Chapter Text
Dream was slumped against the wall, not wanting to move, not sure that he could move even if he wanted to. There wasn’t an inch of his body that didn’t hurt. Was it even his body anymore? His mind wandered between memories that he knew were his and simplistic thoughts about the smell of clover and then memories and thoughts he couldn’t place the origin of. If his mind was so fractured, so far from what it had once been, then who was to say his body belonged to him.
The lava began to lower and Dream’s chest tightened.
It would be Quackity, he knew. Sam had come to give him the jumpsuit and then Bad had come, offering him food even though all Dream could do was stare, unsure if it was some sort of trick.
Quackity’s silhouette was the only thing visible against the backdrop of the lava. The main cell was painfully bright and he had never adjusted to it completely; anytime he closed his eyes, he could see swimming orange dots against his eyelids. He closed his eyes now. He could hear the scrapping of wood over stone.
“You look like shit, Dream,” said Quackity, voice dripping with fake concern. “You should do something about that.”
Dream gave a shaky sigh, eyes still closed. It was bait, meant to rile him up or needle at him, but he was too tired to react and the only feeling it invoked was a sad sense of longing; once his friends had teased him and a few days ago, it had been Techno doing so. He missed that.
The sound of Quackity approaching made Dream press himself against the wall as much as he could, finally opening his eyes. From his position on the ground, it seemed as if Quackity towered over him.
“Do you like my new lucky charm?” he asked, gesturing to his belt.
At first Dream wasn’t sure what he was looking at. Something small and light brown hung from Quackity’s belt and when Dream realized it was his own foot, his head swam, vision going fuzzy. He could tell himself later that he didn’t faint, that he was exhausted and beaten.
“Aw, c’mon, Dream,” said Quackity as he stepped forward, crouching down and slapped Dream’s face roughly. “I thought you’d be honored I decided to hang your nasty foot on my belt.”
There was blood in his mouth and Dream looked up at Quackity. He had heard the words but found he couldn’t process them fully, his brain latching onto the one thing that stood out to him.
“It’s—It’s going to rot,” he said.
For a brief moment there was only confusion on Quackity’s face and Dream couldn’t stop the pained huff of laughter that escaped him. Then the confusion turned to anger and Quackity slammed his head against the wall and grabbed Dream by the arm, dragging him forward. Any amusement Dream had felt vanished immediately. He was off balance and had assumed Quackity would shove him into the chair like usual but instead he dragged him around to the back, forcing him to bend over it. Panic welled inside of Dream’s chest but he was in no shape to fight and there was no where to run. He didn’t resist as Quackity pulled his arms over the back of chair and strapping his wrists down to the arms as usual. The position was painfully awkward; his remaining foot barely touched the ground and the thin wooden back of the chair crushed against his chest.
He wanted to ask what Quackity was going to do. He didn’t want the answer.
Dream waited, the silence making his head pound.
Then it was broken by the familiar sound of the cracking whip. The sharp, hot pain took a moment to sink in and Dream shuddered, a strange mix of relief and terror, knowing it wouldn’t be merely one lash or two or even a dozen. But it was a familiar punishment, one he could endure, and Dream was thankful for that.
“You’re really making this worse than it has to be, Dream.”
Blood dripped down Dream’s back, pooling on the floor.
He had given up on trying to stand, now letting his weight rest on the back of the chair, the wood digging into his ribs as he trembled. His hands had gone numb and his vision was blurry around the edges. It was hard to breathe.
That might have been because Quackity was slowly blowing smoke into his face as he lounged in the chair. One of his legs was thrown of the arm of the chair, crushing Dream’s arm beneath it. He held his cigarette in one hand and the lighter in the other, flicking it on and off.
“This all would stop if you just told me what I want to know, if you just gave me the book,” he said, waving the lit lighter close to Dream’s face. His whiskers began to singe as the flames got closer, causing his eyes to water. Quackity laughed. When he smiled, the gold tooth looked like a fang. “Don’t you want this to stop? Do you think I like coming in here, every day?”
Dream looked at him.
It was a funny thing to say. Months had passed with Quackity coming each day to torture him. If it had really been about the revive book, he would have realized it was useless, that Dream wouldn’t give the book up. If it had really been about the book, there wouldn’t be that grim look of pleasure in Quackity’s eyes.
“You—You like it. You like torturing me,” he stuttered out, voice rising in anger.
The reaction was immediate. Quackity shifted in the chair, dropping the lighter and grabbing Dream’s face. His finger nails dug into his cheeks.
“You know what, Dream? Maybe I do. Maybe I like it, giving you a fraction of what you deserve for everything you’ve fucking done,” said Quackity, digging his fingers in even harder, pushing his head up awkwardly.
There was no response Dream could give to that; he already knew, had known for a very long time, if he was honest but there was a sort of grim satisfaction in hearing Quackity admit it. His lips were cracked with drying blood but the smile twitched across his face. It was all he could do.