HAZE

MOTHER

Wingdings had no idea of his brother's capture, nor of Sans's passing. He remained unaware of the first human's presence in the Void, of the Doctor and its plans, of his friends locked away somewhere in his depths.

Alone, he stayed oblivious, and alone, he didn't seem to mind.

Ping!

He stopped, grabbing hold of the last of Papyrus's soul, the final piece melting into his hands. After so much wandering, it was nice to finally put an end to the whole thing—unscathed, at that.

"Finally..." Dings sighed, looking around. He'd walked all the way back to the outskirts of the RUINS, led there by the remnants of the skeleton's soul. Having trekked through flickering bits and pieces of Waterfall and Snowdin, he reached the forgotten, lonely town made up of stowaways and misfits, lost as to what to do next.

...But only for a moment, given what house he stood in front of.

This is...

He limped forward, fumbling with his hands, eyes searching the static, empty windows, the slanted roof, the cracked door with a broken hinge. The porch light glowed an ominous white, shining down on him from the bottom step.

He didn't move. He couldn't, too caught up in his shock.

I haven't been here in years... His fingers shaking, palms sweaty, he grabbed onto the railing, pulling himself up. He paused now and then, mindful of his injured leg, making a slow climb up the steps.

I wonder how Papyrus had memories of this place?

"Hm...mm, mm...mmm...hmm..."

Humming sounded from behind the door, a soft, repetitive song that Dings could never really forget, the sound making him stop at the top of the stairs. He hesitated, gripping the front of his shirt, frowning to himself.

"...Aster?" He called, stepping closer to the windows, peering in. Nothing but static. "Aster, are you there?"

No response, besides the ever-present humming.

He waited, hands pressed against the glass, before he sighed, stepping back. He leveled his expression, his face slipping into a mask of indifference despite his growing unease. Just relax, he told himself. It'll be fine. It's fine. Why wouldn't it be?

Steadying his breath, he walked up to the door, and, for the first time in decades, entered his childhood home.

What greeted him stopped him in his tracks.

"...Hey, sit still! I'm not done."

"Why don't you tell Aster to sit still? You're fixing him up, too, but you're not making him sit down!"

Wingdings stared, wide-eyed, at his mother, sitting on a beaten-up, old couch brought in from Waterfall. A younger version of him sat at her feet, fussing as she smooths a bandage on the back of his head, a fresh gash present—no doubt from another fight with his brother. Aster runs around them both, illuminated in purple magic, squealing from the top of his lungs.

His mother sighed, shaking her head. She smiled, though, patting his head as she told him, "Wingdings, please. Do as your mother says."

"But it's not fair!" Young Wingdings snapped, gesturing to the other twin, who paused briefly to see what all the fuss was about. "You always treat him like he's better than me! Like...like he's special." He crossed his arms. "He can sit just as much as I can."

"But I don't want to sit down!" Aster whined.

"Well, neither do I!"

"Boys."