Work Text:
The keycard beeped, a stark, lonely sound in the silent hallway. The door to unit 47 swung inward, revealing a darkness so thick it felt solid. You clutched the handle of your cleaning caddy, the cheerful scent of lemon polish a stark contrast to the palpable weight of despair that seeped out.
This was the job. Nightmare, your unnervingly polite employer with a perpetual chill clinging to him, had been clear. His warning had been delivered with that same sad smile, but his single teal eye had gleamed with something darker.
"He will hurt you," Nightmare had said flatly. "Not because he wants to. Because he doesn't know how not to. He's shattered, you understand? Pieces of someone who used to be good, all sharp edges now. If you value your life, you'll clean quickly and leave before he notices you. The last person who tried to help him didn't walk out."
You should have asked for more money. You should have walked out right then. He hadn't mentioned the smell. Stale ketchup, dust, blood, and something older, something metallic and cold that made your hindbrain scream predator. You flipped the light switch. Nothing. Great. You pulled out your phone, using its flashlight to navigate.
The apartment was a monument to violence and neglect. Dishes towered in the sink, some of them shattered. Empty bottles of whiskey and hot sauce formed a glass army on every surface. A red scarf laid abandoned on the floor, torn and ragged looking. Clothes, grey and worn, were piled in corners. And on the walls, long scratches in the drywall, like someone had dragged their fingers through it again and again. And in the middle of it all, on a bare mattress in the living room, was him.
Dust.
He was a skeleton, but not like the cheerful ones you saw in cartoons. His bones were the color of old parchment, spiderwebbed with cracks that seemed to go deeper than the surface. He wore a worn blue hoodie, the hood pulled up, casting his face in shadow. But you could see his eye lights. Red. Both of them burning a deep, smoldering crimson with that rim of blue around the left eye. He was perfectly still, and for a terrifying second, you thought Nightmare had hired you to clean a crime scene. Then, a faint, rattling breath.
You moved like a ghost, tiptoeing past him to the kitchen. Your hands shook as you started with the dishes, the rhythmic scrubbing a small comfort, a mantra of
don't notice me don't notice me don't notice me.
You worked for hours, your phone flashlight propped against a bottle of Texas Pete. You wiped down counters, bagged trash, gathered the empty condiment bottles. You avoided touching the scarf. You were reaching for a broken plate under the sink when you felt it. A prickle at the back of your neck, primal and screaming. You froze, then slowly straightened up. He was standing in the kitchen doorway.
He was taller than you'd imagined, his frame lean but solid. The shadows in his skull seemed deeper in the gloom. His eyes burned at you, flat and fixed on you with an intensity that made your soul want to flee your body.
"Nightmare sent me…" you whispered, your voice a dry rasp. "To clean. I-I'll be quiet. I'll—"
"You're touching things," his voice was gravel and broken glass. It scraped against your ears.
"Just cleaning," you said quickly. "I can go. I'll come back later. Whenever you want."
He took a step forward. You took a step back.
"Don't touch my things."
"I won't. I'm sorry. I'll—"
Your back hit the counter. He was in front of you now, close enough that you could feel the cold radiating from his bones. His eyes bore into yours, unblinking, unfeeling.
Your hand, stupidly, desperately, reached out. Not to hurt him. Not even to touch him. Just to... what? Comfort? Placate? You didn't know. But your fingers brushed against the sleeve of his hoodie.
The world exploded into pain.
His hand closed around your wrist with strength that shouldn't exist in something that looked so fragile. Bone pressed against bone. You heard the crack before you felt it, a sharp, sickening sound that echoed in the small kitchen. Then the pain came, white-hot and blinding, radiating up your arm.
You screamed.
He didn't. He just stared at the place where he held you, at your wrist bent at the wrong angle, at your face contorted in agony. His expression didn't change. No guilt. No horror. Just the same flat emptiness that had been there since you arrived.
He released you. You stumbled back, cradling your arm, sobs tearing from your throat. He watched you cry for a long moment. Then he turned and walked back to his mattress, sinking down onto it like nothing had happened. You should have run. Every instinct screamed at you to run. You looked at him there, already forgotten by him, already dismissed, and something kept you rooted. Not compassion. Not hope. Something else you couldn't name.
You left. But you came back the next day.
---
Your wrist was in a brace, purple and swollen. The doctor had asked questions. You'd lied.
The door to unit 47 was unlocked. You pushed it open with your good hand, your cleaning caddy balanced precariously. He was on the mattress. He didn't move when you entered. Didn't acknowledge you at all. His eyes were closed, the red hidden.
You started in the kitchen again, working one-handed, slow and awkward. You didn't touch anything personal. You just cleaned. Hours passed. He never moved. But when you finally gathered your things to leave, you heard his voice from the darkness.
"Why?"
You paused at the door. "Why what?"
A long silence. Then, so quiet you almost missed it: "Why come back?"
You didn't have an answer. Not one that made sense. So, you just said, "See you tomorrow," and left.
---
You came back the next day. And the next. And the next.
He watched you now. Always watching. His eyes followed you around the apartment, that terrible red burning in the darkness. Sometimes you'd catch him staring at your wrist, still in the brace, and his expression would flicker with something. Not guilt. Curiosity, maybe. Interest.
You learned his patterns. What made him tense. What made him retreat further into himself. You learned not to touch anything that looked personal. You learned to announce yourself when you entered a room, to never approach him from behind. You talked to him. A soft, one-sided conversation as you worked.
"Found another bottle under the couch. You really like this stuff, huh?"
Silence. Then, from the corner where he sat watching: "Gotta feel somethin'."
Your heart stuttered. It was the first time he'd spoken since breaking your wrist. You didn't turn around, just kept scrubbing the counter.
"Well, this ghost pepper sauce will definitely make you feel something. It'll make you feel regret."
A beat of silence. Then the quietest sound you'd ever heard. A single, soft chuckle. It was so unexpected, so strangely human. You risked a glance over his shoulder. His eyes were on you, and for once, they seemed warmer. Interested.
---
Weeks passed. The brace came off. Your wrist would never be quite the same, but you didn't care. He started staying in the same room as you. He'd sit at the now-clean kitchen table while you scrubbed, just watching. Sometimes he'd talk—short sentences, rough and low.
"Your hair's different today."
"You work too hard."
"That stain's not coming out."
You'd smile, and he'd watch your mouth curve, his gaze lingering.
The tension was still there, but it was changing. It was no longer the threat of violence—though you knew that threat would never fully leave. It was something else. Something that made your stomach flutter when he looked at you too long. Something that made you wear your hair down instead of pulled back, made you take slightly longer in his apartment than necessary.
One afternoon, you were struggling to reach a high shelf in his closet, trying to organize the few things he owned. You were on your tiptoes, your shirt riding up, when you felt a presence directly behind you. So close you could feel the faint, cool aura of his magical being.
"Here," his voice was different. Lower. Rougher. A bony hand reached past you, his arm brushing against your side, and effortlessly pulled down a heavy box. He set it on the floor.
You turned. He was right there. Inches away. In the dim light, his eyes burned into yours. Dark and hungry. You should’ve been afraid. Your wrist ached with a phantom pain. He'd never apologized. Never acknowledged what he'd done. But you weren't afraid. You were something else entirely.
"Thanks," you breathed.
He didn't move. He just looked at you, his gaze tracing the line of your jaw, the curve of your lips. You felt it like a physical touch. Want. Need. Hunger. His hand lifted. His phalanges hovered an inch from your cheek, not touching, just feeling the warmth that radiated from your skin. His whole body was tense, coiled.
Your own hand lifted, mirroring his. You let your fingers hover just over his cheekbone. The air between you crackled.
"I'm not scared of you," you whispered. Something in his eyes flared. The red deepened, darkened, but not with anger. With desire.
His hand closed the distance, his cool phalanges gripping your jaw. Not gently. Firmly. Possessively. He turned your face side to side, examining you like you were something he'd decided to keep.
"You shouldn't have come back," he murmured, but there was no warning in his voice. Just observation.
"I did anyway."
"Yes." His thumb traced your lower lip. "You did."
He leaned closer, his forehead resting against yours. His breath, if skeletons breathed, ghosted across your face.
"I broke you," he said flatly. "And you came back."
"I know."
He tilted his head, studying your reaction. "Doesn't bother you?"
You thought about it. The pain. The crack of bone. The way he'd watched you cry with empty eyes.
"It should… But it doesn't."
Something shifted in his gaze. Approval, maybe. Or satisfaction. He pulled you closer, his grip on your jaw loosening just slightly, his other arm snaking around your waist.
"You're interesting," he said, like it was a verdict. "Most people don't come back."
"Most people aren't me."
"No." His teeth grazed your cheekbone, not quite a kiss, not quite a bite. "They're not."
Your breath caught. Every nerve ending was on fire. This was wrong. He'd hurt you. He could hurt you again. He was a creature of broken things, of violence and emptiness. But in this moment, he wanted you. And some dark part of you wanted to be wanted, even like this.
His mouth found yours—or tried to. Skeletons didn't kiss the same way humans did, but he pressed his teeth against your lips, hard enough to feel, not hard enough to break skin. It was possessive. Claiming. When he pulled back, his eyes were brighter than you'd ever seen them. The red burned hotter.
"I want you," he said simply. No hesitation. "Not to feel something. Not because you're here. I want you. And I'm going to have you."
Your heart hammered against your ribs. "Just like that?"
"Just like that." He pulled you closer, his body cool against yours. "You kept coming back. You knew what I was. You knew what I did. And you kept coming back." His teeth grazed your ear. "That means something."
"What does it mean?"
He didn't answer with words. His hand slid under your shirt, cool phalanges spreading across the warm skin of your back. You shivered.
"It means you're mine," he said finally. "It means you chose this. Chose me. And I don't let go of things I keep."
The tension was still there, thick and heavy. The threat of violence would never fully leave—you both knew that. He'd hurt you again. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But someday. And he wouldn't regret it. But in the dusty silence of his apartment, in the arms of something that had broken you and would break you again, you found you didn't care.
You pulled him closer and let the darkness take you both.