Work Text:
You spend what feels like a few hours staring contemplatively at your blank nametag before cautiously penciling in the name ‘Frisk.’ You’re not really looking forward to the hoards of people who are going to be gendering you at your new job, but it’s not like there’s anything you can do about it. You wonder if Muffet would care... she seemed nice enough, and didn’t seem to take offense when Sans called you ‘they’ during your brief introduction, but the conversation had been short enough that she hadn’t referred to you with any pronoun herself.
You sigh, erasing the name and leaning your head back against the couch. Is Muffet safe to come out to? She seems fine, but you need this job and if it’s not fine you’ll be back where you were before: a burden Sans and Papyrus can’t afford for much longer.
“hey, kid.” Sans startles you out of your reverie when he enters, carrying a plate of chocolate chip cookies. He plops the plate on the table and plops himself on the couch. He moves to grab the remote but stops after a second and pushes the cookies toward you. “want one? it’s pillsbury.”
“Really?” you say, looking up at him. He pulls his mask off and grins at you before digging in.
“felt like doin’ something fancy today,” he says, ruffling your hair. “congrats on the new job.”
“Thanks,” you say, remembering your dilemma and grabbing one of the cookies. They’re actually pretty good, especially compared to the cold ones he usually gets.
Sans watches you eat for a moment before saying, “alright, spill. what’s got you down?”
You sigh and show him the nametag. “Just...” you mutter, “not sure what to write.”
Sans takes the nametag from you and writes something on it in pencil before handing it back to you.
‘Frisk,’ it reads, ‘and my pronouns are THEY/THEM i will fite you.’
You laugh and give him a playful shove before taking another cookie.
“you don’t have ta worry about muffet,” he says, ruffling your hair. “i promise she’s not gonna care that you’re nb.”
You hum thoughtfully through a mouth of cookie, not sure why that isn’t as comforting as it should be.
“do you want me to tell her?”
“No,” you swallow and think for a second. “No, I’ll tell her. I just... need to figure out how.”
Your chance comes when Muffet is teaching you one of her recipes a few days before the shop is due to open. “By the way, dearie,” she says while you stir the batter, “I never caught your name...”
Your hands go still until you force them to move again. You take a deep breath - you’ve already decided to tell her, you can’t back out now - and say, “Frisk.”
“That’s such a sweet name,” she says, without missing a beat, and your heart flutters a little in your chest.
“Thanks,” you reply lamely, trying not to betray how nervous you are. “...Actually, I wanted to talk to you about something.” You swallow, trying to remember how you’d decided to start.
“Yes?” asks Muffet, which makes you even more nervous for no reason.
You decide to just come out and say it. “I’m, uh,” You stop stirring for a second to try to steady your breathing.
Muffet puts a hand on your shoulder and rubs her thumb against your arm to try and comfort you. You take a deep breath.
“I’m nonbinary.”
“Oh,” replies Muffet, “Is that what’s gotten you so worked up? Frisk, dear, half of my cousins are nonbinary!” She laughs, then, which is somewhere in the awkward space between soothing and disconcerting. “Ahuhuhu, I thought you might be when Sans introduced us. It does explain his deliberate omission of your name...” She trails off for a moment before continuing in her normal tone. “Of course, I’ll do everything I can to make sure you’re comfortable working here. I know people can be as stingy with their words as their wallets.” The oven dings suddenly and she scurries over to take the muffins out.
“You’re not upset?” you hear yourself ask.
“Oh heavens, no. Keep stirring, dear.”
You remember your hands and continue, a little lost in thought while you watch the batter take shape. “Thanks,” you repeat, in part just to fill the silence.
Muffet hums in acknowledgement as she finishes stacking the muffins. “There must be a way to keep people from misgendering you all day,” she says quietly.
“Sans suggested I write my pronouns on my nametag,” you mention, remembering his little joke the other day.
“I think that’s a lovely idea.”
“Hm.”
Muffet is silent for a second before continuing, “But it’s completely up to you. Whatever you’re comfortable with. Oh, I should buy a sword for the shop!”
“What?”
“In case politely correcting people doesn’t work, dearie. We’ll need a way to deter burglars as well. Oh, I think that batter is ready to pour.”
The shop opens on Halloween night, so the seating area is adorned with decorations everywhere, complete with signs around the counter advertising “All proceeds go to real spiders!” and “By spiders, for spiders, OF spiders!” You get very good at talking up the spider shaped cookies with spider shaped chocolate chips (which you, in a hushed voice, tell the children are real spiders).
Muffet spends most of your shift up front, showing off her ‘spider queen’ costume, complete with a silver cigarette holder that practically glows in the dim light, a spider dangling from the end that you’re frankly not sure whether it’s real or not. She retreats to the kitchen now and again to restock the pastries and it’s anyone’s guess how she keeps from getting covered in flour. Regardless, the customers are absolutely terrified of her, which seems to make her extremely happy.
You’re pulled from your thoughts when your current customer says to her friend, “I’m sure she got your order, Gerald,” and you clench your teeth and ignore her.
“They,” corrects Muffet, looking up from the pastries she was setting out.
“Pardon?” asks the customer, and you gather your breath and interject.
“Um, I’m not a girl, Ma’am.” You point to your nametag and inch closer to Muffet in case this goes wrong.
“Ugh,” the customer crosses her arms and starts to say something else, but Muffet interrupts her.
“If you have a problem with that,” she reaches under the counter and pulls out the broadsword, which she places menacingly on the table, grin widening. “I’m sure-”
The customer is out the door before Muffet can finish her threat. She sighs, disappointed, and puts the sword back under the counter.
“I’m sorry,” you tell her, and go back to making the drink her friend ordered (He’s still here - frozen in fear, but here.)
“Whatever for?” she asks, and after a moment you realize she’s actually expecting an answer.
“She was about to buy something,” you mutter lamely.
“She already paid for it,” Muffet shrugs and ruffles your hair affectionately. “We don’t need the business of people like her, dearie.”
You hand the drink to the friend and he stammers out a “thankyou,” before leaving.
“I wonder if she’ll come back when she realizes she never got her drink,” you think out loud.
“If she does,” replies Muffet, ruffling your hair as she turns to go back to the kitchen, “you have my permission to stab her.”