I heard you like suffering (for dustless)

[boogerman]

The ordeal had started suddenly one night (as if it wasn't always 'night' for Pitch), while he was somewhere in Europe, amusing himself pacing around in an older home to make the floor creak while their children try to get to sleep. Funny how simple things like that--which should be dead boring by now--still make him feel good.

But the little game ends when he senses something odd about his network of shadows, his means of travel all over the world. Something cold and icky and bright that doesn't belong. He enters them, curious and wary, and--

He ends up being pulled, yanked along a path he didn't mean to take, full of panic.

From then on, it's a blur of madness, screaming, light and terror. He loses all sense of time. He starts to lose his Fearlings too, those old friends he didn't even know were there, poor lovely things. He's not alone, people are there, studying him. Scientists. Experiments. The scientific study of magic. He tries to hold on to the memories, but he's in too much pain most of the time. He's also blind as a bat while trapped in the light, with magical wards up that he doesn't have the strength to fight past without killing even more of his Fearlings... until there are only a few dozen left and he knows it's now or never.

He bursts out, more pieces of himself exhausting themselves and dying for their master, and flees to the nearest place that he knows is safe. His underground home is across the ocean, too far away. Frisk and Toriel's home is closer. They'll let him recover, won't they? That big plush couch in their living room has room for a Boogeyman.

Comments

[dustless]

"No doubt. Frisk would not have stayed if they had suspected differently." To her grief, she knows they have nightmares on their own, Though they never speak of them.

Frisk is only a few minutes, though there's a small puddle on the counter now that they'll need to clean up later, hands a bit unsteady from nerves.

The speed into the room as fast as they can without spilling more. "Here." They hold it out to him.

[boogerman]

His hands are shaking, and it's difficult to drink lying on your side. He knows he must be making a terrible mess, but better a bit of spilled tea than blood. Pathetic, to not be able to control himself in this way. He manages a few sips.

"Shouldn't have come here." That was meant to be a thought, oops. It slipped out.

[dustless]

Frisk's hand shoots out to keep it from spilling too much.

"...think 's good you did."



"You yourself said you could not make it home."

[boogerman]

Better to die there than here, like a cat, crawling off to be alone. Instinct. These thoughts he keeps to himself, luckily.

"Could you send me there?" Somehow. They seem to have quite a lot of magical solutions to everything.

[dustless]

Frisk silently climbs back up onto the arm of the couch and gets to petting again.



"None that I know of, I fear. Is there something there that you think may help?" She could try to find a solution if she had an idea.

[boogerman]

"No." It's only that it's comfortable. His domain, his home. "Nice to be there, I mean."

He sets the teacup down, finished. And the petting seems to be making him relaxed. Who would have thought Pitch's hair would be anything but wirey?

[dustless]

"I am sorry. I hope the couch itself is not too uncomfortable for you."

Still stroking his hair, Frisk leans forward to study his face. The tea should've helped.

[boogerman]

"Your couch is fine." he says. Because the tea was only a drop in the bucket, he feels so weak. Like he may just fall apart, numb, cold, and a little delirious. He doesn't look any better. There's still blackness on his tongue when he licks his lips. "How long until night?"

[dustless]

Frisk is so unsettled by this. Fear and their own little bit of numbness aren't helping their voice.



"...quite some time." It is still only morning. "I will make sure all the curtains stay closed." And Frisk's already shut the off the lights.

[boogerman]

Come to think of it, he can't feel his feet anymore. That's worrisome.

"Yes. No more light." Please please no. Even the floor where he was kept had lights embedded into it. "Think frightening thoughts."

[dustless]

Toriel does not enjoy this. But she tries.

She thinks of being herded underground, a thousand years ago, the terror that losing the battles were.

(She could think of worse, and she knows this. But some wounds are too fresh.)

Frisk thinks of their nightmares, of their first falling, of Pitch's reaction to their death and their first reload in front of him.

...their hand lowers, so they're stroking his forehead, too. It makes them feel better when mom or Asgore does that when they're feeling sick.

[boogerman]

Ah, if only there were more than two people in the room... he longs for a good campout, ghost stories around the campfire, nostalgia taking hold of him for a few moments as some energy comes to him. A few more drops into the leaky bucket.

"Better. ...Thank you."

[dustless]

"Welcome."



Toriel's hand settles on his chest one more time.

"Would you like me to try healing you?"

[boogerman]

"Yes, I..." He. Something. He can't quite come up with an excuse for his 'yes'. What use is pretending not to be weak at this moment? "Anything."

[dustless]

He is suffering. What excuse should there be?



Toriel is an adept healer; the color green suffuses her hand as his SOUL appears.

It looks unsettling to her, the blackness laced through. She channels the healing magic through anyway.

It looks even more unsettling to Frisk. They still remember when they saw it way back then, and there was more darkness there. What did it mean that he was losing it?

[boogerman]

Oh, oh, that's no good. Worry's written all over his face when he sees his SOUL, more humanlike and less gripped by dark. What to do when your essence, your life seems to be leaking out your mouth?

Toriel can't put it back. It's gone. He shudders, staring at that heart...

[dustless]

That worry spurs her to up the ante.



"Tell me if you feel anything at all." He should be feeling at least somewhat better. Should.

[boogerman]

"A little. There should be more shadow." What in the hell did those captors do to him? Is it going to grow back? He's not seen his SOUL over all his millennia, maybe it does ebb and flow.

But he's not healing via nightmares and their worry. How screwed is he?

[dustless]

What is there to say to that?



Toriel keeps it up until she is feeling somewhat tired herself. She will need to conserve her energy; this will not be the only healing session for the day, far from it.

Pitch's SOUL fades back into himself. The living room descends into tense silence.

[boogerman]

How... comforting, to know that she's actually trying. She wants to help him. That's rare, in these last few centuries.

He doesn't know what to say, lying there trying to swallow the dregs, his own blood, whatever it is. Soon he tries to wipe his own hand off on his robe, then reaches out a bit shakily to pet Frisk's hair... more for his own comfort. Soft human contact.

[dustless]

Frisk breaks the silence with their stomach, unexpectedly enough they and Toriel both flinch.

"...ah."



Toriel musters up a small smile. "I apologize, my child. I forgot get your breakfast."

Gently, she mimics Frisk and Pitch himself, sliding her furry fingers through his hair just once.

"I will return in just a few minutes. Frisk, call for me if anything changes." Pitch likely cannot do it, his body and voice so weak.

[boogerman]

So nice. He'd been wrong not to trust them all this time, hadn't he? He's worried... but not panicking. It seems fear is losing its grip on him, finally.

"Breakfast. And then school?" Could he scratch up the energy to flee yet? ...No, he decides. Still a nope.

[dustless]

"...we can afford to miss one day. Or a few, if we must."

Toriel will work quickly, something simple, like toast and jam.

In that time, Frisk makes a decision.

There's lots of room on that couch. They must be incredibly careful clambering around, to avoid making him move, but they're fairly sure they succeed.

In the end, they're curled up by his side. He can get their hair better without having to reach up, and...and maybe they'll even fall asleep again.

[boogerman]

Surely they won't fall asleep before Toriel makes it back with something. He wishes he could sleep at all, let alone as easily as a child... it can't hurt to try, right now. Eyes closed, he finds their soft clean hair again, and strokes.

No sleep seems to be coming, not that he's sure he'd know the feeling anyway...

[dustless]

Toriel will be another few minutes. She must call in to school for herself as well as for Frisk. A family emergency, she says.

Frisk hopes the stroking helps him. It isn't helping them. They are afraid for him, and they are angry. At the humans who did this and at themselves. They can't think of anything more to do that would help, and they don't even have a SAVE to go back to, not far back enough, just two days. He must have been trapped for longer than that.