A/N: This isn't proofread and I shit it out in like an hour. Read at your own risk. WARNING: This is in no way healthy or happy.

The murderer was there, right there, in front of him. Red eyes alight with joy, passion and he thinks it's sick and sad how much pleasure they'll get once he finally, finally dies. (He has the decency to acknowledge that it's sick and sad how much he's looking forward to his inevitable death.)

And then they're sprinting at him, knife gleaming in beautiful golden light, and he's smirking like this is the greatest thing he's ever done. The bones, razor sharp, are easy to conjure and even easier to shoot towards them. They hurtle through the air, creating a rather pleasant whistling noise, before the smash harmlessly into the tiled floor.

He felt rather foggy, which while not unusual prevented him from being able to tell when they would die this time or even if it would end in their favor. He supposed it didn't matter anyway, it wasn't like this would ever end, no matter who won.

Another useless lunge he easily sidestepped, and this time he called his Gaster Blasters just for the heck of it. Or maybe it was just predetermined, like everything else in this sick world of time-fuckery. He cared, but at the same time he didn't, and it was this sick blend of apathy and anxiety that was always his downfall.

He knew this of course, knew the cause of his many and extravagant failings, but the apathy was stronger than him.

And the dance continued. One of his bones hit their arm, and they sneered down at it as though it had personally offended them. The blade was easily switched to their right hand, and somehow that was significant to him.

But now wasn't the time for pondering, they were sprinting at him, left arm trailing uselessly behind them. He had the strangest feeling they would cut it off eventually.

He dodged, sent more attacks their way. They spun gracefully as his bones flew through the air, but at the last second they swung out their left arm as though grasping for something holy and far away.

And his last bone ripped it off.

He gasped, and stilled. Of course, why would they cut it off when he could just do it for them?

But they're sprinting and sprinting, and they obviously don't expect it when he sidesteps this attack. He almost laughs, and has the (in)decency to murmur in their ear, "You're looking a bit disarmed there."

To his surprise they laugh, but it's more of a shriek than a laugh really, and he's almost entirely sure any form of joy this murderer shows would be brutally twisted. But its his turn, and he goes easy on them, something he can see they resent in the twitch of their eyebrows. They lunge at him, bloodthirsty, snarling, and he thinks they are more of a dog than greater dog or L.D. ever were.

More of a monster than any of them really.

Again, he sidesteps; this time his attack comes fast. Losing their arms seems to have been a bad move, as the weight lost off balances them and they stumble just in time for three bones to jam into their thigh in rapid succession. Blood starts pouring almost immediately, and when they look into his eyes they look happy, or insane, and he wonders vaguely if it's the same thing.

They start shoving dry ramen in their mouth voraciously, and for some reason that drives him over the edge into borderline maniacal laughter. Hell, who was he kidding, it was maniacal to the core, maybe even closer to crying than laughing.

But then he can feel them, right up on him, touching him, and how did they get so fucking close? He doesn't even have to think about the bones before they're being thrust through flesh, and he waits for the sharp sting of the blade, content in the notion that this would be a draw.

But it never comes, and he wakes up to screaming.

Which is wrong.

Chara never screams.

And when he looks over and sees Frisk pinned down to their shared bed, blood trailing from multiple holes his razor sharp bones had stabbed into them, the bottom of the world falls out.

The crack he knows so well is slowly trailing down their glowing heart, and he takes a second to admire the purity of their soul. Everything is entirely too important and not real enough, and they've stopped screaming and the silence is deafening.

He hears them take deep breaths, whimper, another deep breath. He knows this, knows their deep breaths, and he can't believe that for maybe the millionth time he's killed Frisk. But they turn and smile at him and he starts crying right then and there.

"I'm so sorry oh god so sorry sosorry please so sorry sosososorry PLEASE DON'T LEAVE-" His words don't make any sense, or maybe they do because they seem to understand.

He was sure that without the sharp bones still protruding from their arms (Why won't they go away?!) they would be touching him, comforting him, and he wants to cry and scream because he literally killed them and he doesn't deserve any sympathy or love or anything.

But they're smiling, so softly, so sweetly, and he would kiss them if he wasn't sure it would hurt them bad.

"Love you." They gurgle it out, a liberal waterfall of blood accompanying the sweet, sweet words. He's sobbing and crying and he can't understand how people as good as Frisk exist, because he just KILLED THEM. He lays his boney hand as gently as he can on theirs, and even though he's sure it hurts they don't flinch away. "S-soon-" They manage to stutter it out right as their soul cracks right in half, and then the pieces crumble to dust and it floats to wherever it goes in the inbetween time.

It's the 'soon' that gets him through the world crumbling, floating away just like their soul. Its the 'soon' that gets him through the feeling of being torn apart and put back together, excruciating in the way it shows him that death is possible, just not for him.

'Soon' almost comes too soon, because then he has to face them, shame smeared across his skull and bones just like their blood once was. The second the world rights itself, he's being held and squeezed and they're whispering into his ear, and it would've taken a very very strong man to not break down. That's what he tells himself amidst all the sobbing and reassuring murmurs from them. They have a habit of saving in the bedroom, just for this exact purpose, and he's never been more thankful.

"How can you not hate me?" He whimpers out, still huddled in the shelter of their arms; his worst fear is the insidious whisper of 'I do hate you' he's heard in his nightmares far too much.

"How can you not hate me?" It's not the answer he wants, but Frisk can't be perfect all the time, so he nuzzles into their chest.

"I love you." He says it softly, quietly, as though that would help if they didn't feel the same.

"Exactly." They assert, but it only fills him with relief after they continue, "I love you."

He starts crying again, and they smooth their hands over his skull and caress his spine and he wonders what he ever did to deserve this. "You know you're not the only one who's done things they regret?" He whimpers and sighs and remembers all the times a knife slid through his ribs, severed his spinal column, drive into his eyesocket.

"Wasn't you." he whispers out, and a tremor runs through them.

"Wasn't it though?" He's silent, because this is an old argument that doesn't need to be revisited tonight.

"You're amazing and I love you." They finally whisper against his skull, after he's calmed down a bit. "Would you like some tea?" They ask, and they just take care of him so well he can barely stand it, but he nods his head yes anyway.

He's not really that surprised when they lift him easily, after all he doesn't even qualify as skin and bones. They wrap him in a blanket and he huddles against them until he is gently deposited on a kitchen chair.

They grab a mug with their right hand, and then a kettle with the same one, and something inside him clicks.

"You're right handed?" They nod as an answer, turning on the stove. "And Chara... wasn't." He says, and they still and turn towards him.

He thinks he should stop thinking about it.