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They wake up with a soundless cry.
They're sitting up, the blanket pooling around their hips; their shoulders are shaking, and sweat is rapidly cooling on their nape.
The images stick behind their eyelids.
Frisk breathes shakily, in and out, till their teeth don't clatter from their shaking anymore.
A part of them wants to run into Mom's room, to curl up against her fur and weep till sleep takes them again.
But—
Frisk breathes out the last shaky breath, and wipes at their face. Their mouth tastes like dust.
They get out of bed.
The hallway is dark and cold, and Frisk pads down it as quickly as they can, while still being silent— their shirt clings uncomfortably to their skin.
The kitchen is dark, and the light from the fridge illuminates it with twisting shadows.
The water bottle is cool against their palm, and it is the most delicious drink they've ever had.
They close the fridge, and creep into the living room.
"Frisk?"
Frisk jumps, drops the bottle on the ground— it rolls forward, disappears under the coffee table.
Two small, blue light flickers into existence, and Papyrus is suddenly looking at them.
"Why are you up?"
He's sitting on the couch, legs to his chest— toes digging into the cushion beneath him.
Frisk hesitates, but only for a very brief second. <Nightmare.>
It repeats against their eyelids.
Dust between their fingers, vines ripping their chest open— a soul splintering.
Absently, Frisk wipes at their face.
"Oh."
There's a brief lull, and then Papyrus pats the place beside him.
"Me too."
Frisk toes forward, until they're standing by the couch; they sit down, curl up against Papyrus, who simply lifts his arm and drapes it over their shoulder.
"Want to talk about it?"
Blue light spills across their shirt, and Frisk watches it distantly; the way it moves like ripples, curls like flames.
They shake their head, then nods.
<I'm afraid,> they sign. <and it hurts.>
Still, they remember the feeling of dying. Of their soul cracking in two.
They close their eyes.
<I don't like dying.>
"I don't think anyone does," Papyrus says, but it's very quiet— Frisk doesn't mind.
"What are you afraid of?"
They bite their lip.
<In my dream, I did bad things.>
Dust in the wind, in their lungs— a mirror, a hand pressed to it.
It's still you.
<But it was like it wasn't me.>
Papyrus holds them closer. "Then it wasn't you."
It sounds so simple, like that.
Frisk sniffs, shakes their head.
Their hands are shaking, just a bit.
<But it was! It was me, but it wasn't—> they falter. Look down at their hands.
"Frisk."
Papyrus voice is surprisingly stern. Frisk looks up at him.
"You would never hurt anyone intentionally."
Papyrus is looking at them, and there's a comforting smile on his face— it's warm sunshine against their skin, and Frisk wipes the gathering tears away, smiling shakily.
<You really believe so?>
"I know so!" Papyrus taps one finger to their nose, and the smile on their face solidifies, till it's a real thing.
They duck their head, and gently bonks it against Papyrus' ribs.
It doesn't take too long for Frisk to calm, to think properly again— their mind gently reminds them why Papyrus is there.
Frisk tugs on Papyrus' shirt, to catch his attention.
<Do you wanna talk about your nightmare?>
The smile on Papyrus face stiffens, and the blue light in his eyes winks out. Darkness sweeps in around them.
There's nothing but strained breathing, for a while.
"No," says Papyrus, eventually, and his voice shake terribly. "I— I don't."
Frisk carefully presses closer, lays one arm across Papyrus chest— they rests their cheek against his ribs.
He's shaking.
In the darkness, their signing wouldn't be seen— so instead they just stay there, as close as possible, waiting patiently.
Papyrus breath hitches.
"I— I can't explain them. It's dark, but it's not. Something's crushing me, and there's whispering all around me. I'm cold."
He swallows, audibly.
"I'm afraid. Always, always, so afraid."
Inhales, loudly, shakily. Fingertips presses against Frisk's back.
"And when I wake up, it's like— like they're still there. In my head."
Gently, slowly, Frisk lifts their arm from its resting place, and presses their palm against the center of Papyrus' sternum.
They curl their fingers in, loosely.
Two thin blue lights appear.
Papyrus is looking down at them, and the look on his face is horrible.
Frisk wishes they could wipe it away, but they're not sure there's any words that could do that.
<I'm here,> they sign instead. <I love you.>
Papyrus laughs, lowly and a tiny bit wet. He looks away, blue shadows creeping across his cheekbones.
He shakes his head, and presses his knuckles against his face.
"Thanks."
It's a whisper. Weak and shaky, but it's enough.
Frisk closes their eyes and curls their arm around him in a loose, not quite hug.
They sit like that for a while.
Quiet and together, and Frisk feels themselves slip away, time after time, sleep creeping at the edges of their mind.
After one too many times of forcing themselves back awake, they yawn.
Papyrus startles, just a bit, and looks down at them— Frisk looks back up, smiling tiredly.
"You should be in bed," he says, slowly, like it's still working its way into his mind.
Frisk shrugs. Lifts their arm, heavy as it is, and curls it close.
<Wanna stay with you.>
Papyrus sighs, but he's smiling fondly.
"Okay."
He shifts, lifts his free arm— in a beat Frisk is scooped up, held carefully and close to Papyrus.
Frisk laughs, surprised, and clings close.
<Don't drop me!>
Papyrus laughs, quietly but not unhappily.
"I won't," he says, and gently bonks his chin against the top of Frisk' head.
It means affection, love.
Frisk curls close, and smiles.
They walk back down the hallway, and it isn't cold or dark anymore. Two blue lights shines steadily, and somehow, even though Papyrus is nothing but bones, he's warm.
They're placed gently on top of their own bed, pushed close to the wall— Papyrus flops down, careful not to flail his limbs everywhere.
Frisk giggles, and reaches down for the blanket that's been abandoned at the end of their bed.
"Now you can stay with me," Papyrus says, voice sleepy and amused. "and be in bed."
Frisk giggles again, tugging the blanket up and throwing it over both themselves and Papyrus.
The two blue lights are still there.
<Goodnight,> they sign, then: <I love you.>
The lights wink out, and even though it's dark, Frisk doesn't need the lights to see the smile on Papyrus face.
"Goodnight," he says. "and I love you too."
Frisk closes their eyes, and curls up against hard, but warm, bones.
There's no nightmares in either of their minds, this time.