To Kill A Killer

Chapter 15: Old Habits

The meat was slick against Horror's hands as his sharp phalanges pierced the puckered skin and slipped beneath, membrane snapping easily at the slight pressure of his touch. His fingers slid over dead veins and cold muscle as they carefully explored the butchered corpse, its dark, wet interior clinging to his bones. Its aroma was subtle, the lingering traces of something fleshy and alive, a hinted promise of sustenance that told him to tear it apart, to rip into it with his teeth, to cram every precious, raw, dripping chunk into his mouth before he no longer could.

But there was a fridge full of food behind him and no problems when it came to getting more, so he merely scooped up a chunk of garlic butter and began to spread it beneath the chicken's skin.

It had taken a while to get used to the abundance of food. When he'd first entered Nightmare's service, he hadn't even thought to break his habitual starvation, letting the tenuous thread of magic from his lost eye, torn out and abandoned somewhere in the ruins of the Core back in his universe, keep him alive. But then he had made that first delivery of food to his brother, and he'd put a hand on Papyrus' arm to stop him from stashing it all away without touching a single morsel. "Eat." His own voice had reached his ears as if from a distance, his words as much of a revelation to him as they were to Papyrus. "There's more back at the castle."

There was more back at the castle, and as long as he kept working for Nightmare, there always would be.

He licked the leftover garlic butter from his hands before washing them thoroughly and starting on the stuffing.

That night, he'd had his first meal since the Core had been destroyed. He'd refused to leave a single crumb, forcing down the last bite over his body's nauseous protests, only to vomit it all back up in chunks of watery, blood-red magic. It had been a shock to realise that, despite the gaping, ravenous hole in his stomach, he could barely finish a single sandwich. But it didn't last long, and soon he was consuming enough for all his teammates combined.

As long as he'd taken to start eating again, it had taken him longer to actually feel full, near-constantly stuffing his starved, shrunken SOUL with all the food he'd denied himself over the years and more besides. Even now, there were times where he couldn't get enough, where he ate everything he could get his hands on and his teammates started smelling like ingredients for stock, but things were a million times better than they had been back at home. Besides, the people he cared about had a reliable source of food, and that was worth every damn bit of negativity he'd caused in Nightmare's name.

He had food and security now, but he also had more people to look after. Things like chore assignments and general maintenance had gone out the window after Killer's death, and despite Cross helping out where he could, most of the work had fallen to Horror. He was the one cooking and cleaning, the one who made sure the clothes were washed and the fridge was stocked and the sinks weren't growing mould. He was the one who took care of Dust when he wouldn't leave his room. There was always something that needed doing.

He hadn't had a break in...

He couldn't remember. The last time he'd been to see Papyrus? Was that it? Stars, how long had it been since he'd had a good nap, or watched a movie, or gone out into the courtyard to look after his garden? He wasn't sure. He couldn't find the times or dates that went with his memories.

He shook his head and, pinning the chicken's skin shut over the cavity, slid it into the oven. It didn't matter. Nobody else was going to keep this place running – Dust was barely bothering to keep himself alive, and Cross had been... weird, lately. Breaks could wait until things had settled down.

He'd just put the potatoes on the stove when the door behind him swung open on near-silent hinges. The castle's sickly sweet air crept into the kitchen, preceding the sharp, bitter tang of dust and metal. Footsteps sounded against the tiles, a confident swagger in old canvas sneakers, and a chair scraped. Horror knew that, if he turned, he'd find his teammate climbing up to sit on the counter.