Chapter Text
The sun peeks over the treeline; its burning, golden rays spearing through your bedroom window. So bright that you see the sin through your closed eyelids.
You feel its heat, opening your eyes to see the warm light take the focus from the navy blue sky. The stars are pulling back, farther and farther as the light spreads.
You’re squinting, only able to see a blinding mix of orange and yellow. Groaning, you slip deeper under the covers, but even the light reaches through the blanket.
“Bright..” Is your gargled response, muffled by the comforter, “Too… Bright.”
You roll over, twisting yourself in the blankets, keeping the warmth tightly wrapped around you. You sigh, leaning back into your pillow, now that your back faces the window.
But you can’t go back to sleep, now that you have been awoken; dozing is barely an option. This temporary comfort you’re surrounding yourself in shall end, too. You have to face the day, no matter how exhausted you are from this routine.
Besides, you have the scariest meeting of your life to attend in an hour.
You lean into your pillow, negating the reality that you are overbalancing, teetering over the edge of the mattress.
The ground meets your face with a smack, legs still up and against the bed. “Urgh.” You grunt, peeling yourself off the floor; the blankets loosen and unravel as you stumble to your feet.
Wobbling over to your closet, you string together something presentable from the remaining clean clothes you have. The rest remain in an overflowing laundry basket.
You pinch the bridge of your nose, sighing as you grab some complementary pieces of clothing, a burgundy sweater, and black slacks. You grab the matching dress shoes and set the outfit at the foot of your bed.
Dressing yourself can wait, for now.
You hobble to the bathroom, splashing the sleep away as you sloppily start your hygiene routine. Your mouth stays slack, eyes wide from cold water…
Wow, you look like a zombie.
You blink slowly, the left eye, then the right. Raising the toothbrush to your lips. You’re waking up properly, but you wish you could be in bed all day. It’s been a long time coming, and whoever is in control of your circumstances, you’ll be having words with them.
You glare at your reflection, spitting into the sink.
Back in your bedroom, you scramble to get your clothes properly on. Hopping on one leg as you desperately try to get your pants on.
Nearly faceplanting again, you’re now shrugging on a woolen coat and sliding on your shoes. Not before folding the backing in with your heel and the tongue twisting sideways.
Today just isn’t your day, and it just started too.
With a groan, you quickly plop down and fix your shoes, and you head into your small kitchenette. The sink is empty, having done the dishes last night. You sigh at the sight of something that is at least appealing to look at, but you seem to be a mess more than usual today.
You glance at the oven time, and your head droops. You don’t have enough time for cereal. You quickly put a slice of bread in a toaster and pulled out a tin of butter from the fridge.
You don’t fully turn around when it pops out; there’s a slight brown char, but it’s barely warm…
You sigh, setting some toast on a paper plate. You go to butter it, and the small piece you cut off just embeds itself on the bread, like a cold, uncomfortable splotch that’s too stubborn.
Maybe skimping out on this meeting isn’t a bad idea…
You toss the knife into the sink, and it clinks loudly. You shove the butter tin back into the fridge. It’ll have to do, and you’re running out of time.
You grab your lanyard, holding the toast in your mouth as you trot outside.
The apartment stairs are a darker color in spots not covered by the roof. The grass is dewy, and there’s that crisp, cool freshness in the air. The kind you only get in the final warmer days in the fall.
You start on your toast, biting into the unbuttered majority as you take to the sidewalk. When you do sink your teeth into the purely buttered section, you cringe, feeling it stick to your teeth and dissolve the half-toasted bread.
The thought of running back to bed is turning out ot be far more appealing the further you get from your apartment building. It’s still in view! Maybe if it’s not too late—
It is. It is too late. You need to approach the day regardless.
You groan, swiping the crumb off your face and clothes, straightening your posture as you get into the more populous part of Hometown. Monster families get their kids to school, others head into the local business, greeting each other like old friends, while you watch from afar like an outlier.
The brief excitement dies down. The gates leading to a large property are not often visited.
You push past the gates, walking beyond the gated flower beds and hedges. Looking at the house, it appears completely frozen in time.
Decorated pine trees guard the house’s entrance, and baubles of all colors hang from it. The lights strung on it have sensors that turn themselves on and off. Red ribbons hang above the window, with a sleigh that rests on the roof.
Garland wraps around the pillars in front of the porch. Above the front door, rests a grand wreath. Big enough to reach your shoulders if it’s on the ground, heavy enough to replace a chandelier that crushes a villain in those dramatic movies you’re so fond of.
The broken family of reindeer-like monsters resides here. The place radiates a deep freeze in the middle of December, yet it’s two weeks in September, and the weather is still warm. The leaves are just starting to change color.
A sight that requires so much effort to be maintained year-round. You’d be impressed if you didn’t have a pit forming in your stomach every time you got in proximity to the estate.
It’s a formidable family home, yet so hollow, because you know that family is empty.
Stepping up to the door, you feel colder than ever. Despite the warmth of the bright sun hitting your back, the shadow of the house looms over you.
Your hand shakes, finger hovering over the Christmas tree-shaped doorbell. The crisp air nipping at your exposed skin.
You sigh, vapors taking form for a brief moment before fading away.
You press the doorbell, retracting your hand and tucking it in your sleeves.
The door opens quickly, revealing the steely look and dark blue suit of the deer-like mayor. Heavens above, she’s intimidating despite her fondness for you.
“Mayor Holiday,” You greeted, bowing your head slightly, “Quite the morning we’re having.”
She hums, “Yes, it’s deceptively cold when I dropped Noelle off,” stepping to the side, her hooves clacking against the hardwood floor, her platinum blond hair swaying as she holds the door open.
“Thank you,” you step in, shivering from the gust coming from her AC above the door.
“I trust that you have designs for the festival?” She shut the door, it’s loud, and jumped, eyes straining as they’re now wide open.
“For every single business and amenity in town.” You respond, voice carrying through the open floor plan. It echoes through the rest of the (almost) empty house.
Noelle is still under her care for now, even then the girl looks miserable every single time you see her with her mother. Even if she is at school at the moment, the house isn’t as soulless as it could be.
“Have a seat.” Her arm stretches beyond you, showing off her holiday-themed furniture.
You quickly sit down, afraid that you’ll be at the end of her alleged ice magic.
“Hot cocoa?” She’s at her kitchen island, setting down an ugly sweater-patterned mug. She raises a metal kettle that had previously been resting on the bottom right burner of her stovetop.
“Tea?” You ask, sinking into the couch, afraid that your answer may irritate her. She wordlessly sets the kettle back; it clanks loudly, but not loud enough to sound mad.
“Peppermint?” She’s reaching for a cabinet out of your view, pulling out tea bags and all the additions for a holiday tea.
“Yes, that’s perfect.” You agree, hoping that it’s not strong. (Knowing her, it will)
The door opens, and you quickly whip your head around to see the behemoth of a monster step through the door. Casting a shadow with the intense morning light. It stretches on, showing on the puffy armrests.
The former police chief and husband of Toriel: Asgore Dreemurr.
You’ve heard murmurs of their divorce and the disappearance of the mayor’s kid. You haven’t been here long enough to have the full story told to you, nor do you want to be involved.
He has a son (off in college is what you heard), and an adoptive human —the only one other than you. Supposedly, he’s still trying to make things right, for the wrong reason… You don’t know anything more than that.
Again, you don’t want to be involved with either of these families, rather the remains of them.
“Good morning, Carol,” he booms, ducking under the doorway to enter the house. You flinch from the noise, your movement getting his attention. “You must be the muralist.” He walks to the armchair that’s off to your right. His causal steps sound like stomping and shaking the floorboards.
“That’s me,” You say, your voice weak. He plops down in the chair, sitting fully back like he owns the place. And Carol? She purses her lips, but refrains from saying anything. She hands you a cup of piping hot tea, sitting down in the armchair across from him. Her letting this slide causes your mouth to go agape for moments.
“As of matter of supplies,” Carol quickly shifts the focal point to herself, “Is there a specific type of paint you need?”
“No, I have my own materials, thank you for offering.” You answer, “The only thing I require is my commission and exposure.”
“Which I’ll be sending your rate after this meeting, I trust you can uphold your end of the deal?” she quips, raising a brow, her voice briefly taking a dangerous turn. What kind of question is that? You’ve done work for her in the past! It’s like she never knew you in the first place. That’s cold.
You don’t answer, not playing this interrogation game. You may be uneasy, but you won’t be talked down to.
“What’s the timeframe for the murals?” She quickly removes the silence, pressing into you further.
“Around this week,” You answer, “I’m able to complete one a day.” You glance briefly at Asgoere, who looks like he’s moments away from falling asleep on the chair. His head tilted toward the ceiling, mouth agape. Typical (divorced) dad move.
“Will the designs stay up?” She adds more pressure, “They need to stay up for an extended period of time.”
“Yes,” You answer, “These supplies are durable, good for all seasons.”
“Can they be removed?” she asks a contradictory question. “They are temporary.” Wow.
“A power washer can remove the paint,” You reassure her, your face devoid of any sense of humanity, reverting to customer service mode. (Didn’t think you’d have to pull out these skills again. *sigh*)
She relents, leaning back in her chair, crossing her legs.
Now it’s your turn for the questions, you sip the tea, holding in every single fiber in your being from cringing at the taste. It’s all peppermint. She might as well dump a bunch of those circular red and white mints and toss them in a mug of hot water. Actually, you think she did that.
“Did you review my designs?” You arch a brow, “I made those adjustments in the illustrations like you requested.” You give your best smile, setting down the mug. God, the redesigns! She has been the client of your nightmares. You redid the design for the grocery stores at least six times.
Carol opens her mouth—
Asgore lets out a nasal snark, mouth agape, taking a deep breath, and then doing it all again. Drool pooling at the corner of his muzzle.
You turn back to Carol, who’s frozen for a moment, eyes wide. She shifts in her seat, “He’s been working on a project of his own; it’s been taking a toll on him recently.”
“I see.” You purse your lips.
“He works on it when he can.” She defends him again, yet you don’t know what the project is in the first place. You don’t really want to know, but poking the bear— or in this case, the reindeer- sounds more appealing because she’s been making this difficult every step of the way.
“And what project is that?” You interlock your fingers and rest them on your knee, “I’m intrigued.”
“It’s best that you hear it from him.” You swear there’s a vein appearing on her head as she strains herself to at least seem approachable when answering this.
*SNORE*
You hum, pushing yourself off the couch, wobbling a bit, “Well, it’s best that I get everything around for these projects. I would hate to show up tomorrow unprepared.”
“An advantageous plan,” Carol rises as well, speaking in such a way that Asgore is a part of the conversation.
You start to walk toward the door, eyes trained on it and its holiday carvings within it. Your salvation, your freedom. Carol walks behind you, a subtle usher out. Her hooves clacking loudly to be directly on your heels.
The warm light peering through the windows illuminates a path for you to escape. The hallway feels like it drags on forever, yet you’re so close.
You step into it, feeling the rays projected through the glass, warming you. You close your eyes, seeing the light through your eyelids, just as you did when you awoke this morning.
Then, it grows cold.
And dark.
You press your brows together, halting your exit. Carol stops too, walking toward the window.
“Asgore!” She yells, frantically clopping over to him. You open your eyes, landing on the window. You blink a few times to confirm what you’re really seeing is real.
It’s dark outside.
Darker than dark.