Summary: Everyone knows that a fake mustache is a perfect disguise.
(Warning: This chapter contains mild swearing.)
Nightmare hummed a low, melodic tune. Each dark, viscous tendril protruding from his back swayed in time with the short melody, occasionally stopping to help him achieve his current goal: pulling apart a small bread loaf and spreading the tiny pieces on the grassy ground.
The surrounding waterfowl (ducks, swans, and geese) greedily nibbled at the bread crumbs deftly sprinkled in front of the bench he occupied. Some - primarily the geese alongside a single swan - were even bold enough to pluck the food right from between his grimy phalanges. Soft as well as somewhat demanding/pleading quacks and honks filled the air while they ate, leading to a sneaking suspicion that these birds were a little more spoiled than they should be.
Nevertheless, the Guardian of Negativity welcomed their undivided attention and continued to unwind in his spot and dole out bread for the grabby beaked mouths.
It was surprisingly enjoyable; relaxing- holding a peacefulness highlighted by the temperate weather, clear blue skies, warm shining sun, and sheer lack of additional people in the pond area (likely having been scared off due to his presence). The whole situation had long since prompted a light smile to rest along his jaws.
The type of tender, caring smile worn around his boys (and possibly, many ages ago, around his brother).
Though, he dared not consider bringing them to participate. Killer and Cross would, without a doubt, attempt to feed the local wildlife something weird- whether that something be chocolate, an amputated limb, or spaghetti. None of which were healthy for most if not all animals. As for Horror, Nightmare knew the broken-skulled monster well enough that he could confidently say allowing him around may very well add roasted duck, goose, or swan to tonight's dinner menu.
Something not wanted in the slightest.
Perhaps the negativity-laden skeleton had grown soft, for he'd become quite fond of the elegant black swan and other water-loving avians in the short time he spent feeding them thus far. The way they squawked and nipped at each other while trying to monopolize the food reminded him of his boys. And how the three troublemakers jabbed at their nearest neighbor with cutlery when getting served at the dinner table and the way voices raised when someone stole the last piece of bacon.
(That someone generally being Killer, who refused to learn that grand theft bacon would turn his teammates against him for the remainder of the morning. Or until someone either stabbed or pranked him.)
Nightmare shook his head fondly, teeth quirking up a fraction more as he watched the waterfowl.
No. I have not grown soft. I'm merely training these ferocious winged beasts to do my evil bidding, he thought, yanking his hand away from a hungry swan's snapping beak.
The ebony bird gave an outraged honk at the action, miffed about not getting his phalanges alongside the bread, and irritation rolled off it in waves. Thankfully, its retaliation went no further than ruffling feathers and a nasty glare.
"Sorry, but I am unwilling to part with my phalanges at this moment. You will have to make do with what I am willing to give you." Nightmare apologized, carefully tossing the graceful creature a little bread chunk.
It gobbled it off the ground then gazed back up at him expectantly, much like the other surrounding birds.
A soft chuckle escaped his jaws, and his hands returned to picking at the shrinking loaf and distributing the waterfowl their ill-gotten spoils.
Next, much to the dark lord's dismay, he sensed an annoyingly bright presence settle into the empty spot beside him, a presence that could only signify one person: Dream.
How the happy-go-lucky guardian slipped past his radar, he was uncertain. If a guess had to be made, the mass amount of greed/happy animal auras crowding him played a key part.
Withholding a mournful whine at his lost peace, he glanced over to see his brother garbed in his usual attire with the curious addition of a styled, fuzzy blonde strip above his teeth and newspaper.
Nightmare knew he was going to regret asking, but- "Dream, what are you doing?"
Dream started. His hands' grip tightened around the black/blue text, wrinkling it, and the telltale signs of a nervous sweat began to appear along his crown; droplets of semi-transparent yellow magic, which trailed down his skull in increasing quantity the longer the dark lord stared.
He sputtered anxiously, "W-what are you talking about? I'm n-not Dream. No, I am- uh, M-maerd? Yes, I am Maerd."
"That's just your name backwards." Nightmare deadpanned.
"I- I'm still not him." The yellow-clad skeleton insisted, lifting a newspaper in front of his skull and hiding his foolishly disguised face from passersby.
A cyan eyelight rolled at the action, soon followed by an unimpressed murmur. "Whatever you say."
And like that, the negativity-laden monster warily went back to his bird feeding and ignored his brother, who thankfully did not question or mention the activity.
After a minute or so, another familiar and overly obnoxious presence invaded his senses.
He instinctively looked toward it.
In the distance, a short, lithe skeletal figure clothed primarily in brown tones with a giant paintbrush and a hint of black resting on their right cheek was rushing in his and Dream's direction.
It took great effort to smother an irritated sigh.
Ink, Nightmare's mind grumbled. Who's next? Blue? Or maybe that goddamn courier Papyrus whose always popping out of the shadows with a new letter or package?
How does that bastard even keep finding my address so Dream can send me those god-awful letters? The boys and I have changed castles no less than ten times, and we still can't escape him!
The Guardian of Negativity shook his skull and refocused on the approaching artist. The very one that soon skidded to a halt before the bench, startling the many waterfowl that had been (almost) calmly eating. Thus, sending them fleeing to the safety of the pond.
All the while, Dream very slowly retracted his newspaper and folded it onto his lap.
By some "miracle," he did not receive a hint of recognition from their surprise visitor.
"Hey, Nightmare! Hey, skeleton I've never seen before! Did either of you happen to see Dream run through here?" Ink questioned, looking to his poorly disguised brother and continuing. "He is about four feet and five inches tall, has a sparkling smile that makes you feel like your going to be stabbed in your sleep, and is wearing an outfit remarkably similar to your own! You two must have the same fashion sense, which is weird because no one else in the Multiverse wears that shade of yellow. It stands out so much! I keep telling him he would look better in a nice light blue or cream orange- But no, apparently my fashion advice isn't appreciated because I made sparkly, tie-dye animal print."
The Guardian of AUs paused, then blinked - eyelights changing into various colored shapes - and allowed his gaze to once again rest on the dark lord. In a surprised tone, he chimed, "Oh, Nightmare- when did you get here? Actually, I suppose that doesn't matter right now. I'm looking for Dream. Have you seen him?"
Resisting the urge to facepalm never once seemed like a harrowing task; until now. Even when considering the many, many idiotic shenanigans Killer, Cross, and Horror had engaged in in the past: the time they flooded their first castle with chocolate milk (Cross' idea), when Horror adopted a forest's worth of raccoons, that "fun" incident where Killer decided to see how many skeleton children/babies he could swap around before anyone noticed (despite everyone's best effort, some Sanses and Papyri still might be raising the incorrect offspring), and of course how could anyone forget the day the trio ravaged the Multiverse with black/purple glitter.
Sci certainly wouldn't. The poor scientist was one of the unlucky few who received the worse of their attack and got left coughing up glitter for days. In fact, a sparkly puff continued to escape his nasal cavity/mouth with every cough and sneeze to this very day. And no amount of Killer's flirtatious remarks about him having a "sparkling personality" or being "as pretty on the inside as the outside" appeared capable of soothing his ire.
So, despite the misery they caused Nightmare to experience, none of those occasions held a candle to the absurdity at hand. None so much as inspired this strong, nigh unignorable desire to permit phalanges to meet skull bone in a grand gesture of exasperation- i.e., a facepalm.
Both hands, however, firmly remained in front of his chest, crushing the remaining loaf clinched between the stiff phalanges and littering crumbs across his negativity-laden lap- which sunk into the dark coating.
That would be a "true joy" to clean out later.
"No-" The dark lord began, barely able to get the syllable out before a skeletal hand boldly clasped over his jaws.
His cyan eyelight shifted to glare daggers at Dream, who quickly amended. "Why, yes, we have! A dashing monster by that description went running past our- uh, left mere moments ago. If you hurry, I'm certain you will catch him."
"Thank you, totally unfamiliar stranger!" Ink cheerily said, giving a polite wave farewell before trotting off in the direction indicated, then seemingly forgetting halfway and stumbling into a trash can.
Or did he do that on purpose?
Nevertheless, The Guardian of Negativity had more pressing matters at hand (pun not intended): removing Dream's bony palm from his jaws as soon as possible, lest he give in to his nefarious desire to traumatize his sibling via a sloppy lick on the hand.
Thankfully, the yellow-clad skeleton seemed to realize his appendage had long since overstayed its welcome and pulled it away, letting fall to his side.
Nightmare couldn't help feeling a pang of disappointment at the missed opportunity to torment his brother. But he swiftly pushed the emotion aside, for he would have his revenge another day.
A day that could not come soon enough because, of course, his brother had to annoy him a step further by commenting, "I'm surprised he fell for that."
"He is an idiot." The dark lord replied dryly. The "I have no idea why you married him" remained unsaid.
He stood, preparing to leave (as there was no point in staying, the waterfowl were long gone) when suddenly an equally familiar, yellow-clothed skeleton burst through the nearby bushes while shouting, "Brother, I need your help hiding from In- uhh..."
"Dream?" Nightmare blinked, turning on the skeleton he had been sitting beside, and growled. "Who are you?"
"Damn, my cover's been compromised!" The imposter cried, jumping from their seat and making a move to run.
"Wait- Gah!" Dream - the real one - yelped, receiving a face full of newspapers.
Meanwhile, Nightmare flinched - but only a tiny bit - as the phony guardian's faux mustache flew at his face.
By the time they both recovered from the impromptu attacks, their attacker was already over halfway across the park and no more than a mere dot in their vision.
The negativity-laden skeleton wanted to give chase. However, his brother's shaken state took priority.
He did make a mental note to tell his followers to be on the lookout for a fake Dream, though.
And maybe some high-quality faux mustaches.