Omen [Undertale Multiverse]

Ch2 - Healer

Omen's POV

You dumped the candies onto the snow beside you for a moment, knowing that your ability to use magic was a far quicker solution to his deindling HP. Acting immediately, you let the black colored wisps of magic rise from your hands, moving towards the unconscious skeleton and healing his wounds.

Your magic was extremely potent, but also utterly exhausting for you. Whilst only ten minutes was enough for you to heal 200hp for the neon skeleton, it was starting to leave you at risk of hurting yourself, as you had little magic control and often used too much at once.

Realising you were burning yourself out, you finally paused, realising that Fresh was more than stabilised at this point. Sure, he was still quite injured, but the rest could wait until you had recovered a bit more. You debated taking the magic restoring candy yourself so you could continue, but Fresh probably needed it to portal out of this place, so you left it for him.

It took Fresh another half hour before he woke up. Though you needed rest, you forced yourself to stay awake. Being in an UnderFell universe meant that it wouldn't be safe to sleep, no matter how concealed you both were by the trees.

You let out a sigh of relief when Fresh finally moved, straightening up. He looked confused for a moment, likely not having expected to have lost consciousness as suddenly as he had.

"...You passed out," you explained. "I used my magic to heal you so that you wouldn't dust. If you feel sort of static-y or uncomfortable, its a side effect of that." Part of you was glad he hadn't been awake to see the unusual color of it. In your world, your magic being black was seen as a bad thing, as dangerous, even though you were able to heal extremely well.

You offerred him the candy again, pressing the three into his hand before he had a chance to decline them. "You should really take these. Uhm, not sure if you remember from before you passed out, but I explained these are monster candies, and the blue restores magic."

After a moment, he checked them over and unwrapped them, shoving all three into his mouth at once. You watched him cringe. Was it because of the bitterness, or if the healing wounds felt uncomfortable for him? You learned it was the former when his glasses lit up with exclamation point, then shifted to say SO-UR. Maybe you should stop trying to find the lemon flavored variants of everything. "...Thanks, bruh, I totes owe ya one."

"You don't owe me anything. I'm just happy to help," you let out. Silence fell upon you both for a long few minutes, and in that time, all you could manage to do was fidget quietly. Fresh seemed to just watch you, almost as though he were debating on doing something, again. And he chose against it, again, though this time, you were pretty sure he checked his own STATs first.

You barely noticed when your hands trailed to the textures of your pants. Your pants were covered in thick straps, cold metal buckles adorning the sides, and you often stimmed with them. Your knee-high boots had lots of buckles too. Your shoes were where your other colorful stickers had disappeared to, a mix of blues and pinks and whites.

You had always been attracted to very specific textures, and your clothes were certainly made of ones that made you happy. Incredibly soft, thick, seamless. The tightness felt comforting to your bones, and the hooded trench coat made you feel less dysmorphic about the shape of your skeleton.

It didn't matter how tattered and ruined the bottom of said coat had gotten, or how your fingerless gloves had little holes in them, or how some of the star shaped stickers had fallen off your boots and left minor discoloration - your clothes were perfect for you.

You wore completely black, aside from the shiny silver buckles and occassional colored stickers, because it was comforting for you. Bright colors were usually just too much on your eyes to be a constant for you.

Fresh was... an exception. His bright neon colors were so visually stimulating that it brought you delight. You wouldn't be able to handle it during sensory overload, of course, but you were currently in a phase of sensory seeking, so the brightness was actually comforting. Grounding, even. Part of you wished you could steal away his jacket to cuddle or something.

"May... May I have your hand for a moment? I would like to give you some stickers," you asked shyly. It had taken you a little while to gather the confidence to ask. You knew logically that stickers wouldn't make any real difference to his injuries, but the thought of sharing them made you happy.

He tilted his head, then complied with your request, moving what you assumed to be his non-dominant hand towards you. You pulled off five of the most colorful looking star stickers from the page and gently placed them onto the back of his hand.

You gave a gentle smile, pleased with your work, then let him have his hand back. He took a moment to examine them, glasses flashing to say COOL-BRO, but moving a little too quick and causing you to flinch.

"...Ya seem real skiddish, mah broski. Looks like I'm not the only nervous one," he pointed out with a half smile. "Ya don't haveta be scared of me, bro. You did me a real solid, and I'm not gonna forget that."

You sighed, pulling your knees up to your chest. "Sorry. I just... haven't met somebody before who didn't want to hurt me," you confessed. "Everybody always seems to want something, and I don't have anything for them. I'm not used to... this. Just talking." Whilst you had been afraid of Fresh at first, he had made no attempt to bring you harm, and so you had grown comfoetable with his presence.

"That's real unrad, mah bruh, but I get it. People can be totes unradical sometimes," he finally responded. "Sounds like ya gotta get some friendos, though. Maybe I could be ya homie?"

"I would like that," you hummed with a cheerful grin. "Also, I, uhm, I really like your bright colors and unique vernacular." You weren't sure if pointing it out would be considered weird, but you liked to voice the things that brought you joy, and right now, Fresh was bringing you joy.

He tilted his head. "Huh? Mah what?"

"Vernacular. Er... your vocabulary? I enjoy the way you use 90s slang. Its... fun," you explained at his confusion.

He took a moment to process what you said. "Thanks, bruh." It looked like he didn't quite know how to feel about it. "You talk kinda funky too, mah dude."

You knew he likely was not being insultive, yet you still found yourself feeling suddenly self conscious. This was your first time interacting with another person so casually in literal years, and you had no way to know if you were doing a good job.

"I, uhm, wasn't really taught how to speak. I had to learn through old medical textbooks and observing how others interacted," you confessed nervously. "I am aware that I pronounce some words strangely, or say the wrong thing at times, but... do I speak okay?"

"Yeah, you're fine, mah dude. Just totes formal," he explained. "You could use some slang tah lighten up. Ya know, throw a few 'yolos' and 'bruhs' around, ya dig?" he chuckled. "Anyway, name's Fresh, mah radical bruh. Have ya heard of me?"

You shook your head. "It is lovely to meet you, Fresh. I am called Omen. Uhm. I may travel a lot, but... there is a lot I don't know. Am I supposed to know you?"

He shrugged non-committally. "Nah. There's just some totes unrad rumors about me, mah broski," he let out. Despite his lax demeanor, you could hear the heaviness in his voice. Was he... lonely? "People don't like tah get close to me. I'm rad, I swear, I just... dunno. People don't like me."

"I don't intend to be disrespectful, but does that have to do with you being a parasite?" The moment you asked that question, you felt the air around you become dead cold.