at Dream: appearing to bask in his curious silence. “But, it’s rude to just assume a name. So… Sunshine it is. Until you cough out what’cha want me to call you, at least.”
The false name, once more, slips from Ink’s tongue. It sounds like it belongs; It sounds like…
Dream shakes his head. He clears his throat.
“Dream,” he offers. “You may call me Dream.”
A moment passes. Ink stares with the intensity of a brewing wind-storm.
“Dream,” Ink finally repeats, almost as if he’s feeling how the name fits within his mouth. He looks off into the distance: gaze flickering from forest green, to morning sky blue, to sunrise gold. He nods. Firm and true. “Dream… I like it. Dream. Dreamy. Sunshine… Dream.”
Dream watches as Ink extends his hand. Dream is hesitant as he takes it.
Ink couldn’t possibly know the implications. The promise. Dream shakes his hand, careful to ignore the coldness that radiates— the respite. He tries to not think about the lack of feeling: what he does feel instead.
“So, Dream…” Ink trails off, finally removing his hand. He smiles, again, all fox and fangs. “What would you say about working together? Long-term, I mean. I have reason to believe It could be beneficial for us both…”
To have Ink by his side.
To get to know that quiet, peaceful silence.
It’s possible that Dream is a little hasty in his agreement. He doesn’t know much about Ink, after all— it’s a decision made purely from the spark of flame: the burning of want. But, perhaps that is the point. To know Ink; To allow himself the curiosity to find out. It doesn’t matter if it’s a perfect choice. It simply matters that it is.
Such is the way of Balance; The endless cycle. What is, and shall always be.
Dream will find out either way.