To Kill A Killer

Chapter 14: Kintsugi

When Cross had first joined the Royal Guard, he'd gotten a lecture from Undyne about distractions in battle.

"It only takes one second to put you dorks on the floor," she'd told the small group of recruits, most of whom were only a few years younger than she was. Her single eye had flashed in the white sunlight, bright as her gleaming armour. "In training, you just lose. In a real fight, you end up with this." She had tapped her eyepatch, giving them all a sharp-toothed grin. "Obviously, you're gonna end up in some sticky situations, but you want to avoid giving your opponent that second if you can help it. Which means –" She plucked a phone out of a cat monster's startled paws and hurled it energetically into their bag at the other end of the courtyard. " – we don't get distracted!"

If Undyne had been there to see him during the gang's last mission, she would not have been happy with him.

Three days. Even with the extra magic from monster food, he'd wasted three days recovering from an injury that had been completely avoidable, that had only happened because he'd caught sight of an attack flying towards Dream in the chaos and that single second of distraction was more than enough for a large, heavy axe to crash into his ribcage. Three stars-damned days during which he was utterly useless, a fact that Chara constantly reminded him of.

He took hits during battle, sure, but he wasn't supposed to go down like that. He wasn't supposed to be carried home by his teammates, the broken pieces of his own bones jabbing into his SOUL, agony burning through his chest with every gasping, shallow breath. He wasn't supposed to still be feeling the injury now, his ribs aching as he trudged through the dark town in Underswap, the crunch of his footsteps muffled in the snowy night.

He was supposed to be better than that. Better than the injury, better than the guilt digging its claws into his SOUL, better than a coward who was keeping his eyes on his boots instead of looking up to face what he and his teammates had done to Snowdin.

He didn't want to see the splintered wood, the shattered glass, the dark, empty windows of the houses whose owners would never return. He didn't want to think about the townsfolk who had crumbled to dust around his blade.

It was a relief when he finally reached his destination.

He didn't even have to knock before the door was thrown open, warm light spilling out onto the snow. Dream was silhouetted in the doorway, his yellow gloves tucked into his belt, his eyelights like miniature suns in the darkness. His gaze went immediately to Cross' aching ribs.

"Hey," said Cross quietly.

"Hi." Dream's voice was barely more than a whisper. He moved to the side, holding the door open. "Come in. Blue and Stretch are not here, they're still out assisting Muffet with the repairs."

Cross stepped inside, and Dream's hand slipped into his, bones slightly damp, their fingers tangling as Dream lead him to the couch. The squishy green cushions sank beneath him, collapsing into a well-established dent. The house was simple, familiar, its spacious layout and comfortable furnishings a near-constant in the multiverse. It wasn't stylish, necessarily, wasn't modern or tasteful or restrained, but it was so clearly lived in – the soapy dishes in the sink, the ashtray by the couch, the book left half-finished on the table – that Cross should have been at ease. That he should have felt at home, because it really was a home in every sense of the word.

But his home had been made out of boxy greys and minimalist whites, each object in its place, each surface spotless. It had been cold. Sterile. Empty, despite the four people who lived there. It had been perfect, the way you only ever saw in furniture catalogues and Ikea showrooms – more so, because at least Ikea showrooms attempted to look inhabited.