Summary: Geno just wants a hug.
Reaper stood in front of a near-empty kitchen sink, cloak sleeves rolled up and hands vigorously scrubbing way at a plate's particularly stubborn stain. One that almost felt like it might have given his beloved husband a run for his money - and that was saying a lot, considering how determined the Aftertale skeleton had been - but Geno would have gotten the job done in the end.
Alas, certain unfortunate circumstances meant the laborious task solely fell on the death god's shoulders.
His arms ached while he worked away at the grime, and his hand throbbed as its phalanges tightly gripped the scrub brush he forcefully dragged along the plate's surface.
Thankfully, his current chore was nigh complete.
On the adjacent countertop sat sparkling clean dishes; pots, pans, bowls, et cetera left sitting out on either a dish rag or metal rack to dry. Only two cups (a glass and a short plastic cup) and a few pieces of silverware along with the plate clutched his hands remained.
After finishing them, he could finally take a short break before going about his regular job.
Then he would need to work a "little" overtime.
Again.
King Asgore (or Chief, in Multiverse scenes) had begun cracking down on the Death & Reaping department quite harshly the last few weeks. More than blatantly attempting to get into the good graces of the Star Sanses (Ink, Dream, Blue, and anyone else apart of their "merry" band) by having Reaper and his brother, Grim, take care of nonlocal deaths- i.e., deaths that occurred outside of their AU. Alongside their usual duties in Reapertale. Which, in turn, left both senior Gods of Death with little to no time for themselves.
And even littler time to focus on things such as dirty dishes.
The scrub brush-wielding hand pulled away from the plate, revealing a sight that irked the raven-winged god to no end.
Not a single dent laid in the grime.
Reaper bit back an aggravated groan and glared at the stubborn filth.
At this point, it seemed like a hopeless endeavor to continue attempted to clean it; Nothing he had tried thus far yielded any results. Not scrubbed. Not soaking. Not even the industrial-strength cleaners kept locked up under the sink.
Thus, leaving him with little more to do than discard the dish.
A rather wasteful option, in the death god's opinion.
Maybe the Goddess of War, Undyne, would appreciate the stained plate instead? She was hardly one to turn down a challenge, and this seemed to fit that criteria.
Reaper shook his head.
Nah. I'll toss it and pick up another to replace it while I'm working. There is bound to be at least one person who won't miss a dining plate.
With a tired sigh, the dark-cloaked skeleton placed the dish in the sink to dispose of later. Then crossed his arms and leaned against its edge before tilting his skull up, allowing empty eye sockets to rest on the nighttime scenery dwelling past the curtainless window.
Moonlight shimmered in the world beyond, illuminating the dark, twisted forest surrounding his property. The brilliant celestial body emitting it hung one third from its starting position, indicating the time "11:00 p.m."
Twenty minutes remained till the night shift started.
To think he still had so much left to do: finish the dishes, clean the counters, collect/wash laundry, "death touch" the weeds in the garden, fix the flickering lights in the main bathrooms, make a grocery list of things to pick up while out, and many other things he did not have the time of day to accomplish alone.
The death god's eye sockets stared longly into the night sky. Bitter sorrow nipped at his soul as he thought, If you were here, this would be so much easier.
Don't worry, though. I got this. Grim may be busy, but I'm sure Life can spare a few moments to help tame the garden and gather a few fruits and vegetables for the fridge.
Tiny footsteps sounding from behind reminded him of the household's smallest resident: the precious, fluffy-winged soul he and Geno created together, Goth. A very young skeleton, who should, by all means, be tucked into bed where the God of Death left him merely four hours ago.
That was unless something bad happened.
Worried, Reaper swiftly pivoted on his heels to face the kitchen doorway. Goth stood there clad in his light grey pajamas with a frown marring his face and tiny tears swelling in the corners of his eye sockets; a too big plush clutched in his arms. The plush being the medium-sized doll Geno created in his own visage for their son prior to his... departure.
The little skeleton waddle closer, barely reaching up to the elder death god's knees.
"Daddy?" Goth said in a soft sniffly voice, holding up the plushie. "Can Mama sleep in your room tonight?"
The teeth along Reaper's jaws quickly pulled into a slight frown. He knelt to his son's level, tone gentle and concerned as he spoke, "My sweet fledgling, don't you like having your Mama keep you company and scare away the nasty creatures that lurk in the night?"
"I do..." His son quietly admitted, looking forlornly at the plush. Though, suddenly enough to startle the elder death god, sniffles and purple-tinted tears appeared in full force. The budding liquid magic trailed down Goth's cheeks while he miserably whined, "but he keeps shuffling around at night. An- and I don't like the way he pets my skull when I'm trying to sleep o-or how he sits at the foot of my bed and watches me. I-I-It's creepy."
That information was concerning. For numerous reasons because not only did it mean there was a spirit (quite possibly Geno's) in the house, but it also meant the spirit might not be entirely safe. Especially given its habits and the power required to complete them.
No weak, ordinary spirit had the capabilities to possess and move a vessel, after all. Only top-tier spirits could do that.
And like all spirits, they, unfortunately, tended to turn violent or obsessive the longer they went without their eternal rest. Meaning Reaper had a lot of extra work to do. But for now, the raven-winged god went about comforting his crying child, gently murmuring soothing words and wiping away each tear that fell.
Soon the tears and soft cries stilled, leaving him confident enough to ask, "You feeling better, Gothy?"
"Mm-hm." the little skeleton nodded, awkwardly using his pajama's sleeve to dry the residual wetness around his eye sockets.
"Good. Has..." Reaper clicked his teeth shut uncertainly, continuing with a different (and arguably more important) question instead. "How recently did Mama start doing that?"
Goth's frown twitched further down, and his brows furrowed as he considered the answer. Once a few seconds passed, he tentatively replied, "A few nights ago?"
A few nights?
An examining gaze moved to the possessed object. A deep red liquid seeped through the fabric surrounding the plush's mouth and chest (right where Geno's knife wound had been).
The death god internally grimaced. "Does he usually drip bloo- red like that?"
"No, but when he does, it always makes my bed messy."
Good. If it had been happening for quite some time, the status of the spirit would be far more worrisome; likely more violent. However-
That would explain why Goth has been asking me to clean his sheets so often recently.
A darker realization nagged at his thoughts.
How could I have not noticed the blood? What if Goth was hurt, and I didn't realize? He could have been bleeding out in his bed, and I wouldn't have even noticed!
What kind of father does that make me?!
With a quick shake of his head, he forced the thoughts away and refocused his attention on his son. Not hypothetical, tragic scenarios. (Though, Reaper was definitely getting rid of Goth's black sheets later and replacing them with a lighter color.) "Okay. Just leave him here, and Daddy will take care of everything else. Alright?"
Goth nodded, allowing him to take the plush and sit it atop the counter.
"Thank you," Reaper said, kneeling back down. Both hands reached forward and cupped the little skeleton's face before the elder God of Death planted a kiss atop his skull, causing a delighted giggle to brush past his son's jaws.
He drew back after a second and pulled the appendages away.
Giving his son a soft smile, he continued, "Now, be a sweet little death god and go back to bed; I'll be up to read you another story in just a minute."
Goth's face lit up with a bright smile, and the tiny white wings on his back wiggled in excitement. He then tottered out of the kitchen and back to his room as fast as his stubby legs manage, no doubt excited by the prospect of his second story for the night and spending a bit more time with his father.
Which would bite into the remaining minutes the dark-cloaked skeleton had intended to use to complete a few chores. But he could not find it within himself to be bothered. His son's happiness was far more important than avoiding the harsh verbal lashing he would receive for his tardiness. (Plus, blocking out King Asgore's voice was somewhat of a skill to him now anyway. Further practice for his ever-improving ability wouldn't hurt.)
Once the little skeleton was undoubtedly gone, Reaper stood and gently took the plush into his hands, giving it a bittersweet smile. "Even in death, your one for over dramatics- aren't you, Geno?"
No reply beyond a ghastly, ragged wheeze echoed throughout the quickly chilling air in the kitchen.
"Don't worry. I'll get this sorted out." The raven-winged god said, not voicing his internal continuation. Or discover whether or not I need to perform an exorcism on everything in the house.