Chapter Text
The worst days in Pandora are the rare days when it’s quiet. No screaming, no pleading, no manic cartoon laughter. Just the heave and sigh of the lava, the tick-tick-tick of redstone gears moving deep beneath the Warden’s feet. It’s days like these when Sam feels the most keenly attuned to the prison, like it’s part of his body, another limb. It’s days like this when every stray noise — a pebble skittering across the floor, Antfrost closing a door three chambers down — makes him stand up straighter, hand straying to his weapons inventory.
Today is one of those days.
Quackity has been in there for four hours and Sam waits half a world away, resisting the urge to drop the lava and see for himself. Four hours of near-total silence.
The Warden’s ears strain — he’s got his helmet off — for anything: a whisper, a blow, the dull thud of flesh connecting with metal or wood or other flesh, a thumb flicking the wheel of a lighter. The hum of the glowstone lamp. He’s been at it all day, the listening, with little to show for it. Just low voices, players in an inaudible drama that Sam is barred from.
He paces, bides his time. Sits and stands and sits again on the little bench he installed in the antechamber for this purpose exactly. What Sam hates the most about the quiet days is how they catapult him back into the first week of wardenhood, remind him who he used to be and what he used to be afraid of. Sam has different fears to tend to nowadays. He is not afraid of the prisoner anymore, except on days like this, when the absence of screaming or begging or a whipcrack slicing the air leaves a little too much room for his mind to run itself in circles. On quiet days, his imagination sometimes gets the better of him.
The Warden has learned a lot about sound these past few months. He has learned what Dream sounds like when he’s in life-threatening pain versus pain that is not life-threatening. He has learned what kinds of injuries make squelching sounds. He has learned to recognize the sound of a belt buckle coming down hard against a shoulder, or the sound of a chain being dragged across the floor. Paying close attention to these noises can, on some occasions, help the Warden anticipate what kind of treatment will be required once Quackity leaves. That’s why Sam listens so closely. That’s why.
He doesn’t always have the time to listen, or the inclination. Or the stomach. Some days, he has work elsewhere: pipes to repair, structural integrity to maintain, floors to be mopped, timetables to be studied and checked and double-checked. But he never likes to be too far away from the antechamber during Quackity’s visits. Safety protocol and all that.
Today he’s leaning against the wall, eyes closed against the warm glow of the lava, one ear pressed to the stone rising up on either side of him. Today’s visit has been so long and so eerily quiet that Sam is drawing up schematics in his mind, innovating new methods of eavesdropping never-before-utilized. If he presses his ear close enough into the wall, maybe he’ll pick up what’s going on through vibrations alone. Echo-location.
“Alright, we’re done here.”
Quackity’s raised voice makes him jump.
“Sam, get me outta here, will ya?”
He sits up, drops the lava early even though he knows he won’t be making the journey across until after he’s seen Q out for the day. The maximum security cell looks…clean, mostly. Clean-ish. He squints. There’s Dream, curled up on the ground, head raised a bit which means he’s conscious. And there’s Q, smiling and waving like he’s just won the grand prize at the county faire for the forty-fifth day in a row, which isn’t unusual for him. Sam takes an extra couple seconds to scan the cell for weapons, but it looks like Quackity’s already packed his gear away.
“Okay,” the Warden calls across, hand on the lever, “You’re good to come through.”
In the guards’ barracks, Q washes his hands while the Warden looms over him, neither one willing to concede an inch. This is their dance.
“Report on the prisoner’s condition,” Sam intones, watching soap suds expand into a cloud in the basin of the sink.
“He’s not dying.” Quackity grins, shrugs, reaches for more soap.
Sam’s got a pencil poised over his clipboard, but he’s only pretending to take notes. “I’m going to need something more substantive than that.”
“Eh, I went easy on him. Left him a little worse for wear, but it’s nothing serious.” Quackity pats his hands dry and makes to readjust his cuff links. “We mostly talked.”
Sam swallows spit the wrong way and it goes down his windpipe. He coughs hard and Quackity, always the gentleman, slaps him on the back until he’s able to get a word out.
“Talked?”
“Chatted, yeah.” Quackity’s smile is all self-satisfaction, but his eyes glint menacingly. “We, eh, had a nice chat.”
Sam looks helplessly down at the clipboard, then back up at Q. “I need something for the—records,” he says, feeling dumb.
“I already told you, man. He’s a little scratched up, that’s all. You write that down yet? What else d’you want, a blowjob?” Quackity’s laugh is merry and grating. “You’re gonna give yourself wrinkles, worrying like that. Lighten up.”
Sam says nothing, but Q keeps going anyway.
“Look, if I don’t give him an easy day once in a while, it won’t—this, this arrangement we have, it’s not gonna hit as hard, right. It’s all about strategy, man.”
“Yes.” Sam feels like he’s floating. He’s all numb, except for the dread. “Strategy.”
When Quackity’s done in the washroom, the Warden walks him out, just like he does every day. It’s easier to see by the light in the lobby and Quackity’s clothes are mostly free of blood, which should quell some of the anxiety gnawing at Sam’s gut. Theoretically.
“So,” he says. “So what did you talk about?”
Quackity’s face is totally blank for a second, and then his features rearrange into the familiar mask.
“Y’know,” he shrugs again, grinning for real now. “Everything.”
The cell is calm and clean and, yes, quiet when Sam sets foot inside.
The prisoner is sitting against the back wall, hugging his knees to his chest. He doesn’t look up when Sam pearls past the barrier. His hair and uniform are dry, meaning Quackity didn’t use the cauldron today. That tracks, Sam thinks to himself, checking off boxes in his mental catalogue. He hadn’t heard the sounds, and drowning is usually pretty loud. Dream’s staring off into space the way he does when he’s concussed, only he hasn’t had a fresh head wound in over a week and the last one is healing nicely. Sam’s been checking it every day.
“Stand,” the Warden commends, and he watches Dream’s eyes flick in his direction, side-eyeing him the way a cat watches a cricket it’s about to kill slowly. It’s eerie, how the prisoner still manages to look dangerous after all this time. It’s an illusion, Sam knows, but his finger is poised on his tool belt all the same.
For a second, it seems as though Dream’s not going to comply, but after a moment he starts pulling himself up, all his weight on his good leg. He can’t let go of the wall or he’ll topple over, not with a left knee as busted as that, so the Warden holds out an arm for Dream to steady himself as he limps toward the center of the cell.
Sam checks his uniform for stains and burn marks, but it’s mostly intact (a rarity!), just a bit scuffed here and there from contact with the floor, which gets grimy faster than Sam can keep up with these days. There’s a bruise forming across the prisoner’s right cheekbone, but it’s clearly not any deeper than surface level.
“You’re quiet today,” he remarks curtly, and when that gets no response he adds, “What, no theatrics?”
Dream shrugs. “Sorry to disappoint.”
“I heard you and Quackity had a conversation,” he says, making a note in the margins of his form.
Dream flinches. Not hard. Just a little, really.
“You heard?”
The Warden is silent. The trick with Dream, he’s learned, is not giving anything up for free. Not amenities, not information, nothing. It’s about discipline. It’s about not being taken for granted. Easier said than done, in this particular case.
“What did you talk about?” Sam asks finally, trying not to sound begrudging about it.
The line of Dream’s shoulders is tense. “I don’t know,” he mumbles, looking at his feet.
Sam tosses the clipboard to the ground — not out of frustration, though he is frustrated, but because he needs his hands free for this next part. It clatters loudly on the flagstones and Dream flinches harder this time.
“You don’t know?” The Warden exhales. “It’s been four hours and you don’t remember any of it. Is that right?”
“Four—?” Dream looks at him then, eyes widening. Then he shakes his head. “I don’t. I just. It's not like it's important. Just whatever. It was just like, chit-chat.”
Sam pauses, lets Dream feel the weight of that pause in the stillness of the air. He crosses his arms.
“You and Quackity,” he says slowly, “were making chit-chat.”
Dream gives a small, unsure nod. When Sam doesn’t respond, he looks away and mutters, “I don’t know what you want from me.”
“Yes you do,” Sam tells him.
Dream smiles at that. It’s a nasty sort of smile. “Yeah,” he says. “Guess I do.”
The Warden instructs him to remove his uniform and the prisoner complies, still gripping Sam’s outstretched forearm for support. Sam looks him over for contusions, lacerations, anything noteworthy. He’s still got some bruises from yesterday (healing potions can erase an injury, sure, but they can’t erase evidence of one, not that fast) but he doesn’t find anything that looks like a fresh wound. Sam checks his chest, arms, neck. He is extra methodical today; maybe it’s because he’s on edge and routine is a comfort. When he moves to check the prisoner’s back, pressing gently but firmly to test for fractured ribs, Dream’s shoulders begin to shake with tiny, quiet sobs. This isn't unusual. By the time Sam finishes and helps Dream get his uniform back on, the prisoner has stopped crying.
The Warden expects him to sit or lie down again now that he’s dismissed, but Dream stays standing, wobbling slightly on unsteady legs. As Sam moves about the cell, inspecting its contents more for show than anything else, Dream’s eyes follow him. The Warden does his best to ignore it, but that too is mostly for show.
His hand closes around the pearl in the pocket of his coveralls. There is a part of Sam that wants to stay, a part of him that’s sure he is needed here, that’s itching to expose whatever scheme or plot Dream is brewing, but he doesn’t have a road map for this, doesn’t know what next steps are available to him.
When he draws out the pearl, he hears a noise behind him and looks over his shoulder. Dream is still standing there, swaying slightly, eyes following him. It clearly takes effort to keep himself upright, and Sam considers ordering him to sit before he keels over face-first and leaves the Warden with blood to clean up.
“Can, um.” Dream stumbles a bit, rights himself. His eyes are clear when he meets Sam’s gaze. “Can I have a—”
He mimes drinking. He wants a health potion?
Sam frowns. “You don’t need healing today. You should count yourself lucky.”
Something flashes in the prisoner's face — irritation maybe? Defiance? Whatever it is, Sam is having none of it.
"You don't get to start making requests just because he let you off easy today. You want something, you earn it—"
"How?" Dream snaps, a little too quickly, and Sam barks back, "Case by case basis," and they both stand there glaring at each other, waiting for the other to back down.
Dream should know better than to pick fights he can't win, Sam thinks. Especially fights they've had a dozen times before.
A moment passes and Dream nods, moves back toward the far wall, never turning his back to the Warden. Sam runs quickly through his checklist, just to be sure: head trauma, infection, internal bleeding, the whole list of et ceteras. Is there something he missed, or is his prisoner developing a dependence on healing agent?
He glowers at Dream. “Unless there’s something you’d like to share with me?”
He’s not sure if he means about your injuries or about the book. Maybe both. Before he has a chance to specify, Dream blinks once, twice, shakes his head.
“No, Warden. Um. Sorry.”
Sam nods to himself. Right, then. He’ll have to keep a closer eye on how many potions Quackity is using during their sessions. He doesn’t need to curtail a substance abuse problem on top of all the other vices he has to manage on Dream’s behalf.
“Be good,” he tells Dream as he gathers his gear to leave.
Dream’s voice floats behind him, and already he sounds impossibly far away. He said something just now, Sam's sure, but the Warden exits the cell and the remark is lost to the fizzle of static.