[They're only here to ensure all of their goods are still accounted for. That was the excuse they'd given to Sans; a skeleton who's stubbornly refused to allow them to go back alone. Not for long. Not overnight. The look he'd given them as they'd insisted on doing this had warned to not take their time- if they didn't come back on their own, he'd come find them.
They still have his jacket in their hammock. It doesn't really smell like detergent, anymore. Doesn't smell like they'd washed it copious times, to get the bloodstains out.
It smells like dirt and flowers.
Their copy of Kitchen is tucked under the bundles of clothes and blankets. Not Chara's. Theirs.
Chara has no idea how long they sit there on their own, book in their lap. Staring blankly at nothing, until there's a scratching sound, at the door. The snuffling of a dog, poking their nose into the gap at the bottom of the door. Their snout is white.
...They stumble to their feet evently. Unlatch the look, let it open a cratch. Falter. It's her, of course. And she may not know who Frisk is, anymore, or them, but she holds a familiarity that's too strong, right now. A castle in the mist. A warm bed, their Partner beside them. Hands clasped together, even in sleep.
And a dog at the end of the bed, watching over them. There were nights when her presence used to make them feel like they could go to sleep too.
They miss everything. They miss Sans. They miss Wade. They miss Rin. They miss her, lounging about in the sun, tongue lolling out of her mouth whenever she did something cheeky. They miss Asriel's hand as they helped him climb to the top of the tree-house, and the smile on their Partner's face.
They never should have agreed to this. When they finally let the door swing open the entire way, there's-- nothing. There's nothing they can do.
They've lost everything. And then, despite everything, they lost even more. The child tries to speak. Nothing happens. They try again to speak. Nothing happens.
There's no words. Just heat spilling over their cheeks as they drop to their knees, raise their hands to brush at white cheeks, gently scratch at her ears. Pretend that the sound that escapes them isn't- nobody likes a crybaby.
And when they eventually manage to speak, Chara doesn't say-- anything. They don't say anything, about the grief that's making itself far too easily seen.]
I was writing a tag bomb but I had to post this immediately.
They still have his jacket in their hammock. It doesn't really smell like detergent, anymore. Doesn't smell like they'd washed it copious times, to get the bloodstains out.
It smells like dirt and flowers.
Their copy of Kitchen is tucked under the bundles of clothes and blankets. Not Chara's. Theirs.
Chara has no idea how long they sit there on their own, book in their lap. Staring blankly at nothing, until there's a scratching sound, at the door. The snuffling of a dog, poking their nose into the gap at the bottom of the door. Their snout is white.
...They stumble to their feet evently. Unlatch the look, let it open a cratch. Falter. It's her, of course. And she may not know who Frisk is, anymore, or them, but she holds a familiarity that's too strong, right now. A castle in the mist. A warm bed, their Partner beside them. Hands clasped together, even in sleep.
And a dog at the end of the bed, watching over them. There were nights when her presence used to make them feel like they could go to sleep too.
They miss everything. They miss Sans. They miss Wade. They miss Rin. They miss her, lounging about in the sun, tongue lolling out of her mouth whenever she did something cheeky. They miss Asriel's hand as they helped him climb to the top of the tree-house, and the smile on their Partner's face.
They never should have agreed to this. When they finally let the door swing open the entire way, there's-- nothing. There's nothing they can do.
They've lost everything. And then, despite everything, they lost even more. The child tries to speak. Nothing happens. They try again to speak. Nothing happens.
There's no words. Just heat spilling over their cheeks as they drop to their knees, raise their hands to brush at white cheeks, gently scratch at her ears. Pretend that the sound that escapes them isn't- nobody likes a crybaby.
And when they eventually manage to speak, Chara doesn't say-- anything. They don't say anything, about the grief that's making itself far too easily seen.]
Good girl. You're a good girl...
[Is all they manage, instead.]