One Bed Trope [Sentinels]
Pairing(s): Two Time, Shedletsky, Chance & Guest 1337
Author's Note: This was particularly inspired by the Tumblr user: cannibal-alien. Please let me know if I mischaracterize anyone. All likes, reposts, and comments are appreciated. :]
For some unknown reason, after a brutal round, you find yourself standing in front of your cabin. Gone and demolished for what reason? You don’t know, and frankly, I don’t either, but here we are! Thanks a lot, Spectre. All that was left was the pathetic remains of the foundation, some twisted wood still crackling with dying embers. Just great. You’re utterly exhausted, drained physically and mentally, as you wonder where you’re going to sleep. Out in the cold? Absolutely not, especially not with the repetitive cycle of hell that you have to go through daily. At least at the end of the day, you need to find yourself in comfort. So, with really no other option, you turn and walk yourself over to a fellow neighbor’s cabin. Sure, it was embarrassing, but it’s better than sleeping outside in the cold.
You couldn’t care less as to who you were knocking, feeling too tired to even think properly. You just needed a place that isn’t destroyed to get some sleep, especially for tomorrow. It takes a moment or two until the door opens, revealing the individual.
Two Time:
The door creaks open slowly, revealing Two Time standing in half-shadow. A dim lantern flickers behind them, casting warped silhouettes across the cabin walls. Their eyes—unreadable, distant—rest on you for a long, heavy pause.
“...You,” they say, voice low and void of emotion. Their gaze flicks toward the smoldering ruin behind you. “I saw smoke. The Spawn warned of fire. It seems they were right again.”
You don’t have the energy to respond. You just blink slowly, face covered in fatigue. For a moment, Two Time doesn’t move—then they step aside wordlessly, allowing you in with a flick of their wrist.
Inside, the room is surprisingly clean, sparse, and symmetrical. Ritualistic symbols etched faintly into the walls and floorboards, most of them likely carved by hand. There’s one bed pushed to the corner, draped in worn blankets that look hand-woven. Nothing else in the room even resembles comfort.
You stare at the bed.
Two Time does too.
They speak softly, almost like prayer: “Two souls. One chamber. May neither wake alone.”
You raise an eyebrow. “There’s only one bed.”
“I know,” they say plainly, as if the arrangement was divine fate.
You expect them to sleep on the floor or make some kind of cultist arrangement on the rug, but instead…”You will take the left side. That is the passive quadrant. I will not cross it. The Spawn does not permit desecration of the boundary.”
Silence.
Until you climb into the bed, not caring anymore, and just wanting to sleep. They follow along and slip under the covers without hesitation and face away from you, posture rigid.
It’s been silent for a long time. Well, this is awkward.
And still, despite everything—the rigid body beside you, the cursed symbols, the heaviness of something long dead—you sleep easier than you expected. Almost protected.
Almost.
Shedletsky:
You knock with the last of your strength.
The door doesn’t so much open as it flies ajar with a creak and a gust of stale air. Shedletsky stands in the doorway, shirt wrinkled, hair unkempt as always. His eyes narrowed immediately.
“You smell like charcoal.”
You’re too tired to care at this point, blinking through the smoke and exhaustion. Shedletsky leans in the doorway, you’re unable to tell if he’s annoyed or impressed.
“Spectre torched your place, huh?”
You nod slowly. That’s all you’ve got in you.
He sighs like a man who’s seen too many disasters and steps aside. “Come on in. Just don’t ruin the rug— it's older than Builderman’s sense of optimism.”
You step in and the heat hits you like a wall— the cabin’s warm, cluttered in the organized chaos kind of way. Tools. Paper stacks. Some swords. Weird half-assembled contraptions. Bloxy colas. Oh, and of course, a bucket of fried chicken. Classic Shedletsky.
And one bed.
A very small, and you guessed it, a very obvious one-person bed.
You glance at it. So does he.
There’s a pause.
“…Alright, I’ll bite — rock-paper-scissors for who gets it?” he asks with a grin.
You raise a brow. “Dead serious?”
“No, I’m never serious,” he says. “But you look like you’ll collapse over mid-round tomorrow if you sleep outside, so let’s figure something out.”
You groan inwardly, but follow anyway. At this point, dignity means less than not freezing to death.
He shrugs. “Not my fault that the Spectre decided to cosplay as an arsonist. Spectre’s got beef.” Before he adds in reassurance, “Don’t worry. I won’t make it weird.”
You raise a brow. “You’re literally the reason weird exists.”
He laughs at that—genuine, warm. “Flattering. But seriously. You’re half-dead on your feet. You take the bed. I’ll crash in the corner or something. I’ve slept in worse places. Like under the old spawn tower. During a sword tournament. While it was raining.”
But you stop him. “Just share. I’m not going to play hero over sleeping arrangements.”
Shedletsky pauses, blinks once, and then smirks. “Alright. But I’m warning you—if I roll over and accidentally kick you in my sleep, that’s on you.”
You climb in first. The bed is warm, the blankets are… surprisingly soft.. You feel the mattress dip as he joins, staying well on his side.
Silence settles. And then, as if he just can’t help himself:
“…You know, you’re lucky it was me. If you’d knocked on Dusekkar’s door, he’d have made you answer a riddle before even letting you breathe.”
You almost laugh.
Almost.
He doesn’t say anything else that night. Just hums something softly—some half-remembered melody from a forgotten Roblox game—as he falls asleep beside you.
For once, the cabin feels safe. No snark, no fire, no killers. Just two survivors resting before another round of hell.
And somehow, with him nearby, it doesn’t feel so bad.
“Sleep tight.”
Despite yourself, you do. Though you’re awoken at 3 a.m. by the sound of Shedletsky mumbling about “sword hitboxes” and his snores.
Chance:
The knock you give this time is softer. You’re too tired to knock hard, and honestly? You’re half-hoping no one answers.
But the door swings open anyways, almost like it was waiting for you.
Chance stands in the doorway, framed dramatically by the flickering firelight inside. His light grey skin contrasts sharply against the dark of the night, and his back fedora casts a shadow over his headphones and tinted shades. Despite the chaos you’ve all endured, he’s still in his full suit and tie with a couple of wrinkles here and there. There’s curiosity in his eyes as he stares at your form.
“Well, well, well. What brings you here?”
You stare blankly, barely holding yourself upright. “Spectre burned my cabin.”
Chance squints before stepping aside dramatically, gesturing like a showman. “Come in, weary traveler. Lady Luck owes you that much.”
You’re too tired to comment on how theatrical he is being. The inside of his cabin is…not that surprising. There’s dice, playing chips and cards scattered across a desk nearby while a small collection of fedora hats are sitting neatly nearby. There’s even a dartboard on the wall.
But you’re too tired to care.
Then your gaze lands on the bed.
One. Singular. Bed.
Of course.
Chance stares at the bed as well. “Oh noooo, one bed? What a gamble. Hope I don’t roll snake eyes in my sleep.”
“Chance.” You speak, “Don’t make this weird.”
He raises his hands in surrender. “No weirdness here. I’ll flip a coin to see who gets what side or maybe who sleeps on the floo—”
“Not in the mood for jokes, Chance.”
“Okay, okay. No jokes. We’re just playing the hand we’re dealt.”
He pulls out a golden coin, and flicks it into the air with a flair. It spins slowly before he catches it and slaps it to his wrist.
“Heads: you get the left side. Tails: I do.” He peeks. “Heads. Your lucky night.”
You’re about to protest when he kicks off his boots, loosens his tie, and flops dramatically to the right side of the bed, already muttering about the odds of this happening.
You collapse onto the other side, face-first, barely resisting the urge to scream into the pillow.
After a few minutes of silence, Chance pipes up from beside you, “Wouldn’t it be wild if we woke up and the bed wasn’t real?”
You groan. “Chance, please shut up.”
He chuckles and rolls onto his side. “Fair enough.”
You found yourself falling asleep, listening to the rhythmic flick of his coin flipping through his fingers. Somehow, that helps.
It feels like perhaps, luck is on your side tonight.
Guest 1337:
You barely register your footsteps as you stagger toward the cabin. The smoldering debris of your former shelter still lingers in the air behind you, thick with smoke and the sharp sting of ash. The Spectre had done it—again. No real motive. Just destruction. Typical.
Your fist, heavy with exhaustion, knocks once against the door of the nearest survivor’s cabin. You’re half-aware of who it might be. Too tired to care.
The door opens swiftly.
Guest 1337 stands there, blue hair tousled slightly by the wind, his camouflage uniform creased from activity, not rest. His tan army vest bears scrapes from past rounds, a few dried streaks of grime across the fabric. His eyes—normally sharp with determination—narrow slightly in concern.
He doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t need to.
He looks over your shoulder at the orange glow on the horizon—your ruined cabin still crackling—and then back to you.
“Inside. Now.”
His tone is firm, military, but not cold.
You enter, the cabin interior dim and sharply organized. A folded blanket on a wooden trunk. His gloves were taken off and placed onto a nearby table. The atmosphere of his cabin doesn’t feel like a home, yet somehow, in this moment, it feels safer than anything else.
You glance at the bed near the wall. Neat, but one bed.
Guest 1337 notices your hesitation immediately.
“I’ll take the floor.”
You frown. “Not a chance. You’ve had my back in every round since week three. I’m not making you sleep on solid ground.”
He crosses his arms over his chest, gaze fixed and unyielding. “I’ve slept worse.”
Of course he has.
You pause. So does he.
Then, with the exhausted sigh of two people too stubborn to argue further, you nod once.
“…Fine. We share. I don’t snore. Much.”
Guest 1337 doesn’t smile—he rarely does—but the corners of his tired eyes crease ever so slightly as he steps back and motions you toward the bed.
You lie down on the narrow bed, scooting over to give him space. He sits first, removing his army vest and setting it silently beside the bed. You notice the way he moves—efficient, practiced, no wasted motion.
When he finally settles beside you, back half-raised against the wall, legs stretched out beside yours, there’s a stillness to him. He’s listening. Always.
After a while, your voice cuts through the quiet, barely a whisper.
“You ever get used to it?”
“The chaos?” he asks. “No. You just get better at standing in front of it.”
You let your head fall back into the makeshift pillow. The warmth of the bed—though thin—counters the cold outside. The war still rages out there, rounds still await tomorrow, but tonight?
Tonight, you’ll sleep beside the one person who’s never let a survivor fall behind.
And in this hellscape of broken cabins and endless threats, that’s enough.