(AN: Jester will be meeting Goat Mom soon, and Harlequin is coming to a certain conclusion that may change the dynamics in the circus if he goes through with it.)
Jester POV
Harlequin has been going into those woods every day since we arrived.
The thought settles in my mind as I stand just outside the main tent, arms loosely folded, my gaze fixed on the familiar figure slipping away from the edge of the grounds.
Again.
Same time.
Same direction.
No announcement.
No permission.
No explanation.
I track him without turning my head fully, my attention divided between the ongoing routines of the circus and the increasingly predictable pattern he's fallen into.
He performs.
Flawlessly.
Of course he does.
Whatever else is happening—whatever he's hiding—it hasn't affected his shows. His movements remain sharp, controlled, deliberate in the way they need to be. The audience never sees a flaw.
But I do.
I always do.
It's the moments between.
After the applause fades.
After the curtain falls.
That's where the difference shows.
He finishes.
Then disappears.
No lingering.
No unnecessary conversation.
No attempt to draw attention the way he usually does.
And most noticeably—
He avoids anything that might delay him.
Extra duties.
Preparations.
Even meals.
My fingers tap once against my arm, the motion subtle but deliberate as I continue watching.
Skipping meals is not unusual.
For others.
For him?
It is.
Harlequin does not pass up food without reason.
Not consistently.
Not like this.
And yet—
There are no signs of deterioration.
No sluggishness.
No drop in performance.
No hunger.
Nothing.
Which leaves only one conclusion.
He is feeding elsewhere.
The thought forms cleanly.
Logical.
Expected.
And under normal circumstances, that would not be an issue.
We hunt.
We manage it.
We clean up after ourselves.
We leave nothing behind.
Controlled.
Contained.
Necessary.
But if he is doing it alone—
Without coordination—
Without preparation—
That becomes a problem.
My gaze sharpens slightly as I watch him disappear further into the dimming edge of the clearing, my attention narrowing.
There should be signs.
There should always be signs.
Blood.
Residual scent.
Something.
Anything.
And yet—
There is nothing.
No iron.
No trace.
No lingering evidence of what should be there.
Instead—
My nose wrinkles slightly as I recall it.
Cinnamon.
Butterscotch.
The scent lingers faintly on him every time he returns, subtle but consistent, clinging to his clothes in a way that does not match the environment he is entering.
The forest does not smell like that.
The circus does not smell like that.
So where—
My thoughts pause.
Then shift.
Because there is only one possibility left.
He is not hunting.
He is going somewhere.
My posture straightens just slightly.
"…A location," I murmur under my breath, the realization settling into place with quiet precision.
Not wandering.
Not exploring.
Returning.
Again and again.
My gaze flicks back toward the woods.
Toward the place he vanishes into without hesitation.
There is something there.
Something he has found.
Something he is choosing not to share.
That alone is—
Concerning.
Not because I expect transparency.
Not because I require explanation.
But because unknown variables—
Are dangerous.
My jaw tightens ever so slightly as I consider the possibilities.
A hidden settlement?
Unlikely.
There would be more signs.
A lone entity?
More plausible.
Something capable of sustaining him.
Something that explains the absence of blood.
And the presence of—
I exhale slowly.
"…Food," I correct quietly.
Prepared.
Not taken.
That distinction matters.
My gaze lowers briefly, my thoughts aligning rapidly now, building structure where before there had only been observation.
He leaves.
Returns fed.
Carries a scent that does not belong to the forest.
Shows no signs of struggle.
No injury.
No resistance.
Which means—
Whatever is out there—
He trusts it.
At least enough to return.
Repeatedly.
My fingers still.
That is what concerns me.
Harlequin does not trust easily.
Not without reason.
And whatever has earned that—
I need to understand it.
My attention shifts again, scanning the surrounding area before settling once more on the darkened edge of the woods.
The decision forms without hesitation.
"…Tomorrow," I murmur quietly.
I will follow him.
Not openly.
Not directly.
At a distance.
Enough to observe.
Enough to confirm.
Enough to determine whether this is something to leave alone—
Or something that requires intervention.
My gaze remains fixed on the forest for a moment longer before I turn away, stepping back toward the tents, my posture returning to its usual composed state.
Everything continues as it should.
The show runs.
The routines hold.
Nothing outwardly changes.
But now—
There is something new to account for.
And I do not leave things like that unanswered.
Harlequin POV
"Like this… Goat Mom?"
The words come out easier than they should.
Natural.
Like I've been saying it for longer than I actually have.
I adjust my hands slightly, following her earlier instructions—slower this time, more careful—as I mimic the motion she showed me. The small task feels… simple. Almost stupidly so.
And yet—
I find myself paying attention.
Actually trying.
Out of the corner of my eye, I glance at her.
She stands nearby, watching with that same gentle expression, that same quiet patience she always has—like she's not expecting perfection, just effort.
Just… me trying.
It's weird.
Still weird.
But not uncomfortable anymore.
She told me once that many children called her that.
"Goat Mom."
Even her own.
I didn't ask.
Didn't need to.
I caught it.
That shift.
That quiet drop in her voice when she mentioned them.
The kind of sadness that doesn't shout.
Just… lingers.
So I leave it alone.
Some things don't need to be dug into.
Some things—
You just respect.
"…Yeah?" I add after a second, glancing back at what I'm doing, my usual grin softer, less sharp around the edges.
"Close enough?"
The cottage smells the same as always.
Cinnamon.
Butterscotch.
Warmth.
It clings to everything here—the walls, the air, even me at this point—and I don't even bother pretending it bothers me anymore.
If anything—
It's the opposite.
I feel… better.
That's the part I still don't know what to do with.
I lean back slightly, stretching my shoulders as I exhale, my gaze drifting around the room—the same room I've now spent hours in, day after day.
And somehow—
It never gets old.
"…You know," I start, my voice quieter now, more thoughtful as I look toward the fire, watching it flicker softly, "I could just stay here."
The words slip out before I can stop them.
Not joking.
Not teasing.
Just… honest.
Because it's true.
It would be easy.
Too easy.
No noise.
No pressure.
No constant edge of survival sitting in the back of my mind.
No hunger.
That's the part that really gets me.
I haven't felt it.
Not once since I started coming here.
No craving.
No instinct clawing at me.
Nothing.
I flex my fingers slightly, staring at my hands like they might give me an answer.
"…That shouldn't be possible," I mutter under my breath.
But it is.
And I know why.
Her.
This place.
The magic in the air—it's subtle, but it's there, woven into everything in a way I can't ignore anymore.
She told me that, too.
Said it helps.
Said it sustains.
But that's not all she said.
My jaw tightens slightly as I recall it.
"…You said it's my soul," I add, glancing toward her again, my expression shifting just slightly.
"Healing."
The word feels… strange.
Unfamiliar.
Like it doesn't belong to something like me.
And yet—
I can't deny it.
Because I feel different.
Lighter.
Quieter.
Like something that's been scraping at me for years just… stopped.
My shoulders drop just a fraction, tension I didn't even realize I was carrying easing without me noticing.
"…Didn't even think we had those," I admit, letting out a quiet huff, my tone softer now.
"Souls, I mean."
Most of us didn't.
Or at least—
That's what we told ourselves.
Easier that way.
Cleaner.
Less to think about.
But if that were true—
Then this wouldn't be happening.
I glance down again, my usual grin flickering back, but it's different now.
Not as sharp.
Not as forced.
"…Guess we were wrong," I murmur.
And for once—
That thought doesn't annoy me.
It just…
Sits.
Quiet.
As I stand there, in a place that shouldn't exist, feeling something I shouldn't feel—
and not quite wanting to leave.
Toriel POV
A soft laugh escapes me before I can stop it, warm and light, my eyes crinkling gently at the edges.
"Mm… yes, my dear," I reply, watching his hands with quiet approval. "Just like that."
The way he says it—
Goat Mom.
It settles so easily in the air between us, and for a moment… just a moment… it feels as though time folds in on itself.
As though nothing was ever lost.
As though I am not alone.
My smile softens.
Warms.
And yet—
There is a faint ache beneath it.
Always there.
Because I remember.
Small voices calling for me. Tiny hands tugging at my dress.
Laughter echoing through halls that once held far more life than they do now.
"…You are doing wonderfully," I add gently, stepping a little closer, adjusting his posture with careful, patient hands—never forceful, never abrupt.
Just guiding.
As a mother should.
My gaze lingers on him for a moment longer than necessary.
On the way he stands.
On the way he tries.
On the way he pretends not to care as much as he does.
And my heart…
It tightens.
Because I know that look.
I have seen it before.
In children who have had to grow too quickly.
Who learned to survive before they were ever allowed to simply be.
When he speaks again—about staying—
I still.
Not outwardly.
Not enough for him to notice.
But inside—
Something blooms.
Hope.
Bright.
Fragile.
"Oh…?"
The sound leaves me softer than intended, my ears lifting ever so slightly as I turn toward him fully, my hands folding gently together.
"You would wish to stay?"
I do not rush him.
Do not press.
But I cannot hide the warmth that fills my voice.
Nor the quiet, growing excitement that stirs beneath it.
Because the thought—
Of not waking to silence.
Of not tending to this home alone.
Of having someone here…
A child.
My dear child.
It makes my chest feel… full.
Too full.
And yet—
My gaze softens again as I take him in, truly take him in—the way his shoulders still carry tension even in comfort, the way his words falter just slightly when he speaks of things he does not fully understand.
The way he talks about hunger—
Or rather…
The lack of it.
"…Yes," I say gently, nodding once.
"That is part of it."
I step closer again, slower this time, careful, my voice lowering as I speak.
"The magic here helps sustain you… it gives your body what it has long been denied."
My hand lifts slightly, hesitating only a moment before I rest it softly against his shoulder.
A simple touch.
Warm.
Steady.
"But more importantly…"
My thumb brushes lightly against the fabric there, my expression filled with quiet sorrow.
"…your soul is no longer in pain."
The words are soft.
But they carry weight.
Because I can feel it.
The cracks.
The strain.
The damage left behind by a life no child should have lived.
What he told me…
What he didn't tell me…
It is enough.
More than enough.
"…You have suffered greatly, haven't you?" I murmur, not asking for an answer—only acknowledging what is already there.
My heart aches.
Deeply.
For him.
For all of them.
Children forced into a world that gave them no choice but to survive in ways that should never have been necessary.
And yet—
He stands here.
Still kind enough to try.
Still open enough to learn.
Still capable of healing.
My hand remains where it is, gentle, grounding.
"…You do not have to live that way here," I say softly.
And then, after a small pause—
My voice warms again.
Hope returning.
Carefully.
"If you truly wish to stay…"
I smile at him, brighter now, though my eyes remain tender.
"…then you are more than welcome to, my dear child."
The words come easily.
Without hesitation.
Because I mean them.
Truly.
"You would not be a burden," I add gently, sensing the unspoken hesitation that might follow. "Nor an obligation."
My ears tilt slightly as my expression softens once more.
"You would simply be… home."
And oh—
How I have missed saying that.
Third POV
Time passes gently in the cottage, the warmth of the fire and the soft hum of quiet companionship filling the space as something new takes shape between them.
Flour dusts the counter.
Berries—crushed and sweet—stain the edges of the bowl.
And for once, Harlequin had stayed.
Not just sat.
Not just watched.
But helped.
Toriel had guided him through it step by step, her voice soft and patient as she showed him how to roll the dough, how to fold it just right, how to prepare something that wasn't taken—but made.
Something warm.
Something meant to be shared.
And now—
They stand side by side.
Staring.
At the oven.
Because something is… wrong.
Or perhaps—
Very, very right.
The pie sits there on the tray.
Golden.
Perfectly baked.
Steam curling gently from its crust.
And—
It moves.
Not much.
Just enough.
A small rise.
A soft fall.
Like breath.
Harlequin doesn't speak at first.
Doesn't move either.
His entire body goes still as his eyes lock onto the pie, his usual grin nowhere to be found.
"…Nope," he mutters under his breath after a long second.
Toriel, beside him, says nothing.
Which is far more concerning.
Because Toriel always has something to say.
Her hands remain folded gently in front of her, but her expression—
It's stunned.
Completely.
Utterly.
Stunned.
"…My…" she breathes softly, blinking once, then twice as if that will somehow make sense of what she's seeing.
The pie—
Breathes again.
A small puff of steam escapes its crust, the top rising ever so slightly before settling back down.
Harlequin takes a slow step back.
"…Okay," he says, his voice carefully neutral in a way that suggests he is absolutely not neutral.
"That's new."
He glances sideways at Toriel, his movements slow, cautious—as if sudden motion might make it worse.
"…Goat Mom?"
Toriel does not respond immediately.
Her gaze remains fixed on the pie, her mind clearly trying—and failing—to reconcile what she is seeing with everything she knows about cooking.
"…I…" she starts softly.
Stops.
Then tries again.
"…That is not supposed to happen."
Another breath from the pie.
This time slightly more noticeable.
Harlequin flinches.
Just a little.
"…Yeah, figured," he mutters.
A long pause stretches between them as they both continue to stare.
Then—
Very slowly—
Harlequin turns his head toward her, his expression caught somewhere between confusion and nervous disbelief.
"…Did we… do that?" he asks quietly.
Toriel's ears lower slightly as she finally tears her gaze away from the pie, looking at him with the same stunned softness.
"…I do not believe so," she admits gently.
Another rise.
Another fall.
The pie continues to sit there.
Breathing.
Peacefully.
As if this is completely normal.
Harlequin lets out a slow breath, dragging a hand down his face.
"…I helped make a living pie," he mutters.
There's a beat.
Then—
"…Huh."
Toriel exhales softly beside him, her expression slowly shifting—not quite alarmed, not quite amused… but something in between.
"…It appears," she says carefully, "that perhaps… the magic in this home has interacted with our baking in an unexpected way."
The pie lets out a soft puff.
Harlequin stares at it again.
"…Can we eat it?" he asks after a moment.
Toriel pauses.
Looks at the pie.
Then back at him.
"…I am… uncertain," she admits.
Another pause.
Then—
"…We may wish to observe it first."
Harlequin nods slowly.
"…Yeah," he agrees.
"…Probably a good idea."
And so—
They stand there.
Side by side.
Watching.
As the pie—
Continues to breathe.