Chapter Text
Miner has never fallen asleep standing. It’s not something he’s ever even thought about before.
Undeniably, though, he’s thinking about it now.
From a few glances out of the hospital’s windows (when he does end up near the windows), he’s seen that it’s night—around the time when his eyelids start feeling heavy. Of course, normally, when his eyelids start feeling heavy, he lays down and goes to bed.
He can’t exactly do that right now, though, despite his very-apparent tiredness.
Perhaps it’s exacerbated by the way he’s been running around swinging his pickaxe for the whole day—which, yes, he also does for a job, but this is different. His arms are very sore. Most of his body is, actually.
Currently, one of his hands is firmly kept on the handle of his pickaxe, holding it rested over his shoulder. He’s standing still.
This standing is taking him no conscious effort. In fact, he doesn’t think he could put conscious effort into it if he tried. His gaze darts to the purple strings looped around his limbs, particularly the ones around his wrists, and his eyes follow the strands all the way up.
They seem to trail off into the ceiling.
(How does that even work?)
With a sigh, he hangs his head (which is one of the few things he can still do) and shuts his eyes (because they’re dry and tired).
Then, his breathing gradually starts to calm.
Then, he’s dozing off.
Slowly, his awareness begins to dissipate, and all of his surroundings are away from the forefront of his mind—there’s just the feeling of his feet on the ground and the weight of the pickaxe still resting on his shoulder.
He drifts into that familiar, barely-awake state—the one where time feels like it moves differently, and the only thing he finds himself conscious of are his thoughts (even so, vaguely).
...
Then, something is shaking him.
Startled awake immediately, he turns his head to look, letting out a louder than intentional “Wha—!?” sound.
A hand has grabbed his shoulder to jostle him around. He does a double take.
The hand is clawed.
The hand is also purple.
“Oh,” Miner says, though not with any particular emotion, and glances up to be met with Insomniac’s face.
Silent, they both pause for a moment, and then Insomniac makes a sound halfway between a cough and clearing his throat.
“Don’t do that,” he says. His voice is low and barely audible, something like a croak. “Sleeping vessel is supposed to be my thing.”
“...Ah.” Miner awkwardly breaks eye contact (or whatever the equivalent of eye contact is for someone who is very clearly looking at you but is also very clearly asleep). “Vessels...Please don’t call us that.”
“...Puppets.”
Miner frowns. “No, that’s worse.”
There’s another period of silence, this time long enough that Miner thinks the interaction is over. It is not, however.
In what is apparently a laugh, Insomniac exhales sharply with a semblance of a smile forced on his face. It’s something that feels terribly unnatural. Then, he pipes up again.
“More accurate for you, though.”