Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Snow drifts by the kitchen window, in flakes the size of nickels. Frost creeps up the corners of the glass, but the inside of the apartment is warm and rich with the smell of baking cinnamon. Sans stifles a yawn as he pads into the kitchen, drawing an oversized bathrobe closer around him. He rubs sleep out of his eyes. The clock over the oven tells him it’s one in the afternoon.

Man, he loves Sundays.  

Frisk is sitting at the dining table, a tall mug of cocoa next to them and papers and books spread out across the table’s surface. They’re tapping their pencil irritably against the wood, other hand tangled up in their hair. Their lips are screwed up in an expression of distaste.

“Hey, kiddo,” Sans greets. He folds himself into the seat next to Frisk and collapses forward, pillowing his skull on crossed arms.

Frisk waves a half-hearted hello, and doesn’t look up from the paper in front of them.

Sans cracks open one eye socket. “Geez, you’re really glaring at that thing. What it’d do, insult your mom? ‘Cause if so, I could have a few words for it.”

Frisk taps the heavy textbook at the top of their stack. “Midterm tomorrow,” they reply wearily, over-exaggerating the movement of their thumb as they sign 'tomorrow'. “I’m not getting the right answers on the study guide questions.”

Without lifting his head, Sans tilts his skull to read the spine. Physics. “Whatcha studying?”

“We started waves. I thought I understood but when I try the questions, I’m not getting the same answers as in the answer key.”

Sans peers over at the paper Frisk is attempting to glare into submission. The space under the first question is strewn with half-erased attempts. Sans points one bony phalange at it. “You forgot to square the x.”

Frisk looks startled. They stare down at their paper, brow furrowed.

“You’re looking for work. Area under the curve, right?”

Frisk blinks. They hastily scribble in a tiny 2 over their x, and then then pull out a calculator to punch in the new numbers. They compare the result to another sheet of paper laid out by their textbook, and a look of relief crosses their face. “That's it. Thanks!”

“No problem.”

Frisk pushes their paper over toward Sans. “Can you tell what I’m doing wrong on number five?”

“It’s a Sunday afternoon, and you’re asking me to find work ? Man, tough standards.”

Frisk rolls their eyes.

Chuckling, Sans picks up the sheet. At that moment, padding footsteps behind him announce Toriel’s return to the kitchen. He twists around in his chair and smiles. Toriel is wearing a soft blue sweater under her apron, which is dusted white with flour. It’s a great look.

“Hey, T,” he says with a lazy wave.

She smiles at him. “Hi, Sans.” She comes over to the table and leans down to press a soft kiss to the top of his head, then does the same for Frisk. She glances down at the table, at the papers and books scattered around the surface, and the sheet now in Sans’ hands. “Are you helping Frisk with their homework?”

“He figured out what I was doing wrong,” Frisk signs cheerfully. “At least on the first question.”

“Oh, good! Well, now that you’ve had a break through, do you want to break for pie? It’s about to come out of the oven.”

Sans grins broadly. “Really? That was not up to your usual standards.”

Toriel wrinkles her nose and swats at him. Sans laughs, and doesn’t bother to dodge.

Frisk shuffles some of their papers into a semblance of proper piles, clearing a few spots of space on the table. A hot draft of sugar and spice wafts through the kitchen as Toriel pulls open the oven to retrieve the pie. She sets it up on the stove to cool, and begins to pull some small plates out of the cabinet.

“You know, I want some hot cocoa,” Sans announces. “Kid, you want a refresher on yours?”

Frisk nods.

“Cool, you can make mine too, then. Make it with milk, not water, thanks.”

Frisk shoots him a very dry look and lifts their eyebrows. Behind him, Toriel huffs an amused sigh.

Sans chuckles. “Just kidding. I’ll make it. Tori, you want some?”

“Yes, please.”

With effort, Sans drags himself back out of his chair. Frisk pushes their mug toward him; he takes it over to the counter, where he starts rummaging around in the cupboard for the cocoa.

And then the three of them are sitting at the table with three slices of pie and three mugs of hot chocolate in front of them. Frisk is still scribbling at their sheets of physics equations, but looking considerably less frustrated than when Sans first came into the kitchen. Toriel leans back with her mug in her hands, eyes closed as she breathes in the steam. Sans rests his chin on one hand and watches the snow still swirling past the window.

Nearly ten years since the barrier vanished, and he still hasn’t gotten used to snow on the surface. Oh, sure, they’d had plenty of snow back in Snowdin - enormous, eternal drifts of the stuff. But snow in the darkness was nothing like snow in the sunlight, when you could make out each individual flake and light sparkled off the ground and through the trees. When Frisk was younger, they’d drag everyone off to play outside every time a snowstorm blew their way. Now, homework kept them inside more often, but this was pretty good too -- quiet Sundays around the kitchen table, sharing pie and hot chocolate.

Ten years since the barrier vanished. It’s at once everything they’d hoped for, and nothing he’d expected. Sometimes, he thinks, time is the strangest thing.

To be fair, though, he’d always had an odd relationship with time.

The physics textbook is still in front of him, and Sans pulls it closer. Absently, he flips through. Thermodynamics, optics, electromagnetism… old, familiar equations jump out at him, and it’s like vertigo.

He keeps turning the pages, until… Chapter 29: Quantum Physics .

It’s not quite what he used to work on -- he wouldn’t expect a high school textbook to have the long, elaborate equations they’d used on the CORE -- but the principles are the same. Sans stares down at a page demonstrating the difference between photons in gamma rays and x-rays and at the image of the skeletal hand that’s printed there.

Time is an odd thing.

“Sans?”

“Hm?” he pulls himself out of his thoughts and looks up. Toriel and Frisk are both watching him curiously.

“Can Frisk have their book back?” Toriel says with a smile.

“Oh -- yeah, sure.” He passes the book to Frisk, who flips back to Chapter 16: Oscillatory Motion and Waves.

Toriel is watching him knowingly, a slight smile on her lips. Sans flashes her back a shrug and a grin. Trying to pretend he wasn’t thinking of anything would be a futile endeavor, he knows. But she doesn’t ask for any details.

Loud footsteps clang up the stairs outside, and then the door bursts open in a flurry of snowflakes.

“HELLO FRIENDS!”

Papyrus bustles into the apartment, shaking snow from his thick wool hat. Under one arm, he has an assortment of envelopes and paper. “I am here to collect Frisk for our weekly visit to Alphys and Undyne! I have also collected your mail!”

“Papyrus!” Toriel gasps. “I hope you didn’t drive in this weather!”

“Certainly not! I walked! ”

“Oh, dear,” Toriel murmurs, taking in the the snow crusting the edges of Papyrus’ scarf.

Papyrus kicks off his slushy boots, then strides over to the kitchen table. With a flourish, he slams the mail on the table and pulls off the top piece.

“Toriel! Snail and Wine - first issue of the year! And for Sans, oh, a credit card offer! And these people are asking for you to vote for them! Oh, an electric bill!”

Somehow, junk mail is just as much a problem on the surface as in the underground -- if not more so. As Papyrus slides coupons for local businesses they’ll never use in Sans’ direction, Sans tries propping the envelopes upright into a tower shape. Papyrus glowers, but Toriel hides a chuckle behind a large paw.

“And for Frisk!” Papyrus continues, as he reaches the last, but largest, pieces of the pile. “Oh, these are big! Exciting! ‘Thank you for your request for information,’ they say. How polite! You have one from Ebbott University, New Home College, and Northwestern State University!”

Oh geez, college mail. It’s not the first time Frisk has received college mail, but each time another information packet or flyer shows up, Sans gets a stab of that of not-quite-vertigo that always makes him feel like he’s on the receiving end of the timeline’s own prank. He catches Toriel’s eye. Her expression is soft, warm, but there’s also an ache there. He offers her a would-be-casual shrug, but he knows she can read him as well as he can read her.

Frisk has already snatched the packets from Papyrus, and torn open the first one. They flip eagerly through the glossy magazine from Northwestern State. Sans peers at the images of laughing college students on the cover, considering. Somehow, he feels like he doesn’t trust them.

“And when you have retrieved your warm clothing,” Papyrus adds, “we can head to Undyne and Alphys’!”

Frisk looks meaningfully clock over the stove, then back to Papyrus. “It’s early,” they accuse.

“Indeed! Snow and ice does not not hinder me ! Of course, it may be difficult for you, my friend, and there is no shame in that. If we depart early, we will not be late for anime viewing!”

“Really, you two want to head out again in this weather?” Toriel asks worriedly.

“It is Sunday! Sunday has always been the day for the great Papyrus and Frisk to watch anime with our dear friends Undyne and Alphys!”

Frisk looks up at Toriel imploringly. They gesture at the papers strewn in front of them, in a clear “look how much work I’ve done!” expression.

“I know, my child. But this snow is so heavy, and it’s not going to let up until late this evening…”

“Eh, let them go, T,” Sans puts in. “It’s just around the corner. If the weather is too bad later, they can crash at Undyne and Alphys’. It’ll be snow problem.”

That makes Toriel crack a smile, while Papyrus throws back his head with a loud groan. Sans grins, pleased to have elicited his two favorite reactions. Finally, Toriel nods. “Okay -- but bring your school bag, Frisk, in case you get ice -olated over there.”

“UGH,” Papyrus protests.

Frisk, however, just signs “thank you!”, chugs the rest of their hot chocolate, and scrambles up from the kitchen table.

“I will come help you pack!” Papyrus exclaims. “Anything to get away from these two’s bad jokes…”

“You don’t like our winter jokes?” Toriel asks, in mock concern. “How… cold .”

“The day you two met was the worst day of my life!” Papyrus retorts, while Sans bursts out laughing.

Frisk disappears into their room, Papyrus on their heel. A few moments later, both reappear, Papyrus with Frisk’s half-packed bag under his arm, Frisk cradling a flowerpot that contains a single, yellow flower. The flower is wearing a tiny woolen scarf.

“Oh -- you’re taking Flowey?” Toriel asks, surprised. “Won’t it be too cold for him?”

Frisk shakes their head. “I’ll put him under my jacket,” they say with some difficulty, as they need to keep one arm still to hold the flowerpot.

“I will not be left here alone with them ,” Flowey growls, his tiny scowl focused directly on Sans. Sans lifts his brow.

“It would be cruel to leave anyone alone to their onslaught of bad jokes,” Papyrus agrees sagely. “Do you know what they just said? Sans said the weather would be ‘snow problem’, and then, Toriel said we might get ‘ice-olated’ at Alphys and Undyne’s! And then! And then! She made another cold pun! That’s three bad jokes in ten seconds!”

“Uggggh,” Flowey groans. “Yesterday, I had to hear them flirt-punning . It was disgusting .”

“You poor creature,” Papyrus sympathizes.

“Well, if you all are going to head out, why don’t you take the rest of the pie?” Toriel says. “I’ll wrap it up for you.”

When Papyrus and Frisk finally leave the apartment, trudging carefully down the spiraling metal steps under Toriel’s watchful gaze, Papyrus is carrying an enormous box that’s been tied up with a piece of cooking twine, and Frisk carefully keeps their arms wrapped around the bulge at the front of their puffy jacket. Flowey’s surly face pokes out over the zipper.

“Be careful!” Toriel calls after them. “Call me when you get there!”

Frisk waves goodbye with a gloved hand.

Toriel retreats inside and closes the door behind her. “I cannot believe that Papyrus walked all the way here,” she sighs. “I should have called him and let him know we don’t need him to take Frisk out for us this week…”

Sans waves one hand dismissively. “Eh, we haven’t needed Papyrus to take Frisk out for us for years; Frisk keeps themself busy. He just likes doing it. And we’ve walked further in worse snow back when we were sentries.”

“I suppose it is nice to have a routine,” she agrees, smiling. “I’ve goat to admit I appreciate having a weekly ‘date night’.”

Sans cracks a broad grin. “Heh. Can’t make any bones about it either. Say, did you have any plans for today?”

“Oh, not really… I have some progress reports to work on. Is that not a little embarrassing -- using our date night to catch up on work?”

Sans shrugs nonchalantly. “I don’t mind. It’s always a treat to see you in your reading glasses.” He winks.

“You incorrigible flirt,” she teases.

“Is that one of your kids’ vocab words for this week?”

“‘ Incorrigible ’? Sans, I teach first graders.”

“Yeah, and you’re their teacher, aren’t you?”

She rolls her eyes. “Help me clear the table? There isn’t enough space for my papers with all this.”

Toriel clears away the empty plates and mugs and carries them over to the sink. Sans dumps the junk mail in the recycling and takes Toriel’s magazine over into coffee table in the living room. He picks up Frisk’s mail next, then pauses, his gaze lingering over the cover of the top of college catalogues. Ebbot University. The cover displays students laughing on an outdoor campus, surrounded by fall foliage and books.

He turns the first page. Our Mission - Break All Limits! -- vague, grand words describe commitment to things like ‘achievement’ and ‘potential. The next page. Award-Winning Programs . Arts. Chemistry. Political science. Next comes Extracurricular Opportunities  and then State-Of-The-Art Dorms. It’s this page he lingers on the longest, scrutinizing the images of brightly-lit dormitories that are filled with bunk beds and books and plastered with generic posters.

Toriel notices him pause. She comes over and glances over his shoulder. “Ah…,” she says softly. “At least this one is not far away.”

Hastily, Sans flips the catalogue shut. “Eh, they’re not leaving for a year and a half yet.”

“Yes, that is true.” Toriel takes the catalogues from him, and takes a moment to turn through them. The heartache in her expression is back, as a tension in her temples and a shadow lingering in her soft eyes. She’ll never be really ready to let Frisk go, Sans knows. And even if it’s just college, this time… that pain in her expression is so potent it makes Sans’ own chest tighten. He reaches out to rest one hand on her arm.

Toriel covers his hand with one paw. “Are you going to be okay, Sans?”

“Me?” he replies in disbelief. “What about you?”

Toriel meets his eyes steadily. “It will be hard, yes. I will miss Frisk when they leave. I will cry for many months, most likely. But Frisk gives you something to do. As I said, it is nice to have a routine -- and Frisk is your routine. I teach. I will still have somewhere to go, something to do, most days. You will not.”

“I mean, looking after Frisk doesn’t take that much work even now,” Sans says bewilderedly. “They’re seventeen. They don’t need me for much.”

“You get them ready for school in the mornings. You clean their dishes. You make dinner on the weekdays.”

He snorts. “Half the time, that’s frozen pizza.”

“Not every day. And even on pizza days, that still gives you a reason to get off the couch each evening. What will you do without that?”  

Awkwardly, Sans rubs the back of his head. “I dunno. I guess I’ll find something. I mean, back in Snowdin I had three jobs, right? There’ll be something to get me out of your hair.”

“I do not care about you ‘being out of my hair’. None of those jobs you had in Snowdin were important to you. Looking after Frisk gives you something to do that means something to you.”

“Hey, I liked those jobs,” he protests. “It was fun, working with Papyrus.”

“Yes. It was Papyrus that mattered to you, not your jobs. If he were not there, would you have bothered to go to those jobs?”

Sans huffs a weak laugh. “There were a few I worked without him. He didn’t sell hot dogs with me.”

Toriel gives him an expectant look.

“Eh, alright, I slept when he wasn’t around. Okay, cool, maybe I’ll work with him again. Would that be bad?”

“No,” Toriel replies. “That would be fine, if you want to do that. Just… I want you to think about what you want to do when Frisk leaves home. I want you to be doing something that you want to be doing. Something that means something to you.”

Sans looks down at the catalogues in Toriel’s paws. How ironic it is, the thinks, for him to be worry about the passage of time. “I mean, you guys -- you, Frisk, Papyrus, kind of are the important things.”

“ You also are important.”

“I don’t follow. Are you calling me out for taking care of my family? Because, pot, kettle.”

“No, no, that’s not it,” Toriel laughs. “Sorry, I am not explaining myself well. But your family is here. We will always be here, even if one of us moves away. I just want you to make sure you’re giving yourself enough, that there are enough things in your life that matter to you to keep you going when what your family needs from you changes.”

Sans isn’t quite sure what to say to that. Family matters. Toriel knows that. Hell, Toriel has the same damn priorities. “Right. So…. I don’t get it. What am I supposed to be doing?”

“Just. Think about what you’ll do. Maybe,” -- and here, she offers him a wry, apologetic smile -- “make some plans.”

He laughs softly. “Okay, I’ll think about it. No promises on the plans.”

“Deal,” she agrees. She sets down the catalogues on the kitchen counter, then leans down to give him a light kiss, which he returns. “I will go get the progress reports now. Can you make us some more hot drinks?”

“Sure.”

She leaves the kitchen. Sans watches her go, scratching absently at his jawbone.

Ten years. He’d never pictured anything like this back in Snowdin: the surface, the sunlight, this apartment, a kid he thinks of as his , being able to watch laughter crinkle at the corners of Toriel’s soft, currant-red eyes, Papyrus still dropping by at all hours. But that’s time for you, he supposes.

He only wishes it didn’t feel so tenuous.

Chapter Text

--Sixteen years ago--

It’s dark outside.

Well, it’s always dark outside. It’s the Underground, after all. But at this time of day, even the street lights and windows outside the lab are going dark, their pinpricks of light snuffing out one by one as monsters go to bed.

Inside the lab, Sans is still at his desk. He doesn’t spare a glance for the window or the clock above his work station; he’s focused on the computer screen, leaning forward with his chin on one hand as he puzzles. An empty mug stands at the corner of his desk. Papers are scattered across the surface, and the one under the mug sports a now-dry coffee stain.

Sans taps a finger thoughtfully against his chin, then moves his hands to the keyboard and types, almost hesitant. He jabs a finger at the return key.

The computer considers his input for a moment. It throws back an error message.

Sans grimaces. He begins typing again.

“Sans.”

Sans jumps. Gaster is standing behind him, hands in the pockets of his long lab coat as he watches Sans with an expression of slight amusement.

“I did not mean to scare you; I apologize.”

“Geez, Dad, you move like a ghost! Warn a guy when you use a shortcut, okay?”

Gaster laughs softly, and the sound is breathy, like something on the wind that you can’t quite make out.  “As, indeed, you warned your brother before startling him out of his chair last weekend?”

“Heh. It was funny.”

Gaster laughs again and does not disagree. “Speaking of your brother, it is getting late. Papyrus will be waiting for us, so at least one of us should head home.” He nods meaningfully at Sans.

“Hey, don’t give me that look. I went home first yesterday; your turn.”

“I need to wrap up a few things in the CORE that require my clearance. It will take me about another hour.”

“I’m busy, too,” Sans protests. “Hey, you could head home and I could do the CORE stuff for you. I know your passcode.”

“You should not know that,” Gaster says, frowning. “What are you working on?”

Sans waves a hand at the computer screen. “The code for the simulation. I broke a loop somewhere. I just need to find it and fix it.”

“Fixing broken code can take hours. Come back to it tomorrow.”

“I just need ten minutes! I’ll get it.”

Gaster heaves a sigh. “Ten minutes. But then, please , go home. If you haven’t solved it by then, you can do it tomorrow.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sans says, waving him off. “Go do your fancy Royal Scientist stuff.”

Then Gaster is gone, and the lab is empty save for Sans. He turns back to the computer and focuses on the code displayed on the screen. He types, hits run, and frowns again. And then again. He frowns, rubbing his jawbone as he tries to spot the missing comma or extra bracket, or whatever else it is throwing off the command.

Finally, the code runs. Sans sits back with a self-satisfied sigh as a display comes up on the screen: numbers upon numbers scroll out, followed by a black and white animation which resets and repeats every few seconds. Sans watches it for several moments, smiling slightly to himself. Man, it feels so good when a code finally runs. There’s something wonderful about watching the computer spit out long strings of numbers and images, translating the data and computer language into something meaningful.

He glances up at the clock above his work station.

...Well, he’s only fifteen minutes late.

Sans climbs to his feet, joints cracking as he stretches. He begins to close up his workspace, saving and closing the files on his computer, setting aside the papers he no longer needs, packing his bag to go home. His mind is running at a contented, exhausted buzz, and he’s already thinking in a sleepy sort of way of the work he’ll get started on tomorrow. The simulation is set, but he has to check the output for anomalies, then read through the results, and write them up in a summarized report for Alphys and Gaster…. It will take hours to sort through all the numbers and organize them into a report. But that kind of work is rewarding, as he gets to watch weeks of work come together in a clean, concise summary. When he really gets into writing a report, the time just slides by; it’s only him and the numbers. Tomorrow will be a good day.

The computer shuts down. Sans pulls his bag onto his shoulder. He checks the clock one more time, thinking up an apology to Papyrus for his lateness. He could probably work in some pun there about time and relativity…

A loud bang rocks the lab. The walls tremble; pens roll off the desks; one of the computers starts beeping loudly, and then cuts off as the lights go out and the lab goes dark. Sans stumbles, knocked off balance as even the floor shifts under him. What the--?

He whirls around. Emergency lights are flashing on the CORE’s monitor, the only lights still lit in the lab, and they’re casting the whole room in a horrible red light. Sans rushes over, eyes scanning the readouts. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit . It’s catastrophic. He feels cold all over, dread prickling at the back of his shoulder blades.

“DAD!”  

He rushes for exit, somehow gathering enough coherence to remember the shortcuts. He shoves the door open, and then he’s there, in the CORE’s center, but it’s all wrong.

Debris and dust covers the room, smoldering. Rather than the soft blue light of the CORE’s center, the room is now alight with a red-orange glow as flames flicker at what’s left. The ceiling is cracked, and a hole is blasted right through the opposing wall, through which Sans can see nothing but blackness. He doesn’t see Gaster anywhere.

“Dad?!” he yells out into rubble, straining to be heard over the caterwauling of alarms. “DAD!”

No answer comes. Sans yanks off his lab coat and throws it over his shoulder, and then he dashes into the chaos. “Dad! Dad! Where are you?!” Sprinklers have come on, and Sans’ shirt dampens as they weakly attempt to push back the flames in a futile attempt to save the wrecked CORE.

“DAD!”

He’s still pushing through the rubble when the Royal Guard arrives. His hands are black with soot and burns, his clothes singed, his face dirty and dripping with magical sweat. Captain Undyne grabs his shoulder. “Sans! You gotta get out of here!”

“Dr. Gaster -- my dad!”

“We got it! Get out of the way, okay?”

She pulls him back, and this time he just goes limp. He doesn’t remember deciding to stop fighting. Sans lets her guide him out of the rubble and sit him at the perimeter of the room. He collapses to his knees there, staring numbly out at the smoldering wreckage. His mind is white fuzz.

Maybe Gaster isn’t here at all; maybe he already went home; maybe everything’s fine, Gaster missed the explosion by minutes --

But when Papyrus arrives, clinging to Grillby’s arm, Sans takes in the ashen expression on his face and he knows. Gaster never made it home.

“Sans!” Papyrus runs over to Sans and drops to his knees next to him. Even with both of them crouching like this, Papyrus is so much taller than Sans, all long, gangly limbs he doesn’t yet know how to control and honestly when did that happen…

Sans gives his head a little shake, trying to focus, but his brain doesn’t seem to work anymore.

“What happened?” Papyrus asks, voice shaking. “Where’s Dad?”  

“I don’t know,” Sans croaks back. Softer: “He was working here, and . . . I don’t know.”

Papyrus sets his jaw. “I will find him! Don’t worry, brother! I will retrieve our father!”

“Wait, Pap--!”

Papyrus jumps up and rushes forward. Sans grabs for his hand, but misses. And then Grillby and an armored member of the Royal Guard are there, holding Papyrus back. Papyrus struggles.

“Let me go! I must find our father! I MUST!” They don’t let go, and Papyrus’ voice cracks into a desperate kind of sob, and he fights harder against their grip. “I will find him!”

Sans buries his face in his hands, pressing his fingers as hard as he can into his skull as if, somehow, if he pushes hard enough, he can push this timeline right out of his head.

He’ll be okay, he’ll be okay, he has to, he took a shortcut somewhere and is just injured, he’ll be okay…

But as the Royal Guard’s efforts drag on, Gaster does not appear. The fires are tamed; bits of the CORE are dragged out; emergency power is restored to the Underground from a backup generator. But no Gaster. Eventually, Papyrus wears himself out and collapses next to Sans, still sniffling. Grillby finds Sans’ discarded lab coat and wraps it around the both of them, sitting with them as they watch the wreckage of the CORE in numb horror.

It’s in the early hours of the morning when Undyne climbs back out. “We’ll keep looking, but it’s getting late. You should get some rest -- being worn out won’t do anyone any good. Grillby will take you boys home.”

“I don’t--,” Sans begins, but cuts off when Grillby shoots a meaningful look at Papyrus. Papyrus is trembling from a blend of exhaustion, horror, anger, and grief, and whatever else. He looks barely able to hold himself upright, but he’ll try as long as Sans is there too.

Sans takes a long look at the smoldering wreckage. Please be okay, Dad. “Okay,” he says finally.

Grillby puts a hand on each of their shoulders and steers them away. He leads them back to their home and does not leave to head for his place, perhaps guessing -- accurately -- that the absence of the home’s third inhabitant would be suffocating with just Papyrus and Sans there alone. Instead, he makes them hot drinks and they sit around the kitchen table in silence, waiting for news.

It doesn’t come. Sure, Undyne drops in after a few hours, but the story hasn’t changed. The CORE is still destroyed. Gaster is still missing. There are no answers.

Alphys calls at dawn. She asks if there’s anything she can do. There isn’t. She hangs up quickly. The day drags on.

Then the next day. And the next.

Grillby eventually goes home, but comes back to check on them daily. At the end of the week, Papyrus goes back to school. It takes Sans much longer to go back to the lab.

A month later - two? Sans hasn’t been keeping track of the days - he drags himself in. It’s all different. Alphys is there, asleep at her workspace which is strewn with papers and old bowls of ramen; she’s apparently been overloading herself with the work of three people, but Sans can’t bring himself to feel bad about that. He can’t bring himself to feel much at all. He goes to his station and boots up his computer. Old files cover the desktop screen -- code, results, equations, theories, all promising, all half-finished. There’s the old simulation he’d been working on the day of the accident, the one he’d been so eager to write up. He ignores it now; it’s not important anymore.

Instead, he digs into his folders until he finds a file, titled ‘spacetimemanipulation_theory’ . The document is old, unorganized, bits of ideas having broken off into new projects, while others are left behind -- too costly, too impractical, not yet fully designed. Sans scrolls to one of these abandoned thoughts now.

Costly, yes. Impractical, yes. But maybe…

He shortcuts to the closet and rifles through scrolls of old posters and diagrams. When he finds the one he’s looking for, he seizes the sheet and reappears at his desk, where he splays the paper out across the surface. It’s covered in equations and scribbles -- and, there, at the center of the sheet, is a large circle. A loop.

Sans stares at the screen, then at the sheet, mind churning. His hands hover over the keyboard.

Can they go back? Can they start over? What would it take?

Chapter Text

“FRISK!” Undyne shouts, sweeping Frisk off their feet into a rib-cracking hug the moment they and Papyrus come in. Frisk is taller these days, so the sweeping hug isn’t as easy for Undyne as it was in the early days after they emerged on the surface, but she insists on doing it anyway.

Frisk smiles and hugs Undyne back. Inside their jacket, Flowey complains about the rough treatment but he is ignored. Undyne eventually sets Frisk back down and fist-bumps Papyrus.

“You guys are here!” Undyne declares loudly. “ALPHYS! We have guests! Frisk, let me take your things.” She almost tears Frisk’s jacket in her zeal to help them pull it off. “Alphys is waiting for you in her laboratory. Papyrus, come, let us make snacks for when these eggheads are done with their science!”

Frisk nods a thanks and trots off down the entry hall, Flowey cradled under their arm.

Undyne and Alphys’ place is always in a state of chaotic disarray. Alphys leaves books and bowls and anime DVD’s over every flat surface, including the floor. Undyne often makes an attempt to housekeep, but it’s hard to say if those attempts help or hurt; the coffee table is cracked from being over-polished, and Undyne has installed ‘decor’ in the living room which is really a somewhat hazardous tangle of spears right beside the couch with a ribbon on top.

But there are also Alphys’ anime figurines in a spot of honor on top of the curio cabinet, intermingled with trophies from community sports Undyne has participated in -- volleyball, tennis, basketball, dodgeball. And there are photographs all over, propped up on tables and hanging lopsidedly on the walls: here, Alphys and Undyne dressed up for a date, and there, Undyne and Papyrus posing dramatically together. There’s another from when Frisk was still small enough to ride on Undyne’s shoulders. (To be fair, Undyne insists that Frisk can still ride on her shoulders, but Frisk avoids it. It’s not a comfortable experience for anyone.) Another portrait of Alphys and Mettaton, this one with Mettaton’s flowery signature looping over half the frame.

And Frisk’s favorite: a photograph right over the fireplace -- the bricks of which are black and cracked, due to the heat of the roaring bonfires Undyne keeps building -- that portrays over a dozen people, all clustered together and smiling at the camera, all happy: there’s Alphys and Undyne and Papyrus and Frisk and Toriel and Sans and Mettaton and his cousin and Muffet and a whole squad of the Royal Guard, and even more. It’s from the one-year anniversary after they emerged on the surface, when the monsters reunited at Mount Ebott to celebrate. In the following years, fewer and fewer people have showed up for the annual gathering, as the monsters got busy with their lives and fewer found the time to come out, but most stay in touch.

Undyne and Alphys’ place is unusual and a little bit hazardous, but it’s cozy, and is bursting at the seams with love. Frisk feels at home here as much as they do at the apartment with Toriel and Sans.

Frisk passes by the living room, and through to the very back of the house. Undyne and Alphys have converted the second bedroom of their place into a home laboratory for Alphys; here, Frisk pushes open the door and lets themself in.

“Frisk!” Alphys greets brightly, looking up as the door creaks open. “Oh, goodness, you’re early! I didn’t expect you so soon -- oh, dear, my workspace is a mess, I was working on this other thing, it’s, um, a little update for Mettaton, he has this idea for a show -- oh but I’m rambling, and he wouldn’t like me telling you before the show airs! Hang on, let me clear up…”

The laboratory is as much chaos as the rest of the house. Frisk pushes a few stacks of paper off a chair to sit down, and clears a spot on the desk to set Flowey. They angle him to face the broad windows that take up much of the far wall. Outside, it’s still snowing heavily.

“Ugh, it’s a mess,” Flowey complains. “I feel dirty being here.”

Alphys turns slightly pink, and Frisk frowns warningly at Flowey. “You literally live in dirt,” they point out.

Flowey huffs.

“Don’t mind him,” Frisk reassures Alphys. “He’s in a bad mood because the sunlight is weak today.”  

“I’m in a bad mood because I have to deal with all of you!”

“Um… how have you been, Flowey?” Alphys asks tentatively.

“What do you think!”

“He’s been wilting a bit,” Frisk says. “I think he might need more determination.”

Alphys winces. “Oh, you’re probably right… it’s been a while.” She looks troubled. “You sure you can handle him? I know you have some midterms coming up.”

Outside the concentrated magic of the Underground, Flowey needed occasional boosts on determination to keep his flower form alive and thriving long past the lifespan of a typical flower. Unfortunately, these top-offs of determination came with a side effect: he temporarily became much more bad-tempered than usual, and more creative in his attempts to inconvenience everyone around him.

Frisk lifts their chin, resolute. They nod once, and say: “He needs it.” They sign ‘need’ with a sharp, exaggerated movement.

“Okay… okay. Well, be careful. Um, tell me if he gets to be too much,” Alphys mutters as she rummages through the cupboards. She finally withdraws a small plastic container, labelled in messy capital letters: FLOWEY. She pops it open; inside, there are several clear vials, a syringe, and a package of needles.

Flowey huffs disdainfully.

“Um, sit still,” Alphys says to Flowey, preparing a needle.

“You are so clumsy with that,” Flowey grumbles. “I’ll be sore for days -- or maybe that’s your point, huh?”

Frisk pats Flowey’s head, in a seemingly consoling manner, except that it makes Flowey splutter in indignation. The slight smile on Frisk’s lips makes it clear they completely expected this reaction.

Alphys carefully steadies Flowey’s stem with one claw and presses the needle in with the other. Flowey winces, but for once, stays obligingly still.

“There,” Alphys declares. “You’re all set. Now, don’t give Frisk too much of a hard time. You’ll be ready for your next dose of residue next week.”

“And what if I don’t want the residue?” Flowey asks, massaging the point where the needle went in.

“You do,” Frisk replies. “Asriel did.”

Flowey looks away. “Ten years of research,” they mutter darkly. “And the only breakthrough you have to show for it is dog residue . How does that feel, Alphys? Do you feel accomplished ? After all the things you did--”

Frisk holds up a hand warningly. “Be nice, or I’ll put you in the cupboard so you can’t insult people.”

Flowey scowls mutinously, and falls silent.

“Thanks,” Alphys says. “Although, I guess he’s right… the residue really isn’t much.”

“It makes a difference,” Frisk replies.

“I suppose…”

Dog residue had become one of Flowey’s treatments about six years back. Before then, Flowey had been in turns irascible or cruel, cycling between the two as he received his determination boosters. It’d been frustrating, and Sans and Toriel had asked gently if Frisk was sure they wanted to keep Flowey in the house -- but the look Frisk gave them was so grimly resolute that they'd stopped asking.  

And then, the summer before Frisk started middle school, Alphys had the thought to try dog residue. It had something to do with her continuing research on the amalgamations; apparently, amalgamations composed of higher ratios of dog were visibly happier than those with fewer dogs. This was true for even the non-dog parts when controlling for the happiness of the dog parts -- whatever that meant. Frisk hadn't really followed Alphys' excited rambling.

So, they’d tried mixing some dog residue in with Flowey’s soil (Flowey had complained, but ultimately consented). The effect was not immediate, but it was definite: a week after the treatment, Flowey’s demeanor had perked up, and he seemed downright cheerful. On the eighth day, he’d told Sans “good morning”, and didn’t even follow up with any insults or barbs.

Turns out, while Flowey couldn’t feel love, dog residue allowed him to feel loved . Because of the residue’s unusual self-replicating tendencies, the treatments were small and spread apart to avoid overdoses, but it changed the tone of Flowey’s care. Before, they’d been just in a holding pattern, keeping Flowey alive and healthy and supervised; now, there was progress. They were finally improving Flowey’s life.

Unfortunately, since then, there haven’t been any further developments.

“Um… Frisk,” Alphys says nervously. “Have you thought recently about, um, telling Toriel the truth about him?”

Frisk shakes their head sharply; at the same moment, Flowey whips around and snarls at Alphys: “Don’t you dare!”

Alphys squeaks. “But -- she’d want to know! Flowey is Asriel -- it’s her kid!”

“I am not Asriel!”

“Asriel didn’t want anyone to know.” 

“I know,” Alphys says. “But… it’s her kid . It’s been years, and… and she’s not okay. I think she would want to know.”

Frisk looks down, expression troubled. But they say: “Asriel didn’t want to be remembered this way.”

“Okay, but--”

“No.”

Alphys drops it. She heaves a sigh. “Well . . . okay. Let’s, uh, go get the TV ready then, I guess.”

Frisk nods, visibly relaxing. They catch Flowey’s eye and sign: “Do you want to watch too?”

“No,” Flowey snaps. “Spare me from your stupid hang-outs.”

Frisk shrugs. They turn and leave the lab, resolutely ignoring the worried look Alphys shoots in Flowey’s direction.

Back in the living room, Undyne and Papyrus are setting up a spread of snacks. There’s popcorn swimming in butter, nachos piled with so many toppings that it’s hard to spot any chips, an enormous bowl of gummy bears, and the leftovers of Toriel’s pie -- reheated, and piled high with whipped cream that is slowly melting into puddles of stickiness on the plate. Everything is burnt, even the gummy bears. It’s less burnt than usual, though, only partly blackened and not even ashy. It’s probably edible.

“Hi, nerds!” Undyne greets them cheerfully. “You ready for some kickass anime?!”

“What shall we watch this week?” asks Papyrus. “Something exciting? Dramatic? It must be cool!”

“Umm… I don’t know,” Alphys says. “I mean… I’ve been binging Mew Mew Shippuden, but uh, you guys are super behind on that so you’re not going to have any idea of what’s going on. It’s suuuper complicated. I mean, I guess we could watch the episodes you haven’t seen, but the early stuff is really… kind of bad….” She laughs, breaking off. “Frisk, why don’t you pick? You know where the DVDs are!”

Frisk obligingly heads to the DVD case and skims the titles. Soran High School Kiss Club, Fruit Salad, Halfmetal Scientist … They trail their finger over the spines, considering.

“ Cowboy Depot ?” Alphys says, when Frisk pulls one out. “Oh, okay! It’s pretty popular, got a lot of awards too! I haven’t seen it in a really long time, though -- it’s not really my favorite genre I guess?”

“Are there giant swords and magical princesses?” Undyne demands.

“Um, not really? It’s kind of about outcasts being bounty hunters and traveling in space.”

“Hmm,” Undyne considers. “I suppose that sounds okay. Bounty hunters are cool.”

“It used to be one of Sans’ favorites,” Alphys offers.

“Sans likes this one?!” Papyrus exclaims. “Ugh, Frisk, pick a different one! It’s bound to be full of terrible jokes!”

But Frisk is watching Alphys with faint surprise. “Sans?” they ask.

“Oh, um…” Alphys scratches her scales nervously. “Yeah. I know he hasn’t really come to anime night in a really long time… never while we’ve been on the surface. But he was actually the first person to ever come to the Human Culture Fan Club, you know?”

“Not Mettaton?” Frisk says.

Alphys shakes her head. “Mettaton was the first to come when I started advertising it, when it was, uh… back down to one member.”

“Yeah, when Sans and Alphys were working together, they used to hang out all the time and talk about weird science stuff for hours!” Papyrus says. His eye sockets narrow. “I thought you knew that?”

“I didn’t know that he was in the Human Culture Fan Club,” Frisk points out. “He liked anime?”

“Eh,” says Alphys. “He liked science fiction. He had a whole collection of paperbacks that had fallen down from the surface -- in really good shape, considering how many were rescued from the river -- and every day it seemed like he had a new one!

“Anyway, we were the original members of the Human Culture Fan Club. It started with us hanging out at the lab, and I would tell him about Chonibs and he tossed me some of his old paperbacks… Then he started coming over, and I showed him anime, and he showed me some of his live action science fiction shows, and we ending up watching a whole lot of science fiction anime.”

“I don’t know how they did it,” Papyrus puts in. “Their fan club parties lasted hours! I came to one once, and it was so boring !”

“You came on a bad day,” Alphys points out. “That was make-fun-of-the-worst-shows day.”

Undyne scoffs. “Papyrus isn’t a nerd . Of course it was boring.”

“I mean… he’s here now for anime night, isn’t he?” Alphys says, laughing nervously.

“That’s different!” Papyrus insists. “Anime is cool now.”

Frisk waves for their attention. “What happened to the fan club?” they ask.

Alphys’ expression becomes somber. She rubs the back of her neck. “Oh, right. It lasted about two years, just me and Sans… but after the accident at the CORE, he kind of stopped coming. He stopped doing a lot of things, really. First it was because he got kind of really obsessed with his work and didn’t have time for anything else… but then eventually he stopped working too, so I didn’t even see him in the lab. When I finally caught him and asked him about it, he just waved it off and said it wasn’t a big deal.”

She looks down at the DVD case in her claws. “After a while, I guess I realized he wasn’t coming back. I missed watching anime with someone, so that’s when I put up the flyers. And that’s when I met Mettaton.

“Sans never did start coming back. Even now, I guess… Toriel shows up sometimes for anime night, but never Sans. I wonder if he’s avoiding me.”

“Avoiding you?!” Undyne echoes in disbelief. “Why would he avoid you?!”

“Oh, um, I mean...” Alphys stutters, flushing. “I mean… not me , specifically. He does talk to me, I guess. But I know that when I feel like I messed something up, I start avoiding it because I’m so embarrassed. And I think, maybe, Sans kind of does the same thing sometimes in his own way? Maybe he feels guilty about leaving the club? Or I don’t know. Maybe I’m totally wrong. I don’t think he’s into science fiction these days anyway.”

“Nah,” Papyrus says. “He doesn’t read as much, but it’s still his favorite!”

Frisk doesn’t say anything immediately. They take the DVD case back from Alphys and turn it over in their hands, reading the synopsis and inspecting the cover art. They look thoughtful. Then: “I’ll pick something else. Can I borrow this one?”

“Oh,” says Alphys, looking surprised. “Yes, sure! What one do you want watch?”

---

Sans lays sprawled across the couch, feet propped up in Toriel’s lap as she knits. It has long since grown dark and the snow has stopped falling, but in the porch light outside they can see some flakes swirling in stray gusts.

Sans breathes, eye sockets closed. The television in front of them is tuned to some kind of food documentary, and he’s half-listening as he dozes.

Footsteps thump up the stairs outside. As Sans cracks an eye open, the front door bounces open.

“Hey, kiddo,” he greets, with some surprise. It’s late; they had come to think Frisk would be staying over at Alphys and Undyne’s.

Frisk waves back, setting Flowey on the floor so they can pull off their coat and gloves.

“Did you have a good time, my child?” Toriel asks.

Frisk nods, but they seem distracted. The second they’ve kicked off their boots, they grab their backpack and drag it over to the couch. From the front pocket, they pull out a DVD case and thrust it into Sans’ hands.

“Will you watch this with me?” they ask.

Sans looks down at the DVD case. Cowboy Depot. His brow lifts. “Huh. I haven’t seen this one in ages.” Frisk’s gaze is impassive, and Sans grins. “Judging by your expression, you already knew that.”

“What is it?” Toriel asks, leaning over to look.

“A show I used to watch with Alphys.” To Frisk, he adds: “I’m guessing Alphys told you that, huh?”

Frisk nods.

Sans is looking down at the case, turning it over and over in his hands. It isn’t that this specific show means anything in particular to him, but it’s like holding a relic of an old age. “Alphys tell you anything else?” he asks casually.

Frisk shrugs. “Some. So, you gonna show it to me?”

Sans peers at them. “You up to something, kid?”

They say nothing, just watch Sans unblinkingly.

After a moment, he huffs a laugh. “Well, okay then. Sure, I’ll show you.”

Frisk grins.

“But not tonight,” Toriel puts in. “It’s getting late. Child, you should head to bed -- and I should, too. Sans, are you coming?”

“Sure -- let me just get Pap his bedtime story, and I’ll be there.”

“Do not be too late,” Toriel says, smiling. Sans’ feet fall to the floor as she gets up. Frisk obligingly follows her out of the living room, dragging their backpack behind them after collecting Flowey from the foyer.

“Good night,” they sign at Sans.

“Night, kid.”

Sans stays on the couch for several long minutes after that, still turning the case over in his hands.

Chapter Text

The next morning, the snow has turned to rain. It patters against the window and runs down the glass; the snow that had accumulated at the bottom of the window has melted.

Sans yawns widely, scratching his jawbone as he peers out at the wan morning light. The coffee machine gurgles. It’s too early to think, he reflects, but schools on the surface don’t seem to care about little things like sleep.

A bleary-eyed Frisk enters the kitchen, backpack slung over one shoulder. They slump over to the kitchen table and collapse heavily into one of the chairs.

“Morning, kiddo.”

“Hi,” Frisk says wearily, the gesture sloppy. They grab the box of honey flakes and set about filling the bowl already set out on the table.

“Coffee?” Sans asks as the coffee machine finally clicks off.

Frisk nods.

Sans brings over a mug. Black, no sugar; the kid has always had oddly tough tastes for a child. As Frisk eats, he returns to the counter, where there’s a loaf of bread and jars of peanut butter and jelly. Sans lays out two slices of bread and sets about slathering them with generous portions of peanut butter.

“Asgore’ll be picking you up after dodgeball practice today,” he says. “Ambassador stuff. Sound good?”

“Okay,” Frisk says. “Is it that book interview?”

“Yeah, the guy who’s writing up about how fun our integration has been. Asgore wants to take you for dinner afterwards -- just don’t as-gnore your homework, ‘kay?”

Frisk meets his gaze impassively. “Too early for puns,” they complain.

Sans grins widely. “It’s a punnerful morning. Kid, which do you want in your lunch -- chips or fruit snacks?”

“Chips.”

He tosses a bag of chips into the brown paper bag after the peanut-butter jelly sandwich and then drops the whole thing on the table next to Frisk. “Bone appetit.”

Toriel emerges from the bathroom, yawning, just as Frisk finishes their coffee and is zipping up their backpack.

“Heading out, dear?” she asks. “Have a good day.” She kisses the top of Frisk’s head.

Frisk slings the backpack over their shoulders and tugs a hat over their head. “Bye!” they wave. “See you later!”

“See ya, kid,” Sans replies.

Toriel takes Frisk’s vacated spot at the table. Sans brings her a cup of coffee -- two creams, three spoonfuls of sugar -- and another bulging brown paper bag. He fixes a coffee for himself and slides himself into the seat across the table from Toriel. He yawns widely.

“These high schools make kids get up far too early,” Toriel sighs.

“You’re telling me ?” Sans mumbles, his voice muffled as he pillows his head on his arms. “Used to be when I got up to make Frisk breakfast, I got to at least see the sun. Thank goodness for coffee.”

“Tell me more,” Toriel says. “It’s good for you to espresso yourself.”

Sans turns his head to grin up at her from where his head is rested on his arms. “I’m in morning about this schedule. I’ve decided to save myself by any beans necessary.” He picks up his coffee, and accentuates. “Any. Beans. Necessary.”

Toriel laughs heartily, in her bright bleating laugh that makes Sans feel light as air. He thinks that might just be his favorite sound in the world.

“Oh goodness,” Toriel gasps finally. “A good joke is better than coffee. Thanks for that, dear. And I am sorry that your wake-up time is so much earlier these days.”

“Eh, I’ll live ,” he says, and that sets her off again.

Neither of them point out that Sans could always choose to sleep in and let Frisk get themself ready in the morning. Frisk doesn’t need Sans to make them coffee and a peanut butter jelly sandwich for lunch every morning. But if truth be told, Toriel could sleep in as well; her elementary school starts an hour and a half after the high school. Letting Frisk get up and leave on their own just wasn’t an option. Frisk got up early, so they got up early. It was the way things were.

They sip at their coffee, relaxing at the table as the rain patters the glass and the sky outside slowly lightens to charcoal grey.

“Frisk is going with Asgore tonight, yes?” Toriel asks, after a long moment of quiet.

“Yep.” Sans glances at her. “You okay?”

She smiles slightly. “Yes, of course. Asgore is good for Frisk. I’m glad he’s there to help with their ambassadorial tasks.” But there’s a tightness around her eyes.

“Yeah,” Sans says. He doesn’t press the issue, but adds in an offhand way: “Frisk will be home around eight. Nine at the latest.”

Toriel nods silently.

He watches her. He wishes there were something more he could do to ease the tension in her expression, but he knows there isn’t. This business with exes and children is complicated stuff, and there’s nothing that’s really going to make it easier for her. Well, if there were, he knows Toriel would have found it already.

Toriel manages a smile. “Do you have any plans for today, dear?”

“Nah,” he replies. “Just got a couple things to check on.”

She meets his gaze steadily. “That so? Well, I hope it doesn’t keep you too busy.”

He grins back; she knows it won’t.

When Toriel finally heads out for the day, bag slung over one shoulder and her lunch clutched in her opposite paw, the sky is fully light. Although, today ‘fully light’ is no brighter than a dull, slate gray.

“Have a good day,” Toriel says, and leans down to offer him a peck.

“You too. See ya.”

She picks up a floral-patterned umbrella from beside the door. As she heads out into the rain, Sans can hear the water trickling off the roof and splashing into the growing puddles of slush and mud below. At least Snowdin had had the decency to stay snowy.

And then Sans is left alone inside the apartment. Or. Well. Mostly. Sans casts an uneasy glance at Frisk’s room; Flowey has been quiet this morning.

Eh. Well, unless there’s actual evidence of an immediate problem, Sans isn’t going to bother to deal with it.

The rest of the morning drags by. Sans pulls out a laptop and checks the ambassadorial email account. He clears out the junk and the messages Frisk doesn’t have to see, handles the simple stuff that just requires an attachment or a copy-pasted form letter, and forwards the messages that actually need work to Frisk’s personal email. Once upon a time, cleaning out the influx of emails would have taken all day. Now he’s done before mid morning. At noon, he heats up some leftover snail fry for lunch. By then the rain has petered out, although the air remains heavy with humidity. He decides it’s time to check on Papyrus.

He pulls on his sweatshirt and an old, ratty pair of sneakers and heads out. Four blocks down, he emerges at the front door of Papyrus’ home and doesn’t bother to knock.

Papyrus, technically, lives alone. In practice, Sans does his best to make sure it doesn’t feel that way. Papyrus’ place is a cozy, two-bedroom apartment, in almost the exact kind of layout as the place Sans shares with Toriel; a living room in view of the front door, a kitchen in the back of the house, two bedrooms branching off a long hallway. And, in name, one of those rooms belongs to Sans.

There never had been any kind of official ‘move-out’ for Sans. When they’d gotten to the surface, this was the apartment Sans had managed to find for him and Papyrus; it was affordable and boasted wide windows that allowed the place to fill with natural light. And for a while, they had both lived there. But Sans had started spending more and more time at Toriel and Frisk’s. First just in the afternoons, when Frisk got home from school and Papyrus was still at work. Then he had started being there all day most weekends. That became staying overnight, when he didn’t feel like making the trip back to the place he shared with Papyrus. Eventually, he was there most of the time, dropping back only when Papyrus was home. When the time came to renew the lease, Papyrus had signed off on his own and sent it back.

So, Sans was no longer on the lease. Hell, Papyrus had even started paying the rent on his own. But Sans’ room is still there, looking much the way it did when they’d lived in Snowdin, and he still drops in at least once every day. Sometimes, Papyrus protests loudly that Sans is clingy, and Sans will chuckle and make an idle comment about mooching off of Papyrus’ food. But Papyrus has never yet had to spend a full day without company.

As Sans slouches down the hallway, he glances in on his room, at the tangle of sheets on the floor and discarded socks sprawled around an empty dresser. There’s a note on the door: “CLEAN YOUR ROOM!”. That note has been there for years. He still hasn’t cleaned his room.

“Yo, Pap,” he calls through the house.

“Sans!” comes the response. In the kitchen, Sans finds Papyrus wearing a chef hat and carrying a large bowl that is filled with some sort of batter. “You are here! Excellent! You can help me -- I am making tiny cakes for the children!”

“Oh yeah? You guys having some kind of event at the after-school program today?”

“Yes! I have decided that today will be tiny cake day!”

Sans watches as Papyrus tosses something that looks suspiciously like curry powder into the mix. “Heh. Sounds fun.”

“It shall be! Go fetch my tiny cakes pan.”

“Hey, I never actually said I’d help. I think maybe I’ll just wait here until the free food comes out.”

“You aren’t getting any tiny cakes unless you help!”

Sans chuckles and wanders toward the cabinets, where he finds the cupcake tray at the bottom of a teetering tower of pans. He manages to pull it out, stabilizing the rest of the pans with a lazy flick of one wrist and a half-second flash of blue.

“Here ya go,” he says, bringing it over. “Do I get my free food now?”

“They haven’t been baked yet!”

“What, I can’t taste the batter?”

“Hmm… that is a fair point.” Papyrus scratches his chin. “Alright, you may taste the batter. Go fetch a spoon -- you are not using this one!”

Sans obliges, and Papyrus allows him to scrape a heaping tablespoon of batter out of the bowl.

“Well?” Papyrus asks eagerly, as Sans sticks the spoon between his teeth. “What do you think? It’s my own recipe.”

“Perfect, Pap,” Sans tells him, and Papyrus beams.

But when Papyrus sets down the bowl to check the oven, Sans hastily adds some cocoa powder into the batter to balance out the curry flavor. The tricks Sans has learned from Toriel have protected the kids at Papyrus’ after-school program a fair few times.

Papyrus manages to wrangle Sans into helping fill the cupcake tin, but then promptly ‘fires’ him for his sloppy, uneven work. So Sans is lounging at the kitchen table, enjoying another spoonful of pilfered batter, when the doorbell rings.

Sans and Papyrus both look up in surprise.

“Who can that be?” Papyrus asks loudly. “Sans, go answer the door!”

Sans heaves a sigh and cracks his limbs and he stands, but obliges. In the front hallway, he pulls open the door -- and is almost knocked over as Mettaton bursts in with an explosion of energy.

“DARLING, HELLO!” Mettaton crows brightly, flourishing a bouquet of roses with one flexible, robotic arm. He spots Sans at the door, and pauses. “Oh! You’re here, too.”

The tone isn’t surly, exactly, but it sounds disappointed. Sans’ brow lifts.

“Yep,” he confirms.

“Hi, Sans….” Napstablook floats in behind Mettaton. They’re wearing headphones around their middle, in the absence of having a neck, and are looking downright gloomy. Well, gloomier than usual.

“Hey,” Sans replies. “Pap’s in the kitchen.”

“Thank you, darling,” Mettaton declares, and heads off, with Napstablook trailing quietly behind. Sans follows.

“Mettaton!” Papyrus greets as they enter the kitchen. “I didn’t know you were coming!”

“Surprise, beautiful,” Mettaton coos, leaning up against the counter. He angles the roses toward Papyrus with a flourish of his wrist. “Blooky and I were hanging out this morning, rehearsing some ideas for our next show. And then! We got a delivery of an entire garden of flowers to my dressing room. Well, I couldn’t possibly keep all of them. My skirts kept snagging on the thorns! But, I thought, you know where these flowers would look divine ? In this beautiful home of yours! Blooky and I knew we just had to come over immediately to deliver them! Blooky was so excited!”

Sans notes the resigned look on Napstablook’s face and thinks this recounting might not be entirely accurate.

Papyrus clasps his own face with oven-mittened hands. “For me? Wowie!”

“Indeed!”

“That is very nice of you! I will have to arrange them immediately! But first, let me clean my hands!”

Papyrus pushes the filled tray of cupcakes into the oven and pulls off his oven mitts. As he washes his bony fingers in the sink, Mettaton moves around to the other side of the counter to inspect the empty bowl where the batter had been.

“Tell me, darling, what are you making?”

“Oh! I am making tiny cakes for the children!”

“Is that so? Delightful!” Mettaton draws one elegant finger through the last of the batter clinging to the sides of the bowl and sucks it into his mouth. It’s almost an obscene gesture.

Slightly uncomfortable, Sans glances over to Napstablook instead -- except now, he can barely spot Napstablook. Their figure has faded to almost complete transparency. Nearly invisible, Napstablook hovers by the fridge and watches Mettaton and Papyrus.

Sans looks between Napstablook to where Mettaton is fawning over Papyrus’ cupcake batter. Mettaton leans toward Papyrus, propped up on his elbows with one high-heeled foot kicked out behind him. Papyrus is focused resolutely on poking the rose stems through the weave on the dining room chairs, but keeps glancing back to Mettaton’s half-lidded expression and grinning. To be fair, Papyrus is always grinning, but… huh. Apparently there a several new developments going on here.

Sans glances back to Napstablook. “You cool?”

Napstablook looks startled to be addressed directly; for a moment, their figure flickers back into full view. But then they look back to Mettaton, and their outline fades again. “Oh....,” they say sadly. “I think… I think maybe we’re not needed anymore….”

Papyrus’ cheekbones are slightly flushed; compliments have always made him blush easily. Sans shrugs. “Eh. I guess even family grows up at some point.”

“Yes… that’s true… I’m sorry… I should go…”

“Hey, bud--,” Sans starts. But Napstablook has already faded entirely.

Sans huffs a sound halfway between a sigh and a laugh. He runs one hand over the back of his skull, glancing back to the center of the kitchen. Mettaton has stolen back one of the roses and is holding it between his teeth.

Maybe Napstablook has a point, Sans thinks. Mettaton and Papyrus might both be the biggest show-offs to come out of the Underground (and Sans says this with the utmost fondness), but right now, they probably deserve privacy.

Silently, he shortcuts out of the apartment.

----

Afternoon drags on. Sans only has to make it until four before Toriel’s school finishes, but he still has two more hours before then. He takes a nap, washes the dishes left over from breakfast and his lunch, and watches the rest of the food documentary from the previous night.

Eventually, the solid curtain of clouds breaks. As the sun begins to stream in through the west-facing kitchen windows, Sans finally drags himself up from the couch. He fetches a glass of water from the kitchen and makes his way to Frisk’s room.

Frisk’s room isn’t big, and it’s rather cluttered. It’s not messy in the way that Sans’ spaces can get -- even when Sans doesn’t have many things to lay about, he finds ways of having his possessions be in places they shouldn’t be. No, Frisk just has a lot of stuff: collections of odd objects they find lying around and trinkets from friends. While their room is full to bursting with it, there’s some semblance of organization. Their closet doesn’t quite close with all that is crammed inside -- old toys and books and clothing that spans the spectrum of capes to combat boots to cocktail dresses -- but junk doesn’t spill out across the floor. There are action figures from Mettaton, Papyrus, and Alphys; a sweatband from Undyne; receipts and ticket stubs from events that Frisk has hung on to. Collaborative art they made with Monster Kid. A set of bracelets from their new friend Maya. A miniature otter they got as a gift from that other kid, Kelping… or was it Jake? Or Scribble?

Eh, try as he might, Sans can’t keep track of all the friends Frisk makes. Every week, it feels, there’s someone new. He’s not sure how much of that is Frisk’s fame as ambassador, and how much of that is just who Frisk is. It’s definitely some of both.

But some of Frisk’s friends are impossible to forget, even if he’d like to.

“Hey, Flowey,” he greets wearily.

The flower on Frisk’s desk twists around to fix him with an expression of distaste. There’s a pile of paper scraps at the bottom of the flowerpot, apparently from where Flowey has been shredding an old birthday card. Aw, shit. Sans hopes that Frisk wasn’t overly attached to that card.

“Trashbag,” Flowey drawls. “What are you doing here? Don’t you have anything better to do? Like laze around being useless?” Flowey twists his head upside down and leers up at Sans. “Oh, that’s right, you’re always useless!”

Sans heaves a sigh. “One of your rude days, huh? You know, one of these days I’m gonna learn to stop promising to take care of things.” Unceremoniously, he upends the glass over water over Flowey’s head.

Flowey splutters indignantly, shoving soaked petals out of his face with furious swipes of his leaves. “And so what if you do? One day it’ll all go back and you won’t remember! You’ll do it all over again.”

“Maybe,” Sans agrees, gathering up the flowerpot under one arm. “Wouldn’t be so bad to relive this, though.”

“But maybe it will be different this time. Maybe someone will make different choices. Maybe you’ll lose everything, and you won’t even remember having had it at all.”

Sans doesn’t say anything. Flowey cackles.

“And they won’t remember you! Everything will go back to the way it was -- underground, no hope for escape. No one will remember anything. Toriel will have her real family, and she won’t need you.”

This time, Sans meets Flowey’s eyes. “That’s the best you got? Toriel being happy? You’re losing your touch.”

“I am not! You know that bothered you!”

Sans ignores Flowey’s protests and dumps the pot in front of the kitchen window. “There. Enjoy your light snack.”

“You think you’re so clever!”

“Yep,” says Sans. He decides to leave the kitchen; if Flowey’s going to be in one of his worse moods, it’s probably best to leave him to it.

But as he wanders back toward the living room, he finds himself musing. It’s true that Flowey’s taunts didn’t get under his skin -- so to speak. But that hadn’t always been the case. Flowey liked to use his knowledge of the resets as a weapon, and for a while, Sans had come away from every interaction with Flowey with a feeling of roiling unease in his abdomen. Somehow now, the absence of that discomfort is palpable.

Sans flops onto the couch. His gaze falls on the coffee table, where the Cowboy Depot DVD still lays. He picks it up.

Ten years. After so long, the taunts of the resets had lost their sting. It was hard to be scared of something he hadn’t seen any evidence of in over a decade. And even if there had been resets happening in the past ten years and he hadn’t known it . . . well, in a way, that was almost better. Ten years had gone by anyway. Life, somehow, against all odds, against all his expectations, had kept moving.

He’d never really expected to get here. Now that he is here, he finds, he doesn’t know what to do.  

Chapter Text

--Seven years earlier--

The bar at the corner isn’t Grillby’s, but Grillby hasn’t rebuilt his business on the surface yet and so they make do. O’Keefe’s at least has a decent offering of burgers, unlimited ketchup refills, and is known for being relatively friendly toward monster patrons. It’s a good place to stop for a treat after a long sign language class and an even longer day at school, and it’s one of Sans and Frisk’s favorite weekly traditions.

Today, though, Frisk is only picking at their burger. They’re staring at their plate with a distracted, tense expression.

Sans lowers his ketchup bottle. “You okay, kid?” he asks.

Frisk looks up, fixing him with that same scrunched-brow look they were giving to their burger. With slow, halting sign language, they say: “Can I ask you something?”

“Uh, sure. Shoot.”

A second’s hesitation, and then: “Time travel.”

Sans feels a jerk below his ribs. The chatter of the bar somehow suddenly sounds distant, as if someone had turned up the fader. Okay, so they’re having this conversation. “That’s not exactly a question,” he points out lightly.

“I’m not the only one who can do it, right?” Although it’s signed as a question, the expression on Frisk’s face says they already know the answer.

Sans lets out a breath between his teeth. “No.” he agrees. “Our reports… well, some of the timelines that changed were from before you were born. Those probably weren’t you, eh?”

Frisk shakes their head. They add: “I don’t think I could do it before I fell.”

“Yeah? That fall changed a lot of things, I guess.”

Frisk nods, and looks down at their plate. Several long moments pass.

Sans really wants to change the subject, but it’s obvious that something is still weighing on Frisk’s mind. He takes a long swig from his ketchup. Then, carefully, with forced casualness: “So, uh… have you done any resets since we’ve been up here?”

“ No!” They gesture emphatically, even while shaking their head.

Sans feels a weight lift off his shoulders. “Oh, okay. Just askin’.”

“I only did it two times on purpose down there, too!”

“Really, only twice?”

Frisk nods. They start to sign something, then hesitate, as if trying to find the words. They start again, then pause again.

“Do you want to write it?” Sans asks. Over the past few years, Frisk’s skill in sign language has improved incredibly, but sometimes when they have a lot to say at once it’s still easier for them to write it out instead.

Frisk nods, and pulls a notebook out of their backpack. As they write, Sans sits back, watching. He should have known this conversation was coming, he supposes. Two and a half years out of the Underground, and they hadn’t yet talked about the resets. The elephant in the room should be paying rent at this point. But he’d gotten so used to not talking about it, it feels almost taboo to mention it aloud now.

Finally, Frisk finishes writing. They turn the page toward Sans.

“When I died, I time travelled anyway. But only two times I did it on purpose. The first time was because Mettaton kept killing me. I was scared and I wanted to go home, but Mom didn’t answer the phone. So I time traveled back home and Mom found me again and I stayed there for a while.”

Sans has to break off reading there and close his eyes. He draws a hand over his jaw, feeling -- not for the first time -- a sinking sense of guilt about the pain Frisk went through when he was supposed to be looking out for them. He remembers the way, in the months after leaving the Underground, Frisk would flinch away from Mettaton’s hugs. Sans is lucky Toriel hasn’t killed him. And then resurrected him. And killed him again, over and over, for each and every time Frisk died.

“The second time,” he reads when he opens his eyes again, “I was scared because I was going to fight Dad. When you left, I was alone, and I couldn’t find you again. I time traveled so you’d be back. That’s when you figured out I could do it, and you told me to do it again for your password.”

Sans looks up and meets Frisk’s gaze. “Kid, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to leave you scared. I totally believed you could do it, I guess.”

Frisk gives him a weak smile. “It’s okay.”

It’s not, but Sans doesn’t push the point.

“I haven’t done it again,” Frisk says, after taking the notebook back. “But if other people can time travel, maybe they’re doing it. Or maybe they will.”

“It’s possible,” Sans agrees slowly.

Frisk meets his gaze with wide, worried eyes. “What do you do when everything could go back, even when you don’t want it to?”

Oh, boy . Here are Sans’ anxieties, laid out for him in broad daylight. He’s not sure he ever expected anyone else to utter those worries; he definitely didn’t expect to face them in the worried expression of his own kid.

He takes a deep breath and scratches uncomfortably at the back of his skull. “Heh, you go right for the gut, kid.” He exhales a breathy laugh. “I’ve been asking myself the same question for years, and I don’t know that I ever came up with any good answers.”

Frisk is still watching him expectantly. He takes a moment to consider his next words, then continues:

“I guess the best I can say is just, well, if all of this can disappear, make sure you’re doing the things that matter. Some things won’t matter anymore if everything goes back. Other things will never not matter. Like… if I spend all my energy on some project for work, and everything goes back, that energy didn’t matter because I have to do it all over again. But if I spent that time with you or Toriel or Papyrus, well -- no matter how many times I do that over, it will always matter.”

Here, he pauses. “Don’t use any of this as a reason to slack off from school, though. If Toriel thinks I encouraged you to quit homework, she’d never let me hang with you anymore.”

Frisk doesn’t laugh, or even smile. “That’s not what I mean, though,” they say. “When I time traveled all the way back home because of Mettaton, none of you remembered me. Papyrus said he felt like he knew me, but… he didn’t really remember me. If someone else time travels all the way back, I don’t want everyone to forget me again.” Their face scrunches up; they look to be on the verge of tears. “I don’t want to lose everyone.”

“Oh.” Well, damn, isn’t he stupid to assume Frisk would have the same worries as he does. Of course Frisk isn’t concerned about work! Frisk has always been kinder, more selfless, than himself. “I’m sorry, kid. That’s not something I’ve thought about as much. I guess… well, I’ve always had my family so going back didn’t matter about that. Hell, if you went back far enough…” He trails off. This is about Frisk.  

“Look, kid,” he says finally. “You said Pap kind of remembered you when you went back?”

Frisk nods.

“I did, too. I didn’t really say anything then ‘cause I was still trying to get a read on who you were, right? But the moment I saw you I had the sense I already knew you, and that I liked you.”

“But you still didn’t really remember me.”

“No,” Sans agrees. “But, I guess what I’m tryin’ to say is that some bonds seem to last the resets. So, if someone else resets us back there, we’ll be friends again. Hey, I wouldn’t mind meeting you all over again.”

“But what if I don’t remember you either?” Frisk asks stubbornly. “What if I go back to the foster home and I don’t run away this time because I don’t remember everyone?”

“Aw, come here, kid.” Sans leans across his bar stool to wrap one arm around Frisk and draw them into his shoulder. Frisk clings tightly to his sweatshirt. “Look, I dunno how many time travelers there are out there, but we’re all here today. We were here yesterday. And . . . we’ll all be here tomorrow.”

He takes a breath, and adds: 

“I promise.”

Frisk pulls back, frowning. They let go to say: “You don’t know that.”

“Maybe not,” Sans agrees. “But I learned a secret: promises ain’t always about what you know.”

“I don’t understand.” 

“I don’t either, really,” he admits. “But tomorrow, we’ll all still be here.”  

Slowly, Frisk nods. They stay there for a long moment, just leaning against Sans’ shoulder. Sans stays perfectly still, as if not to startle a skittish cat that has chosen his lap.

Eventually, Frisk straightens. They exhale.

“You good, kid?” Sans asks gently.

“I don’t want to time travel again,” they reply, the motions small.

“Yeah. Well, hopefully whoever else out there that can do it keeps their magic to themself.”

“No. I mean, I don’t want to be the one who does it.”

Sans pauses. Slowly: “I think that’s a good idea. Time travel is messy business.”

“But what if someone gets hurt? And I could go back to stop it?”

Sans frowns, uneasy. The conversation seems have to swung from the helplessness of being dragged along for the ride in a reset to a control he’s never quite had. And yet, this question too dredges up tough memories. He searches Frisk’s expression, as if looking for a map of their thoughts. He doesn’t find any answers.

“That’s not your job,” he says quietly.

Frisk looks dubious.

Sans sighs, dropping his gaze to the bar’s surface. “I… tried once. I had to do it the old-fashioned way, with time machines and stuff, not with whatever magic it is you got. And it was just one thing I was trying to change, one person I was trying to save. But it drove me kind of crazy.

“The timeline’s not supposed to belong to anyone. And no one’s supposed to live outside time. When ‘now’ stops mattering . . . well, you’re not really living anymore.”

When he looks up again, Frisk is still watching him stubbornly. “But I could help them.”

He shakes his head. “Not your job,” he repeats. “And for every . . . every one person you save, there’s another Frisk who found their home, another bunch of people that’s found freedom. You’d have to start deciding whose happiness is worth sacrificing. That’s too much on any one person.”

This time, Frisk nods. They pick at their fries.

“Hey, if you don’t mind,” Sans says, “what brought these questions on?”

A sheepish expression crosses Frisk’s face. “Flowey was talking to me.”

“Talking flower got in your head? Aw, kid, you can’t listen to a word that thing says.”

Frisk shrugs, and eats another fry.

“You sure you want to keep him around? We could drop him at Alphys and Undyne’s . . .”

Frisk levels him with a cold glare.

“Okay, okay, sorry,” Sans says, breaking off with a chuckle. “He stays. But stop listening to him.” And Flowey is getting a talking-to, Sans thinks darkly. Flowey has no place messing with the one person who stands up for him the most.

“Okay,” Frisk agrees. They grab another fry and suck on the end, while watching Sans intently. Then, they ask: “Who did you try to save?”

“My dad.”

Frisk’s eyes fly wide. “Your dad! I didn’t know you had a dad!”

“Well, of course I did. Where did you think I came from?”

“Did you have a mom too?”

“Nope, no mom.”

Frisk frowns, confused. They finish eating the fry hanging out of their mouth, and say slowly: “So… you tried to time travel to help your dad?”

Sans nods. “Yeah. He got hurt. I tried to go back to stop it, but it didn’t really work. I’ll, uh . . . I’ll tell you the whole story one day, okay?”

For a long moment, Frisk stares at him. It’s that steady, piercing gaze Frisk has, the one that makes him wonder if determination is a magic all of its own.

The moment passes. “Okay,” Frisk says, and picks up their burger.

Sans lets out a breath. If Frisk had pushed, he would have tried to tell them, but he’s not sure he knows the words. He remembers telling Toriel; he’d felt hot all over, and he couldn’t meet her eyes. He’d just stared into his mug of coffee, as if telling the story to the coffee rather than her, and his voice had sounded high and tight even to him. Frisk would be even harder to tell; at least with Toriel, he can let himself fall apart just a little.

One day, he’ll tell Frisk. Just not today. In the meantime, at least Frisk can talk to him about their anxieties about the resets. That’s more than Sans ever had himself.

What were the resets to you, Dad? he wonders. What would you have said to me, if I came to you?

Chapter Text

“Alright, everyone, are we ready for lunch?” Toriel asks.

“Yes!” chorus a dozen young voices.

Toriel smiles down at her class. Every year, a new set of faces, and yet every year she feels certain she has the best class in the world. The children grin back at her, clustering around excitedly. “Alright, everyone. Grab your lunches, and then let us get in a single file line.”

There’s a lot of rushing around happy babbling as the children dart for their cubbies. When they have lunch boxes or brown paper bags clutched in hand (or paw or claw), they scramble to organize themselves in some semblance of a line.

“Ren, are you not hall leader today?” Toriel calls to a dark-haired child clinging to a star-patterned lunchbox who had slipped to the back of the line. They look sheepish, and scurry to the front. Toriel takes her spot at the caboose.

The energized gaggle of children sets off down the hall. The librarian waves as they pass by the library’s open doors. When they get to the cafeteria, Toriel herds them over to their class’ table and releases the kids with meal tickets to go buy lunch. “Everyone all set?” she asks, but the students aren’t listening anymore. They’re digging into their packed lunches and babbling excitedly with one another, their barely-contained energy bubbling over all at once.

Toriel smiles fondly at them, waves a greeting to the lunch monitor, and heads back to her classroom. There, she retrieves her bulky paisley handbag from beside her desk. When she opens the bag, though, her expression suddenly falls, and she covers her face with a resigned sigh.

“Forgot your lunch, huh?”

Toriel jumps, the fur on the back of her neck all rising all at once. “Sans!” she scolds, twisting. “Do not scare me like that! And did you even stop by the office to get your visitor pass?”

“Oops,” Sans says, grinning. “ Pie guess I was too egg -cited to drop by.” He holds up a brown paper bag and rattles it.

And Toriel is smiling, too. His visit is an unexpected but delightful surprise. “I think I can make a good guess of what you have packed for me.”

“I’m so grapeful you understand me.”

She laughs, leaning her face into one hand. It’s been a while since she’s seen him at the school, and already her day feels better to see him here now. “Do you want to romaine for lunch, Sans? But please get your visitor pass first.”

“C’mon, Tori, it’s just us. You know who I am -- Goullish the Ghost, right?”

“It is the rules, sweetie. And the kids will be coming back eventually; don’t you want to set a good egg -sample for them?

He beams, eyelights bright. “Heh, alright. You know they won’t notice, though.”

She blinks and he’s gone. A few moments later, he reappears, with a nametag plastered haphazardly on his sweatshirt, and a family-size bag of chips in his hand.

“Potato chips, really?” Toriel chastises as he pulls another chair up to the desk. As short as he is, the children’s chairs aren’t as ridiculously small for him as they could be. “You make such nice lunches for Frisk and myself; you could eat the same.”

“Well, you and Frisk need your energy,” he says with a wink. “‘Sides, you can’t tell me what they’re serving the kids in the caf is any better. What’s it today -- pizza grease soup?”

“Ah, well…” But even she has to admit he has a point there. “Well, at least share some of the fruit you have packed for me.”

He waves her off. “Don’t like grapes. How ‘bout I promise fresh veggies at dinner? Extra serving for me.”

Toriel sighs. “Whatever will I do with your diet? But alright. That is acceptable.”

“So, how are the little squirts?” Sans asks, as he pulls open the bag of chips.

“Oh, wonderful as always. Ren did such a good job sitting still during story circle today! And Lola wrote some beautiful letters; she has really been working on her handwriting. Unfortunately, I am going to have to call Susie’s parents again. They just will not believe she has a behavior problem.”

As Toriel talks, Sans rests his chin on one hand and pops chips in his mouth with the other. “Ugh, parents.”

“I know they are just trying to support her, but ignoring problems is not going to help her. She is having trouble making friends; that will hurt her in the long run.”

“Yeah, that’s true. What’re you gonna tell her parents this time?”

Toriel sighs. “I just do not know. I have tried what I could think of. I have offered them referrals and spoken with her kindergarten teacher, and I have tried being gentle, and I have tried being firm. But if they will not listen, there is not much I can do for her outside of class.”

He nods. “At least she’s got you at school, though. Not all teachers would do what you do for ‘em.”

“You flatter me,” Toriel says with a soft laugh. “And I do hope I help. But in three months she will not be in my care anymore, and I do want her to have the opportunity to thrive.”

She sighs again.

“But let us not spend our entire lunch worrying about stubborn parents. I still have three months to get through to them, and I can make sure that Susie’s next teacher knows about her troubles and the methods I have found that help.”

“There ya go,” Sans says. “She’s got you; someone’s looking out for her.”

She smiles at him. “Thank you, dear. I hope it will be enough.” Sans always seems to find the right words to make every anxiety seem a little less pressing. Or perhaps it’s not specifically his words at all, but his presence itself. It is hard to worry about the things that might be when she’s around Sans’ laid-back demeanor. She reaches into her bag and unwraps her egg sandwich. “But tell me about your day?”

“Eh,” says Sans. “Same old. Flowey’s being a jerk. I dropped by Papyrus’, said hi. The journalist writing that book sent over that chapter he wrote from Frisk’s interview last month.”

“Oh! Have you read it? How was it?”

“Looked pretty good to me, I guess. Pretty straightforward; not a whole lot of embellishments or commentary. But I guess Frisk’ll have to take a look and see what they think.”

“Ah, good, no frisk -y exaggerations.”

Sans shakes his head, chuckling. “That was terrible , T. That wasn’t even a good bad joke.”

She laughs brightly.

It’s been too long since she and Sans had spent a lunch together on a weekday; goodness, it’d been almost a full school year. This past year, Toriel had been spending her lunch periods preparing for afternoon lessons, perhaps rather by habit than by necessity alone. But today maybe, a dose of Sans’ easy-going smiles and bad humor would be a welcome break.

And, she thinks, watching his eyelights glow brighter, Sans needs a lunchtime visit as much - if not more - than she does.

“By the way, I think I might need to remember to bring sunglasses to class.”

“Oh yeah?” Sans says, grinning and propping his chin up with one hand.

“Because my students are so bright!”

He laughs. “Heh, that one’s better. Okay, I have one -- what did the ghost teacher say to the class?”

“I do not know. Tell me?”

“Look at the board, and I’ll go through it again!”

“Oh, of course! Have you told that to Napstablook?”

“Yeah, I don’t think they liked it though. Their sense of humor is a little dead .”

She covers her mouth, even as she laughs. “Oh no, do not be mean!”

Yes, Sans needs these visits. A long time back, she knows, Sans had decided only one thing mattered to him: family. And, once, that had been enough. There had been sign language to learn and homework to help with and company to provide and relatives’ rent to pay.

But, Toriel also knows, there’s this ironic thing about providing for people: when you do it right, one day they don’t need you anymore. At least, not in the same ways. It’s a strange, but lovely, way of things, and one that’s still sometimes hard to wrap her mind - and heart - around.

And so, there’s another thing Toriel knows: Sans is bored. And while the shift might be a testament to years of good support, while Sans might claim to prefer few responsibilities and more free time . . . boredom is a dangerous thing.

Jokes over lunch help, but they no more heal than jokes through a door. A comfort, certainly; a bright spot to lighten up dull days, a special occasion when it’s irregular and a positive routine when it’s not, but purpose matters. Without a sense of purpose, a comfort is just a patch on a frayed sense of well-being. It’s never been jokes that gave Sans a sense of purpose.

Toriel tells Sans about the new marker-poking game the students came up with, which doesn’t seem to have any clear-cut rules (or rather, has rules that bend depending on who’s playing and how many points that person is behind on). He’s in stitches as she describes the absurdity of the latest round with Jackson and Alice, which involved drawing increasingly imaginative rainbow dragonfly pirates on each other’s skin.

“Oh man, I’m glad you work with kids,” he gasps between laughs. “The material they come up with is comedy gold.”

“Children are certainly something special,” Toriel agrees, snickering into her paw.

Indeed, the children are special. Toriel knows a thing or two about boredom after so many long, lonely years in the Ruins, and having her class now is a blessing. Where would she be without them, if she hadn’t won the fight to allow monsters to teach in human schools? The thought of the world that could have been, in which she never got to meet any of her students, in which they never got to be in her life, twists something uncomfortably in her chest.

Toriel rests her chin in her paw and peers at Sans, considering. He must see something in her expression shift, because his laughter quiets and he fixes her with a quizzical gaze.

“Have you thought any more about what you will do after Frisk leaves?” she asks.

Harsh, perhaps, to drop the question without warning, without even a transition, but Toriel has learned if she gives Sans too much warning about a question he doesn’t like, he has a tendency to worm his way out of it before she even gets the words out of her mouth.

“Oh. Uh. Not yet.” He scratches uncomfortably at the back of his skull. “I mean, there’s still a lot of time, right? Still over a year before Frisk leaves.”

“There is,” she agrees. “I hope that whatever you pick will not have too many obstacles to getting started.”

They both remember the long fight it took for Toriel to start teaching. The equally long fight for Papyrus to work at his afterschool program. Mettaton’s struggle to land roles; Napstablook’s long, gigless months. It took Grillby five years to open a business on the surface, not for lack of trying.

Sans shrugs. “If I go back to work, it’ll probably be something like dishwashing or whatever. Plenty of monsters are already doing that, and hey, maybe Grillby will have a spot for me.”

“Is dishwashing what you want to do?”

“Uh, I dunno. I mean, what I want to do is take it easy and hang around. Isn’t that an option?”

But there’s something sad in Sans’ tone. Toriel reaches out and covers one of his hands with her paw. “There still is some time,” she says again. “How about we talk about it more after Frisk takes the SAT’s at the end of the month? You can think about it until then.”

“Alright. It’s a date.”

“Thank you, dear.”

Sans easily -- perhaps too easily -- slips back into telling jokes for the rest of their lunch break. Toriel laughs with him, but part of her mind is working, churning over the question she’d posed to Sans. She’s not sure she trusts him to consider what he wants; she’s not sure she trusts him to know what he wants. Not in the ways that are meaningful, at least.

What will it take, she wonders, for Sans to be not just content, but fulfilled?

Sans and Toriel are eventually interrupted by the approaching noises of excited children still buzzing from recess. Sans glances toward the open door. “Welp, sounds like lunch break is over.”

“Yes -- well, thanks for dropping by, dear.” Toriel sweeps the remains of her lunch into the brown paper bag. Sans takes it.

Before he disappears, though, the recess monitor appears at the doorway, flanked by Toriel’s class.

“Here’s your delivery of one class, Miss Tori. Oh hello, you have a visitor!”

At the recess monitor’s words, the kids are craning around curiously, trying to get a good look at the newcomer.

“Thank you, Ms. Emily,” Toriel says. “Children, please put away your things and go to your seats.”

“Who’s that Miss Tori?!” pipes Maya, who is at the front.

Sans looks like he’s not quite sure how to react to the attention, but nor does he seem overly uncomfortable. He’s watching the kids, one hand in his pocket, and the other scratching at his neck.

“This is, ah, Mr. Sans, he is my part--”

“Is that your boyfriend?”

“Oh my gosh, it is! Isn’t it, isn’t it!”

Sans laughs, covering his face with one hand. “Oh man, Tori. You weren’t kidding; these guys are smart.”

Toriel’s laughing too. “Yes,” she says to the class. “I suppose he is my boyfriend.” It’s not the word she and Sans usually use, but saying it now makes her feel giddy and young.

“Oh my gosh!” a dozen children squeal in unison.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” Miss Emily sniggers, grinning widely. “It was nice to meet you, Sans!”

Sans waves her a distracted goodbye. The kids are tumbling into the classroom; most hurry over to their cubbies, staring at Sans with wide eyes, but Jamie scrambles right up to him and grabs his sleeve.

“Do you kiss Miss Tori?” he asks breathlessly.

“Uh, sometimes, yeah.”

“ Ewwwwwww! ”

A deep blue flush is creeping over Sans’ cheekbones, and when he shoots her a helpless look, Toriel has to cover her mouth to stop from breaking into wild laughter. She’s known that Sans is a blusher for years, but it’s been a long time since she’s seen him blush like this.

“Come on, go sit down,” she says to Jamie, struggling to keep the mirth out of her voice. “We can ask Mr. Sans more questions later.”

At the front, Ren’s hand shoots up, and without waiting to be called on, they shout out: “Mr. Sans, are you a teacher too?”

“Eh, nope. I’m just a lazybones.”

Most of the class stares up at him unblinkingly, but at the back of the classroom, Lola starts giggling. Sans beams at her; Toriel knows he’s just picked a favorite student.

“Do not be a bonehead , Sans,” Toriel puts in, and Lola laughs harder. “You don’t just laze around. Sans here takes care of our child and the rest of our family from home.”

Another squeal. “You have a baby! ”

“Oh -- not exactly,” Toriel says, almost apologetically. “Frisk is almost grown now. They’re going to finish high school next year.”

By the window, Jackson pulls a face and grumbles loudly: “I don’t like teenagers.” Next to him, Susie is completely ignoring all the excitement, and is instead picking at one of her scabs.

But the other children are riveted. Maya yells out: “Do you have pictures?!” Dylan asks: “Are they a skeleton like Mr. Sans? Or do they have big ears like you, Miss Tori?” And Maria and Kat grab each other’s hands and burst out singing: “Mr. Sans and Miss Tori, sitting in a tree, K - I - S - S - I - N - G! First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes Mr. Sans with the baby carriage!”

Sans stares helplessly at Toriel, still blushing furiously. Toriel almost wants to take pity on him, but another thought strikes her.

“Actually, Ren,” she says, to the child still clutching their planet-patterned lunchbox. “Did you know that Mr. Sans knows a lot about science and space?”

Ren lights up. Space is their favorite thing in the whole world - so to speak. “Really? Mr. Sans, do you know what a black hole is?”

“A black hole?” Sans echoes. He winks out one eyelight and points at the now-dark, empty socket. “You mean like this?”

“ Ewww! ” Ren giggles. “No, that’s not it!”

“Sans!” Toriel chastises, even as she hides a laugh behind a paw.

“Heh, just kiddin’. Yeah, I know about black holes. Dead stars that are so big that even light can’t get past ‘em.”

“But they can be really little, too! Like, as big as a fly’s eye!”

“That so?” Sans says.

“Yeah! And only really really big stars can become black holes.”

“Yep, that’s true.”

“And! And! there’s a giant black hole at the middle of the Milky Way!”

Sans is watching Ren intently, clearly amused by this child’s take on stellar phenomena. Ren, for their part, is beside themself with delight to have someone they can spout information about their favorite topic at. Toriel feels almost sorry to reign them back in, but she knows if she lets them, Ren will babble for hours.

“Well, we had better get back to class so that we can have a lot of drawing time at the end of the day, right?” Toriel calls out, drawing attention back to her. “But maybe sometime we can have Sans come back and teach us what he knows about space. What do you think?”

“ Yes! ” the class choruses, and Ren’s voice is the loudest.

Sans shoots Toriel a startled look. She smiles innocently back at him; she knows he can’t turn them down now.

“How does that sound, Mr. Sans?” she asks sweetly.

Sans gives his head a little, resigned shake. “Yeah, okay.”

“Great! Now, class, let us say goodbye to Sans for now.”

“Bye, Mr. Sans!”

Sans tosses them a lazy wave, then gathers up the rest of his and Toriel’s lunch and heads out through the door at the back of the classroom. Lola is closest to the back; she watches out the window on the door, and gasps: “He disappeared!”

Toriel chuckles. She gets up from the desk and makes her way over to the brightly-colored schedule on the side of the board. “Alright, class. It is after recess, so what do we have next?”

“Journals!” the kids call back.

---

When Toriel gets home later that day, the sun is sinking in the sky and casting the apartment in a red-gold glow. In the living room, Sans is sprawled out across the couch, a laptop propped up on his middle.

“Hey, Tori,” he greets, rolling his head to grin at her. “What’s up?”

“Good evening, Sans,” she replies. She comes over to the couch and leans down to give him a quick kiss. From there, she glances at his computer screen. “What are you looking at?”

It looks like an article on recent astronomical discoveries. An artistic rendering of a black hole portrays a dark, spherical shape casting out shards of light; it’s quite beautiful.

“Oh, uh.” To Toriel’s surprise, Sans sounds almost sheepish. “I guess I was gettin’ a head start on the lesson for your kiddos. Thought I should brush up on what’s new in space.”

“Oh, that is lovely! Did you find anything interesting?”

“Yep. They got some really cool readings off the event horizon of the supermassive black hole in our galaxy. They think it’s from the accretion disk. Also, did you know that there was a galaxy that once collided with ours called the Gaia Sausage? I think that’s pretty great.”

Toriel laughs lightly. “What a fantastic name!”

“Hey, the telescope they used on the black hole is called the VLT, which stands for Very Large Telescope. Scientists are great at names.”

“I never doubted it. Come on, move up.” Toriel pushes at Sans’ feet, and he obligingly draws them up closer to his chest so that she can sit down on the opposite side of the couch. Once she’s settled, he plops his feet back in her lap.

“Yep. There’s also an Extremely Large Telescope in Chile, and there was a scrapped project for an Overwhelming Large Telescope.”

“But of course! Next up will be TSLIGYED.”

“Tisligyed?”

“Telescope-So-Large-It-Gives-You-Existential-Dread.”

Sans lets out a startled chuckle. “Hey, I’m the one who’s supposed to make jokes about existential dread.”

“No, you are not,” Toriel replies sagely. “Because they’re not really jokes when you say them, are they?”

“Oof. It’s not polite to air a comedian’s baggage like that,” he laughs, covering his face with one hand.

Toriel laughs too and pats his knee. “Sorry, dear.”

“But y’know,” he adds, slowly drawing his hand back down his face and peeking out at her between his fingers, “I haven’t really felt that way in a while.”

Toriel’s ears perk up; her eyes crinkle at the corners with the force of her smile. Yes, she’d suspected as such, but hearing him say it aloud makes her heart leap. “Really?”

“Yep. It’s been ten years. I guess everything could reset, but I’m starting to think it’s not gonna. And, well, I guess we’re here now.”

“Yes,” Toriel stays softly. “I guess we are.”

Sans pulls his hand down properly and grins at her.

Toriel rests her chin on his knee. “Would you like to tell me more about the Gaia Sausage?”

“Uh, well, frank -ly it’s a new discovery. They don’t know a lot about it, yet. But apparently they think the Gaia Sausage restarted stellar formation, ‘cause of all the gas it brought.”

It’s wonderful to hear Sans talk about the stars. When he starts to really talk about them, his eyes are always a little brighter, and if she listens closely, she can hear a note of something like reverence in his voice even while he’s cracking puns. Whatever else might come of her ploy to get him to teach her class, this moment alone is pay-off enough.

She remembers the first time she’d realized just how much the stars meant to him. It’d been a few weeks after they’d made it to the surface, in a small suburb some distance away from Ebott City where an inn had agreed to host some of these strange monsters in exchange for a few Gs (a very uneven exchange, they discovered later, but at least they had a place to stay). And that night, Toriel had found Sans sitting outside on the steps of the inn, his head craned toward the heavens. The expression on his face was something raw and beautiful and almost intimate, a kind of disbelieving longing. He heard her approach and tore his gaze away from the sky, and Toriel had felt a sharp pang of regret for having disturbed him. But he just smiled lazily at her and commented: “We’re really on the surface, huh?”

“What are you looking at?”

“The stars.” Quietly, to himself: “Wonder how many times I’ve seen them.”

Toriel hadn’t known what he meant back then. But she sat beside him and looked up at the pinpricks of light strewn across the deep black sky. Every time she looked up on the surface, she got a sharp sense of vertigo, as if she were about to fall into the sky. But she looked, and it was beautiful. Sans pointed out Orion and Betelgeuse and Sirius and the Seven Sisters, and Toriel listened to every second in rapt interest, knowing that seeing this side of her humorous friend was a gift many didn’t receive.

Now, the times Toriel gets to hear Sans talk about the stars are still few and far between, but each time he does, she gets a glimpse of something like that raw expression she’d seen back on the steps of the inn.

When he finally exhausts talking about the discoveries he’d read that afternoon, Toriel squeezes his knee and says: “Thank you for giving so much of your time to making a treat for my students.”

“Eh, it’s nothing,” he says, looking embarrassed. “Heh, between this and Frisk’s sci-fi episodes tonight, I’m doing so much space stuff today. Pap would be horrified.”

“I am certain Papyrus would be delighted that you are spending time doing things that you enjoy.”

“Eh, he thinks it’s all nerdy crap.”

Toriel narrows her eyes at him disbelievingly but does not argue further. “What will we be watching with Frisk tonight?” Since they’d finished Cowboy Depot a few weeks ago, Frisk has been coming up with new shows to watch with them -- always science fiction, always something Sans had once known.

“I unno,” Sans replies. “Think Frisk has been hinting at Star Walk , but if we do that we’ll be here for the next four years.”

“If that means Frisk will visit us every evening for the next four years, I will not complain.”

“Good point.”

“Speaking of Frisk, they will be home from dodgeball soon, yes?”

“Yep. Guess I should probably start thinking about dinner.” A grimace suddenly crosses his expression, and he covers his face with a groan. “Oh man, I forgot to thaw the chicken. Geez, I’m sorry, T.”

“Oh!” says Toriel. “That is alright. We can use the microwave, or we can make something else. I be- leaf you promised me extra veg tonight.”

That makes Sans quirk a smile, but he says: “I guess that’s what you get for asking a lazybones to do any work, huh?” The tone is self-deprecating, and it’s such a sudden shift from the joy that had been on his face moments before that Toriel feels as if part of her stomach has dropped away.

She frowns. “Sans. It is alright. I believe everyone forgets to take the chicken out of the freezer at some point. And we will not go hungry; there are many alternatives.”

“Yeah. Guess I just should have known to do everything else before doing any of this space stuff. I tend to forget about the important things.”

Toriel places one paw on the laptop, looks Sans square in the eye, and states firmly: “ This is also important.”

Sans doesn’t reply to that, just lifts his brow. He looks unwilling to believe her, but also unwilling to argue. Toriel knows they’ve touched on something that runs deeply for Sans, part of the reason the moments she gets to see his eyes light up like the stars he talks about are so few. But she has never found the words to help him talk easily about this topic. Even now, she can see his expression closing down.

She sighs, and offers him a soft smile. “Come on, dear. We still have plenty of time before Frisk gets home. Let us go to the kitchen and see what can be done.”

“Yeah, okay.”

He drags himself off of the couch and slouches off toward the kitchen. Toriel follows. As Sans stares into the pantry, scratching his neck, she rests a hand on his shoulder and drops a casual kiss to the top of his skull. He leans slightly into her touch.

She wishes desperately she could magic away whatever anxiety or self-doubt is plaguing him, but that is not a magic any monster can do. Toriel supposes she can only hope that the support that she and Frisk and everyone else give Sans will be enough to help him solve his troubles himself.

When Frisk gets home, there’s grilled cheese and steamed vegetables for dinner. Frisk tells them about the mind-bending dodges they made in dodgeball practice; Flowey is brought out to the kitchen table, and Sans cracks jokes to needle him until Frisk glares. Toriel asks what Frisk’s friends are doing over the spring break; Frisk talks about Kid’s hiking trip and Jake’s college visits. Flowey complains about every topic brought up.

And Sans doesn’t talk about the stars.

Chapter Text

“Yo, so pros for Ebott U - in a city, academics, research opportunities, close to home. Cons - not a lot of dorm space, no regular dodgeball team, and again, close to home.”

In the backseat of the van, Kid has a notebook open their lap and several flyers from Ebott University spread across the center seat between them and Frisk. Sans looks back and sees Frisk say: “No dodgeball is fine. I can play something else, and I’m not going to college for sports.”

“Don’t let Undyne hear you say that, dude,” Kid comments, and scribbles something in their notebook.

They’ve gotten really into this college search process. Sans has seen the charts and heard them ramble about the characteristics of different schools so fast he feels dizzy just listening. And Kid has dragged their parents off to visit something like a seven campuses already, sometimes taking Frisk along with them. So this time, when Kid wants to visit a school that’s also on Frisk’s list and also a half hour from Frisk’s place, their parents were quick to ask Sans and Toriel if they wanted to take the children instead.

Sans is a little surprised by Kid’s enthusiasm about the whole thing. They never did strike him as the egghead type -- sure, Kid gets decent grades, but isn’t really into school. Them and Frisk both. Well, the college thing isn’t just academics, Sans figures. He supposes he can understand getting excited about figuring out where you’re gonna live for the next four years. It’s kind of adorable, really.

“Oh! A spot!” Toriel exclaims, and flicks on her blinker to take the empty parking spot along the side of the road. It’s a tight fit, but Toriel’s a whiz at parallel parking. “We are quite lucky to get a spot so close to campus,” she says as she shuts off the van.

“Yo, come on!” Kid calls, sweeping up the flyers with their tail and shoving them unceremoniously into their bag. “If we move, we can check out the Student Union before the tour!”

Enthusiastically, Frisk springs from the car. The two of them scamper down the sidewalk, leaving Sans and Toriel to hurry after them.

“Children! Wait for us!” Toriel calls, but Frisk and Kid are already halfway down the street. “Oh, goodness, they both are so excited.”

“Heh, yeah. Kid is getting Frisk more riled up, too.”

“Yes, that is true - of course, Frisk liked Ebott University before, but Kid’s excitement is a little . . . infectious.”

“Yep. And what do you think?”

“It is a good school, at least on paper. Strong academics, and it is close to home.” Toriel gives Sans a sidelong glance. “Of course, if my child never left home, I would be happier.”

“What’s the alternative? You already got one lazy sack of bones at home.”

Toriel nudges him hard with an elbow. “Stop that. You do not do nothing .”

“Eh.” He shrugs.

She holds his gaze for a heartbeat, then shakes her head. Sans flashes her a winning smile.

A cool April breeze whispers down the street, ruffling Toriel’s fur and the lining of Sans’ jacket. The air still smells of the past week’s constant rain, but today the sun has broken through the clouds, casting puddles in glitter. Good day for a tour.

Sans and Toriel catch up with Frisk and Kid at the street corner, where they’re waiting for the light to change.

“Yo, look,” Kid points out excitedly. “You can see the entrance gates around the corner! I think those are the Milton Gates!” They snatch a map out of their bag. “Yeah, those are the Milton Gates!”

When the light changes, Kid races for the gates, Frisk close on their heels.

“Wooooooow,” Kid says coming to a stop under the gate. Frisk stops next to them, takes a look, and gives an appreciative thumbs-up.

Sans watches them in some amusement. Sure, Ebott U’s central campus is pretty nice for a city school. Past the gates, a barrier blocks vehicle traffic, and the road opens up to a cobblestone pedestrian pathway. The pathway is lined with wrought iron street lamps, and fields stretch out on either side. Buildings rise around the perimeter of these fields -- squat, stone buildings that sprawl out like a village. It’s a pretty picture, but Frisk and Kid have also lived a half hour from Ebott U for the past ten years. It’s not the first time either of them has seen the campus. But, hey, he’s glad they’re having fun.

The Student Union is a tall, narrow building, with two staircases sloping up to the entrance around a relief of the school crest. Kid and Frisk scamper up the steps and spend the next several minutes exploring the lower floors of the union, They check out the cafe and the study cubicles and the bulletin boards, marveling at everything. Toriel and Sans follow a few steps behind, Toriel peering at everything with an appraising eye. Frisk and Kid have just enough time to buy a couple of smoothies from the juice bar before heading up to administration to meet their tour guide.

Several other families are milling about here, all human, and in varying states of interest. Some of the students-to-be seem as excited as Frisk and Kid, enthusing to their parents or each other about the school. Others seem nervous, and still others look outright bored. As Frisk and their party reach the landing, a few startled glances are shot their way, and Sans catches the sound of rushed whispers. Looking around, he thinks he can probably tell the out-of-towners from the Ebott City residents. He meets the gaze of one of the whispering teenagers, and they look hurriedly away. Out-of-towner. After ten years, Ebott City residents are used to seeing monsters, but monsters are still something of a tourist attraction for visitors. Those who barely look up -- those are the locals. And those whose attention focuses directly on Frisk, he can’t place; even in Ebott City, the sight of Ambassador Frisk themself can be a surprise.

Frisk and Kid, for their part, aren’t bothered by the attention. They’re nursing their smoothies and deep in conversation about some of the clubs they saw advertised on the first floor (“Yo, did you see that Outdoors club poster? They go freakin’ ice climbing! Do you think they provide the gear?”).

Sans and Toriel settle themselves against the wall, out of the way of the stares that still follow them.

Quietly, Toriel murmurs: “I do wish they wouldn’t all stare.”

“Noticed that too, huh? But hey, I guess there aren’t enough of us to fill up every tour. Bound to stick out like a sore thumb sometimes. Or a bony, furry, or scaly thumb - er - body part,” he adds, counting off his, Toriel’s, and Kid’s various grasping appendages.

“I know,” Toriel sighs. “But nevertheless, it is unsettling.”

“Yep,” Sans says, levelly meeting another teenager’s stare.

At five minutes to one, a pair of beaming university students enter the room. The taller one, who wears her long, black hair in a high ponytail, calls out to the group: “Hello, everyone! Are you all here for the one o’clock tour?”

There’s a general murmur of assent.

“Excellent! My name is Simone; I’ll be your guide. First, though, Dan here will just check the sign-up sheet, make sure we’re not waiting on anyone.” She indicates her companion, who pushes his floppy magenta bangs out of his eyes and lifts a clipboard.

“Hi, guys,” Dan greets them. “Alright, so let’s see… Nick Allard?”

A sleepy-looking teenager in the corner raises his hand.

As Dan continues down the list, Sans considers the other families. Nick Allard has come with two parents, but Elena Benito is accompanied by only her mother. A couple prospective students are alone, while others have brought have their extended family. Sans catches Toriel watching a pair of siblings with an odd look in her eye, and he surreptitiously takes her hand.

Toriel startles, then smiles weakly down at him.

“Hang on,” Dan says abruptly, looking out at the room with a broad grin. “Who’s the wise guy who signed up as Frisk? Haha, very funny.”

Impassively, Frisk raises their hand.

Dan spots them, takes in Frisk’s signature poker-face, and flicks his gaze to the monsters behind them. He makes a weird, strangled sound in his throat. “Oh, shit. It’s actually you.”

The whispering starts up again with renewed energy. Sans sees a young girl, barely older than a toddler -- must be a younger sibling -- tugging excitedly on a parent’s sleeve and pointing at them.

Dan nervously runs his hands through his hair. “Sorry. I just... we get ‘celebrity’ sign ups once a month, you know? I thought you were just… We’re happy to have you here, really!”

Simone covers her face with a sigh. “Oh, jeez. Ignore Dan. Sorry about that.”

Frisk flashes them a thumbs-up.

“Yo, don’t worry about it!” Kid says. “We don’t mind!”

Dan hurries on, still looking a little flustered. He gets through the rest of the list of names, and when he determines that no one is missing, he tucks the clipboard under one arm. “Alright, should we, uh, get started with the tour then?”

Scattered nods and mutters of agreement answer him. A lot of the other tour-goers are still staring at Frisk, or their monster companions. The young girl who had been tugging on her parent’s sleeve is still meekly peering at Sans with enormous, wide eyes. He catches her gaze, winks, and his left eye-light flashes blue as he flicks at the string on her sweatshirt with a touch of magic. The girl gasps.

“What are you doing, dear?” Toriel asks absently.

“Oh, nothing,” Sans replies. “Just puttin’ on some little entertainment.”

Toriel follows his gaze and smiles at the small girl. She offers a small wave; almost in awe, the girl waves back.

As the tour group sets off, Frisk and Kid hurry a few paces in front of Sans and Toriel. This works fine for Sans, because he can hang toward the back of the group with Toriel and keep an eye on everyone. He didn’t catch any really outright hostile expressions, but you never know.

A teen girl with short black hair squeezes through the group toward Frisk and Kid. Sans tenses for a moment, watching her, but when she reaches them, she excitedly says: “Hey! My name’s Anya. It’s such an honor to meet you, Frisk! I’m a big fan!” She looks a little dazed, as if she can hardly believe her luck, and Sans notices she keeps tugging unconsciously at the hem of her sleeve.

“Thank you,” Frisk replies politely, and Kid translates the sign.

Anya grins at Kid. “What’s your name?”

Frisk’s expression immediately brightens; anyone who shows interest in Kid gets points in their book.

“I’m Kid, yo!”

Sans relaxes. Anya seems harmless enough. Maybe a fame leecher, but Frisk knows how to deal with those well enough when they want to. He continues to listen in on their conversation.

“Nice to meet you, Kid! So, uh, are you both looking at Ebott U?”

Frisk nods.

“What do you guys think of it so far?”

“ So cool, dude!” Kid replies. “It’s so great it’s in a city, but still has such a cool campus!”

“I like their political science program,” Frisk puts in, and again Kid translates.

“You’re interested in political science?” Anya asks. “Me too! I really want to get into environmental policy, you know? There’s also a couple environmental action student groups on campus that look really interesting.”

“We were looking at a flyer for the Outdoors Club just before we came up for the tour!” Kid says eagerly. “Apparently they’re doing a trail clean-up this weekend.”

At the front of the group, Simone stops. Anya, who has just opened her mouth to reply, closes it again. They’ve stopped right outside the doors of the Student Union, and from the top steps here, they have a wide view of the surrounding campus.

“Ebott University was founded one hundred twenty years ago, at the start of the twentieth century. The university was created by Marcella Ebott, the eccentric and well-funded widow of Eugene Ebott, whose family left their fingerprints all over our city hundreds of years before even that. It was originally a private institution, but in 1961, it became a public school.

“As you know, right now we’re on the steps of the student union, which opened forty years ago. Here, we have student clubs, some study rooms, a couple cafes, and a bar in the basement. There are events there almost daily, so if you check their site, you’ll almost always find something to do.”

Toriel catches Sans’ gaze and mutters under her breath: “Oh, goodness, we are only ten seconds into the tour, and we are already discussing bar recommendations?”

“Eh,” Sans replies with a shrug. “It’s college. Kids’re gonna drink.”

“Well, yes, but…”

Simone is already continuing, describing some of the many clubs at the school. One of the teenagers asks about intramural sports, which seems to perk Frisk’s interest. Simone next leads them down the sloping steps of the Student Union, and up the path toward the administration building.

“And this is where you will handle student ID cards, registration problems, study abroad applications, et cetera,” Simone tells the group.

Toriel is peering in through the wide glass windows that span the entire length of the street-facing side of the building. “It looks quite busy inside. I fear those students must be waiting hours to be seen,” she whispers to Sans.

He glances at her with some surprise. He hasn’t generally known Toriel to be so consistently critical of anything. “Tori,” he says, grinning, “didn’t you like Ebott U when the catalogue showed up in the mail?”

“Yes, well...” She looks faintly embarrassed. “It is a little different, being here in person, is it not?”

He chuckles. “Eh, you’re not wrong. I don’t know Ebott U , but I liked it more when I didn’t have to walk.”

They catch each other’s eyes, and both have to fight back an onset of giggles. Next to them, a couple parents are watching them with some reproach. Sans ignores them.

He nudges Toriel with an elbow. “I’m sure no school’s gonna be good enough. But hey, when some dumb school takes Frisk from home, we’ll have fun hating on it together, huh?”

Toriel scrunches up her muzzle. “ Must you say the ‘takes Frisk from home’ part?”

“Sorry. You know I’m a bonehead.”

She pats the top of his skull solemnly. “That I do.”

And so, through the rest of the tour, Sans and Toriel cheerfully swap criticisms of the school. At the arts building, Toriel comments that the windows do not look large enough to let in nearly enough light; after they tramp up a steep hill to the medical building, Sans states dryly that the campus is far too hard to get around when you’re not using shortcuts. Most of the dorms are too far from the class buildings. Study spaces in the library don’t seem as quiet as they could be. The cafeteria seems to serve far too many unhealthy options.

Yet, there are also several points at which neither Sans nor Toriel can think of anything bad to say. The dorms are secure. The tech in the library is state-of-the-art. The lecture halls are large and comfortable, and equipped to accommodate diverse needs. Outside the physics building, Simone asks: “You guys all heard about the image of the black hole that came out the other week?” When the group mumbles agreement, she grins and says: “Yeah, well, our physics department was part of the multi-institution team sending over data.”

And that’s friggin’ cool. Sans almost wants to raise his hand and ask more about research in the physics department - the telescope, the projects, the data. But he doesn’t.

And for all the criticisms Sans and Toriel can dig up, Kid and Frisk are clearly having a blast. They’re eager to ask questions, jabber excitedly amongst themselves, and Kid has their phone out to record. Kid is beside themself with enthusiasm as they explore the dorms, while Frisk’s attention is captured by the list of activities at the recreation center. Their new buddy, Anya, seems equally enthusiastic, although that’s not clear if that’s just her or if she’s trying to keep up with the other two.

And then, while they’re wandering through a student lounge in the chemistry building, they even encounter an unexpected, familiar face.

“Frisk! Kid! Hey, guys, what’s up!”

Frisk and Kid, as well as Sans and Toriel and half the tour group, turn to locate the source of the call.  

A monster girl with a head of green fire is hurrying toward them, her eye-flames glowing with excitement.

“Yo, Ember!” Kid greets her. “What’s up!”

“I have class in a few minutes, but what are you guys doing here? Hi, Toriel, Sans.”

“Hello, dear,” Toriel says warmly.

“We’re on a tour,” Frisk tells Ember.

“Oh! You guys are checking out Ebott U for college?”

“You betcha!” Kid says.

“Oh, that’s awesome! I really hope you guys come. It’s a great school. And there’s actually a bunch of other monsters here, which is great. Like, Octoling went to the other side of the country for college, and she’s the only monster there, and god you would not believe the stuff she has to deal with!”

Frisk frowns. “Does she need a bit of ambassadorial muscle?”

“No, no, it’s no big stuff, just dumb stuff,” Ember says, waving them off. “If it gets big though, she’ll let you know to bring out the ambassador power. And I mean, we still have some BS at Ebott U, too, but it makes a difference that we monsters can stick together. Like, we have enough to actually get a club together and show up to protests, and that makes you feel a whole lot more supported, by the humans too.”

Some of the tour group look enthralled, but many more look uncomfortable. Sans isn’t sure if it’s irrational human anxiety about flame-type monsters in buildings, irrational human anxiety about monster rights activism, or irrational human anxiety about monsters in general. He watches the most scowley ones carefully.  

“I need to head out to class,” Ember adds apologetically. “But it was really cool to see you guys! If you have any questions about Ebott U, like, let me know!”

“Bye!” says Kid, and Frisk waves.

“Say hi to your dad for me,” Sans puts in.

Ember laughs. “You see him more than I do, Sans.”

“Hey, I’m putting you through college with my tab.”

“Only if you pay it,” she points out. “Anyway, I’m running late now. See you guys later!” And she dashes off to the stairs.

Sans and Toriel exchange a look. “Supportive monster body. That is one for the positives,” Toriel says quietly.

“Darn,” says Sans. “Despite our best efforts, this might actually be a good school.”

Toriel laughs, covering her mouth with her paw.

The tour finishes up back outside the student union, where Dan hands out branded pens and cards with resources for prospective students. Simone thanks them all for coming, and then she heads back inside, Dan on her heels. Families start to peel off from the group. Anya exchanges phone numbers with Frisk and Kid before running after her parents.

Of course Frisk made another friend. Sans supposes he shouldn’t be surprised.

“What did you two think of the school?” Toriel asks Frisk and Kid kindly, as they head off back toward their car.

Both light up; the whole way home they enthuse about everything they saw -- the grounds, the buildings, the dorms, the little tricks and hidey-holes the guides mentioned.

“Ember had a good point about there being other monsters,” Frisk adds. “If I’m where there are monsters, I can also do more about higher education access for monsters.”

“You yourself are going to school,” Toriel points out. “While looking out for monsters is admirable, remember to let yourself just be a student as well.”

Frisk makes a face like they don’t quite agree with Toriel, but aren’t going to bother arguing. Sans chuckles. Toriel should know Frisk is an incorrigible world saver.

“But, overall, you liked the school?” Toriel asks, as if there were any doubt.

Frisk nods, firm. “It’s my number one, I think.”

And what a weird feeling that is, Sans thinks. It’s a good school, a close school, for all Sans and Toriel’s nit-picking. It’s the kind of school any parent dreams their child will pick. And yet, the very act of picking makes everything feel more real, more immediate. Their kid is leaving next year. If Sans had lungs, the thought would take his breath away.

When he glances at Toriel and sees the shadow of sadness behind her eyes, he knows she’s feeling the exact same thing.

---

It’s spring break, so when they get back to the house, Toriel takes over making dinner. Kid and Frisk rush off to Frisk’s room, and Sans can hear Kid’s enthusiastic rambling through the open door. As Toriel pulls out ingredients from the cupboard, Sans digs out the laptop from their bedroom and props it open on the kitchen table. He goes to the Ebott University website.

Frisk likes this school. Frisk might go to this school. And so, Sans needs to know everything there is to know about it.

He digs around the website, reading about dorms and funding and accessibility accommodations. The page for the Center of Students with Disabilities seems fairly easy to navigate; the page on funding less so. He reads about student clubs and course requirements, and about the political science major. He doesn’t take notes, but files everything he reads in his mind.

He’s scrolling the academics page when a headline in the news box catches his eye.

“Congratulations to Dr. Rubin for her grant, funding her star cluster neutrino project!”

Stars and neutrinos. For a heartbeat, Sans is sixteen years younger, poring over neutrino readings, imagining the stars they might come from. How strange it’d been underground, to be able to measure neutrinos, but not to see the stars. What must it be like, he wonders, to read neutrinos, to plot their emissions, and to then go out and look up and watch the stars they stream from.

With an odd sense of almost nostalgic longing, Sans clicks the link to Dr. Rubin’s page. There’s a list of publications here, and he skims the titles - Prediction and detection of fusion neutrinos ; Gamma-ray burst neutrino background and star formation history; Star-forming galaxies as sources of high-energy backgrounds. He clicks the link to the most recent paper and begins to read.

It’s a paper simulating neutrino emissions from the nearby star, Altair. Old, familiar phrases wash over him: spectral class, pp chain, neutrino flux. He doesn’t notice Toriel has brought over a cup of tea until it’s already gone cold.

It’s a good paper, based on solid modeling and well-presented with clear writing and easy-to-interpret charts. It’s, frankly, an enjoyable read. But when Sans gets to the limitations section, a sentence holds him up: “In our model, Altair did not yield a signal strong enough to determine neutrino directional information; directional information was lost in local solar neutrino background.”

Yeah, that’s a thing. But back in the Underground, their simulations had ways of clearing out background noise. Sure, they didn’t use it on Altair specifically, and maybe this lab had already tried it… Sans scrolls back up to methods.

No, there’s no mention of a simulation quite like the ones they’d used Underground. Sans considers, lazily tapping his chin.

On the first page, the corresponding author’s email is clickable.

He could shoot them a message, give ‘em a couple pointers. But it takes energy; it takes time; it takes bothering to put physics into words. All things Sans tends to be against. But also, it’d be a sure shame for the researchers to put so much effort in and not get the full, accurate results. They’d just have to do it all over again one day. He’s also against making other people have to redo old work.

(Okay, that’s a lie; sometimes, tricking people into redoing stuff is hilarious. But not when it’s research.)

He sighs, and clicks the corresponding email. Handling daily troubles on Frisk’s ambassadorial email has clearly corrupted him if he’s going out of his way to help. He’ll have to complain about it later.

Sans writes out a quick message. Nothing elaborate, just mentioning that some simulation tweaks can help, and listing out a couple of the main weights they’d accounted for when writing their own simulation. He doesn’t sign the email, and sends it from the fairly anonymous handle of 24_ribtickler.

He looks up from the laptop, intending to joke with Toriel about how weird it is for him to offer someone help. But then he takes in the sight in front of him, and something swoops horribly somewhere around his abdomen.

Toriel’s standing at the counter, a cutting board in front of her. But she’s not chopping vegetables. She just standing there, staring unseeingly at a blank spot on the wall.

“Tori?” Sans says quietly.

Toriel startles at the sound of his voice. She jerks around, then forces a smile on her face and wipes quickly at her eyes.

She’s crying.

Sans feels that horrible swooping again. Toriel has been crying right in front of him, and he didn’t notice. That’s what happens when he starts getting involved with physics. He should have been paying attention. He should have known. He should have known .

“Toriel,” Sans says softly. “What’s up?”

“Oh, it is . . . it’s, uh, nothing,” she murmurs.

Sans gets up from the table and goes over to her. He takes one of her large paws into his own bony hand and squeezes it. He doesn’t say anything, not wanting to push her into talking, but it’s a statement nonetheless and one he knows she understands. A reminder that he’s there, a promise that they’re a team. In whatever way she wants that to be right now.

And perhaps that’s what Toriel needs most, because she lets out a long, heavy breath and starts quietly: “It is just . . . Frisk is growing up, and I am so happy to see them making plans for their future. But I started thinking about the others. What they would have been like, when they were Frisk’s age. What they would have chosen for their futures.”

Sans tightens his grip on her paw. Of all the things he wishes he could make better for her, of all the things he can’t, this is by far the worst.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Do you wanna tell me about them?”

Nothing takes this hurt away. Nothing makes it less sharp. All he can do is this: listen and witness her grief. And hold a bit of that grief in his own soul, even if he never knew Asriel or Chara or Patience or Bravery or Justice or Kindness or Integrity or Perseverance.

There’s no way it’s ever enough, but maybe it makes a difference. Toriel gives him a weak, watery smile.

“I must finish making dinner,” she states, but not in a tone that says the conversation is over.

“I could cook,” Sans offers. “Want me to do it?”

Were it Papyrus falling apart in front of him, Sans would insist on taking over cooking, but he knows that for Toriel, sometimes cooking and caretaking and whatever else she does out of love are all that keep her sane.

But this time, Toriel looks grateful. “Would you?”

“‘Course. Take a break. You want some tea?”

“Yes, please.”

Sans makes her a cup in the largest mug they have and drops in two teabags. When he brings it over to her, she takes it and just holds it in her paws, staring into the steam.

Sans lets her be for the moment and goes back over to the counter to pick up the chopping where Toriel left off. For several long minutes, the only sounds in the kitchen are the rhythmic thunk of knife against cutting board and Kid’s distant laughter from Frisk’s room.

Finally, Toriel speaks. “Asriel would have been a wonderful king. He loved caring for people. Everyone he met, he was kind to. He used to ask Asgore and I why we did all kinds of things, and he was excited to lead and one day spread his kindness across the whole Underground.”

As she speaks, Sans listens. In his mind’s eye, he sees a small, fluffy child with Toriel’s eyes and ears and smile, tugging on her sleeve. He may have never met Asriel, but the thought -- and the knowledge that scenes like that are gone forever -- tugs on something aching inside him.

“Chara was wilder than Asriel,” Toriel continues. “I do not know what they would have wanted to do with their future, but I wish I could have watched them explore whatever made them happy. They loved to wrestle with the dog guards, and play pranks on everyone in the palace. You would have loved them, Sans.”

Sans thinks of a bright-eyed child with a mischievous smirk and scrapes on their elbows and thinks she’s probably right.

“Perhaps Chara would have grown up to lead alongside Asriel. Perhaps they would have joined the guard and spent many days rough-and-tumbling with the dogs. And what would either of them have done with the opportunities of the surface? Would they have gone to a college? Travel the world?” She squeezes her eyes shut. “What a terrifying thought -- them traveling the world alone! But they can’t give me those heart attacks anymore and it’s not fair .”

“Not one bit,” Sans agrees. It feels like such a dumb thing to say, such a trite contribution, but Toriel doesn’t complain.

She sucks in a deep breath. “And then the other children . . . oh, I wish I had known them better. Integrity loved to dance. Perhaps he would have been a dancer. Perseverance would have loved to go to a college, I am sure. But would Patience have chosen? What about Bravery? I did not have the chance to know them well enough, and how I wish I had. They deserve that.”

Toriel looks out the window, at the darkening evening sky.

“I wonder if anyone out there did know them better. If someone out there truly knew them and grieved for them. Maybe some who are still around. Someone who knew their dreams, their hopes, their fears and loves, and remembers all of it.”

If there is, Sans had never found them in ten years of looking. “Maybe,” he says. “Hope so. But you did know the kids. Maybe not every one of their dreams, but hell, do we know every one of Frisk’s dreams?”

Toriel gives him a weak smile. “I like to imagine we do. But you may be right.”

“Yeah, and even if you didn’t know all their hopes for the future, you knew who they were. You knew what made them tick. You knew Kindness was gentle, and that Bravery liked adventure stories, and stuff like that. You knew ‘em, and you remember them. And you tell me about them, so.” He shrugs. “I guess I remember them too, in a way.”

Toriel doesn’t smile this time, but she holds his gaze for a long moment. Her expression is one of a kind of mingled pain and trust. That blend of emotions, her willingness to show them to him -- it’s this kind of open grief that once made him make a promise through a door. “Thank you for that,” she murmurs. “I do wish you’d had the chance to meet them.”

“Me too,” he says, and it’s sincere.

She keeps talking; he keeps cooking and listening. Asriel, Chara, Patience, Bravery, Justice, Kindness, Integrity, Perseverance. Sometimes he thinks he can almost see them.

By the time dinner is ready, Toriel has talked herself out, and she and Sans have lapsed into the silence of shared, companionable grief. Although her tears have dried, when the children come into the kitchen, Frisk takes one look at her and frowns.

“Are you okay?”

“Oh, I am alright, my child,” Toriel assures them. “We were talking about your siblings.”

And Frisk nods, and pats her paw. Their expression is drawn tight. Frisk is in the same strange boat as Sans, having never met any of these children who should have been their family, yet missing them all the same. Kid hangs back respectfully, but Toriel waves them in.

“It is alright,” she says again. “It is nice to remember them, even when we miss them. It was a good talk. Now, how about you tell me what you two were up to this afternoon?”

And so, Frisk tells her about drawing and sharing books, and Kid, following their lead, jumps in as well.

The memory of those who are gone is still a poignant weight in the room, but just as tangible is the presence of the family that’s here. Sans knows that doesn’t make it easier for Toriel, and yet Toriel is listening and smiling, attentive to everything the children tell her. At once, she is both open and honest about her grief, and also loving and supportive and warm. As Sans watches her, he thinks for the millionth time, that she might just be the strongest person he has ever met.

Chapter Text

----------------------------------------------------

From: Jocelyn Rubin <[email protected]>

Date: 4/11/202X 6:08 PM (GMT-08:00)

To: "24_ribtickler" <[email protected]>

Subject: Re: passing through

Hi,

Thank you for your correspondence regarding our paper, titled “ Predicted detection of fusion neutrinos from α Aquilae”. We are intrigued by the model adjustments you proposed. While such an approach is certainly theoretically possible, we were not aware of any such simulation currently available. Would you be able to send over the relevant publications or files?

With which university or laboratory are you affiliated? If your group would be interested, we are working on a follow-up paper, and we would be happy to discuss collaboration.

Thank you for taking the time to read our paper and to provide your insights. I look forward to hearing from you.

(P.S. I like the subject heading. :) )

Best,

Dr. Jocelyn Rubin

Assistant Professor

Pronouns: she/her/hers

Ebott University

Department of Physics

----------------------------------------------------

----------------------------------------------------

From: “24_ribtickler” <[email protected]>

Date: 4/19/202X 12:13 PM (GMT-08:00)

To: Jocelyn Rubin <[email protected]>

Subject: Re: passing through

nah, i don’t work for a university or lab these days. i don’t have the files anymore either, but maybe my old colleague does

[email protected]

----------------------------------------------------

----------------------------------------------------

From: Alphys <[email protected]>

Date: 4/19/202X 2:32 PM (GMT-08:00)

To: "24_ribtickler" <[email protected]>

Subject: WHAT

You’re talking to physicists again??????? omg????????? Is this a new development???????

But why are you giving them my email?? I didn’t keep anything from our old lab! And you know way more of the star stuff than I do. I wasn’t really on the neutrino work!

I sent her back to you. Try to help her I guess?

 What’s going on!!!??

----------------------------------------------------

----------------------------------------------------

From: “24_ribtickler” <[email protected]>

Date: 4/19/202X 3:15 PM (GMT-08:00)

To: Alphys <[email protected]>

Subject: Re: WHAT

don’t get over-excited, nothing’s happening. i was just reading a paper for fun and noticed that some of our old stuff could have helped their research. figured it was a long-shot, but worth trying i guess.

 oh, damn. now that i say it, that really is an a-bone-amoly for me. think i should check if i’m sick?

 anyway, hope you didn’t give her high expectations of me. or, any expectations, really.

----------------------------------------------------

----------------------------------------------------

From: Alphys <[email protected]>

Date: 4/19/202X 3:17 PM (GMT-08:00)

To: "24_ribtickler" <[email protected]>

Subject: Re: WHAT

Too late :)

----------------------------------------------------

----------------------------------------------------

From: Jocelyn Rubin <[email protected]>

Date: 4/11/202X 3:23 PM (GMT-08:00)

To: "24_ribtickler" <[email protected]>

Subject: Re: passing through

Dear Sans,

Unfortunately your colleague, Alphys, did not have the files you mentioned. They did, however, say that you knew the work that went into the development of the simulation intimately, and might be able to put it together again.

Your colleague mentioned that these days you are a stay-at-home-dad, and I do not wish to take you from your responsibilities at home. But it sounds as if your perspective from the Underground could be incredibly valuable (I had not realized so much research had been occuring in the Underground, and now I wonder how much potential collaboration has been lost over the years!). If possible, I would like to further discuss your modeling approaches (perhaps over Skype?). If your simulation does seem to be something that could work for our project, I believe we could find the funds to pay you for your time.

Let me know.

Best, 

Dr. Jocelyn Rubin

Assistant Professor

Pronouns: she/her/hers

Ebott University

Department of Physics

----------------------------------------------------

----------------------------------------------------

From: “24_ribtickler” <[email protected]>

Date: 4/19/202X 4:11 PM (GMT-08:00)

To: Alphys <[email protected]>

Subject: Re: WHAT

did you have to tell her everything?????

----------------------------------------------------

----------------------------------------------------

From: Alphys <[email protected]>

Date: 4/19/202X 4:36 PM (GMT-08:00)

To: "24_ribtickler" <[email protected]>

Subject: Re: WHAT

I didn’t tell her everything. Just the things that were relevant! And, seriously, your name and work background are relevant.

----------------------------------------------------

----------------------------------------------------

From: “24_ribtickler” <[email protected]>

Date: 4/19/202X 6:39 PM (GMT-08:00)

To: Alphys <[email protected]>

Subject: Re: WHAT

no they’re not.

----------------------------------------------------

----------------------------------------------------

From: “24_ribtickler” <[email protected]>

Date: 4/30/202X 8:15 AM (GMT-08:00)

To: Jocelyn Rubin <[email protected]>

Subject: Re: passing through

thanks for the offer, but i don’t do that kind of thing anymore.
----------------------------------------------------

On the last day of April, Frisk sits their SAT. The morning is hectic, as Frisk stares down Sans into quizzing them on last-minute flashcards over breakfast, and Toriel frets about Frisk having enough supplies. Papyrus has even dropped by, swearing he has a duty to pump up Frisk’s confidence before the big exam. Sans has his work cut out for him in trying to remind everyone how to not give a shit.

“We’re sendin’ them off for a four-hour test, not a decade’s worth of schooling on a deserted island,” Sans points out, as Toriel adds another six pencils to Frisk’s already full pencil case.

“Yes, well, if a few break, I would not want Frisk to worry!”

Frisk jabs a finger at the flashcards in Sans’ hands, trying to drag his attention back to their impromptu quiz.

“Okay, okay. Hold your horses. Uh, ‘austere’.”

“Plain,” they say decisively, exaggerating the sweeping gesture of the word. “Or stern. Or . . . minimal?”

“Yep. I think the last one you’re gettin’ at is ‘related to self-denial’. Like monks. An austere lifestyle would treat austere -ibly.”

Frisk sniggers.  

“ UGH !” Papyrus protests. “Stop joking! Quizzing Frisk is a serious job, Sans!”

“My jokes are very serious,” Sans replies solemnly.

“They actually help me remember,” Frisk puts in. “He puts effort into making them relevant to the definition.”

“Did you just use ‘effort’ in a sentence about me? Kid, don’t go ruining my reputation.”

Frisk rolls their eyes at him.

“Well, you still need to work harder at boosting Frisk’s confidence!” Papyrus says severely. “I will demonstrate. Here!” He snatches a flashcard out of Sans’ hands and squints at it. “Co-rob-o-rate.”

“To back up a claim,” Frisk answers.

“YES! WOWIE, FRISK, YOU’RE SO SMART! YOU’RE GOING TO BE THE BEST TEST TAKER EVER!!! See, Sans, like that.”

“Eh, I’m not sure I got it,” Sans says. “You wanna demonstrate a couple more times?”

“You’re just trying to make me do it for you!”

“Aw, how kind of you to say.”

They’re interrupted then by Toriel. “It is getting late,” she breaks in, with a glance toward the clock. “Child, have you finished your breakfast?”

Frisk shoves the last of their scrambled eggs in their mouth and flashes a thumbs-up.

“Wonderful! Alright, I have packed you your pencils, a calculator, and some snacks. Do you have your student ID and test ticket?”

Frisk nods, and pats their pocket.

“Good,” Toriel continues. “Papyrus, do you still want to take Frisk to the testing location?”

“YES! I, the Great Papyrus, will be the best accompany-er ever! We’ll go the whole way talking about how smart we are!”

Toriel bends down to Frisk’s chair and wraps them in a tight hug. “We will come pick you up in four hours. If you finish early, text us, alright?”

Frisk taps an agreement against her shoulder.

“Good luck. I am sure you will do wonderfully, my child,” Toriel says as she straightens up again.

“Yeah, you’ll destroy that test,” Sans puts in.

“No they won’t!” Papyrus retorts, aghast. “Why would Frisk destroy it? Then they can’t grade it!”

Sans sniggers into his hand. “Good point.”

“Bye,” Frisk waves. Pencil case and snacks in hand, they hop up from their seat and head to the door. Papyrus hurries after them. As they pull on their coat, Frisk adds: “Have a good morning!”

A breeze rustles through the apartment as the door opens and shuts. Frisk and Papyrus’ footsteps clang on the winding metal staircase outside, and fade away.

Quiet falls on the apartment. Toriel shuffles Frisk’s flash cards into a neat stack on the table, and Sans drags himself up to make a fresh pot of coffee.

When he sits back down at the table, carrying a steaming mug, Toriel is watching him with an expectant expression. Sans isn’t sure he likes that look. He wracks his mind, trying to think if there was something he was supposed to be doing.

“Sans,” Toriel says, holding his gaze steadily.

“Tori,” he answers. “Uh, did you want some coffee too?”

“No, thank you. I have had enough caffeine.”

“Right.” He puts his mug on the table and looks into its steaming depths. He can still feel Toriel’s gaze on him.

“We said that when Frisk takes their SAT, we would talk about what you would do next year after they leave.”

Oh. Right. Shit . Sans chuckles weakly, covering his face with one hand. “Man, you don’t waste any time. Frisk went out the door ten seconds ago.”

Undeterred, Toriel just smiles. “What have you been thinking of?”

“C’mon, Tori, Frisk hasn’t even gotten to the test place yet, so they’re not technically taking the SAT yet. Don’t I get those extra fifteen minutes or something?”

“We first agreed you would think about next year’s plans in January . Will fifteen minutes make a difference?”

Sans sighs. “Nah. You’re right.”

“Yes, I am,” Toriel says primly.

Again, Sans laughs.

Toriel leans forward, her expression shifting from impish to thoughtful. “So. What have you been thinking of?” she asks again.

And Sans sighs, running a hand across his cheekbone. “I dunno, Tori. I guess, working with people we know? Like I said, I could work with Papyrus again.”

“At the afterschool program?”

“Yeah, I guess. I mean, I suppose I haven’t worked with kids a lot before, but Pap and Frisk turned out okay. I might be okay at it?”

Toriel frowns at that. Slowly, she says: “Sans, I adore working with children. I understand how fulfilling it can be, and if you would also find that fulfilling, I would of course support you in every way. I agree that you did a wonderful job with Frisk and Papyrus. But . . . do you truly wish to work with children?”

“Uh, sure?”

She shakes her head. “I do not know. Correct me if I am wrong, but you are choosing this because of Papyrus, not because of the children, are you not?”

Sans can’t tell her that she’s wrong. He pauses for a moment, killing a few seconds by taking a long sip from his coffee. Finally, he mutters: “Well, I mean, you said to pick something important to me. And, like I said. You, Papyrus, Frisk - you’re the important things.”

“As are the children,” Toriel states. “The children at Papyrus’ program are underprivileged and struggling. He does a wonderful job building their confidence, but they are not easy to work with. If you were to work there, you would have to give those children every ounce of your attention. You would not be able to split your attention between the children in your care and Papyrus. If that is what you are planning, I do not think it would be a good idea.”

“Alright, alright, I get it.” Sans sighs. “And I guess you’d say the same thing about me bein’ a para at your school?”

“Indeed I would.”

“Well, what about a janitor then? I would mop have kids to look after, but we’d have broom to hang out.”

Toriel smiles at the jokes but shakes her head. “I also must give my students my complete attention during the school day. I will not allow you to distract me.”

Sans smirks up at her. “Yeah, I’m very distractin’.”

She holds his gaze unblushingly. “That you are.” A beat. “So. What other work have you considered?”

“Not distracting enough, apparently,” he grumbles. “Uh, I dunno. I mean, I mentioned dishwashing for Grillby once, right? I could do that.”

“Perhaps,” Toriel agrees. “But as I said then, would dishwashing truly fulfill you?”

He frowns. Frustration dims his eyes, but they don’t go out entirely. “What do you want me to say, Tori? I hate to break it to you, but work doesn’t matter to me. Sure, I’ll do it, but what matters to me is you guys, my family. I don’t get fulfillment from punchin’ in and working for a boss. You know that. So what are you getting at?”

Toriel lets out a soft sigh. For a few moments she says nothing, just looks down at her folded paws and entwines her fingers together. Sans can see the gears churning as Toriel carefully considers her response.

When she speaks, her words are measured but sure: “I do not entirely believe that. Of course, I know your family is most important to you. And there are indeed people who are only truly fulfilled by looking after their family. But I do not believe you are one of them. I believe you can care about your work.”

“What-?!” Sans starts, brow lifted in sheer disbelief.

“Sans, let me finish,” Toriel interrupts. “When I am done, you may tell me if I am wrong.”

“Yeah, okay. Sorry. But again, what ?”

She smiles slightly. “You can be fulfilled by work, but it has to be the right work. Not selling hot dogs, not dishwashing, not even looking after children. I had hoped you would come to it on your own, with the lesson I asked you to put together for my class and the film nights you are sharing with Frisk, but perhaps that was foolish of me. You may have pushed it down too far, packed it away too long.” Toriel’s expression softens, but her gaze is unflinching. “So, quite frankly: Sans, I want you to think about returning to physics.”

He goes still. “I don’t do that anymore.”

“Please hear me out. When I hear you talk about the stars, you light up. It is beautiful to watch. Even after all these years, your love for your research is still there. If I truly believed you would be most fulfilled only by looking out for your family, I would not push you as I am. But it would be a tragedy if you neglected something you love so dearly.”

He shakes his head. More firmly, he says: “I don’t do that anymore.”

“I know there are a lot of bad memories wrapped up with all this, and I am sorry to bring it up--”

“Yeah, there are,” he says tonelessly, staring at a knot on the table. “I can’t do physics again. Like I said, family’s what’s important. Physics and family aren’t compatible where I’m concerned.”

“Sans, that is not true--”

“Of course it is!” he retorts. “You know what happened. And it’s not like this is all some dumb mistake I made fifteen years ago, either. Even now when I try to start thinking about physics, I screw up. Remember last week? I was reading some papers, and I didn’t notice you were getting upset!”

“What?” says Toriel, plainly bewildered.

“You know, after we checked out Ebott U. You were literally right in front of me, and I didn’t notice.”

Toriel continues to look confused for a moment. Then she must remember, because she frowns sharply. “Sans! It is not your responsibility to guess what I am feeling at any given moment.”

“I wouldn’t have to guess--”

She cuts him off. “As you said, I was ‘right in front of you’. Had I needed your attention, I would have asked.” A soft smile twists at the corner of her mouth. “Do not misunderstand me, dear. I very much appreciated your support. But do you not remember? I was not ready to talk about how I was feeling the moment you noticed.”

“Right. Well.”

“I, too, have some sway in our relationship,” Toriel continues wryly. “If I feel I need something you have not already given, I can ask . And if I do not ask, that is my folly, not yours. Please do not forget that there are two people here.”

Sans looks down at his coffee, chagrined. “Yeah, of course. I didn’t mean…”  He trails off. “Sorry.”

“It is alright, of course. But, Sans, I do not understand. Why do you believe that your work in physics and your family are so incompatible?”

“C’mon Tori, you know. ”

“No I do not,” she insists calmly. “You have told me the story of what happened fifteen years ago. And if you felt you never wanted to go back to your research because you were grieving, I would of course understand and not ask any of this of you. But what you tell me is that you have taken on responsibility for events not in your control, or at least not wholly in your control. You see a divide between your research and your family that I do not see. I want to understand what you see.”

For a long moment, Sans doesn’t say anything. He drinks from his coffee, lowers the mug back to the counter, and turns it around in his hands. His coffee is starting to get cold. He considers freshening his cup. But Toriel is watching him expectantly.

He hates talking about this shit. Around him, Sans can feel the knots and wrinkles in spacetime, dozens of shortcuts that go to their room, the stairs outside, Papyrus’, anywhere but here. He’s tempted. But he also remembers Toriel trusting him with her deepest grief before she’d ever seen his face. She deserves the same kind of trust. And so slowly, dragging out each word as if it pains him, he speaks.

“It’s part of just what research life is like,” he says. “You don’t just clock in nine-to-five, put the work out of your mind when you’re not in the lab. It’s everything. It gets into your head, y’know? You’re thinking about it all the time, turning over this problem or that problem, ‘cause if you don’t you’ll never solve them. So you give everything else half attention. And it’s like, you know what you were saying about the kids at Pap’s program and your school, about them needing total attention? Same goes for family. But when I’m wrapped up in research, I can’t do that, ‘cause half my mind’s working on some dumb equation or methods issue. And that shit doesn’t even matter, not when you’re ignoring people who need you.”

He laughs hollowly. “I mean, Alphys lived in her lab. What does that tell you? So, yeah. Maybe the thing from last week wasn’t a big deal or whatever, but it’s always the same choice. Research or family. Only one gets enough attention, and if I try to split it, one of them doesn’t get enough. So, screw research, I guess.”

He gives a helpless shrug, and falls quiet.

“I see,” Toriel murmurs. “But is that always the case? If it were, no scientists would have families, or at least not happy families. I cannot believe that.”

“Well, no,” Sans admits. “It’s about balance, right? Problem is, I suck at balance. A lot of researchers do, but I’m especially bad at it.”

“Do you not think that is something you could learn?”

“I ‘unno. If I haven’t learned it by now, don’t you think it’s a little unlikely? Some of us are just shit at balance. Makes us great at research, but pretty crappy at other being-a-person things.”

“‘Us’?”

“Huh? Oh.” He hadn’t realized he had slipped into the plural. “I guess I mean me and Alphys, and . . . my dad. They’re the researchers I worked with, right?”

“So this has been your entire experience with research,” Toriel states, watching him sadly -- not with pity, no, but with understanding.

“I guess. But it’s not just like ancient history stuff either. You know that paper I was reading after we visited Ebott U? They were struggling with something we’d figured out in the CORE with our simulations, so I emailed them.”

Toriel looks startled, but does not interrupt.

“But I didn’t want to get really distracted, so I kept it short. Balance, right?” He chuckles to himself. “‘Cept turns out I didn’t give them enough information to actually make the simulation on their own, so the prof came asking for my files. Which, of course, I don’t have, so I sent her to Alphys. Alphys didn’t have them either, but she told the PI a ridiculous amount of stuff about me, like that I’m a stay-at-home dad -- which, stay-at-home- dunkle, thank you very much -- but you know what the PI did?”

“I do not know.”

“Offered me a job.”

“ What?! ”

“Dumb, right? Who in their right mind would hire me? But see, when I try to balance, my research work sucks. And straight up, the PI admitted the work could take me away from my ‘responsibilities at home’. So, fifteen years ago or today, the choice is still the same: research or family.”

“Sans,” Toriel says, her voice a little strained. “The professor offered you a job ?”

Sans leans his head on one hand and meets her gaze. “Well, sorta. She said she wanted to talk to me first about the simulation more, but yeah. She offered to pay me if it worked out. Said no, of course. I don’t do science stuff anymore.”

Toriel lets out a long sigh and clasps her hands together in front of her muzzle. “Oh Sans,” she murmurs. When she looks at him, there’s again that sad understanding in her eyes. “I believe you. I believe that you have tried to make the best choices for your family. But . . . I think you need to talk to the person who actually was affected by all of this.”

Sans frowns. “Tori--”

“You need to talk to Papyrus.”

Sans drops his gaze to the table, focusing on a knot in the wood. Slowly, he says: “I don’t wanna bother Pap with this. He doesn’t deserve that.”

“This all started from what happened with Papyrus, did it not? I think it would be good for both of you to talk about it.”

“C’mon, Tori. It’s been years, I don’t want to make him have to think about--”

But Toriel shakes her head. “If Papyrus was the one hurt by all this, do you not think his perspective matters most? Have you ever spoken honestly with him about all this?”

“I mean, not directly. But it’s not exactly his job to worry about me.”

“Do you not think that he deserves the chance to express his perspective?”

“‘Course he does,” Sans replies. “But it’s not like Papyrus keeps his perspectives on things secret. ”

“So, what is his perspective on your research?” Toriel presses.

Sans snorts. “Well, he sure didn’t like it when he was a kid.”

“And now?”

He shrugs. “Well, I don’t have any reason to think it’s changed.”

“But it has been fifteen years. The opinions children hold when they are fifteen are not the same opinions they hold when they are thirty.”

“Yeah. Well. This is Papyrus . He’s always been pretty sure of his opinions.”

“At least give him the chance to tell you his opinions have not changed, then,” Toriel insists.

Sans sighs and drops his head back into one hand. “I guess I just don’t see the point.”

“Maybe there will not be one,” Toriel admits, unfazed by his stubbornness. “But you both lost your father, and you do not talk about it. Perhaps Papyrus does not feel the need to talk about it. But if he does, this will show him that you will be willing to listen, no matter how many years pass.”

And at that, Sans tilts his head to meet her gaze, brow lifted. “Now, that’s not fair. You’re usin’ my brother against me. You know I can’t say no to that.”

Toriel almost laughs. “No, dear. I am trying to help you and Papyrus, nothing more.”

“Sure, sure. Still, you know me too well, and you’re too good at using that.”

“Will you talk to Papyrus, then?” she asks.

Sans sighs. “Yeah. Okay.”

Her paw finds his hand from across the table, and gives it a squeeze. “I am glad.” And the concern and love in her expression is so poignant that Sans can’t find it in himself to feel put out about giving in.

Chapter Text

The first time, it goes like this: 

In Sans’ notes, manipulating the timeline is purely theoretical. There’s no evidence of anomalies in any of the reports. But he’d spent hours with his father in the lab, excitedly musing about the flexibility of spacetime. They’d gotten pretty damn good at manipulating the space side of spacetime, even if time had thus far eluded them. Yet, Gaster had always thought control of time was something possible, something within their reach in this lifetime. 

“Two sides of the same coin,” he’d said. “We know one side; all we must do is turn that coin over.” 

Now, Sans has to prove it. 

When he goes back to the lab, he drowns himself in simulations and algorithms and tests. He works late every single night and more often than not falls asleep at his desk. He eats Alphys’ ramen and doesn’t talk to anyone. Alphys is working on some project or another for Asgore -- something about Determination, but Sans doesn’t know any more than that. It won’t help him take control of time, so he doesn’t care. 

Sometimes, Alphys tries to talk to him. “H-hey . . . um, how’s it going?” 

“It’s going,” he says shortly.

“And, uh… how’s Papyrus?” 

He shrugs. “Fine, probably.” He doesn’t even look up from his computer screen, and Alphys leaves him alone. 

The few times he goes home, Papyrus clings to him. He accuses Sans of never being around, which Sans can’t argue. And each time Sans goes into the lab, Papyrus looks hurt. Sans knows Papyrus doesn’t like his work hours, but it doesn’t matter. When he figures out how to manipulate the timeline, none of this will have existed anyway, and then he can give Papyrus all the attention he wants. 

Slowly, slowly, his work comes together. Dead ends give way to successful experiments. As theory becomes practical application, Sans moves his work from the main lab to his own workspace behind his house to build without Alphys’ projects getting in the way. Whatever she’s doing, it’s noisy and messy and more than he can handle. Sometimes, she looks like she wants to ask him something. He’s glad she doesn’t. 

Being closer to home doesn’t mean he actually spends more time in the house. Sometimes, Undyne tries to talk to him about it. 

“Hey, your kid brother keeps trying to tag along during my training,” Undyne says, one of the few times she manages to catch Sans. 

“Yeah, he does that.” 

“Why aren’t you watching him? Seems like the guy needs a bit more attention.” 

“Eh, don’t worry about it. Pap’s clingy, but he’ll be fine.” 

Undyne frowns at him. “Look, I can’t be babysitting. I know, things are probably tough, with your dad --” 

“I’m handling it. Don’t worry.” 

The next day, Sans goes to the lab as usual, and tells Papyrus to go to Grillby’s. Sans ignores the resigned expression on Papyrus’ face. 

This is all temporary, anyway. 

Sans can’t quite reset the entire timeline, not with the energy available to him, but in simulation after simulation, he manages to isolate a single entity from the larger timestream. Alright, so not ideal. Maybe he can’t save himself and Papyrus from years of grief. But that’s okay. Research is all about changing tracks. And simulation after simulation tells the same story: he can still save their dad.

The machine is built. It takes more long hours, takes countless requisitions from the palace (Sans supposes he should be grateful that Alphys hasn’t told Asgore that he’s not actually doing anything to work on Asgore’s project). And two years after the disastrous CORE collapse, Sans is staring at his machine, which is charged and ready and humming contentedly. The lights blink lazily. The readings displayed on the screen are perfect. 

He’s done it. He built it. If his simulations are correct, if his calculations are accurate . . . Sans’ mind races as he reaches out a trembling hand for the final lever. He pulls the handle. 

The machine whirrs, clunks, beeps; the lights flicker as it draws on an exorbitant amount of power. Readings are flickering so fast Sans can’t keep up with them. 

A tall, dark figure begins to take form in the machine’s center chamber. First it’s the barest hint of a shadow, but then the form solidifies, stretches, and a familiar shape is unfolding itself in front of him. 

It worked . He’s done it. Magical tears well up in Sans’ eye sockets, and his hands fumble as he tears at the levers to get the chamber open. The glass has barely slide aside when he’s lurching forward, grabbing for the figure inside which is now blinking bemusedly at his new surroundings. 

“Dad, Dad, Dad ---”

But then, none of this happened. 

---

The next several times happen much the same way as the first. 

In Sans’ notes, manipulating the timeline is purely theoretical. There are a handful of anomalies in the reports, but nothing that can’t be explained away by measurement error. 

He drowns himself in work, withdraws from Alphys and Papyrus and everyone else who reaches out to him, focused only on fixing this. He runs simulations, builds a new lab, and throws the lever. 

He does it; he saves his dad. 

And then he doesn’t. 

Again, he does it. 

And again, then he doesn’t. 

Sometimes, he’s starting over before he even builds the machine, before Gaster can step out of that glass chamber, alive and whole and there . Sometimes, he saves Gaster and Gaster comes home and they’re a family again for a few beautiful days, weeks, months, years. Until they’re not. And then again Sans is in a dimly lit laboratory, grieving and alone and obsessed with breaking time. 

---

Sometimes, things go much differently.

In Sans’ notes, manipulating the timeline is purely theoretical. He never gets the chance to turn that theory into something usable in these timelines, because even the lab isn’t immune from the chaos happening outside. 

Dust swirls through the Underground. In Snowdin, dust coats the snow, turning white to a horrifying slate-gray. Alphys begs him to evacuate. Sometimes, he leaves soon enough. Sometimes, he doesn’t, unwilling to give up on his work. These ones are the worst. 

Sans collapses in the snow, lifting the dusty red scarf from the ground with trembling hands. 

He can’t speak. He can’t breathe. 

In these timelines, he seeks justice. Vengeance. Self-destruction. Whatever. He follows the trail of destruction until he finds the flower. Sometimes, the flower smirks to see him; sometimes it sighs wearily. Sans isn’t aware of the difference, but something niggles at the back of his head -- a memory that was never made. They fight, and Sans dodges, dodges, dodges, vindictive fury pushing him to survive. He needs to stay alive just long enough to put everything back. This timeline can’t exist. It can’t. Sans fights for the chance to break it all. 

Most of the time, he kills the flower. Sometimes, though, Sans himself crumbles to dust. Either way, it doesn’t matter; in these timelines, this fight is always the end of the line. 

---

Something changes. 

In Sans’ notes, manipulating the timeline is purely theoretical. But in the reports, there are anomalies, too many to brushed aside. Sans stares at the numbers, disbelieving; if these reports are to be believed, they would imply dozens of broken timelines -- loops, restarts, branches. Perhaps a natural phenomenon? But no theory they’ve ever developed has suggested anything like this. 

He has nothing more to go on right now, so it’s with a heavy feeling of foreboding that he dives into his work. He withdraws from Alphys and Papyrus and everyone else who reaches out to him, trying not to think about the anomalies and what they might imply. He runs simulations, builds a new lab, and isolates Gaster’s signature. 

His machinery spits out a read-out. Sans prints it, skims the records, and feels his soul jolt horribly. 

Gaster’s signature is riddled with anomalies. 

Sans clutches the read-out, staring with numb horror at the numbers laid out before him. Slowly, he sinks to the floor of his laboratory, lab coat pooling around him. His brain churns, putting together the pieces. The earlier reports suggested the timeline was jumping erratically, starting and stopping, shifting sideways and looping. Yet, Sans isn’t aware of anything like that, doesn’t remember any loops or restarts. As far as he can tell, no one is aware of anything but a linear progression of time. 

He’d gone ahead, doggedly focused on bringing Gaster back. Two years of obsession had consumed him, ate his sense of self, his relationships, everything in his life but this one pursuit. He’d given this everything he had, and now these reports . . .

Sans covers his face with his hands. “How many times?” he mutters. “How many times ?” 

He doesn’t move from the floor of his lab for the rest of the day. When he finally drags himself up, he trudges back to the house, ignores Papyrus, and collapses on the bed. Unseeingly, he stares at the wall. A week passes, just like that. Two weeks. 

Until he’s back in the lab he shares with Alphys, printing out the first report again. 

---

Small changes compound on one another, becoming something greater. 

In Sans’ notes, manipulating the timeline is purely theoretical. But as the anomalies mount, he figures out the timeline jumps earlier and earlier. Sometimes, he hasn’t even moved out of Alphys’ lab before he collapses under the despair of how many wasted timelines he doesn’t remember. 

Alphys is stressing about something, but he’s falling apart. He can’t bring himself to care. Not about her, not about himself, not about anything. 

Sometimes, his despair consumes him and he decides to wait out the timeline. Ignorance is bliss. When time inevitably runs back, he won’t remember and he’ll care again. Just wait for that. No point in fighting for this timeline.

And maybe, if it weren’t for Papyrus, Sans would wait out each of these timelines in his bed, subsisting off potato chips. But Papyrus doesn’t let him. 

Two weeks of wallowing, that’s what Sans gets. But then Papyrus lets himself into Sans’ room, and he’s always there. He makes Sans eat -- pop tarts and ramen and whatever else Sans bought for the house, but at least it’s food. He drags Sans off the sheets so he can make the bed, and even if Sans is just lying there for hours, Papyrus is there, reading or talking.

Papyrus doesn’t bother Sans about going to work, not yet. In these timelines, Sans is sorely behind on family time. 

He keeps talking at Sans, until finally Sans starts talking back. 

“Undyne’s new training spot is in the woods, right where Dad used to take us sledding,” Papyrus says, as artificial evening light filters through Sans’ window. “Do you remember it?” 

“...Yeah.” It’s the first thing Sans has said in hours, and Papyrus visibly brightens. 

“Well, remember that time we crashed into the brambles and there was this super-cool tunnel on the inside? I hid in there to watch Undyne’s training, because she doesn’t like me watching for some reason, but how am I ever going to learn how to be cool like her if I don’t? She was pretty annoyed when she found me. But! I learned really cool moves! Even if I did get stuck trying to get out of the brambles…” 

Sans huffs, a ghost of a laugh. “You got stuck when we were kids, too.” 

“I did not ! I just didn’t want to come out.” 

“You were totally stuck. You were all wrapped up in brambles, and it took Dad like twenty minutes to get you out.”

“It was a game,” Papyrus insists. “Dad knew it.” 

“Sure,” Sans concedes, rolling his eyes. 

Silence falls for a moment. Sans rolls over, so he can see Papyrus sitting on the ground beside the bed. 

“...I miss Dad,” Papyrus says finally. 

“Yeah,” Sans mutters. “Me too.” 

As the days pass, they talk about Gaster more. Sans hears the grief as a strain in Papyrus’ voice, sees the longing as a tension around his eye sockets. Sans’ own soul aches. They reminisce and remember and grieve, and somehow in the midst of it all, a miracle happens: Sans starts to care again. 

It’s scary, this caring stuff. How can anything matter, when everything that happens can be erased in a heartbeat no one will remember? But as Sans and Papyrus talk, Sans also finds himself wondering how this could ever not matter. Even if nothing lasts, how can he give up on his family? What they had, the three of them, was good. And if he gives up, it’s gone. 

“Pap, say hypothetically… you know someone gets hurt, and you want to save them.” Sans is sitting at the kitchen table, popping open a take-out container from Grillby’s. “But you can’t do anything. No matter what you do, the bad thing still happens, like you never tried at all. What do you do?” 

“You keep trying, of course! You keep trying new things. You don’t give up when you need to save someone!” 

Sans chuckles lowly. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.” 

So, somehow, he finds the drive to form a new resolution: find the source . 

If he can find the source of the anomalies, if he can stop it, everything will matter again. Things will last . His effort, his energy, would make a difference. It’s the only way to make saving Gaster mean anything. But Sans knows that at the next anomaly, he won’t remember any of this, and he will have to learn everything painfully all over again. It’s a race against time when time doesn’t make sense. 

He goes back to the lab. 

The first night Sans doesn’t come home, Papyrus doesn’t like it. He’s devastated, actually. But Sans is trying to make things right. What’s a few sacrifices?

---

The first time Sans tries to find the source, he doesn’t succeed before he’s starting over again. But with each loop, there are more anomalies. Sans loses and refinds his motivation over and over again. With each loop, the data triangulates faster and faster, sorting noise from signal, until . . .

There. 

In Sans’ notes, manipulating the timeline was purely theoretical. He stares down at the flower between his feet, meets the cold, black eyes, and knows with grim fury that this flower has broken every theory he’s ever had. 

The flower meets his expression with an easy smile. “Huh. You found me . I didn’t even kill anyone this time. That’s new!” 

Dust isn’t blowing through the Underground, but as Sans looks at the flower, he feels a white-hot loathing and something like fear. 

“I don’t know what game you’re playin’,” Sans says, tone dangerously light. “But I get the sense that I did know. And I didn’t like it.” 

“That’s funny,” says Flowey. “Because I don’t know what game I’m playing. I make new rules every run!” 

“How ‘bout this ‘run’, you run away, huh?” 

“Now why would I do that?” asks Flowey, still smiling. 

“‘Cause I don’t like you.” 

“You don’t even know me!” Flowey protests, with mock hurt. 

“Nah, I get the sense that I do.”

And the flower just smirks, and does not deny it. 

“Why do you do it?” Sans asks. 

“I’m bored,” Flowey says simply. 

“ How do you do it?”

“I don’t really know, to be honest. I just do.” 

“So, just ‘cause you can, you mess with everyone’s lives for kicks? That’s pretty crappy of you, huh?” 

Flowey snorts. “Like you weren’t planning on doing the same thing for yourself. How long has it been this time that you’ve been trying to reset?” 

Sans doesn’t bother asking how he knows about that. “It doesn’t work that way for me.” 

“Nope. But if you could, you would. Wouldn’t it better that way? Don’t just bring him back, make it so he never left, so that you and your brother never had to be sad in the first place! That way, you never have to see the disappointment on Papyrus’ face when you ignore him.” 

Sans still doesn’t ask how Flowey knows all this, but he feels cold with unease. This was new, Flowey had said. New that Sans had found him . But if Flowey knew so much, how many times had Flowey found Sans on his terms? 

Well. Sans is used to fighting at a disadvantage. 

“It’s not the same,” Sans states. 

“No? How’s what you were trying any different from what I do?” 

“Simple. You’re getting in the way of me savin’ my family.” 

Flowey cackles. “All about your goals, huh? You’re not noble at all.”

“If you want nobility, you’re talkin’ to the wrong skeleton,” Sans replies. “Anyway, it’d be real cool of you to quit it.” 

“And how are you gonna stop me?” Flowey asks, twisting his head nearly upside-down to leer at Sans. “I do what I want! Even if you kill me, I’ll just reset. Again… and again.” 

“Maybe so.” Sans shifts his foot to press against the base of Flowey’s stem. Flowey scoots backwards, but Sans follows. “But you see, I can be real annoying. And if you remember the ‘resets’ when I don’t, well… you’re gonna get bored long before I do.” 

And again, Flowey cackles. “Oh, I think this is going to be a lot of fun.”

----

In Sans’ notes, manipulating the timeline is purely theoretical. But even theory is enough for him to hold his own in a fight against a proven time-traveler. When mistakes can be undone, special attacks and one-hit knock-outs are useless. It’s a war of attrition. 

It doesn’t matter how many times Flowey resets anymore. There are so many anomalies, Sans always finds him again. Sometimes, Sans identifies the source but bides his time coming after Flowey, until he feels like he could inconvenience Flowey the most. Sometimes, he captures Flowey rather than outright fighting him, brings him back to the lab to study. But time and time again, he’s standing before Flowey, blocking the path. 

In some timelines, Flowey welcomes the challenge. In some timelines, he does not. 

“Leave me alone! ” Flowey snaps, dodging a bone. “How many times do I have to kill you? Don’t you have anything better to do?” 

“Not until you quit messin’ with the timeline,” Sans replies, tossing another blast in Flowey’s direction. 

“You said that last time,” Flowey grumbles. “This is really getting old.” 

“Funny, since nothing else has the chance to get old around here.” 

Flowey throws his head back and groans. “ Uuuuurgh . You’re so annoying. Can’t you stay out of the way just once ?”

And Sans grins. Good to know he’s been consistent. 

He kills the flower.

Eventually, Flowey isn’t grinning when he meets Sans -- or, to be more accurate, the grin is cold and unfeeling. 

“I’m so sick of you,” Flowey states. “Killing you doesn’t matter anymore. That’s old hat. I’ve done it so many times.” 

Sans shoots a line of bones in Flowey’s direction, but his expression doesn’t change. 

“You think you’re so tough because you’re fighting for your family?” Flowey taunts. “Hah! It doesn’t make you tough. Just annoying. And weak .” 

Flowey dodges yet another attack and bursts up from the ground directly under Sans’ feet. Sans jumps back. 

“You’re so dumb. You’ve showed me your weakness a thousand times over! You’re so proud of it!” Flowey leers at him. “And now, I’m going to break you.” 

Sans doesn’t like the sound of that. But he doesn’t have the chance to worry about it, because time cuts out. 

Chapter Text

Sans stands outside the door to Papyrus’ apartment and lets out a breath. Warm May sunlight streaks the building, and stray petals from the nearby crabapple tree tumble across the welcome mat. 

It’s been a week and two days since Frisk took their SAT, since Sans had refused to go back into physics. As far as procrastinating difficult conversations went, this is probably a record in ‘being responsible’ for Sans. Sure, he’d wanted to drag his feet longer, but Toriel had gotten in his head. 

Papyrus had lost his father, and now Sans can’t stop wondering if maybe Papyrus does need to talk about it. Maybe Papyrus feels lonely or whatever and just never mentioned it to Sans. Sans is under no delusions that he’d ever made it easy to bring up serious conversations to him. 

And so a week and two days later, he’s standing outside and trying to drum up the courage to go inside. 

He sighs. “Ah, shit. What am I, scared of a few feelings?” Sans mutters to himself. He shakes his head, lifts a hand, and knocks. 

Inside, there’s a bit of commotion -- loud thumps and scratching, like something large being moved across a wooden floor. Then, rapid footsteps, and the door flings open.

“HELLO -- Sans?” Papyrus’ eye sockets narrow. “You never knock?”

Sans shrugs. “Well, I did knock know if you were availa- bell .” 

“UGH. Also, that never stopped you before.” 

“Man, so much trouble for being polite. Maybe I shouldn’t bother.”

Papyrus claps him on the back. “No -- I am just surprised! I am of course proud of you for learning to be polite! Maybe a little late . . . but, you’re learning! Please, wipe your feet and come inside.” 

Sans does not wipe his feet and steps through the door. If he’s too civilized, Papyrus might just pass out in shock. 

“Would you like some tea?” Papyrus asks, leading the way to the kitchen. 

“Yeah, sure.” 

“What would you like? I have goldenrod tea, daffodil tea, chamomile tea, blueberry tea, lavender tea, earl grey tea, pomegranate tea, hibiscus tea, rose tea--” 

“Man, you have quite the diversi- tea of choices.” 

Papyrus groans. “ Sans! And yes, of course I do. Tea is an essential part of guest-hosting!” 

“What, I’m a guest now?” Sans’ tone is light, but he’s so startled, he forgets the pun he was about to make. (A shame. ‘Tea’ is such a rich source of wordplay humor.) 

“No, but . . .” Papyrus frowns. “You did knock.” 

Damn, that knocking was really unsettling, huh? Well, now Sans knows not to be polite in the future. 

“Well, surprise me,” Sans breaks in. He flops into a chair at the dining table and pillows his head on his arms. 

Papyrus sets himself to putting the kettle on the stove. When he sees Sans’ head down, he frowns. “Sans, did you just come here for a nap?” he asks accusingly. 

“Wouldn’t be the first time, but no. I’m just here to hang with my super-cool brother.” 

“That makes sense,” Papyrus grants. “I am super-cool. Today, I made a new game for the after-school program! There are two teams, and each one has a ‘flag’ they hide on their side. Then the other team has to find it and bring it back! I call it . . . ‘Capture the Banner’.” 

“Yeah, that sounds like the coolest game ever,” Sans agrees. 

He should bring up the topic he’d resolved to ask Papyrus about, but . . . eh, after. There’s no rush. It’s already been more than ten years; it can’t hurt to let Papyrus gush about his after-school program as long as he wants. Maybe even encourage him to drag it out. 

“I know! And then, I will follow up with a cooking class, because it is very important to know how to make a healthy snack after lots of exercise!” 

“Can’t disagree there. Snacks are super important.” 

“Hmph,” Papyrus responds, dropping tea bags into two identical mugs. “Yes, you have your snacks even before exercise.” 

Sans grins. “Sure do. Snacks are great before, during, and after exercise.” 

“You can’t have snack during exercise!” 

“You can if you consider exercise walking to the couch from the kitchen with a bag of potato chips.” 

“Ugh! Sans, I worry about your health.” 

“Aww, I’m fine,” Sans replies, propping his head up on his hand. “I also eat ketchup and burgers. I keep it balanced.” 

A low whistle rattles the kettle. As the pitch grows, Papyrus grabs the kettle off the stove. “Well,” he says decisively, “now you’re having tea. That’s very healthy!” 

He pours the boiling water into each of the two mugs, then slides one across the table to Sans. Sans picks it up and breathes in the steam. He can’t identify the scent, but it’s vaguely sweet. Something . . . fruity? 

As Papyrus sits down across the table and picks up his own mug, the conversation naturally fades. 

This would be a good time to bring up the topic Sans came here to talk about. He should do it. He should say it. He looks up at Papyrus, cheerfully chugging his boiling tea, and opens his mouth. The words don’t form. 

Instead, he says: “What are you going to make for the kids’ snack?” 

“Spaghetti, of course! It is my best dish, and pasta is the perfect food after lots of exercise!” 

“I’m pasta-tive they’ll love it.” 

“Sans!” 

Ah, yes. Puns. The armor of cowards. 

Papyrus has started talking about his after-school program again, about the puzzles and games he’s making for the kids, the exercises he’s developed to improve the kids’ self esteem. And so the moment of opportunity passes. Sans is relieved to just listen; as long as Papyrus is talking, Sans doesn’t have to try to bring up any tough topics. Which, apparently, is something he’s terrible at. How does anyone talk about serious things? Why would anyone want to? 

Ugh. Communication is awful. 

Maybe this was stupid. Maybe he shouldn’t bring anything up at all. Papyrus seems fine. He’s thriving, really. Why bring up bad memories? No, Toriel had her heart in the right place, but Sans knows his brother. Papyrus is fine. He doesn’t need to think about Gaster, or what Sans did. 

But just as Sans resolves not to ask Papyrus anything after all, Papyrus trails off, and is watching him with some concertion. 

“Something is bothering you,” Papyrus states, eye sockets narrowed. It’s not a question. 

Sans startles, his hand dropping from where he’s propped his head up back to the table. “Uh, what makes you say that?” 

“You’re not listening to me,” Papyrus acuses, “And . . . you knocked.” 

Damn that knock. Whatever possessed Sans to be polite? 

“Eh, it’s nothing,” Sans says, waving a hand. “Tell me more about the, um, puzzle?” 

“I finished talking about that. I was talking about the costume party.” 

“Oops.” 

Papyrus puts down his mug and places his hands on the table as he leans forward. “Tell me what is bothering you! I’m a great listener.” 

Well, damn. Now, refusing to tell Papyrus would imply that Sans doesn’t think Papyrus is a great listener. He could lie, but that would imply to himself that he thinks Papyrus isn’t a great listener, and that’s all bullshit. 

Sans looks up at Papyrus. He sighs. “As I said, it’s nothing. It’s just . . . . well, do you ever miss Dad?” 

And, immediately, Papyrus nods. “Yes, of course.” He does not seem surprised by the question. 

Which, honestly . . . that surprises Sans. It’s been years since they talked about Gaster, yet Papyrus is taking the question completely in stride. 

Sans searches Papyrus’ expression. It’s hard to hold Papyrus’ gaze; Papyrus has fixed his full attention on Sans, and is considering him with an air of concern. Under his gaze, Sans feels vulnerable, as if Papyrus is both waiting for and expecting Sans to lay himself emotionally bare. At that moment, Sans is suddenly keenly aware that Papyrus is a freakin’ after-school guidance counselor.

Sans takes a deep breath. Here goes nothing.

“Well, I just, uh, wanted to make sure you were okay, I guess? Like, we all know I screw up a lot of stuff. It’s kind of my thing.” Sans flashes Papyrus a wry, casual grin. “But I really screwed up after the accident. So, I just wanted to . . . you know, say sorry. And I might not be half as good a listener as you are, but if you need to talk about it, I’ll do my best.” 

Papyrus frowns. “Screwed up? Do you mean when you quit work?” 

“What? No, of course not. I mean, before I quit.”

“Before you quit?” Papyrus echoes.

“Yeah? I wasn’t there for you. After everything that happened, I should have been, but I wasn’t.” Sans shrugs heavily. He doesn’t meet Papyrus’ eyes, looking past him instead. Sunlight streams through the kitchen window, and Sans focuses on the white flecks of dust floating through the air. “I got, uh, kind of obsessed with my research. But I left you alone. Which was pretty dumb of me.” 

“Hmm. You were kind of intense about it.” 

Sans snorts. Coming from Papyrus, that says a lot. 

But when Papyrus continues, his voice is surprisingly gentle. “You took it really hard when Dad died. I’m glad I was there! I was really worried about you.”

“You shouldn’t have had to worry about me. That’s not your job.”

“Who else was going to?” Papyrus points out. “Who else was going to do the laundry and keep the house clean, and make sure you eat, once Dad was gone?”  

The words feel like a punch. Sans winces, running a hand over his face. “Me,” he mutters. “It should have been me doing all those things. You were fifteen.” 

But Papyrus shakes his head. “It should have been Dad,” he states. 

“Dad was gone .” 

“Exactly! And you were super close with him. So someone needed to take care of you.” 

“Come on. It’s not like you didn’t know him from a hole in the wall,” Sans retorts, disbelieving. “And I was the adult. But I let my research be more important, which was the stupidest thing I could have done.” 

Papyrus opens his mouth, but Sans interrupts. 

“Don’t try to tell me it wasn’t. We both know what happened.” 

Papyrus scratches his cheekbone a long phalange as his gaze slides to the side. “Umm . . .” 

Sans stares. “Don’t tell me you don’t remember.” 

“Of course I remember! But, um. What are you referring to?” 

Sans is stunned. In every version of this conversation he’d played in his head in the week up to this moment, he had never thought that Papyrus might not remember. “You fell .” 

And, incredibly, Papyrus still looks confused. “Fell?” 

Sans stares at him. Papyrus doesn’t remember? Is it possible that Sans is somehow remembering events that didn’t happen in this timeline? Sure, he’s never been aware of the timeline shifts, but he’s sometimes gotten odd, niggling senses in the back of his mind like déjà vu. Maybe this time he’s picked up a more concrete memory. 

“You fell,” Sans repeats slowly, less sure. “Into the CORE? Like Dad.” 

And, finally, Papyrus’ expression brightens with understanding. “Ohhh. But you caught me! So everything was fine.” 

“Uh, wow. Okay.” Sans wants to laugh. Papyrus remembers; he just doesn’t think it’s important. Sans has to run that thought through his head several times before it sinks in. Papyrus doesn’t think it’s important . “Okay.” 

Papyrus is watching Sans worriedly. “Uh, Sans?” Perhaps he thinks Sans is losing his marbles. Sans wouldn’t blame him. 

“You fell, and it was my fault.”

“Um, it was?” Papyrus says, perplexed. “How? Did you just mop and forget to put up a wet floor sign?” 

This time, Sans does laugh. “That would’ve been easier to explain. But no.” 

“But then . . . how was it your fault?” 

“Look, I. Well.” Sans trails off, and covers his face with his hands. God, this emotional honesty stuff is freaking hard. Dragging each word out is physically painful. Literally. His chest is tight, and each word is sharp, as if the confession is a knot of barbed wire he’s trying to drag out. 

“It’s ‘cause . . . I wasn’t paying attention to you. I was so obsessed with my research that the only way for you to get my attention was to follow me to the lab. If I’d been paying attention, you wouldn’t have been there. It wouldn’t have happened.” 

Sans exhales. There. He said it. Pulled out that freakin’ knot of barbed wire.

Well. Most of it.

“Well, maybe,” Papyrus says, although he sounds uncertain. “But I didn’t fall! Because you caught me! And after that, you gave me a lot of attention.” He pauses. “. . . Maybe too much. Because you stopped going to work after that.” 

Sans chuckles, but it’s a humorless sound. “Well, yeah. Hey, if research almost kills my family, it was time I discovered my true calling as a lazy bones.” 

“Sans, it wasn’t the research. It was the resets!” 

Sans freezes. Did Papyrus just . . . . ? 

“What did you say?” he breathes. 

“It wasn’t just the research, it was because you were studying resets.” 

There’s a lurch in his chest. Sans stares, struggling to restart his spluttering mind. How could Papyrus have known? When had Papyrus figured out? Why hadn’t he said anything before now? Sans is hyperaware of the moment, aware of the cold wood under his fingers, aware of the sound of traffic outside, aware of each and every excruciatingly long passing second.   

“You . . . ,” Sans manages finally. “You know about the resets?” 

“Of course I do! It’s all you did for years.” 

Sans feels a bit like he’s been flipped upside down. He had never wanted Papyrus to find out, to have to deal with this. “I . . . how’d you figure it out?”

“Well, it’s what all your notes were about! Your research was your favorite thing, so I wanted to know about it! So I read your notes!” 

“But . . . they were in code?” 

“I’m very good at puzzles!” 

Of course. Sans covers his face with one hand again and laughs into his palm. Of course. His younger self always did have a tendency to underestimate Papyrus, and apparently he still hasn’t completely broken that habit. Sometimes, he’d imagined timelines in which Papyrus knew about the resets, but in every one of those, Sans had told him. He never imagined Papyrus figuring it out on his own. “Yep. That’s, uh, very true,” Sans says, still shaking his head at his own stupidity. “But why didn’t you say anything?” 

“Well, you were kind of at work all the time?” Papyrus says. “And after that, I kind of thought . . . maybe it wouldn’t be a good idea to talk about. You didn’t seem to want to talk about your research, and I think the reset stuff was bad for you.” 

A weak huff. “Yeah. No kidding.” 

“It was a good idea, and you worked very hard on it!” Papyrus says encouragingly. “It would have been really nice to have Dad back. But it wouldn’t have worked. No one can reset the timeline.” 

Ah. 

In Sans’ notes, resetting the timeline had always been purely theoretical. He hadn’t had the heart to write down the horrifying implications of the anomalies he found, as if writing them down would make it all the more real. 

So, Papyrus has half the story. A dizzying sense of relief fills him. Sure, Sans could tell him the rest, fill him in, but at the same time, does it really matter? Papyrus is still right. The story is the same. Sans got obsessed with resetting the timeline. He couldn’t do it. He almost lost the rest of his family in the process. Resets were never good for him. Where it counts, Papyrus always has been the smartest one in the family.

Papyrus is still watching Sans. “Do you still think about Dad a lot?” he asks, tone soft. 

“Yeah.” A pause. “Every day.” 

As the words fall from his mouth, they surprise Sans. It’s been fifteen years. Surely he should have moved on. But, somewhere in the furthest, most repressed part of his mind, he knows: in every flicker of a shadow, there’s a jolt, as if for a second he thinks he’s going to see his father step out of a shortcut. An emptiness when he remembers Gaster is gone. But those are thoughts he can’t dwell on, thoughts he’s had to shove down since he walked away from his lab.

Papyrus nods. “I think about him a lot, too. You know, he would have loved the surface.”

“Yeah, he would’ve,” Sans agrees. “He would have gone nuts to see the stars from the surface. A positive luna -tic.” 

“It doesn’t count as a pun if that’s where the word comes from!” 

Sans sniggers. “Nah, it just means it’s e- space -ially bad.” 

Papyrus groans. “Don’t think I don’t notice you trying to joke your way out of this conversation.” 

“Uh, what? No, I’m not.” 

“Suuure,” Papyrus says, squinting disbelievingly at Sans. “You came here because you needed to talk about Dad! But now, instead of being honest about your feelings, you’re making bad puns.” 

“This wasn’t about me!” Sans protests. “I thought you might want to talk about Dad! I’m fine.” 

“You suddenly start talking about Dad after, like, years , but it’s not because you need to talk about him at all? O- kaaay .” 

Sans laughs weakly. “Really. I just thought I hadn’t really asked you how you were doing with it, and I thought I should.” 

“Uh-huh. But you miss him.” 

“Of course I do.”

“So you should talk about it!” 

Sans sighs, shaking his head resignedly. “Yeah, I miss him. But what else do you expect me to say about it? That I cry myself to sleep about it every night? That I blame myself for what happened to him?”

“ Do you blame yourself for what happened to him?”

“That would be ridiculous.” 

“You didn’t say ‘no’.” 

“I’m fine , Pap, really.” 

Papyrus is still watching him with a scrutinizing expression that Sans doesn’t like one bit. 

“You should tell me what happened that night,” Papyrus states. He gives a little nod at the end, as if to decree it so. 

“Huh? But you already know what happened.”

“I know what Undyne told us. But you were there! And you never talk about it.” 

“I mean, it’s pretty much the same story. Look, I wasn’t in the CORE. I was in the office. I didn’t see anything.” 

Papyrus frowns, and rubs his chin with one finger. “Is that why you blame yourself? You think that if you’d been in the CORE with him, he’d still be alive?” 

“I didn’t say I blamed myself.” 

“But you do,” Papyrus says sagely. 

“Look.” Sans groans, running a hand over his face. “Even if I blamed myself, it wouldn’t be for that. Okay, if I’d convinced Dad to let me do his work in the CORE instead that night, maybe he’d still be here. And maybe it would have been me who fell in instead. And, okay, yeah, that probably would have been the better outcome, because then at least you would have had someone who knew a damn thing about taking care of you, but that’s a whole different kind of guilt. Nah, if there’s something that’s my fault, it’s giving up.” 

“You mean on your research?” 

“Yeah. I could have brought him back, Pap. I could have. But I had to stop. So. I gave up on him. And he’s going to stay gone because I gave up.” Sans shrugs, offering Papyrus a wry, resigned smile. “But, hey, it’s not like I had a choice.” 

“Sans.” Papyrus fixes him with a serious expression. “You couldn’t have brought him back. He was gone. Even the coolest, most brilliant scientist in the world couldn’t have done it!”

Sans shakes his head morosely. “I could have. I really could have. But it almost killed you. So I had to give up to keep you safe, and that’s why he has to stay gone. And I don’t regret that. I can’t regret that. But that’s why I’m never gonna step foot in a lab again.”

The last line he says with something of an air of levity, but he’s not looking directly at Papyrus.

“Hmm. I think it was closer to killing you ,” Papyrus replies. “You probably would have forgotten to eat and starved to death, or something. So I’m glad you’re not studying resets anymore. Even if you could have brought Dad back -- which you couldn’t -- you need to take care of yourself first! But. It’d also be really sad if you never went to a lab again. You really liked that lab. And liking your work is cool!” 

And Sans stares at Papyrus in sheer disbelief. “Pap, we just established how bad it was when I got obsessed with my research. Even you admitted I was a ‘little intense’!” 

“Yeah, but that was after Dad died! You’re not intense about it now. You’re kind of . . . not intense about anything these days.”

“Hey, it’s my brand,” Sans says.

Papyrus ignores this. “Before Dad died, your lab stuff was awesome! You did all sorts of weird science things, and you loved it! You had a different kind of smile back then.”

Sans blinks, stunned. The look of resigned hurt on Papyrus’ face each time he went to the lab is still seared in Sans’ mind. He remembers Undyne and Grillby both begging him to spend more time with Papyrus, remembers Papyrus crying at the dining room table. He can hear each sound in his mind, as if listening to it on a recording. He’d never expected Papyrus to push him back toward the lab. 

His eyes search Papyrus’ expression, trying to find some lingering pain or anger or grudge, anything. But Papyrus just looks, well, determined. And . . . sympathetic. That kind, concerned expression directed at him makes guilt roar in Sans’ chest. He doesn’t deserve this. 

Slowly he says: “But before Dad fell, I still worked late. I still wasn’t a great brother.” 

“You always came home,” Papyrus insists. 

“But I ignored you. And that was the dumbest thing I could have done, because you’re the coolest brother in the world.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about! Well, other than the coolest brother in the world part. That’s true. But you didn’t ignore me! You used to read with me! And teach me about your research! You told me all about stars and neutrons!” 

“Neutrinos,” Sans corrects automatically. 

“That’s what I said!” 

“Oh, yeah, absolutely.” 

But inwardly, Sans is baffled. How could he and Papyrus remember the past so differently? Sure, he had given books to Papyrus and tried painstakingly to explain his research when Papyrus had asked, but it wasn’t like he’d looked forward to spending time with Papyrus every day. He’d put off going home many nights, taking for granted that his family would always be there. 

“So you . . . want me to be back in a lab? Really? You want me working late and doing nerdy crap all the time?” 

“Well, you’re my nerdy brother!” Papyrus points out. “So you like doing nerdy things. And it’s better than pranks.” 

Sans laughs. “Aww, thanks. I love my pranks, too. But, uh. You’ve spent years trying to get me to work. If you thought it was cool when I did research, why didn’t you try to, I don’t know, convince Alphys to kidnap me and make me her unwilling research assistant or something?” 

“Well, Dad died in the lab. I thought it would be rude to make you go back before you were ready. But if the reason you won’t do science anymore is because you blame yourself for Dad being gone, that’s stupid!” 

And Sans sighs. “I told you, it’s not that.”

Papyrus frowns at him, clearly thinking. 

“We literally just went over this,” Sans says, waving one hand as if at an invisible script of their conversation.  

“You mean . . . when I almost fell.”

“Bingo.” 

“You know, you did save me. So! Everything was okay!” 

He could tell Papyrus the rest. Let Papyrus have the full information so that he can pass true judgment on Sans. Sans doesn’t deserve Papyrus’ forgiveness. He should tell him. 

But he can’t. The barbed wire of words catches in Sans’ throat. Papyrus doesn’t deserve that burden. Even if it means Sans has to shoulder a forgiveness he knows shouldn’t be his.

So Sans just smiles, and says: “I guess so.” 

Perhaps Papyrus sees the guardedness in his expression, because he makes a face. “Hm. And, well, I made the choice to follow you into the CORE. I shouldn’t have done that.” 

“C’mon, you can’t blame yourself, Pap.” 

“I don’t! But, I couldn’t have slipped if I hadn’t made the choice to be there! So, like, you can’t blame yourself either. I just shouldn’t have listened to Flowey!” 

Sans pauses. The hand he’s resting his head on falls to the table. He stares at Papyrus, who is looking back at him triumphantly, as if sure that Sans can’t doubt his airtight logic. 

“Flowey,” Sans echoes. 

“Yeah, it was Flowey’s idea for me to follow you to work! He said that if I went with you and got to know your science better, you’d probably want to hang out with me some more. I’m sure he was trying to help, but it was a bad idea.”

“Trying to help. Sure.” Sans feels his eye-lights go out. Quickly he runs a hand over his face and forces the eye-lights back on. “So. You, uh, knew Flowey all the way back then?” 

Sure, he’d known Papyrus had known Flowey before they reached the surface, but now they’re talking fifteen years ago. 

“Yeah! He kept me company a bit when Dad died! But then . . . he went away for a while. I guess, maybe, he realized you were around more after you left your lab? Or. I don’t know. Flowey is going through a lot, and he doesn’t always do things that are kind.” 

Sans chuckles, a low, hollow sound. “Yeah. No kidding.” 

All at once, he stands up from the table and pushes aside his cold, untouched mug of tea. 

“Hey. I just remembered, I gotta do some stuff before Frisk gets home. So I should go.” 

“Oh,” Papyrus says, looking startled. “...Are you sure you’re not just trying to get away from this conversation?” 

“Now, would I do that?” 

“Yes. You would.” 

Sans grins. “Aww, thanks. But nah. I really have some things to take care of, once and flor-al.” 

Papyrus groans. Sans waves and steps away from the table.

---

He shortcuts directly into their kitchen. Flowey is on the counter, his pot turned toward the afternoon sun. Casually, Sans leans up against the surface.  

“Hey, bud, how’s it growing?” 

Flowey lets out a heavy groan. “Great. You’re back.” 

He twists around, but then, spots the expression on Sans’ face. Although Sans is still smiling, he’s let his eye lights go out again. Flowey hesitates, and a single petal quivers. 

“Okaaaay,” Flowey says slowly, watching Sans. “You know, I get the sense there’s something you want to say to me.” 

“Yep.” Sans folds his arms on the counter and leans on them, so that he’s almost looming over Flowey. Well, as best he can given his height. 

“Right. So, uh, you gonna tell me? Or do I gotta guess? Oh wait, don’t tell me, are we playing twenty questions? Let’s see, did I do something ‘rude’?” 

“Somethin’ to that effect. I’ll save you the other nineteen. You see, Pap told me a very interesting thing today.” 

“Oh yeah?” Flowey says, resting his head on one twisted petal to leer up at Sans. “What was that?” 

“Fifteen years ago, Pap followed me to the CORE. That day, he nearly fell in. Now, he tells me it was your idea to go there.” Sans tilts his head, his dark eye sockets narrowing. “I’m gonna take a wild guess here and say that wasn’t the only thing you did that day. What was it -- a vine across his path? Literally pull the ground out from under him?” 

Flowey’s eyes widen for just a heartbeat. Then, he smirks. “You’re asking after fifteen years? Slow, are you? Well, you can’t prove anything.” 

“I don’t have to. I just wanna ask: did you get what you wanted?” 

The grin twists and widens, becoming a raggedy, toothy sneer. “Oh, it worked so much better than I could have planned.”

“And what was your goal, exactly?” 

“To get you to quit being annoying, of course.” 

Sans nods, almost serenely. “So. You wanted me out of the way.” 

“Don’t let it go to your head,” Flowey snorts. “I could have gotten you out of the way so many other ways. I killed you a hundred times over! This was just way more fun. I got to mess with Papyrus and watch you become a lazy trash bag.” 

“Right.” 

Sans shifts, and Flowey jumps back, as if anticipating a hit. But Sans just turns away, so that his elbows are resting on the counter and his back is up against the edge. He stares out into the empty living room as he speaks. 

“But, just so y’know, it wasn’t you.”

Flowey blinks. “What are you talking about?”

“All this?” Sans gestures at himself -- the old sweatshirt, the basketball shorts, slippers. “Wasn’t you. You couldn’t have done this. Wouldn’t have lasted if it were. But hey, points for effort.” 

“You’re not making any sense. Spit out what you want to say!” 

Sans looks back at Flowey. “There’s only one thing I wanna say. You ever come after my family like that again, I’m gonna give you a bad time.” 

Flowey just sighs, resting his head on his leaf again. “That threat was stronger the first hundred times.” 

“Eh, whatever. You got the warning.” 

Sans pushes himself away from the counter and starts off toward his bedroom. 

“Wait!” Flowey calls after him. “What do you mean, ‘it wasn’t me’?” 

Sans looks back. His eye-lights have flicked back on, but even he can feel the weariness in his expression. Flowey seems startled. 

“You’re not the only complete bastard in the world,” he states. Then, he turns on his heel and leaves the kitchen.

---

Frisk gets home before Toriel does. The faculty meeting must be running late. Sans isn’t feeling it tonight, so when he goes into the kitchen to make dinner, he just cranks up the oven and throws a frozen pizza on the counter. 

Frisk disappears into their room to do homework. They’re not gone long, though, before they re-emerge, a frown set on their face. They walk right over to Sans, and grab his sleeve to get his attention. 

When Sans turns, they say: “Flowey said he had a weird conversation with you?” They sign it as a question. 

Sans could turn Frisk away, tell them not to worry about it. But. 

Frisk understands the resets, understands them emotionally in a way Toriel only can intellectually, in a way that Papyrus never will. Once upon a time, Frisk had been so small they only came up to Sans’ chest, so small they struggled to clamber onto the bar stool. At that bar, Sans had told Frisk he would tell them the story about Gaster one day, when they were older. 

Now Frisk towers over him, all long and lanky limbs. Their round baby face has sharpened into the angles of adulthood. And if anyone’s going to get it, Frisk will. 

“Yep,” Sans says. He exhales, and looks to the window, where the sunset has painted the clouds in pink and orange pastels. The sight of the sun is grounding in a way. “You know, kid, I never finished telling you the story about what happened with my dad. What d’you think? Want to hear the whole thing?” 

Frisk’s brows arc in surprise. But, resolutely, they nod. 

“What’s your homework situation like?” 

Frisk waves a dismissive hand. “Did most of it before practice. It’ll take me a half hour to finish the rest.” 

“You want to do that first?” 

Frisk shakes their head. 

“Alright, well, just don’t tell your mom I let you put it off, then.” Sans gestures toward the kitchen table with a lazy wave. “After you.” 

Frisk pulls out a chair and settles themself in. Sans takes the seat opposite them and folds his arms on the table. For several moments, they look at each other impassively as Sans sorts through his thoughts. 

“So. My dad,” he starts. “Dr. Wing Dings Gaster. Pretty great guy. Not perfect, but who is? Anyway, he was the Royal Scientist and I was doing science right along with him. You know this part.”

Again, Frisk nods. 

“And I guess the first thing you gotta know about this story is that we weren’t really great to Papyrus. Dad and I were a team, and we were at the lab all the freakin’ time. But Pap was too young, and not really that into science. Not, like, we kicked him out or anything, but, well, he deserved more than what we gave him. Dad and I would pull straws to figure out who would go home when Papyrus got out of school, and I usually drew the short straw. So to speak.” Sans flashes Frisk a grin, although he knows it doesn’t reach his eyes. 

“But anyway. Dad and I were studying the fabric of spacetime. He thought maybe we could find a way to shortcut around the barrier to get us all out of the Underground. I studied neutrinos mostly, studying how they pass through solid matter. And we got the CORE doing all kinds of readings for us. Until, well.” 

Sans closes his eyes for this part. He can see the lab again, can see the red glow of the alarms. 

“One night, Dad fell into CORE. Made it explode, I guess. We never even found any dust.” 

When he opens his eyes again, Frisk is still watching him. They don’t say anything, but the expression on their face is tense.

“I, uh, kind of went a little nuts after that. I thought maybe I could use our research on spacetime to break time a little and bring Dad back. An artificial sort of reset.” 

Sans breathes. This next part is tough to tell, but he’s dragged out this mess of barbed wire before. 

“And I totally ignored Pap. Just. Got obsessed with work, and let Papyrus take care of himself. He was younger than you are now, but I treated him like a roommate I had no interest in talking to. And you know Papyrus; he didn’t like that. Begged me to stay home, tried to get my attention any way he could.

“So, uh, one time, Pap followed me to the CORE where I was doing some tests. And he . . . he almost fell in. Just like Dad.” 

Sans’ voice drops on the last sentence, a quaver of emotion that he didn’t expect running through his tone. He swallows. He’s gotten to the tangle of barbed wire that has never come out, and he feels his eyelights threatening to glow blue as something inside him instinctively tries to shut down. 

He folds his hands together in front of his face and leans his forehead against the fingers to ground himself. Not looking up, he continues:

“That’s the story Toriel and Papyrus know. Pap almost fell, and I got scared of losing what was left of my family, and quit research. And I guess, Flowey did somethin’ to trick Pap into the CORE in the first place, probably was the one who pushed him in, but it doesn’t really matter. ‘Cause here’s the other part of it: 

“I caught Pap. He didn’t fall. But I was pissed off. He’d pulled me out of my work again, and I had felt like I was so close to a breakthrough. And I thought . . .” 

With his eyes closed, Sans can see every detail of that moment as if it were a movie playing before him. Papyrus’ cry as he slips off the walkway. Sans hurtling through a shortcut from across the lab and throwing himself forward to snatch at Papyrus’ hand, but his fingers close on empty air. His eye erupts blue. Inches from the CORE’s center, Papyrus’ descent slows to a stop. 

“What were you thinking?!” Sans had yelled. “This isn’t a playground!”

“I’m sorry!” Papyrus had hiccuped. “I just wanted to see what you were doing!” 

“You keep causing trouble and gettin’ in the way! I don’t have the time to deal with this! You just ruined another test!” 

“I’m sorry!” Papyrus whimpered.

“Now I’m going to have to start all over. Maybe I should have just--!”

Sans had cut off there. 

Papyrus, still hanging in limbo, enveloped by blue magic, watched him with a wide, terrified expression. He’d curled in on himself, arms wrapped around his knees as he stared pleadingly up at Sans. 

“Should have . . . ?” he’d echoed. 

But Sans’ eyes had gone wide, as if seeing something nightmarish. And then the anger drained from Sans’ expression. In fact, all the energy at once seemed to leave him. His shoulders slumped; his expression turned downward toward the grated walkway. He lifted his hand; silently, Papyrus floated back onto the walkway and landed softly by Sans’ side. 

Papyrus yelped with surprise when Sans grabbed him and yanked him into a tight, one-armed hug. 

“I should have stayed home with you,” he’d muttered. “I’m sorry. ” 

And it’s only now, fifteen years later in front of Frisk, that Sans voices the thought he’d never finished. 

“I thought I should have let him fall.” 

Each word scrapes at his soul as he drags it out. He can’t bring himself to open his eyes yet, to read Frisk’s reaction. If he does, he won’t finish. 

“I needed to figure out how to reset. I knew I could do it. But Papyrus was distracting me. One more responsibility keeping me from my stupid research. If I let him fall, I wouldn’t have to worry about that anymore. And then, once I finished my research, I could just bring him back. No net loss.”

Breathe.

“So you get it, Frisk? I almost let Papyrus fall. That’s what I’m like when I do science. And that’s why I can never go back to it.”

There. He’s said it. He’s pulled out that final tangle of barbed wire that’s sat inside him for fifteen years. He feels raw. Already, he wishes he could snatch the words back, pack them deep inside, to never give them the power of ever having been uttered. 

But he needs to do this. Toriel and Papyrus are trying to forgive him for something that can never be forgiven. At least this way, someone can see him for who he is, can pass judgement in a way that’s just. 

He’s still not looking at Frisk, though, until an impatient tug on his sleeve grabs his attention. Frisk’s expression is drawn tight; Sans sees anxiety there, concern, and . . . guilt? 

When Sans is looking at them, Frisk signs: “It’s okay.” 

Sans lifts his brow in disbelief. “Yeah, kid, no it’s not.” 

“It’s okay,” they say again, hand slapping against their palm in emphasis. “Do you remember when I was little, you told me how no one was supposed to live outside time? That when now stops mattering, you’re not alive anymore?” 

“Uh, yeah.” 

“I think that’s what happened. You were living outside time because of the resets. No one’s supposed to live with resets. You only thought that way because of them. So it wasn’t that you were doing science, it was the resets.” 

Sans stares, then huffs a laugh. “You been talking to Pap?” 

Impassively, Frisk replies: “No.” 

“Yeah, he said the same thing, about it bein’ resets and not the science. Which -- by the way, did you know he knew about that?” 

“No. But I’m not surprised.” 

“Heh. Guess I was just dumb then.” 

They scowl at him, and the resemblance to Toriel’s reproachful expression is so poignant, that Sans is struck for a moment with just how much Frisk is her kid. And, somehow, that makes him feel all the more sharply that Frisk needs to understand. 

“But kid, it can’t have just been been the resets. I mean, look at you. You’ve been actually able to do resets for the last ten years, not just obsess over researching them, and you’ve never hurt anyone.” 

To Sans’ surprise, Frisk flinches. They look down. “No, you didn’t,” they say, still staring at the table. “You just had one thought. You didn’t actually kill anyone. I . . . killed Mom.” 

“. . . What ?” 

They squeeze their eyes shut. Now, Sans wonders if they look more like him, when he couldn’t bring himself to look at Frisk while he laid his sins bare. 

“When I told you I only reset twice, I lied. There was one more time. I killed Mom. I didn’t mean to! But she said I had to fight her before she would let me leave, so I could prove I could take care of myself in the Underground. And I thought I could just hit her lightly. But I hit her too hard by accident, and she died. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to.” 

“Damn, kid . . .” 

Sans slips out of chair and gets up to go around the table. Frisk still refuses to look up, but they’re trembling. As Sans watches, a tear falls into Frisk’s lap. Sans reaches out, and pulls them into a hug. For a second, Frisk resists, but then they lean across their chair to wrap their arms around Sans and squeeze as if he’s the only thing tethering them right now. 

Frisk has killed Toriel. There were resets Sans didn’t know about. Something in the back of his mind whispers with grim vindication: I knew it. But there’s another voice as well -- not as old, not as stubborn, but louder: It’s not the same. He tucks his face against the side of Frisk’s head, pressing the ridge of his nasal cavity into his kid’s hair. “You’re okay, bud. You didn’t mean to.” 

He hears Frisk sniff, and give a choked sob. Frisk’s hands fist at the back of his sweatshirt as they cling to him. “Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he shushes them. “Toriel’s fine. It was an accident. Everything’s okay.” 

Frisk shakes their head into his chest, but it’s still several moments before they can recover themselves to say anything. 

When they finally extricate themselves, sitting back heavily in their chair, they wipe at their eyes. With slightly shaky hands, they say: “I don’t think I would have risked hitting anyone if I hadn’t known I could reset.” 

“Yeah. You’re a good kid. And the resets suck.” 

Red, puffy eyes meet Sans’ gaze. 

“Is it really so bad you had one thought?” Frisk asks. “You didn’t hurt anyone. I did.” 

Sans shrugs. “Yeah, well, you didn’t mean to hurt anyone. But thoughts kind of show who you really are, even if you hide them. And I was someone who could consider sacrificing my brother for peace and quiet.” 

Frisk glances down. They seem to be processing this; their forehead is creased with thought, their hands twisting again and again at the hem of their shirt. Trepidation wrenches on Sans’ soul. Perhaps now, finally , Frisk will see him as he deserves. 

But when Frisk speaks, they only say: “You don’t hate me?” 

“What? Of course I don’t hate you, kid.” 

“Even though I hurt mom?” 

“It was a mistake. Look, are you asking me to hate you? C’mon, you can’t just ask family to hate you.” ‘Cause I did first, he thinks inwardly. 

And perhaps Frisk can read Sans’ intentions better than he expected, or maybe Frisk just always knows the right thing to say, because they say emphatically: “I don’t hate you, either.” 

Of course not. Frisk has always been too kind, too forgiving. How could Sans have thought they would have understood? Now Frisk is sitting in front of him, eyes red from crying, and they’re still trying to comfort him. Sans sighs, feeling a surge of protective warmth and self-loathing. He leans forward, and presses a soft kiss to Frisk’s hair.  “Yeah. I’m sorry, kid. Love you.” 

“I love you, too.” 

Sans doesn’t know how he feels about that. 

Chapter Text

The next day is Saturday. Ebott City comes alive on the weekends as the late spring sunlight hints at the coming summer. People bustle under trees heavy with blossoms and the first buds of new leaves, and snatches of music float down the sidewalk under clear blue skies. City fashion turns floaty and colorful as the temperature climbs. The annual racecar festival spills out across the street. But with the nearing summer, Sans is rudely reminded that three events on the calendar are much closer than he’d thought: the end of the school year, the tenth annual monster reunion, and Frisk’s eighteenth birthday. 

Shit, Frisk is nearly an adult. As many times as Sans has thought about it over the past several months, it still trips him up every time. They’ve got one more year of Frisk in high school, and then after that . . . 

Sans decides to cope the best way he knows how. 

“Hey, Tori,” he calls, grabbing the string of the giant cat balloon that’s bouncing cheerfully around the ceiling of the party store. “What does a cat like to eat on their birthday?”

Toriel glances over from the paper plates she’s considering. “I do not know. What does a cat like to eat on their birthday?” 

“Mice cream and cake.” 

Toriel laughs, the sound breaking off into a snort. Sans beams. It’s hard to feel worried about anything when he gets to listen to that. 

“What’d’you think?” he asks, tugging the balloon down so he can cross his arms over the top. “Doesn’t it just say ‘happy purr-thday’?” 

“Oh, indeed. A delightful selection from the party cat-alogue.” She pauses to let Sans chortle, and then continues: “But it does not quite fit the theme, does it? Cats are not really ‘weird sports’.” 

“Eh, I dunno, there’s probably some weird sport with cats. Maybe competitive cat napping. I’d win that event, paws down.” 

“Yes, it would not be fair to the other players. We would have to give you some kind of handi-cat.” 

“Awww, mew flatter me.” 

Finally, Sans releases the balloon and turns back to the paperware on the shelf. 

“So, guide me. What’s your vision for ‘weird sports’ decor? ‘Cause we’ve got footballs and baseballs,” he says, picking up each set of plates in turn, “but neither of them are particularly ‘weird’.” 

“I thought perhaps we could select items related to the activities we have chosen,” Toriel replies. She shows him the napkins she’d found; cheese of all shades of white and yellow pattern the border. “This, I hoped, would represent our cheese racing event.” 

“Hmm. Oh -- this one is perfect.” 

Toriel looks down at the plates Sans shoves in her hands. They’re ocean-themed, with fish and bubbles cheerfully criss-crossing the front. “What event does this represent?” 

“Our mascot, obviously. When it comes to weird sports, Undyne is the queen.” 

Toriel laughs. She glances at her watch. “We should hurry up, dear. There is only so long Papyrus will be able to distract Frisk. We did promise to meet them at the racecar festival.” 

“Pssh. They’re at the racecar festival. They won’t even notice we’re gone.” Still, Sans pushes the fish-plates back on the shelf and considers the other designs with renewed interest.

When they do finally leave the store, they have a mismatched selection of random supplies, including the cheese napkins, some plates with horses on them, and two different banners. One banner reads Welcome Back  and the other says Happy Birthday. 

“That is probably a good start,” Toriel says, peering inside the bag. “Papyrus and Undyne will be able to pick up the rest later.” 

“They’ll have a blast,” Sans agrees. “Not really sure why we didn’t just leave everything to them, to be honest. Or, speaking of a blast, Mettaton for that matter.” 

“Dear, Mettaton’s idea of decor is bombs.” 

“Well, he does like a good blow-out.” 

Toriel sniggers. “Besides, it is Frisk’s eighteenth birthday. Do you not want to be involved in planning that?” 

“You really want me in charge of planning a party?”

“No,” Toriel replies. “Which is why I did not send you unsupervised.” 

“‘Unsupervised’? Ouch, Tori.” 

She grins at him, ears perked playfully. “If I had sent you alone, you would have come back with that cat balloon and nothing else.” 

He laughs. “Hey, Frisk would have loved it.” 

“I cannot argue that.” 

They find the van parked along the edge of the park. As they load in their new party supplies, Sans says in a casual tone: “Speaking of Frisk growin’ up and all . . . well, I think I came up with something for me to do next year.” 

“Oh?” Toriel looks up from where she is covering the bags with a blanket. “What did you decide?” 

“Don’t get too excited; it’s nothing really different from what I’m already doing. I just thought, well, I’m already doing some ambassador stuff for Frisk. I could do that more seriously, I guess. The more ambassador stuff I take on, the less Frisk is gonna have to worry about in college.”

“Ambassador,” Toriel echoes. Sans searches her expression for some sign of disappointment, but he doesn’t find one. 

“Hey, I’m a people person. I’d be great at it.” 

She smiles at him. “Yes, if you wanted to. And as you say, looking out for your family is what matters most to you.” 

“Yeah. Exactly.” 

Toriel shuts the trunk of the van. “Have you mentioned this to Frisk yet?” 

“Not yet.” 

“And what about Asgore?” 

“Also not yet.” Sans rubs awkwardly at the back of his skull. “Uh, would that be okay with you? Me working with Asgore more?” 

“Of course. I have been co-parenting with him for almost ten years, not to mention all that Frisk does with him as ambassador. I think I could handle you spending a little more time with him.” Toriel shoots him a look of fond amusement. “But it would probably be polite to speak with Asgore about this before making long-term plans.” 

“Yeah, good point.” Sans has never felt particularly uncomfortable around Asgore, and never really got the sense Asgore was overly uncomfortable around him, but who knows? Asking a guy to work with his ex’s new partner can be a little awkward. 

Sans feeds the meter, giving them a few more hours of parking time. “So, you wanna head back to the festival now? I know a shortcut.”

“Not yet,” Toriel replies. “I would like to talk for a moment.”

Sans lifts his brow. “I thought we were in a hurry.”

“This is more important.” 

He doesn’t like the sound of that. 

“So,” Toriel says, tone light. “Can I take it that you have spoken to Papyrus?”

Sans does not wince. It’s a close thing. “About the science stuff?”

“Yes.”

“Uh, yeah. I did, yesterday.” He grins wryly and shrugs. “Sorry I didn’t mention it earlier, but I didn’t really know where to bring it up, you know?” 

Toriel nods, smiling reassuringly. “I understand. What did Papyrus say?” Her eyes are dazzlingly red in the sunlight. 

And all of a sudden, the memory of Frisk’s words rear in Sans’ head: I killed Mom. Sans looks into her eyes and feels a gut-wrenching horror at the thought of something so beautiful, so precious, being lost, even in some far-off, aborted timeline. Decisively, he shoves the thought away. It leaves an uncomfortable churning in his soul. 

“Well, you were right,” Sans admits. “Papyrus doesn’t care about me doing research. Hell, he kind of wants me to get back to it, too. Get this -- he called it ‘cool’. What the heck, right?”

Obligingly, Toriel laughs. “Yet, you still did not want to consider going back to your research?” 

He shrugs. “Yeah, well. He forgives me, sure, but he doesn’t know the full story. If he did, I don’t know that he would forgive me. I sure wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t. So. Kind of doesn’t matter if he wants me to go back to a lab or not.” 

“Do I know the full story?” 

The question is too direct for Sans to obfuscate around. He glances down at the cracks on the sidewalk and exhales. “Nope.” 

“So, to you, my opinion on the subject does not matter either.” 

“I wouldn’t say that--”

“But you also consider my opinion to be uninformed, do you not?” 

He winces. “Well, it’s not exactly your fault or anything. I’m just the coward who never told you.” 

“Sans!” Toriel scolds. “You know how I feel about that kind of talk.” 

“Hey, it’s true.” 

Toriel lets out an exasperated sigh. “Come. Let us sit down.” There’s a bench at the edge of the park a few feet from their car, and Toriel leads the way over there. Sans follows obligingly and sits, although he can’t get comfortable. 

“Y’know, this is a nice change,” he comments idly. 

“What is?’

“I seem to keep having these kind of conversations at kitchen tables lately. I was startin’ to think I should just not go into kitchens anymore.” 

“Ah,” Toriel says, smiling. “So now it is kitchens and parks you must avoid.” 

He winks. “Precisely.” 

Toriel laughs softly. 

For a moment, they lapse into silence. Sans tilts his head up, watching the light filter through the blossoms in the trees as he listens to the sound of the park: distant snatches of conversation, a dog barking, the beeping of the walk light at the corner. 

Finally, Toriel begins.

“I do not suppose you are willing to tell me what it is I do not know?” 

Sans squeezes his eye sockets shut. Toriel is so kind, so gentle. He can imagine the horror and disgust on her face if he told her the truth about what he’s done. Toriel has been a stable constant in his life for so long, one of the only constants when even time couldn’t be trusted. He’s not sure he can handle her judgement. And yet, he’d been so desperate for someone to pass judgement on him just a few hours ago. He’s a hypocrite. 

“Not yet,” he says finally. “Sorry.” 

Toriel nods. She looks disappointed, but resigned. “Yes, I suppose I had expected as much.”

“You don’t seem that surprised that there was more to the story.” 

“Of course,” she replies. “Clearly, these events have been troubling you greatly for quite a while. I rather suspected there might be something deeper.” 

Sans chuckles softly into one hand. “You’re too smart.” 

She smiles at him, even as concern shadows her expression. “But Sans, I do worry. While I do not wish to push you before you are ready, these events have been affecting you deeply. I do not think it is good for you to keep this all inside, to yourself. I believe it is important to open up to someone about this. Are you certain that you are not willing to tell Papyrus the rest?”

“No,” Sans says sharply. “I can’t tell Papyrus, not ever. You, maybe sometime. Papyrus, never.” 

“You can rely on your brother as well, sometimes, you know.” 

“Not for this.” 

Toriel sighs. “Well, alright. Perhaps another friend then? Alphys, Grillby?”

“Well, I told Frisk already. Does that count?” 

“You what?!”  

Sans is startled by the fire in her voice, and his head jerks up. Toriel’s brows are furrowed, her ears pulled back. She’s staring at him, looking as if she’s hoping desperately she just misheard him. 

Sans rubs awkwardly at his neck. “Um. I, uh, told Frisk?” 

“Sans, you did not.” Her tone is measured, dangerous. 

“What?” he says. “You were just saying I should tell someone.” 

“Not Frisk! Sans, that is not at all appropriate! Frisk is a child.” 

“Hey, they’re going to be eighteen in like, a month! They’re pretty much an adult.” But even as Sans defends himself, he feels shame hot in his face.

“That does not matter! No matter how old Frisk becomes, they will always be your child. That means they must always be able to rely on you, not the other way around. I may not know exactly what it is that you told Frisk, but I know the effect it has on you, and it is not acceptable to put the burden of helping you work through something so heavy on your own child.” 

She’s right, and he knows it --- he’s known it even as the words were leaving his mouth back in the kitchen. But it didn’t seem to matter back then, because he was already the asshole who almost let Papyrus fall. What’s one more family screw-up? 

But he mutters: “I mean, you’ve always been super in favor of being transparent with Frisk about hard stuff.” 

“Not in this way! It is okay to let Frisk know when we are going through difficult emotions -- it lets them see that difficult emotions are normal, and understand how we work through them. But we have to be working through them on our own! You have not been dealing with these emotions, and you cannot ask Frisk to be your only confidant! Do you truly not see the difference?” 

Sans sighs, covering his face in his hands. “No, I do. You’re totally right. I’m sorry. I screwed up, big time.” 

Toriel lets out a heavy breath. “As I said, I do not wish to push you to be open until you are ready, but . . . you have already told Frisk. For me to properly support my child, I may need to know the rest of whatever it is you are not telling me.” 

My child , not our child. Sans knows Toriel doesn’t mean it that way, but it stings nevertheless. 

“Yeah,” Sans mumbles. “Yeah. I guess you’re probably right.” 

Shit. He hadn’t planned on this. He closes his eyes and tries not to picture the disappointment on her face now, the horror that will be there when he finishes telling her the story. The tangle of barbed wire is heavy in his gut. But he’s already pulled it out once before, and now he’s sacrificed the right to let it stay there. 

“I almost killed Papyrus.” 

Toriel’s forehead tightens. But gently, she says: “Tell me.” 

He inhales, and starts his confession. 

As he talks, he can’t bring himself to look at her. He wishes desperately that he could have a wall between them, then regrets the thought. It’s not a good idea to tempt the powers in his universe. Toriel listens attentively, not touching him, not interrupting. 

But when he finishes, Toriel reaches over, and wraps him in a tight hug. Sans blinks, startled, and then reaches up to card one hand through the fur on Toriel’s arm. Again, the memory of Frisk’s words surfaces, somehow jostling for space between all the other memories of the lab flitting through his head: I killed Mom . Sans squeezes his eye sockets shut and holds tighter to Toriel’s arm. 

“Oh, Sans,” Toriel murmurs, her muzzle pressed against his skull. “It is alright.” 

Sans twists his neck around to fix her with a disbelieving stare. She’s watching him not with anger or horror, but with a kind of compassionate heartache. “You kidding, Tori? Yeah, no, it’s not. You heard me, right?” 

“I did. But, dear, it was just a thought. It is our actions that define who we are, not our thoughts. And your actions have shown time and time again how much you truly love Papyrus.”

“I shouldn’t’ve thought it.” 

“Thoughts happen. And the moment you had that thought, you decided to walk away from your lab and devote all your time and energy to Papyrus. That is quite telling, I think.” 

Sans doesn’t say anything. 

Toriel puts her hands on his shoulders, gently turning him to face her. “Sans. I, too, have had thoughts I regretted. I cannot count the number of times I have wished horrible things on Asgore.” 

“I mean, he’s your ex--” 

“And I certainly have hated humans at times.” 

“That’s completely understandable--” 

“And if thoughts reflected on what we were capable of, do you not think my LV would increase from each and every violent thought?” 

Sans shakes his head. “LV doesn’t work that way. Hell, if you hurt someone by tripping over them it doesn’t care that it was an accident.” 

“Exactly. It is actions that matter, not thoughts. You had a thought, but your LV never increased.”

“I don’t care about LV,” Sans insists, exasperated. “It’s not like it’s any kind of perfect marker of who’s good or not. Papyrus is my brother, and I thought I should let him fall. You don’t come back from that.” 

“Papyrus is your brother,” Toriel agrees. “And you love him, and you have cared for him, and you did not let him fall.” 

“Maybe in another timeline I did.” 

“Perhaps. But, somehow, I do not believe you ever did.” 

Sans sighs. “Look, Tori, I appreciate that you’re trying to help. But it’s not going to change anything.” 

Toriel smiles sadly. “I believe I am beginning to see that,” she says, and runs one paw tenderly over the side of his skull. “This may be . . . well, something for someone who is trained to help people work through difficult emotions.” 

Wait. What. Sans stares at her, brow cocked in disbelief. “Uh, are you talkin’ about a shrink?” 

“Therapist,” she corrects mildly. “Yes. This has been troubling you for fifteen years, enough to impact your relationship with your family. It may be time to talk to a trained and impartial third party.” 

“Wait, hang on. I don’t need a therapist.”

“I cannot force you, of course. But--” And here, she fixes him with a stern gaze. “--I would appreciate it greatly if you did.” 

The hard lines in her expression are not accusatory, but Sans withers inside nevertheless. He’s let her down. Well. Of course he has. He’s Sans ; they both should have seen this coming. 

He sighs. “I thought we agreed that therapy wasn’t a great idea years ago.”

Toriel shakes her head. “You were hesitant the first time I brought it up, back when you told me about the resets. You wanted to deal on your own. I let it go because you did improve. You gave yourself something of a routine, and I found I was not so worried about you. But . . . I think you have gotten stuck. It has been ten years, and these issues are still upsetting you. You may have reached the limits of what you can do on your own.” 

“C’mon. Even if I admitted I needed a shrink, how the heck would I talk to one?” Sans asks. “I start talkin’ resets, and they’re gonna lock me up.” 

“It is not so hard to believe when one understands magic. On occasion, even humans have magic and so a good therapist would have to have an open mind. We also have Frisk to corroborate your story. If you are invested in giving therapy an honest try, we can find ways to explain it.” 

Sans tries to imagine the conversation, and he has to shake his head. That poor shrink. But next, he argues: “And therapy’s expensive. We can’t afford it, especially with Frisk going off to college next year.” 

“We will be fine. Our insurance through the school is good. And Asgore is going to be paying most of Frisk’s tuition.” 

“But I’m the last one in this family who should be getting therapy. You and Frisk are the ones who have dealt with real shit. All my shit is just me getting up in my own head.” 

“Do you not consider losing your father ‘real shit’?” Toriel asks.

Sans shrugs. “Lots of people lose parents. They don’t all lose their head over it.” 

“It is difficult to predict how anyone will respond to grief. You were young, and pushed into a position of responsibility before you were ready for it. And besides.” Toriel smiles softly. “If this is ‘all in your head’ that is all the more reason to see a therapist. A therapist cannot erase the things in a person’s past. They can only help find lost heads.” 

Sans looks away and rubs at his face. 

“I don’t like the idea of telling some poor sap about the resets. It’s not really a nice thing to do to someone, tell them that time is screwing with them and that nothing they do matters.” 

Toriel’s lips quirk up. “I thought you did not believe that anymore.” 

“Well, it’s still a pretty heavy thing to dump on someone.” 

“You do realize that being on the receiving end of ‘heavy things’ is more or less the job description of a therapist?” 

Sans concedes the point with a chuckle, and then is quiet for a long moment. He’s running out of arguments. He looks down at the sidewalk beneath his feet, maps the cracks in the concrete with his eyes. The thought of talking about his shit, to a stranger, is terrifying. The sense of no, oh god no, please don’t make me is visceral. He could always dig his feet in, refuse. When he wants to be, he’s quite good at being an unmovable object. And, as Toriel said, she can’t force him. 

But he looks up, takes in the weariness in her eyes, so subtle he knows most people would miss it, and says: “Would it help you if I did?” 

Toriel gives him a small, almost sad smile. “I would rather you did this for yourself, but yes. I believe it would. It would help both of us.” 

“Then okay.” 

She pulls him into another tight hug. This time, Sans lets himself relax and lean into her chest. “Thank you, dear,” she murmurs against his skull. “For your honesty, and your openness.” 

“‘Course, T. You’ve goat a way with words.” 

Toriel laughs, and the whiskers on her muzzle tickle the top of Sans’ head. Sans closes his eyes, drinking in the moment. 

“You know, we should probably get going to the festival. The little squirt is probably gonna notice we’re gone any day now.” 

“Yes, of course. I think we will take one of your shortcuts now.” Toriel gets up, and reaches down to help Sans to his feet. 

Sans grins. “Alright. This way.” Still holding on to Toriel’s hand, he leads them down the sidewalk, to the edge of the park. They cross the street. A bus goes by, blocking them from view of the park. When the bus passes, they’re gone. 

---

The racecar festival doesn’t seem particularly, well, racecar-y. A city street has been cordoned off and it’s bursting with shops and stalls and activities. Sure, here and there, an antique racecar is parked on the street, and passerbys pause to take photos. But besides that, there are home good sales, and vintage clothing markets, and international food trucks, and an art show that doesn’t include a single painting of a racecar. 

It’s here, by a painting of a cat wearing a superhero cape, that Toriel and Sans find Frisk and Papyrus. 

“SANS, TORIEL,” Papyrus calls, when he spots them. “HELLO. YOU HAVE RETURNED!” 

“Hey,” Frisk waves. With a mischievous glint in their eye, they sign: “How did surprise birthday supply shopping go?” 

Toriel startles. “Um, ‘surprise birthday’?” she echoes. “Who said anything about a surprise birthday? Who said anything about surprises?” 

“Yeah, kid,” Sans puts in. “We had to go check on Rocky. Papyrus forgot to let it out to do its business today.” 

“THAT’S A TERRIBLE LIE, SANS,” Papyrus scolds. “Everyone knows you never take care of your pet rock! That’s why it lives with me now!” 

Frisk grins. “Would it be okay if I added a few more names to the invitations?” they ask. “Since it’s going to be at the monster reunion, I know a few more humans who would die to come. At school, Rachel has a huge celebrity crush on Shyren. And Anya has just always been curious about the monster reunion.” 

“Who said anything about the monster reunion?” Toriel says nervously. 

“Well, when else are all my monster friends from all over the country going to be in one place?” Frisk asks pointedly. 

Sans chuckles. “We don’t know what you’re talking about, kid. But, sure, we’ll add Rachel and Anya to the non-existent list.” He winks. 

“SANS, TORIEL, HAVE YOU LOOKED AT THE RACECARS YET?” Papyrus breaks in. “There is a blue and gold one with flames on it! It is not as cool as my car, but it is still very snazzy!” 

“Sounds very cool,” Sans agrees. “You know, I’m surprised you’re not still out by the racecars now.”

“Yes, well . . .” Papyrus pauses to gesture at the painting. “It’s a cat! In a cape!” 

“Excellent point, bro.” 

Frisk turns to Papyrus and says: “Let’s give them a tour of the cars!”  

“Excellent idea, my cool friend! We’ll show them all the best cars!” 

Frisk grabs Toriel’s paw and eagerly leads the way from the art tent as Papyrus enthusiastically continues describing the various racecars parked along the street. They weave through the throngs of people enjoying the festival, past taco trucks and vintage street stalls. 

At the very mouth of the street, where the silver road barriers separate the street festival from the traffic, Papyrus bounces over to a gold and silver striped car that looks a bit like an oversized metallic pill. Papyrus climbs right in, much to the horror of the human onlookers, although they look too stunned to intervene. Toriel laughs delightedly on the sheer joy on Papyrus’ face, and Frisk leans up casually against the tail wings of the car for Toriel to snap a photo on her phone. 

“Come on, Sans! Get in the picture!” Papyrus crows. 

“Okay, okay,” Sans chuckles, and lets Frisk grab him and drag him up to the car. He rests one hand on the nose of the vehicle and smiles lazily for the camera. 

He next swaps off with Toriel so she can have a picture with the car. Papyrus throws his arms around both Toriel and Frisk, startling the both of them into laughter. Sans snaps a photo. 

His family looks happy. He watches them laugh, ignoring the stares from the humans around them. Life bustles through the street festival, and there’s a lightness in the air that is more than just sunlight and spring breeze. 

I killed Mom. 

He feels like he can’t breathe. 

Old-style jazz music thuds on a dozen feet down the street. Frisk’s head perks up as they seek the source of the sound. A large space has been cleared on the street, and there’s a wide banner hanging over a set of boxy speakers: Swing Dance - Free Instruction! 

“I want to check that out!” Frisk declares.

“What, the swing dance place?” Sans asks.

“Yeah, it looks cool!” 

“Kid, you are not getting me to swing dance.” 

Frisk grins, lifting their eyebrows wickedly. “Is that a challenge?” 

“I would like to see you swing dance,” Toriel puts in, smiling. 

“No, no way, it’s not happening.” 

Frisk and Toriel exchange a mischievous look, and Sans has to laugh. 

“LET’S GO!” Papyrus enthuses. “We will be the best swing dancers! They will all be amazed by our elegance and grace!” 

He bounces out of the racecar (to the relief of the still-scandalized onlookers), and Sans can’t help but be swept up with the rest of his family as they descend on the swing dancing station. A small crowd is already gathering, and Frisk clears a little corner of dance floor for their little group of four. 

Instructors mingle through the would-be dancers, giving guidance and demonstrations. A South Asian young man with swept black hair and dark skin reaches them. 

“So, we’ll start with just getting into the walking step,” he tells them. “It’s literally just walking, keep your hips moving, and make sure you’re leaning forward, not back.” 

He demonstrates for them, then compliments Frisk’s perfect recreation and encourages Papyrus to take it a little easy on the hips. Toriel’s struggling to find the rhythm, but she’s laughing. 

“Oh, come on, Sans!” she encourages. “It is just walking!” 

Sans lurks at the edge of the crowd, hands shoved deep in his pockets. He smirks. “Oh, walking? I’m not real good at that, but I could give it a try.” And he starts lifting his feet in exaggerated marching movements, and staggering sideways as if he can’t keep his balance. He stumbles heavily into Frisk. 

Frisk squeals a mirthful protest. They grab Sans’ hands, keeping up their smooth, subtle stepping. This close, Sans can’t keep up his ridiculous marching motion without kneeing Frisk in the stomach, and so he relents. Laughing, he moves his feet in a mirror to Frisk, letting them lead across their little spot of dance floor. 

“Look, you have got it!” Toriel exclaims. She’s dancing with Papyrus, who still hasn’t toned down his enthusiasm. He tries to spin her out, and Toriel gasps as she trips over her own feet. But still, she’s laughing. 

Their instructor returns to show them a quick staccato triple step to throw into their walking rhythm. Frisk catches on immediately, their feet beating a tap, tap, tap-tap-tap against the pavement. Sans stubbornly keeps up the basic stepping. The leisurely pace suits him just fine. 

He passes Frisk on to Papyrus, and the two almost immediately end up tripping over each other as Papyrus eagerly throws some kind of high-kick into his triple step. Toriel comes up behind Sans and wraps her arms gently around him. She gives him a soft squeeze, sighing as if she’s in the most comfortable position in the world. Sans leans back into her touch. 

“May I have this dance, dear?” Toriel murmurs against the side of his skull. 

He chuckles. “I thought I said I wasn’t dancing.” 

“Hmmm. But you were dancing.” 

Sans turns in her arms. He runs his hands down the fur of her arms, tracing the soft curves until he reaches her hands. He laces their fingers together. “Ain’t fair. It’s too hard to say ‘no’ to you guys.” 

Toriel winks. “I think you like it.” 

He laughs, and does not deny it. 

Toriel starts up a rhythm, and Sans falls into step with her. He keeps it simple, but Toriel seems content with that. They sway to the beat of the music, while beside them, Frisk and Papyrus try out a complicated kicking rhythm that seems almost more like a can-can than swing dancing. 

Sans watches them, even as he lets Toriel guide him around and around. Papyrus is laughing his high, barking kind of laugh, looking endlessly pleased with himself; Frisk’s face is shining. A couple of onlookers have paused to watch the two, and their instructor looks like he’s not sure if he should correct them or just let them have their fun. 

It seems to Sans that everything in that moment is beautiful: the wild dance between Papyrus and Frisk, the bright blue sky above, the triangle-shaped flags that criss-cross the festival street, even the bricks of the buildings around him. 

It’s a feeling he’s not used to, but one that’s becoming maybe a little less alien to him with each passing year. 

But then Sans’ gaze slides back to Toriel and a whisper in the back of his mind shatters the moment: 

I killed Mom. 

His foot hits the ground wrong, and he slips. He hits the ground hard. “Oof.” 

“Sans!” Toriel’s paws fly to her face. “Oh goodness! Are you alright?” She hastens to reach down and pull Sans up to his feet. 

“Uh, yeah,” he mumbles, as Toriel pats dirt from his sweatshirt. He winces, and rubs uncomfortably at this smarting tailbone. “Sorry. I guess I’m just not that athletic.” 

“You do not need to apologize. Are you hurt?” 

“No, I’m fine. But, uh, maybe I will sit this out for a bit.” 

“Yes, of course. Would you like me to come with you?” 

He waves her off. “Nah, I’m good. Go dance with Frisk and Pap, have fun.” 

“If you are certain . . .” 

“I am. Go. Have fun.” 

Toriel squeezes his hand, and moves off toward Frisk and Papyrus. Sans settles himself on the curb and watches them. Papyrus starts showing Toriel his elaborate high-kick maneuver, and after a few moments, the worry lines on Toriel’s expression smooth out. 

His family is still happy. But for Sans, the moment has passed. 

I killed Mom. 

He lets out a sigh and rubs a hand hard over his face. Shit. 

Maybe therapy isn’t such a bad idea. 

----

When they get back to the apartment late that afternoon, it’s not quite sunset, but the sky is beginning to pinken along the city skyline. They drop Papyrus off at his place first, and he is gracious enough to smuggle out the not-so-secret party supplies from the trunk and away from Frisk’s watchful gaze. 

“What do you want for dinner, kiddo?” Sans asks, as Toriel shuts the front door of their apartment. 

Frisk shrugs. Helpful. 

“Great. Liverwurst and blood pudding it is,” Sans says sagely. 

Frisk rolls their eyes, and trots off to the living room to flop on the couch. They pull their phone out of their pocket and start typing rapidly.

Sans chuckles to himself as he heads to the kitchen. Toriel follows him. 

“That was a lovely day,” Toriel comments. 

“Yeah, it was,” Sans agrees. “Hey, could you grab me an onion?” 

Toriel fetches an onion from the top shelf of their pantry and hands it over. 

“Thanks.” 

“Of course. But, ah, Sans, I think we should talk to Frisk about the conversation that you and I had at the park today. It would be important for them to know that you have confided in me, and that they do not have the responsibility to look out for you.” 

Sans winces. He cuts off the ends of the onion and halves it with three rapid thunks . “Right,” he mutters, as he starts peeling off the outermost layers. “Another kitchen table heart-to-heart. I can do that.” 

Toriel laughs softly. “Sorry, dear. But it is important.” 

“Yeah, I get that,” Sans says, shooting her a sheepish smile. “It’s my own fault, anyway. I’m just really bad at these kinda talks.”

She smiles back at him. “Well, thank you for being brave.” 

“Heh. Thank you for bein’ patient.” He shakes his head slightly. “You seem to always know the right thing to do when you’re feeling out-of-sorts. You keep your head up, and you don’t let people get caught in the middle. I wish I knew how to do that like you do.” 

He needs tomatoes. Wordlessly, he jerks his head toward the open pantry, where two cans of crushed tomatoes sit on the middle shelf.

Toriel fetches the cans. “You are not so terrible at it as you might think,” she says softly. “We all have our own journeys. I have been watching you grow for quite a few years. You are warmer now, more open, more directed than you once were.” 

He passes her a can opener. “Yeah, but as you say, I’m ‘growing’. Wouldn’t you rather I already knew this crap? You do.”

“Do you think I never had to learn?” She winks at him. “You are with an older woman.” 

Sans lets out a startled laugh. “Great, now I feel kinky.” 

“Oh yes? I could make you feel more kinky, if you like.” 

“Frisk is in the living room!” Sans hisses, choking back mirth that could draw their kid’s attention. 

Toriel grins mischievously. “I did not say ‘now’.” 

“Oh, open your cans.” 

“Is that what the kids are calling it these days?” But, still chortling, Toriel slides the can opener along the lid of the first can. “Anyway. I also had to learn how to manage emotions and communicate them. And, truly, you do know more than you think you do. I would not have considered raising a child with you if I thought you were not emotionally ready. But even by the time I met you, you knew how to be vulnerable enough to love with every bit of your soul. You knew how to listen. You knew how to keep going even when you despaired, knew how to choose what was important to you. And, you knew how to learn.” 

Sans pauses from dicing his onion to look up at her. There is genuine love and tenderness in Toriel’s expression -- the norm for her, really -- as well as a faint glow of pride. Awkwardly, he scratches the back of his neck. “Doesn’t it bother you that I screwed up?” 

“Do I like that you chose to confide in Frisk? No. Does that mean I do not trust you? Of course not. Even good parents make mistakes. Do you not remember Frisk’s first sleepover?” 

Sans chuckles. A year after they reached the surface, Frisk had been invited to their first sleepover. But, only a half hour after dropping Frisk off, Toriel had panicked and pulled Frisk home. Although Sans had talked Toriel down and returned Frisk to the party, Frisk had sulked for a week afterwards. 

“Hey, it didn’t hurt the kid.” 

“Frisk certainly thought it did,” Toriel says wryly. “And I had needed your help back then to realize I was being unreasonable. Even as parents, we learn.” 

“I guess.” He’s still not sure it’s comparable, but it’s good to know that Toriel doesn’t feel like he’s just a kid playing at being a parent. “Hand me the tomatoes?” 

She does so. 

And an hour later, a tray of baked ziti is steaming on the kitchen table. “Frisk! Dinner!” Toriel calls, as Sans sets a stack of plates on the table. 

A disgruntled sound protests from the living room, but Frisk obligingly appears at the doorway of the kitchen. They’re tapping away at their phone as they settle in a chair. 

“Phone down, dear,” Toriel says, scooping some pasta onto a plate and passing it to Frisk. 

Frisk obliges. Sans takes his own plate from Toriel and takes a seat. He glances up at Frisk, who’s already digging in. 

Great, he has another tough conversation to get through. The anticipation is a pressure at the back of his skull. 

All at once, he blurts: “Hey, kid, I told your mom what I told you yesterday. So, uh, don’t worry about me, okay?”

Toriel, halfway through spooning some pasta onto her own plate, gives Sans a startled glance. That’s fair. He’s startled himself, if he’s being honest. 

Frisk’s head shoots up. Their eyes slide to Toriel, then back; they look terrified. 

I killed Mom. 

Sans swallows. “You know, what I said.” He holds Frisk’s gaze as he emphasizes the ‘I’, and after a moment, Frisk nods. They relax somewhat, but still look tense. 

“Anyway, sorry I dumped on you,” Sans continues. “It wasn’t cool.” 

“It’s okay,” Frisk says. “I wanted to help.”

Toriel gives Frisk a soft, almost sad smile. “That is kind of you, dear, but I do not think that is something anyone could do alone. Even I cannot work through his troubles for him.”

“Yeah,” Sans says, affecting a dry, resigned expression. “Tori’s even making me go to therapy.” 

To his surprise, Frisk gives a firm nod and says: “Good. It’s not good for you to be so freaked out about one thought.” 

Sans lifts his brow. “What, you a psychologist now?” 

“No. But everyone knows how much you love science. Papyrus talks about it; Alphys talks about it. And you quit because of one thought.” 

He huffs a soft laugh. “Kid, I just want to take care of my family. And sometimes science can get in the way.” 

Frisk shoots him an exasperated, disbelieving glare. But before they can say anything, Toriel breaks in: “Perhaps a therapist would be better equipped for this conversation.” 

Frisk relents, although they look like they want to argue some more. Their mouth sets in a dejected line. 

Sans feels a little bad. “Kid, I know you’re trying to help, and I appreciate it. I just don’t really want to do anything science anymore.” 

“Ah,” Toriel murmurs. “Well, I do not want to push you, but you did promise my students a class about stars. Did you still want to do that? If you do not feel ready, you do not have to.” 

Sans glances up at her, startled. He hadn’t forgotten, exactly, but he hadn’t touched that lesson since that first disastrous evening. He’d kind of hoped she’d forgotten. That way, there’d be no pressure until he showed up at the last second. “It’s fine,” he says finally. “I made a promise. And hey, it’s one class. Probably can’t hurt. I’ll finish planning the lesson this week, I guess.” 

Frisk’s hand shoots up. Toriel and Sans look at them, and excitedly, they sign: “I have an idea! If you don’t like doing science because you think it hurts your relationship with your family, what if we help you make the lesson plan? Then it’ll be a bonding activity.” 

“Kid, you don’t have to--” 

“It is not a bad idea,” Toriel interrupts. “Would it help?” 

Sans shrugs. “I don’t know. Probably wouldn’t hurt.” 

“Then let us give it a try.” 

“Tomorrow,” Frisk adds. 

Sans looks to them, takes in the determination in their gaze. They care so much about him. Frisk and Toriel both. His chest feels tight. He’s making them do so much for him. But if he turns them down, they’ll worry more. 

He forces a smile. 

“Okay. Tomorrow.” 

Chapter Text

When Sans wanders out of the bedroom at noon the next day, he finds the living room strewn with craft supplies. An enormous poster board takes up much of the coffee table; markers and colored pencils are stacked on the corner. On the ground, there are acrylic paints and styrofoam balls and toothpicks and a glue gun. 

Frisk’s in the kitchen, loading a sandwich high with sliced turkey. 

“Mornin’, kid,” Sans yawns, scratching at his jawbone. “What’s up with the art fair?” 

“They’re leftovers from my chemistry project from last year,” they tell him. “I thought you could use it for your lesson for Mom’s class.” 

“What, I’m making props now? Man, I was just planning on showing them a video and taking a nap. Kids love videos, right?” 

Frisk gives him a very dry look.

Sans sees effort in his future. Shame. “Speaking of your mom, where is she?” 

“At the corner store. We’re out of milk.” They put the last piece of bread on top of the sandwich and slide the rest of the bread back into the fridge. 

“Oh. Too bad.” Sans digs a box of cereal out of the pantry and pours out a bowl. Frisk looks on with mild disgust as Sans sets into his bowl of dry cereal. 

“You could wait for Mom to get back with the milk.” 

“Eh,” Sans replies, voice muffled through a mouth of cornflakes. 

Frisk wrinkles their nose at him as they bring their sandwich over to the table. “So, what are you going to teach Mom’s class?” 

“Uh, I dunno. Space stuff.” 

“That’s specific,” Frisk comments, exaggerating the motion with sarcasm. 

He chuckles. “You seem to have a lot of ideas. You wanna do it for me? We can get you out of school for a day an’ everything.” 

They cross their arms and give him a look. 

“You’re not jumping on the chance to skip school for a day? Jeez, you really haven’t learned anything from me.” 

“I’m not the one who’s an actual scientist.” 

He shrugs. “You’re more scientist than me these days. How’s studying for your physics final going?” 

“Slow. Why, do you miss physics? Do you want to help me study so you can do some more physics?” 

Sans blinks and shakes his head with fond exasperation. This kid. “Why’re you so bent on getting me to do science, anyway?” 

Frisk shrugs, mirroring Sans’ movement. “You like science.” 

“I like my family better.” 

“You can have both.” 

“Agree to disagree, kid.” 

Frisk frowns, but drops the subject long enough to take a bite of their sandwich. Sans continues picking at his dry cereal, watching them. He knows better than to think the topic is over; he’s spent the last ten years living with Frisk, and he knows that when Frisk sets their mind on something, they don’t let it go. It’s what you get when your kid has boundless determination even by human standards. 

And, exactly as he expects, the moment Frisk puts down their sandwich, they continue: “You really love science. It makes you happy.” 

“Lots of things can make someone happy. A burger slathered in ketchup makes me happy, too.” 

“But science is different for you,” they insist. “Papyrus and Alphys talk about when you were doing science. You were different then, and I never got to see you like that.” 

“Count yourself lucky then,” Sans says. 

“If they aren’t mad at you, I don’t think it was so bad.”

“How do you know they aren’t mad?” 

“They’re not,” Frisk replies simply. “And you said Papyrus blamed the resets, not the science.” 

Sans shrugs. “Look, I appreciate you trying to look out for me, kid. But it’s my job to look out for you. And so I gotta stay away from things that make me a little crazy.” 

“Does that mean you won’t help me study for my physics final?” 

He peers at them. “Do you really need help studying, or are you just trying to get me to do more science stuff?” 

Frisk stares back impassively, their expression betraying nothing. That’s answer enough.

Sans chuckles lowly. “Look, I’ll do the class for Toriel’s kids. If you need help with your physics, sure, you can ask me to multiply force by distance for you. I’ll do what helps my family, but that’s it.” 

“We’ll see,” Frisk replies. 

Man, this kid. 

Sans has just finished his bowl of dry cereal and dropped the dish in the sink when the front door squeaks open. 

“Hey, T,” Sans says, leaning against the doorframe to the kitchen. 

“Good morning, Sans,” Toriel replies, setting her bags on the floor. “Goodness, I did not expect it to start raining!” She gives her head a little shake, which causes her damp fur to fluff up. 

Sans can’t help but grin. She’s absolutely adorable. 

Toriel then seems to notice the state of their living room, namely that it looks like an art store has exploded all over it.

“Oh, Frisk, are you working on something?” 

Frisk appears in the doorway beside Sans and shakes their head, pointing at Sans. 

“The kid thinks I should make props for your class,” Sans explains. “I don’t know what yet. Heck, I don’t even know what I’m teaching yet.”

Toriel laughs softly. “Oh, well, visuals would be a lovely idea.” 

Frisk looks triumphant. 

Toriel picks up her bags again and carries them to the kitchen. When she sets the bags down, she reaches over to press a kiss to the top of Frisk’s head.

As Frisk leans into Toriel’s touch, Sans remembers their words again: I killed Mom. He squeezes his eye sockets shut and pushes the memory back. But he can’t help but wonder at the easy comfort Frisk shows around Toriel, trying to reconcile it with the pain in their expression just two days previous when they’d confessed to him. Do they feel haunted by their memories? Is the easy comfort genuine, or a carefully cultivated face to show the world? Shit. Does Frisk need to talk about it more? Does Sans even know how to talk about it? 

He wishes he could ask Toriel. She’s always known the right thing to do, the right words to say, when everything just looks like a big jumbled mess to him. But he can’t ask her, not this time. 

Toriel’s saying something to Frisk. Sans forces himself to reorient, to focus on her words. 

“But, dear, let us not overwhelm your dunkle too much.” 

It takes him a second to remember what they’re talking about. Oh, right. Making props for Toriel’s class. 

“I feel like I should protest,” Sans puts in mildly. “But you’re absolutely right. I’m very easily frightened by work. Like some small, woodland creature.”

“Small woodland creatures don’t have work,” Frisk points out. 

“Exactly. Because they’re scared of it.” 

Frisk rolls their eyes. Toriel opens the fridge, and Sans helps her out by pulling items out of the bags and handing them to her to put away. 

“Would you still like to finish your lesson plan today?” Toriel asks as she sets a carton of milk in the fridge.

Frisk shoots Sans a warning look. He chuckles. 

“I don’t think the kid would let me get away with anything else.” 

“It’s true,” Frisk states. 

Toriel sets a tub of cream cheese in the fridge and shuts the door. “Alright. Let me make us some tea, then, and we can get started. Frisk, go get your homework.” 

“I wanted to help Sans with his lesson plan!” Frisk protests. 

“And is your homework done?” 

“No,” they say, the gesture sulky. 

“Homework first, dear.” 

Frisk slumps off obediently. 

Toriel fills the kettle and sets it on the stove. To Sans, she says: “Have you thought much about what you will do for the lesson yet?” 

“Eh, not really.” 

“Well, what is it that you like the most about stars?” 

The question throws Sans somewhat. What does he like about stars? Does it matter? “I, uh, I don’t know. Never really thought about it.” 

Toriel simply nods. 

Sans glances at the window, where rain has started trickling down the glass. What does he like about the stars? He thinks about the first night he saw the stars, splayed high across the sky above the steps of the inn. The stars stretched in every direction, and for the first time in his life, he didn’t feel claustrophobic when he looked up. 

“The sizes, I guess. When you think about how big the stars are, how far away they are, it’s pretty mind boggling.” 

“Why not something with that, then?”

“Uh, I guess. What do you have in mind?” 

“I do not know,” Toriel replies. “This is your lesson. I will let you know if what you come up with might need to be adjusted for small children, but I think you should come up with it.” 

“You’re really not letting me get out of it, are you?” 

Toriel smiles -- no, smirks. “I did offer you an ‘out’.” 

He shakes his head with a low chuckle. “Yeah, yeah, this is my fault. Don’t remind me.” 

Frisk re-emerges from their bedroom, their bag slung over one shoulder. Under their other arm, they carry Flowey. They deposit the flowerpot on a windowsill in the living room, where weak sunlight is filtering through the glass. 

Flowey lifts his head slightly and looks out the window. The earlier drizzle has strengthened to a steady fall. He lets out a quiet sigh, then drops his head again. His leaves hang limply in the dirt, his petals drooping. He looks, well, wilted. 

Toriel evidently notices as well. She catches Sans’ eye, and they exchange a look. When Frisk comes over to the kitchen, she drops a paw on their shoulder and says quietly: “Is, ah, Flowey well?” 

Toriel may not have much love for Flowey, but she knows how much Frisk cares for him -- for whatever bewildering reason Sans has never understood.  

Frisk nods. “He’ll be fine. Alphys will sort him out.” 

“Yeah, we’ve seen Flowey droop before,” Sans puts in. “He always perks back up. He’ll be feeling bouquet in no time.” It’s more for Frisk’s reassurance than his own; he doesn’t particularly care if Flowey is feeling well or not. In fact, Flowey tends to be easier to deal with when he’s all droopy like this. 

“Let me know if there is anything I can do to help,” Toriel says, squeezing Frisk’s shoulder supportively. “Why not get started on your homework now, my child? I am making tea.” 

Frisk sets their bag by the table and extracts a laptop and a folder. As they set their work on the table, Sans steps sideways out of the kitchen. 

The laptop he shares with Toriel is resting on the dresser in their bedroom. For a brief moment, he hesitates. 

He’s going to go back to the kitchen. He’s going to start putting together a damn lesson about the stars, with Toriel and Frisk right there. Something inside him squirms at the thought. He wants to dig his heels into the carpet and stay put, or cast the laptop aside and take a long nap on the bed and get nothing done. To disappoint them, to break the expectations for him that he’s accidentally let them build. 

He shakes his head at himself. What the heck is he expecting? That the moment he opens the laptop and so much as thinks about a star, Toriel and Frisk are going to vanish? 

Flowey is right there. It’s not so far fetched . 

Flowey hasn’t done anything in years. 

As far as I know. I didn’t know he’d targeted Pap either. 

Flowey is drooping anyway. 

Sans sighs, gathering up the laptop. He sure doesn’t miss these old anxieties. Well, he made a promise. He’s just gotta do the bare minimum. It maybe would have been easier to put together the lesson on his own, to not have to worry about putting on a show for Toriel and Frisk -- that this doesn’t bother him, that he doesn’t care, that he’s still the carefree dunkle they shouldn’t have expectations of. 

He doesn’t care. They shouldn’t have expectations of him. 

It doesn’t matter. He made a promise. Even if it would be easier to take his own time, to put together the lesson alone, without his family watching, without trying to somehow both meet their expectations and thwart them . . . well, Frisk needs to feel needed right now. 

Sans steps out of the bedroom. 

There are three steaming mugs of tea set on the kitchen table by the time he returns. Toriel has set the book she’s currently reading by one mug, while Frisk has papers spread across their side of the table. Sans has to push a few aside to set his own laptop down. He glances down at the papers as he moves them; they’re some kind of history project. 

“So,” he says, opening his laptop and glancing up at Toriel. “Remind me where your students are? Do you think they have a good grasp on relativity or string theory, or should I start with a refresher on those?” 

“Oh, I do not know,” Toriel says without missing a beat. “They are really struggling with integral calculus. Relativity might be perhaps a little difficult.” 

“Damn. What are they even teaching kids in schools these days?” 

And then, having provided the requisite jokes, he turns his attention to the computer. Something about distances in space, huh? 

---

Sans doesn’t expect it, but planning the lesson goes, well, relatively painlessly.

They’re kindergarteners; it’s not like he’s going to give an elaborate lecture. So, he just has to come up with some kind of activity to keep them entertained. In the end, he settles on doing some kind of presentation about the relative scales of stars and planets, and then having the kids invent some constellations. All in all, it only takes him maybe twenty minutes to put it together. 

On the one hand, he wonders why he didn’t do this earlier. On the other hand, he knows exactly why he didn’t do this earlier.

“This is wonderful, dear,” Toriel says, when Sans shows her what he’s come up with. “They will love this!” 

“Can I see?” Frisk asks. Sans turns the laptop toward them. They peer at the screen appraisingly. “What’s the scale model?”

“You know, relative scales of stuff. Thought I could use a marble for Earth and Mars, grapefruit for Jupiter, clementine for . . . Uranus.” It’s not even a joke, but he can’t help but emphasize the word. 

Frisk chokes on a laugh. 

And Toriel just smiles. “Oh, my students are going to love you. What will you use for the sun?” 

“I thought I’d steal one of Pap’s giant exercise balls. And we can’t really make a scale model of the whole solar system, since I don’t really feel like walking a couple miles, but if we can go out to the recess field I can at least show them how far apart the sun is from Earth.” 

“I can see what we can do.” 

“So do you not need to make any props?” Frisk asks. 

Sans chuckles. “Sorry, kid, I guess not.” 

“What about for this?” They shove their finger at a note on the screen. constellations, 3d not 2d . 

“Oh. I thought I’d just levitate a couple’a oranges for that. Easier than makin’ something, and kids like magic, right? Especially the human ones who don’t see it much.” 

“Well . . . ,” Toriel says slowly. “It would perhaps be a good idea to introduce the students to the planets before showing them the scales. They are likely not all familiar with them. How about we make some planets with the styrofoam balls Frisk has?” 

“Aw, wouldn’t it be easier to just pull up a few pictures from the internet?” But it’s only a token protest; when Frisk brightens and grabs his sleeve, Sans allows himself to be dragged into the living room.

Toriel follows after them. “Did you finish your homework, my child?”

“Almost!” they say, releasing Sans’ sleeve to sign. 

Sans and Toriel exchange glances. Sans shrugs. Toriel responds with a small nod. They’ll let it go for now.

Flowey lifts his head as Frisk digs out the bag of styrofoam balls and pulls out ten. He squints. “What are you guys doing?” 

“None of your beeswax,” Sans tells him. 

But Frisk says: “We’re making a model of the solar system for Mom’s class.” 

Flowey smirks, meeting Sans’ eyes. “Ohhhh, that’s right, you’re having Sans run a class! Do you really think that’s a good idea? I don’t know that I’d put that trash bag in charge of anything.” 

He’s not looking at Frisk; he’s looking at Sans. Flowey’s just trying to needle him. Too bad for Flowey, it’s really not working. Flowey’s late; maybe if he had tried taunting Sans while Sans was having his little crisis in the bedroom, something would stick. But right now, Sans is doing arts and crafts with his kid. Nothing worrisome here. 

But never one to miss a good punchline, Sans lets the styrofoam ball slip from his fingers and bounce to the floor. He looks up at Flowey and drawls: “Well, look at that; you’re right. I sure dropped the ball .” 

Frisk snorts. They toss the ball back to Sans, and turn to Flowey to scold: “If you aren’t nice, I’ll put you back in my bedroom.” 

“Away from this shmoopfest of ‘family time’? Oh no, how will I survive.” 

“He raises a good point,” Sans says, glaring at Flowey. “He doesn’t want to be here; I don’t think we want him here. Does he gotta be out here?” 

“Yes,” Frisk says simply. 

And so Flowey stays. 

Frisk tasks Sans with painting Neptune, Saturn, and Mars; Toriel gets Uranus, Mercury, and Venus; Frisk themself takes Earth, Jupiter, the Sun, and Pluto.

“We are considering Pluto a planet then?” Toriel asks, as she divides the styrofoam balls between them. 

“Adding fuel to the debate no one knows anythin’ about, in a kindergarten class? I love it,” Sans says, grinning. “As long as I’m not being asked to paint a whole extra planet.” 

He gives each of his styrofoam balls a quick and sloppy paint job, through which white still shows. Frisk, meanwhile, takes their time with each of their planets. Not only do they painstakingly draw out each of the continents on earth, but they stick their tongue out while tracing swirls of orange and red on Jupiter and even dab orange and brown sunspots on to the yellow ball that is the sun. Toriel, for her part, tries to mimic Frisk’s care, but less successfully. 

Sans finishes his planets long before the other two and kills time by flicking the extra styrofoam balls around. Frisk and Toriel kick them back to him, and it becomes some sort of pinball game. The rain outside gets heavier, pattering steadily against the roof. Flowey seems too out of it to really bother them, and so an easy comfort falls over the living room. Sans watches Frisk finish dabbing on the last spot of dark grey on Pluto. 

There’s some kind of tension coiling in his chest. He doesn’t know how long it’s been there. It’s been there all of today, as he dragged his feet through putting together a lesson plan he’d promised months ago. It was there yesterday, as memories from his conversation with Frisk echoed through his head and Toriel pulled words from him that he didn’t know he was ready to say. It was there the day before that, as he forced himself to talk about events he hadn’t voiced for fifteen years. And it’d been there before that, knowing that he was going to have to have that conversation. 

He knows this tension. It’s the pressure of responsibilities. It’d been so poignant years ago. A promise in the Underground. And after that, when the monsters were fresh on the surface and trying to figure out how they fit into this strange new world, when Sans for some reason had been expected to play a part.

But that tension had faded. Making dinner for Frisk, keeping Toriel company, occasionally picking up a sock from the living room, cleaning the ambassadorial email account, even looking after Flowey -- it was okay. 

So, it’s real annoying that it’s back now. 

Frisk finishes painting their planets, and they set about gluing sticks together to make a base for the mobile. Sans makes a show of lazing back while Frisk finishes the mobile for him, and Frisk swats him with an extra stick. He laughs. 

He’s just doing arts and crafts with his kid. This is fine. 

And, finally, the mobile is finished, and resting on some scrap paper to dry. 

“That looks lovely,” Toriel says, admiring their work. “Thank you for putting together this class, Sans. I am sure my students will adore it.” 

“Yeah, sure, T,” Sans replies. When she drops a kiss to the top of his head, he leans into the touch. 

This lesson planning thing had been relatively painless. It really hadn’t taken long, and it hadn’t even involved a whole lot of thinking. So why is the tension in his chest still there? Why does he feel weary? 

Sans rubs at the side of his face and lets out a breath. The very picture of a lazybones. 

They start cleaning up the leftover supplies. Frisk collects the paintbrushes, while Sans caps the paints. Toriel gathers up the rest of the supplies, pausing the untangle the wires on the glue gun. They’ve just about finished clearing the living room when the doorbell rings. 

Sans looks up. Judging by the expression on Toriel’s face, she didn’t expect anyone either. But judging by the look on Frisk’s, they absolutely did. Sans glances at the clock. It’s Sunday, but… 

“Isn’t it early for Pap to be picking you up for anime night?” 

Frisk just gives Sans a little, knowing smile. 

“Unless that’s not Pap.” 

Another inscrutable expression.  

“Oh, you’re killing us with the suspense. Wanna go get the door?” 

Frisk hops up. When they pull the door open, Papyrus does swirl in, but on his heels follows Alphys and Undyne as well. 

“HELLO, MY DEAR FAMILY,” Papyrus crows. “ARE YOU READY FOR MOVIE NIGHT?” 

Sans takes in Alphys’ nervous grin, the bag bursting with DVDs, and the covered pot in Undyne’s hands. 

“Uh,” he says, rubbing his lower jaw. “Don’t you guys usually do that . . . not here?” 

“Yeah!” says Undyne. “But this rascal wanted to do it here today!” She leans over to grab Frisk and awkwardly give them a one-handed noogie, her other hand still supporting the pot. 

Frisk squirms good-naturedly to get away. When Undyne releases them, they press their hair back into some semblance of order. With a smug expression, they say: “We’re watching science fiction tonight.” 

Sans huffs a weak laugh, covering his face with one hand. This kid . 

“Oh no ,” Flowey whines from the windowsill. “Don’t tell me you’re all staying here.” 

That seems to drag Alphys’ attention to Flowey. Sans sees her considering him with a concerned expression, taking in his drooping petals and limp leaves. Even now, as Flowey scowls his fury, he can’t seem to make himself perk up. 

“You are of course very welcome,” Toriel says. “Ah, do you all need any snacks or drinks for your movie?” 

“We brought some!” Undyne says proudly, lifting the pot. “I made marshmallow murder! And Alphys has the drinks!” Meekly, Alphys pulls a liter of soda from her bag to show them.  

“Marshmallow murder,” Toriel repeats. 

“Yeah!” Undyne sweeps into the living room and plunks the pot onto the coffee table. Toriel lifts the lid and peers inside at the contents. Her muzzle scrunches up -- just barely, but Sans recognizes the two little wrinkles at the bridge of her muzzle. She’s trying to think of how she can make and offer dinner for everyone without implying that Undyne’s snack is inedible. 

“We probably got some popcorn in the pantry,” Sans suggests. “For variety. Tori, you wanna come help me make it?” 

“You need help making popcorn?!” Papyrus cries. “Sans, you are even more helpless than I thought!” 

And Frisk says: “Wait, you need to pick the movie!” 

“Me?” Sans says, lifting one brow ridge. “Isn’t this your guys’ thing?”

“It’s science fiction, ” Frisk emphasizes. “You’re the expert on science fiction. So you pick.” 

Sans feels a little bit like he’s standing with one foot on a stair and the other half-hanging off the step below. Like he’s uneven, and tense all over from trying not to fall. He exhales a chuckle. Yeah, he’s sure everyone in the room already individually knows that he once used to read dime novel paperbacks by the dozen, scavenge newspapers with science articles from the trash heap, and spend all night watching old sci fi movies and TV shows with Alphys. But it’s different to have it aired out in front of everyone all at once. It’s like they’re all seeing him as someone he’s not sure he wants to be seen as.

But. He can work with this. He grins widely. “You’re giving me total control over what you guys watch?” 

“FRISK, I THINK THIS IS A BAD IDEA,” Papyrus breaks in. “Sans has terrible taste in movies!” 

“Bro, I’m hurt. You really think I’d pick a bad movie for you?”

“YES! YOU WOULD!” 

“Here, uh, these are all the science fiction movies I had,” Alphys says, and passes the bag over to Sans. 

He takes it and digs through the contents. There’s a lot of old, familiar titles, lots of stuff he remembers watching with Alphys once upon a time in the Underground, but never since. He pushes through a dozen thought-provoking and well-written movies, searching. 

Ah. He knew Alphys wouldn’t disappoint. 

He pulls out a DVD case, hand carefully positioned over part of the cover. “This one.” 

“Blade Seven?” Undyne reads. “Cool! It’s about blades!” 

Papyrus peers at Sans suspiciously, but says: “...That does sound cool.” 

But when Papyrus and Undyne turn to mess with getting the television set up, Alphys takes the DVD from Sans, looks at the cover, and then back at him. “That’s Roller Blade Seven ,” she comments quietly.

Sans grins. Toriel, who’s close enough to overhear, stifles her laughter in a paw. She may not have seen Roller Blade Seven, but she knows him well enough to know where this is going. 

“C’mon, T, let’s make some popcorn,” he says. 

The two of them get up and head to the kitchen. Sans pulls out the box of microwave from the pantry, while Toriel retrieves a bowl. 

“We can probably also order pizza while the movie’s going,” Sans suggests, popping a bag in the microwave. “What’d’you think? Got your dairy and your vegetable, what with the cheese and tomato.” 

Toriel laughs and cuffs him around the shoulders. “Your diet is terrible , dear.” 

“It’s a talent.” 

The bag turns around and around in the microwave. The first pop cracks through the kitchen. 

“Is this all alright with you?” Toriel asks. 

“What?” 

She gestures toward the living room, where Papyrus and Undyne are eagerly arranging cushions into what Sans can only guess is their idea of optimal movie viewing configurements. Alphys, Frisk, and Flowey have disappeared, but Sans can hear low voices from Frisk’s room. 

“You askin’ me if I mind having my family and friends over and getting to mess with them by showing them god-awful B movies?” he says, grinning. “‘Cause nah, that’s a treat.” 

Toriel laughs. “Yes, that is delightful. But, ah, I mean that Frisk is quite . . .  zealous about their efforts to ‘encourage’ you. I know you do not like the spotlight.” 

“Yeah, well, I suppose that’s what I get for trying to make them my confidant, right? ‘Course they’re trying to help; they’re Frisk .” Sans shrugs, still smiling. “But hey, it’s actually kind of nice when family gets on your case, you know? Even if you don’t actually take their advice.” 

“Well, alright.” Toriel squeezes his shoulder affectionately. “But you know, Frisk does have a few good points.” 

“Not you too!” Sans says, with mock hurt. 

Toriel laughs brightly. Sans will never get tired of that sound. 

When they return to the living room, Undyne and Papyrus have got the TV set up and the DVD on the home screen. Alphys and Frisk are back in the living room, and Flowey is on his perch on the windowsill again. Sans notices with some surprise that Flowey’s petals are perked again, leaves straight and shiny. His eyes linger on Flowey, then on Alphys. 

“POPCORN, EXCELLENT,” Papyrus crows, taking the bowl from Toriel and setting it happily next to Undyne’s concerning marshmallow concoction. “Come, let us watch the movie! And Sans, you cannot fall asleep!” 

“And miss this? Wouldn’t dream of it, bro.” 

Sans winks, and flops himself out across the couch. Frisk shoves his legs aside to make room for everyone else, and he laughs as he complies. Once the others have settled in, on the couch or on the floor, Undyne hits play. 

The movie is terrible , almost worse than Sans remembers. Papyrus is horrified, and almost demands they stop the movie and picking a new one, but Frisk insists that Sans made his choice. Sans and Toriel, for their part, almost have tears in their eyes from laughing as the protagonist battles ninjas and gangs, all on the speed of his trusty roller blades. 

And when the movie finishes, Frisk hands the bag of DVDs over to Sans. With a grin, he picks out yet another absolutely terrible film. 

Chapter Text

--Nine years ago--

“SANS!” Papyrus calls from the entryway of their new apartment. “AREN’T YOU COMING?” 

Sans is sprawled out across a bare mattress laid out in the living room. They don’t have a couch yet, so for now Sans’ mattress makes do. He lifts his head and yawns widely. “Hmmm. I think I might be busy.” 

“DOING WHAT?” 

“Napping.” 

“OH MY GOD SANS. You’re so lazy! Our friends are applying for an apartment! We should show them moral support and offer advice, as legal apartment-havers!” 

“Meh,” Sans mumbles. “I think you’ve got that handled pretty well.” 

“UGH,” Papyrus groans. “Fine! Stay here and be lazy. I will go and cheer Napstablook and Mettaton on!” 

The door slams behind him, and Papyrus’ footsteps clunk down the outside stairs. 

For a long moment, Sans just breathes, one arm covering his eye sockets. Six months since the monsters had left the Underground. The government arranged some kind of temporary camp for the monsters while they look for housing, but conditions suck and there’d been a stipulation that some monsters had to stay underground for now, because of ‘capacity restrictions’. 

So. There’s a desperate scramble to find housing when no one is renting out. Sure, a handful of refugee organizations have been hauling ass to get monsters settled (while plenty of others have argued the monsters aren’t technically refugees and declined to get involved), but the waiting time is years at this point. And there’s that whole issue that for some reason the humans don’t want monsters living near each other. Two monsters get settled in one town, and then the next monster family is placed forty miles away. 

Anyone who doesn’t want to wait years only to have no say in where they end up, anyone who wants nearby monster companionship, anyone who wants to be housed with someone they don’t have family bonds with or can’t prove family bonds with -- they all have to strike it out and find housing on their own. With monster currency. Without references. Without employment. Without an ID. 

Yeah. 

Toriel and Frisk had been first in line to be settled. Ambassadorial privileges. And Sans and Papyrus were the lucky ones. They’d found a place, a private landlord who was willing to rent out to them.

Other monsters want to know how they did it. Or more to the point, how Sans did it, since he’s the one who just showed up one day with a lease for Papyrus to sign.

But he didn’t do anything. He’d been doing the same damn thing as everyone else, filling out applications and never hearing back, trying to sway potential landlords over the phone with his charm. And he’d gotten lucky. 

He’d shown up at an apartment viewing, expecting nothing. A middle eastern man had greeted him at the door and shown him around. Sans threw out a few jokes. The man laughed. That didn’t mean anything; it never did. Sans tried not to get attached to the tall windows that let in sunlight or to the spacious kitchen that he knew Papyrus would adore. 

“You said you are looking for a place for yourself and your brother?” the man asked, as Sans scrawled out an application on the kitchen counter.

“Yeah.” 

The man nodded. After a moment, he said: “If you want it, it is yours.” 

Sans’ head jerked up. “Wait. What? Don’t you need to read this application or something? Check my financial statements?”

The man smiled slightly. “I see that you have them. My brother and I came to this country as refugees. What can an application tell me that I do not already know?”

Again, they’re lucky. 

So when Napstablook or Alphys or Bunny want tips, he’s got nothing to give them. Papyrus is chock full of ideas, though. Whether or not Papyrus’ advice really works in getting an apartment is debatable, but, hey, people seem to like it better than Sans’ honest “I dunno”. Why not let Papyrus handle it then?

Sans lays on his mattress and breathes. 

Boxes still need to be unpacked. They still need a couch. And a dining table. And chairs. They need to go grocery shopping. Eventually, he’s going to need a job. He’s sure Papyrus would like him to do at least one of those things.

Sans lays on his mattress and breathes. 

He should shower at least. Yep. Showering is good. He could relax in the shower, and when Papyrus comes home, he could say he’d done something. Not that ‘showering’ would satisfy Papyrus, but at least Sans would have something to say. 

He lays on his mattress and breathes. 

Okay. In five minutes. 

Five minutes pass.

Ten.

Twenty. 

And still, Sans lays on his mattress and breathes. 

Eventually he draws his arm down and squints into the sunlight streaming through the tall living room windows. The wide-bowed sycamore behind their apartment waves its branches lazily in the autumn breeze, yellow-orange leaves fluttering. 

His eyes track the slow up-down motion of the branch. It’s nice to see a tree that’s not a pine. 

Slowly, as if moving through water, Sans climbs to his feet. He wanders over to the window, hands shoved in his pockets. The sky is clear, the sun a glare of white on bright blue. Yet it’s cold enough that his breath puffs on the windowpane. 

Sans reaches out one hand to wipe the mist away. He looks out, past the tree to the building on the other side of the alley. Someone has hung their laundry up on their balcony, and the breeze is catching at the cloth and making it flutter. Toys are scattered on another balcony. On the sidewalk below, a cat lounges in a patch of sunlight. 

They’re on the surface. Wild. 

So why can’t they rest? 

This isn’t going to last. They’ll probably wake up in the Underground any day now, with no memory of sunlight or the wind. So why can’t they just rest ? But no. First it’s getting Gs accepted as currency, and then it’s getting housing, and then it’s getting jobs, and every other damn hurdle, fighting bureaucracy and human hostility every step of the way.  

Move, move, move. Work, work, work. Monsters are helping monsters, collaborating to drag the entire society out into the daylight. They’re making food and helping each other fill out applications, and the monsters with more Gs are giving funds to the monsters with less. It’s this big sense of community and goodwill and cooperation and all those other wonderful things that make monsters monsters. Undyne’s building shelters. Mettaton is putting on moderately-attended benefit shows. Even Muffet has reduced her prices. 

And Sans? 

Look, Sans has always just had to keep a roof over Papyrus’ head. And he’s done that. He’s converted the last of his stipend into human currency and found them an apartment that they can afford for at least a year. He’s done his part. 

But for some reason, Papyrus, Grillby, the other monsters -- they’re all still expecting him to be a team player a little bit longer. They should know better. Just ask Alphys. 

Sans exhales. He goes back to his mattress and stares almost unseeingly at it for a moment before collapsing back down on its surface. He draws his hood up over his head and tucks his face into his arms, his eye sockets sliding shut. 

If there’s one thing Sans is grateful for, it’s that sleep still takes him quickly. 

---

He’s woken some time later by late afternoon sunlight falling across his bed. He yawns, rubbing at his eye sockets as he blinks hard against the light. He’s not real good at telling time of day by the sunlight yet, but he figures at least a couple of hours have gone by. 

“Pap?” he calls blearily into the apartment. 

There’s no answer. 

Sans climbs to his feet and wanders into first the kitchen, then checks in on Papyrus’ bedroom. But before he’s even pushed open the door to Papyrus’ room, he knows it’s too quiet; Papyrus isn’t home. 

He sighs. Back in the living room, his phone is kicked under a small pile of his things strewn over the floor. (Hey, his favorite pillow had been at the bottom of the box.) He retrieves it and flicks through the messages. 

“THE FIRST COMPLEX IS NOT RENTING! STRANGE. THERE WAS A SIGN OUTSIDE THAT SAID APARTMENTS ARE AVAILABLE NOW! BUT WE ARE NOT DISHEARTENED. WE WILL TRY THE NEXT ONE!”

“UNPACK YOUR BOXES!”  

“WE ARE WAITING A LONG TIME TO SEE AN APARTMENT HERE! WOWIE, THEY MUST BE GETTING IT REALLY PRETTY FOR US! SANS, I HOPE YOU PICKED UP YOUR THINGS!” 

And so forth. 

Sans stifles a yawn as he tosses the phone back on the mattress and sits down next to it. He looks to the window, where the yellow-orange leaves of the sycamore outside are saturated in the late afternoon sun. 

Papyrus has apparently taken this apartment cheerleading to heart. It will be some time before he gets home. Sans knows he won’t give up until either Mettaton and Napstablook have found an apartment, or until the leasing offices have closed for the day. And Sans is willing to bet a year’s supply of ketchup on which one will happen first. 

Sans could take another nap. Or maybe he could pick up his things and unpack a few boxes. 

...Heh. It’s good to make himself chuckle sometimes. 

He flops back on the mattress, the fluff of the pillow inviting under his head. The silence of the apartment is stifling. In the quiet, the apartment feels . . . timeless. And Sans hates every endless, empty second of it. Man, maybe he should have gone with Papyrus after all. 

And yet, he just lays there. Five minutes pass. 

Ten. 

Twenty.

Bzzt . 

Sans blinks his eye sockets open. His phone vibrates again, and he digs it out of his pocket. 

It’s a couple of texts from Toriel. “ Are you planning to visit this evening? ” And then: “ ]: ) ”. 

He breathes easier. He laughs into one palm, and then runs the hand up and over the curve of his skull. 

The emptiness of the apartment is still a pressure on his head, one that threatens to press him back into the mattress. But instead, Sans shoves himself up. He snatches up his new keys and his phone, and goes out the door. 

Toriel’s apartment is just a few blocks away, which suits Sans wonderfully. Walking and taking a shortcut take about the same amount of effort, and so he can change it up as he wants, keep Toriel and Frisk on their toes. Today, he decides to walk. The late afternoon air nips at his bones, but it’s not the bite like it was in Snowdin. This cold, on the cusp of seasons, feels like a breath of change. He inhales, letting the scents of autumn wash over him. A couple passers-by on the sidewalk stop to stare at the still-unusual sight of a monster, and he enjoys himself by meeting their eyes and making them look away, flustered. 

When one doesn’t look away, but rather holds his gaze with a steady glare, he decides it’s time to shortcut the rest of the way to Toriel’s apartment at the next corner. 

At the front door, he raps his knuckles against the wood and calls out: “Knock, knock.” 

He hears the heavy pad of footsteps, and then a moment later, Toriel’s half-laughing voice: “Who is there?” 

“Etch.” 

“Etch who?” She’s already giggling. Perhaps she knows where this joke is going.

“Gesundheit.” 

Toriel lets out a peal of laughter. “Knock knock!” 

“Who’s there?” Sans supplies, grinning. He already feels lighter. 

“Ya!” 

“Ya who?” 

“Yahoo! I am excited to see you, too!” Toriel throws the door open, and before Sans can react, she’s wrapped him in a tight embrace. 

He laughs and hugs her back, amazed every time to be able to feel the tickle of her fur under his phalanges. He tucks his face against her shoulder, trying to ignore the way his soul feels like it’s turning flips in his chest. 

“It is good to see you,” Toriel says, when she finally pulls back. “Do come in. Where is Papyrus?” 

“Eh, he’s out helping Mettaton and Napstablook find an apartment.” He steps into the apartment after her. 

“Oh! I wish them luck!” 

Toriel and Frisk’s apartment has been completely unpacked, books put neatly away in their new bookshelves and the cutlery in their drawers. They even actually have a proper couch. The only sign that they’ve only recently moved in is the sparsity of decorations and other clutter that accumulates over time. 

A door slams open. Sans hears small, hurried footsteps, and then Frisk comes barreling out of their room. They launch themselves at Sans, tackling him in a hug. 

“Oof,” Sans utters, as Frisk catches him around the middle and squeezes. 

He looks down at the fluffy head pressed into his chest with some surprise. Sure, every time he drops by he finds himself with an armful of human, but he’s still not exactly used to anyone being so happy to see him. Awkwardly, he ruffles their hair. “Heh. Hey, kiddo.” 

Frisk grins widely up at him, squeezes one more time, and lets go. 

The kid had never been all that chatty in the Underground, but since they’d gotten to the surface, they’ve lapsed into complete silence. Sans knows that Toriel is concerned, but, hey, the kid seems pretty happy. 

“You hangin’ in there okay?” Sans asks. “Tori hasn’t baked you into a pie yet, then?” 

“Sans!” Toriel protests, while Frisk just beams and shakes their head. 

“What?” Sans answers defensively. “I know Mettaton’s got some great human dessert recipes. Thought you might want to try them out. Oh wait, was that dessert from humans, or dessert for humans?” 

But rather than smiling at the joke, Frisk’s expression shuts down. Sans blinks once at them, wondering if maybe his joke was unclear and they’re trying to parse through his meaning. 

Then he realizes. Oh, right. Mettaton’s cooking show. Frisk had been on it. And for some reason, Frisk has seemed oddly freaked out by Mettaton in particular given just how many monsters tried to kill them in the Underground. Wow, ten seconds in and he’s already put his foot in his mouth. It has to be a new record. 

Maybe a Toriel has a point in being concerned about the kid. 

“My child?” Toriel asks, crouching down and wrapping an arm around Frisk’s shoulders. One of Frisk’s small hands clutches at Toriel’s sleeve, but they otherwise hold their chin up. 

“Heh. Wow. That was, uh, a distasteful joke, huh? Oops.” 

Toriel doesn’t react, still focused on Frisk. Toriel not responding to his joke makes Sans feel even shittier. 

“Whelp. You know, I just remembered I haven’t fed my pet rock. Should probably go do that, before Papyrus gets on my case.” 

But as he turns to head for a shortcut out of the apartment, he feels a small tug on his sleeve. He glances back and sees Frisk has fisted their hand in the fabric of his sweatshirt, and is steadily meeting his gaze. 

They pull again, insistent. 

“What? Aw, kid, you know, I really oughta feed Rocky. It’s good to look after your pets.” 

Frisk does not let go. Another tug. 

“Stay, Sans.” Toriel’s voice is soft, but firm. 

Sans looks down at the small hand clinging to his sweatshirt. There’s something tight in his chest, something he’d rather not sit with or examine. But he glances to Toriel, takes in the warmth in her eyes and the lines of worry around them. He exhales. 

“Yeah. Okay, kid.” 

He gets a small smile from Frisk in return. Toriel, her arm still wrapped around Frisk’s shoulders, says gently: “Thank you.”

Frisk turns away, but maintains their hold on Sans’ sleeve. They give it a little tug. 

“You trying to lead me somewhere?” 

Frisk nods. 

“Well, alright then. The curiosity is killin’ me.” 

Toriel lets go as Frisk leads the way to their room. The small bedroom is remarkably tidy for an eight year old’s; Toriel must have been cleaning it earlier. Irreverent of the careful organization, Frisk heads over to the plastic drawers in one corner of the room and tugs them open to pull out paper and markers and colored pencils. They toss all the art supplies on the floor, then look up almost triumphantly at Sans. 

Sans looks down at the art supplies, then back at Frisk. “Are we coloring?” 

Frisk nods. They scoop up two boxes of colored pencils and hold them out to him, one in each hand. They jiggle the boxes in turn, asking Sans to choose.

“You sure about that? My art skills leave something to be desired.” 

Frisk doesn’t respond, but continues holding the colored pencils up to Sans.

“Well alright, kid, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He takes one of the boxes from Frisk, and then the sheet of paper they proffer him next. 

Frisk smiles and grabs a sheet and a box of colored pencils for themself. 

“You want to join us?” Sans asks Toriel, who is still watching them from the doorway. 

She shakes her head. “I believe I should start cooking. Would you like to stay for dinner?” 

“Eh. I should probably get back to Pap eventually.” 

“Well, there will be a portion for you if you change your mind. And, of course, Papyrus is very welcome as well.” 

“Thanks,” Sans says. “I’ll let him know, but I think he’s got plans for dinner. Spaghetti, probably.” 

Toriel laughs softly. “I may have to send you with some food, even if you do not stay for dinner.” 

“Hey, Papyrus is getting way better. It’s kind of edible these days.” 

Frisk makes a face that clearly says they think Sans’ sense of taste may have been permanently compromised. 

“What? Really, he doesn’t even try to age the sauce anymore!” 

Toriel laughs again, which makes Sans’ eyelights glow brighter. 

“Come on, you two,” she says. “How about you both color in the living room?” 

Obediently, Frisk gathers up their supplies and follows Toriel back out to the living room. They spread their paper and pencils across the new coffee table, and set up a spot for Sans across from them. Then, they sit down on the floor, pull a piece of paper toward them, and start scribbling. 

Toriel heads into the kitchen as Sans settles into the spot Frisk has set up for him. He takes a moment to text Papyrus and invite him to Toriel’s dinner. Next, he picks up a pencil. 

“We drawing anything in particular?” Sans asks. 

Frisk shrugs. 

So, Sans starts coloring with the kid who has the power to break time and lock an entire civilization back underground. And it’s surprisingly comfortable. 

Sans draws two lines for eyes and a hard line for a mouth, then holds the sheet up to his face while he waits for Frisk to notice. It takes a moment. 

Frisk looks up, stares, and then they choke out a snicker so sharp it sounds almost like a cough. Sans pulls the sheet down to wink at them. 

Frisk flips their sheet over and draws quickly on the back. They hold it in front of their face; they’ve scribbled two messy black spots for eye sockets, and a wide grin with a wobbly hand. 

Sans barks a laugh, which draws Toriel’s attention from the kitchen. When Frisk turns to her, page still in front of their face, she holds her sides with laughter. 

Sans turns his page over and considers what will get a rise out of Frisk next. 

Sans still doesn’t quite know what to make of Frisk. They’re powerful, more powerful than any being has any right to be, and they’ve used that power. Sans doesn’t quite know what motivates them -- trying to wrap his mind around Frisk feels a bit like staring at the edge of the universe and demanding to know it. Futile. Terrifying. 

And yet, despite his apprehension, despite his hesitation, he finds himself genuinely liking this kid. He’s still not sure if he totally trusts Frisk, but he can’t help being a little fond of them. As he hangs with the kid, he feels the dark pressure on his mind and the tension in his chest let up just a little. 

Just a bit.

Over the island counter, he can see watch as Toriel putters through the kitchen. Smells of cooking onion and garlic fill the living room. He watches her, pausing in his absent doodling to tuck his hand under his chin. 

He wonders what it’d be like to see Frisk through Toriel’s eyes. She has so much warmth and gentleness and absolute trust in Frisk. So much unconditional love. 

Toriel doesn’t know the whole story. She doesn’t know about the resets, what Frisk can do, that Frisk has used that power. She probably has the right to know if she’s raising the kid, Sans reflects. Someone probably should tell her. 

But as he watches her, as he sees her regard Frisk with a heartbreaking warmth, he knows he can’t do it. It’s not that he thinks that Toriel wouldn’t love Frisk anymore. No, Toriel would love Frisk just the same, so completely, so overwhelmingly. And that’s just it. Toriel deserves to have the easy kind of love.

To be fair, no one deserves to know about the resets. It’s more like a need-to-know curse. But maybe there’s no harm in Sans letting Toriel have her peace a while longer. After all, at some point, he won't remember either.

And for now, it’s just kind of nice to hang with the kid, even if they are stupidly and ridiculously powerful. 

Sans’ phone buzzes against his femur. He pulls it out. 

There’s a new message from Papyrus: “WOWIE. TORIEL IS SO NICE. BUT METTATON AND NAPSTABLOOK HAVE INVITED ME TO HAVE DINNER WITH THEM!! STILL!! TELL TORIEL I SAID THANK YOU! I AM GLAD TO KNOW YOU WILL HAVE A GOOD DINNER, EVEN WHEN I AM NOT THERE!” 

“Huh,” Sans murmurs, brow ridge lifting in some surprise. It’s good that Papyrus is finally making some other friends. “Hey, Tori,” Sans calls. “Guess I will take you up on dinner after all.” 

---

Dinner is casserole, and is as warm and homey as any of Toriel’s cooking. Toriel sets out a box of mango juice for Frisk and a small glass of ketchup for Sans. She’s honestly and truly the best. 

Frisk brings their paper and pencils over to the table, and they write about their day for Sans while they eat. 

“Mom and I went to talk to school principals today, ” Sans is able to make out, from the sloppy handwriting and misspellings (‘principals’ is spelled ‘prinsapils’). 

“Oh yeah? How’d it go?”

Frisk pulls the sheet back and spends a few minutes carefully scratching out their reply. Sans waits, sipping at his ketchup.

“It went OK. We were trying to tell them to let monsters into their schools. They said they liked us, but it would be hard to let monsters in the schools.” 

Sans huffs. Sounds about right. “Welp. Now, don’t get me wrong, I value a little good old-fashioned laziness. But that’s why I take jobs that don’t matter if I do ‘em or not. Maybe these guys would be better off selling hot dogs than molding young minds.” 

“They said they would let me in, but not monsters. They said they didn’t have the stuff for lots of people with special needs.”

“It was . . . rather frustrating,” Toriel puts in, glancing over Sans’ shoulder to read Frisk’s words. “I pointed out that the Underground has been teaching all monster children on far fewer resources for quite some time. Goodness, we have have been using the trash that falls from the surface!” 

“Yeah, that argument is pretty . . . rubbish ,” Sans comments. “Whatcha gonna do now?” 

Frisk writes: “Try again.” 

“Heh, that’s the spirit.” 

“The school board did offer to confer with the school in the camps, perhaps discuss donating some funding, but . . .” Toriel trails off and sighs. “I fear that may make it more difficult to integrate the schools in the future.” 

“Yeah, they’d probably try to swing it that way.”

Toriel gives him a small, sad smile. “Well, as Frisk says, we will keep trying. In the meantime, let us talk of happier things. Frisk, do you want to tell Sans about the art show?” 

“Art show?” 

Frisk nods, shoving an enormous chunk of casserole in their mouth. They write: “The monsters are making art to sell for charity. There is going to be a show tomorrow! I’m selling a drawing too.” They puff their chest up proudly as the shove the sheet at Sans for him to read. 

“You got a piece in the art show? That’s awesome, kid.” 

“Yes, the children have their own exhibit,” Toriel says, as she gets up to check on the dessert warming in the oven. “Some humans have shown interest in collecting the art of our children while they are . . . in the camps.” 

Sans lets out a small, mirthless laugh. “S’ppose it’s easier than just letting us out of the camps.” 

“These are the same humans who are trying to find monsters homes,” Toriel points out, but her smile looks tired. 

She does so much to fight for the welfare of monster children, every damn day. Sans feels a twinge of guilt for spending most of his days laying on the mattress and watching the sycamore through the window. 

“Will you come to the show?” Frisk asks. “It’s at lunchtime.” 

“Lunchtime?” Sans echoes, and Frisk nods. “Heh, I dunno. I’ll have to see. I might be busy napping.” He winks at Frisk. 

Frisk giggles, but over their shoulder, Sans sees lines of worry set around Toriel’s muzzle.   

He doesn’t have the opportunity to reflect on it though, because the timer goes off, and the kitchen swims with the smell of fresh-baked pastry as Toriel pulls the oven open. The warm, sweet smell pushes the worry to the back of his mind. 

---

“Thanks for dinner, T. Welp, I gotta get back now, or Pap’s going to be real cranky that he has to stay up for his bedtime story.” 

The night air is brisk against Sans’ bones as he stands on the balcony outside Toriel’s apartment. Toriel and Frisk are framed in the light of the doorway, Frisk curled up against Toriel’s side as they shrink from the cold. 

Frisk waves at Sans. He tosses them a wave in return. “See ya, kid. Keep being good for your mom.” 

Toriel brushes one paw over Frisk’s hair. “Go start getting ready for bed, dear.” 

Frisk nods, and extricates themself to dart back into the apartment. 

But to Sans’ surprise, Toriel does not say goodbye. She steps out of the apartment, and closes the door behind her. 

He blinks at her. “Ehh, what’s up? Kind of chilly out here.” 

“Yes, a bit,” Toriel says. She gives her head a little shake as her fur fluffs up. 

Oh, shit , she’s so cute. 

“I wanted to thank you, Sans,” Toriel continues. “For keeping Frisk company so often. It is more helpful than I can say.” 

Sans stares, and lets out a startled chuckle. Him, helpful? “Hey, I just drop by for the free food.” 

“The free food you did not intend to take tonight?” Toriel replies, eyes sparkling knowingly.

“Alright, free food and the company. What can I say, I like you guys.” 

She laughs her bright, bleating laugh. “Well, thank you. We are all so busy with the situation in the camps, and you keeping Frisk busy in the evenings makes a world of difference. As much as I adore having them around, it is easier to cook without them underfoot.” 

“Right,” Sans says, rubbing awkwardly at the back of his skull. “Sure. No problem.” 

“But, Sans . . .” Toriel expression turns serious now, worry creasing the bridge of her muzzle. “I would appreciate it if you would tell Frisk that you will be at the art show.” 

“Hey, I said I would see about it.”

“You said you ‘do not know’.”

Sans inhales, and the breath feels tight. Pressure squeezes at his chest. “Ah, I don’t really do promises. You know that. I’ll try to be there, of course.” 

Toriel shakes her head. “I know you will try. But you are important to Frisk, and they do not expect you to come to these events. Although you do usually make it, they are always resigned to believing you will not come. A promise would go a long way.” 

Sans thinks he might have an inkling why Frisk doesn’t trust him. One of the downfalls of deciding he actually likes the kid is the newfound sharpness of the guilt he feels every time he remembers slacking on his last promise. 

“Wow, you totally missed it ,” Clamshell had commented, when Sans woke up at his hot dog stand in Hotland. “Undyne was chasing a kid through here. Kid tried to wake you, but man you sleep like a rock!” 

Yeah. He doesn’t do promises. 

Sans huffs a sigh. “Look, I’ll try to be there, but you never know what’s going to happen, right? I don’t like making promises when there’s a chance I might end up breaking them.”

“Are you expecting something to come up?” 

“Meh.” He scratches the back of his skull. “Not exactly. Just. You know, stuff outside your control. Something could happen, so I’d hate to make a promise and not be able to keep it.” 

Heck, if the timeline breaks again, he won’t even remember having made the promise. The thought is a pressure in his throat, silencing him before he can even hope to say the words to Toriel. 

He can’t tell her. Not yet.

Softly, Toriel asks: “Are you worried that you will not feel up to it tomorrow? You seem to be doing alright today, but . . .” 

“Oh. Uh. No, that’s not it. I’ll be fine. Just . . . other things could happen.” 

Sans drops his gaze to the grated metal of the balcony. He’d never meant for Toriel to know how bad his moods could get, but somehow she’s read between the words he didn’t say. 

But rather than pushing Sans to explain his worries, Toriel nods slowly. “Alright. Yes, there are always unforeseen events that might happen. But . . . perhaps a promise is not always about what we know will or won’t happen. A promise can just be saying that you will do your best. Sometimes, a promise is a way of saying ‘I love you’.” 

Sans jerks his head up, startled. He feels his eyelights flash brighter. 

Does he love Frisk? He likes them, sure. He’s rooting for them. But does he love them? Can he love someone he’s not sure he trusts, someone he’s maybe a little scared of? 

Toriel does not push for an answer. She offers Sans a small smile. “Please just consider it.” She pulls him into a tight hug, pressing her muzzle into the top of his head. 

Again, Sans’ soul turns a backflip in his chest. 

“Goodnight, Sans.” 

“Night, Tori.” He manages a broad grin as he extricates himself, settling his features back into his lazy, careless expression. 

Toriel gives him one last, lingering look before disappearing back inside the apartment. 

Sans walks home. Papyrus is probably back by now. Of course, Sans is looking forward to seeing him, to hearing all about his day trying to track down a lease for Mettaton and Napstablook, but first Sans needs a quiet moment with his thoughts. 

Does he love Frisk? 

The kid has knowledge of the timelines that no one should have. They’ve used the timeline. There could be dozens upon dozens of versions of this world that Sans doesn’t even know about, set and reset by Frisk. 

Does any of that matter? 

By the time he’s wandering up the front steps of his apartment, he’s still mulling it over. When he pulls open the door, he’s dragged from his thoughts by Papyrus’ infectious energy. And for at least a few hours he’s busy with Papyrus’ stories and antics.

But finally, Papyrus has had his bedtime story, and has put himself to bed for his evening shut-eye (it’s not ‘sleep’ or a ‘nap’, obviously). Sans finds himself on his bare mattress in the living room, staring up at the ceiling. 

Does he love Frisk? What would that even mean ?

The thought is terrifying. 

Chapter Text

On the day of Frisk’s eighteenth birthday party, Sans finally presents his lesson to Toriel’s class.

“Can you do the magic thing again?” Maya calls out. “Please? Pleeeeease ?” 

At the front of Toriel’s classroom, Sans chuckles. “Alright. But you gotta help me pick a new clement-stallation.” 

Maya holds up her sheet of paper, where she’s connected the splattering of dots printed there into the shape of a leaping dolphin. “This! Do a dolphin!” 

Sans laughs. “You have pretty high expectations of my art skills. I try to do that, it’s gonna look like a pointy sausage.” 

“What about a smiley face?” Ren calls out. 

Sans nods his head in their direction. “Now, that I can do. Okay, kiddos, get into the center of the room.”

Eagerly, the students clamber out of their seats and scramble toward the middle of the classroom, where they line up between the desks and crane over each other’s shoulders to see Sans. 

Sans picks up his bag of clementines and dumps them out across the floor. The fruit goes rolling. One makes a valiant attempt at escaping under Toriel’s desk, but Sans stops it with a lazy flick of his wrist and a flash of his eye. 

The students titter with delight. 

Sans grins at them. Another flick of his wrist, and the dozen clementines all soar up at once. The students gasp and clap. The human faces are shining with awe, and even the monster children are caught up with the excitement. Sans twiddles his fingers, arranging the fruit in the air so there are two clusters up top and one cluster below. But the clusters stretch toward the board and are staggered from one another, so that from the point of view of the students, it looks like two large, misshapen blobs of citrus. 

“So, you guys see the smiley face?” 

“No!” the students chorus back. 

He turns his cupped hand, and the clementine arrangement rotates. “How ‘bout now?” 

“There it is!” Maria cries delightedly. 

“Wow. You guys really did it,” Sans says. “You found the brand new smiley face constellation.” 

“Do a star!” calls out Bunnie. 

“A star?” Sans echoes. He turns his hand over and all but one clementine fall back to the ground. He plucks the last one out of the air. “Here we go. One star.” 

“Noooo,” Bunnie replies. “Like with the points!” 

But before Sans can come up with some way to invert the request, Toriel stands up from her desk and claps twice. Immediately, the students clap in response and turn toward her.

Toriel smiles at her students, eyes crinkled at the corners. “This has been a lot of fun, my children, but it is time for us to go meet the busses and go home. Let us all say thank you to Mr. Sans.” 

“Thank you, Mr. Sans!” the students chorus. 

“Sure thing, kiddos,” Sans replies, tossing a lazy wave. 

“Children, please collect your things,” Toriel instructs.

The students scramble over to the wooden cubbies at the back of the room, and pull out their backpacks and lunchboxes. Sans sets about picking up the clementines that are scattered over the floor. Once the students are packed, they line up at the door. 

“Bye Mr. Sans!” Ren calls. “I hope you get to be an astronaut one day!” 

Sans chuckles. “Heh. Wasn’t in the plans, but thanks. See ya, kiddo.” 

“ I’m gonna be an astronaut!” Ren says, puffing themself up proudly.

“I don’t doubt it. Send me a postcard from the moon, ‘kay?” 

“I will, I promise!” 

“Let us go, Ren,” Toriel calls. The students have started moving out the door. “It is time for us to line up for the busses.”  

Ren tosses one last wave over their shoulder at Sans and scrambles after their class. 

“I will be back in a moment, dear,” Toriel tells Sans. 

“Kay. I’m not going anywhere,” he replies. 

Toriel leaves the classroom after her students. Sans continues cleaning up his props from the lesson, tossing the basketball and marbles and solar system diorama haphazardly in the large bag he’s brought with him. The smaller bag of clementines goes in on top. The large exercise ball that Sans borrowed from Papyrus doesn’t fit in a bag, and so Sans just lounges on top of it, belly down and his arms hanging off the sides. 

He’s still laying like that when Toriel returns, now class-less. He props his head up on one hand and greets her: “Hey, T.” 

Toriel comes right over to him, grabs him by the shoulders, and hauls him up to plant a firm kiss on his mouth. Sans makes a muffled sound of surprise.

Toriel sets him back down, a wide smile plastered across her muzzle. Her eyes are sparkling. “You did wonderfully , dear,” she says, her voice warm and rich with pride. “The children loved you!”

“Heh,” Sans says, abashedly scratching at his jawbone. “They’re great kids.” 

Toriel bends down to wrap him in a tight hug. She presses her muzzle to the top of his skull, and he can feel her breath whisper across the surface of his bones. He hugs her back, burying his phalanges in the cloth of her dress. 

“Thank you, Sans,” Toriel murmurs. 

“Thanks for inviting me in,” Sans replies.

He’s surprised to realize how sincerely he means it.

Finally, Toriel extricates herself and places one last kiss to the top of Sans’ head. “We should hurry if we want to help set up Frisk’s party before Asgore gets there with Frisk.” 

“Yeah. Man, I can’t believe the kid’s gonna be eighteen .” Sans chuckles, shaking his head at the thought as he gathers up his bag. “It feels like yesterday it was Pap’s eighteenth birthday.”

“Time is such a strange thing.” 

He laughs. “Yeah. You’re not kidding.”  

“Come on, dear.” Toriel picks up the exercise ball Sans had been resting on, tucking it under one arm. With her other arm, she slings her purse over her shoulder. “We should get going.” 

“Yeah, sure.” 

Together, they set off from the classroom. 

Outside, the sun is bright and hot overhead, washing the city in summer heat. Birch trees line the school parking lot, and their branches are heavy with the bright peridot leaves of early summer. 

Sans tilts his head up toward the sky, letting sunlight warm his face. 

Ten years on the surface, and he can’t imagine life without the heartbeat of the seasons anymore. The cycles of temperatures and leaves are a constant reminder of the passage of time, one he doesn’t have to do a damn thing to make happen. Spring bursts into summer, until autumn paints colors across the trees, and then winter rolls in with cold white. And yeah, he doesn’t like winter all that much, but on the surface, even winter is somehow more. They never had sleet in the Underground. 

Ten summers on the surface, and now it’s Frisk’s eighteen birthday. 

Holy frickin’ dang . 

Sans feels his soul constrict his chest. Or maybe it swells -- one of those annoying, confusing, contradictory sensations that mean his emotions are having some sort of really weird conversation. 

“How’re you holding up, Tori?” Sans asks, as Toriel hits the trunk open button on the car keys. 

“Hmm?” she responds, distracted. 

“Frisk being grown and all.” 

“Oh. Well.” A crease furrows the spot between her eyes, and the corners of her lips twitch up in a conflicted smile. 

Sans chuckles. “Yeah. Same.” 

Toriel pushes the exercise ball into the back of the van, and then takes Sans’ bag and tucks it in next to the exercise ball. She steps back and lets the trunk door slide shut. She’s quiet for a moment, parsing through her thoughts. 

“I am so, so very proud of them. They have grown into a remarkable young person. They are brave and kind, resourceful and just. But goodness, it is hard not to remember when they were so small they barely came up to my waist, when they had to hold my hand to cross the room.” 

Sans smirks at her. “I’m not sure the kid ever needed that. They did cross the entire Underground on their own. They just let you get away with it.” 

Toriel cuffs him playfully on the shoulder. 

“Anyway,” Sans continues, as they climb into the van. “Gotta admit, it’s weird to me that Frisk hasn’t been an adult for years already.” 

“In what way?” 

He shrugs. “I dunno. The kid’s determined. They know how to handle themself.” 

Toriel gives a non-committal hum as she turns on the van. “I suppose they do, but does that alone make an ‘adult’? I must admit, it is hard for me to imagine Frisk truly on their own.” She sighs. “Perhaps I am only a short-sighted old woman, but I do believe that eighteen is far from truly being ‘grown’. Only human culture dictates that it is one day and not another that Frisk is an adult.” 

“Maybe.” Sans props his elbow at the base of the window and rests his skull on his hand. He watches the traffic creep by as Toriel waits for an opening to pull out into. “But I guess that’s the world we’re living in now, huh? I mean, Frisk is human.” 

“Do you see Frisk as grown, then?” 

“I guess? As grown as any of us get, I suppose. Kid’s already gone through a whole lot more than most adults have. Heck, they know more about how the world works than most people ever do, period.” 

Toriel gives him a sidelong glance. “Are you referring to the resets?” 

“Partly. But knowledge of the resets alone doesn’t let you lead an entire civilization to the surface and then help you get that civilization to get along with the folks that kicked them underground in the first place.” 

“That is true,” Toriel grants. “But there is still plenty they do not know, even about living in a human society. For instance, I would not wish for them to worry about taxes and insurance on their own yet.” 

Sans shrugs. “Hey, most adult monsters didn’t know what to do with that stuff when we got out of the Underground, either. And I’d guess that Frisk knows a bit more about that stuff than a bunch of ‘em full grown monsters even now, just by dealing with the ambassadorial stuff for the last ten years.”

Toriel gives him a pensive nod. “Perhaps. There is just so much I would not wish for them to be responsible for yet.”  

“Yeah. Well, being responsible sucks, no matter how old you are.” 

She chuckles. “Perhaps.” 

Toriel pulls up to a red light and turns on her blinker as she prepares to take the ramp toward the highway. Sans watches the pedestrians cross the road. There are a few parents with young children, but the teenagers and college-aged kids on the crosswalk are all accompanied by friends their own age. 

“Don’t get me wrong, though,” Sans continues, as the walklight begins to flash orange. “It’s not like I’m eager for the kid to move out or anything.” 

“Ah,” says Toriel. “Is that what you have been worried about?” 

Sans huffs a laugh. “Who said I was worried?” But he flashes a sheepish smile at Toriel, letting her know with his expression alone that, yes, she has read him correctly. Again. “Yeah. That’s probably the weirdest thing about human culture, if you ask me. Kids are adults at eighteen years old? Random number, but okay. But they’re also expected to move out as soon as they’re done with high school, and maybe move hundreds, thousands of miles away? Look, just ‘cause you’ve got all this space on the surface doesn’t mean you should try to scatter your family all across the whole dang thing. Papyrus technically never even moved out, and he’s doing just fine.” 

“No, he just kicked you out,” Toriel says teasingly. 

“Hey, I still have my room there. If he really kicked me out, he’d clean my room.” 

Toriel laughs. The light turns green. As she pulls onto the highway, she continues. “That is not precisely the human expectation. It is perhaps more common in humans in this part of the world, but there are plenty of human societies where the children stay with their families their entire lives. Even here, many children stay with their families long after they have completed high school.” 

“Alright, yeah,” Sans grants. “I guess it’s just a bit unsettling, thinking that here Frisk could end up a thousand miles away and that’d be normal . In the Underground, when a kid got their own place, you could just take a stroll over every afternoon.” A pause. “Not that I’m advocating us being sealed back underground or anything.” 

“I understand,” Toriel says softly. “I too do not like thinking of Frisk leaving home.” 

“Yeah.” Sans squeezes his eye sockets shut. The constriction in his soul has tightened. “Yeah. Frisk could do it. They could move to the other damn side of the planet and do just fine. They know how to handle themself.” 

He’s proud. He’s so proud. And yet the thought twists and twists at his soul. 

He feels Toriel’s warm paw brush at his shoulder, and he cracks his eye sockets open. Toriel smiles at him gently. 

“I know,” she murmurs. “But we have at least a year before they finish high school. And perhaps they will not leave. They wish to go to Ebott University. It is nearby; they can attend from home.” 

“Yeah.” Sans glances out the window; he can’t see Ebott University from here, but he knows the spot on the skyline where the campus should be. He tries to focus on the idea of Frisk staying home for college, coming home each night after classes, still being around for dinner . . . “One day they’ll leave, though. Maybe they’ll stay for college, but--” He laughs weakly. “Even if I can believe Frisk is an adult, man, I can’t believe it’s already been ten years.” 

“I believe the phrase is ‘time flies when you are having fun’?” 

He chuckles. “Unless you’re Froggit. Then it’s ‘time’s fun when you’re having flies’.” 

Toriel lets out a bleat of laughter. But she sobers quickly and murmurs: “Even monster children leave one day.” 

“Papyrus didn’t.” 

She looks to him, a sad smile softening the creases around her eyes. “It is hard to let go, is it not?” 

“Surprisingly, yeah.” 

“Not surprising at all, I think,” she says softly. “Parents miss their children when they are gone.”

Sans considers Toriel silently for a moment, taking in gentle sorrow in her expression. She has always worn her heartbreak openly on her face. 

“Hey,” he murmurs. “How are you holding up? Really.” 

“I am alright.” But she exhales heavily, and then adds, with an unexpected tone of something almost like bitterness: “I am pleased that one of my children has made it to adulthood.” 

Oof.

Sans squeezes his eye sockets shut for a heartbeat, letting a surge of anger on her behalf flash his eyelight blue. But he lets out a slow breath, calming himself, before reaching out to press one hand against her shoulder. 

Uselessly, he says: “Yeah.” 

Toriel does not react to his hand, but she does not pull away. “Asgore will be there today.” 

And again, all Sans can say is: “Yep.” 

“He should be there. Frisk loves him, and he has done well by Frisk. He is their father. But every time I see him, I think of what he did to Kindness, Justice, Bravery, Integrity, Patience, and Perseverance. All of them would be grown by now, but he killed them.”

“Tori, I am so sorry.” 

She does not reply to that immediately, but gives him a stiff nod. She swallows, blinking hard. 

“. . . I should not cry while I am driving,” she says finally. 

“Do you wanna switch?” Sans offers. “If we see a rest stop, I could take over.” 

“No. It is good to have something to focus on. I would not want to fall apart before Frisk’s party.” 

Sans nods. “Alright. Well, offer’s open if you need it.”

“Thank you, dear.” 

Silence falls in the car. Sans stares out at the tall conifers that are growing denser as they get farther out from the city. The trees are dark green against a bright blue sky. The sight of conifers, so much like the endless dark forest of Snowdin, framed by open sky, is oddly fitting.

When Toriel speaks next, her voice is gentler -- weary, rather than angry. “I wish I did not feel such hatred every time I saw Asgore. My anger will not bring the children back, and I must mask my feelings from Frisk as it would be unfair to put them in the middle of my conflict with their father. It does nothing but cause me misery.” 

“I can’t exactly blame you for being angry, though,” Sans says. 

“Yes, well . . . perhaps if I did not have to see him, I would be better able to put all that awfulness in the past. If I had the time and space away from him, time and space in which I was not alone as I was in the Ruins, perhaps I could learn to let go of my anger.” A sigh. “But I cannot take that space. He is Frisk’s father, and I must see him.” 

Toriel glances over to Sans. 

“Sometimes, I wonder about what it would be like if I had refused to co-parent with Asgore. I could have chosen to raise Frisk alone. Or -- well, I did not know originally what Frisk and I would have in you, but if I had, perhaps . . .” She trails off with a tight, sad smile. “But it does not matter. I could not have kept Asgore away. He must work with Frisk as ambassador. And it would be terrible to withhold Frisk from a parent who truly loves and supports them, no matter how angry I am with him.” 

“I suppose,” he says with a sympathetic shrug. “‘Sides, I definitely would have panicked if you’d asked me to step in to be Frisk’s dad that early on.” 

“I would not have,” Toriel says, and now, finally, her smile reaches her eyes. “After all, you are not their dad but their dunkle .” 

Aw. She really knows how to warm his soul. 

“But Tori, if I’m gonna be doing more ambassador stuff, are you really cool with me spending more time with Asgore? Like, alright, you gotta share your kid with him, but that doesn’t mean you gotta share me with him too.” A pause. “That came out wrong.” 

Toriel lets out a sharp bleat of laughter. “ Please do not give me that image. Honestly, I would not have noticed if you did not point it out!”

“Heh, sorry. Ulna -ver say it again, promise.” 

Toriel laughs again, shaking her head. Then her expression mellows, but it’s softer, warmer than before, with fewer lines creasing her face. “But, truly, it is alright for you spend more time with Asgore. You will be doing it to help our child, and how could I ever begrudge you that? Of course, I would ask that you do not meet with Asgore at our dining table, but I have no concerns about you working with him.” 

Sans nods. “It doesn’t bother you then, that I’m not real pissed off at Asgore? I mean, of course, I wish the kids were here, but . . .” 

“Of course not,” Toriel says. “I wish I were not so angry. It feels terrible. Sometimes, I feel like it nearly consumes me. I would never wish that on you.” 

She sighs. She lapses into silence as she merges right toward the interstate junction. 

Sans doesn’t speak either. He thinks of Asgore, and feels only pity. Toriel might forgive Sans for not being angry about the choices Asgore made in the Underground, but Sans can’t help feeling like he’s letting the kids down. Kindness, Bravery, Integrity, Perseverance, Patience, and Justice are dead, either by Asgore’s hand or by his orders. They are gone , and every time he looks into the grief in Toriel’s expression, he wants to be furious. 

And, honestly, when he sees that grief, he does feel a spike of anger. But it doesn’t last, and the anger is always on Toriel’s behalf, not the children’s. How dare Asgore make Toriel feel so much pain? 

But can Sans really be sure he wouldn’t have made the same choices that Asgore did? 

Well. Actually, yeah. He probably wouldn’t have. Even before Toriel had made him promise to look after any human he found, Sans hadn’t really had much interest in capturing and turning over anyone. Even if he were the one on the throne (an awful thought Sans doesn’t like entertaining), he can’t imagine himself giving that order. 

Still. He kind of gets where the guy was coming from. 

Toriel merges onto the northbound route. When she turns off her turn signal, she speaks again: “I know that, partly, I feel the way I do because I once loved Asgore so deeply.” 

“Oh yeah?” 

“Yes. He had meant so much to me, been such a source of stability in my life. I trusted him completely. When he made those terrible choices, it felt like the world did not make sense anymore.” She sniffs hard, and when Sans looks over at her, he feels a horrible jolt. Her expression is set, the line of her jaw sharp even through her fur, but her eyes are shimmering with unshed tears. 

“I would be angry at anyone who ordered the deaths of children,” Toriel continues in a tight voice. “But there is something worse about it being someone I loved and trusted. Were it someone else, I could perhaps accept them as someone callous and thoughtless. But Asgore . . . I cannot reconcile the decision he made with the man I knew. And the senselessness of it all will not let me go.”

“Huh. I guess that makes sense,” Sans says. He scratches at his neck. “I dunno that I’ve had anyone let me down like that, so I dunno how I’d feel. But makes sense.” 

Toriel nods. There’s still a crease at the spot between her eyes, still tension written in every hard line of her limbs. But as Sans watches, she exhales a slow breath, and her posture relaxes.

“But I do not wish for my feelings about Asgore to tarnish my memory of Frisk’s birthday. Perhaps we should talk about something else.” 

“Right,” says Sans. “Sure. Uh, you want a joke, or not in the mood right now?” 

“A joke would be lovely,” Toriel says. 

“Alright. Let’s see. Uh, why do flamingos lift up one leg?” 

“Why?” Toriel supplies promptly. 

“Because if they lifted up both they would fall.” 

And Toriel laughs. It’s a soft, weak laugh, a little wet, but it’s a laugh. 

“Here is one,” she replies. “What do you call an illegally parked frog?” 

“What?” says Sans. 

“Toad!” 

He chuckles. “Nice. Alright -- a magician was walking down the street. Then, he turned into a grocery store.” 

“Oh, that is your worst one this week!” But she’s smiling, and her laugh is brighter. 

“Don’t like that one? I got more. Why are mountains so funny?” 

“I do not know!”

“Because they are hill areas .” 

By the time they pull into the parking lot for Frisk’s party, there are still tears in Toriel’s eyes, but for an entirely different reason. Toriel shuts off the car and leans on the steering wheel, almost choking with laughter. Sans, too, has his face covered with one hand as he’s overcome with mirth. 

When Toriel has finally recovered herself enough to speak, she reaches out one paw to clasp Sans’ shoulder. 

“Thank you,” she says, her voice so warm that Sans feels his soul swell. 

“Sure,” he replies. 

She smiles. 

Sans covers the paw on his shoulder with one hand and gives it a squeeze. “Welp. We should probably get started settin’ up. Let’s show our kid a good time, huh?”

“Yes, let’s.” 

Chapter Text

Sans stands at the edge of the grassy outcropping and breathes in deeply. The sea air is a salty tang at the back of his throat, cool and rich. The air tastes exactly as it has every year, and memories fold on one another in his mind. 

Just before him, the grass drops out four feet down into soft sand. A rocky peninsula, brushed with a line of stubborn trees, hugs the beach on either side. In the bay, the waves don’t exactly crash , but murmur against the shore. 

It’s an unspoken tradition to hold the monster reunion outdoors, in the sunlight. Once upon a time, they’d held the reunion on the anniversary of their freedom on the surface, but early spring tended to bring cold, rain, and, on one memorable occasion, snow. Ex-Snowdin residents tolerated the difficult weather; ex-Waterfall residents could handle the rain at least, but the monsters that thrived in Hotland were downright miserable. And, after three years in a row of having to relocate the party to Mettaton and Napstablook’s lavish home (thankfully, Mettaton never passed up an opportunity to show off), they’d made the decision to push the reunion into the summer. 

So when a certain determined child happens to be turning eighteen, it’s easy enough to plan the reunion on the same week as their birthday. 

Sans looks down at the beach, where dozens of monsters are helping set up or just milling about. They haven’t had such a big turnout in years; as monsters got busy with their lives on the surface, fewer and fewer made it out for the reunions each year, especially those who lived farther off. But today, the beach looks as crowded as it did the first couple years after they emerged on the surface. He’s not sure how much of that is because it’s the tenth anniversary of their freedom, and how much of that is because it is Ambassador Frisk’s eighteenth birthday. 

Ten years . 

No matter how many times he turns the thought over in his head, it doesn’t seem to stick. It’s not so much the thought of Frisk as an adult that trips him, but the thought that ten years have passed to get here. 

He’s got ten years of memories of reunions, ten years of memories of this spot. Just over ten years ago, he stood on this exact grassy outcropping and breathed in the sea air for the first time. The memories crowd each other: hot dogs right off one of the beachside grills, the chilly bite of spring air on his bones, that year his fingers slipped on the rain-slicked rocks and he went tumbling into the water, the sun setting over the waves, burning marshmallows for Frisk over the open fire they set up on the beach . . . 

So many memories. They fill Sans up, so many that it makes his breath feel thick. 

“Bring it out a little farther!” Toriel calls out to Undyne, who’s swum out into the water, trailing the line of plastic flags tied to a long stick. 

“Any farther and we’re gonna need a longer stick!” Undyne yells back. 

“Oh, that is alright then!” 

Undyne slams the stick into water, with a ferocious “ NGAAAHH!”. The stick drives into the seabed, and stays. The line of plastic flags stretch out to the next stick, marking the boundaries of their obstacle course. 

“Heya, Sansy,” Bunny calls. “How does this look?” 

She’s gestures to the sandy beach, where she’s organized a dozen empty boxes in several short lines, and weighed them down with rocks.

“Looks great. Could ya put the horse at the start of the course?” 

Bunny looks a little startled, until Toriel reaches into her bag of supplies and pulls out a child’s toy horse, the type that’s a stick with a stuffed head at the end. Bunny gives a little laugh, and trots over to the edge of the outcropping for Toriel to hand the toy down to her. 

Gravel crunches in the parking lot behind Sans; he turns around to see Asgore’s old pick-up truck squeeze into a spot at the edge of the lot. The car has barely stopped when the passenger door pops open and Frisk jumps out with a surly-looking Flowey tucked under one arm. 

“My child!” Toriel exclaims happily. “You are here!” 

Frisk hurries over, turning their head to take in the set-up: picnic tables are groaning with the snacks laid out across them; fluttering banners tied to overhanging branches proclaim “ Welcome Back!” and “ Happy Birthday !”; Undyne and Bunny are putting the finishing touches to the obstacle course. 

When Frisk reaches Sans and Toriel, they set Flowey on the ground to speak. Flowey sneezes as a long blade of seagrass tickles his face. 

“What, you guys are celebrating my birthday at the monster reunion, where all my monster friends from around the country will be?” Frisk says with exaggerated, mock surprise. “Wow, I never would have guessed!” 

“Hey, your mom and I tried to keep it a surprise,” Sans laughs. “Not our fault you’re too smart for your own good. C’mon, gimme a hug.” 

They do so. They’re a head and a half taller than him these days, but the prank works just the same as ever; the moment Sans’ hand connects with Frisk’s back, a loud fart sound rips through the park. 

Frisk jumps back. 

“Oops,” Sans says, grinning. He pulls back and reveals the whoopee cushion hidden in his palm. “Forgot it was there.” 

“SANS, YOU’RE DISGUSTING!” Papyrus yells from halfway across the park, while Frisk rolls their eyes heavily and Toriel chokes with laughter. 

Sans chuckles. “Anyway, happy birthday, kiddo. I’m proud of you.” 

“You only say that because I let you pull the same prank every year,” Frisk says, but they wink.

“Happy birthday, my child,” Toriel says, still chuckling, and opens her arms for a hug as well. Frisk makes a show of inspecting her paws for whoopee cushions, but finally lets her pull them close.  

The moment Toriel lets go, Papyrus strides across the lawn and nearly knocks Frisk over with an enthusiastic, sweeping hug. “HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MY VERY COOL FRIEND! EVEN THOUGH YOUR BIRTHDAY IS NOT ACTUALLY FOR TWO DAYS, WE HAVE BEEN WORKING VERY HARD AT MAKING A PARTY THAT WILL BE AS AWESOME AS YOU ARE!” 

Crushed against Papyrus’ ribcage like this, Frisk can’t sign, and so they just nod happily. 

“OH, HEY, FRISK!” Undyne dashes across the field, still dripping ocean water. 

Sans and Toriel are shuffled back as monsters cluster around Frisk, all clasping their shoulders and wishing them congratulations. Frisk hastily gathers up Flowey, who is in danger of being crushed, and holds him up over Undyne’s shoulder until Toriel plucks the pot out of Frisk’s hands. With one free hand twisted awkwardly around Undyne’s arm, Frisk says: “Thanks, Mom!” 

“Of course, dear.” 

Frisk disappears back into the crowd of well-wishers, making the effort to greet each and every individual monster. Popularity comes with obligations. 

Asgore’s climbing out of his truck, careful to keep his head low so his horns don’t scratch the roof. He has a clumsily wrapped package topped with a shining ribbon clutched in one hand. He hardly looks like a king these days, dressed in garish floral prints as he is, but it suits him. 

Asgore stops in front of Sans and Toriel. His eyes are smiling, but his ears go up and back with apprehension. 

“Hello, Toriel,” he greets. 

“Hello. It is good to see you.” Toriel’s tone is perfectly friendly, but she sounds as if she’s greeting a coworker, not a man she once loved. 

“Hey, your majesty,” Sans greets, tossing Asgore a lazy wave. 

Asgore pulls a face at the title, which makes Sans grin. That is of course exactly why he says it. 

But Asgore’s tone betrays no irritation as he replies: “Hello, Sans. How is it going?” 

“Can’t complain. Thanks for picking up the kid.” 

“Of course. Well, thank you for putting together this party; it looks wonderful.” 

Sans shrugs. “Eh, I didn’t do much; delegating is my real talent.” 

Both Toriel and Asgore chuckle obligingly. At the sound of Toriel’s laugh, Asgore’s ears come forward; the tension in his shoulders relaxes. 

Under Toriel’s arm, Flowey peeks up at Asgore with a pinched expression and makes a disgruntled sound. He doesn’t say anything more.  

“Where can I put Frisk’s gift?” Asgore asks. 

“I believe Undyne has been collecting the gifts on one of the tables closest to the woods,” Toriel tells him. 

“Thank you,” Asgore says warmly, and heads off in that direction. 

Sans watches him go, musing. Asgore has always been perfectly friendly to Sans, willing to laugh at his jokes and exchange pleasantries. Yet they’ve never become friends. Part of that is they never really spend time hanging out. Most of their interactions involve passing off the kid, which doesn’t make for a whole lot of quality bonding time. 

And sometimes sorrow crosses Asgore’s expression when he sees Sans. Sans gets the sense that the sorrow isn’t about him , exactly. Those are the days that Sans shows up alone, when Toriel decides not to come with him to pick up Frisk. 

Asgore drops off his gift and returns to the monsters still clustered all around Frisk. He hangs awkwardly on the outside edges, clearly unsure whom to talk with first. A couple monsters call hellos to Asgore, but Frisk is still the center of attention. 

Sans still needs to talk to Asgore about picking up more ambassadorial work. Now is probably as good a time as any. Heck, now’s probably the best time, ‘cause there are so many monsters that will eventually need Asgore’s attention that the conversation can’t last long. 

“Hey, Asgore,” Sans says, when there is a brief pause in the greeters. “Can I grab ya for a sec?” 

Asgore looks faintly surprised, but says: “Of course.” He extricates himself from the edges of the crowd and comes back over to Sans. “What is it?” 

Asgore glances quickly to Toriel, but she does not return his gaze; instead, she looks quizzically to Sans, who winks. 

Toriel nods. “I must go check on the food,” she says, and strides away. 

As she heads off, Asgore lets out a barely audible resigned breath. Sans can’t help feeling a little sorry for the guy. Just the thought of not having Toriel in his life anymore sends a shooting sense of horror straight through his soul. 

Sans runs his fingers over the vertebrae at the back of his neck. “So, uh, I wanted to talk to you about ambassador stuff.” 

“Ambassador ‘stuff’?” Asgore echoes, looking faintly surprised. 

“Yeah. Since Frisk is gonna go to college and everything, Tori and I kinda want Frisk to be able to focus on their studies, you know? So. Thought I’d ask if I could do more of Frisk’s work for them, get as much off their plate as possible.”

“Oh!” Asgore runs one hand absently through his mane. “Ah, what do you have in mind? You already do quite a bit of the work by handling the email account and most of the behind-the-scenes organization for Frisk’s appearances.” 

Sans shrugs. “I dunno, whatever can be passed off to me, I guess. I don’t really answer that many emails right now, just clean out the junk Frisk doesn’t have to see. I could actually take on more of that, I guess. And uh, I could probably talk to folks whenever it doesn’t have to be Frisk doing the negotiating.” 

Sans can hardly believe the words coming out of his own mouth. It sounds like so much work . 

“Hmm,” says Asgore, considering. “Well, it does have to be Frisk a lot of the time. Frisk has built a reputation, and the humans often want to talk to another human. But I suppose there are times when you could step in as Frisk’s representative when I cannot, since I am already known as the face of monster leadership.” 

“Cool. I’ll use my bad jokes to wow the human leaders, and they’ll be in such a good mood they’ll give us anything we ask,” Sans promises. “...That, or they’ll be horribly offended.” 

Asgore smiles at him indulgently. “Please just leave the whoopee cushions at home.” 

“Aw, but that’s like ninety percent of my repertoire.” 

Asgore chuckles. “Anyway, Frisk probably would have the best idea of what would be helpful. Have you asked them?” 

“Uh, not yet. I wanted to check if it was cool with you first.” 

“Why would it not be ‘cool’ with me?” 

Sans shrugs. “No reason I guess.” 

“. . . Ah,” murmurs Asgore. “You were concerned I would feel uncomfortable working with you, because of your relationship with Toriel?” 

His gaze lingers on Toriel, who is pulling open a bag of chips to pour out onto a platter. 

“Er,” Sans responds helpfully. Do they have to have this part of the conversation? 

“I don’t mind.” Asgore offers him a smile, and although there is some sadness in his expression, the smile seems genuine. “I am not upset about you being with Toriel. I am grateful, truly, that Toriel has someone who makes her so happy. The only person I could be mad at is myself.” 

“Right,” says Sans awkwardly. 

Asgore clasps his shoulder. “I appreciate the concern nevertheless. You are a good man.” 

“Thanks.”

“No, thank you. You have been good to both Toriel and Frisk. Over the years, you have done much to help us raise Frisk into the wonderful young adult they have become.” Asgore lets out a long, wistful sigh. “Can you believe how big they are now?”

“You mean like double my height?” 

Asgore chuckles. “I remember when they used to ride on my shoulders.” Then, more softly: “I know it will be different for you, because Frisk lives with you full time . . . but goodness, I hope that Frisk does not go far when they leave for college.” 

Sans huffs a breath, a sad kind of laugh. “Yeah. Me too.” Uncomfortably, he scratches at his jawbone. “I should probably go help Tori with the food. I haven’t gotten to take inventory on all the junk I get to eat today yet.” 

“Of course,” says Asgore. “We will talk later.” 

“Sure.” 

Asgore smiles and heads back to mingle with the other guests. Within moments, he’s swept into another conversation with Dogaressa. 

It’s not that Sans feels uncomfortable around Asgore. It’s not about Asgore at all. But there aren’t a whole lot of people Sans likes to talk to about his feelings. Or -- well, Sans doesn’t like to talk about his feelings, period. But with a couple people, it’s tolerable. Toriel. Frisk. Sometimes Papyrus. 

Not Asgore. 

But it’s nice to know that Asgore seems to like him enough to try to talk about those pesky mixed emotions of parenthood. And it’s good to see Asgore the way he is now: comfortable, put-together. Maybe even happy, even if there is some lingering regret. 

In those days fresh out of the Underground, Asgore had been a haggard mess. Sans didn’t talk to Asgore a whole lot, but the guy had been obviously stretched thin with the stress of bringing an entire race into the sunlight. When Sans picked Frisk up from Asgore’s place after a weekend, he’d been impressed that Asgore was still wearing the same shirt he’d been wearing when Sans dropped Frisk off on Friday. At the first monster reunion, Asgore had fallen asleep at one of the picnic tables and disrupted the party with loud, rumbling snores. If everyone hadn’t been completely aware of how hard Asgore worked every day, Sans might have been worried about having competition for his reputation. 

Sans isn’t entirely sure what brought about the difference. Maybe just the virtue of time. Either way, it’s good that their king seems to be solidly back on his feet. 

Turning away from the crowd, Sans heads over toward Toriel to steal as much junk food as he can manage. 

----

People continue to flow into the park, and the energy picks up. Sans and Toriel greet monster after monster, receiving hugs, fistbumps, and handshakes (or bumps and shakes with other related appendages). The park buzzes with laughter, and one of the teenagers has pulled out their phone and some speakers, filling the area with a steady dance beat. 

Jake leaps out of his grey sedan and dashes across the parking lot. “FRISK!” he yells, as he tackles them from behind with a full-body hug. Frisk laughs, managing to get one arm around the back of Jake’s broad shoulders, and gives him something of an affectionate headbutt. Jake was one of Frisk’s first human friends on the surface. He’s built like a quarterback, and he’s always been able to go toe-to-toe with Papyrus and Undyne when it comes to enthusiastic greetings. 

“Hey, Jake!” Kid says. “What’s up, man?” 

“Yo, MK!” Jake holds out a fist, and Kid bumps it with their tail. 

The other two humans in Frisk’s inner squad of friends are dropped off by their parents. Melanie is dropped off by her father; he eyes the party, shakes Toriel’s hand, and leaves again once he seems to decide that monsters playing with a beach ball is relatively safe. Rachel’s parents, on the other hand, linger uncomfortably at the edges of the field and don’t speak to anyone. Rachel rolls her eyes heavily and pointedly ignores them.  

“Oh, do not bother them,” Toriel chides Sans, when she sees him watching them appraisingly. 

“What? I wasn’t gonna do anything.” 

Toriel gives a sound that makes it clear she doesn’t believe him. 

“Well, I believe enough people have arrived to start some games,” she says. “What do you think we should start with?” 

“Eh. I ‘unno. Let’s ask Frisk.” He cups his hands around his mouth and calls: “Hey, kid!” 

Frisk glances up, Jake still hanging off their shoulders. 

“You wanna play a game?” 

Frisk squints their eyes suspiciously. 

“Hey, I promise, no pranks. Your mom came up with the games.” He jabs a thumb in Toriel’s direction. 

Dryly, Frisk says: “Have you met Mom?” 

Toriel laughs into one hand. “Undyne helped!” she protests.

“Still not making me feel any better!” 

Sans chuckles. “Nah, really, we just came up with some real weird sports -- and I mean ‘real weird’ as in both ‘very strange’ and ‘people actually play this thing’. Thought you might want to try your hand at a few."

“What did you come up with?” Frisk asks, finally coming over and peering around them as if to see if they had any strange-shaped sports equipment hidden behind their backs. 

“We have cheese rolling, hobbyhorsing, and friend carrying,” Toriel replies. 

Frisk blinks once. “What?” 

Smothering a giggle with one paw, Toriel repeats: “Cheese rolling, hobbyhorsing, and friend carrying.” 

“I heard you! But what the heck are those?” 

“Cheese rolling involves rolling down a hill after a wheel of cheese; is that not delightful? Hobbyhorsing is much like those obstacle courses people take with horses, except that you use a toy horse. And friend carrying is our adaptation of wife carrying, since a lot of people here don’t have wives. It is a race in which contestants must carry their friend through an obstacle course.” 

“I also suggested snail racing,” Sans puts in. “But your mom didn’t think it counted as a ‘weird sport’.” 

“It does not,” Toriel and Frisk say simultaneously. 

“Those sound ridiculous,” Frisk adds. “I love it.” 

“So, you wanna give one a shot?” Sans asks. 

“Do friend carrying!” Melanie calls out. “Rachel and I are gonna crush ya all.” 

Kid snorts. “You wish. No one’s gonna be in the same league as Frisk and I.” 

“Challenge accepted,” Rachel retorts. 

“Guess we’re doing friend carrying,” Frisk says to Sans and Toriel. 

“Wonderful!” Toriel replies. “I will check on the course and prepare to referee. How about you get everyone together? You, ah, may want to wear your swim clothes for this. Some of the course is in the water.”  

Frisk flashes a thumbs up. 

Sans turns to Toriel, and says: “Catch you at the finish line?” 

“You are going to be participating?” Toriel says, with some amusement. “You are not exactly dressed for it.” 

Sans looks down at himself, at his shorts and flipflops, and the light grey sweatshirt he’d pulled out this morning because it had the fewest holes and stains of any of his jackets. 

“Meh. You can hang me out to dry later.” 

Toriel laughs but holds out a paw. Obligingly, Sans pulls off his sweatshirt and white t-shirt and hands them to her. 

“When it comes to competing with Frisk and Undyne, I would not have thought you had the guts ,” Toriel teases, tucking the clothes into her bag of supplies.

Sans snorts. “If it were any other sport, you’d be right. But friend carrying? Tibia honest, we’ve been practicing for this one for years.” 

Toriel doesn’t have to ask who ‘we’ is. 

“SANS!” Papyrus sweeps in from across the lawn, snatching Sans under the arms and scooping him up into the air. “FRISK SAYS WE ARE HAVING A FRIEND CARRYING RACE. WE WILL WOW EVERYONE WITH HOW WELL I HAVE PERFECTED THE ART OF CARRYING YOU! FOR ONCE, YOUR LAZINESS IS USEFUL!” 

Under Papyrus’ arm, Sans winks at Toriel. “See? I get to laze back and let Papyrus do all the work to get the blue rib-bone.”

“SANS PLEASE DO NOT MAKE PUNS. I AM TRYING TO FOCUS ON OUR VICTORY.” 

Papyrus strides off to the starting line on the sandy beach, Sans still tucked under his arm. 

Other contestants are starting to line up; the kids have pulled off the shirts and shorts that had been over their swimsuits. On Sans’ right, Frisk has their arms wrapped tightly around Kid’s neck with a look of steely determination on their face. Melanie is carrying Rachel, and Jake has Ember on his back. On Sans’ other side, Undyne crouches low with a jittery Alphys clinging to her shoulders. 

“‘Sup,” Sans greets her. 

“Oh. Uh, hey, Sans,” she says back. 

“Nice spot for a nap, don’t you think?” 

She gives him an incredulous look. 

And he’s still chuckling to himself when Toriel counts down from three and blows her whistle. Papyrus takes off, Sans hanging on with a skill born from years of practice. Alphys lets out a strangled yelp as Undyne dashes forward. Sans can’t help but laugh at her surprise. 

Papyrus and Undyne are neck and neck through the beach portion, easily vaulting over the cardboard obstacles and kicking up sand in sprays under their feet. Bouncing along on Papyrus’ back, Sans catches Alphys’ eye and makes a show of dozing off. 

“You’re a jer--AHHHHHH!” Alphys breaks off into a yell when Undyne leaps from the beach and dives headfirst into the waves. Sans has just enough time to reflect on how much effort he saved by not changing into his swimsuit before he’s submerged in cold, salty water. 

In the ocean, Undyne easily outstrips the other contestants. Papyrus kind of smashes through the water, with incredibly inefficient by enthusiastic gestures. Kid and Frisk manage to pull forward, but Papyrus’ efforts are still enough to stay ahead of the other teams. 

They emerge from the waves after fifty yards or so of floundering. Seawater runs down Sans’ bones, dripping off his elbows and the tips of his toes. He turns his head to spit out a mouthful of seawater, and he notes with some bemusement that he’s lost one flip-flop.

In the last stretch up the outcropping onto the grassy expanse above, Papyrus speeds up, closing the gap between him and Undyne. Kid, though, swerves right, bypassing the sandy shelf altogether. 

Toriel’s whistle blows. A heartbeat later, another whistle. 

“YEAAAAAAH!” Undyne crows, as Papyrus scrambles up onto the ledge. “ALPHYS AND I ARE NUMBER ONE!”

Papyrus lurches forward, past the last line of flags, and Toriel blows her whistle one more time. Papyrus skids to a halt in front of Undyne and a dizzy-looking Alphys, and he leans over, panting. Next to him, Frisk drops neatly off of Kid’s back. 

“WOW!” Papyrus gasps. “YOU WERE SUPER COOL! And Kid was super clever to find a shortcut! Good strategy!” 

“I always find a way around!” Kid says proudly. They hold up their tail, which Frisk high-fives. 

There’s a scuffling and muffled swearing behind them, and then Jake and Ember come tumbling over the ledge. Toriel’s whistle blows again, but she calls out: “Please watch your language!”

“Sorry, Ms. T!” Jake answers. “Ugh, we were really slowed down at the swimming section.” 

“Yeah, ‘cause you insisted on doggy-paddling the whole time!” Ember retorts.

“Hey, it’s old reliable. Oldest stroke in history.” 

Melanie and Rachel are the last to make it over the ledge. “Hey, Sans, got your sandal,” Rachel calls, and chucks it toward him as she drops off Melanie’s back. Sans plucks it out of the air with one hand. 

“PLEASE DO NOT THROW THINGS AT THE SKELETON,” Papyrus protests. “He is quite delicate! Please give him things gently.” 

“Oh, sorry!” Rachel apologizes, looking embarrassed. 

“Heh, no worries, I’m fine. Thanks for the sandal. Shoe is nice to get it back.” 

“Sans, let go!” Papyrus protests. “I will not carry you while you are making awful puns!” 

“Aww, aren’t you proud of me, though? I came in third with only one shoe. I think that’s a pretty cool feet. ” 

“You didn’t do any work! AND YOU’RE STILL MAKING PUNS.” 

Sans chuckles and finally lets go of Papyrus’ neck to drop back down to the grass below. 

The race has drawn some attention from more of the other guests, who are clustered around the course with curiosity. Toriel looks around at them, and comments: “Perhaps we should set up another round? It looks like we have some more people who would like to play.” 

“Yeah,” Frisk says, following her gaze. They glance over at Undyne and smirk: “I’m gonna crush you this time.” 

Undyne laughs and grabs Frisk in a headlock to noogie their damp hair. “That’s the spirit!” 

“TORIEL!” Papyrus breaks in. “If you want to race this time, Sans can referee! And I can carry you! Or you can carry me! Whatever you want!”

“Oh!” says Toriel, startled. “That sounds very nice. But, ah, you probably would not want to carry me. I am not light.” 

“NONSENSE! I, the Great Papyrus, am up to the task! Sans, take the whistle!” 

Sans laughs and holds out his hand, which Toriel drops the whistle into. “Don’t you love how he volunteers me for a job?” he comments fondly. “It’s like he doesn’t know me at all.” 

“Or perhaps he has more faith than you realize,” Toriel replies, and drops a quick kiss to his cheek. “Thank you, dear.” 

“Heh. Of course.” 

“HEY! RACERS!” Undyne calls out. “GET TO THE STARTING LINE OR YOU’RE ALL WIMPS!” 

There’s a bustle to get back toward the first line in the sand, and laughter as people try to get up on each other’s backs. 

“Undyne! Can I race with you?” Ember asks. “I’m gonna lose every time I’m paired with this slowpoke.” She jabs her thumb at Jake, who gives a gasp of betrayal. 

“And to think I trusted you!” he protests with mock horror. 

Frisk taps Jake’s shoulder, and when he turns, they say: “You can race with me! I’ll carry you.” 

Jake throws an arm around Frisk’s shoulders. “See? Frisk is my real friend.”

“See you losers at the finish line!” Ember taunts.  

As they scramble down the bank to the beach, Alphys flops in the grass next to Sans. She lets out a long, relieved sigh. Sans looks down at her, brow cocked. “Not gonna race again, I take it?” 

“Uh-uh,” Alphys says, shaking her head groggily. “Once was enough.” 

“You gotta work on your nap game. If you’d taken a nap, you wouldn’t be so dizzy right now.” 

She opens one eye to give him a very dry look. “Just because you can nap hanging from someone’s neck doesn’t mean the rest of us can. Or want to.” 

“Hey, I’m just sharing some friendly advice.” 

She lets out a breath of laughter and pushes herself up into a sitting position. A thought seems to strike her; worry pinches at the center of her forehead, and then her jaw sets with something like determination. 

“Hey, um. S-sans?” 

Despite the resolve on her expression, her voice shakes. 

He meets her gaze, considering her with a curious eye. “Yeah?” 

“Um. W-well. We have, uh. Movie night this Sunday.” 

“You mean like every Sunday?” 

“Um, yeah, of course. Of course, you know that.” She runs a claw over her face and titters nervously. “But I mean. Even though there’s the party today? I thought that maybe you thought because of the party today we weren’t going to do movie night too, but, uh, we are.” 

“Right,” says Sans slowly. “So what’s up? You asking if Frisk can still come? That’s not up to me. You gotta ask Asgore; the kid’s staying with him this weekend. He’s not going to say no, though.” 

“N-no, it’s not that. Frisk already said they’re coming. I just mean . . .” She takes a deep breath and blurts out: “You should come.” 

Sans’ eyelights go out in surprise. They blink back on a second later. “Me? Man, I haven’t been in ages.” 

“Exactly! Fifteen years! But Frisk d-dragged us all over to your place the other week, and -- and it was nice to have you around again! I miss you!” 

He huffs a laugh. “Hey, we’ve been hanging out. Otherwise, who was it I tricked into eating a cupcake dipped in ranch last reunion?” 

“That was really gross, Sans,” Alphys grumbles, and Sans laughs again. “But it’s not the same. We say hi at reunions and big group gatherings, but movie nights were our thing. I know it’s not going to be the same -- it can’t. It’s been a really long time, and we’ve both become new people. But you were my best friend for years, and I miss watching movies with you.” 

He chuckles, rubbing at his neck. “Even after I made you watch Roller Blade Six , really?” 

Alphys smiles slightly. “I especially miss bad movies with you. Look, I, um. I don’t know exactly why you don’t want to come anymore. I used to think that m-maybe you secretly didn’t like me, but . . . I don’t think that’s it? You don’t have to tell me,” she adds hastily. “But we’d like to have you around again.” 

Before Sans can say anything, Undyne yells out from the beach. “YO, LAZYASS, ARE YOU GONNA START THE RACE OR NOT?” 

Sans lifts the whistle. He looks at it for a moment, as if the orange plastic were something strange and unusual. A smile twitches at one corner of his mouth. 

To Alphys, he says: “Alright, I’ll try to drop by. No promises; I tend to sleep in on Sundays.” 

“The movie night starts at five in the evening ,” Alphys points out. 

He winks, and blows on the whistle. The racers take off, sand kicking in every direction. Alphys and Sans watch the racers without speaking. 

Movie nights with Alphys, huh? The memory feels like it came from another lifetime. It was just the two of them back then, sometimes at Alphys’ house, sometimes barricaded in Sans’ bedroom. But just as often, they watched movies in the lab. When they stayed late, sometimes it was just easier to hang out in the little lab kitchenette hunched over a laptop. They’d let whatever simulation or test they were working on run in the background, hang up their lab coats, and pull out whatever DVD they had. 

Sans used to dryly point out every scientific inaccuracy until Alphys punched him in the shoulder and told him to shut up and enjoy the movie. But she’d laugh so hard she’d spill her popcorn, and that’d make him laugh harder too. And, sometimes, they’d finish the movie and just talk. Sans would talk about some cute thing Papyrus did or some way Papyrus annoyed him; Alphys would gush about the last time they saw Asgore, and Sans would call her gross and throw a handful of popcorn at her.  

Sans eyes Alphys now, taking in the ever-present worry lines on her face, the way she holds herself unconsciously. Back then, she’d been carefree. Nervous, yes. Bubbling with energy and eager to please, yes. But there’d been a lightness in the way she carried herself. 

And now -- well, she’s not crumbling under the weight of her burdens, the way she’d been in the days just before they left the underground. Alphys is holding herself tall now, but it’s different. It’s not the kind of confidence that comes with the absence of worries. It’s a strength that comes with being able to shoulder them. 

Maybe Alphys has a point. They used to spend hours and hours talking late into the night. He used to know her favorite animes, her crushes, her dreams, her worries. Now? She’s had years of experiences he doesn’t know. She’s changed and changed again, and the only way Sans knows anything going on with her is through Frisk. 

Absently, Sans runs one hand over his damp ribcage. 

He’s changed too. When he thinks of the Sans who’d been Alphys’ best friend, he just feels tired . That Sans had energy. That Sans had big dreams and ideas, his mind bursting with experiments and equations. That Sans had been young. And that Sans had been so incredibly stupid. 

The movie nights feel like they belong to another era, to that younger, dumber version of himself. Going back to movie nights feels almost like trying to step back to that -- to long, carefree nights at the lab. 

He doesn’t do that anymore. 

The racers scramble up the ledge, and Sans blows on his whistle as each team crosses the finish line. Again, Undyne comes in first. Papyrus and Toriel are fourth, with Frisk and Jake just a pace behind. 

“GOOD RACE!” Undyne exclaims, clapping Papyrus on the shoulder. Then she scoops up Alphys and squeezes her in a rib-popping hug. 

“Undyne! I didn’t even race!” Alphys protests.

Sans laughs, watching. 

Maybe he could get to know Alphys again. They can’t go back, she said, and that helps somewhat. But even if he does drag himself off to her movie night -- at her house, not the lab; on the surface, not the Underground . . .

He watches as Toriel shakily climbs off of Papyrus back, looking both pleased and a little off-center.

Frisk and Papyrus and Undyne will be there. Sans usually spends the day with Toriel, and she’ll know if he decides to go to Alphys’ movie night. And all of them are aware that it’s been years since he was last at a movie night. It just feels like such a big step. 

He wonders if it’s worth it. 

----

The sun is just starting to sink toward the waves when a long, black limousine swings into the parking lot. Sans sits on the wooden barrier ringing the perimeter of the parking lot and watches as the limousine drives up onto the grass and parks at skewed angle. The back door swings open, and a long leg clad in a shiny knee-high boot emerges from the depths. 

“Hello, darlings!” Mettaton croons as he steps out of the car. 

“Hey, Mettaton,” Sans greets. “Fashionably late as always, huh?”

“You know it. Tell me, where is the beautiful birthday star?” 

Sans jerks a thumb over his shoulder. Frisk waves from the picnic bench, where they’re chatting with Kid in between shoving fistfuls of chips in their face. 

“He- llo , there!” Mettaton calls as he descends on the picnic table with a whirr of machinery. “And a very happy birthday to you!” 

“Hi, Frisk . . . ,” Napstablook murmurs, floating out from the limousine behind Mettaton. They’re wearing a green and purple polka-dotted party hat, which is perched at an awkward angle at the top of their head.  

“Hey!” Frisk replies, hopping up give Mettaton a quick hug. Mettaton gives a little gasp as if he’s surprised, although Frisk has been giving him hugs on sight for the last six years. “And another for Napstablook,” they add, and squeeze him again. 

“Can’t chat long, we need to prepare for the show,” Mettaton says, patting the top of Frisk’s head. “But we must deliver your gifts!” With a flourish, he proffers a wide slim box, which is wrapped in shining silver paper and a pink-sequined ribbon. Probably an item from Mettaton’s fashion line, Sans guesses -- either the bold maxi dress or the hot pink blouson jacket that are the centerpieces of Mettaton’s upcoming fall line. It’s been a few years since Mettaton has gifted Frisk a life-sized cardboard cutout of himself, but Sans doesn’t think he’ll ever see the day when his gifts aren’t somehow connected to the MTT-brand. 

“Thank you!” Frisk says as they take the box. 

“I got you something too,” Napstablook mumbles. They hold out a small package that looks suspiciously like a CD. “It’s probably terrible, sorry . . . but my therapist thinks I should try not to apologize so much, so I hope you like it anyway . . .” 

Frisk takes the likely-CD, and they place both boxes on the picnic bench. “Anything from you is automatically cool,” they say, and give Napstablook a saucy wink. 

Napstablook’s cheeks darken. “O-oh. Um. Thanks.”  

“Blooky, how you manage stardom when a little light-hearted flirting flusters you so much, I will never know,” Mettaton chides good-naturedly. “And -- speaking of flirting, where is Papyrus? I wanted his input on a little routine I had in mind.” 

“You know I’m right here, right?” Sans calls.

“Ah, yes! Do you know where your brother is, by any chance?” 

“Yeah, I think he’s down on the beach.” Sans gestures vaguely. “He wanted to make the obstacle course harder. Said the puzzle wasn’t challenging enough. Didn’t seem to believe me when I told him it wasn’t supposed to be a puzzle.” 

“Thank you, darling!” Mettaton saunters off. Sans spares a thought to how terrible it must be to walk on sand with those heels, then lazes back on the wooden barrier. 

But Napstablook still hovers uncertainly by the picnic table as they watch Mettaton go. They glance down at the chips Kid and Frisk are sharing with something of a mournful expression on their face. After a moment of this, Sans sighs and decides to take pity on the guy. 

“Hey, Blooky ,” Sans calls, drawling out the nickname as he pushes himself up to his feet. “I’m gonna go grab a drink. Pretty sure we got some ghost drinks too -- you want something?” 

“Oh. Um. I don’t know . . . I wouldn’t want to be a bother . . .” 

“Eh, come on, I need a fresh spectre -ator to try some jokes on.” 

“Oh . . . okay.” Napstablook floats over to him, somehow managing to look both relieved and anxious at the same time. 

“So. What’s in a ghost’s nose?” Sans asks, as he starts off toward the two drink coolers at the other side of the field. 

“I don’t think there’s anything in there, but I haven’t checked . . .” Napstablook mumbles. 

“It’s a joke, Blook.” 

“Oh. Sorry. I don’t know . . . what?” 

“ Boo -gers!” 

“Because humans think ghosts say ‘boo’. I get it,” Napstablook replies. They don’t laugh, but they look marginally more cheerful. 

“Yeah, exactly. Good job, buddy. Okay, here’s another: what does a ghost use to unlock their room?”

“I don’t know . . .” 

“A spook-ey.”  

“Heh . . . that’s funny,” Napstablook says, and now they’re actually smiling.

“You’re a ghoul-d audience,” Sans replies with a wink. They reach the drink coolers, and Sans pops open the top of the one almost tucked under the table. “Okay, one more: why did the ghost follow the skeleton?” 

“Because you asked me to.” 

“Nah.” Sans pulls out a beer and flips it around to show Napstablook. “For the boo -s.” 

“You like the ‘boo’ jokes,” Napstablook comments. 

“Well, it’s real versatile. Anyway, what d’you want? This one’s got alcohol, but I know the other cooler’s got ghost fruit juice, lemonade, a couple sodas--” Sans sorts through the ice, sorting through the beer and wine coolers. “There might be some actual ghost booze in this one too, if you want it.” 

“No, lemonade is fine.” 

Sans opens the other cooler and pulls a can out of the ice. “Here ya go,” He says, tossing the can to Napstablook, who unexpectedly phases right out of sight.

“Oops,” they say sadly as they watch the can passes through them and thuds to the ground. “Sorry . . . I guess you startled me . . .” 

“Heh, that was actually kind of funny,” Sans says, as Napstablook floats down and gathers up the can.

“Really?” they say, looking pleased and pleasantly surprised. 

“Sure. You ever want to put some humor in your show? That’s comedy ghoul -d right there.” 

“You like your ‘ghoul’ jokes, too.” 

“Maybe I like being predictable,” Sans says, tossing them a wink. 

“I thought you liked to surprise people?” Napstablook replies uncertainly. “Isn’t that why dropping the can was funny?” 

Sans chuckles. “Okay, yeah, good point. Pretty per- spectre -ive of you.” 

“My therapist says I’m a pretty observant of people,” Napstablook says, sounding almost cheerful. “Except when I think they don’t like me . . .” 

Sans pops open his beer against the picnic table and eyes Napstablook thoughtfully. “So,” he says, with an air of casualness. “How’s therapy going?” 

“Oh . . .” Napstablook seems surprised by the question. “It’s good. I think I’m doing better. I’m only going once a week now, and then group . . . I wish human medication would work for monsters though. It would make it a lot easier . . .” 

Sans nods. “But, uh, your therapist is good?” 

“Yes,” Napstablook’s breathy voice is warm. “I like her a lot . . .” 

“She’s a human?” 

Napstablook bobs up and down in a nod. 

“Is she any good with monster issues?” 

Napstablook shrugs. “I guess? Most of my problems aren’t monster-specific though . . . my group therapy is all humans, and they feel a lot of the same things . . . except that my friends can’t hug me . . .”

Sans winces sympathetically. He takes a long, fortifying sip from his beer, and says slowly: “What’s your therapist’s name?” 

Napstablook blinks once. “Dr. Livingston. Her office is downtown, next to the library.” They cock their head at him. “. . . Are you trying to send Frisk to therapy again? Because I don’t know if Dr. Livingston works with teenagers.” 

“What? No, Frisk is fine. Just curious.” 

Napstablook blinks again, watching him. They don’t look entirely convinced, but they’re clearly not going to argue with him. 

Sans takes another long swig of his beer. If it’s hard enough to talk to Asgore about Frisk growing up, he’s sure as heck not going to tell Napstablook about his plans to go to therapy. 

“Hey, I gotta go chat with Grillby,” he says quickly. “Look, Undyne’s over by the sports stuff. She probably wants to say hi to you.” 

“Oh . . . okay,” says Napstablook, sounding suddenly much more despondent than they did a few moments ago. 

Great, now Sans feels bad. But still not bad enough to stop him from making his escape. He tosses Napstablook a wave, and disappears behind Greater Dog. 

----

“And then, I say: ‘Snowdin wasn’t bad, except for the hiring freeze !’” Snowdrake finishes, looking pleased with itself.

Sans chuckles, tipping his beer in Snowdrake’s direction approvingly. “N- ice work, bud. That’s a good routine.” 

“Anything I could do to make it better? It’s still only getting a lukewarm reception.” 

“You try some physical comedy? If you’re up on stage, take advantage of the visual.” 

“Uh, like what?” 

But before Sans can reply, a crash interrupts him. There’s a shriek of dismay, and several horrified gasps. Sans turns around; over by the food table, a large chocolate cake is splattered across the grass. Muffet is standing over it, two hands clamped over her mouth in shock, and on the food table, looking deeply smug, is Flowey. 

In a blink, Sans is next to the table. “Hey, bud,” he says to Flowey in a light tone, even as his eyelights flicker out. “You wanna tell me what just happened?”

Flowey just smirks up at him. “Nothing you can prove.” 

“He knocked the cake over!” Muffet exclaims. “I was setting up the candles and turned my back for a second to get more candles, and he threw it on the ground!”

“You can’t prove it,” Flowey sing-songs. 

“I have eight eyes! I saw you do it!” 

“Don’t think we haveta prove anything here,” Sans says. “You were found at the scene of the icing. You’re coming with me, bud.” 

He goes to pick up Flowey’s pot, but then jerks back when a vine of thorns whips out toward him. 

“Don’t touch me!” Flowey shrieks. 

An urgent tap on Sans’ shoulder makes him turn around. 

“Wait!” Frisk exclaims. “Let me deal with him.” 

“Kid, it’s your party. He just threw your cake on the ground.” 

“I don’t care about the cake!” Frisk says. “I mean, I’m sure you all went to a lot of trouble, and I’m sorry he ruined it, but I’m not upset. He’s upset. I have to talk to him.” 

“I am not upset!” Flowey protests shilly. 

Sans lets out a sigh. “Alright, kid, but it’s not your job. Don’t spend too much energy on him when you should be enjoying your party.” 

“Of course it’s my job. He’s my responsibility,” Frisk retorts. They brush by him and crouch down next to Flowey’s pot, speaking in small, soothing gestures. 

“Sans! What happened?” Toriel has come hurrying over from the beach, a towel draped over her wet shoulders. Papyrus and Mettaton are climbing up the ramp from the beach as well, seeking out the source of the commotion. 

“The emotionally challenged flora decided to throw Frisk’s cake on the ground,” Sans replies, gesturing at the mess behind him. 

Toriel’s paws fly to her face. “Oh, dear! Goodness, I should not have left him so close to the food.” 

“Eh, it’s not your fault. Flowey would have gotten himself in trouble anywhere we put him,” Sans reassures her. 

Toriel squeezes his shoulder gratefully. To Muffet, she adds: “And after all the work you did, too! I am so sorry!” 

Muffet, though, who seems to have recovered from her initial shock, just smiles. “It is alright, dearie! It has all been paid for, so my spiders are still supported!” 

“What an awful tragedy!” Mettaton gasps, leaning sideways into Papyrus as if for support. “Our birthday star has lost their cake!” 

“Indeed!” Papyrus agrees. He pushes past Mettaton, and Mettaton stumbles but neatly recovers himself. Papyrus crouches down next to the smashed cake and considers it thoughtfully. “Hmmm. I could fix this!” he exclaims. “I could head home and whip up a new cake! I, the incredible Papyrus, will provide a new cake for my cool friend’s birthday party!” 

Sans covers his mouth to smother a chuckle; Toriel’s eyes have gone wide with fear. 

“Oh! That is very nice of you, Papyrus,” Toriel says diplomatically. “But, ah, that would take quite a long time. I would not want you to miss so much of the party.” 

“It is no trouble!” Papyrus insists. 

Sans puts in: “I mean, I bet the kid would love Papyrus’ baking.” 

Toriel shoots him a very dry look, and Sans has to fight back another bout of giggles. Anger toward Flowey is still burning in his gut, and it takes effort to keep his eyelights on, but around Papyrus’ earnest kindness and Toriel’s gentleness, the anger loses its edge. 

Still, though. That flower is lucky he hasn’t been doused in weed killer yet. 

“It would probably be best for Sans to pop into the closest store and buy something there,” Toriel suggests. “It is not ideal, and I doubt any grocery stores here sell cakes consumable by ghosts, but at least we would have something.” 

“Yeah, suppose I could,” Sans agrees. “Eh. I should probably grab my shirt, then.” 

But Frisk turns around on the picnic bench to face them and shakes their head. “It’s fine,” they say. “Don’t worry about the cake. I’ll stick a candle in a brownie or something.”

“Are you certain, my child?” Toriel asks worriedly. 

“Really, it’s fine. Papyrus, I have a job for you.” 

“Of course! I, Papyrus, will rise magnificently to this challenge!” 

“Flowey’s feeling left out,” Frisk says. “But he doesn’t like my other friends, so he doesn’t want to hang out with me. Could you take him, keep him company?” 

Flowey splutters furiously. “I am not feeling left out! And I’m not a goddamn pity case!” 

“But of course!” Papyrus exclaims delightedly. “Flowey is my friend, too! We will have so much fun together, working on puzzles and spending time with our other friends! I am very sorry we did not pay more attention to you, Flowey.” 

“I don’t need attention ,” Flowey protests as he’s scooped up into Papyrus arms, but he doesn’t lash out any vines this time. Sans watches as Mettaton arranges his expression into a delicate pout, but Papyrus evidently doesn’t notice.

“He said he feels left out,” Frisk adds to Sans and Toriel, as Papyrus carries Flowey off. “Honestly, since we left him alone for hours, he’s actually been really good not to make a fuss before.” Their shoulders slump wearily. “I feel bad. Papyrus usually hangs out with Flowey at these things without me asking him to. I didn’t realize he’d gotten distracted this time. I should have checked.” 

“Oh, my child, it is not your fault!” Toriel crouches down, and pulls Frisk into a tight hug. “You do not need to check on everyone at your party.” 

“Yeah, and if Flowey is worried about feeling left out, he should work on being a little less thorny ,” Sans puts in. 

“He’s trying his best,” Frisk insists, pulling back from Toriel’s hug. “And I am ambassador.” 

“That does not mean you have to be ambassador all the time,” Toriel says gently. “Please. Take some time to relax and enjoy being with your friends.” 

All at once, Frisk explodes. “You guys just don’t get it!” they exclaim, gesturing so abruptly they almost hit the table. “Flowey is my friend too! And you aren’t even trying to understand him!” 

And without waiting for a response, they jump up from the picnic table and stalk off. 

Sans and Toriel blink at each other. 

“Um,” says Sans.

Toriel sighs heavily. “Oh, dear. Should we go after them?”

“Nah. I think we should give them space to cool down.” Sans takes a long drink from his beer. 

“Yes,” Toriel agrees morosely. And softly, again: “Oh, dear.” 

----

Sans and Toriel stay out of Frisk’s way as the party drags on. Unease twists uncomfortably at Sans’ abdomen. Pissing off his own kid at their own party? Well, that’s one more memory to add to the pile, and he doesn’t like this one, not one bit. 

Frisk, for their part, seems to have recovered themself, which Sans is gratified to see. If Frisk had continued to be visibly upset and hadn’t been enjoying the party anymore, Sans would have felt worse than he already does. And that’s saying something. He already feels like a scummy, sorry excuse of a parent. When monster friends press second and third beers into his hands, he takes them gratefully. 

The evening continues smoothly after the cake-throwing incident. Frisk blows out a candle shoved into a brownie; Mettaton and Napstablook put on a little song-and-dance routine in the grass, which gets everyone else up and dancing too. The sky eventually melts to shades of pink and purple and through to black; street lamps come on at the parking lot, and Heats Flamesman sets about getting a fire going on the beach. Some guests begin to peel off, but others are still deep in conversation. Frisk’s friends, though, head out one by one; Rachel’s parents herd her away before the sun even sets, and Jake and Melanie leave together shortly after Mettaton’s show. Kid apologizes about needing to head out early for a college visit the next day, and Ember heads out to cover the late shift at her dad’s bar. 

Dark has fully settled when Frisk wanders out to the rocky outcropping and sits on a ledge overlooking the waves. Sans and Toriel watch them quietly for a moment. Frisk looks calm.

“I think we should go talk to them now,” Toriel murmurs softly.

“I guess,” Sans replies. 

“You should do it.” 

“Me?” Sans echoes, turning to her in horror. “Why me?” 

“Frisk was angry at me,” Toriel says sadly. 

“Nah, they were mad at both of us.” 

Toriel shakes her head. “It was something I said that upset them.” 

Sans rubs at his neck. “I’m sure I’m not off the hook. I’d been saying the same stuff too.”

“Please, Sans?” 

He sighs begrudgingly. “Yeah, alright.” 

Toriel smiles. “Thank you.” 

He waves her thanks off and heads out toward where Frisk is sitting. He sways at the edge of the rocks, focusing his vision on the hard lines of the boulders that are bathed in the orange glow of the street lamps. He considers the effort of climbing across them, remembers slipping off the rocks that one year, and instead shortcuts directly to Frisk’s side. 

“Hey, kiddo.” 

Frisk doesn’t jump. They look up at Sans, and wave. Sans considers their expression, and although it’s dark, he can still map out the minute tensions in their face. One of the ‘benefits’ of having lived underground so long. Anyway, they don’t seem furious to see him, so that’s good. 

Sans sits down next to them. “You still mad at us?” 

Frisk shrugs. Slowly, they say: “I’m frustrated. You never really like Flowey around.” 

Sans lets out a long breath. “Yeah,” he says honestly. “Well. I don’t really like it when people who aren’t real nice hang around my family, I guess.” 

“Mettaton isn’t nice either.” 

Sans pauses. “Uh, what?” 

“Mettaton isn’t nice,” Frisk repeats. “He has a really bad track record even with the people he cares about the most. But you don’t care about him hanging around Papyrus all the time. You don’t act like you hate him being around.” 

“That’s, uh, different,” Sans says, scratching at his skull. “I mean, Mettaton’s made a real effort to be a better person.” 

“So has Flowey,” Frisk insists. “He’s just . . . starting from a different baseline.” 

“Well, I mean, that baseline is kinda important. Mettaton hasn’t tried to kill my family.” 

Frisk meets his eyes steadily. “Hasn’t he?” 

Sans feels as if the breath has been knocked out of him. 

“Ah, shit,” Sans groans, covering his face with one hand. “I’m so sorry, kid. I didn’t mean . . . I just forgot. That sounds pretty awful, huh?” 

But when he pulls his hand off his face, Frisk shakes their head. “It’s fine.” 

“You sure? Man, I’m sorry. Does it bother you to have Mettaton around? I thought you were fine with him now. I’m sorry, I shoulda asked a long time ago.” 

But again, Frisk shakes their head. “It’s fine. Mettaton really likes Papyrus, and maybe Papyrus likes him too? It’s fine.” 

“Doesn’t mean you’re okay with him.” 

“Some days are easier to be around him than others,” Frisk admits. “But it was fine today. Anyway, I’m not asking you to hate Mettaton or not let him be around anymore. But if you can give Mettaton a chance even though he’s not really nice, could you try to do the same for Flowey?” 

“He did throw your cake on the ground.”

“I don’t care about the cake,” Frisk insists. “Flowey just has a lot going on.”

“Really? I mean, he lives in a flowerpot.”

Frisk scowls at Sans.

“Sorry,” Sans says. “Eh, it’s just – well, it’s easy to understand Mettaton. He just wants everyone to adore him, and sometimes he gives a shit about someone like Papyrus or Napstablook. He’s not always nice, but there’s also no hidden agendas, you know? Flowey I just don’t get. You say he’s trying to be nice, but half the time it seems like his life goal is to cause as many problems as he can. And I get the sense that there’s more to that than him just being a bad seed .”

Frisk lets out a sigh. “Not your fault you don’t understand him,” they say sadly. “He didn’t want you to.”

“Well, he’s doing a damn good job of being mysterious then.”

Sans leans back on his hands and turns his face up. Above him, stars are strewn across the night sky. The distant streetlamps at the parking lot wash out some of the dimmer stars, but dozens upon dozens still glimmer overhead. Sans watches them and breathes.

“Look,” he says finally, “I get that we gotta have Flowey around. The world doesn’t know how good it has it with you around, keeping him in check. And, I guess, if it makes it easier for you, I can try to be nicer to him even when he’s being a thorny little jerk.”

Frisk nods. “Thanks.”

“I’ll talk to your mom, too, unless you want to do it.”

Frisk shrugs. “It’s okay. I’ll do it later.”

“Alright, kiddo.”

Frisk shifts beside Sans, leaning back so that their head is resting against his shoulder. Sans feels a surge of tenderness swamp him, and he brings up his other hand to pat at Frisk’s hair. Their head is no longer damp, but still gritty with seawater.

The two of them don’t speak for a long moment, as both of them just look up at the starry night sky.

Frisk finally sits up a bit, and twists toward Sans. They say: “Didn’t you do that space lesson for Mom’s class today?”

“Yeah, I did.”

“How’d it go?” 

“Not bad,” Sans says. “Tori says the kids loved it. Thanks for your diorama help, by the way. One of the kids had a lot of fun trying to pull it apart.”

 Frisk laughs. “And how did you like teaching the class?”

“Eh, it was fun.” Sans eyes Frisk, wondering if they’re going to start in on their mission to get him to start engaging in all things space-related again. Maybe it’s the relief of Frisk not being angry at him, maybe it’s the three beers he’s already had, but the thought doesn’t make him as tense as usual.

But Frisk seems genuinely curious when they ask: “What did you tell them about?”

“Eh. You know. The planets, how big the solar system is, constellations.”

They nod, and glance up at the sky. “What constellations do you see here?”  

Sans makes a show of considering the stars. “Well, there’s the Greater Hotdog in the north, and if you look over there you’ll see it’s cousin, Mini Weiner.” 

Frisk shoves at him good-naturedly, and he barks a laugh. 

“Be serious!” Frisk chides, although they’re smirking. 

“B Sirius?” Sans echoes. “Nah, that’s not visible. Sirius A, though -- that’s the brightest star up there. You want me to show you how to find it?” 

Frisk peers at him suspiciously, but nods. 

“You know where Orion is?” 

When Frisk glances up, searching the sky, Sans points. 

“Look, see, there’s the belt. Now, in my opinion, it’s a big waist of space.” 

Frisk turns to give him a dry stare. 

Sans grins. “Don’t like that joke? That’s okay. It’s only three stars .” 

Finally, Frisk gives in. They bury their face in their hands, their shoulders shaking with laughter. Sans laughs too, leaning back on his hands as he does so. 

When Frisk recovers, they punch Sans lightly in the shoulder and climb to their feet. “If you’re going to be a jerk, I’m going to go grab a soda. You want something?” 

“Sure. You coming back out here?” 

Frisk nods. 

“Cool. Then I’ll stay put.” 

Frisk clambers off. Sans leans back and looks up, letting the sea breeze kiss his jaw. He’s just drunk enough that he’s at the point where the sensations feel at once muffled and so much more. It takes a moment for him to focus on the smell of the ocean air, but when he does, the scent seems richer than it ever has before. He focuses on the stars above, slowly tracing out the stars and constellations he knows. 

He spots Betelgeuse almost instantly, just by virtue of its reddish shine alone. Ursa Major points its ladle directly at Ursa Minor and the North Star. A smudge of barely-visible light, like a motionless cloud, paints the sky with the Milky Way. And along the edge of the horizon, he can make out the climbing form of Aquila; its brightest star, Altair, is particularly clear at this time of year. 

Altair. That’s the star Dr. Rubin was studying. Sans eyes the star, wondering if she ever figured out how to tweak her simulation. The star glimmers at him. 

Would he have been able to develop the code the simulate the neutrino emissions from Altair? He hadn’t actually tried. Maybe he’d been foolish to think his work would have ever been applicable. 

Unbidden, his mind churns. He can almost see the lines of code he’d use. To his surprise, Sans can remember most of the equation he’d used in the Underground -- perhaps a testament to the months he’d spent working with that same damn formula -- although a few constants slip from him. 

It’s so close . His fingers itch with an almost-forgotten memory. His soul is surging, feeling something , but before he can sort through what exactly it is, he’s distracted by movement on the rocks behind him. 

Frisk climbs over the last few boulders and settles down next to him. They hand him a cold bottle of beer and snap open their own can of soda. 

“Thanks, kid,” Sans says, as he uses a spark of magic to open his bottle. 

He hears claws scratch on the rocks behind him, and he turns to see Toriel climbing over the rocks toward them. She has two wrapped packages in her hands, and Flowey settled in the crook of one elbow. 

“What is this I see with my child carrying alcohol?” Toriel asks teasingly, and even in the dim light out here, Sans can see her eyes sparkle. 

Frisk gestures in protest toward Sans. 

“In my defense, I did not ask for a beer,” Sans points out. “Though I’m not complaining either.” 

Toriel laughs softly. As she kneels down on the rock behind them, she settles the packages in her lap and tucks Flowey into a crevice. 

“Ugh, what are you guys doing out here?” Flowey complains, wrapping his leaves around himself. “It’s so cold!” 

Sans ignores his protests, but Frisk picks up the pot and settles it into their lap, shielding his small form from the breeze with their own body. 

“Papyrus is heading home. I thought you might want Flowey with you,” Toriel says to Frisk. She glances to Sans. “Did you want to try to catch Papyrus before he goes?” 

Sans waves a hand. “I’ll drop by his place later to tell him a bedtime story.” 

“Okay then.” Toriel considers him and Frisk, looking hopeful. “Well, you two seem to be in a good mood. Is . . . everything good?” 

Frisk nods. “Everything’s good.” 

Sans glances to Flowey, who is still muttering darkly under his breath. “Yeah. We’ll tell you the rest later.” 

“Sans was being a jerk and refusing to tell me where Sirius A is,” Frisk continues. 

“Wow, that’s a blatant lie,” Sans comments. “I just told you: find Orion’s belt, then draw a line down through it. It’ll be right there, about eight belt-lengths away.” 

“That is not what you said,” Frisk retorts.

“Ah. Did he say the ‘waist of space’ joke?” Toriel asks knowingly. 

“Yeah, and ‘it’s only three stars’,” Frisk replies. 

Toriel laughs into her paw. “Oh, yes, he loves that one.” 

“Hey, it’s a good one,” Sans puts in. 

“It is not ,” Flowey snorts. 

Sans looks down at Flowey and cocks his brow. “I don’t think I’ve used it on you.” 

“So? I know what your jokes are like. No way it’s good.” 

Sans snickers. A dozen of his absolute worst jokes flit through his mind, but he decides not to bait Flowey. 

(Gorgeous art commissioned from Miyori999.)

Frisk looks down at the packages in Toriel’s lap. “You brought over some of the gifts?” they ask. 

“Oh! Yes. Asgore will be taking you home soon, but I thought you might want to open the gifts from Sans and I before you go.” She holds out the gifts toward Frisk. 

“Yes, please.” They take the gifts eagerly. They go for the larger, lumpier package first, which is neatly wrapped with a many-layered bow on top. Carelessly, they tear off the paper. Flowey gives a disdainful sniff as he pushes the bow out of his pot. 

Fisk lets out a soft, delighted breath. In their hands, they’re holding a thick, handmade sweater with a tall collar and intricate cabling twining up the torso. And . . . 

“No stripes,” Toriel says softly. “Happy birthday, my child.” 

“Did you make this?” Frisk asks, putting the sweater in their lap to sign. Flowey prods at the knitting with one leaf, a curious expression on his face. But Flowey doesn’t seem to be trying to pull anything apart, so Sans just watches him for now. 

“I did,” Toriel attests. “Would you like to try it on?” 

Eagerly, Frisk pulls the sweater over their head. Toriel reaches over to help smooth out the material.

Sans sips at his beer and chuckles. “You know,” he comments, “I think the only reason you brought the gifts out here is you wanted the kid to put a sweater on.” 

“Not the only reason,” Toriel counters. “But, well, it is cold out here.” 

“It’s great, Mom, thanks,” Frisk says, when their head re-emerges. “Really warm, and it fits really well.” 

They lean over to give Toriel a tight hug. Flowey squeals as his pot tips with the movement. 

“You are very welcome,” Toriel says warmly, squeezing Frisk back.

Next, Frisk snatches up the second package. 

“That one was my idea,” Sans says. 

This one, although of a more regular, rectangular shape than the first, is much more poorly wrapped. Frisk tears off the crumpled paper, and a photo album slips onto the rock and falls open. 

Flowey stares down at the album and sneers: “It’s empty,” he drawls. “You didn’t even put any pictures in it! Wow, that is lazy.” 

“‘Course it’s empty,” Sans replies. “‘Cause part of the gift is that they get to fill it up.” 

He watches Frisk, who is carefully leafing through the empty pages. Their expression betrays nothing, and Sans feels a tremor of anxiety. He swallows, and adds: 

“‘Cause we’ve got lots of time to do that.” 

Finally, Frisk looks up, and smiles. “I understand,” they say. “Thank you.” 

They set the photo album aside and come over to hug Sans as well. He returns the hug tightly, bringing up one hand to ruffle their hair. Frisk laughs. 

“Happy birthday, kid,” Sans says fondly. “Love you.” 

---

Frisk is yawning by the time they let themselves be bundled up into Asgore’s truck, Flowey in their lap and the rest of their gifts settled into the trunk. Most of the party guests are gone, and Woshua is happily cleaning up the party debris. He bubbles irritably when Toriel tries to help, and so Sans and Toriel climb into their van instead. 

The headlights swing over the empty parking lot as they pull out. Sans rests his head on his hand and peers up at the stars that are just visible through the car window. Altair is still visible, higher in the sky than it had been before. 

Again, he feels that strange itch in his fingers. Neutrino luminosity is dependent on the life stage of the star, it’s place on the main sequence, and several different processes of neutrino-pair production. Altair is an A-type star . . . Even as Sans drifts into a doze, numbers flit through his head. 

He’s dreaming of equations when Toriel shakes Sans awake outside their apartment. Yawning, Sans helps Toriel pull their bags of presentation and party supplies from the trunk. He kisses her goodnight, then steps out to Papyrus’ apartment. Papyrus complains about Sans being late, but of course insists that he won’t be going to sleep, even after Sans reads him his bedtime story. Nevertheless, by the time Sans finishes Fluffy Bunny, Papyrus is snoring. 

And the equations still keep filtering in and out through Sans’ head. The constants he can’t quite remember are nagging at him; the unfinished equations looping and looping as if his sluggish mind is determined to fill in the missing gaps. He steps back into his own apartment, rubbing at his eyes as he tries to shove the unusually-loud thoughts out of his head. What was the energy liberation in a non-degenerate gas again . . . ? 

Ugh. 

If he just scribbles down what he does remember, that’s usually enough to let him dream without numbers. It’s a trick Sans learned years ago, back when he was leaving the lab long after everyone else in the Underground and gone to bed. 

He wanders into the living room, where the laptop is sitting on the coffee table. He settles back on the couch, props open the laptop, and pulls open a notepad. 

Sans thinks for a moment, sorting through his still-tipsy thoughts. Then, he begins to type. 

Chapter Text

Sans drifts from dreamless sleep into consciousness slowly the next morning. His head feels foggy -- not aching, exactly, but slow and muffled. Like his whole body is functioning at fifty percent of capacity. He cracks his eye sockets open. 

He’s in the living room, sprawled out on the couch with a blanket draped over him. He squints around curiously. Did he just wake up from an afternoon nap? No. The sunlight streaming through the window doesn’t look right for afternoon. Sans squeezes his eye sockets shut again, trying to remember what he’d been doing before he fell asleep. 

There’d . . . been the party. Frisk’s eighteenth. He remembers the games and chatting with people from all over. Flowey knocking over the cake. Frisk getting pissed off at him and Toriel. Sitting out on the peninsula, watching the stars. So, why is he in the living room? 

His eyes fall upon the laptop, which is sitting on the coffee table, closed. 

He’d been calculating the detectable neutrino emissions from Altair. 

Sans cover his face with his hands and groans. Why would he go to the trouble of calculating that? What was the point? Apparently, he’d even stayed up late working on it. A good idea at the time, yeah, yeah. He’d stayed up late working on equations. It was like he was an entirely different person. 

Or . . . like he’d been the person he’d been over fifteen years ago. 

Irritably, he rubs at his face. It must have been from the nostalgia of the party after teaching at Toriel’s school. He’d taught kids about space, then spent so much time reflecting on years past and talking with people who’d been in his life long ago that he must have boomeranged or something. He’d talked to Alphys, and suddenly his head decided that neutrinos were the most important thing in the world again. Yes, that must be it. 

Well, now he knows to be more careful about pairing Alphys and alcohol, he supposes. 

Still unsettled, Sans considers his surroundings. There’s a heavy crochet blanket draped over his torso, and the laptop has been pushed neatly aside. Did he retrieve the blanket? He doesn’t recall, but if he did, why wouldn’t he just go to bed? 

No . . . he becomes aware of the sounds of life from the kitchen. Gentle clicking of dishware, the gush of water, a cabinet opening, all muffled, as if someone is trying to keep the noise down. Sans pushes himself into an upright position and peers into the kitchen as he rubs blearily at one eye socket. 

“Oh! Good morning, lazybones,” Toriel says brightly when she spots him. She has a large mixing bowl out, a bag of flour, and a carton of eggs, along with a half-dozen other ingredients. 

“Morning,” Sans mumbles, as he watches her crack an egg into a smaller bowl. 

“You fell asleep out here, with the computer on your chest,” Toriel says. “What were you doing?” 

Sans pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. “Eh, nothing important. Just working on some ideas I had at the party yesterday. Musta crashed.” 

“Oh? What has gotten you so interested?” 

Sans glances to the computer. He feels small. Smaller than usual, that is. He imagines the knowing glint in her eye if he were to admit to working on astrophysics equations. But . . . it’s not something to be proud of. It’s a lapse . 

Lightly, he says: “C’mon, if I tell you the jokes ahead of time, the punchlines don’t land right.” 

Toriel laughs. “Alright, alright. I will not intrude on your methods.” 

“I knew ya’d get it.” 

“Well, joker, if you would like to make your way over here, I am making pancakes.” 

“Yeah, sure,” Sans mumbles through a wide yawn. “Just gimme a minute.” 

He eyes the laptop, drawing one hand along his jaw. Almost nervously, he pulls the laptop onto his lap and opens it. The screen flickers on. 

There’s a file open; Sans scans it, feeling his soul twist uncomfortably in his chest. There’s . . .  a lot. A lot more than he’d expected. There’s hardly any semblance of organization, though. An equation here, a truncated snippet of code there. But all in all, there are several hundred lines of notes. He’d left off at calculating the neutrino luminosity of plasma processes. The next line should have been--

Sans squeezes his eyesockets shut. 

He doesn’t do physics anymore.  

He lets out a breath of laughter and shakes his head. As far as things to do by accident while drunk, he supposes that writing out a few hundred lines of notes about neutrino emissions is relatively tame. It’s just so . . . well, funny , he supposes. He’s spent months side-stepping Toriel and Frisk and Papyrus’ attempts to get him to consider his research again, and in the end all they had to do was get him drunk, apparently. 

Well, they can never know. 

Sans scrolls through the rest of the notes, considering them with a detached eye. The notes are a mess, but the directions seem fairly accurate. Again, he wonders if Dr. Rubin ever finished her follow-up simulation. 

Sans sighs resignedly. Might as well screw up properly, he decides. 

He opens his email and scrolls through months of junk and newsletters he never cleaned from his inbox until he gets to the thread with Dr. Rubin. He opens it.

“ hey. got drunk, did this. thought it might be useful .” He attaches the file of haphazard notes, and hits send. 

There. Maybe his night of ill-advised work will be helpful for someone. And if not, Dr. Rubin will double-think having ever wanted him working on this project. Win-win. 

He exits out of his email and the chaotic file of notes, pushes the laptop aside, and stretches. His head still feels a little groggy, his body a little sluggish, as if he’s moving through a thick syrup. Well, more than usual. His abdomen feels tight, but not quite nauseous. That fourth beer last night was probably a little too much. 

Sans climbs to his feet. His head throbs, but when he drags himself to the kitchen and collapses into a chair, the ache abates. He pillows his head on his arms and closes his eyes. 

There’s a clunk on the table, and he peeks over his arm to see that Toriel’s set a mug of coffee in front of him. Gratefully, he takes a long swing, and ignores the burn on his tongue. 

“Ugh. Thanks. Needed that.” 

“Of course, dear. Would you like an aspirin?” 

Sans lifts his head. “What’re you trying to say?” 

She laughs. “Nothing, dear -- but you have always been a lightweight, and you are not twenty-five anymore. How is your head?” 

“‘S fine. As long as I don’t move too much.” 

Another soft laugh, and Toriel slides a tablet across the table. Sans takes it with another deep swig of his coffee. 

“Anyway, you’re further from twenty-five than I am. Doesn’t stop you from drinking me under the table when you want to.” 

“Yes, and I always regret it the next morning,” Toriel says cheerfully. 

Sans chuckles. “Grillby would be impressed. Too bad you never show off for him.” 

“Not a chance, dear,” Toriel says, still smiling as she flicks water on the griddle to test the heat. The griddle spits and pops. “We both know that I am, ah, a sloppy drunk.” 

Sans grins at her, propping his head up on one hand. “Yeah, and it’s adorable.” 

“I am glad you are feeling well enough to tease.” 

“Tease? Nah, I’m just tellin’ the truth.” 

Toriel laughs. She pours out a large spoonful of batter onto the griddle, and the batter hisses as it spreads. 

A comfortable silence falls over the kitchen as the pancakes cook. Sans cradles the mug in his hand, sipping at it intermittently. By the time he’s finished the cup, he feels like his body is back up to functioning at least sixty percent. Caffeine truly is incredible. 

The kitchen window is propped open, and sounds of morning neighborhood drift in. Cars trundle along the street; a few houses down, a child shrieks. Inside the flat, Sans can’t help but miss Frisk’s presence. Usually they’d be up by now, talking rapidly and making plans for the day they’re going to drag everyone along on. Sure, he’s used to Frisk going to Asgore’s for a weekend. Doesn’t mean he misses them any less. He feels a sharp pang to think that if they leave home, every morning will feel like this. 

Well. His head will probably feel better, at least. 

He supposes that as far as things go to complain about, this isn’t so bad. After all, he’s gotten used to mornings without Papyrus’ energy. He just pops in on Papyrus at some point during the day, gets his daily dose of Papyrus-ness, and that works out okay. If Frisk moves out, he’ll just get to annoy the kid by dropping in at random times. The thought cheers him. 

Toriel places the first set of pancakes in front of him, along with a stick of butter and a can of maple syrup. 

“Thanks, T. Looks great.” 

Toriel sits her own plate and a mug of coffee at the other side of the table. As she cuts into her pancakes, she says: “By the way, dear, did you want to tell me about the discussion you had with Frisk last night?” 

Sans, whose mouth is stuffed with pancake, replies in a muffled voice: “Oh, tha’? Fris’ sai’ they ‘alk ‘o you.” 

“Ah. Might you repeat that?” 

He swallows. “Frisk said they’d talk to you about it. They’re just mad we’re not nicer to Flowey.” 

“I presumed as much,” Toriel says with a sigh. “It is hard to like him when he goes out of his way to be so unkind.” 

“More or less what I said,” Sans mumbles into his coffee. “Frisk wasn’t too impressed.” 

“I would not imagine so. They have always been protective of him.” Toriel looks pensive as she picks at her pancakes. After a moment, she continues: “If Frisk must keep Flowey in their company, I am not certain if it is better or worse for them to consider Flowey a friend rather than a burden. Of course, I want Frisk to find meaning and happiness in whatever they must do. But Flowey . . . I confess I do not have much faith in what he might do with another’s trust, especially Frisk’s.”

Sans doesn’t say anything. 

Toriel looks at him. “Do you think I am ‘babying’ Frisk?” she says wryly. 

Sans lets out a barely-audible laugh. “No. No I don’t.” He turns his fork over and over in his hands, as if the reflection of light off the sticky surface has fascinated him. 

He hasn’t told Toriel about the conversation he had with Flowey a month ago. It just hadn’t seemed relevant at the time; Toriel had been so concerned about why Sans had left his research, and in the end, what Flowey did or didn’t do hadn’t mattered. What mattered was what Sans did. 

He glances up, meets Toriel’s eyes. He doesn’t want to worry her. But there’s already something sharp in her gaze as she considers him; she already knows he has something to tell her. And even if she decides not to push, she’ll wait for him to tell her. 

These days, he can’t just wait for a reset, because they’re not coming. Eventually, he’ll have to tell her. 

So, in a tone that’s light but just a little too controlled to be casual, he says: “Papyrus trusted Flowey in the Underground, and Flowey used that. He’s the reason Papyrus almost fell into the CORE.” 

Toriel sucks in a long breath, and squeezes her eyes shut. “And we are letting him spend long periods alone with our child .” Her voice is tight. 

“Frisk isn’t Papyrus,” Sans says. “Papyrus sees the good in everyone. He trusts everyone. He isn’t stupid, but he’s also pretty easy to trick.” 

“And Frisk does not see the good in everyone?” Toriel replies. “They made it through the entire Underground without lifting a hand once, even when dozens of monsters tried to attack them. I believe the fact they call Flowey a friend at all is quite telling.” 

“Yeah. Probably. Well, we don’t really have a choice, do we? We can’t kick Flowey out.” 

Toriel purses her lips. “Are we certain that Flowey still has the ability to reset time?” 

Sans’ eyes snap up. He’s never gotten used to anyone saying the issue right out like that, but even when her voice is gentle, Toriel’s never flinched away. “I ‘unno,” he says slowly. He picks up his mug and turns it around and around in his hands. “Are you really willing to risk that, though?” 

“Perhaps there is some test Alphys could run. If he cannot reset time, Frisk would not have to spend so much time around him to keep his magic in check.” 

“How d’you know Flowey couldn’t fake a test?” Sans asks. “We know he’s a manipulative little jerk. He fakes the test, we throw him out, and then he’s away from Frisk’s influence and resets the timeline. You wanna risk that?” 

He feels his eyelights go out, and he blinks, trying to force them back on.

Toriel’s quiet a long moment. Sans feels a tension mount in his chest, making his breath come a little faster, until she says: “I suppose you are right. I still do not like him spending so much time around Frisk.” 

“Yeah,” Sans says with a humorless chuckle. “Me neither.” 

“Well. I suppose it works out then,” Toriel states decisively. 

“Works out?” Sans echoes. “What’d’you mean?” 

“We do not want Frisk to spend so much time with Flowey alone,” Toriel says. “And Frisk would like us to include Flowey more. We will keep Flowey around us more often, then. We will be able to keep an eye on him, and we will get to know Flowey better. It is, as they say, a win-win solution.” 

Sans lets out a soft laugh. “I don’t know that spending more time around that jerk could ever be considered a ‘win’. But yeah. Okay.” A pause. “I don’t think it’d be a good idea to tell Frisk that’s our plan, though; they probably wouldn’t be real happy about us spending time with their friend just to keep an eye on him.” 

“I did not plan on it,” Toriel agrees. “And . . . well, after all, this can only be temporary. When Frisk leaves home, I do not know what we will do. I do not like the idea of Frisk taking Flowey with them when we are not there.” 

Sans shrugs. “Dunno if there’s anything to do. Frisk’s been handling Flowey for years. Seems to me they’re the best one to keep doing it.” 

“You just said you did not like Frisk spending so much time around Flowey, did you not?” 

“Sure,” Sans agrees. “Doesn’t mean I think there’s anyone better for it, though.” 

Toriel looks troubled. Worry pinches at the bridge of her muzzle, and she seems to be lost in thought. 

Sans sighs, and rubs at his jawbone. Dimly, he’s aware of sticky syrup residue clinging to his fingers. “But, uh, look, T. You always seem to have the right ideas about what’s good for the kid, I guess. Better’n I do, at least. Whatever you want to do, sure. Just . . . let’s not leave that pain-in-the-ass of a botany project to his own devices.” 

Toriel meets his eyes, and gives him a small, grateful smile. “Be -leaf me, I would not dream of it.” 

And Sans laughs. It helps, although there’s still a roiling unease in his chest. 

“And I do not want to make any decisions alone,” Toriel continues, reaching over to take the stick of butter from beside Sans’ plate. “I do still want your input. After all, you understand all this confusion about time magic far better than anyone.” 

“Nah,” Sans says. “The kid probably gets it best. All I ever ended up with was more questions.” 

“Better than me, at least.” 

“Maybe. Well, I don’t really know what to do either. I don’t know what controls that flower.” 

“Another benefit of getting to know him better, I suppose,” Toriel comments. “At least we have time.” 

“Yeah. At least we have time.” 

He sure hopes it stays that way. 

Toriel finishes her first pancake and sets about drizzling the next with syrup. “But, ah, Sans. When did you learn that Flowey had manipulated Papyrus into the CORE?” 

He shrugs. “Last month, I guess. But it wasn’t a real surprise. I’d be more surprised if Flowey hadn’t tried to manipulate Papyrus.” 

Toriel watches him, questions pinching at the corners of her eyes. “Yet you never tried to stop Papyrus from spending time with Flowey.” It’s said as a statement, but in a tone of bewilderment. 

Sans chuckles. “Don’t think I could. ‘Sides, I figure if there’s anyone likely to keep Flowey in line besides Frisk, it’s Papyrus.” 

A small smile twitches at Toriel’s lips. “That is probably true. Regardless, I wish I were able to be half as laid-back as you. It is exhausting to be consumed by worry.” 

“Believe me, I worry. Maybe not as much as you, but, uh. I just know there’s nothing I can do.” 

“I think there is much more you can do than you realize,” Toriel says softly. “And . . . I do wish you had told me when you learned what Flowey had done to Papyrus. I would have wanted to know something like that about someone my child is spending so much time around.” 

“Yeah, sorry. I just didn’t think of it, I guess.” He glances at her and cocks his brow. “But does it really surprise you that he did that?” He reaches back toward the stick of butter.

“No,” Toriel admits, handing the butter over. “But it perhaps would have motivated me to reconsider the arrangement we have with Flowey earlier. Did it not worry you that Frisk was spending so much time around someone like that?” 

“‘Course it did. And I told Flowey that if he ever tried to pull shit like that again, he’d have to answer to me. But he didn’t seem all that impressed. And as I said, there’s nothing I can really do, right?” He shrugs. “Sorry I didn’t tell you, though.” 

Toriel nods, accepting his apology. “I understand. You spent many years dealing with your family’s troubles alone, and old habits die hard.” She offers him a small smile. “But I believe you know what I will say.”

“That my sense of mystique is extremely alluring?” 

Toriel looks meaningfully at Sans’ plate, where he has sliced about six tablespoons of butter onto one pancake.  “. . . Hardly.” 

He gasps in mock offense. “ Ow , Tori.” 

She laughs brightly. “I cannot ask a man who drinks ketchup to move in and not expect to be ‘grossed out’ at the kitchen table on occasion.”

“Technically, you didn’t ask,” Sans points out. “I just stopped going home.” 

“Indeed. Your manners are worse than I give them credit for.”  

“Aw, thanks. It takes effort.” 

Toriel laughs again. “But, jokes to change the subject aside--” Sans accepts the guilt with a shrug. No point in playing innocent. “--you are not dealing alone anymore. And the only way we can help each other is if we share what is on our mind. Even if you do not think there is anything we can do to change it.” 

“You make it sound so easy,” Sans comments wryly. “But yeah. You’re right. Sorry -- I’ll tell you next time.” 

“That is all I ask,” Toriel says with a smile. 

The conversation turns to lighter topics: Mettaton and Napstablook’s performance at the party, Snowdrake’s developing comedy career, Frisk’s ever-growing circle of friends. The party yesterday had been a good opportunity to catch up with all the happenings in the lives of the monster friends they didn’t get to see regularly, and it’d been nice to see some old, familiar faces. 

When the pancakes are finished, Toriel gathers up the plates and carries them over to the sink. Sans makes a show of yawning and stretching before finally dragging himself up out of his chair and making his way to the sink to wash the dishes. As the water splashes into the sink, Toriel gazes out the window. 

“It is a lovely day,” she comments. “I think I will work on my end-of-year reports outside.” 

“Good idea,” Sans replies. “I’ll come join you. Nothing like a nap in the sun.”

A soft laugh. “I’ll shower and meet you out there.” 

“Sure.” Sans leans up to give Toriel a peck, and then she strides from the kitchen. 

By the time Toriel returns, rubbing a towel over her damp ears, Sans has sprawled himself out across the grating of the fire escape. His head is resting on the railing, one hand tucked under his skull. Toriel’s expression seems distracted, as if lost in a shower thought, but she laughs to see him there. 

“Well, that can hardly be comfortable,” she comments. “Did you not want to go down into the garden?” 

Sans waves one hand. “What, you don’t want to live the high-rise life?” 

“Not when it is on a fire escape,” she replies cheerfully. “Come on, let us go down to where there are proper lawn chairs.” 

“Eh, I suppose that would be the reasonable thing to do.” 

They climb down the spiraling stairs of the fire escape until they reach the building’s communal garden. One of the first-floor neighbors is hanging up laundry on the line that stretches from the building to the fence, and she nods a greeting as Sans and Toriel settle themselves into the lawn chairs set up beside the hydrangeas. 

Toriel pulls out a stack of papers and a pen, but she does not immediately get to work. Sans leans back in his chair and watches her out of the corner of one barely-open eye socket. Toriel still seems lost in thought. A warm breeze flicks at the fluff of fur around her neck, and she absently flattens her fur with a large paw, but she’s still gazing at the paper without seeing it. 

Sans doesn’t push. He just watches. 

Finally, just after the neighbor finishes hanging up her laundry and slips back inside with her basket, Toriel sighs and puts the papers off to one side. “Sans?” 

“Mmm?” 

“Are you still awake?”

“Barely.” 

“Well, speaking of sharing what is on our mind, there is something I would like to discuss with you,” Toriel says softly. 

Sans opens his eye sockets properly now. He considers Toriel; she’s not looking directly at him, but instead still looking down at the papers and picking at one corner. This isn’t about him, then. When she wants to broach a topic more about him than it is about her, she meets his gaze straight on. It’s not that she’s avoiding his gaze, of course -- rather, it looks like she’s considering what to say. 

“What’s up?” he asks lightly. 

“I am not aging.” 

Sans sucks in a sharp breath. His eye sockets are wide open right now, all dredges of sleepiness vanished like smoke. 

“Yeah,” he says quietly. 

Okay. They’re having this conversation. Of course, he knows how boss monsters work. Toriel never had to tell him. It’s not something they’ve spent a whole lot of time discussing. Not that the topic has never been brought up, either. But Toriel’s only mentioned it in passing, or sometimes even as a joke. It doesn’t sound like a joke now. 

“I had hoped that raising Frisk would be enough,” Toriel continues. “But there was no way to know, except over time. It has been ten years now. Frisk is an adult. I am not aging.” 

“You’re sure, huh?” 

She smiles sadly. “A middle-aged woman feels her age. I am the same age I have been for a very long time.” 

Sans nods. “‘I’m sorry, T.” 

“It is what it is,” she comments. “But perhaps it is time to consider our next steps.” 

“Next steps?” he echoes. 

“Yes.” Toriel lifts her eyes and meets his gaze straight on. “Sans, have you ever wanted children?” 

His breath escapes him. “Somehow, I get the feeling you’re not talkin’ about what I think of Frisk.” 

“No,” she agrees. “To be clear, I am not certain that I want another child. But before I decide anything, your feelings on the matter are relevant. I know you have never brought up the idea of children, but I do not know if that is of lack of interest on your part, or if it is out of kindness for me. Or perhaps both.” 

Sans is quiet for a long moment. He is poignantly aware of the tickle of the summer breeze against his skull, of the warmth of the sun, the sound of the traffic around the corner, each a sensation he hadn’t known before the surface. They feel almost hyperreal as his mind spins. It feels almost as if the timeline is shifting under him. Not in the unnatural way, but that doesn’t make it not terrifying.

“But if you don’t have another kid, you won’t age,” Sans says finally. 

“Yes,” Toriel agrees. “But without considering that, have you ever wanted another child?” 

He scratches at his skull. “I don’t know. I never, uh, really planned on it. But I also never planned on being the only one around for Papyrus, or on helping you raise Frisk. And those two guys ended up being like two of my favorite people. I think if we ended up having another kid, that’d be okay.” 

“Okay?” Toriel echoes, eyebrows raised. 

Sans laughs. “Alright, I think I’d love the heck out of the little rugrat.”

There’s a fierce warmth in Toriel’s eyes, and for a moment, Sans thinks she’s about to lean over and kiss him. But instead, she says: “But you never actively wanted another child?” 

Sans shrugs. “Never really thought about it. I guess I don’t go really hoping for any sort of future. People just show up in my life, and I find out who they are, and go with it. I met you. I met Frisk. I guess I could meet another kid.” He pauses, searching her expression. “But you said you weren’t sure.” 

She shakes her head sadly. “I am not. I love children. But I do not know that I could handle another child, not after everything that has happened. The thought of having another child, of dealing with the constant worry and fearing for their safety -- it exhausts me. I cannot bear the thought of ever possibly losing another child.” And then, she heaves a deep breath, and continues: “But if I do not have another child, I will inevitably lose one either way. Frisk will age. I will not.” 

Sans doesn’t know what to say to that, and so he stays silent. 

“But is it not a terrible to bring a child into this world only so that I might age?” Toriel murmurs. 

“I ‘unno,” Sans replies. “Doesn’t mean you won’t love them.” 

“Perhaps. But I believe that if I were to have another child, I should love them now. I should be excited to meet them. When I think of another child, I feel only exhaustion.” 

Again, Sans doesn’t know what to say. 

Toriel meets his gaze, and he sees that her eyes are shining, that frustration is pinching her muzzle. “I do not think I want a child,” she confesses miserably. “But I do not much like the alternative.” 

“Yeah,” Sans says uselessly.

Toriel sighs. 

Sans winks out of his lawnchair, and then a moment later, he is sitting perched on the arm of hers. Toriel does not startle; she reaches out to clasp his hand. 

“It will be alright,” she says. “Immortality is a curse, but I am not, after all, truly immortal.” 

Sans feels a sharp pang. I killed Mom. “What do you mean?” 

“I do not age, but that does not mean I cannot die by other means. When I decide it is my time, I will have other options. I am sorry that I will not get to experience aging with you, but middle age is not so bad.” She gives him a small smile. 

“‘Other options’?” Sans echoes. “Toriel, you can’t mean offing yourself?”

Her expression is sympathetic. “That is a crude way to put it, but yes. I do not mean now, or anytime within the next several decades. But as I say, immortality is a curse. I do not wish to give it any more power over the tragedies of my life than it already has.” 

“Tori, come on, you don’t have to do that. If you’re not ready for another kid, it doesn’t have to be now . We’re not exactly dealing with the same biological clock as everyone else, y’know? You’re not aging, and I’m practically a young whipper-snapper. And heck, it doesn’t even have to be with me.” His soul feels tight. His words are crowding on each other, and he’s not sure he even is putting them in the right order. He just knows that what she’s saying feels terrifyingly wrong. “If you’re ready for another kid in like a generation or two, you could have a kid with somebody else.” 

Toriel lifts her eyebrows. “I believe you overestimate how much energy an old woman has,” she comments wryly. “I cannot imagine pursuing another relationship. Even you made it easy by merely appearing in my kitchen at rather inopportune times. And, even so, I do not know that I will ever be ready. It has been many years since I lost Asriel and Chara, and it has never hurt less. Nor has the loss of any of the other children.”

“But you’re not sure yet, are you?” Sans asks. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have asked me if I wanted another kid.” 

“No, I am not sure,” Toriel agrees. “But it is a strong possibility that I will never be ready.” 

Sans doesn’t say anything for a very long moment, just holds tightly onto her hand and stares down at the grass between his feet. 

Toriel gives his hand a squeeze. “I have troubled you. I am sorry.” 

He shakes his head. “Nah, it’s cool. I just don’t really like the thought of you offing yourself. ‘Cause to get there, you’d have to think it’s not worth living anymore. That’s a real shitty place to be, and I don’t want you to ever have to be there.” 

Toriel clasps both paws around his hand, and waits until he looks at her. When he finally lifts his head and looks into her eyes -- warm, sympathetic, almost pleading -- she says softly: “Oh, Sans. I am sorry you ever had to feel that way. But that is not what I mean. There is a difference between wishing to die, and accepting when your time has come.” 

There’s another long pause, in which Sans feels the urge to make a joke like an itch in his throat -- something, anything to lighten the mood, to push all of this aside. But jokes work best when they distract you. A joke now wouldn’t make either Toriel or himself forget what Toriel had said. 

“Doesn’t feel all that different,” he mutters. “Either way you could live, but you don’t. By choice.” 

“It is the difference between choosing to escape pain and despair, and choosing to wrap up a life that is already long and full,” Toriel says. “But my dear, it is many, many years off. I have made no decisions. I am merely putting it down as an option on the table.” 

Sans nods, looking toward the grass again. He rubs his neck. “Yeah. But another kid is still on the table, too?” 

“Yes. Another kid is still on the table. I have not decided.” 

Finally, Sans looks up at her, and smiles. “Kid on the table? Sounds kinda unsanitary.” 

And Toriel laughs, pulling him into her lap to press a kiss to his head. 

He laughs too, even as he clings tightly to her shirt. The warmth of the fabric is like a lifeline, and he drinks in her warmth and scent greedily. She is here. She is fine. They are fine. Yet, inwardly, Sans can’t help but curse time for finding new ways to screw with them. 

Chapter Text

--Seven years earlier--

Sans sits in the open windowsill, his back up against the frame as he looks out onto the sidewalk below. In the lamplight, he watches as a college-aged student with large, boxy glasses walks up to the cafe across the street. The student considers the messily handwritten sign ‘Please push only’, and attempts to push the door open. The door does not budge. The student frowns. They try again. The door still does not move. 

Sans watches as the student glances down at the hours printed on the door, then inside to where the lights are on and the cafe is clearly bustling. Again, they try to push the door open. Again, the door stays firmly shut.

Sans snickers, and leans out to better see the confusion unfolding below.The poor student tries another two times to push the door open, to no avail. 

Finally, the door swings open, held open by a customer inside. The student jumps back, startled, as the door swings into their path. They give the door a bewildered look. From his perch, Sans can hear them protest: “But the sign said ‘push only’!” 

Sans dissolves into giggles. When the student steps into the cafe and does not remove the sign from the door, he laughs louder. 

“SANS! What are you doing?!” 

“Nothing, Pap,” Sans chortles, leaning back against the window frame as if to catch his breath.

Papyrus squints at him suspiciously from the kitchen counter, where he’s been busy chopping tomatoes into a pulpy slush. 

“Are you pranking pedestrians again?! Leave them alone!” 

“Me? Prank innocent pedestrians?” 

“I saw you gluing coins to the street last week!” 

And Sans laughs again. “Oh, that one was great.” 

“And get out of the window!” 

When Papyrus turns around, he finds Sans not in the window, but rather, curled on top of the fridge. 

“That’s not better!”

But before Papyrus can berate Sans further, the doorbell rings. Papyrus brightens at the prospect of guests, wipes his hands on a kitchen towel, and trots out into the living room. 

“HELLO, MISS TORIEL!” 

Sans’ head jerks up, and he yelps as his skull bounces off the ceiling. Toriel? Usually she texts before she and Frisk drop by. He feels his soul leap excitedly, but he’s also confused. He’d just been at her apartment earlier that afternoon. Is she dropping by for another social call? Unless . . . he wracks his mind; did he forget to feed the kid after school? He thinks the kid made it home with their backpack all in one piece, but he hadn’t checked. 

Sans drops off the top of the fridge and lands at the threshold to the living room. Toriel is pulling off a long sweater, which Papyrus eagerly takes from her and hangs up on the coat rack. To Sans’ surprise, Frisk isn’t with her. 

“WOWIE, I DID NOT EXPECT TO SEE YOU!” Papyrus exclaims, in a tone just a little too loud, a little too affected. “Would you like a cup of tea?” 

“That sounds lovely. Thank you,” Toriel replies. 

“What would you like? We have many kinds of tea!” 

“Hm. Perhaps something caffeinated?” 

“At this time of night?” Papyrus exclaims. “What a rebellious choice!” 

He trots off. When he passes Sans standing in the doorframe, he meets Sans’ gaze, as if daring Sans to be polite. Sans smiles back, even as he searches Papyrus’ expression. There’s a self-satisfied edge to Papyrus’ smile; Papyrus is pleased to know something Sans doesn’t know, but Sans can’t guess to what the hell it might be.   

“Hey, T,” Sans greets, as he leans up against the doorframe. 

“Hello, Sans!” Toriel crosses the room and bends down to wrap him in a tight hug. 

He hugs her back, letting the top of his skull press up against her shoulder. “Nice to see you. Uh, where’s the kid?” 

“They are with Asgore,” Toriel replies as she straightens. 

“It’s Asgore’s weekend?” Sans says. “Huh. I thought that was last weekend. I must have gotten them mixed up.” 

But Toriel shakes her head. There’s a little smile playing across her lips, one with the same kind of self-satisfied edge that Papyrus’ smile had. “It was Asgore’s weekend last week. He is doing me a favor today.” 

“A favor?” 

Another pleased smile. “I have a surprise for you.” 

Sans’ brow arcs, and his grin widens. Coming from Toriel, this should be good. “Oh yeah?” 

“Here.” Toriel sets her handbag on the coffee table and rifles through the contents. Sans flops back on the couch to watch, kicking his feet up onto the cushions. Finally, Toriel withdraws two small slips of paper from her bag and holds them out to Sans. He takes them. 

THE GOLDEN HARP PRESENTS
DINNER & A SHOW
A COMEDY NIGHT
8:00 PM 
ADMIT ONE

Sans’ eyelights flare brighter. “Oh, man. This looks great. Is this for tonight?” 

“It is,” Toriel confirms, watching him with her ears perked. 

“How long have you been sitting on these?” He re-reads the tickets. The Golden Harp is no Grillby’s, but he’s been in there a fair few times. It’s a dimly-lit Irish-style pub, with a stage in one corner that usually is playing some kind of folk music. 

“Only a couple weeks or so,” Toriel replies. “I take it you like them?”

“You kidding? This looks fantastic. You’re incredible , Tori.”

“Well, then,” Toriel says, proffering a paw to Sans. “How would you like to accompany me on this date?” 

He takes her paw in his hand and affects a gentlemanly bow, even without getting up from the couch. “I would be date- lighted.” 

Toriel laughs, but she squeezes his hand and adds: “I am serious, Sans. I mean this as a romantic outing.” 

His next joke dies on his tongue. “Uh. What?”

“I am asking you out, not as friends, but as a romantic date,” Toriel repeats. “Unless--” And now, the pleased, self-satisfied expression turns worried. “Have I misread you?” 

Sans’ mind stutters. No, she hasn’t misread him, but he’s never said it before, at least not out loud. Yes, he’s known he loved her for years; the soul-deep respect and admiration crossed over to something deeper almost from the beginning. That doesn’t scare him. But that doesn’t mean he ever was meant to act upon his feelings. The only indulgence he’s given the emotion is to draw on his deep well of flirting humor. But Toriel was supposed to understand that as casual, as Sans just making jokes for the sake of making jokes. If she wanted to read between the lines, well, that was up to her, but she was never meant to lay it all in the open like this.

And she was never meant to want him .

But now she’s asked him point-blank. And he can’t answer. So instead, he asks: “Why the heck would you want to date me?”

Toriel gives him an incredulous look. “You can’t be that much of a numbskull. ” Despite the way his soul is fluttering, Sans cracks a grin. “We spend so much time together. You make me laugh. You make Frisk laugh, You make our lives brighter. You are kind, and you are loving, and you are brilliant. I would very much like to take you on a date.” 

He huffs a weak laugh. Quietly, praying that Papyrus doesn’t overhear: “Look, Tori, I don’t know what you’re expecting, but I’m really an awful person to be in a relationship with. Papyrus could spend hours telling you what headache I am to live with. I’m not reliable, I don’t clean -- I’m hardly partner material. You and the kid deserve better than that.” 

“I do not know what you are expecting,” Toriel replies. “I am requesting only dinner and a show, nothing more.” 

“If that’s all, why not just go as friends?” 

“Well,” Toriel says slyly. “I might want to kiss you after the show.” 

Sans feels his cheekbones burn with magic. The flush must show because Toriel hastily hides a giggle behind her paw. Sans rubs at cheekbones, as if to scrub away the color, but he can’t help the nervous grin that plasters itself stubbornly across his face.

“Oh, boy. I’m tryin’ to think here; you can’t just go saying stuff like that.” 

“It is true,” Toriel says. She’s still smiling impishly, but worry creases her muzzle. “But I do not want to force you to do something you do not want. If you do not wish to ‘date’, we can go to the show as friends. Or not at all,” she adds, looking as if she is trying very hard to keep the disappointment off her face. 

“It’s not--,” Sans cuts off, shaking his head. It’s too close to professing his undying love, and that’s a dangerous step. “I don’t want you to be disappointed is all. You or Frisk. The both of you have already had enough heartache. So I don’t want you to go expecting something out of me that I turn out to be shit at.” 

“Again, Sans, you keep speaking of ‘expectations’, but I do not have the expectations you believe I do. I truly do not expect much to change. I wish only to be able to express to you what you mean to me in physical ways that typically don’t befit ‘friends’.” 

Sans feels his soul flip in his chest. He coughs into his hand, trying very hard not to think about “physical ways” of expressing affection. 

“C’mon, Tori, you can’t just expect me to believe that you wouldn’t want your partner to take on responsibility for Frisk. That kid is your world. And I love them, but I don’t know I’d be real good at actually looking after them.” 

Toriel concedes the point with a nod. Gently, she taps at Sans’ feet that are sprawled out across the cushions; he pulls them up toward his chest, and she sits on the couch beside him. “You are correct that I would expect anyone I am in a relationship with to make Frisk part of their life. But do you believe you have not done that already?” 

“Er.” 

“You pick them up from school. You feed them when they get home. You take them to their ASL lessons, and study signing more on your own time. You listen to their day and make them laugh when they are feeling down. Frisk loves you, and you love them. And,” Toriel adds, shooting an impish smile at Sans. “I do believe I overheard you call them ‘your kid’ at the park last week.” 

As Sans scrambles to come up with a response for that, Papyrus’ voice suddenly whips through the living room: “TORIEL! I WILL BRING YOU YOUR TEA BEFORE IT GETS COLD. THEN I WILL RETURN TO MAKING DINNER.” 

Papyrus strides out into the living room, a mug of hot tea cradled in his hands. He sets it in front of Toriel, then hurries back toward the kitchen. Before he leaves, though, he meets Sans’ eyes and narrows his eye sockets. 

“Uh,” Sans says, when Papyrus vanishes again. “Does Papyrus know about . . . all this?” 

Toriel looks sheepish. “I apologize. I had wanted to ensure that you would not be busy tonight when I surprised you, so I enlisted Papyrus’ help. I did not mean to be presumptuous; I had rather thought you would be amenable, as we have been flirting for years.” 

Sans laughs weakly. Well, that explains Papyrus’ knowing looks. “Man, he’s never gonna let me live this down.” 

Toriel smiles apologetically. 

“Anyway, all that with the kid -- I do it ‘cause I like them. Not because of responsibility or anything like that. Also, I didn’t think the lady at the park seemed to get the concept of folks hanging out with their friend’s kids. Didn’t want to make her poor head hurt.” 

Toriel lifts her eyebrows; she doesn’t look entirely convinced. Aloud, she just says: “I do not understand why you think that your looking after Frisk because you want to somehow makes the effort less. You love them. You care for them. How could I ask for more?”

Sans considers her words. His soul is still turning flips in his chest, his face still warm. However much he tries to protest that dating him would be a bad idea, his treacherous emotions are squirming with an almost adolescent excitement. He does want to date her. And she’s watching him with those piercing red eyes, her expression soft but wanting, and that’s doing terrible things to his resolve. 

“Right,” he says finally. “So, uh, just to be clear, what do you want?”

“Just what I have asked,” she replies. “I would like to take you to the comedy show. To spend time with you, just the two of us. Perhaps kiss you. The rest . . . whatever comes naturally.” 

Sans looks down as his soul flips again. “Heh. I guess that doesn’t sound so bad.” 

Toriel chokes on a laugh. “‘Does not sound so bad’? You clearly know how to charm your way into a woman’s heart.” 

Sans winks and wraps his knuckles against his skull. “What’d’ya expect? Still a bonehead.” 

Toriel reaches out and takes his other hand in hers. Gently, she says: “Is that a ‘yes’, then?” 

And Sans meets her eyes, even as he feels his flush surge again. “Yeah. Just . . . don’t get your hopes up too much.” 

“My hopes are exactly where I want them. May I kiss you, then?” 

Another soul flip. “Yeah.” 

Toriel shifts on the couch, sliding her paw across the back as she leans toward Sans. Almost unconsciously, he rises up to meet her. 

And then he’s kissing her. He’s kissing her. Her lips are warm and soft against him, gently insistent, and he can barely think for the way his brain has zeroed in on every small point of contact between them - her lips on his face, her paw on his shoulder, her ears falling forward to frame his jawbones. His soul is not so much flipping as spinning now. The moment feels surreal. He, Sans, is kissing Toriel. 

The kiss lasts only a moment. When Toriel withdraws, Sans finds himself clinging to her wrist, unwilling to let go. Nervously, he looks down and laughs. He knows the entire front of his skull must be aflame with his magic. 

“So. Uh. Goat to admit, that was nice.” 

Toriel huffs fondly and leans forward to rest her muzzle on the top of his skull. “ Tibia honest, I’ve been thinking of that for years.” 

“Really?”

“Yes.” She pulls back to peer at him, her eyes twinkling. “Would you like to know what is really terrible?” 

“Uh, what?” 

“The first time I realized how much I wanted to kiss you was when you fell asleep on the couch with a half-finished slice of pie covered with ketchup on your lap. You got crumbs everywhere, and you stained your own sweatshirt with ketchup.”

Sans snorts with mirth, eyelights flaring. “Really? What did you like about that?” 

And Toriel lets out a howl of laughter: “I do not know!” 

As she leans on him, steadying herself while she’s overcome with mirth, Papyrus peers around the doorframe. Sans watches as Papyrus takes in how close he and Toriel are sitting, how Toriel’s hunched over with laughter so that their foreheads nearly touch. 

Sans meets Papyrus’ gaze and grins. “‘Sup.” 

“Are you telling jokes?” Papyrus demands suspiciously. “Toriel, I thought you had something very important to ask Sans!” 

There’s almost a pleading tone in Papyrus’ voice and Sans feels a surge of warmth. Papyrus cares for him so much; it’s almost more than Sans deserves. 

Toriel recovers herself enough to wipe the tears from her eyes and gasp: “I already asked him.” 

Papyrus’ usually dim eyelights flash. “You . . . asked him? Then . . .” He looks to Sans, his grin wide and open-mouthed. He seems like he’s on the verge of bursting with barely-restrained energy.

“I said yeah,” Sans tells him. 

Papyrus lets out a delighted yell. “WOW, THIS IS THE BEST DAY EVER! WHY ARE YOU GUYS STILL HERE? YOU HAVE SO MUCH DATING TO DO! WAIT, SANS, DON’T LEAVE YET! I WILL GIVE YOU MY DATING BOOK! YOU NEED IT!” 

Papyrus peels from the room, still cackling with joy. Sans watches him go fondly, then says to Toriel: “You know, I’m amazed he managed to keep the surprise under wraps. He must have been dying to tell me ever since he knew you were gonna ask me out.” 

“I did have to be careful to tell him when you were not around. I expected him to be, ah, quite loud with his excitement when I told him of my plans, and he did not disappoint. It took him several minutes to expend enough energy to let me speak again.” Her eyes are warm. “I am sure you know, but he loves you so dearly.” 

“Yeah,” Sans says softly. He traces her expression, bowled over by the fact that not only Toriel wanted to ask him out, but that she thought to include Papyrus in her plans. He runs two phalanges over her paw, and, after a moment’s hesitation, leans up to steal another kiss. 

Toriel kisses him back. He could really get used to this. 

A high pitched squeal announces Papyrus’ return to the living room. Sans and Toriel break away; Papyrus is watching them with twinkling eyelights, his hands clapped over his cheekbones. A thin book is tucked under one arm. 

“AW! YOU TWO ARE VERY ADORABLE!” 

Sans feels his face heat up again, and he hides his face against Toriel’s arm as he muffles his laughter. But a bony hand wraps around his humerus and yanks him back. 

“PLEASE PARDON ME, TORIEL. I MUST TAKE MY BROTHER AND PREPARE HIM FOR YOUR DATE. HE NEEDS A LOT OF HELP.” 

Sans lets out a soft “oof” as he is pulled unceremoniously off the couch and draped over Papyrus’ shoulder. He manages to twist around to give Toriel a helpless shrug. 

Toriel laughs into a paw. “Alright, Papyrus. Please do not take too long; we must head out for the show in about fifteen minutes. And I rather do like him the way he is.” 

Sans’ soul flips again. 

“That is because you have never seen him when he makes an effort!” Papyrus says sympathetically. “Do not worry, Toriel! I will show you Sans at his best!” 

It is some miracle when Sans escapes with Toriel on time fifteen minutes later, wearing a bowler hat, bright green windbreaker, and an MTT-brand fashion basketball on one shoulder that Papyrus forced on him. Papyrus, of course, is a genius; the moment Toriel sees Sans, a bright, sparkling laugh escapes her. The sound is like a blessing, and Sans feels his soul swell as he takes her hand. 

(Fanart by GildedPleasure on Deviantart!)

—-

The evening passes far too quickly. 

It’s funny; in many ways, the date feels like any other of the hundreds of evenings Sans and Toriel have spent together. It’s natural, and fun, and so very easy. And then Sans remembers that this is a date and he feels like he’s been caught in blue magic and flipped upside down. He’s laughing fitfully at the stand-up comedy on stage, but when Toriel takes his hand, he practically splutters on his own tongue in shock. And that sets Toriel off howling, her laughter louder than anyone else’s in the room.

He’s on a date with Toriel. Holy shit. 

The dinner and show run late, and afterwards, Sans and Toriel trudge back to Toriel’s apartment. The summer night air is refreshingly cool as they come to a stop at the base of the spiraling steps to Toriel’s place. They hesitate, and look at each other. 

“Uh,” he says. “So. Do you want . . . ?” 

He knows Toriel doesn’t like to spend nights alone in her apartment. It’s common for Sans to crash at Toriel’s place the nights that Frisk is at Asgore’s, just so that the apartment doesn’t feel so empty. Staying over feels natural, but he doesn’t know if it’s different now. 

Toriel’s red eyes look golden under the light of the streetlamp. Sans admires the way they soften with her smile, as she takes one of his hands in both her paws and says: “Thank you for tonight, Sans.” 

He chuckles. “Me? You’re the one who put all this together. I just had to tag along.” 

“Your company was lovely,” Toriel replies. “And . . . yes. Would you mind staying over? If it is no trouble.” 

“‘Course not. Sure, I’ll stay. Just let me pop over home to read Papyrus his bedtime story.” 

“Certainly. Come to bed when you return. I daresay it is likely more comfortable than the couch.” At the startled look on Sans’ face, Toriel laughs and squeezes his hand again. Then, gently, she clarifies: “We do not have to engage in anything, ah, physical tonight. But I would like to hold you, if you are amenable.” 

“Oh,” says Sans. “Yeah. Sure.” 

“Wonderful.” Toriel bends down and presses a firm kiss to his mouth. 

This kiss lasts longer than the previous ones they’ve shared that night. Sans holds on, his phalanges twisting in the sleeves of her dress as he feels his magic surge to his face. The brush of her fur against his bones still feels intoxicatingly unreal. 

When they break away, Sans grins up at her as he struggles to put his thoughts back together. “So,” he says awkwardly. “Um. I, uh . . .” 

Toriel watches him fondly. Sans lets out a breath of laughter and runs one hand over his face; he’s not used to words coming so him with so much difficulty. 

“I, uh, goat to go.” 

“Do not be gone too long,” Toriel replies. “Or I will get bone- ly.” 

Sans laughs. As Toriel starts up the stairs to her apartment, he steps away to the apartment he shares with Papyrus. 

When he finally returns, Toriel’s bedroom is dark. Her breath has evened, coming in small, soft snores. Sans watches her fondly for a moment, enchanted by the way the fur on her muzzle flutters with each snore. 

He eases himself onto an empty stretch of mattress. Although he’s small and light, the bed shifts under him enough that Toriel wakes with a snort. 

“Oh, goodness. I apologize; I did not mean to fall asleep,” she whispers. “But I am an old lady and I cannot stay up the way I used to.” 

“It’s cool. I was gone awhile. Papyrus wanted to know every single detail. Next time it might be faster to just invite him with us.” 

Toriel laughs into her pillow. “Come here, dear,” she says, reaching out a paw to him. 

Dear . It’s not the first time she’s ever called him that, but it always makes him feel like he’s been wrapped in a warm blanket. Tonight more so than ever.  

He scoots toward her, and Toriel drapes a paw over his chest. He feels her muzzle tucked up against his clavicle, and she sighs. Sans listens as her breathing deepens again, and she drifts back off into sleep. 

He doesn’t fall asleep immediately. Sans lays still, feeling the tension in his limbs and the tickle of Toriel’s breath over his bones. Her embrace is warm, suffusing his body from each point of contact between them: her arm over his ribcage, her abdomen against his pelvis, her knee against his tibia. 

He went on a date with Toriel. Emotions swamp him, and he squeezes his eye sockets shut as magical tears threaten to well up at the edges. 

He loves her. He has for years. He loves her laugh, her tenderness, the enormous pads of her paws, the mischievous glint in her eyes, even, as terrible as it sounds, the way she grieves. He loves her. 

And, somehow, he’s now in her arms. Somehow, he’s made her happy. He’s made her smile; he’s been the reason for her laughter; he’s made her feel supported. Sans lets out a shaky breath and leans his head back against her fur. 

It’s too fucking bad the timeline will one day reset. 

—-

The next morning, Sans wakes slowly. The dredges of a dream he can’t quite remember slips away, replaced by a comfortable contentedness. He cracks his eye sockets open, and peers sleepily off the edge of the mattress. 

There are sheets on the mattress. That’s strange. He’s in a bed larger than usual, the light streaming in from the wrong side of the room. 

Or. Not the wrong side of the room. Toriel’s room. 

As the memory of last night returns to him, Sans is swamped by a dizzying sense of vertigo which wakes him like a glass of water to the face. Holy shit. He went on a date with Toriel.

Now that he’s awake, he’s aware that the bed is empty, and Toriel’s side of the mattress is cold. Sounds are drifting in from the center of the apartment; there’s the clattering of pans, and Toriel is speaking in a soft undertone. Sans rolls over to consider the clock ticking on the wall. It’s just past ten in the morning. 

He yawns widely, the corners his mandible clicking as he overextends his jaw. He pulls a blanket off the bed, wraps it around his shoulders, and trudges off toward the kitchen. 

Toriel is at the sink, her arms plunged elbow-deep in soapy water. In the sunlight filtering in through the kitchen window, Sans thinks she looks like she’s glowing, and it makes his soul flip in his chest again. 

Sans notes with mild surprise to see that Frisk is home; they’re sitting at the kitchen table in front of a sticky plate still carrying a few squares of cut-up waffles. Flowey is set right next to the plate, glaring at nothing in particular. 

“Morning,” Sans yawns, dragging himself toward the table and dropping into one of the chairs. He tugs the blanket closer around his shoulder and collapses onto the table’s surface. 

Frisk waves a hello as they shove a bite of waffle in their mouth. 

“Good morning, Sans,” Toriel greets warmly. “How did you sleep?” 

“Like a babybones,” he mumbles against his ulna. 

“I am glad to hear it.” Toriel pulls her arms out of the soapy water and flicks her paws to get rid of the excess water. With a towel she pulls from the oven handle, she takes another plate of waffles from within the oven and sets it in front of Sans. “Here. We kept this warm for you.” 

“Thanks, T.” 

“Of course.” As Toriel withdraws, her damp paw brushes over the top of Sans’ skull. 

She moves away, and Sans can see Flowey staring at him with a very odd expression — both confused and disgusted, as if there’s a bad smell he can’t place right under his nose. Sans decides to ignore him. 

Sans props his head up and snags the can of syrup from beside Frisk’s plate. As he drizzles a generous half-cup of syrup onto his waffles, he says to Frisk: “Asgore dropped you off early this morning?” 

They nod. Fork hanging out of their mouth, they say: “He had a meeting about . . . money?” They sign ‘money’ slowly, as if it’s not the word they’re looking for, but they’re making do. 

“Didn’t need the ambassador, huh?” 

Frisk shrugs. “It’s a lot of big numbers stuff that I don’t understand.” 

“Economics,” Toriel puts in. “Nothing that Frisk should be worrying about currently.” 

Frisk scowls at that.

“Don’t you mean ‘nothing that Frisk should be worrying about currency ’?” Sans puts in. 

Frisk snorts, and Toriel smiles. 

“Indeed. It would not make much cents for Frisk to have to draft economic policy on their weekend.”

Frisk sniggers again, looking mollified, but Flowey’s expression darkens. 

“Well, I think I will go shower now,” Toriel continues. “Will you stay here, Sans?” 

And now Frisk’s expression looks as irritable as Flowey’s. But they don’t protest. 

“Sure,” Sans says.  

“Thank you,” Toriel replies, and heads down the hall toward the bathroom. 

“She thinks I don’t notice that she waited until you were awake to go shower,” Frisk says grumpily when Toriel is out of sight. “I’m almost eleven . I can be left alone for twenty minutes. But she always gets like this after I go to Dad’s.”  

“Uh,” says Sans awkwardly. Frisk is probably right, but he’s not going to question Toriel’s parenting decisions in front of the kid. He’s almost glad that Toriel’s so protective of Frisk if he’s honest, because it’s hard to imagine Toriel letting him get away with screwing anything up big time. It takes the pressure off.

Frisk, though, doesn’t seem to be waiting for Sans’ agreement. They’re watching him consideringly, and a small, impish smile is starting around the corner of their lips. 

“So,” they say. “How did Mom ask you out?” 

Sans, who has just taken a bite of his waffle, coughs. He manages not to choke, but it’s in a thick voice that he says: “Toriel told you already?” 

“Wait, what ?!” Flowey shrieks. 

“She didn’t have to,” Frisk says smugly, ignoring Flowey. “One: you’ve been in love with Mom since forever. Two: it’s not Dad’s weekend, but Mom sent me there yesterday. And she never lets me stay with other people if she doesn’t have to. Three: you weren’t sleeping on the couch this morning.” 

There’s a sly look on Frisk’s expression. Sans feels his cheekbones heat up. He’s not sure exactly what Frisk means by that last part, but he feels like he doesn’t want to know.

“Damn. You’re perceptive, kid.” 

They preen. “I know a lot about dating.” 

Sans laughs, shaking his head, but he can hardly refute the point.

“You went out with Toriel?” Flowey says, in a strained tone. “ Wow . What a mess.” 

Frisk frowns at Flowey and wags their finger at him warningly. Flowey harrumphs and makes a face at Frisk. 

Sans eyes Flowey warily, but otherwise ignores him. “So. Uh. I take it you’re cool with this, then?” he asks Frisk. 

Frisk nods eagerly. “It took you forever,” they say, grinning widely.

Sans rubs his face and shakes his head, feeling warmth prickling all over his body, It’s a strange mix of embarrassment and fondness, but there’s a tightness in his chest as well. He’s acutely aware that if he screws this up, it won’t be only Toriel that he hurts. 

“So how did Mom ask you out?” Frisk asks again. 

“How do you know your Mom asked me out and not the other way around, anyway?” Sans points out. 

Frisk gives him a dry look. “Did you?” 

Another chuckle. “I feel like I should be offended, but eh. It’s not like you’re wrong. She came over yesterday with tickets to a comedy show. The lady really knows the ticket to my heart.”  

Flowey makes a gagging sound. Sans is still in a good mood, feeling giddy and floaty on the memories from the previous evening, so eyelights don’t quite go out. Still, they shrink to pinpricks as he considers Flowey with an expression of amused disgust. 

“Hey, kid. I’m not sure how I feel about dirt being on the kitchen table.” 

“Oh, ha, ha,” Flowey sneers. “Why not let me out of the pot then? I’ll be real good and go real far away.” 

“Tempting,” Sans drawls. “Maybe we can find a nice mulch factory to take you in.” 

Frisk turns their disapproving scowl on Sans. “He stays here,” they insist. To Flowey, they add: “Be nice!” 

“I’ll start being nice when he stops being gross!” 

Sans sighs. “I don’t know why you like having him around, kid.” 

Frisk shrugs. Suddenly looking weary, they push themself up from the table. With a sigh, they gather Flowey’s pot up in their arms and carry him over to the counter. 

“There,” they say, after pushing Flowey into a patch of sun next to the coffee machine. “There’s a little space between you two. Can you try to get along?” 

Flowey harrumphs and twists his stem to look pointedly away from the kitchen. Sans, for his part, is so startled by the admonishment that he says nothing. 

Frisk pinches at the bridge of their nose, looking far more exhausted and strained than a ten year old has any right to look. 

“Hey, kid,” Sans says softly. “Why don’t you, uh, go grab your coloring book? I’ll make you some hot cocoa.” Coloring seems to calm Frisk, much in the same ways that puzzles soothed Papyrus when he was young. 

Frisk looks wary for a moment, but they nod. They head from the kitchen. 

With a heavy sigh, Sans climbs to his feet and makes his way to the cabinets. He has to pass by Flowey to do so, who twists around to sneer up at Sans. Sans pointedly ignores him. 

“Bet you think you’re a big shot,” Flowey drawls. 

“Sure do,” Sans replies. He digs the cocoa powder out of the cabinet and pulls a mug off the drying rack.

Flowey snorts. “You really think it’s gonna last with Toriel? Do you think she needs someone like you ? You’re useless!” 

“You know, somehow, I don’t be- leaf I care that much what you think,” Sans says lightly, measuring out a tablespoon of cocoa. 

“Doesn’t matter if you care what I think or not,” Flowey replies, now resting his head on one twisted leaf to grin slyly up at Sans. “When the timeline resets, you’ll forget all about your stupid little date. So will she.”

Sans’ hand jerks. Cocoa powder coats the counter. Flowey’s sneer becomes predatory. 

Sans does not reply to Flowey; he uses the sleeve of his shirt to go brush off the spilled cocoa powder, determinedly not looking at him. He’s never understood why Frisk told Flowey about the resets. He supposes that it has something to do with how much time Frisk and Flowey spend together, but Flowey uses the knowledge like a weapon. One that is irritatingly effective.  

He’d lain awake for hours last night, feeling the sickening sense of how temporary all of this is. He’s happy. It won’t last. It doesn’t matter that this timeline has given him three years on the surface; perhaps he’s lived these three years a dozen, a hundred, a thousand times. His only defense is to suffocate those anxieties with silence, to never speak of them. But now, Flowey is voicing them, giving them power in the light of day. 

“Yeah, you know this isn’t going to last,” Flowey drawls, looking positively cheerful now. “It’s going to all go back, and you’ll lose everything . It’s going to be so fun to watch.” 

Sans’ head is buzzing, and pressure tenses at his skull. He still doesn’t say anything, but fixes an easy grin on his face as he sets about warming some milk. 

Frisk won’t reset, he reminds himself. If nothing else, he’s coming to tentatively trust that the kid wants this timeline to continue. He reminds himself of the conversation they’d had at O’Keefe’s a few months back, of the strain on Frisk’s face when they asked about time travel. 

“Frisk won’t do it,” Flowey continues, as if he can read Sans’ thoughts. 

Maybe we’ve had this conversation before , Sans’ treacherous mind supplies.

“But that doesn’t mean someone else won’t.” 

Sans watches the mug of milk go around and around in the microwave, resolutely pretending Flowey does not exist. 

“If we go back far enough, Toriel won’t even remember you exist.” 

The microwave dings. Sans pulls the mug out. 

“So, you see, it kind of does matter what I think. You two gross me out. So when I reset the timeline, maybe I’ll make sure you never even meet.” 

When I reset the timeline . 

Sans freezes in the act of stirring cocoa into the hot milk. Despite his resolution not to react, he feels his eyelights go out. 

Could it be that Frisk never told Flowey about the resets? That they didn’t have to, because . . . ?

“That’s right,” Flowey hisses. “ I can reset the timeline. You didn’t think Frisk was the only one, did you? Of course you didn’t. You knew some of those resets were from before Frisk was born. Did you ever wonder who the other time traveler was?” 

Of course he did. All the time. Sans finally looks to Flowey, and his soul sinks horribly to see in Flowey’s expression that he’s not bluffing. There’s vindictive confidence there; Sans can see in the slant of his eyes and the cruel twist of his mouth that every word is the truth. 

“Frisk might not want to reset the timeline again, but I’m not that goody-two-shoes. I’ll reset whenever I feel like it.” 

Sans finds his voice. “Then why haven’t you done it already?” 

“I have my reasons. Maybe I’m just waiting for the moment that will screw with you the most.” 

There’s a rapid fall of footsteps behind them, and then Frisk comes skidding into the kitchen. They drop their coloring book and markers on the ground; looking panicked, they snatch Flowey’s pot and slap a hand over his mouth. Flowey gives an indignant, muffled screech. Frisk looks up at Sans, with a horrified, chagrined look on their face. 

Sans meets their gaze. 

“That little jerk can reset the timeline, huh.” 

Quickly Frisk shakes their head. They look down at Flowey, who’s still glowering around the hand clasped over his face. Frisk holds up one hand, a clear gesture for ‘wait’. They hurry from the kitchen in the direction of their bedroom. Sans hears the door slam, and then Frisk returns, Flowey-less. 

Silently, Sans pushes the now-finished mug of hot cocoa in Frisk’s direction. They take it, but don’t drink. 

Frisk sits down at the table. “Flowey can’t reset the timeline with me around,” they say. “He used to reset, but since I fell into the Underground, my magic overpowers him.” 

The roaring panic in Sans’ chest calms somewhat. Somewhat. “You sure?” 

Frisk nods. “He hates this timeline. He lives in a pot. He’d reset if he could.” 

Sans considers this. Finally, he says: “What happens if he ever regains the ability to use his power, even with you around?” 

“He won’t.” 

“You sure about that?” Sans asks, lifting his brow. 

“I have to be,” Frisk replies. “But that’s why I have to keep him around. It’s okay if I go to school or something without him, but if I’m gone too long or too far . . . I don’t know.” 

“Right.” 

“I’m sorry,” Frisk continues. “I didn’t think he’d tell. He likes knowing things no one else knows, and he liked to laugh about you having no idea who might reset the timeline. He must have been really upset about your date with Mom.” 

With effort to keep his voice steady, Sans asks: “Why would he care about that?” 

Frisk doesn’t say anything. 

The panic is still roaring in Sans’ chest; his eyelights are still out, and despite his best efforts, he can’t turn them back on. Magic is prickling dangerously at the tips of his fingers. 

Flowey can reset the timeline. Flowey wants to reset the timeline. 

“I need to go,” Sans says abruptly.

“Wait!” Frisk gestures desperately. 

But Sans doesn’t wait. Without even bothering to walk to the doorframe, he blinks out of the apartment.

Chapter Text

-- Seven years earlier--

(Continued)

Toriel comes back into the kitchen to find Sans is gone. 

Frisk is sitting alone at the kitchen table, rubbing at their forehead with anxious fingers. A mug of hot cocoa sits untouched in front of them, coloring book and markers are scattered across the tiles, and Sans’ plate of waffles lies abandoned across the table. He had only taken a few bites. Toriel hastens to scan the living room, but she sees no sign of Sans anywhere else in the apartment.

“My child?” Toriel says softly, trying to quell a flutter of unease. “Where is Sans?” 

But Frisk shakes their head miserably. “I don’t know,” they say, without looking up. “He left.” 

The flutter of unease twists into dread. “Did he say why?” 

Frisk doesn’t respond, and they shrug, looking caged. As if they don’t want to reply. 

Toriel tramps down the blended dread and frustration that flares within her. Did Sans really just walk out, leaving Frisk the messenger? Toriel knows Sans knows better than that. Miserably, she wonders if he’s trying to self-sabotage. I’m hardly partner material , he’d insisted, and Toriel had argued him, but perhaps he truly hadn’t been ready. Perhaps she had pushed him too hard.

Toriel pulls out the chair next to Frisk and folds herself into it. “What did he say?” she asks, reaching out to rest a paw on Frisk’s shoulder. “I will not be upset. Was it too much for him?” 

Frisk looks up sharply at her, and worry shines in their eyes. 

That’s answer enough. “Oh, my child. I am sorry you got caught in the middle of this. Grown-ups are messy and confused sometimes, but you should not have had to get tangled up in it.” She leans over to wrap Frisk in a tight hug. 

But Frisk’s hands catch on her shoulders, and they push back insistently. 

Toriel sits back, startled. Frisk almost never rejects her hugs. But now, Frisk is looking up with her, a new fiery determination set in their expression. 

“No,” Frisk says. “That’s not why he left.” 

Toriel blinks. “Oh. Then . . . ?” 

Frisk hesitates. Their jaw sets, and slowly, they say: “You won’t hate me?” 

Toriel feels a stab of alarm. What on earth did Sans say before he left? “No, my child, of course not. I will never hate you. I love you, and nothing can ever change that.” 

Frisk watches her for a moment, as if seeking her expression for hesitation. Toriel meets their eyes unwaveringly, shoving back every worry and doubt roaring in her belly, for fear it might show on her face. 

Finally, Frisk nods. They glance down and away, and when they speak next, it’s with gestures that are small and slow, but deliberate. 

“I can time travel.” 

Toriel stares. Perhaps she misunderstood the sign? She is still learning, after all; they all are. “You can . . . ?” she repeats. 

“Time travel,” Frisk signs again. “Move through time. Go to the past.” 

“Time travel.” 

Frisk nods. 

“Are you certain? I know humans have magic sometimes, but I do not think I have ever heard of magic like that, in either human or monsters. Perhaps some type of illusion or vision--” 

But Frisk is shaking their head violently. “No! It’s time travel . It’s how I got through the Underground! I could, like, ‘save’ a moment in time, like a computer file, and whenever someone killed me, I could load it and try again.” 

No. Surely Frisk didn’t mean . . . “Kill?” Toriel echoes, horrorstruck. “Do you mean you fell unconscious?” 

“ No . I mean kill. I died. I felt my heart stop. I died. Over and over.” 

No. No, no, no. Toriel feels cold. “Then how could you use magic?” she tries desperately, trying to keep her tone steady and reasonable. 

Frisk shrugs. “I don’t know. I don’t know how the magic works. But I know it’s there. And Sans knows it too. He guessed what I could do, and I proved it to him in the Underground.” They hesitate. “I’d prove it to you, too, except I promised Sans I would never do it again.” 

Toriel doesn’t know what to say. If Frisk died, that means she failed yet another child. That she very nearly lost yet another child to the horror of the Underground and her own helplessness. That the only reason Frisk is sitting before her now is because of this strange power they have. 

Could Frisk truly have the ability to reset time? Magic is vast; for all the centuries they’ve studied magic, there’s always some new surprise they’ve never run across before. But Frisk is also ten. They were only seven years old when they went through the Underground. Perhaps they did not understand what happened to them. Perhaps this idea of time travel was an attempt to make sense of the sheer trauma of everything that happened. The thought twists sickeningly at Toriel’s soul. 

She needs to talk to Sans. 

“Why have you not told this to me before?” Toriel asks, taking care to keep her voice gentle. It takes effort. Cold horror is seeping through her, and images of dead children are blossoming unbidden in her mind.

Frisk shrugs. They glance up to Toriel’s eyes, and Toriel sees a flash of anxiety there. “Sans hated me for a while for the time travel stuff.”

“I am certain he did not hate you.” And of this, Toriel is sure. She might not know what is going on with all this discussion of changing time, of Frisk dying , but she knows Sans never hated Frisk. Once apprehensive, certainly. But there’d been fondness from the beginning. 

Again, Frisk shrugs. “He didn’t like it. He was really scared of time travel. I had to make him believe I would never do it again before he loved me. So I didn’t want you to be mad at me too.” 

“Oh, child.” Toriel shifts closer, and runs a soothing paw over Frisk’s hair. “I am not mad. I love you just the same.” 

Frisk glances up, flashing her a nervous smile. Toriel smiles back, and leans over to wrap them in a hug. She squeezes, as if to press every ounce of love and protectiveness she feels into Frisk’s skin. 

Whatever is going on with this time travel business, however much of it is true, and however much of it is a scared child’s imagination. it is true for Frisk. Toriel squeezes her eyes shut, taking Frisk’s truth into herself. 

“Okay,” Toriel says finally, pulling back. “I understand. But why did this all make Sans leave this morning?” 

“Like I said, he’s scared of time travel,” Frisk says. “But . . . I’m not the only one who could do it. Flowey used to be able to do it too. When I fell into the Underground, though, my magic was stronger than his, so he can’t do it anymore. But Sans just found out Flowey could time travel, and I guess he got upset. And so he left.” 

“Flowey?” Toriel echoes. 

Frisk nods. “He can’t do it anymore,” they reiterate. “But I guess he wasn’t careful with his power. He used to use it to hurt people.” 

That certainly sounds like Flowey. Again, Toriel almost hopes that what Frisk is saying is borne of the rationalizations of a child; the thought of Flowey having a power like that, of Frisk being burdened with the same power, is horrifying. “And you think that is why Sans left?” 

“It is ,” Frisk insists. “Flowey told him. And then he left.” 

“Of course.” Toriel reaches over to run her paw soothingly over Frisk’s hair once more. “Thank you for telling me this. Do not worry; he will be alright.” 

Slowly, Frisk nods. They still look troubled. 

“Everything will be alright,” Toriel murmurs. 

When Frisk does not look reassured, Toriel feels a pang of grief. Frisk may call her ‘Mom’, but they have never had the opportunity to look to her as a source of unwavering safety. They have never been able to have the trust of young children, to believe her omniscient and powerful. Toriel feels a blaze of fury at the innocence that was stolen from them, and a despairing frustration at her own weakness. 

Toriel opens her mouth to attempt to console Frisk again, but Frisk isn’t even looking at her even anymore. She closes her mouth again. With a sad smile, she pats the top of Frisk’s head, and heads from the kitchen. 

Toriel’s phone rests on the dresser in her bedroom. She retrieves it and quickly dials Sans. The line rings. 

With a sinking heart, she hears Sans’ ringtone sound cheerfully in the bedroom. She crosses to the bed, and searches through the covers still on the mattress. There, she finds his phone nestled in the folds of the blankets. 

She holds the still-jingling phone in her paw and stares helplessly at it for a long moment, as if she’s not seeing it at all. Willing it to not be here, but to be with Sans; willing for him to pick up so she can hear his voice and know he is okay. 

Finally, Toriel cuts the line. 

She sits on the bed with a heavy sigh, still holding Sans’ phone. 

She cannot go after Sans. She can neither leave Frisk alone and nor can she take Frisk with her, not if Sans truly is having some sort of crisis. Perhaps Sans will be alright on his own. He’s always had a tendency to disappear, and he’s always returned. Admittedly, if what Frisk says is true, Toriel is not certain she likes the idea of Sans being on his own right now. But she is not sure she has a choice. 

Toriel squeezes her eyes shut. She will just have to hope that Sans will find his way back when he is ready. 

---

The day passes in a slow, awful trudge. Eleven o’clock passes, noon, one, and still Sans does not return. Anxiety sets up as a constant, churning sickness in Toriel’s belly, and it’s all she can do to distract herself with housework. She wipes down the counters in the kitchen and vacuums the floors in the living room. She scrubs the bathroom and makes her bed. Sans is still not back. She returns to the kitchen and pulls everything out of the cabinets to wipe down the shelves. 

Frisk disappears into their bedroom, and Toriel leaves them to their own devices, hoping that her anxiety will not be infectious. But when she goes to Frisk’s room to collect them for lunch, she finds them curled up in their closet, scribbling furiously with a half-dozen colored sheets around them. 

“What were you doing in the closet?” Toriel asks, as she leads them out of their room. 

Frisk shrugs. “Staying away from Flowey.” 

“Why did you not come out into the living room?” 

Again, Frisk shrugs. “I like the closet. It felt better in there.” 

That sends a pang right through Toriel’s soul. After lunch, she can’t bear to leave Frisk to disappear back into their closet, so she announces that they’re going to go out to see a movie. That does make Frisk seem to brighten, just marginally. Just before they leave the apartment, Toriel lays out Sans’ phone on the kitchen counter, with a note explaining where they have gone. “ Text me when you receive this ,” she writes. 

The movie helps. For most of the two hours, Toriel’s mind does not linger on Sans, and when she watches Frisk laugh at the animated comedy, she feels relieved, like at least this time, she’s got the mothering thing right. But every so often, her thoughts drift back to Sans, and her silent phone feels like a heavy, burning weight in her pocket. 

When they get back from the movie, the sun is sinking toward the horizon. Sans is still not back. Toriel bustles about, making as complicated a dinner as she can manage on the ingredients she already has, and she tasks Frisk with helping her. Toriel surreptitiously sets aside a portion for Sans. 

And then it is dark, and Sans still has not returned. 

Toriel sits Frisk in front of the television, turns up the volume a little louder than she normally would, and heads into her bedroom. There, she pulls out her phone. 

She knows Sans would not like her bringing in others, but she does not know what else to do. 

Papyrus picks up on the second ring. “HELLO, TORIEL! Wow, I am so lucky to get a call from you! I was just thinking of you!” 

Toriel can’t help a small smile. “Hello, Papyrus. I am sorry to bother you, but is Sans there?” 

“Sans?” Papyrus’ tone turns sharp. “No. He is not there?! Did he leave?!” 

“Ah, yes. He left this morning, and I do not know where he went.” Toriel considers how much to tell Papyrus, but she does not want to upset him. “It is no bother. I would just like to reach him.” 

“Wow, my brother is even worse at dating than I thought!” Papyrus says solemnly. “I am very sorry, Toriel! I will teach him dating properly when I see him!” 

“Oh, it is not his fault,” Toriel assures him. “I, ah, believe he just got in an argument with Flowey.” 

“Still! He should not leave without telling you. I am sure he will be back soon, though!”  

Despite the anxiety still roiling in her belly, Toriel can’t help but smile at Papyrus’ earnest kindness. “Yes, I am certain he will be. Well, if you see him, would you tell him to call me?”

“Certainly!”

“Thank you, Papyrus.”  

Toriel hangs up, and sighs. Papyrus hasn’t seen Sans. Is there a chance anyone else might have? Who else can she call? There are not many people Sans might go to when he is upset; he makes too much of an effort to guard his worries close to his chest. 

But perhaps . . .

The next line she tries rings so long she’s afraid it will go to voicemail as well. But just before the message system kicks in, the ringing cuts off. 

“H-hello?” 

“Hello, Alphys?” 

“Hi, U-um. What’s up? Sorry . . . I don’t usually t-talk on the phone much.” 

“It is alright. Ah . . .” Toriel closes her eyes, sorting through her words. “Have you seen Sans?” 

“Sans?” Alphys echoes, sounding startled. “No, why?” 

Disappointed, Toriel’s shoulders slump. “It is nothing important. He left in a hurry this morning, and I have not seen him since. He left his phone here, so I cannot contact him.” 

“You, uh, think he’s okay?”

“Oh, yes. Probably.” She sighs, and clarifies: “He may have been upset. But I am certain he will be alright.”  

Alphys voice sharpens, the anxiety falling back as she focuses on this new problem. “Upset? About what? . . . um, sorry, is that prying?” 

“Oh, no, it is quite alright.” Toriel assures her hastily. 

Then she pauses, musing. If anyone besides Sans might know what Frisk was talking about this morning, it would be Alphys. Alphys has spent years studying the limits of magic. Choosing her words carefully, Toriel continues: “Well, I did not witness it, but . . . Frisk tells me that it had something to do with Flowey. And about . . . time travel. Have you ever heard of magic working that way?” She speaks slowly, off-handedly, as it is only a mild curiosity.

“. . . O-oh. Um. Uh. Y-yeah, I have. They told you?” 

Toriel inhales. Any pretense of casualness leaves her voice. Softly, insistently: “It is real then?” 

“Timeline magic? Yeah. It’s, um, not really common. As far as I can tell, Frisk and Flowey are the only two people to ever have that kind of magic. I’m not sure why. Something about determination, I think, but that c-can’t be the whole story, since then there should be a lot more humans who could do it . . . there must be something else they have in common, but I can’t figure it out.” 

Toriel is silent for a long moment. She covers her eyes with one large paw. 

“. . . Um. Toriel? You there?”

“Yes, I apologize. You knew about Frisk being able to use timeline magic?” 

“Y-yeah. Frisk told me.” 

“When?” Toriel breathes. How long has she been out of the loop on her own child? Why did Frisk never feel that they could tell her? Why has she not earned her child’s trust? 

“Um, not too long after we got to the surface . . . ,” Alphys mumbles. “I mean, they only told me because they wanted my help with Flowey . . . speaking of which. Um. H-how much did they tell you about Flowey?” 

“They did tell me that he has used his power to hurt people, but they did not tell me how.” 

This time it is Alphys who goes silent. When she speaks next, her voice is almost too soft to hear. “. . . Yeah. He did.” 

Toriel sighs heavily. She squeezes her eyes shut as she forces out: “And Frisk said . . . they reset when they . . . died . Do you know anything about that?”

“Oh. Um. Yeah. They said that. I-I don’t know how that works, but y-yeah . . . there’s . . . there’s evidence their HP h-hit zero before . . .” 

Toriel feels her soul squeeze with a painful grief. She grips the phone harshly. “Oh, goodness. I need to speak to Sans,” her voice comes in a rush. “Frisk says that he knows about this. But he left. When he learned that Flowey could reset, he took off, and he has not been back all day. Papyrus has not seen him either. I do not know where he is, but I need to talk to him. I need to know he is okay. I need to know what he knows about Frisk.” 

“I’m sorry, Toriel,” Alphys says sincerely. “D-do you want me to look for him? I mean, I d-don’t really know where he might be, especially if he doesn’t have his phone with him which I could track, but . . . “

“Oh! No, please do not burden yourself,” Toriel says quickly. “I am sorry. I did not mean to put all this on you. I only meant to ask if you had seen him.” 

“But I could!” Alphys insists. “Especially if this is about the resets, maybe I c-could try to talk to him? Help him calm down?” 

Toriel feels her heart leap. “Only if it is no trouble. I am certain that he will find his way back in time, but I confess it would be a weight off my mind to hear from him. And I cannot look for him myself as I cannot leave Frisk alone.” 

“Yes, of course! I’ll go look for him. Um, do you have any idea where he might be? My first thought would be Papyrus, but I guess you said he’s not there.” 

“That would be my first guess as well,” Toriel admits, wracking her mind. Where else might Sans go when he’s upset? “Perhaps . . . somewhere outdoors. Where he can see the sky. He may want to remind himself he is on the surface.” 

Alphys is quiet a moment, considering. “Yeah,” she says quietly. “He always was a little c-claustrophobic. I’ll check the parks.” 

“Thank you,” Toriel says earnestly. “But again, please, do not trouble yourself. If you do not find him within an hour, please go home. He will be alright; you are only helping to soothe an old woman’s worries.” 

“Y-you know you’re talking to me, right? ‘Worry’ is more than reason enough.”

The line clicks out. 

---

The bench is hard under Sans, long hours turning the press of wood against his pelvis into an uncomfortable pressure. But still, he sits. 

He’d spent most of the day walking, pacing off the anxious energy that strummed under his fingers. He walked until his feet hurt, until he felt like he could keep his breathing steady, and then found an empty park bench and curled up to nap. Although he had somehow managed to sleep, he’d woken up with the same pressure in his skull and awful fluttering in his chest. 

At least he’s aware of the discomfort of the bench, he reflects wryly. At least his sensations have returned to him, and he can think of anything other than the screaming dread that all of this is about to vanish. Still though, he can’t go back. He can’t go to Toriel’s and face that asshole flower; he can’t look Toriel and Frisk in the eye and explain why he left. He can’t go home either, where he knows Papyrus will be bouncing off the walls waiting to hear about every detail of his day with Toriel. 

And so he sits. 

Sans turns his face skyward. In the city, there aren’t a whole lot of stars visible in the night sky, but he can make out a small handful of pin-prick lights. 

Exhale. 

He’s still sitting like that when a familiar voice cuts through the park. 

“Sans! Oh my goodness, there you are! I can’t believe I actually found you!” 

Sans’ head jerks up, eyelights blinking out briefly in surprise. “Alphys?” 

Alphys comes running down the path and skids to a halt in front of him. She leans over, panting, claws on her knees. 

Sans stares. “Uh, no offense, but what are you doing here?” 

“L-looking for you,” she gasps out. She straightens up, and Sans sees in the light of the streetlamp that she looks quite pleased with herself. “I d-didn’t think I’d actually find you!” 

“Congrats,” he says, affecting a casual smile. “Why were you looking for me?” 

Alphys gives him an incredulous look. “Toriel called me.”

He winces. “Oh.” 

“May I?” Alphys gestures to the bench. Obligingly, Sans scoots over, and she takes a seat next to him. “Thanks.” 

“Sure.”

They’re quiet for a moment as Alphys fidgets nervously on the bench. She opens her mouth a few times, as if searching for the right way to begin, but doesn’t say anything. Sans just watches her. He feels on edge; Alphys has caught him at a moment when his mask has slipped, and he knows it’s too late to pretend he’s completely fine. Alphys has seen him upset before, but never like this. She’s seen him vent about stupid stuff, like Papyrus’ antics or an experiment that just won’t work, and she’s seen him in despair after Gaster fell, when he didn’t even care to put on a show of being okay. 

This -- dread coiling tightly around his breath, him struggling to hold himself together -- is new ground. He doesn’t like it.

“So. Tori called you?” Sans says finally. Might as well get this over with.

“Yeah,” Alphys says, looking relieved. “She’s, uh, really worried. How long have you been gone?” 

Sans shrugs, ignoring the guilty twinge in his chest. “A couple hours.” 

“Um. If . . . if you say so.” She looks dubious. “I guess you left your phone there, though? And she tried c-calling Papyrus, but you weren’t there either, so she called me and asked if I’d seen you . . . s-sorry, I’m rambling. Um.” 

Sans shrugs again. “It’s okay. Is Papyrus looking for me too?” 

“Um. N-not sure. Probably not. I offered; she didn’t ask me to go looking.” 

He nods. “Sorry. I’ll head back there soon, I guess. You can tell her not to worry.” 

Alphys gives him a sidelong glance. “Well, I can tell her, but I think she’s s-still going to worry until she hears from you herself.” 

Chagrined, he runs a hand over his skull. Alphys is right, he thinks, and the realization makes the guilt twist painfully in his chest. 

When Alphys speaks next, her voice is a nervous whisper. “Toriel s-said . . . she said you left b-because you found out that Flowey can -- can restart the timeline.” 

The words shoot straight through Sans. His breathing kicks up; his magic sparks. His hands curl into small fists at his sides, the tips of his fingers pressing hard into his metacarpals. 

“You . . . she knows about that?” 

“Um. Yeah.” 

He digs one fist hard into his brow. “Shit.” 

Alphys lets out a mirthless, nervous laugh. “Um. Yeah. How . . . how long have you known? About the resets, I mean. I guess you found out about Flowey this morning.” 

And Sans sits back on the bench, letting his head fall back so that he’s looking at the stars again. His jaw is clenched, fighting back the surging sense of dread. “Long time ago,” he mumbles. “‘Bout a year after my dad died. Or . . . whatever ‘a year’ is when time isn’t workin’ right.” 

Alphys nods slowly. “I w-wondered if you knew. Since you studied spacetime and quit so suddenly. But I-I didn’t know. And . . . wow. That was a long time ago.” 

Sans glances at her. “How long have you known?” 

“Not long,” she replies, hugging her arms around herself. “Frisk needed me to help them study Flowey, so they told me just after we got to the surface. I’m . . . I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I th-thought it wasn’t my secret to tell.”

Sans shrugs. “Why would you? It’s pretty heavy stuff to dump on someone if you didn’t know I knew.” 

“Have you ever t-told anyone?” 

“Nah.” 

“N-not even Toriel or Papyrus?” 

Sans shoots her an incredulous look. “You kidding? Knowing this stuff really isn’t fun. I kind of like them being happy and not wondering if we’re all going to get punted to Underground at any random second. I mean, we coulda lived this stuff on the surface a hundred times already.” 

“But we haven’t!” Alphys blurts. “This is all new! This timeline has stretched longer than any other we’ve had before, c-completely unbroken!” 

Sans freezes. He looks to Alphys again, his gaze suddenly sharp. “How’d’ya know?” 

“F-Frisk wanted me to s-study Flowey, remember ? That meant time stuff. And um. The readings from the Underground are riddled with a-anomalies, but on the surface? There hasn’t been a single anomaly. Not a single reset.” 

Hoarsely: “You sure?” 

“P-positive. If you want, I c-can send you the reports.” 

Sans is quiet for a long moment. His immediate visceral reaction is to reject the reports, to refuse to ever touch them. There’s a large part of him that feels for sure if he holds those reports, he will see proof of resets, he will know all of this will be erased, and he won’t be able to handle that. 

But Alphys has already seen the reports. She swears there are no anomalies. He knows her work; she’s always been detail-oriented and thorough. If she says there are no anomalies, there aren’t any. 

But if she missed just one; if he sees just one . . . 

But is not knowing any better?

“Okay,” he says finally. “Yeah.” 

“Okay. I’ll g-give them to you.” 

Another long silence follows. Alphys tugs on the sleeve of her shirt, twisting it around and around in her claws. 

“Um . . . so. H-how are you?” 

Sans looks to her, cracking a grin. “We’re at the awkward small talk stage now? Cool. How ya been?” 

She shoots him a look, and glances away, flushing with nerves. “I mean you ran out this morning because you were upset. How are you feeling now?” 

“Eh, you know me. Nothing gets under my skin .” 

Alphys snorts. “I know that’s not true.” 

“Made ya laugh, though.” 

She rolls her eyes. “I’m trying to be a friend, Sans.” 

“Eh, I’ll be fine. You don’t have to worry about me.” 

“I’ve always worried about you.” 

“Well, you might want to scale that back.” 

Alphys sighs, rolling her eyes again. “Are you going to go back t-to Toriel’s, then?”

Sans shrugs again, affecting casualness. “Eh. At some point.” 

“W-why don’t you want to go back?” she asks softly. 

“Nah, it’s not that,” he says, shaking his head. His fingers tap against the park bench with anxious energy. “Just. Not sure what I’m gonna say to Tori yet.” 

“I think . . . you should tell her the truth,” Alphys murmurs. “I kn-know it’s scary, but . . . it works b-best when you’re honest.” 

“The truth? Nah, I was trying to figure out what would be the best joke to tell her. I was thinking of ‘have you ever tried to eat a clock?’--” 

“Sans!” Alphys interrupts, exasperated. “You’re impossible !” 

He winks. “I try.” 

She lets out a heavy sigh, running a claw over her face. “Honestly . . . h-how did Toriel ever get you to open up in the first place, anyway?” 

“Huh?” 

“Like in the Underground! You told her, like, everything. Okay, m-maybe not everything, since I guess the time stuff was still a secret. But! You even told her about your dad!” 

Sans pauses, eyelights fading out. “How did you--? Oh.” He pinches the bridge of his nasal bone. “That camera.” 

Alphys suddenly looks extremely embarrassed. “Yeah . . . Um. Have - have I said sorry about that lately?”

“I guess.” Sans blinks his eyelights back on and shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “Anyway, I guess it’s just easier sometimes with the door between you.” 

“Oh. Um. Is it s-seeing her face that makes it hard, then? That . . . that makes sense. It’s so much easier to post things online than talk face-to-face.”

“Uh, I guess. I dunno.” 

“Well, then!” Alphys says, perking up. “If . . . if you don’t want to go back yet, why don’t you at least j-just call her? That would probably be easier, but I think it would still be good for both of you.”

Sans lifts his brow and holds out his empty hands meaningfully. “Don’t got my phone, remember?” 

“Then use mine!” Alphys digs her phone out of her pocket and shoves it into his hands. 

Wordless, Sans stares at the screen. 

“She already knows most of it,” Alphys continues rapidly. “But I th-think it would be better if she heard the whole story from you . . . at least. Um. That’s been my experience. And this way, you have, like. A lot of doors between you right now. Um. Would it help if I stayed here while you talk?”

That makes Sans give a weak laugh. “No. It really wouldn’t.”

“Okay. Then, I’ll, uh, take a walk. Or just go home! You can bring me back my phone later. Is - is that better?”   

“Okay,” Sans says, still feeling dazed.

Alphys reaches out, and curls his hand around the phone. “Call her,” she says, and her voice is unexpectedly strong. “Tell her everything.” 

Sans looks down at his hand again. He exhales. “. . . Okay.”

And when Alphys stands, he begins to dial.

Chapter Text

--Seven years earlier--

(Continued)

(Again)

Toriel is sitting in the living room on the couch, Frisk cross-legged on the floor in front of her as she runs a brush through their hair in slow, rhythmic strokes. There’s an animated movie playing on the television, and Toriel is only dimly aware of the plot as her thoughts keep drifting. Sans’ flight, his silence, Frisk’s power, their death. Deaths , plural. Frisk’s hair is already completely free of tangles, but Toriel keeps brushing; the slide of their hair under her paws is somehow grounding. 

Two movies in one day -- it’s far more than Toriel would usually allow, but she knows that she needs to keep Frisk occupied, and she’s just not in a state of mind to entertain her child herself today. 

I felt my heart stop. I died. Over and over . Toriel sees the flash of Frisk’s hands in her mind again, and her soul twists horribly. She fights the urge to bury her muzzle in Frisk’s hair and just breathe their scent. If she weren’t concerned that such behavior would alarm Frisk, she’d have long since bundled them up tightly in her arms and pressed her face against the top of their head and just held them, rocking them like the baby they never were in her life. 

Instead, she just keeps brushing. 

When the phone rings, her heart leaps. She almost dislodges Frisk as she hastens to grab it. She glances the caller ID and picks up. 

“Hello, Alphys? Did you--” 

A familiar, deep voice interrupts her. “Knock knock.”

Toriel’s breath catches. “Who is there?” 

Frisk’s head jerks up, catching the start of a knock-knock joke. “Sans?” they ask. Toriel smiles, and their expression lights up. 

“Iowan.” 

“Iowan who?” 

“Iowan explanation to you. Sorry for running out this morning.” 

Toriel closes her eyes, the sound of his voice washing away some of the constant tension she’s been carrying all day. “I am simply glad to hear from you.” She exhales. “Frisk is here. They were very worried about you, too.” 

“Aw, man, I’m sorry,” Sans mumbles. “Tell the kiddo I’m fine. I’ll be back soon.” 

Toriel pulls the phone down and runs her paw over Frisk’s hair. “Sans is alright. He wants you to know he will return shortly.” She pauses. “If I, ah, take this in the other room, will you be alright?” 

Frisk nods. 

“Alright, dear. If you need anything, please do not hesitate to grab me.” 

Toriel gets up from the couch and makes her way to the bedroom. She hesitates at the doorway, glancing back to the living room, but Frisk has already turned their attention back to the television. 

“Alright, I have moved into the bedroom,” Toriel says into the phone, as she closes the door. “Frisk will not be able to overhear me here.” 

“Cool.” Sans is quiet a long moment. Toriel hears him exhale into the receiver. “Uh, so Alphys says I should tell you everything, but I don’t really know how to do that.” 

“Is Alphys there?”

“Nah. I think she went home. She lent me her phone, though.” 

“Oh. I will have to thank her later.” 

“Yeah, I guess. Me too. She was pretty cool tonight.” 

There’s another pause. Absently, Toriel moves the phone over to her other ear. “So,” she prompts. “I understand that Frisk and Flowey have magic that affects the timeline.” 

She hears a sharp inhale. “. . . Yeah,” Sans says finally. “Sorry. I didn’t mean for you to find out this way.” 

She wants to ask him how he did intend for her to find out, but she doesn’t. Not now. Instead, she says: “How did you learn about timeline magic? Frisk said they showed you their power in the Underground. Is that how?” 

“Uh, no. Not really. I mean, it’s how I was sure Frisk could do it, but I kind of suspected before.” 

Sans pauses. As he parses through his thoughts, Toriel sits on the bed and wraps herself in the quilt he’d carried into the kitchen that morning. She imagines, for a moment, that she can smell him. 

“When my dad died,” Sans starts again, “I thought . . . maybe, I could use the timeline to bring him back. It was a theory Dad had -- that magic could be used to manipulate the spacetime continuum, kinda like quantum particles. We’d gotten the space side of the equation to work. The shortcuts, you know. But the time stuff was just a theory. 

“Guess I must have gotten it to work,” he continues, voice quiet. “The reports--” 

And here he cuts off. He sighs heavily, and huffs a mirthless laugh. 

“Dad’s signature was a mess . It was riddled with all sorts of weird readings that don’t make sense, as if he’d been pulled through dozens of times, but it’d all been wiped clean. The whole timeline was screwed up, really, but dad’s signature was a right disaster.”

“I do not understand,” Toriel says, when he doesn’t continue. “Are you saying you have time magic?” 

“Uh, no. I don’t know. I mean, I guess at some point I brought my dad back. But, uh, I dunno if I used magic or not, though.” He exhales. “But it doesn’t matter, ‘cause even if I did some weird time stuff, it wasn’t in this timeline. ‘Cause someone else was doing it too and erased all that.” 

“Flowey?” 

“That’s the one.” 

“Not Frisk?” 

“Nah, this was before Frisk was born,” Sans replies. “Even if the kid has time magic, I figure that’s not enough to change things before they were even alive.” 

“I see,” Toriel says slowly. “So if I am understanding you correctly, you attempted to use time magic to save your father, but discovered that someone - Flowey - was already changing the timeline?” 

“Yep. Far as I can tell, saved my dad a bunch of times, but Flowey just did his weird time stuff and made him dead again every time.” His tone is light, as if he’s commenting on the nice weather of the evening. 

Toriel lets out a soft sigh. “Oh, Sans . I am so sorry.” 

“Yeah. Thanks.” 

Toriel lets him sit in silence a moment, giving him a second of quiet grief. When she finally opens her mouth to ask her next question though, to her surprise, Sans speaks first. 

“Never really wanted you to know. Never wanted anyone to know. Knowing this sucks. That anything you do, none of it matters, because it can all just go back and you won’t even remember. I wanted to spare you that.” 

“It sounds as if it has been a heavy weight on you,” Toriel murmurs. 

“Don’t worry ‘bout me,” Sans says, with a breath of laughter. “Been dealing with it alright eight years now.” 

Toriel smiles tightly against the phone, thinking privately that ‘alright’ is debatable. 

“But, uh, I guess Alphys says the timeline hasn’t been altered since we got to the surface? So maybe it doesn’t matter anymore.”

“It matters,” Toriel replies firmly. “Perhaps not for what time magic will do, but what it already has done. It has impacted you. It has impacted Frisk.” 

Sans is quiet. “How’s the kid doing?” he murmurs finally. “I’m really sorry; didn’t mean to run out like that this morning.” 

“They are upset,” Toriel admits. “But they have always been resilient.”

“I’ll make it up to them. Dunno how yet.” 

“Just come home as soon as you can. Your presence is the best gift you can offer them.” 

“D’you mean present ?”

“ Sans ,” Toriel says, in exasperated fondness. It’s not that she doesn’t enjoy the joke, but she knows he uses jokes to try to cover up tough emotions. She doesn’t want their emotions swept away right now. 

He laughs softly. “Heh. Alright, I’ll come back soon. Dunno when, exactly. But soon.” 

“Thank you.” A beat; an exhale. “Sans, what do you know about Frisk’s power?” 

“Uh, I dunno. Not a whole lot. I know they can do their time travelling schtick, but I don’t know anything about how it works.” 

“Tell me how you learned about it.” 

“Frisk told you they showed me, right? I guess I suspected they could do something . They were a strange kid. Seemed to know some stuff before it happened, and I felt like I knew ‘em somehow. But when I saw them in the hall before the throne room, I got the sense that they’d heard this all before. I asked them. They knew my password, one I never told them. Never told anyone. At least, not in this timeline.” 

“I felt like I knew them, too,” Toriel says softly. “When I first met them, I felt like I had met them before.” 

“Yeah. You had.” 

“And,” Toriel continues, in a strangled voice. “What is this about Frisk dying ?” 

Sans pauses. Toriel grips the phone tightly, her eyes squeezed shut. 

“. . . I’m so sorry, T,” he murmurs finally. “I screwed up.” 

“. . . What?” 

“You asked me to look after them. To protect them. And I screwed up. They died, on my watch.” 

It takes Toriel a second to reorient. She had not even thought of the promise Sans had made to her. “Sans, I did not mean to blame you. If anything, I am the one who failed. After so many lost children, I let them leave, I -- I . . .” 

The grief wells up, chokes her. Dimly, Toriel is aware of hot tears leaking from her eyes and rolling down the sides of her muzzle. She clasps a paw over her mouth, fighting back the sobs that threaten to overwhelm her. She can’t risk letting Frisk hear her cry. 

“Tori,” Sans says, sounding stricken. “S’not your fault. And, hey, the kid’s okay, right?” 

“It is true? They died ?” 

“Yeah, but they’re fine--” 

“ How can they be fine? They died!” 

And she’s breaking down again, her chest painful with each muffled sob she struggles to fight back. There’s a roaring in her head, a desperate no no no and suddenly she’s talking about Asriel and Chara and Justice and Integrity and Perseverance and Patience and Kindness and Bravery, and she’s holding broken bodies in her arms, and this time it’s Frisk who’s cold and motionless, limp in a way that makes her stomach churn; she gags on the horror, bites her paw, but she can’t stop the shuddering keening in her throat --- 

“Shit,” she hears, and then there are hands on her fur, moving up and over her face, easing the phone from her paw. Sans presses up close, his kneecap digging into her thigh as he touches anxiously at her tear-streaked cheeks. 

“Sans, they died ,” she gasps. 

“Frisk is alive. They’re in the next room. They’re okay,” Sans tells her, voice low and soothing.

She shakes her head. “No. They died. All of them. I lost every one!” 

“. . . Oh. Oh, Tori. I’m so sorry.” 

And she’s crying again, and it takes every ounce of presence she has left to keep from wailing. 

“C’mere,” Sans says, and his hands are at her back, pulling her face into his clavicle. 

She lets him lead her and clutches to him. Her paws bunch in the fabric of his sweatshirt; her muzzle pesses into his sternum; her tears dampen the front of his shirt. She’s not sure if he’s grounding her or letting her fall apart, but she drinks in his presence hungrily. 

Sans’ hands are running gently over her back, rubbing soothing patterns into her fur. He doesn’t say anything, just holds her as she cries. 

Toriel heaves a shuddering breath, struggling to calm herself. “I cannot -- I cannot let Frisk hear,” she gasps into his shoulder. 

“Want me to take us somewhere else?” 

She shakes her head harshly. “I must be here. In case Frisk needs me.” 

“Okay.” 

Toriel struggles to compose herself. She breathes deeply, muzzle still pressed into his sternum. When she speaks, her voice is still thick; the tears are barely restrained, and she feels as if they could flood at any moment. But she pulls the words from herself, one by one: “I failed Frisk. I failed all of them.” 

“You didn’t. You did your best, Tori,” Sans replies. “It’s not your fault. It was you against a whole Underground trying to get free.” 

“I could have done more. I should have done more.” 

“I ‘unno. Seems to me there’s always always something else you could do, but that doesn’t mean there’s always something else to do. Does that make sense?” 

She gives a wet choke that’s not at all a laugh. “Not at all.” 

“Heh. I mean, uh, maybe there’s something else you could do, or something to do differently. But, uh. Sometimes things will just happen anyway. Not your fault.” 

Toriel swallows hard. “That is not particularly comforting.” 

“Yeah. Sorry.” 

His hands continue to stroke at her back, running over her ears and shoulders. The press of his phalanges into her fur is soothing, but it does not chase away the horror she feels. 

“But whatever you coulda done, Frisk is still here,” he says, sounding as if he’s unsure if this is the right thing to say. 

“Only because they had this power.” 

“Yeah. But they’re alive.” 

And . . . that doesn’t help. It doesn’t bring back Asriel or Chara or Integrity or Justice or Patience or Perseverance or Kindness or Bravery; it doesn’t save the children who didn’t have Frisk’s time magic. It doesn’t relieve the gut-wrenching sense of helplessness, of failure. 

But Frisk is alive. 

Toriel breathes deeply, repeating this truth to herself like a mantra: Frisk is alive. Frisk is alive . 

Slowly, she pushes herself up so that the entirety of her weight is not draped over Sans’ torso. She remains pressed up against his side, and is grateful that he continues to run one hand through her fur. “I apologize,” she breathes. 

“What for?” 

“I did not mean to fall apart on you so.” 

“I don’t mind. Really. ‘M sorry for running out this morning and leaving you on your own.” 

Toriel manages a weak smile. “Thank you. I am glad you have returned.” 

“Yeah,” Sans says, and he looks somewhat surprised, as if he has only just registered that he has returned. 

Toriel sits back and looks unseeingly at the black window. Her reflection stares back at her, eyes red around the corners and her cheeks still streaked and damp. The overwhelming, bursting sense of grief is giving way to a cold kind of emptiness, a static in her mind and chest. But somewhere through the static, an urgent thought floats to the surface. 

“Sans,” she says softly. “You . . . you used timeline magic to bring your father back, correct?” 

“Yeah. Or tried, I guess,” he replies. 

“Alphys said the timeline is no longer resetting, yes?” 

Sans stills. Perhaps he’s read where she is going. “Yeah.” 

“Then . . . could you revive your father now?” 

Sans’s eye sockets drift shut. He inhales deeply. “No,” he murmurs. “When I was doing that stuff, it was really bad. I got super obsessed. Even though I knew I wasn’t getting anywhere, I forgot everything else -- even Papyrus.” 

Toriel reaches out and finds his hand. When she gives it a gentle squeeze, he opens his eye sockets and meets her gaze. Then he glances down, to where their hands are joined. 

“‘Sides,” he continues, softer now. “I’m pretty sure that even without the resets, it’s impossible now. I pulled him through too many times, and it’s been too long. There are too many anomalies. His signature’s gonna have decayed. If I got him through again . . . it probably wouldn’t be all of him.” 

“I am sorry.” 

He nods wordlessly. 

Toriel gives him a moment, but her next question is rising up urgently, almost choking her. When she cannot wait a second longer, she says: “But the children -- they have never been pulled through before. You know how to do it, or you did figure it out before--” 

Sans’ eyelights flare and go out. When he looks at her, she sees by the pain in his expression what the answer is already. “I’m sorry, T,” he whispers. “I . . . can’t. I could only isolate my dad’s signature ‘cause he fell into the CORE. That tore him from the timeline. Your kids . . . they’re still part of the timeline. I don’t have that ability. I never did.” 

“And Frisk’s power . . .” 

“They can only reset as far as when they fell.” 

Toriel squeezes her eyes shut and breathes harshly. “I could not have asked it of them anyway,” she confesses. “That is too much to put on a child.” 

“Yeah,” Sans says quietly. “It’d set everyone back. Put us all back in the Underground, and we wouldn’t even remember the surface. Or anything. The kid is the only one who would remember. Kid or not, no one should have that kind of power.” 

“Then, it is not possible,” Toriel murmurs. “They cannot be saved.” 

“I’m really sorry.” 

Toriel barely hears him. It’d been only a fledgling hope, just merest seconds where she thought that just maybe -- but as the hope is torn from her, pain consumes her, raw and awful. The loss of that second’s glimpse of maybe leaves behind a gaping wound, tearing afresh those deep hurts that have never -- can never -- heal. She clutches herself, letting her nails dig into her skin in a desperate attempt to ground herself, but she’s crying, gasping; all she knows is that all of this is wrong, wrong, wrong. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Sans keeps repeating, and he’s stroking her again. When he puts his arms around her, she lets herself lean into his shoulder, but it doesn’t help. She cries; he holds her. Time feels meaningless. For a moment or an hour, she is losing her children all over again. 

She does not know when exactly, but the soul-wrenching grief eventually ebbs. The tears dry up, and she just rests against Sans’ chest as the cold static fills her again. They sit there silently, Sans’ fingers still running anxiously over her ears. She stares into the dark window, and watches her own reflection. She thinks she looks diminished, somehow small curled up against Sans’ chest. She watches as headlights creep by on the street outside, momentarily drowning out her reflection. 

Silence stretches on. 

The sound of footsteps outside the bedroom pulls Toriel back into herself. Frisk passes by the room and heads for the bathroom, but the reminder of their presence pushes back the static. 

Toriel exhales. “There was more to discuss, but I do not believe I can do so at the moment.” 

She can hardly think. How can she find the energy to impress upon Sans that she wished he had told her of Frisk’s powers long ago? And if his grief sharpens and strikes him the way hers did, she does not think she can carry it right now.

“Yeah,” Sans says. “That’s cool. We can talk about it later.” 

“Yes.” 

Again, she looks to her reflection. She feels so drained that the mere thought of moving sounds insurmountable. 

“Frisk will be waiting for me,” she states. She examines her swollen eyes and her damp, mussed fur. “Goodness. My appearance would alarm them.” 

“I’ll go,” Sans says. “I, uh, owe the kid after this morning anyway. You can rest.” 

Gratefully, she squeezes his hand. “What will you tell them about why I have not come out?” 

He shrugs. “I dunno. That you’re taking a nap?” 

She cracks a smile that does not reach her eyes. “They will not believe that.” Eyeing the window, she continues: “No. Tell them the truth. Tell Frisk that I am thinking of their siblings, but that I will return to them shortly. I would like them to be honest with me about their feelings, and so it is good to show them honesty in turn.” 

Slowly, Sans nods. “Okay. Uh. You okay?” 

“Yes.” As well as she can be with the cold static filling her, at least. “Please, go to Frisk.” 

“Sure.” Carefully, he extracts himself and climbs to his feet. At the door to the room, he pauses. He looks back to her, his eyelights flickering with nerves. He opens his mouth, then stops. “I’m sorry,” he says finally. 

Toriel gets the sense that was not the first thing he meant to say. She is not sure he knew what he meant to say. “I know,” she replies quietly. “Thank you.” 

He nods once, and leaves the room. 

Chapter Text

Alphys wrings her claws together anxiously as she sits across the table from Sans. She opens and closes her mouth a few times, apparently unsure what to say. 

Sans pretends not to notice her discomfort as he pulls the Candyland board out of the box. Around them, the board game cafe is bustling, unusually packed with students who are out for the summer. Sans and Alphys were lucky to get a table. 

“Uh . . . um. I was surprised to g-get your text today,” Alphys finally blurts. 

“Oh yeah?” Sans replies. “I guess I am a surprising guy.” 

“I-I mean. I’ve been i-inviting you to movie nights, but y-you still haven’t come . . .”

“Yep,” he agrees. “This isn’t movie night.” 

Alphys glances at the table, giving the board a look of helpless confusion. “Uh, no.” 

“Who do ya wanna be?” Sans asks, holding out four plastic gingerbread pieces. “I think I’m feeling . . . orange.” He sets the orange piece at the starting square.

“Does it have to be Candyland?” Alphys mumbles. “We’re at a board game cafe . There are so many other games here . . .” 

“Hey now, Candyland’s a classic. ‘Sides, I didn’t feel like reading the other rulebooks.” 

Alphys sighs. “Green,” she decides finally. 

“Cool.” He sets the piece down and offers her the spinner. 

They play a few turns in near-silence, broken only by Sans’ intermittent comments of: “Aw, that’s only one space,” or “whoops, almost got stuck in licorice”. 

Sans is moving his piece to the next blue square when Alphys finally speaks up: “Why . . . why did you invite me out today?” 

His eyelights flicker up to meet her gaze. “I thought you said you wanted to hang more?” 

“Y-yeah, I guess. But you were ignoring my invitations so I thought, well, maybe. You didn’t?”

“I didn’t say that,” Sans points out lightly. 

He hands her the spinner. She takes it, but doesn’t spin. 

‘I guess. I just. Um. Well, it’s been a month since you said you’d try, so I thought you hadn’t meant it.” 

He shrugs, still smiling. “Life’s busy. You know how it goes.” 

“I . . . guess,” Alphys mutters. “What. Um. What have you been busy with?” 

Again, he shrugs. “Few things here, few things there. A couple naps.” 

She titters a laugh, and he winks. 

“Hey, you gonna go?” Sans asks, pointing at the spinner. 

Obligingly she finally flicks the spinner. Purple. “How’s, um. How’s Toriel?” she asks, as she moves her piece ahead to the next purple square. 

“She’s cool. School let out for summer, which ‘course means she’s spending all her time planning for next year now. She and Frisk are at the school board right now, campaigning to adapt health classes for monster biology.”

“Oh. Yeah. Frisk, um, asked my advice on the syllabus I guess they’re presenting . . . they both work hard.” 

“Yep.” Sans flicks the spinner and moves his piece. “Still, doesn’t stop them from having a good time, too. Toriel got me good this morning.” 

“O-oh yeah?” 

“Yep. She offered me a chocolate chip cookie. Turned out to be oatmeal raisin.” He grins widely. “Man, she’s awesome.” 

Alphys chuckles nervously and takes the proffered spinner. Her eyes dart as she struggles to come up with something to say. 

Awkwardness lays heavy over the table. Sans could talk about Toriel all day, but with Alphys’ obvious nerves, the small talk feels microscopic. Alphys keeps shooting Sans anxious looks, and her claws are still twisting around and around each other. She doesn’t even seem to be aware she’s doing it. Each word feels like it takes an effort to drag out. 

It’s weird . Sans remembers when Alphys used to babble around him, but now she seems almost too nervous to so much as ask him about his day as if for fear it will be the wrong thing to say. He feels a twinge of guilt.

“Watch any anime recently?” 

Alphys titters a laugh. “Come on, Sans, you know me. Um, of course?” 

He grins. “Oh yeah? So did Kuma Mew-ko ever finish?” 

Alphys gasps, goggling at him. “You don’t know ?”

“Know what?” 

“Oh my god, that ending ! It was a total betrayal of the source manga! They decided to go all dark and edgy, and, like, okay, I like a dark and edgy anime as much as the next person, but it totally ignored the entire point of the manga and destroyed the characters!”

“Aw, no way,” Sans says encouragingly. 

“They did! It was so bad!” 

She dives into the rant, egged on by Sans’ intermittent comments. She continues playing the game, but as far as Sans can tell, she barely registers when she gets stuck in a cherry pitfall. Her distraction works well for Sans, who takes the opportunity to skip an extra four spaces on his next turn. 

For a moment, it’s almost like they’re best friends again, like nothing has changed.

Except, well . . . a lot has changed. Sixteen years ago, Sans was different. He remembers being brighter, more engaged when he’d hung out with Alphys before. He didn’t feel so on edge back then, so careful to avoid giving too much of his thoughts away but not be obvious playing his feelings close to his chest. Once upon a time, he’d been open. It’s a crazy thought. 

And even if it doesn’t take much for Alphys to slip back into her anime spiels, he’s sure she feels different too. What that difference will mean for them and whatever this new friendship is, he’s not sure. For now, he just listens.

After regaling Sans with all the sins of Kuma Mew-ko, Alphys continues with Neon Genesis Evangelical, K-OFF, and Katekyo Hitman Resurrected, during which time Sans continues skipping a few extra squares on each turn. When Sans finally ‘wins’, Alphys looks down at the board in some surprise, as if only just having remembered it was there. 

“Oh. Um . . . that was fast.” 

Sans winks. “Another round?” 

“I . . . guess?” Alphys squints suspiciously at the board, then glances to Sans. He’s sure she suspects that he didn’t play fair, but she also has no proof. He just grins winningly at her and resets the board. 

Alphys seems more relaxed now. High strung, of course -- Sans has never known her not to be -- but she looks less like she’s about to sprain her own wrist by twisting her claws around one another. 

“It’s, um, nice to hang out with you again,” she mutters. 

“Heh, thanks. Been a while.” 

“Yeah! And it wasn’t my fault this time,” Alphys puts in brightly, looking relieved. “I mean, I did ask you lots of times to hang out, so I wasn’t the one doing the avoiding.” 

She sounds proud of herself, but her words give Sans pause. He flicks the spinner and moves his piece, but keeps an eye on Alphys thoughtfully. Then, casually, he asks: “Huh. Are you mad?” 

Alphys jumps. Anxiety snaps back into her body language; she tugs at her claws, shoulders hunched against on her neck. “M-mad? Wh-why do you say that?” she giggles shrilly. “I mean . . . it w-would be really hypocritical of me to get mad at someone for avoiding people!” 

Sans shrugs, still smiling. “Hey, people get mad at me a lot. I mean, have I really spent my time well if I don’t irritate at least one person each day? So, if you’re mad, you’re just validatin’ me.” 

“No, I’m not . . . I’m not mad. I just meant that before, I was the one who used to avoid everyone! But, uh, this time I tried really hard to reach out! So, uh, I’m doing a lot better.” 

“Good job,” Sans agrees. “And you’re not mad.”

“We-eell, I guess, um, maybe a little frustrated?” Alphys admits slowly. “But not really! I guess I don’t really, um, know why it took years for us to hang out like this again. I was trying. And I’d kind of almost given up, thought you just . . . didn’t want to be friends anymore? But now you’re here. And, I, uh, don’t understand? But it’s cool!” she adds hastily. “D-don’t worry about it! I’m just glad we’re hanging out!”

There are worry lines around Alphys’ eyes now, and she’s not looking at Sans directly. She snatches the spinner and flicks it, but she’s so nervous that it takes her three tries to get the arm spinning.

“Heh. Sorry, bud. It wasn’t anything personal. You know me, though. Just too lazy. My bad.” He offers her a wink. 

But Alphys frowns. “Actually, Sans . . . um, that’s kind of hurtful. It makes it sound like you just don’t care.” 

Sans doesn’t know how to respond to that. 

Alphys sighs. “And anyway. Um, I don’t believe you.” 

“Don’t believe I’m lazy?” Sans repeats, almost laughing. 

“Don’t believe that’s why you wouldn’t hang out,” Alphys retorts, with a surprising amount of strength in her voice. “You’ve always been lazy. Or. At least, since you left the lab. But even when you were taking three lunch breaks a day or whatever, you were hanging out with people. You used to be friends with, like, everyone in the Underground! You knew everything about everyone. But you don’t hang out with anyone anymore.” 

“That’s not true. I hang with Toriel and Frisk, and Papyrus. Flowey, too, although that’s not really by choice.” 

“That doesn’t count. They’re your family; you live with them. Technically, you don’t have a choice with any of them!”

“I don’t live with Papyrus.” 

“You know what I mean!” Alphys cries, exasperated. “All the people you used to go out of your way to see, to check in on . . . you don’t, anymore. But you used to. And it’s not like the laziness is new.” 

Sans shrugs. “Well, maybe I’ve gotten lazier.” 

Alphys eyes him. “Maybe. But, um, you know, uh, if . . . if there’s anything going on, you can talk to me, right? I kind of, um, get wanting to avoid people.” 

“Yeah, I know,” he replies. “Thanks. But I promise, there’s nothing going on. Everything’s cool.”

“Right . . . So. Um. It’s not about the resets?” 

Sans doesn’t drop his pawn. He very carefully places it on the next blue square and says calmly: “‘Course not. There still haven’t been any resets since the Underground, right?” 

“Well, no, but--” 

“See? Everything’s cool.”

“Well, I thought . . . um, well, the last time we talked, the two of us, was when you found out about Flowey’s powers. So, uh, maybe . . .” 

Sans waves off the thought with a dismissive hand. “Nah. You said that I was avoiding everyone else, too, right? None of them know about Flowey.” 

“I suppose . . .” 

“Everything’s cool,” he repeats lightly. “I just screwed up. Sorry ‘bout that. Tryin’ to be better, but you know, the habit’s hard to break.” 

“Um. Right.” 

“Spin.” He holds out the spinner to her. 

She obligingly takes it and flicks. 

Silence stretches between them for another few turns. Around them, the cafe bustles, a stark contrast to their quiet table. An unexpected roll of dice sends the next table over into an uproar, and Sans watches with fond amusement as the board almost gets overturned in the excitement. 

“So, how’s married life treating you?” Sans asks finally, as he moves his own piece. They’re getting quite close to the end of this round.

“Oh . . . um, really good. It’s really cool. It’s really awesome. I mean, I-I guess it’s not that different from when we were living together before? But it’s just really cool to come home to Undyne every day . Which we were doing before, but now we’re married .”

Sans chuckles lightly. “Yeah, that’s pretty cool. How many years has it been now?” 

“It was our third anniversary in May,” Alphys supplies. 

“Oh, cool. You do anything for it?” 

“Yeah! We, um, went to a LARP. It was so much fun. I played a shy wizard, and she was a paladin who dragged me into the fight against the Big Bad by seducing me with her wiles.” 

Sans eyes her, amused. “So, you played yourselves, huh?” 

“Well, I suppose a little, with the whole ‘her pulling me out of my comfort zone’ thing . . . ,” Alphys admits.

“Yeah, and your classes are a little on the nose.” 

“Huh?”  

“You a wizard, her a paladin. You played a magic scholar, and she played a knight with a cause. Who would Undyne’s patron deity be? Asgore, I guess? Anyway. You guys literally played yourselves.”

“You are such a nerd ,” Alphys snickers. 

“Hey, I’m not the one who went LARPing for my anniversary,” Sans points out.  

“I didn’t say I w-was criticizing you. Nerds are good. But how do you know that stuff anyway? Have you even ever LARPed or played Dragons and Dungeons?” 

“Heh, you think I would’ve played D&D without you finding out about it?” 

“Well, you haven’t called me in like six years.” 

“Oof. Touché. Still, though, you hang with my kid like every week. Frisk definitely woulda told you.” He kicks his feet up onto the table. 

“Alright, but that still doesn’t answer how you know that stuff.” 

“Well, as you said, I’m a nerd.” 

“If you-you’re not going to tell me, fine,” Alphys grumbles good-naturedly. 

Sans laughs. “Hey, it’s not like that stuff is class -ified.” 

“I guess you’re right. But seriously, you know D&D classes, and you wanted to play Candyland ?” 

He shrugs. “Candyland’s a whole lot simpler. Gotta appreciate the basics.” 

Alphys laughs into her claw. “You are hopeless.” 

“I aim to impress. Or depress , more like.” 

Alphys rolls her eyes, but doesn’t laugh at that one. Sans flicks the spinner, and wins again. Alphys gives him a dry look that plainly says she knows he’s cheating at this point, but doesn’t care enough to argue. 

“And, um . . . so what’s going on in your life, other than naps?” Alphys asks.

Sans shrugs. “Nothing to write home about, even if there was anyone at home to get the letters.” 

“What about that, uh, thing you emailed me about in April? With the professor studying neutrinos?” 

Sans gathers up the pieces and resets them at the start of the game. He offers the spinner to Alphys. She takes it, and spins absently. “What about it?” Sans asks mildly, as he moves Alphys’ piece.

“Did you ever get to work on her project?” 

“You actually thought I was gonna start working on a project? Wow. I haven’t even had a job in years.” 

“Well, I dunno . . . you used to really love your neutrino work . . .” 

“There’s a lot I used to do,” he comments, and flicks his spinner. 

“Oh. So. Uh. Nothing happened with that?” 

“Nah, not going anywhere.” 

“Oh . . .” 

Sans ignores the disappointment in her mumble. Not his fault if Alphys picked up unreasonable expectations of his work ethic somehow. He moves his own piece, and gets stuck in the licorice forest.  

Alphys decides to change the subject, her voice high-pitched with a nervous giggle. “And um, speaking of married life, you and Toriel, um . . .” 

Sans peers at her, amused. “You asking if Toriel and I are ever gonna get married?” 

“N-no! I would -- wouldn’t ask that! That’s private, of course. I just meant, um, facetiously, you’re like. Together so long that it’s like you’re, um. Already m-married. And it’s nice to see, you know? You seem happy with her. I’ve never seen you in a long term relationship before. I wasn’t sure you’d ever be in one? But now you are! And I was just going to say you’re cute together. And I’m happy you found her! Oh, man . . .” Alphys trails off, looking extremely embarrassed. 

“Aww, you ship us? That’s sweet.” 

“I, uh. Try not to say I ship my friends. Er. Anymore. Catty and Bratty really didn’t like that . . .” 

“So we don’t get a ship name? Shame. That would’ve been cute.”

“Um, I don’t . . “

“What about ‘Torians’? Eh, I guess that kind of sounds like an alien species from Star Walk . Sanriel? Soriel?” 

“I . . . er. UsuallywentwithSoriel.” 

Sans beams. “Aw. That’s adorable. And what did you call the Asgore-Toriel ship? Asgoriel? How’s that fic coming along, anyway?” 

Alphys immediately buries her face in her claws and groans. Between her fingers, Sans can see color flush her scales a deep red. “Oh my god . I’m so sorry about that. Have I said that before? Oh my god .” 

Sans bursts out laughing -- it’s a stomach-deep, unstoppable kind of laughter that washes over him like a wave. He laughs so hard it’s hard to find breath, his hands clutching at his belly as Alphys peeks through her claws to stare at him in bewilderment. When he finally manages to suck in air long enough to speak, Sans rubs at the tears that have blossomed at the corners of his eye sockets. 

“Oh, man. Your face was great. Heh. Don’t worry about it, really. I don’t care about the fic. I mean, Tori does, so like, yeah, don’t do it, but--” 

“I haven’t written it in eight years ,” Alphys mumbles into her hands. 

“Oh, really? Cool.” 

“ . . . Are you mad?” 

“Mad?” Sans echoes. “‘Course not. I just said I didn’t care, didn’t I?” 

“Yeah, but that just came off as kind of . . .” She trails off. 

“Kind of what?” 

“Um. Never mind.” 

“‘Kay.” 

Alphys looks down at the board, her expression resigned. “. . . Can we play something else?” she asks finally. 

“Sure,” Sans says. “How ‘bout UNO?” 

Alphys sighs heavily.

---

Alphys, ultimately, agrees to UNO. Sans wins again, but this time Alphys catches him cheating when she accidentally kicks one of the many cards he had surreptitiously dropped to the floor. But after two rounds (in which he continued cheating, but stuffed the cards into his jacket instead), she apologizes and says she has to get back to work. 

“This was fun, though,” she tells Sans, at the exit to the cafe. “I l-liked catching up with you. We should do this again.” 

“Sure thing,” Sans agrees. “Welp. Better get going now. I’ve got a busy afternoon.” 

Alphys laughs at that. 

She waves as she starts off down the sidewalk. Sans tosses her a lazy wave in response, then heads in the opposite direction. At the end of the block, he turns a corner, and steps off Park Avenue directly onto University Street. 

This part of the city borders the financial district, and it’s bustling with energy. Business professionals and the few university students who stuck around for the summer semester cluster at walklights, like penguins jostling before going over the edge; cars are backed up twenty deep at traffic lights. The pound of a jackhammer sounds from a few blocks over, where roadwork has taken over two lanes. Sans winks at a wide-eyed child who evidently had noticed him step out of nowhere, and crosses the street in the direction of the university.

He’s not really pursuing the neutrino project. It’s not like he’s actually going to step foot in a lab or run an experiment. The fact that he’s on campus doesn’t mean anything. He’s just . . . dropping by. 

Really. 

There’s a heavy knot of anxiety in his belly, but he keeps walking. Sans’ feet carry him all the way to the tall, industrial-looking physics building, and he looks up at the concrete structure, which has small, set-in windows. It’s not exactly an inviting building, but it still probably gets more natural light than the CORE did. Probably. 

What am I doing? Sans thinks. 

Nothing, he answers himself furiously. I’m just dropping by. I’m not going to do anything. 

Dr. Rubin’s office is on the third floor, and the elevator drops him off on a long hallway, tiled with beige and lined with silly printouts of science jokes. He finds Dr. Rubin’s office at the end of the hall, and hesitates. 

I’m not doing anything, he reminds himself. I’m just dropping by. Like she asked. Ignoring the small part of him that is marveling at how far he’s come despite his own protests, he raises his fist and knocks. 

“Come in!” 

He opens the door. 

Dr. Rubin stands at a tall desk, considering the display on an enormous computer screen that stretches almost the length of the entire desk. Shoulder-length tawny hair is pulled back into a short ponytail, and she wears thick glasses with bright-red frames. When the door opens, she takes a heartbeat to finish examining whatever it is she’s looking at on her screen before looking up. 

A smile crinkles the corners of her eyes. “Hello,” she greets, in a tone just a note warmer from stiff. “You must be Sans?”  

“Yep. Pleased to meet ya.” He holds out a hand. 

Dr. Rubin reaches out, but pauses just before she takes his hand. “. . . Is that a hand-buzzer?” she asks, spotting the small black circle strapped to his metacarpals. 

“Whoops. How did that get there?” 

Dr. Rubin gives him a strange look, and declines to take the proffered hand. “I'm glad you were able to make it in. How was your trip over? You said you live in the city?

“Yep. Felt like I just walked across the street.” 

“Good to hear. Why don’t you take a seat?” She gestures to the two chairs in front of a shorter desk to the left of the room. Sans takes one, and Dr. Rubin picks up a tablet from beside her large screen and comes over to take a seat across from him. 

“We’ve been looking over the files you sent us,” she tells him. “I think we’ve figured out most of it, but there are some areas where we can’t quite figure out what you were doing. Perhaps because the code you were using is a little old?” 

As she turns the screen of the tablet toward Sans, a sense of vertigo shoots through him. What am I doing? he thinks again. 

He exhales, long and soft. He’s just proof-reading a couple equations. He’s done the same thing for Frisk before for their homework. Nothing special. And even if these are equations that he wrote . . . it’s the same principle. He’s not really doing any kind of research; he’s just helping out. Just this once. 

He takes the tablet. 

His notes are displayed on the screen. The notes have been cleaned up, so they look less like drunken rambles, and in places the text is highlighted or tabbed with comments. “Alright,” he says. “What’re you stuck on? Can’t promise that I’ll know what was going through my mind at the time, but I can give it a shot.”

Together, they pore over the notes. Dr. Rubin points out inconsistencies, or areas where Sans had just trailed off mid-thought, and he tries to make sense of the unfinished notes. At first, the sense of vertigo is so poignant he feels that his head is spinning every time he looks at the numbers, but the feeling slowly ebbs. By the time they get to the end of the last page, Sans’ attention has narrowed to nothing but the notes and Dr. Rubin’s intermittent comments. When he finally looks up, he’s shocked to realize that a full hour has passed. 

“Thank you,” Dr. Rubin says, gathering up the tablet. “That’s a great help. We’ve already started integrating some of this into the paper we’re working on, and we can run the rest of the simulations this week.” 

“Sounds great. Glad we had this simulating conversation.” 

Dr. Rubin gives him another odd look -- there’s a twitch at the corner of her mouth, so she at least wants to laugh, but she doesn’t. Shame. 

“Would you mind dropping by again after that? In about two weeks, perhaps. We should have the results by then, and it would help if you would go over them with my doctoral student, Amanda. You two can do lunch if you like, on the lab. I have some funds I need to use up before the end of the grant period. The cafe next door is quite nice.” 

That sense of vertigo spikes, but weaker than before. What am I doing ? he thinks, even as he opens his mouth and says: “Sure, sounds good.” 

“Great. I will have her email you.” 

It’s free lunch, he reminds himself. He’s just taking advantage of a free lunch. 

There’s a heavy sense of guilt at the bottom of his soul that tells him he doesn’t truly believe that. But the guilt isn’t enough to stop him from nodding and saying: “Alright, cool.” 

As he walks out of the office, his head spins. What am I doing? 

---

When Sans gets back to the apartment, he sprawls out on the couch, in the hopes that a nap will calm his head. He’s roused some time later by the click of the front door opening. 

Sans yawns widely and blinks his eye sockets open. He props his head up on one hand as he rolls over to observe Toriel and Frisk pulling their shoes off. The both of them are dressed smartly: Frisk wears a neat white button-down and pinstripe slacks, and Toriel wears a deep blue satin dress that flares out around her waist. He’s pleased to see by their expressions that the meeting must have gone well. 

“Heya,” Sans greets. “How was it?” 

“Good,” Frisk tells him, with a self-satisfied expression. “They’re adapting the syllabus, and have agreed to run any changes by Alphys!” 

“Great work, kid.” 

“Frisk really did a wonderful job,” Toriel puts in fondly. “You were so confident during your presentation!” She gives Frisk a tight hug, which Frisk readily tolerates. 

“Mom was good, too,” Frisk adds, when they manage to free their hands from Toriel’s embrace. “You know that scary look she can get? Great for the jerks who pretend they’re too good to listen.” 

“I do not mean to be intimidating,” Toriel says, but there’s a mischievous glint in her eye.

Sans chuckles. “Yep. I know that look well.” 

“I do not use that look on you!” 

“You do, if I’ve done something dumb like eaten nothing but chips the last three days.” 

“Oh. Well. I do worry about your diet.” 

Frisk sniggers into their hand. 

“And how was your day, dear?” Toriel asks Sans. “Did you do anything fun today?” 

Sans hesitates a heartbeat. Meeting Alphys, visiting the university -- the day’s events loom large in his mind. Too large. He can imagine the surprise on Toriel and Frisk’s faces, the eagerness, the questions, the intensity . He feels a sharp spike of guilt in his own gut. 

Not yet. 

Sans passes off the pause as sleepiness with a wide yawn. “Nah,” he says finally. “Just hung around. Nothin’ interesting.” 

Chapter Text

When Toriel pulls into the parking spot alongside New Home St., Sans feels suddenly as if he’s a hundred pounds heavier. He glances out the window, through the dreary afternoon drizzle, and tries very hard not to crumple the intake forms clutched in his hands.

Toriel had been kind enough to offer to drive him down to his new therapist’s office. The twenty minutes had passed much too quickly, and now they are here. And Sans needs to get out of the car. 

He lets out a slow exhale and does not move to open the door. 

“Would you like me to come in with you?” Toriel asks. 

“Nah, it’s okay,” Sans says, and finally pops open the door. 

“Alright. Good luck, dear. I am proud of you.” 

“Heh, thanks.” 

“Do you need me to pick you up afterwards?” 

He shakes his head. The company on the way in was nice, but he can make his way back on his own without dragging Toriel all the way downtown. “I’ll be fine. I’ll see you at home.” 

“Alright. I will see you then.” 

He climbs out of the car and makes his way down the sidewalk. The fine, mist-like drizzle is cool against his face, and puddles splash against his exposed shinbones. Halfway down the block, he stops in front of a set of wide, glass double doors that lead into a tall office building. A plaque at the side of the door lists Dr. Livingston as one of the many offices within. Sans glances back over his shoulder and watches as Toriel pulls out of her parking spot and drives away. 

Exhale. 

He goes inside. 

Sans finds Dr. Livingston’s office on the fifth floor, and lets himself into the waiting room. The waiting room is small, with only about a half-dozen chairs and a single coffee table, which is scattered with magazines. Tall, leafy green plants stand in each corner, and abstract, psychedelic-like paintings that remind Sans of oil spills are hung on three walls. The last wall is made of floor-to-ceiling windows, through which Sans can look past the rain and out across the road below. 

Sans takes a seat and thumbs through one of the bridal magazines on the table. He doesn’t have long to wait. He only gets a quarter of the way through an article on floral selections when the door to the waiting room opens. 

“Hello, Sans?” 

He looks up. The woman who has stepped into the room is tall and kindly-looking; she surveys him with a small, warm smile. Her skin is mid-brown, and her puff of tight, dark curls are pulled back from her forehead with an olive green hairband. 

“Heya,” Sans greets, putting aside his magazine. “You Dr. Livingston?”

“Please, just call me Jean.” She reaches out a hand to him, which he takes. 

“Cool. So, Jean, what’s it like making your Livingston treating monsters?” 

She smiles broadly at that, which wrinkles up her eyes with the force of her smile. “Clever. It’s not just monsters, though. Anyone who would like to see me. And I would say it’s, ah, interesting. Monsters and humans don’t have the exact same concerns, but all people have a lot of the same needs.” 

Sans nods. “You see Napstablook, right?” 

“I cannot discuss my other patients, I’m sorry.” 

“Right, of course.”

“Well, why don’t you come in?” Jean invites, with a gesture toward the door. 

Obligingly, he pushes himself up from his seat and follows the sweep of her hand into the next room. The therapy room looks much like the waiting room outside, with the large potted plants and oil-spill paintings, but this room has more comfortable, squashy chairs, and the coffee table carries a notepad and a single tissue box instead of an arrangement of magazines. 

Sans settles himself into the squashy chair closest to the door, and Jean takes the other, her back to the tall windows. She pulls the notepad toward her and clicks open a pen. 

“Did you bring the forms I emailed over?” Jeans asks him. 

Sans passes his folded papers over -- printed with questions like if he is eating less than usual (definitely not) or if he is sleeping a lot (of course). Jean skims the papers and then tucks them away in a folder.

“For our first session, I will take notes,” Jean tells him. “After this, I won’t need to, but just because this is our first session -- is that okay with you?” 

“Sure.” 

“Great. And before we get started, I need to remind you that everything you tell me will be kept private and confidential -- unless you tell me something that makes me concerned for the immediate safety of yourself or someone else.” 

“Sounds fair.” 

“Good.” Jean sets the notepad on her knee and leans forward. “So, why don’t we start with you telling me why you’re here?” 

Sans pauses for a long moment, organizing his words. His gaze drifts from Jean to the windows behind her, where rain is still trickling slowly down the glass. 

“Uh, I dunno,” he says slowly. “I guess to get my head on straight?” 

“In what ways is your head ‘not on straight’?” she asks. 

He shrugs. “Guess there’s a couple things I’m not dealing with right. And I, uh, screwed up with my family a couple times ‘cause of it. So I’d kind of really like to not do that anymore.” 

Jean scratches a few words down. Sans tries to peer at her paper, but she’s holding the notepad at an angle so he can’t read it. 

“Can you tell me about what these events that happened with your family are?” 

Sans runs his tongue along the back of his teeth and blows out a breath. Shame wriggles uncomfortably in his gut.  “Uh, well. My partner asked me to come here ‘cause I guess I put too much on my kid.” He rubs at the back of his neck self-consciously. In his mind’s eye, he can still see the expression on Papyrus’ face as he dangled over the CORE, glowing faintly blue. That story sticks in his throat. 

“Anything else?” Jean asks. 

“Probably,” Sans tells her, and immediately feels a spike of shame. He promised Toriel he would try therapy, and he knows he needs to be honest. But the story of Papyrus slipping into the CORE, of his own callous apathy, stays lodged inside him.

Jean scribbles down another few words. Sans waits, tense, for her next question. Surely, she will ask about what he told Frisk. Surely, she will dig into those places that feel like barbed wire to speak about. He braces himself. 

But instead, Jean asks him: “Tell me about your family. You mentioned a partner and a kid. What are they like? Perhaps, let’s start with your partner.” 

Sans blinks once, feeling his eyelights flare. “You asking me to talk about my family? Sweet. Well, my partner’s Tori. She’s the coolest. She’s kind and tough, and completely hysterical. Like, the other day I guess she found some of my prank stuff, and so she took those glasses with the eyes with the springs on them, you know what I’m talking about?” 

Jean nods. 

“Yeah, well, she put them on before our kid and I got home, and then anytime we tried to mention them, she kept acting like she had no idea what we were talking about, like everything was perfectly normal. Heh. That was great.” 

Jean laughs appropriately. Sans decides he likes her. 

“How did you meet Tori?” Jean asks. 

“Underground. She used to live in the Ruins, see? And I was a sentry. My route would take me out to the door to Ruins. It was always sealed, though. But I’d stop there and practice my jokes.” 

He never tires of telling the story of their first knock-knock jokes. He can still feel his soul tight in his chest, but telling this story -- this much he can do. 

Jean chuckles at the jokes. When he finishes, she continues: “It sounds like you feel very secure in your relationship.” 

“Yeah,” Sans agrees. “Toriel is the best.”

“And the rest of your family? You mentioned a child. Do you have just the one?” 

“Yep.” Sans watches Jean’s face carefully as he continues: “They’re pretty cool, too. You probably know them. Savior of monsterkind and all that.” 

But Jean easily replies: “Ambassador Frisk, right?” 

“Aw, you don’t seem surprised. Did you already know who my kid was? I try real hard to stay out of the limelight.” 

“I didn’t know from the beginning or anything,” Jean reassures him. “But when you said your partner was named Toriel, I guessed.” 

“Did that much surprise you?” 

She smiles. “A little.” 

“Huh. You’re good at not showing it. Usually I’m pretty good at reading faces.” 

She gives him another smile that he can’t quite decipher the meaning of. “Tell me about your relationship with Frisk.” 

The session continues, easier than Sans had expected. Jean gives him plenty of space to talk about his family and how he feels about them, and he runs with it. It’s great to have a captive audience to regale with the incredible wonder that is his family. He talks about Toriel’s compassion and integrity, about Frisk’s energy and humor, Papyrus’ courage and brilliance. He tells Jean about Papyrus’ after-school program, and the education policies Toriel and Frisk are fighting to change even now. He talks for a long time, and Jean does not interrupt. 

But eventually, at one of his pauses, Jean speaks up: “And what about -- any parents?” 

Sans’ chest jolts, in the same kind of way that he associates with tripping over his shoelaces; it’s that same shock and resignedness in that heartbeat before he hits the ground. 

Casually, Sans shrugs. “My dad kicked the bucket long before we got to the surface.” 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Jean says softly, genuine concern furrowing her brow. “How . . . how did he die?” 

“Lab accident. He fell into his own experiment.” 

“I’m so sorry. How old were you?” 

Sans shrugs again. “About twenty. Give or take.” Twenty, exactly. His birthday had been in September. Gaster fell in October. 

“That’s quite young,” Jean says sympathetically. 

Sans shrugs off her concern. “Eh. I was an adult at least. It was harder on Papyrus, who was still a kid.” 

“How old was he?” 

“Fifteen.” 

Jean pauses to write something down. Then, she asks: “Did you have another parent around after that?” 

“Nah. Just us.” 

“So . . . it was on you to take care of your brother?” 

Sans feels his soul twist sharply in his chest. He becomes aware that his eyelights have dimmed, and he drops his gaze to the floor. “Yep,” he says, forcing lightness into his voice. “Although Papyrus took better care of himself than I ever did. Turns out, I’m not that great at the whole ‘responsible’ thing.” 

The moment the words leave his mouth, he wishes he could take them back. He glances up and can see a curious look shine in Jean’s eyes; she’s going to ask him to explore his worst failures. He inhales.

And Jean asks: “And why do you say that?” 

Sans shrugs. “I let him down. I wasn’t there for him. He had to cook for himself, keep himself company. I was a shitty brother. And today I’m still pretty lazy.” He knows he’s leaving out large parts of the story -- his obsession to bring back Gaster, Papyrus’ slip into the CORE -- but those words are still stuck in his throat. 

Again, he feels that spike of shame. Toriel needs him to be honest here. Yet, he can’t. 

“It’s a lot to ask someone so young to look after their sibling, especially when they’re grieving,” Jean tells him, watching him with those kind eyes. 

Sans shrugs again. “I was an adult. He wasn’t.” 

“Twenty is still young. But also, when you say that you are ‘lazy’ now, can you tell me what that means?” 

“Uh, it means I’m lazy?”

“Yes, but what made you decide that you were ‘lazy’?”

Sans shrugs. “Well, Pap reminds me of it plenty.”

“It’s just because Papyrus says you’re lazy, then?” 

Sans scratches the back of his skull. “Nah. I mean, just in general, I don’t do a lot except nap.” He feels another squiggle of guilt at the not-quite-full truth, but going back on something he’d said in glibness feels . . . serious.  

Jean writes something else down quickly. “Do you work?”

“Nope,” Sans says, flashing her a crooked grin. “Unemployed about ten years now.” 

“Financially, how is your family doing?” 

“We’re okay,” Sans tells her with a shrug. “Toriel has her work, and the kid’s dad pays child support generously.” 

“I see. Do you think your family wishes you were more active?” 

Sans laughs. “Oh, yeah. Papyrus has been shouting about my laziness for years. And Tori and Frisk have been angling together to get me to go back to work, now that Frisk might start college soon.” 

Jean glances up at the clock, then pauses to write. Sans waits, preparing himself for the next question -- about his family’s shame, maybe, or what his work once was, or anything else he doesn’t really want to talk about.

But instead, Jean says: “I would like to ask you more about Frisk starting college, but we are running out of time. I think I have gotten some sense of where you are right now, and we can explore more concerns in your next session. For now, though, I want to ask you what your goals for our meetings are. What would you like to get out of this?” 

The question gives Sans pause. Goals? “Uh, I dunno. Fix my head?” 

Jean smiles. “Yes, but what does that mean for you?” 

To make up for letting Frisk and Toriel down by dragging out those stories against his will, he thinks. Forcing himself to show his shame to this perfect stranger for judgment. Somehow, he doesn’t think that’s the answer Jean is looking for. “To be better for my family, I guess.” 

“What will that look like?” 

“I don’t screw up?” Sans ventures.

“I mean, what will it look like for you?” Jean asks. “Maybe -- do you want to be more active?” 

He shrugs. “There aren’t really other things I want to do. Being around my family is the most important thing. So, not really.” 

“So you want to be there for your family,” Jean says. “Maybe one of your goals can be identifying the best ways to do that?” 

He shrugs. “Sure. We’ll go with that.” 

Jean nods. Her pen scratches as she, presumably, writes the goal down. “Alright,” she says. “We can explore more of your goals next session, but this is a good stopping point, I think. Would you like to set up the next session now?” 

Sans exhales heavily, feeling a weight lift off him. It’s over. “Yeah. Okay.” 

---

The rain is still falling by the time he gets back to the apartment, harder now. He can hear the rhythmic patter against the ceiling as he steps back into the living room, blessedly dry from his shortcut. 

“Hey, T,” he calls out into the apartment. 

“Sans!” Toriel bustles out into the living room. “How did it go, dear?” 

“Uh, not bad. First part was real easy, because she just wanted me to tell her all about my family. I could talk about you guys for hours.” 

“You flatterer,” Toriel says fondly. 

He grins at her. 

She startles him then by crossing the living room and enveloping him suddenly in a squeezingly tight hug. 

“Oof,” he protests, pressed up against her chest. “Uh, nice to see you too.” 

“I am so proud of you, dear,” Toriel murmurs, and the whiskers on her muzzle tickle the top of his skull. “I know that attempting therapy is something difficult for you, and I am so proud that you are going through with this.” 

“Uh, yeah. Of course.” 

Toriel pulls back, and her eyes crinkle with a smile. “You have always been cute when you blush.” 

Sans chuckles awkwardly and rubs hard at his cheekbones, which feel hot.

“So, did you like Dr. Livingston?” 

Sans shrugs, still rubbing at one cheekbone. “Sure. She seems cool. I see why Napstablook likes her.” He glances around the apartment. “Is Frisk back yet?” 

Toriel shakes her head. “They decided to have dinner with Kid.” 

“Oh,” Sans says, feeling a slight pang of disappointment to go a few more hours before seeing his kid again. 

Toriel must catch the look in his eye because she smiles softly. “Come into the kitchen, dear. I will make you a cup of tea. Would you like a cookie as well?” 

“Are these the ‘chocolate chip’ cookies from last week?” Sans comments dryly, even as he follows her. 

“Oh, no. This is a fresh batch - peanut butter, this time.” 

“That sounds excellent.” 

But when he makes it into the kitchen, he pauses. Toriel moves over to the kettle, not noticing him stop. Sans stays in the doorframe, eyeing the box on the kitchen table; the top is open, and inside, he can see a frayed ribbon, cowboy hat, and old burnt pan.

“Tori . . . ,” Sans says slowly. “You okay?” 

“Hm?” 

She turns back from the kettle to see Sans lift a torn notebook and orange bandana out of the box. “Ah. Yes. I am okay, do not worry. I was only remembering the children.” 

Sans puts the notebook and bandana back and runs one distal phalange along the hem of the tutu. When they’d gotten to the surface, Frisk had shown Toriel the assortment of items they had collected during their journeys in the Underground. Toriel had immediately recognized many of the objects, and her late children’s belongings had been lovingly packed away in a large box that was lined with blankets as if to keep them comfortable. Toriel usually kept the box in their bedroom, and she would sort through the objects on her bad days, clutching them as if she could still feel her children’s warmth through the items. She rarely brought them out into the open like this. 

“Yeah,” Sans says quietly, at a loss for something more to say. 

Toriel considers him silently. She collects one of the cookies from where they are piled three deep on a tray, and brings it to him along with a glass of milk. 

Sans nods a thanks and bites into the cookie. A small smile cracks along his face. “Heh. Snickerdoodle. Nice one.” 

Toriel smiles back, but there’s a tightness to it. “You do not need to treat me gently. I am honestly all right.” 

And when Sans considers her, he sees that her eyes are not clouded with grief. The grief is there, of course; it always is. But the grief hasn’t overwhelmed her today. Today, there is tenderness in her expression, something accepting and loving and . . . almost a sparkle of joy. 

But before Sans can say anything, Toriel continues: “Well, that settles it, then.” 

“Uh, settles what?” 

Toriel gestures to the box, with a sweeping gesture of her paw. Her eyes linger on the objects spilling out for a moment. “I was . . . well, I was considering keeping these out in the open.”

“Oh yeah?” 

“I kept these away for a very long time. I did not think I could handle the daily reminders, but . . .” She sighs, looks to the box again, and smiles. “I do not think that is true anymore. And the more I keep this shut away, the more the memory of the children becomes something we remember as painful. Your reaction just now proves it, dear.”

“I’m sorry, Tori, I didn’t mean--” 

She dismisses his concern with a shake of her head. “You did nothing wrong. Of course you would worry about me, if the only times you see me remembering the children are in times when I cannot handle the grief any more. But I do not want that to be our association anymore. I want us to be able to think of the children openly, and often, and associate them with the rest of our life.” 

“Of course,” Sans says immediately. “Sure, if that would be better. So, uh, do you just want to keep this in the living room now?” he asks, indicating the box. 

“I believe we can do better than a box,” Toriel muses. “Perhaps some way to display them.” 

“Like a shelf?” 

“Perhaps. Or . . . something more secure.” 

“Like one of those cupboards with the glass doors?” 

“A curio cabinet,” Toriel says. “Yes. Exactly. That would be perfect.” 

“Great. Yeah. Let’s get a curio cabinet, then.” 

Toriel smiles at him, the corners of her eyes crinkling tenderly.  “Thank you, dear.” 

Sans shrugs. “Of course. You want a curio cabinet? Then yeah, let’s get one.” 

“I mean, for everything. You have made everything about these years so much . . .” She pauses, searching for her words. “I would say easier, but it is more than that. More alive.” 

Sans can feel heat rising in his cheekbones again. Awkwardly, he rubs at the flush. “Um. Great. I’m glad.” 

Toriel smiles. “Another ‘peanut butter’ cookie?” 

“More than one cookie before dinner? Heh, what did I do?” 

“I just told you, dear.” 

Toriel takes his plate with his half-finished cookie, and turns back to the counter to collect another. As she does so, Sans sits heavily in a chair by the dining table, and lets his eyes linger on the box in front of him. 

Alive, huh. 

Chapter Text

It’s not even noon, and the day is sweltering. Sans lays sprawled out on the couch under the oppressive humid heat, magical sweat gluing his old, off-white tank to his ribcage. He gazes wistfully at the open window; the air is still, and no breeze stirs the curtains or offers relief in the sticky apartment. Sans is almost jealous of Toriel for having her all-day professional development seminar. He fondly imagines dozing at a conference desk in an air-conditioned room. 

Frisk meanders into the living room, carrying a carton of lemonade. Sweat slicks their hair, pressing their bangs to their forehead. They eye the couch consideringly, then appear to think better of it and flop onto the hardwood floor. 

Sans watches them with some amusement. “Heh. You comfy?” 

Frisk nods wearily. They set down the lemonade container and sign: “It’s cooler on the floor.” Then they sit up, uncap the carton, and swig directly from the lip. 

Sans cracks a grin. “I won’t tell your mom you’re drinking from the carton.” 

“I’m going to finish it!” Frisk grouches, pulling a face at him. “There’s only like one drink left anyway. Wasn’t worth cleaning a glass for. Too hot for that.”

“You don’t have to defend yourself to me, kid.”

Frisk rolls their eyes. “Turn the TV on,” they say with a lazy gesture. 

“Don’t know where the remote is,” Sans replies. “‘Sides, aren’t you gonna be watching a ton of TV at Alphys’ later?” 

“I’m eighteen . I’ve earned the right to bingewatch.” 

“Heh, good point. But you let your mom tell ya to turn off the TV last week, didn’t you?”

“Yeah. She’s mom .” 

“Oh, I get it. Different standards, huh?” 

“Obviously,” Frisk says dryly. 

They make a big show of dragging themself to their feet to look for the remote. But as they rifle through the clutter laid out on the coffee table, a sudden clanging on the steps catches both theirs and Sans’ attention. Both of them look up, and a moment later, the door bursts open. 

“HELLO, FRIENDS!” Papyrus greets, sweeping one arm in front of him in a broad gesture. He’s wearing his jogging outfit, and even his backwards baseball cap is damp around the rim. The arm he’s not gesturing with clutches at a large, badly-wrapped box. 

“Hey,” Sans greets from the couch. 

“Have you been jogging in this?” Frisk asks, disbelieving.

“Of course!” Papyrus crows. “It is very important to take care of your body! No vacations from ‘leg day’!” 

“I think taking care of your body includes not jogging when the heat index is ‘rainforest’,” Frisk comments wryly, but Papyrus isn’t looking. 

“But! Today my jogging had a goal! Besides being good to my body and being awesome, of course,” Papyrus continues. “I went to pick up this, for you, Sans!” Proudly, he holds out the box. 

Sans looks at the box in surprise, at the lopsided wrapping paper and ribbon that’s falling off the corner. “For me?” he echoes, amused and bewildered. “Aw, but it’s not even my birthday.” 

“I know that! This is just something you need.” 

Sans sits up and lets Papyrus hand him the gift. He pulls the wrapping paper off unceremoniously. An unusually large shoe box lies inside; when Sans opens it, he finds a pair of bright green snow boots nestled in tissue paper. 

The boots have treads almost as thick as one of Sans’ phalanges. Dark laces bind up the front, and a swath of thick fur insulates the top. They’re clearly heavy-duty, and a cardboard tag looped onto one the laces proclaims them to be rated for temperatures forty degrees below zero. 

“Snow boots?” Sans comments, bemused. “Heh. I guess it’s always good to be prepared. Those pesky July snowstorms, you know.” 

“Obviously, summer is the proper time to buy snow gear!” Papyrus retorts. “Winter apparel is on sale in summer! That is not to say that I don’t think you are worth full price, of course, but good snow gear is . . . expensive.”

Papyrus looks embarrassed as he trails off, and Sans feels his soul twist. 

“Thanks, Pap,” Sans says. “They’re awesome. I love them.” He pulls one boot on and tests his foot on the floor. “Fits great.” 

“Look cool, too,” Frisk puts in, looking appreciative. “The color really stands out.” 

Papyrus beams. “Now you don’t have to wear those worn out old sneakers or . . . slippers . . . in the snow!” 

“Heh. Hey, they were my brand. But these . . . well, they’re really boot -iful.” 

Immediately, Papyrus’ expression changes. His broad grin melts into a furious scowl. “You never take anything seriously!” he snaps, and snatches up the discarded box and wrapping paper from the floor. 

“Hey, c’mon, Pap. I’m being real serious. I sole -ly want to thank you for these super cool boots.” 

Papyrus lets out a sharp huff. “Sans, stop it! These are too important for your puns!” 

“Oh yeah? Why don’t you explain it to me? I could use a lace -son.” 

“NO! YOU KNOW BETTER! YOU’RE JUST BEING LAZY.”

“Puns are lazy?” Sans asks, letting out a little laugh. “Is that what you mean?” 

“THAT’S NOT -- WELL, YES! THEY ARE! FOR YOU!” Angrily, Papyrus dumps the box and paper into the recycling, and then stalks to the door. “AND I WON’T STAND FOR IT!” 

He storms out, slamming the door behind him. 

Sans stares after him, one boot still on his foot. He looks to Frisk. “Huh. Was it just me, or did Papyrus seem actually mad this time?” 

Frisk levels him with an impassive expression, their eyes keen and discerning. 

“What is that look?” 

Frisk shrugs. They take a long swig from their carton of lemonade and walk out of the living room. 

---

The heat wave hasn’t dissipated by Sans’ next therapy appointment, two days later. He’s almost relieved to step into the air-conditioned waiting room. Almost. 

Today, the view from the floor-to-ceiling windows is completely different, with bright blue sky stretching as far as he can see. Sunlight glints off the windows of the other buildings, and the sidewalks bustle. Sans takes a seat and observes the street below, one hand propped on his knee. It feels like far too soon before Jean comes to fetch him. 

As Sans settles into the armchair in the office, Jean reviews her notes from the previous session and then puts the notebook away. 

“So, how are you doing, Sans?” she asks. 

“I’m sans -ational,” he tells her. 

She cracks a smile. “How many times have you told that one?” 

He shrugs. “Eh. The classics have endless retell value.” 

“Well, puns aside, how are you doing?” 

“Puns aside? Ouch.” Again, he shrugs. “Eh, fine, I guess.” 

Jean nods absently as she leans back in her seat. “Has anything come up recently that you would like to discuss?” 

Sans considers, feeling an uncomfortable pressure prickling at his shoulder blades. To do this right for Toriel, he has to be honest. He has to be open. He thinks of visiting Dr. Rubin’s lab, of his guilt, of the whole history of how he’d walked away from research. Last session, they’d touched on Gaster’s death and the fallout. He knows Jean would like to return to that topic. Or to Frisk’s impending graduation. But that also makes him think of the pressure Toriel and Frisk have been putting on him to consider physics. His shame that he’s caved. 

Not yet. 

“Last week, uh . . . Toriel and I were talking about her, uh, dead kids.” 

Jean lets out a slow breath. “That sounds very difficult.” 

Sans eyes her. She doesn’t seem surprised by the topic, although he hadn’t talked about Toriel’s losses before. He wonders how much Jean already knows about Toriel, and if she’d looked up Frisk and Toriel after his first session. The hazards of one’s family being relatively important historical figures, Sans supposes. 

“Yeah. It was,” Sans agrees. 

“How did the topic come up?” 

“Uh, I came home, and she had a box of the kids’ stuff out. She doesn’t usually keep them out. Not that she hides them, exactly, just  -- she usually keeps them in the bedroom. Doesn’t keep them out in the open.” 

“Did she seem to be having a bad day?” 

“Not exactly,” Sans answers. “Actually, when I worried about her she said, uh, that she wanted to put the kids’ stuff out on display from now on so that we wouldn’t associate them with her being sad.” 

“What do you think about that?” Jean asks. 

Sans shrugs. “Uh, yeah, she should do that, I guess? Whatever she wants to do. They were her kids.” 

“Did you ever know them?” 

“Nah. They all passed before I met her.” 

“That sounds very difficult,” Jean says sympathetically. “How do you feel Toriel is coping with her grief?” 

“Uh, I dunno. I mean, they’re her kids. You don’t really come back from something like that. But, uh, she’s amazing.” He feels his eyelights dim as he feels a surge of blended emotion, and he drops his gaze to the floor. “She’s real open about her grief, even with the kid. But it doesn’t break her. Sure, sometimes she has a bad day or something, ‘specially around the day Chara and Asriel died, or on their birthday, but somehow she always gets up and does what she has to do. It’s pretty incredible.” 

Jean nods. She waits, but Sans doesn’t say anything else. As Sans continues to examine the paisley-patterned carpet, Jean finally continues: “Grief like this becomes part of the entire family. How do you feel that you interact with that grief?” 

“Me?” Sans echoes in some surprise. “I dunno. I just kind of  . . . try to listen to her, I guess. There’s not much else I can do. I mean, like I said, I never even knew the kids. Wish I did,” he adds, with a small, humorless laugh. “Maybe I could do more to help Tori then. Not to mention, the kids all sound like really cool people. But, yeah.”

“So, would you say that you feel like you can't help in this situation?” Jean clarifies. 

“Yep. Definitely. Tori says I help, but I have no idea how.” 

“That’s a very normal feeling in situations like this,” Jean tells him, a small smile creasing at the corner of her lip. “When the best things we can do are intangible, sometimes it feels like not enough.” 

“Yeah. Exactly.” Sans rests his elbow on the arm of his chair and props his head on his knuckles. “So, you gonna tell me how to fix that?” 

“Fix what?” 

“The useless feeling?” 

“Do you think it’s something to fix?” 

“Uh, I dunno. Do you?” 

Jean just gives him another small smile and lifts her hands in a semi-shrug, turning the question back to him. 

“I guess not,” Sans decides. “I mean, like you say, it’s normal. I can’t fix it for Toriel, so of course I’m gonna feel useless.” 

“Okay,” says Jean. “Well, with that in mind, how do you think you will feel about having this display in the house?” 

Sans shrugs. “I dunno. Whatever works for Tori, I guess? I guess . . . I’ll probably worry about her, even if she doesn’t want me to. ‘Cause it’ll just be this reminder of all the shit she’s going through all the time. So, I guess I’ll feel a little sad. But it’ll be fine.” 

Jean nods, still watching him. Under her keen gaze, Sans feels the urge to squirm. She seems to be waiting for him to continue, but he doesn’t know what else to say. What else is there? Toriel’s grieving, and there’s nothing he can do to fix it for her. It’s just something they deal with. 

Sans wracks his mind for something else to say. He opens his mouth. 

“And I guess . . . it’s kind of scary.” 

Huh. His own words surprise him. He pauses, considering. 

“Because . . . Asriel’s dead. So Toriel doesn’t have any bio kids. And boss monsters like Tori, well, they don’t age unless they have bio kids.” 

At that, Jean’s dark eyebrows arc in surprise. Hah. So she doesn’t know everything about Toriel already. 

“So. Yeah. One day we’re gonna have to do something about that. And this curio cabinet Toriel’s talking about is gonna be a reminder of that, every day.” 

“I see,” Jean says slowly. “When you say ‘do something’, what do you mean?” 

Sans rubs uncomfortably at his jaw bone. He suddenly wants to be done with this topic. Ironic; he’d chosen this topic as a safer discussion than anything else they could talk about which might tread into the waters of research. Now, he almost wishes he’d decided to talk about research. 

“Well,” he mutters, studying the paisley carpet again. “Either we’re gonna have to have a bio kid, or . . . one day, Tori’s gonna have to . . . off herself.” 

His voice feels thick. He swallows hard, as a raw sense of despair and dread opens up inside him. 

“Don’t much like either option,” he mumbles. He lets out a heavy sigh and presses the flat of his hand against his forehead. “Shit.”

“You talked about this with Toriel?” Jean asks quickly.

“Yep. That’s part of why I’m so freaked out. We talked about it, and okay yeah, she hasn’t decided yet, but she’s leaning toward fucking suicide .” 

“Does she have plans?” Jean says, alarm suddenly sharpening her words. 

“Nah,” Sans says quickly. “She means more on the terms of in like a few decades, when everyone else she already knows is super old and dying.” He eyes her. “But in, like, forty years, when she wants to die and she’s otherwise totally fine, would you guys do your whole ‘suicide alarm’ thing?” 

“I don’t know how we would deal with it exactly,” Jean replies, and thumbs at her hair band in a kind of nervous tic. “That . . . is a tough call, and not something human psychology deals a lot with. Maybe the closest analogue is the ‘right to die’, but that’s usually about chronic, terminal illness.”

“Yeah,” Sans mutters. “Tori says it’s different than being, like, suicidal, but it feels pretty much the same to me.” 

“I’m really sorry. That is . . . really tough.” 

“Yeah,” Sans says again. He thumbs at the hem of his shirt, worrying the fabric around his distal phalanges. “Nothing I can do, though.” 

Jean gives him a small, sad smile. “Does Toriel know how you feel about all this?” 

Sans responds with a little shrug. “Yeah, sure. Told her I didn’t like the idea. Asked her to keep the option of having a kid open. But in the end, it’s gotta be her choice. If she doesn’t want a kid, we’re not going to have one.” 

“Well, that much is true. But do you want another child?” 

“Uh, not really. It’s up to Tori.” 

“But if she chooses to have another child, you still would not want one yourself?” 

“That’s not what I mean,” Sans mumbles, running one hand over the back of his skull. “I don’t actually have strong feelings either way, I guess. Never really thought about having my own kids before, but if it’s for Tori, well, that’d be okay then. S’not like I’m actively scared of it.” He pauses, then lets out a breath of laughter. “Much.” 

“Much?” Jean echoes immediately. 

“Well, sure. Isn’t everyone reasonable a little scared of having kids? Plus, we know I’m not the best with responsibility.” He winks. “It’s a miracle Papyrus and Frisk survived with me around.” 

“You did mention that you felt you didn’t care for Papyrus in the way you wished you had.”

Sans feels a sudden squirm of discomfort, and sweat prickles along his brow. He lets out another awkward laugh. “Heh. That was meant to be a joke.” 

Jean smiles at him apologetically. “But you do think you wouldn’t be able to handle the responsibility?” 

“I think that if Toriel wanted another kid, I’d do what I had to do. But, uh, yeah, I’m glad Toriel would be there to make sure I don’t screw up too bad.” He shrugs. “But really, none of my thoughts on having kids matter, ‘cause it’s up to Toriel, and she’s not leaning that way right now. I just . . . don’t want her to be in a position where she’s gotta choose if she wants to live and . . .” 

He trails off. 

Jean’s watching him quietly. She does a good job of guarding her expression, of looking merely patient for his next comment. But he can see in the bright focus of her eyes that she’s thinking . . . something. 

“I’m really sorry,” Jean tells him finally. “Do you worry about Toriel’s choice often?” 

Sans shrugs. “Sometimes.”

“Do you tell her when you do?” 

“‘Course not,” he replies. “It’s gotta be her choice. Plus, I don’t really want to talk about it. So. Win-win.” 

“Well,” Jean says slowly. “Perhaps it may help to get some other perspectives or tools that have worked for other people.” 

“Uh, isn’t that kind of what we’re doing here?” Sans gestures between them. 

She smiles. “I mean, yes. But I was also thinking that, well . . . I mentioned there might be some similarity of your situation to people who have a partner who has a long-term terminal illness. That might be an avenue to pursue -- you may be able to find some insights from the advice available to those communities.” 

“I don’t know,” Sans mumbles. “I don’t really want to open up to a support group like that. It’s not exactly the same, and I’d feel like a real asshole complaining that my partner’s immortal .” He laughs. 

Jean concedes the point with a laugh of her own. “No, I didn’t mean a support group, specifically. Maybe just a book. I . . . might have a few related to that in my other office. I can bring it in for you next time, if you like.” 

“A book?” Well, that’s not so bad. He likes the idea of any option that doesn’t require him talking to more people. “Eh. Can’t hurt, I guess.”  

“Wonderful. I’ll bring it in next week, then. Let me make a note to remind myself.” 

“Sure.” 

As Jean pauses to scribble a line in her notebook, Sans chances a glance at the clock. Damn. Still half the session to go. 

---

Six years earlier

The day outside is beautiful -- sunny and clear, the temperature warm but not too hot. It’s one of the first warm days of the year, one of those days everyone should be out and enjoying. 

Sans, though, lazes in an armchair by the window. He dozes, not quite tired enough to fall asleep, but not quite motivated enough to stay awake. Occasionally, the sound of Frisk and Kid’s playing outside filters through the window, and Sans cracks one eye socket open to peer down at them. It’s good to see Frisk acting like a proper kid. 

There’s a gentle padding behind Sans. He doesn’t turn to look, until one large paw covers his shoulder. Finally, he lifts his head to smile up at Toriel. 

“Hey.” 

“Hey,” Toriel replies. Although she smiles back, there’s a shadow of concern in her eyes. 

Sans feels a pang of resigned guilt. No point in wishing Toriel couldn’t see through him the way she does; she’s always known him a bit too well. 

“I have finished folding laundry. Thank you for watching the children for me.” 

“Heh, no big deal. Lay around watching the kids? Almost as easy laying around watching a door.” 

Toriel’s paw moves to the top of Sans’ head, and she brushes gently at the curve of his skull. “How are you feeling, dear?”

“Absolutely Sans -sational.” 

That brings a real smile to Toriel’s eyes, and she chuckles. But then gently: “Have you had anything to eat or drink yet?” 

“Eh. Had a frozen burrito on the way over this morning. You know, the ice makes for a great texture.”

She laughs again. “That was a while ago. I will fix something else for you now.” 

“Sure. Thanks, T.” 

Sans watches her go. 

His mind feels like it’s trudging through a deep slog. It’s a beautiful day, and he’s hanging out with his amazing partner and their kid. Yet, he can’t focus; moving takes an obscene amount of energy. He lets out a breath and looks out the window again, watching as Frisk brandishes an empty paper towel roll as a sword. 

Alphys had said there was no sign of the timeline jumping, not since the Underground. Sans trusts that Frisk won’t turn back time. But he can’t shake the feeling that any day now, any second really, all of this will vanish and he will be slogging through great drifts of snow in the blackness again. The anticipation grips him so tightly he feels like he can’t breathe; grief for a loss that hasn’t happened yet is a painful pressure in his chest. 

But . . . it’s been four years. A whisper in the back of his mind wonders if this time, finally, they’re living one timeline. 

If only that thought brought Sans hope. But of course not. The thought of time moving properly again is almost as bad as the thought of an impending restart. If time is moving properly, he’s losing time. Days on the couch weren’t so bad when he knew he’d get to just live this day over again. 

He’s still watching Frisk. The kid has grown like a beanstalk this year, shooting up from under Sans’ nose to being almost a head taller. They’re lanky and awkward, not grown into their limbs yet. Just last month, Toriel had taken Frisk to get puberty blockers. The kid’s growing up. 

Years have passed since they’d all gotten out of the Underground, but Sans feels like he’s been existing in a fog. It doesn’t feel like years have passed. There’s a twist in his chest. He could be outside, hanging out with Frisk while they still are a kid, but instead he’s spending the day on the couch. 

He’s still gazing out the window when Toriel returns, carrying a plate with several sandwich triangles on it. 

“Here,” she tells him. “Eat something, dear.” 

“Thanks, T.” 

He takes a sandwich. Toriel smiles at him and takes a seat across from him, placing the plate on a side table. 

“Do you want to tell me what’s on your mind?” she asks.

Sans shrugs and bites into his sandwich. “Nah.” 

“Alright.” She picks up a knitting project from the side table and starts working. They sit in quiet together, with only the sounds of Frisk and Kid’s game from outside drifting through the room. 

Sans appreciates that Toriel doesn’t try to make him talk. These moments in companionable silence are one of the blessings of the surface; when they spoke through the door, the sound of each other’s voice was the only way they could know the other person was still there. These moments together, just being in each other’s presence and not having to speak, are peaceful. 

Sans eats his sandwich, and then has another. It helps, a little. 

The plate is empty, and Frisk and Kid have come back inside to play in Frisk’s room, when Sans’ phone rings. The caller ID tells Sans it’s Papyrus; when he flips open the phone he holds it out a bit from his head. 

“SANS!!” Papyrus yells, the moment Sans picks up. 

Toriel looks up, amused; the sound is loud enough that even not on speaker, she can hear every word Papyrus says. 

“Hey, bro,” Sans greets. “What’s up.”

“I JUST GOT HOME! YOU DIDN’T DO YOUR CHORES!! AGAIN!!”

“Whoops. Sorry. Turns out, laundry isn’t the loads of fun I thought.” 

“UGH! SANS, YOU ARE SO LAZY !”

The line clicks out, before Sans can drop his next joke (“Did you hear about the leopard that fell into the washing machine? He came out spotless!”). Sans chuckles and pockets the phone. “Guess I pissed him off,” he says to Toriel. “Oops.” 

Toriel frowns. “Sans . . . would you like me to talk to him?” 

“Huh? About what?” 

“You are not lazy. And as much as you joke about it, I know that you know you’re not lazy, either. You have told me as much.” 

“Uh, no, it’s okay,” Sans says quickly. “That’s just, uh, Papyrus’ thing. I don’t mind. Kind of nice he cares.”

But Toriel’s brow pinches together. “I . . . worry. I worry that hearing such comments from someone you love hurts you, dear. I do not doubt that Papyrus cares about you, but I am certain he would want to show that in the ways that help you the most. Perhaps if he knew you are struggling with depression . . .”

Sans shakes his head quickly. “Nah. He, well -- he already knows it’s bad feelings and that crap. Did I ever tell you how he used to just talk at me for hours on my bad days, trying to cheer me up and keep my mind off stuff?” 

“You did,” she replies softly. 

“So yeah, he knows. But, uh, I let him down bad when I was supposed to be looking out for him, and I guess he never really forgave me for that. This is his way of processing, I think.” He chuckles. “And, well, I really did slack on laundry day.” 

“Putting off the laundry for a few days will not hurt him.” 

“Yeah, well. Anyway, don’t talk to him, okay? He needs to be angry. Let him have this.” 

“Alright,” Toriel says finally. “He is your brother, and I trust your judgement. But try not to be too hard on yourself, please.” 

“Don’t worry,” Sans says, locking his fingers behind his head and tossing her a wink. “I never work hard at anything.” 

Chapter Text

“This here is our graduate student office,” Dr. Rubin tells Sans, as she pushes open the door. 

Sans follows her inside. ‘Office’ is a generous term, he thinks. The room is large and wide, but there’s more than a dozen desks crammed into the space. The students are squeezed into their corners, bookbags and clutter shoved under the desks to keep the space between them clear. The room was clearly never meant to be an office space, but tight quarters are at least well-lit with natural light filtering through large windows. 

When Sans and Dr. Rubin enter, a few students look up from their work, but a studious hum still lays over the room. Dr. Rubin leads Sans to the back of the room, where one student works right next to the window. She has frizzy, bright blue hair tied back in a haphazard ponytail, and enormous headphones pressed over her ears as she squints at her computer screen. Dr. Rubin taps the student’s shoulder, and she glances up; Sans notices then by the early wrinkles around her eyes that although he’d been expecting a kid fresh out of undergrad, she’s actually about his age. 

“This is Amanda,” Dr. Rubin introduces, as the student pulls off her headphones. “Amanda, this is Sans.” 

“Hey!” Amanda’s face cracks into an enormous grin. “So you’re Sans! It’s great to meet you! Thanks for all your help on the Altair project!”

She puts out a hand. Sans shakes her elbow. 

Amanda gives him a long, strange look. Sans grins back. 

“Sorry,” says Dr. Rubin. “He’s a bit of a practical joker.” 

Finally, Amanda cracks up. It’s a bit of a nervous laugh, like she doesn’t quite know what to do with herself, but it’s more of a reaction than Sans has managed to get from Dr. Rubin, so his grin widens. 

“Hey,” Sans says, finally releasing her elbow. “Glad I could help. Don’t exactly know how I got roped back into all of this, ‘course.” 

“Did you want to take Sans out to the cafe?” Dr. Rubin asks Amanda. “Here, I’ll give you my credit card; bill it to the lab.” 

“Oh, that’s right: free food,” Sans puts in. 

“Yeaaaaaah,” Amanda says, shooting Sans a conspiratorial grin. “That’s how it goes. Free food always sucks you in.” To Dr. Rubin: “Sure. Also, I sent you my files for the lab meeting this afternoon.” 

“Great. I’ll take a look at them.” 

“Come on, I’ll show you to the cafe,” Amanda tells Sans,swinging a beat-up backpack over her shoulder as she takes Dr. Rubin’s credit card. 

The day outside is bright and sunny; the oppressive heat wave of the previous weeks has finally lifted, and Sans feels as if he can inhale the resurging energy of the city. The campus itself is calm, but as they cross the street into the city into city center, they find themselves surrounded by throngs of people who have emerged out of the cooling comfort of air-conditioned indoors. 

Amanda leads Sans to a bustling cafe that spills out across the sidewalk. The text on the ruffled awning reads: “The Alley Cat Cafe”. Inside they place their orders -- a tuna melt for Amanda, and a hamburger slathered with ketchup for Sans -- and then return outside to grab a table in the shade. 

As the server comes over to fill their waters, Amanda says: “So, Joyce says you were doing research in the Underground. What was that like?” 

“The Underground?” Sans clarifies. 

“No, I mean -- well, sort of. I mean, what was the field like in the Underground? Is it at all like academia on the surface?”

Sans shrugs. “Beats me. I mean, I haven’t ever done real academia on the surface, you know.” 

“Oh, right,” she says, looking somewhat surprised. “So this is the first time you’ve gotten back into research since the Underground.”

“Yep. But from what I can figure, yeah, kinda different,” he admits. “I mean, there was only three of us. There’s a whole lot more than three of you scientists in just that grad office alone.” 

“Three, in, like, the entire Underground?” Amanda echoes, aghast. 

“Yep.” 

“You mean in physics.” 

“No, I mean, in science all around. Physics, biology, chemistry, robotics . . . there were three of us.” 

“Damn. How’d you even cover all the disciplines?”

“Well, we weren’t half as specialized as you guys try to be. We could study quantum physics on Monday, robotics on Tuesday and soul biology on Wednesday, ya know? And, also, if we’re being totally honest here, we didn’t cover all the disciplines. Don’t think we ever touched psychology.”

“That’s, uh, still pretty incredible,” Amanda says with a little laugh. “Kind of jealous. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love my research, but if I had to pick one thing I miss from my undergrad, it was the freedom to study broad stuff. I took a class on astrobiology once, and it was amazing.”

“Yeah, guess it was pretty cool.”

“Anyway, did you have a favorite topic, or just like it all?” 

Again, Sans shrugs. “Well, it’s your guys’ stuff that sucked me into doing simulations again in my free time, right? So, yeah. Physics, definitely.” 

“Physics broadly, or more specifically quantum astrophyics?” 

“The second one,” Sans replies. “Don’t care much for optics or mechanics, but neutrino stuff? That was my own pet project in the Underground. It was the closest I could get to seeing the stars, you know. Besides drawing constellations on my telescope lens.” 

Amanda laughs sympathetically. “Damn. I can’t imagine. I mean, it’s been weird enough for me moving to a city where I can only see a handful of stars after living in bumfuck nowhere the rest of my life. But no stars at all ? I mean, yeah, of course that makes sense. I just, never imagined astrophysics without stars.” 

“Yep. It was weird.” 

It surprises him how easy it is to talk to Amanda honestly about the actual realities of day-to-day science in the Underground. He’d expected to feel guarded, defensive. To want to hold all of this at arm’s length. But there’s something about Amanda’s clear enthusiasm for physics that’s infectious. Something in him answers her bright energy, and he finds that he actually wants to keep talking. Something in him actually wants to be excited, too. 

“You get to look at the stars now, though?” Amanda continues. 

“Sometimes, yeah. There’s not a lot in the city, but it’s sure more than there were before.” 

“You ever go out to the dark sky reserve a few hours from here?” 

“Yep. We go out there most years for the monster reunion, or for my kid’s birthday.” 

Her eyes light up. “Oh, you have a kid! How old?” 

He beams, delighted to talk about Frisk. “They just had their eighteenth birthday.”

“Wow, eighteen already! Mine’s only two, so we’ve got a long way before then. We’re still in the tantrum phase right now.”

“You have a kid too, huh?” Sans says, barely managing to veil his surprise. He peers at her, taking in again the early lines of not-yet middle age around her eyes, the heavy backpack at her feet bursting with papers. He shouldn’t be surprised, he tells himself; Toriel has always done an incredible amount of work, even while raising Frisk and her other children. But even so, when he looks at Amanda, he sees a scientist. It’s hard to see a parent as well. 

“Yep. His name is Damon. You want to see a picture?” 

“Yeah, sure. Lay it on me.” 

Amanda fishes her phone out of her pocket. She swipes through for a moment, then turns it around to show Sans a picture of a chubby toddler with a mop of dark hair, sleeping soundly curled up against a calico cat. 

“He’s being raised with three cats, so he thinks he’s a cat, too,” Amanda says fondly. “He always wants to sleep in their cat beds, and tries purring and rubbing his head against us for attention. Last week he tried to use the litter box!” 

“Heh. Kid’s gotta live his dreams,” Sans chuckles. 

“I don’t know exactly how to send him to cat school, but I support whatever career choice makes him happiest. Anyway, tell me about yours. What’s their name?” 

“Frisk.” 

“Frisk?” Amanda’s brow furrows. “Wait, like . . . Ambassador Frisk?” 

Sans grins. “Exactly like Ambassador Frisk.” 

For a moment, Amanda still looks perplexed. “But if they’re eighteen . . .” Then, her eyes fly wide. “Wait, actually Ambassador Frisk? Your kid is that Frisk?” 

“Yep.” 

“But I thought -- the king. Asgore. Isn’t he Frisk’s dad?” 

“Yep. But he and the kid’s mom have been divorced a long time. I’ve been living with Frisk’s mom a few years now.” 

“Oh. Wow .” Amanda lets out a breath of laughter. “At first I thought you meant you named your kid after Ambassador Frisk, but uh, wow. What’s that even like ?” 

Sans chuckles again, letting his eyelights glow brightly with amusement. It’s always fun to see the shock when folks -- well, humans -- put two and two together. He likes Amanda’s reaction much more than Jean’s. “It’s awesome,” he says sincerely. “They’re the coolest kid ever. They’re really funny, and stupidly brave, and absurdly driven. You’d like ‘em; everyone does.” 

“I can’t imagine how much they do even as a teenager. When I was a teenager, I watched TV and ate chips all day. I was even a terrible student.” 

He grins. “Don’t knock it. Sounds like we would have been great friends.” 

“Aw, thanks,” Amanda says, with another short laugh. “But uh, does the fame ever get frustrating? Like, how do you raise a teenager that way?” 

Sans shrugs. “Eh. It’s not too bad. Frisk may have let everyone out of the Underground, but monsters all know ‘em personally, as a friend first instead of some kind of savior. And that’s kind of just the way it always is with monsters. We all know each other, since there aren’t a whole lot of us. So that much isn’t weird. It’s just the humans who see Frisk as this kind of weird celebrity status, and there’s a lot of humans who’d rather have nothing to do with Frisk. And as long as I’m out of the limelight, I’m happy.” 

“All their Ambassador stuff must keep you busy, though.”

Again, he shrugs. “The kid manages a lot of it themself. Plus, their mom and dad are always helping them out. I mostly just pick up around the house and remember Frisk’s calendar, to be honest.” He eyes her, considering. “How’s it for you, though? Having a toddler while doing labwork? I mean, yikes, that sounds like a handful.”

Amanda lets out a bark of laughter at that. “You’re not kidding! I’m amazed I passed my comprehensive exams when I swear I was so sleep-deprived that I could barely read a straight line. One of the other students in the department waited until she was just writing up her dissertation to have her first kid, so she could hold the baby in one arm and write with the other, and you know, I think she might have had the right idea about it.” 

But then, her eyes soften. “But you know, it’s really not that bad. There’s a lot of flexibility in our schedule, and Joyce is super supportive of a work-life balance. I get home at five thirty on the dot almost every day, and if I need to take a day off because Damon’s got a fever or his daycare closed, I just do -- I don’t even have to tell Joyce, unless I have a meeting or an experiment that needs to be handled that day. My partner works in what’s supposedly a really progressive tech company, but even for him, taking time off is much more a hassle than it is for me.” 

“Huh,” says Sans. When he thinks of life in research, he certainly doesn’t think of coming home at five-thirty. Those days, he’d come home long enough to shower and fall into bed a lot of the time. Amanda’s schedule sounds strange. Surreal. 

“I mean, don’t get me wrong, academia has its issues,” Amanda continues. “Since I can work from anywhere, I do. I was editing a paper submission the week Damon was born. And the flexibility often encourages women in academia to take on a greater share of work compared to the men. It’s a whole thing.” 

“Yeah, that’d probably kill me. I’m allergic to hard work, you know.” 

She laughs. “You were in research before!” 

“Maybe I developed the allergy later in life.”

She grins. “Alright. So, what brings you back?” 

“To what?” Sans asks. “To science?” 

“Yep. Joyce said you’ve been a stay-at-home parent for a few years?”

There’s a sudden, guilty twist in Sans’ abdomen. “I’m not actually back,” he says quickly. “Just helpin’ out with this one project.”

“Oh!” Amanda looks surprised, and perhaps a little dubious. But she asks only: “Well, how’d you find our project then?” 

“It was on your website. I was checking out the school, ‘cause my kid is thinking of coming here for college. Saw your stuff, and hey, I used to do that stuff. I didn’t actually really mean to get involved, but, uh, oops.” 

“Research has that talent; it just sucks you in,” Amanda agrees, with a conspiratorial grin. Then, as if she has no idea how that comment made Sans’ soul lurch, she continues: “But you know, if you stay involved and Frisk does end up coming to Ebott U, you’ll have an excuse to annoy them on campus whenever you like.” 

“Heh. I like the way you think.” 

“Just parent priorities.” She winks. 

The front door of the cafe jingles, and a waiter steps out, carrying two plates. He sets the food in front of Sans and Amanda; for a moment, there’s silence, as they both dig into their lunches. 

As he eats, Sans watches Amanda. She’s not what he expected, but he’s not sure why. There’s no reason to think of science as a young person’s game -- Gaster certainly wasn’t young ; Alphys is getting older   -- yet he’d expected to be eating lunch with a kid closer to Frisk’s age than his own. He hadn’t expected to be chatting about children; he hadn’t been expecting to meet with a someone who was as much parent as they were a scientist. 

And he hadn’t expected to feel like this was right. 

Oh, there’s still a twinge of guilt inside when Sans looks for it, but it’s not that crippling sense of wrongness that he’d expected. Rather, it’s guilt that this should feel wrong when it doesn’t, and guilt that Toriel doesn’t know where he is.  

Amanda finishes one half of her tuna melt and licks the tips of her fingers. “I’m still trying to wrap my mind around what research life must have been like when there’s just three researchers. I’m guessing you guys didn’t have conferences or, heck, even journals! I mean, what, you’d guys have to be author, editor, and reviewer all at once, huh?” 

“Heh,” Sans says, voice muffled around a bite of burger. He manages to swallow. “You mean like science journals? Yeah, nah. Sometimes we wrote reports for the king, but that’s about it.” 

“You know, that’s super fascinating. I’m guessing no publish or perish either?” 

“Publish or perish?” Sans echoes, lifting his brow. “Sounds drastic.” 

“Wow. Yeah. Your existence in research wasn’t dependent on the number of peer-reviewed articles you managed to publish. Imagine. Just imagine.” She laughs, in a weary sort of way. But it’s with an energetic, cheerful tone that she continues: “You know, that’d be really fascinating to study. How your research differed from ours on the surface, when you don’t have the incentive to impress journal editors or get as many lines on your CV as possible for that next faculty position. I don’t know if it would really be even possible to compare if you didn’t have journal articles at all, but it would be so cool.” 

“Wait, aren’t you a physics researcher?” Sans asks, amused. “And aren’t you guys supposed to be super specialized here?” 

“I mean, it’s physics tangential . But yeah, maybe we could get a few psychologists on board . . . or sociology? I don’t know. I’m not sure which of the social sciences does this kind of stuff?” 

Sans shrugs. “Yeah, don’t ask me. Also, I’m not sure how much of the research we kept. A lot got left in the Underground, and apparently Alphys -- the only one of us still in research -- didn’t keep copies.”

Amanda hisses and clutches one hand to her chest. “ Oof. Lost research. That hurts.”

“Sorry,” Sans chuckles.

“I suppose we should be glad you could still lend a hand with our project then! Speaking of which, we should go over that at some point.” 

“Yeah, sure. Whenever’s good. ‘S’why I’m here.” Sans sucks on each of his fingers, licking the ketchup off his distal phalanges. 

Amanda rubs her hands on her napkin, scrubbing off the grease. From her backpack, she pulls out a stack of print-outs and slides them to Sans. 

“So, here, I ran the simulations with your suggestions, and I think everything worked! But just, can you look over them, make sure there aren’t any errors? I’ve also bulleted a summary of the results, if you want to glance over that, too.” 

“Yeah, okay.” 

He pulls the pages over to him and begins to thumb through them, leaving translucent streaks of grease on the paper. 

Amanda’s work is much more clearly organized than Sans’ original notes had been. He doesn’t find too many areas for her to improve her work, but he scribbles a few suggested bias corrections in the margins for the simulations. 

“It looks good,” he tells her, as he passes it back over. “There’s just a coupla things for you to look at.” 

“Great, thanks!” Amanda flips through, skimming his notes. “Your methods are just a little unorthodox, but they really work. You know, Joyce and I were thinking about adapting this into a methods paper. What do you think? You could have authorship on it, especially since, you know, you taught us the methods.” 

“A methods paper? I dunno. That sounds like a lot of work, doesn’t it?” 

Amanda laughs. “Isn’t research always a lot of work? But we do it anyway ‘cause we love it.” 

“Heh.” Sans’ gaze lingers on the stack of papers in front of her. He suddenly feels hyperaware of the way the warm metal of the chair presses against the back of his femurs, the sounds of the city around him. It feels at once distant and too close. “I suppose that’s what it comes down to, doesn’t it?” 

---

Toriel drops her purse on the small table by the front door, crosses into the kitchen, and notices almost immediately that Sans is in a strange mood. 

There’s a pot boiling on the stove, and Sans is rummaging through the fridge. Neither of those in themselves are particularly unusual, although it’s a bit early for dinner -- but then Toriel spots the pile of dirty dishes in the sink, some half-washed, the cooling pan of macaroni and cheese on the counter, the stack of packed tupperware in the fridge, and the empty plate on the table. 

It’s unusual for Sans to stress cook, but it’s a natural consequence of when anxious energy bundles up with his propensity for emotional eating. This isn’t the first time Toriel has seen him divert that energy into pounds of homemade food, all heavy in cream and fat and salt. 

“Hello, dear,” Toriel says softly. 

Sans jumps, poking his head out from over the lower fridge door. “Oh, damn. I didn’t see you come in, T. Guess I’m bone tired.” 

Toriel crosses over to him and wraps him in a greeting hug. “Hm,” she agrees. “Not too tired, clearly. Would you like to tell me what you’re making?” 

“Uh, nothing fancy.” Sans looks embarrassed, even as he leans into her hug. “Made some mac, and lasagna. Making some cheesy potatoes now. Just, you know. Easy stuff.” 

Toriel notices that his fingers are worrying at her arm, twisting and plucking gently at her fur. “I see. Do you want to tell me what is wrong?” 

“Wrong?” he echoes. “Heh. Nothing’s wrong. Just wanted to cook for you guys. Had some free time this afternoon, thought I’d get some dinners out of the way. That way we can laze about on the couch for the rest of the week.” 

Even as he talks, he’s not quite looking at her. His eyelights dart around the room, never settling on anything. Toriel watches him and feels her heart constrict painfully in her chest. 

“I see,” she says quietly. “Well, do not let me interrupt.” 

“I’m almost done. Help yourself to whatever, if you want.” 

“I am alright. But thank you.” 

Toriel releases Sans, and he returns to the stove. She watches as he tips a bowl of cheese into the pot on the stove and stirs. 

There’s a horrible loss in the pit of her stomach, as if the bottom has just dropped out. Toriel knows Sans is keeping secrets. She’d thought they were past this. They’d spent years helping Sans open up, getting him to talk about the worst memories he’d played close to his chest. He’d promised no more secrets.

But he’s in a strange mood, and he’s lying, and if Toriel’s totally honest with herself, she knows it’s been going on for weeks. She remembers a few sideways glances, the times he wouldn’t meet her eyes, the way he’s seemed distracted on occasion, or just a little too jittery. He’s lying to her. 

It’s not what the lie might be that bothers her. Toriel knows Sans. He is kind; he is gentle. He loves his family. Whatever secret he may be holding, she trusts the truth wouldn’t change how she sees him, and he is doing what he believes is best for his family, she's sure. But the fact that he’s keeping a secret at all makes her feel cold and shut out. Alone. 

She shouldn't be surprised. He's always kept secrets. But after the conversation after Frisk's birthday, when he'd admitted to knowing about Flowey trying to hurt Papyrus, she'd dared hope they might be done with this. Apparently not. And apparently, she's not as okay with that as she wishes she could be. 

Toriel moves over to the stove to set the kettle to boil. As she comes up next to Sans, she brushes one paw over the top of his skull. He looks up; she smiles back. 

“I love you,” she murmurs. 

“Love you, too,” Sans replies. 

And Toriel just brushes the top of his head again and prays silently that he’ll be open with her soon. 

Chapter Text

The morning after meeting Amanda for lunch at the Alley Cat Cafe, Sans wakes up with a whole lot more energy than he’s used to. 

The sun’s streaming in through the bedroom window; the day outside is bright and clear, and the thick leaves of the tree standing outside their apartment gleam like peridots. Sans extricates himself carefully from the bedsheets, not wanting to disturb Toriel, and pads over to the window. When he slides the window up, a warm breeze kisses his face, and the cheerful sounds of the street outside drift in: snatches of conversation, a bike clattering up against spiralling stair; a car trundling slowly down their residential street. 

Sans exhales. He feels good . He looks up at the sky, at the thin, wispy clouds like puffs of Toriel’s fur passing slowly overhead, and lets a real smile rest on his face.

He inhales again, deeply, as if to suck in all the goodness of the world he feels in that moment. Then, quietly, he leaves the bedroom. 

By the time Toriel steps into the living room, a thick bathrobe wrapped tightly around her shoulders, the rich smell of egg and butter and bread is heavy in the kitchen. 

“Morning, T,” Sans greets. He slathers another thick slab of challah in egg and milk, and then slides it into the pan on the stove. The pan sizzles. 

“Good morning, dear.” Toriel smothers an enormous yawn. “Are you making french toast for breakfast?” 

“Yep. Want some coffee?” 

“Yes, please.” 

Sans pours her a large mug from the carafe. Two creams, three sugars. He slides it over to her. 

“Thank you.” Toriel takes a long drink as she settles herself into a chair. 

“Got your paper, too,” Sans tells her, gesturing at the newspaper dropped on the table. 

“Oh, thank you.” 

But she doesn’t read it immediately. She sits back in her chair and watches Sans with a keen eye over her mug. 

Sans doesn’t ask her what she’s thinking. He flips the slice of french toast on the stove, and adds another to the pan. 

“Do you have any plans for today?” Toriel asks. 

“Eh, I ‘unno. Not really, but it’s a nice day. I could go bother Papyrus for a bit. Or maybe I could go busk in the park. I’m getting pretty good at the otamatone, I think. What’d’you think; wanna come?” 

“Hmm. I have some lesson plans to work on this morning. But if you are still there when I have finished, I will come join you. I will bring a kazoo.” 

Sans beams. “We could do a duet.” 

“Yes, indeed. I think that would be lovely.” 

Sans chuckles, and slides the finished french toast onto a plate. 

A door clatters open at the other side of the apartment, and suddenly Frisk barrels into the kitchen. They slam a notebook down on the counter and exclaim: “Jake’s throwing a party. It’s barbarians and librarians. I need a costume.” 

“Barbarians and librarians?” Sans echoes. “Heh. Cool. What are you gonna be?” 

“A barbarian librarian, of course.” They jab a finger at the notebook, where there is a rough but recognizable sketch of a bulky barbarian wearing glasses and a sweater vest. 

“Oh yeah, of course. Don’t know why I asked. So what do ya need?” 

“Fake furs, a sweater vest, some kind of barbarian weapon, and sandals or boots. Hey, do you think I could borrow Undyne’s spears?” 

“I think I would rather you did not bring a real weapon to a house party,” Toriel comments wryly, as she gets up from the table to come peer around Frisk at the notebook on the counter. “Although I trust you, there will be many other children there. Weapons and rowdy parties, ah, do not mix.” 

“Fiiiine,” Frisk signs grumpily. “Good point. Alright, I’ll make something. But then I’m going to need to get some EVA foam and maybe wood, and . . . I need to look up how to make a battleaxe.” 

“Not a spear anymore?” Sans asks, amused.

“If I have to make my own weapon, I’m going big.” 

“Well, fair enough.” 

“Hey, you made Papyrus’ armor before. Can you make me armor?” Frisk asks. 

He laughs. “I can, uh, give it a try. But I made that with stuff lying around my old lab. It only came out cool because Papyrus made it cool.” 

Frisk waves off his concern. “It’ll be cool on me, too.” 

“Just go to the craft store,” Toriel tells Sans. “I am sure you will find everything you need there.”

“And then the thrift store for the shoes and sweater vest,” Frisk puts in.

“Sounds like we got a lot of shopping to do this morning, then,” Sans says. “You should make sure you have a big breakfast before we go. Keep your energy up.” He picks up a plate with the cooked slices of french toast and pushes it into Frisk’s hands. 

As Frisk takes their breakfast over to the table, Toriel says: “If you’re going to the craft store, could you keep your eye out for a few things for me? I fear I have run out of yarn for the project I was working on.” 

“The sweater?” Sans asks. “That was a medium-weight heather gray, right? Uh, wool-acrylic blend?”

Her eyes crinkle around the edges as she smiles. “Yes, that is it. But here, I will give you the label so that you can get the correct color batch.” She bustles off. 

Two hours later, everyone has been fed and caffeinated, and Sans and Frisk set off from the house armed with a list of craft supplies that Frisk had collected from the internet. Sans offers to transport them directly to the store, but Frisk waves him off, saying it’s too nice a day to just shortcut around the city. Sans has to agree the weather is nice, although he’s not sure he will ever understand the need to ‘stretch one’s legs’. 

They pass under thick boughs of leaves, by a bakery engulfed in thick, warm smells of baking pastries, and down to the bus stop at the corner.

“So, how’s your summer going, kid?” Sans asks, as he hops up on to the bench. 

“Fine,” Frisk says simply. 

“Your educational reform stuff seems to be taking off, huh? That’s pretty cool.” 

“Yeah. Mom does most of the work, though. I just sit there to be a pretty face.” 

He chuckles. “Don’t undersell it, kid. Being pretty is hard work. I should know. I’m way too lazy to be pretty.” 

Frisk rolls their eyes. Then, suddenly, they ask: “How did you know you were in love with Mom?” 

Sans brow lifts. He considers Frisk keenly as he replies: “I don’t really remember having a moment where I realized it. It was something that kind of crept up on me, and by the time I thought about it, it felt like something I’d known for a long time.” 

“But when you thought about it, you knew you were in love with her, right?” 

“Yeah.”

“How did you know? How did it feel like?” 

“It’s just one of those things that when you know, you know.” 

But Frisk’s lips are pinched, and they look unsatisfied with his response. 

So Sans continues: “I guess it feels . . . right. It feels like just knowing she’s one of the coolest people I will ever meet, and being super aware of that, like, all the time. Or not thinking about it for a while, and then remembering it and being totally blown away by ‘holy crap, she’s so cool’.” 

At that, Frisk cracks a grin. “Man, you’re so cheesy .” 

“Hey, you asked for it.” 

Frisk snorts. “But also, how do you tell the difference between just thinking someone’s cool, and being in love ? Because Toriel’s not the only person you think is cool. And Papyrus thinks that, like, everyone is the coolest.” 

“Well, I don’t know about Papyrus. You’d have to ask him,” Sans says with a shrug. “As for me -- sure, but, like. Toriel breaks the meter. I guess also, she feels like . . . home. Like, when I’m around her, I’m where I’m meant to be.”

This time, Frisk doesn’t make fun of him for being cheesy. They nod, a thoughtful expression on their face. They don’t say anything more for a bit, and Sans doesn’t press. 

The bus finally creaks to a stop in front of them, and Sans and Frisk get on. They find a few seats toward the back, and sit down. Frisk leans their head against the window, still looking a little lost in thought. 

Sans still doesn’t break the silence. He continues watching Frisk, wondering what brought on this line of questioning. There’s something about the way Frisk is holding themself that makes him feel like maybe this isn’t just an errant thought. 

After two stops, Frisk speaks again. They twist around in their seat to catch Sans’ eye and say: “Do you think it’s the same for everyone? When people are in love, is it always ‘breaking the cool meter’ and feeling like home? Or maybe for some people, it feels like . . . I don’t know.” 

They trail off, apparently not able to think of an alternative feeling. 

“I ‘unno,” Sans says, when it becomes apparent Frisk isn’t going to say anything more. “I’ve only been in love as myself, haven’t I? But if I was gonna guess what everyone else feels, I’d say it probably does feel a little different for other people. I don’t think Tori thinks I ‘break the cool meter’ or anything -- if she does, you really don’t want to trust her judgement on what’s cool -- and she said this thing about me making things feel more alive or whatever. So I guess, while love makes things feel kinda more low-key for me, maybe it brightens things up for her. Like, I’m her caffeine, but she’s my chamomile tea.” 

Frisk is grinning at him again. 

“What?” Sans says, elbowing them. “C’mon, you asked!” 

“Nothing!” Frisk defends themself, half-laughing. “It’s just. You really love Mom. It’s awesome.” 

“Heh. Thanks, kid.” 

“But if it feels different for everyone, how does anyone know they’re in love? How do we know it’s not everyone talking about different things but calling it the same thing?” 

Sans shrugs. “How do we know we all see the color blue the same way?”

Frisk considers, scrunching up their nose. “I mean, there are some people who are color-blind, so they don’t see blue at all . . .” 

“Heh. Okay, good point. Don’t overthink it; I’m not that deep.” 

Frisk gives him a dry expression. 

“Anyway, I think it’s just one of those things that at some point, people just know if they’re in love or not. And if we’re not all talking about the exact same feeling, maybe that doesn’t really matter.”

“I guess,” Frisk says. They turn to look out the window, their cheek squishing up as they prop their face on their hand. 

“Sooooo,” Sans says slowly, when Frisk doesn’t say anything more. “Any particular reason why you’re asking?” 

Frisk glances back at him, but doesn’t quite meet his gaze. “No,” they say quickly. “Not really.” 

“Okay, then.” Everyone’s allowed their secrets, Sans decides. He lets the subject drop. 

---

They hit the craft store first, where a friendly middle aged-woman with close-cropped hair and a shirt that says ‘ I’m Hooked on Crochet’ helps them pick out some fake fur for a cape and foam for a battleaxe. Sans shortcuts their purchases home (he leaves Toriel’s yarn with a note: “A woman who can knit her own sweaters? She’s knot an average lady!”), and then they make their way to the thrift store, stopping briefly for popsicles on the way. Frisk comes out of their inner musings presumably about love, and they’re chatting animatedly about some strange new reality TV show that involves locking people in a room with their second cousins. 

In the thrift store, Frisk pores over the shoes, while Sans makes his way halfway down the aisle to where the weird knick-knacks are strewn haphazardly over the shelves. 

He’s chuckling over his finds, phone out, when Frisk comes down the aisle and taps on his shoulder. 

“What are you looking at?” Frisk asks. 

In answer, Sans hands them a cookie jar shaped as what might be a horse in a clown outfit. As Frisk stares at it, Sans snaps a picture. 

“Heh, I gotta show your mom. These are great . Here, look at this one--” He swaps the unfortunate clown horse with a mug that says ‘ Bigfoot doesn’t believe in you either’. 

Frisk obligingly poses with the mug, miming taking a sip with a sophisticated, judgmental expression as Sans takes another picture. 

“So, did you find what you were looking for?” Sans asks, as Frisk puts the mug back. 

Frisk gestures him over. When he follows, they point at the lower shelf; there, a pair of hightop sneakers patterned with realistic-looking seabass are squeezed in between much more sensible footgear. 

Sans takes them in, and cracks up. “Oh, great find. C’mon, you gotta put them on.” 

They oblige, and strike a few poses as Sans snaps a couple more pictures. His phone swoops as each photo is sent off to Toriel. 

“So you gonna be a barbarian librarian with an enthusiasm for fishing?” Sans asks, when Frisk finally stoops down to pull off the shoes. 

Frisk rolls their eyes. “Obviously no. I found these sandals for the costume.” They show him a pair of bulky sandals, made of thick straps of espresso-dark leather and a sole that looks almost like suede. 

“Oh, yeah, cool. That’d work. So, you got everything you need?” 

Frisk nods. “We should get back soon. It’s going to take some time to put everything together.” 

“Sure. When’s the party, anyway?” 

“Tomorrow afternoon.” 

“Oh, man. Practicing your procrastination, huh?” 

Frisk gives him a very dry look. “You ever hear of that saying about the pot and kettle?” 

“Hey, kid, I don’t procrastinate. I just don’t do anything. Plus, I didn’t say I was complaining. Nothing wrong with a dash of healthy procrastination.” 

He hands the sandals back to Frisk and, together, they head over to the check-out. But halfway there, Sans stops. When Frisk notices he’s not following anymore, they turn to give him a curious look. Sans doesn’t notice.

They’re passing by the furniture section of the store, and his eyes have fallen on a tall curio cabinet, made of sleek wood the color of cinnamon. The top of the cabinet is carved intricately, so the wood curves into waves rolling into either direction from a brass centerpiece like the sun. It’s old fashioned, and elegant, and Sans can’t stop looking at it. 

Frisk walks back to him, and peers curiously over his shoulder. They tap him, getting his attention. “What is it?” they ask. 

“Oh. Uh. It’s . . . your mom wanted a curio cabinet. You think she’d like this one?” 

Frisk considers it appraisingly. “It does look like her style. I didn’t know she wanted a cabinet.” 

Sans hesitates. He’s never been as good as Toriel is at talking comfortably about the other fallen children. But Toriel has always wanted to be open with Frisk about her grief; it feels ridiculous for Sans to have more trouble talking about Toriel’s losses than Toriel does herself. “Uh, yeah,” he says finally. “Tori decided she wanted to put your siblings’ stuff up on display, instead of keeping them all packed away in that box. We just hadn’t picked one up yet.” 

Frisk blinks once, their expression turning somber. “Oh. That makes sense.” They look over at the cabinet again. “Yeah, I think this would work. Do you want to bring this one home for her, then?” 

“Maybe? I dunno, I think she should probably look at it herself. But I guess I can ask them to put this aside until I can get her in to look at it.”

“That works.” 

“Yeah.” He’s still looking at the cabinet, suddenly thinking about the conversation he’d had with Jean, about everything the cabinet will represent: Toriel’s immortality, their looming choice, his own feelings of inadequacy. There’s a disquieting sucking feeling in his chest.

He’s being stupid, he tells himself quickly. The cabinet represents nothing more than Toriel’s way to honor her lost children. There’s nothing for him to be anxious about. 

“Come on,” Sans says finally. “Let’s check out. When your mom’s free, I’ll bring her back here.” 

---

When they get back to the apartment, new shoes under Frisk’s arm, Toriel is still nose-deep in her work at the kitchen table. Almost literally -- she peers so closely at the papers in front of her, squinting through her thin reading glasses, that her muzzle almost brushes the sheets. Sans doesn’t want to drag her out of the zone, so he just kisses her hello and tells her there is something he’d like to show her when she’s done. Toriel smiles fondly at him. “Hmm, intriguing,” she says, in a lilting, playful tone that makes Sans’ heart squeeze in on itself. “I will let you know, dear. And by the way -- thank you for the note and for the photographs. Your jokes are always quite crafty .” 

Sans beams proudly. “Heh. Yeah, of course. You want me to get started on lunch now? A little late, I guess,” he adds, glancing at the clock; it’s after two in the afternoon. 

“That would be lovely, thank you.” 

“Sure.” 

Frisk grabs his wrist as he turns toward the fridge. “Will you tell me before you head out?” They ask, with subtle gestures. 

“You wanna come with to get the cabinet?” 

They nod. 

“Sure thing, kid. I’ll let you know.” 

“Thanks,” they say fleetingly, and then disappear to their room. Almost immediately, Sans hears Flowey’s high-pitched whining start up, but it doesn’t sound any more ill-tempered than usual. 

Sans makes lunch. Nothing fancy, just a couple of sandwiches. Tuna for Frisk, snail spread for Toriel. Ketchup sandwich for himself. Frisk stays in their room, presumably working on their costume, and Sans assumes they will come out to fetch him if they need help. Toriel’s still working on her lesson plans, so Sans props open the laptop and starts cleaning out Frisk’s ambassador email account. In another tab, he has his own email open, and he can see that Amanda has sent a follow-up message after yesterday’s meeting. He ignores it. For now. 

He tries not to think about the cabinet. He tries not to think about the astrophysics lab. He tries to think only of right now, of being in the living room and watching Toriel peer down her reading glasses at her work, of hearing Frisk move around in the next room. Of being home with his family.

Until finally, Toriel lets out a heavy sigh and sits back in her chair. 

Sans glances up at her. “What’s up?” 

“I believe that is a good place to stop for today,” Toriel says. 

“Cool. Break time, then?” 

“Yes. Now, was there something you wanted to show me?” 

Sans feels his soul jump. “Uh, yeah. Hang on, let me get the kid. They wanted to come.” 

“Of course.” 

He retrieves Frisk from their bedroom, who comes along with Flowey tucked into their messenger bag. Sans eyes Flowey, who’s glaring out at him from over the edge of the bag. “You sure you want to bring him?”

Frisk nods. Flowey doesn’t look at Sans. And so Sans just shrugs and doesn’t argue. 

Back in the kitchen, Toriel is tidying her paperwork. “So, what is it that you wished to show me?” she asks. “Does this have to do with your otamatone concert? Should I bring my kazoo?” 

“What?” Sans had almost forgotten about their plans from that morning. “Oh. Nah, it’s not that. We can still do that after if you want, though.” 

“Well, now I am even more curious. What could this be?” 

Sans doesn’t say anything, but just smiles, hoping his nerves don’t show on his face. 

He holds out his hand. Toriel takes it, her enormous paw warm and feather-gentle as it envelops his phalanges. Sans gives her paw a squeeze as best he can, considering that his fingers barely reach the width of her palm. With his other hand, he takes Frisk’s hand, and then steps all of them through to the thrift shop. 

They emerge right by the changing room doors, and in the clutter of the store, no one notices them appear. Toriel looks around, taking in her surroundings with a curious eye. “I presume this is not something you texted me during your shopping trip this morning?” 

“Nah,” Sans tells her. “It’s different.” 

Frisk nods and hops forward, gesturing for Toriel to follow. There’s an odd expression on Flowey’s face, and Sans can’t guess if Flowey knows about the cabinet. He’s not sure if he hopes Frisk told Flowey or not; on the one hand, he’s not sure he likes the idea of Flowey being let in on any aspect of Toriel’s grief, but if Frisk has already told Flowey, hopefully Flowey has already gotten any biting comments out of the way already. 

Well, Frisk knows Flowey better than Sans does, and Sans sure hopes Frisk wouldn’t bring Flowey along if they thought he was going to be hurtful. 

He lets Frisk lead the way over to the furniture section, where they find the cabinet -- now labelled with a bright blue post-it that says ‘RESERVED’ . Frisk steps toward the cabinet and gestures toward it with a little flourish. 

“What do you think?” they ask.

Toriel stares, her paws slowly coming up to cup her muzzle. Sans watches as understanding slowly dawns in her expression. He feels his soul twist sharply again. 

“So, uh, yeah,” he says nervously. “You said you wanted a cabinet. And the kid and I saw this today, and we thought of you. But, uh, I figured you should check it out yourself first? I wood n’t want to presume at what would pique your curio -sity.” 

“Oh, Sans,” Toriel breathes. “It is beautiful .” 

His soul untwists sharply as relief floods him. “Heh, really?” 

“Yes. Oh, it is lovely.” She steps forward to run one admiring paw along the carved waves across the top. “Thank you.” 

“Uh, great.” Awkwardly, he rubs at the back of his skull. 

Frisk taps Toriel’s elbow. “I made you something,” they say. 

“Did you? My, I am being spoiled today!” 

Frisk digs into their messenger bag, pushing Flowey somewhat askew in the process. They pull out their sketchbook, and flip through until they reach one of the last pages in the pad. They turn it toward Toriel. 

“Oh!” Toriel inhales a breathy gasp and claps one paw over her muzzle.

Sans peers around Toriel’s arm curiously: Frisk is holding up a page of their sketchbook, on which they’ve drawn six figures in colored pencil. One is wearing a bandana; another has an apron. 

Frisk pushes the sketchbook toward Toriel, who takes it with a trembling paw. 

“This is for inside the cabinet, if you want. I know you already have photographs of Asriel and Chara, but you don’t have pictures of the others. I’m sorry, I’m not really good at drawing groups, so the perspective is a little weird, but--” 

Frisk cuts off when Toriel suddenly yanks them into a squeezing hug. Just over Toriel’s shoulder, Sans can see a startled expression cross Frisk’s face, but after a heartbeat, their arms wrap around Toriel and they hug her back. 

“This is wonderful ,” Toriel murmurs, her voice cracking. “Oh, thank you, dear.” 

When she finally pulls back, Sans can see tears glistening in her eyes. 

“Thank you,” she breathes again. “It is beautiful. You did a wonderful job. And oh! You even have Patience’s ribbon on the correct side! How did you know?” 

“Flowey helped,” Frisk says. 

“Flowey?” Toriel echoes, clearly surprised.

Sans glances at Flowey, who’s still sulking in Frisk’s bag. Flowey isn’t meeting anyone’s eyes, and there’s a distinctly uncomfortable expression on his face as he glares at the ground.

“Flowey saw each of my other siblings,” Frisk continues. “So he was able to help me get it right.” 

Toriel kneels down next to Frisk’s bag to be closer to eye level with Flowey. “Flowey,” she says softly. “Thank you. That was very kind.” 

Awkwardly, Flowey shrugs. “Yeah. Whatever.” 

Toriel gets back to her feet and draws both Sans and Frisk into another hug. “Thank you. All of you. I cannot tell you how much this means to me.” 

“Of course, T,” Sans says, his voice somewhat muffled as his face is pressed into the side of her chest. “We love ya.” 

“I love you, too. Come on; let us figure out how to get this cabinet home.” 

---

Later that evening, Frisk stands in the living room, gazing at the new cabinet. They’ve set Flowey on the coffee table, and he’s resolutely looking anywhere but at the cabinet. 

The curio cabinet fits in well in the living room; Toriel pushed it up against an expanse of blank wall between two windows, and spent most of the afternoon filling the cabinet with the fallen children’s old belongings. She had taken her time to arrange and rearrange the objects, but all with Frisk’s drawing front and center, now in an old frame Toriel had dug out of storage somewhere. 

Toriel’s in the kitchen now, and Frisk can hear her humming to herself as she cooks. Frisk stares at the cabinet, feeling . . . guilty. 

One of Asriel’s old sweaters is folded neatly on display, a photo of him hanging off of Chara’s shoulders perched on top of the fabric. Toriel had spent so much time getting the angle just right. Frisk sits down heavily on the couch, still staring at the photograph. 

“You did good, kid.” 

Frisk glances up; Sans has come into the living room from the kitchen, and he’s looking up at the cabinet as well, but at the drawing Frisk had made. 

“Did you do this today instead of working on your costume?” 

Frisk shrugs. “I have time tomorrow morning,” they reply. “Besides, you still need to make my armor.” 

Sans chuckles. “Yeah, I’ll get on that tomorrow.” Then, fondly, he ruffles Frisk’s hair, before picking up the laptop from the coffee table and heading off into the bedroom he shares with Toriel. 

Frisk keeps looking at the cabinet. “Flowey, Mom misses you,” they say, suddenly grateful to be able to speak without using their voice. 

Flowey glares up at them. “She misses Asriel ,” he hisses, voice low.

“I know, and I know you’re not Asriel, but . . . you were. And she has nothing of the other kids, but she could have you.” 

“Oh my god. I can’t believe we’re talking about this again! I’m not Asriel. Mom doesn’t know what I’m like. She doesn’t want me! She wants to remember Asriel the way he was! Jeez, Frisk.” 

Frisk eyes him. “That’s not what you used to say.” 

“Whatever. Still, she doesn’t need to know. It’s better this way.” 

“Still,” Frisk replies, and it’s not clear even to themself if they mean it as an echo or a protest. They don’t add anything more, though, and Flowey falls silent. 

Together, they stare at the cabinet. 

Chapter Text

Sans drops himself into the plush armchair of Jean’s office and leans back. Jean sits opposite him, one leg crossed over the other. Today, she’s wearing a bright orange hairband to push back her curls, and a graphic t-shirt with a black cat on it. The effect is distinctly Halloween-y, which, while a few months early, suits the dark gray clouds outside the window today. 

“Well, how are you doing?” Jean asks. 

“Pretty good,” Sans replies. 

“Have you thought anymore about any of the issues we talked about last time? Or, maybe has anything new come up?” 

Sans shrugs. “Not really. Uh, I guess we got the cabinet that Toriel wanted. You know, the one with all the stuff for her dead kids.” 

“I remember that. I also remember you felt apprehensive about the cabinet. How are you feeling now?” 

Sans scratches at his skull. “Uh, fine, I guess? I mean, yeah, it’s still a little weird to be reminded of everything every time I walk into the living room, but I’m kinda getting used to it. At first, Toriel spent a lot of time with the cabinet, like either rearranging stuff or just looking at it. But now it’s just . . . kinda there. Which I guess was what Toriel was going for.” 

“Do you still think about Toriel’s immortality issue?” 

“Sure. I mean, it’s still there, isn’t it?”

Jean nods. “Yep, fair enough. Well, did you want to talk about it some more?”

Sans shrugs again. “I dunno. Nothing new to say, I guess.” 

“Well, I brought in those books that I promised you last time. I can’t promise they’ll help, but if you find yourself feeling bothered, perhaps they’ll be able to provide some perspectives. Don’t let me forget to give them to you.”

“Alright, sure.” 

“Of course, it’s no substitute for continuing communication with Toriel.” 

Sans lets out a breath of laughter. “Yeah, don’t worry. She wouldn’t let me get away with that, either.” 

Jean smiles. “Well, is there anything else you’d like to talk about?” 

“I dunno.” 

Jean just watches him. 

Uncomfortable, Sans casts his gaze to the ground and shifts in his chair. Like to talk about? He’d like to talk about the new jokes he’s trying to come up with. Or maybe how awesome Frisk’s librarian barbarian costume came out. But somehow, he feels like that’s not what Jean is looking for. What Toriel is looking for. 

He exhales, phalanges drumming erratically on his femur. The past couple sessions, he’s been avoiding talking about research. Any time it’s come up -- whether they’re talking about his past, his present, or his future -- he’s tried to side-step the topic. And every time, somehow Jean’s dug into some other issue he didn’t even know he was worrying about, and so the end result is that Sans is still thinking about the whole science kerfuffle and a brand-new neurosis he’d been previously compartmentalizing quite well, thank you very much. 

He supposes he’d better just get this over with. 

“I’ve, uh, kind of been screwing up, I think,” he says finally. 

“How so?” Jean doesn’t look disquieted or surprised -- merely openly curious. 

“I, uh. Well.” He pauses, running a hand over his skull as he tries to sort out how the hell to approach all this. “So, I’ve been slipping back into something I said I’d never do. You know how I said I kinda let Papyrus down before? That’s when I first started being lazy, but ironically it was kinda the opposite of laziness that got me there.” 

Jean just waits patiently. 

“Once upon a time -- like, really, really long ago -- I was a scientist. I used to work in my dad’s lab. And I was pretty obsessed with my work.” 

Sans tells her the story: the long hours in the lab, the way Papyrus would try to tag along but was always pushed out of the way. When he gets to Gaster’s death, he stumbles. He hasn’t told her about the resets yet, but Jean can never understand Sans’ abject failure without that crucial piece. But even if he does tell her about the resets . . . it took him almost fifteen years to talk about the day he almost let Papyrus fall. Even then, he’s only told Frisk and -- under duress -- Toriel. He meets Jean’s patient expression, and he feels as if his tongue is as heavy as Mount Ebott itself. 

“I . . . studied spacetime,” he says finally. “We had this idea about using a combination of magic and quantum physics to manipulate the fabric of spacetime. It works with space -- super helpful for getting around without using much energy -- but in theory, it could have worked for time, too. Kind of like a reset button. After dad died, I got obsessed with making it work. If I could reset, I could bring him back.” 

He doesn’t tell her about the readings that told him the resets were already happening. He doesn’t tell her about the utter helplessness of knowing no matter how many times he did bring his dad back, he just had to start all over again. Again and again. That he’s probably done it a hundred, a thousand, times. Maybe even a hundred thousand times. 

He doesn’t tell her; it’s too much to lay out something that sounds like fiction even to other monsters. Until he met Frisk, he’d thought he’d felt like the only person alive who knew about the resets, felt like the only person who could ever know. Sans can’t bring himself to tell Jean now; he feels like if he sees the disbelief in her eyes, he’ll just give up. 

Instead, he tells her pieces, and watches carefully for her reaction. He tells her about his research in resets in theoretical terms, like something that he was sure was possible but no one had quite achieved. 

“I felt like I was so close sometimes. Like, another week of work, and I could do it.” 

Jean nods; there’s a furrow of concern in her brow, but the curve of her eyebrows read sympathy. 

“But as I said, I was, uh, pretty obsessed. Totally ignoring Papyrus, who had also just lost his dad. He wanted me there, and I wasn’t.” 

He’s gotten to the story of Papyrus’ fall. He feels a bit like he’s standing on the edge of a cliff; there’s a surreal moment of anticipation as he considers: I’m going to tell her. She’s nearly a stranger, and I’m going to tell her . 

And it’s almost like hearing someone else use his voice when he finally says: “So he followed me to the lab. He fell. Almost fell into the CORE, just like dad did. I caught him, but . . . I thought I should have let him fall.” 

He pauses, breathes. His soul feels constricted all over again. When Sans meets Jean’s eyes, he sees a sadness there, but not anger. 

“After that, I figured I’d better get out of science,” he continues finally. “‘Cause if it makes me get to the point where I’d rather my brother die so I could get a bit more work done, clearly I can’t handle it. And I swore I wouldn’t do research again, but, uh . . . here I am. I’ve been working on research projects a month and a half now. And I can’t seem to quit.” 

“I see,” Jean says gently. 

“Yep.” 

“What are you studying now?” 

Sans’ gaze snaps up, and he stares at her in disbelief. He lets out a shaky laugh. “Uh, that’s what you got out of that?” 

Jean gives him a small smile, and gestures vaguely with one hand. “Just trying to get the whole picture.”

“Quantum astrophysics. Uh, simulating neutrino production from Altair.” 

“I see,” she says again. “Well, Sans, you seem to have an interesting dichotomy here, where you’re pretty mad at yourself for how you supported Papyrus, but you’re at once calling yourself lazy and saying that you worked too much.” 

He shrugs. “Both are true. Totally ignored him while I worked, then I stayed home and did nothing. I’m pretty bad at moderation, I guess.”

“Hmm,” Jean hedges noncommittally. “But, uh, I think you are being a little hard on yourself. You were going through a grieving process -- when you were quite young, really -- and anyone would struggle with that. Overworking is not an entirely uncommon response to trauma, and nor is amotivation.”

“Wishing your brother dead probably isn’t, though.” 

“Do you actually think that you wanted him dead?” 

Sans shrugs. “It would have been easier,” he says, and feels sick. 

“You told me you wanted to be free of the responsibility of your brother for a little bit, so that you could focus on your work. That’s not the same as actively wanting him dead. But even if you did -- yeah, that’s actually not that strange either. Have you ever heard of an intrusive thought?” 

“Uh,” Sans says. 

“Intrusive thoughts are thoughts or mental images that can really upset us. They might make us feel anxious, or stressed, and even make it hard for us to function sometimes. These thoughts might be violent, or harmful, something we consider immoral, and we might be really upset about what our thoughts say about us or our capability to do those kinds of things. But in the end, they’re just thoughts. You did not kill your brother. You reacted so strongly to the thought partly because you do care about him so deeply.”

Sans lets out a long breath. “I dunno,” he says. “Thoughts say something about us, don’t they? Maybe it’s pretty common to think about your brother dying, but then I guess that means there’s a lot of shitty people in the world.” 

“Not necessarily. Our brains are always working, exploring our surroundings and situations, responding to whatever goes on around us. You were using your work to cope, and that coping mechanism was interrupted. Sometimes our brains test out solutions without our input, but while that can be scary--” 

“No,” Sans interrupts quickly. “It doesn’t really matter if I didn’t hurt him or not. I mean, I’m glad I didn’t, but come on, for a second I wanted him gone . Thought or not, that’s just . . . not okay. I’m not asking for your forgiveness. I’m not asking for anyone’s forgiveness. This is something I gotta live with. I mean, that’s the whole reason I’m here, right? What was my goal again -- learn how to be better for my family? Yeah, well, thinking about my brother being dead isn’t good for my family.” 

Sans feels his eyelights dim to pinpricks, and he rubs harshly at his face. 

Jean watches him quietly for a moment, letting him run out of steam. When he avoids her gaze and stares at the floor, she asks: “Have you ever told anyone else about this?” 

“Yeah,” he mumbles. “S’why I’m here. Toriel was mad.” 

“What did Toriel say, exactly?” 

He shrugs. “She, uh . .. well, I told Frisk first. She thought I shouldn’t have put all this on my kid. And, uh, yeah. She’s right. I only told Frisk ‘cause I couldn’t tell Papyrus, obviously, and I thought Frisk would get it.” He laughs harshly. “Yeah, that didn’t work. So, I put a lot of shit on my kid for nothing.” 

“What was it that Frisk didn’t ‘get’?” 

“You don’t ask a kid to be mad at their dunkle. Especially not Frisk; they see the good in everyone. You could outright murder a bunch of children and Frisk would still love you. And I’m not pulling that story out of my ass -- you know Asgore’s deal?” 

Jean doesn’t answer the question. Instead, she asks: “So, you wanted Frisk to be mad at you?” 

“Well, that is the appropriate response to finding out someone wanted their own brother dead.” 

“But Frisk didn’t get angry.” 

“Nope. Kid could think the sun shines out of a trash can. And Papyrus can’t know the whole story, so whether or not he’s angry doesn’t count. At least Toriel got mad about something , and so now I’m here.” 

“Where you are asking me to be angry at you.” 

Sans doesn’t say anything in response to that. 

Jean considers him keenly. “Sans, you understand that therapy isn’t punishment, right? I’m not here to judge you.” 

“Damn. And here I wanted to outsource the one thing I’m pretty good at doing myself.” 

He feels guilty, ashamed. Of course, he knew Jean wouldn’t like him thinking of therapy as punishment. And although he still feels like he should be judged for being a shitty brother, he also feels guilty for being caught in his self-flagellation. 

Jean leans forward. “I’m not going to tell you that none of your actions ever hurt anyone, but I’m also not here to help you beat yourself up. I’m here to help you identify what truly needs to change, and what’s normal, and to help you be kinder to yourself.” 

He snorts. “What’s ‘being nicer to myself’ gonna do?” 

“Well, for one thing, everything you’ve told me about when you’ve felt you weren’t able to support your family was during a time you were struggling emotionally,” Jean says, apparently picking her words carefully. “You were hurting. But you also don’t let yourself just hurt . Instead, you seem to demand from yourself that you don’t respond emotionally at all. But if you don’t let yourself react in healthy ways, your brain is going to find other ways to let out that pain, and if you’re not giving your feelings enough attention, you may not even realize what you’re doing.

“Now imagine that instead, when you’re hurt, you recognize that you’re in pain,” she continues. “Imagine that you’re compassionate to yourself. You then can accept how you feel, without demanding you feel differently. And then, you can choose how you handle that feeling, in a way that’s healthy for both you and your family.”  

Sans is quiet a long moment. Jean’s words make sense on a surface level, but something deeper inside him feels that accepting her premise would be giving in. That letting go of the judgement would be a failure, in a way. So Sans just asks: “So, how are you gonna help me identify what needs to change, and what’s normal?” 

“We’ll walk through whatever’s on your mind together. We’ll figure out what you’re worried about, what is actually happening, and what isn’t. Maybe . . . we can talk more about this research project you’re working on?” 

Sans doesn’t want to talk anymore about research, but at least they’re talking about the present now. “Okay,” he says.

“Alright. tell me about what’s going on now. What does the research you’re working on now look like? Are you employed officially? What are your hours like?”  

“Nah, not employed. Just . . . I found this lab at Ebott U that was doing neutrino research kind of like what I was doing, and I had some ideas for how they could improve it. So I sent them an email when I was hammered once, and ever since I’ve been kind of answering follow-up questions.” He shrugs. “I don’t have hours. I just show up when they ask me to, help out a bit, and go home.”

“How often do you go in, in general?” 

“About once a week, for a couple of hours.”

“And you feel that by working on this research, you are somehow ‘screwing up’?” 

“Well. I said I wouldn’t go back into research, so yeah.” 

Jean taps her fingers together, a mindless gesture. “And that is because you are worried about the impact of your research on your family?” 

“Yep,” Sans agrees. 

“Has there been any impact on your family from what you’re doing now?” 

“Well, they don’t know yet, so no,” Sans tells her. “That doesn’t mean it won’t happen though. Got the tragic backstory to prove it.” 

“Maybe,” Jean grants him, with a shrug. “But the problems before really happened because you were overworking , it sounds like. Research isn’t necessarily incompatible with a happy family life.”

“Maybe for other people. I screwed up the whole moderation thing, though.” 

Jean lifts one eyebrow. “Your approach seems pretty moderate now, though. A couple hours once a week really isn’t overdoing it.” 

“Sure,” Sans agrees. “But it’s not just about what I’m doing now. It’s about what I did .” 

“Well, if you start overworking, we can deal with that then. But right now, you’re worried about consequences that don’t seem to be happening. While you certainly have had experiences that have taught you to be wary of working in research, you’re not in the same place you were back then. It doesn’t sound to me like you’re ‘screwing up’.” 

Frustrated, Sans rubs at his jaw bone. “You wouldn’t tell an alcoholic to drink moderately and check back if they start overdoing it, would you?” 

“There are actually diverse approaches to handling substance use disorders,” Jean says mildly. “But it’s interesting you are classifying your relationship to research as an addiction.” 

“What else do you call doing something even when you know better and don’t want to do it?” 

“Workaholism does exist,” Jean admits. “Do you think you are a workaholic?” 

At that, Sans has to crack a smile. “I suppose that’s a bit of a hard sell, huh? Do lazy workaholics exist?” 

Jean gives him a small smile in return. “I wouldn’t peg you as a workaholic, but it’s not about laziness. You overworked fifteen years ago while you were going through a major personal loss. It was wrapped up with your entire grieving process. And sure, sometimes that can trigger a behavioral addiction, but your trajectory doesn’t match. Besides, even if you were struggling with an addiction before, one of the most important parts of addiction treatment is to build up the other parts of your life. You’ve done that. You have a rich family life, one you care a lot about. In fact, it’s more concerning that you don’t have any professional life, or other things outside the home. You can have an imbalance in more than one direction.” 

Sans eyes her. “I’m not planning on downplaying my family.” 

“I’m not saying they shouldn’t be your top priority. But you’ll be most equipped to take care of them when you’re looking after yourself, too.” 

“And what does simulating stellar neutrino production have to do with taking care of myself?” 

Jean shrugs. “I wasn’t necessarily talking about that specifically. But . . many people have different things that fulfill them. It may be worth examining why you keep feeling drawn to this research.”

Sans doesn’t reply. Why does it matter why he is drawn to research, only that he is when he shouldn’t be? 

Jean is still watching him with a measured gaze. “In the meantime, let’s continue to explore what your anxieties are about your research. You don’t think you’re a workaholic. So what, exactly, do you think will happen if you continue with your research? Are you worried something will happen to your family?”

Sans shrugs. “I guess. Yeah.” 

“Like what?” 

“I dunno. Just not being there when they need me, maybe? I mean, it’s kind of just about what I did before.” 

Jean considers him. “Hm. When you think about research, do you feel more anxiety, or is it guilt?”  

“Uh, I dunno. I just feel bad.” He looks down at the paisley carpet, tracing the patterns with his eyes as he thinks. “I guess, if I had to pick . . . guilt.” He shrugs. 

“I see,” Jean replies. “Sans, is it possible that the way you interact with research now isn’t just because you’re worried about something happening to your family? Perhaps, are you trying to withhold research from yourself to punish yourself for what you feel you did wrong with Papyrus?” 

Sans shifts uncomfortably in his seat. It’s not that Jean is wrong , but the way she words it, she sounds like she thinks he shouldn’t ‘punish’ himself. But he let Papyrus down; he can’t ever forget that. “It’s not that I’m not worried about somethin’ happening to my family,” he argues. “I hurt them before. I can hurt them again.” 

“Of course,” Jean replies easily. “Losing your father was a trauma. Almost losing Papyrus was another trauma. Punishing yourself can give you some kind of sense of control about these events. If it’s your fault, you can prevent something like that from happening again. But we will walk through what you are scared of happening, and what’s likely to happen. Does that sound fair?” 

Again, Sans doesn’t reply. 

“Independent of anything else, I have one question, Sans. Do you like research?” 

---

--Twenty years earlier--

“You’re . . . really letting me in the lab?” 

Gaster smiles and hands Sans a lab coat. “I have come to the conclusion,” he begins, in an imperious tone like he is about to reveal the greatest finding from a series of experiments, “that my CORE experiments would benefit from collaboration. Your input has been at least as good as the new intern’s, and . . . I hear that you are bored in school.” 

“Heh, bored? Who told you that?” 

Gaster eyes him with amusement. “Failing trigonometry, Sans? Since when have you had difficulty with angles?” 

“Since they started asking me to prove stuff in twenty-five steps and won’t just take my word for it.” 

“You see? Bored. Now, put on the coat and come.” 

Sans quickly struggles into the coat. It’s just a little too long for him, and he has to roll back the sleeves to use his fingers as he hurries after Gaster. Gaster doesn’t look back as he strides toward the lab entrance, his own black coat whipping around his ankles. 

“I will expect your full attention,” Gaster says, typing in the access key. The door swishes open. “I would not generally allow a teenager into the laboratory, but I believe you have proven yourself quite mature for your age.” 

“Isn’t the new intern a teenager, too?” Sans points out. 

“Quite,” Gaster says, but does not qualify his previous comment. 

They step into the upstairs office, where Gaster’s desk is haphazardly organized with books and papers stacked in teetering piles. There’s an old coffee mug that Sans is chagrined to recognize as the one he’d painted for Gaster back when he was, like, eight. And there’s a new desk at the far side of the room, with two chairs and two clunky computers set up. 

“This is where you and Alphys will be handling your reports,” Gaster tells Sans. “You will each have a lab journal that I will expect you to update daily and turn in to me, at least for the first several months.”

“Cool, sure.” Sans takes in everything with bright eyelights. He’s been in the office before -- there’s been plenty of days when he was little that school was closed, and Gaster just took him and Papyrus into the lab and dropped them off in the office for the day. But now, this is going to be Sans ’ office as well. 

“And if you are to play any practical jokes, they will be limited to the office, and not damage any reports or other materials related to our work, understand?” At this, Gaster glances back, and there’s a slight, indulgent smile on his face. 

Sans beams. “Sure, dad.” 

“Good. Come.” 

They step into the elevator, and Sans nearly rattles with excitement. He’s never been allowed into the proper laboratory before. 

“I will get you started on monitoring readings from the CORE,” Gaster tells Sans, when they walk out onto the laboratory floor. Sans is staring around with wide-eyed wonder, but trying to look casual about it. “It will be tedious work, but important. We will also have daily laboratory meetings to discuss project directions and troubleshoot issues. If everything goes smoothly, you may propose your own project in a few months.” 

“Really? Sweet. I want to do something with stars, is that cool?” 

“Stars?” Gaster echoes. He eyes Sans, not with surprise exactly, but consideration. “Underground, the only way to monitor the stars is--”

“Neutrinos, I know,” Sans says quickly. “But our CORE already detects neutrinos, so we won’t even have to build anything. Uh, why did you build that into the CORE anyway?” 

Gaster gives him a small, private smile. “It was on request of the king. Anyway, I have no immediate objections to your plan, but you will have to develop a full proposal.” 

“Well, I’d start with solar neutrinos, but--” 

“A written proposal.” 

“Oh. Right. Sure.” 

Gaster chuckles lowly. “Now, before we get started, I need one promise from you.” 

“Uh, sure,” Sans says. “What?” 

“No more failing trigonometry. Even if they ask you for fifty step proofs.” 

Sans sighs and rolls his eyes. “Ugh. Fine .” 

“Good. Now, come, and I will show you how to monitor the CORE.” 

“Wait, Dad--” Sans says, as he hurries after Gaster. “Just one question.” 

“Hm?” 

“If I’m gonna be working here after school, what about Papyrus? He’s gonna be home alone.” 

“Papyrus?” Gaster echoes distractedly. “Ah. Yes. Well, I think it is high time your brother learned to be independent, don’t you?” 

“Uh, I guess.” 

“Good. Now, let us find out how you do with the CORE.” He sweeps away, leaving Sans to scurry after him. 

And turns out, Sans loves research. He loves research. Gaster letting him in the lab is, like, objectively the best thing that has ever happened to him. Sure, for the first several weeks, Sans’ main task is taking measurements and recording CORE functions, but he gets to hear about everything else going on around the lab. He gets to hear about the high energy beams Gaster is calibrating, and he feels his breath catch in his throat the first time Gaster tells him about the spacetime manipulation project. 

“If we can accurately apply neutrino behavior to monster magic--,” Gaster always says ‘we’, even about projects Sans and Alphys aren’t working on yet, and it makes Sans’ soul surge with excitement. “--in theory, monsters will be able to pass through solid matter. In essence, we will be able to shortcut through space.” 

“ Oooooh ,” Alphys breathes. “Could . . . could we use that to get through the barrier?” 

“Perhaps,” Gaster says simply, and Sans and Alphys exchange excited looks. 

Working in the lab feels like being on the edge of possibility. There’s always another problem for Sans to work on, always another breakthrough just beyond his reach. When he finally collapses into bed at the end of each day, equations are spinning through his head, and he grins into his pillow. 

He loves research. Within a month, he’s sure: he’s going to spend his life in research, just like his dad. 

Chapter Text

Frisk closes their eyes, feeling the tickle of the grass against the back of their neck as hot sun warms their face. The music from halfway down the park washes over them: the beat of drums, the strum of strings, a soft voice. They splay their arms out, clover flowers little bundles under their palms. 

“Frisk, c’mon, if you wait too long, Rachel’s gonna eat all the cheese and you won’t get any!” 

“Oh, please, I only took like a tiny bit. And it’s not like I’m eating the ham.” 

“Yeaaaaah, that’s not my definition of a tiny bit. You took like half the plate!” 

Frisk pushes themselves into a sitting position. Rachel and Melanie are sitting on the surface of the picnic table, an assortment of sandwich ingredients between them. Kid has snatched up a plastic plate with a couple of cheeses and is holding it away from Rachel with their tail as she reaches for it. Jake’s sitting on the ground next to Frisk, watching all of this with amusement as he devours his own overstuffed sandwich.  

Melanie eyes Frisk and grins. “Enjoying your nap?” 

“The grass is soft,” Frisk tells her. “You should try it.”

“And invite ants? Nah, I’ll pass.” 

Frisk shrugs. 

“C’mon, Frisk!” Kid calls. “Do you want cheese or not?” 

“You know, you don’t have to defend my right to cheese,” Frisk tells them, but Kid is distracted by Rachel making another lunge for the plate. 

Frisk gets up and takes the plate from Kid, then goes to the table to assemble their sandwich. Rachel manages to snag another slice of cheese when Frisk sets the plate down.

“I am so not ready for school to start again,” Melanie muses idly. “Can’t believe we only have two weeks left.”

“I can,” Rachel mutters. “I dunno how I’m gonna survive another all-day shift at the kitchen store. The manager is such an ass. I’ll be so glad to go back to school.”

“Why don’t you complain?” Kid asks.

“‘Cause I’m gonna quit when school starts again. I got a place lined up at the bookstore, and they sound so much cooler. They actually let me have Saturday off for Shabbat, even for a part time position. So, what’s the point of complaining?”

Frisk finishes loading their sandwich with tomatoes and cheese and sliced ham, and goes back to sit by Jake. Jake kicks open the cooler on the ground beside him and offers Frisk a can of dark, stout beer. Frisk grins and lifts the can in a cheers motion. Jake mimics the motion with a can of his own. 

“Ugh, no idea how you drink that stuff,” Kid comments, snagging a bottle of lemonade out of the cooler. “It’s so gross.” 

Frisk shrugs. They pop open the can and take a swig, then set the can aside. “I’ve eaten too much of Papyrus and Undyne’s cooking. Nothing phases me anymore.” 

“RIP Frisk’s tastebuds,” Rachel says solemnly. 

“Hey, it’s liberating. The stuff you can explore when you don’t care how it tastes . . .” 

“Yeah, you’re just weird, Frisk,” Melanie snickers. 

“Jake drinks it too!”

“I also have no tastebuds,” Jake points out.

“Yeah, look at his sandwich,” says Melanie. “Is that peanut butter and pickle?”

“Yep,” Jake says, and takes an enormous bite. 

“ Ew ,” Melanie and Kid say simultaneously. 

“It’s not that bad. I’ve tried it,” Frisk says. When Rachel opens her mouth, clearly about to bemoan Frisk’s sense of taste, they change the subject: “But Rachel, what did your manager do this time?” 

“Oh my god, ” Rachel gasps, immediately getting into her rant. “So we have a new guy right? And for some reason, the manager totally doesn’t believe in training him and it’s the worst? The new kid doesn’t know how to work the register or handle inventory, and we keep getting backed up because of course the customers expect him to know how to be an employee . And you can’t imagine how badly our schedules are screwed up now!” 

When Rachel gets going about her manager, it takes her a long time to run out of steam. Listening to her mostly involves sitting back, nodding at the appropriate times, and looking sympathetically annoyed. By the time Rachel has finally finished, the rest of them have finished their sandwiches and drinks, and Frisk is enjoying a mild buzz. 

“You guys wanna play soccer?” Jake asks, when Rachel finally lapses into silence long enough to shove the rest of her lunch in her face.  

Frisk brightens. “Oh hell yeah. What are the teams?” 

“Rachel, you wanna play or eat?” 

Rachel shakes her head, manages to swallow, and says: “I’ll ref.” 

“Cool. So maybe, me and Melanie, you and Kid?” Jake suggests to Frisk. 

“Cool,” says Frisk. 

Kid comes over to Frisk as Jake hops up to grab his soccer ball from his bag. “Um, you sure you wanna be on my team?” Kid asks quietly. 

“I said it was cool, didn’t I?” Frisk replies, with a dismissive wave. 

Nervously, Kid smiles. 

“Kid, you’re it!” Jake calls, and punts the soccer ball in Kid’s direction. Kid knocks it to the ground with their tail and dribbles it between their feet. 

“Hey, no tails!” Melanie protests, as she hops off the picnic bench to join Jake. “It’s soccer -- no hands, no tails!” 

“We weren’t playing yet!” 

“Alright, the goals are gonna be the trees on this side, and the trash can over there. Cool?” Jake suggests. 

Frisk gives a thumbs up. 

“Awesome. Melanie, you want defense or offense?” 

“Defense, definitely,” she replies and passes by Jake toward the corpse of trees he’d indicated as the goals, her dark braids bouncing as she jogs past. 

“Alright, Kid, it’s you and me up front! No way you’re getting past me.” 

“Hah, you watch!” Kid retorts, and kicks the ball. 

The game is fast paced, and the four of them are drenched in sweat within minutes. Jake’s the only one officially on a soccer team, but he’s also had a beer. Besides, all four are athletes, so they’re well-matched. Jake manages to get one goal by Frisk, and then Kid punts two into the corpse of trees over Melanie’s head. 

“That was way too high!” Melanie protests. “No goal post would be that high.” 

“You didn’t set up a height limit!” Kid crows, as they dribble the ball back into the center of the field. 

“It’s good,” Rachel declares. “Two-one to Frisk and Kid!” 

Jake tries to steal the ball from Kid even before they call time-in, and Kid laughs and kicks the ball back. They misjudge the force, though, and the ball goes sailing through the park. 

“HEADS!” Kid yells out. “Crap, sorry, I’ll go get that!” 

But when the ball hits the ground, a tall, lanky man with close-cropped blonde hair snatches it up. He turns to the group of teenagers, and Frisk feels a sudden lurch in their belly when they see the anger twisting his features. 

“What the hell?!” the man yells. 

“Sorry!” Kid says, as they jog over. “Didn’t mean to!” 

But the man’s advancing now. Kid stops, as if just noticing the fury on his face. 

“Of course it’s one of you ,” the man snarls. “No respect for the safety of the families here. You just don’t give a crap.” 

“Jim, don’t--,” calls a nervous-looking woman from where the man had been sitting, but he ignores her.

“Hey, man, I said I was sorry,” Kid says, stepping back. “It was an accident.” 

“Fucking monsters . You have no right to our spaces!”

Frisk feels something hot and sick suddenly surge within them. Their hands curl into fists, but they feel frozen in place. Melanie seems stuck too; even from across the field, Frisk can see the fear written across her face. 

“What did you say, you asshole?!” Rachel yells. “You gonna be a goddamn bigot?” 

“Hey, hey,” Jake runs over to Kid and the man, making placating gestures with his hands. “C’mon, let’s chill out here. We’re sorry, man. We’ll put the ball away. No one got hurt.” 

The man is not calmed. His lip curls, and he glares at Jake and Kid and Rachel with a silent snarl. He takes in the picnic area they’ve claimed, and his eyes fall on the beer cans that Frisk and Jake have lined neatly up next to the cooler. 

“And you’re letting kids drink ,” the man spits, advancing again on Kid. “You don’t even care about the fucking influence you have on our kids! No fucking respect!” He jabs a finger at Kid’s chest. 

“What the fuck, don’t touch them!” Rachel yells, and she’s jumping off the picnic table as Kid staggers back, looking terrified. 

“I-I didn’t I-it’s not mine!” Kid stammers.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, they had nothing to do with the drinks,” Jake says quickly. “That was all me. If you wanna be mad at someone, be mad at me.” 

“I should call the cops on you!” the man roars at Kid, ignoring Jake. “You know what, I’m gonna do just that! Maybe they’ll teach you a goddamn lesson!” He jabs his finger at Kid’s chest again. 

Suddenly Frisk is moving. They don’t remember making the conscious decision to move, but red flashes in front of their eyes, and then they’re shoving Kid behind them as they stand between them and the heckler. Frisk shoves their hands up, signalling the man to step back. 

The man blinks down at them. Slow recognition dawns across his face, and he stares down at Frisk with a look of utter loathing. “It’s you ,” he spits. “It’s your fault that creatures like that are here at all. You fucking traitor!” 

He shoves at Frisk’s chest. 

“I’m videotaping this, you asshole!” Rachel yells. 

Frisk barely hears her. There’s a roaring in their ears. The fear suddenly dies away, and they meet the man’s hostile glare with a level stare of their own. What the man sees there must startle him, because his eyes widen. 

“You’re -- you’re one of . . .” 

Frisk isn’t listening. In mind’s eye, they see a dozen ways they could hurt this man. He’s so close; they only have to lift their hands six inches to reach his eyes . . . 

Nausea chokes them, yanking them out of their thoughts. Frisk drops their gaze. What are they thinking? But the thoughts don’t stop coming: blood, hurt, screams, sheer, unadulterated hatred. It’s so easy to kill . . . people don’t realize how fragile a body is . . . 

Frisk tangles their hands in their hair, tugging hard enough to send sharp pain shooting through their scalp. It would be so easy, if he just gives them one more reason . . . no, no, no. Frisk doesn’t want to. They breathe hard, silently begging the man to go away. 

Thankfully, the man doesn’t touch them again. “I’m calling the cops!” he roars at them, and spins on his heel, still carrying Jake’s soccer ball. 

“C’mon, get out of here,” Jake hisses urgently at Frisk and Kid. “We’re human, and Rachel and I look white. We’ll handle cops. You two get out of here. Rachel, go make sure that Melanie clears out, too.” 

“The beer,” Kid says quickly. “I don’t want you to get in trouble--” 

Jake shakes his head. “We’ll get in a whole lot less trouble than you will if you get caught with it. Don’t worry about us. Just go!”

Frisk doesn’t argue. They turn and rush away, pausing only long enough to snatch their bag up from by the picnic table. 

“Wait, Frisk--!” Kid calls after them.

Frisk doesn’t stop. They sprint away, putting as much distance as they can between themself and the man they can still see in their mind’s eye hurt and broken on the ground.

---

The sun hasn’t yet set by the time Asgore gets back to his little apartment, but the shadows are growing long on the sidewalk. He hums to himself as he fishes his keys out of his pocket and slides them into the lock. But when he turns the key, the lock doesn’t click. The door swings open. 

He blinks. Did he leave the door unlocked this morning?

Asgore steps inside, and sees that there’s a sliver of light coming from under the door of Frisk’s bedroom. 

“Frisk?” he calls. “Are you here?” 

There’s no response. 

Asgore closes the front door behind him. Frisk rarely drops by unannounced. He’s not complaining, of course, but . . . why are they here? “Frisk?” he calls again, as he pads down the hallway to their bedroom. “May I come in?” When there’s still no response, he carefully eases the door open. 

Frisk jerks upright from their bed, where they were lying out with headphones pressed over their ears. Asgore feels his heart jump; their eyes are red-rimmed and puffy, clear distress written over every line of their face. Frisk hastily shoves their headphones back and rubs hard at their eyes. 

“Frisk . . . ,” Asgore says quietly. “Are you alright?” 

They nod jerkily. 

“Are you certain? Why . . . why are you here?” 

They look away. “I just needed some space,” they say with small gestures. “Sans is always home.” 

“Did something happen? Are you fighting with Sans?” 

They shake their head quickly, but they don’t elaborate. 

“Well, it is nice to see you,” Asgore says finally. “If you want to talk about anything, you know I will be happy to listen. Would you like some tea?” 

Frisk nods. 

“Okay. I will be right back.” 

Asgore heads into the kitchen. He tries to keep his mind calm as he busies himself with the kettle, but it’s hard. His child is in distress; adrenaline has him on high alert, and his hands shake as he places tea bags in two mugs. 

Finally, Asgore returns to Frisk’s bedroom with two steaming cups of tea. He hands one to Frisk, who cradles it between two palms.

“Do you, uh, want me to leave you alone?” Asgore says uncertainly. 

Frisk shrugs. So, Asgore takes a seat at Frisk’s desk, opposite the bed, and sets his own tea on the surface. He watches silently as Frisk takes a tentative sip. Frisk doesn’t say anything at first, and so nor does Asgore. He sips quietly at his tea and tries to ignore the hundreds of scenarios his mind is throwing out at him, all different explanations for what could get Frisk in this state, and all worse than the last. 

They’ve almost finished their tea when Frisk finally sets aside the mug. Slowly, they say: “Do you . . . do you ever think about how you could hurt someone?” 

“Um. I’m not sure. What do you mean?” 

“I mean, do you ever see someone, and just know how you could hurt them really bad, maybe even kill them? Do you ever think about that?” 

“Frisk,” Asgore says softly, urgently. “Is someone hurt?” 

Frisk shakes their head quickly. “No. I just . . . do you ever think about it?” 

Asgore is quiet for a long moment. Frisk picks up their mug and peeks up over the edge to watch him, but Asgore glances to the window and watches as a neighborhood child passes by on a bicycle. 

“Yes,” Asgore says finally. He sets his tea aside and sets enormous paws on his knees. He looks down, and lets them curl, then relax. “Yes. I am all too aware of the hurt I can cause. I wish I could forget but . . . even if I could, I must remember. It is only what is fair to the children I hurt. Sometimes it is terrible. I’ll be around a child, and suddenly I will think of how fragile they are, how easy it is to break something so small. I remember . . .” 

He trails off and shakes his head harshly. “I am sorry. You should never have to hear something like this. This is my burden to bear, and you must know I would never hurt you, or anyone else.” 

“But do you want to? When you think about it, do you want to hurt them?” 

“No, of course not!” Asgore replies, aghast. “I promise, I would never want to hurt anyone. These are . . . terrible memories, because of the mistakes I have made.” 

But to Asgore’s horror, Frisk’s expression crumples. They curl in on themselves and press their hands over their face. Frisk grasps a choked sob, rocking back on the bed. 

“Frisk!” Asgore cries. “Frisk, what is wrong? Please, talk to me.” 

Frisk shakes their head. 

Asgore quickly gets up from the desk and crosses over to the bed. He wraps Frisk in his arms and pulls them close to him, running one anxious paw over their shoulders. “I am here. It is okay.” 

Frisk shakes their head again, more roughly this time. Their hands tremble as they say: “I’m a terrible person. I want to do it.” 

“Frisk. Start from the beginning. It will be difficult for me to help you if I do not know what is going on.” 

“I can’t. It’s . . . I keep thinking about hurting people. I thought it was over, but it’s not! It keeps happening and I’m awful because I want to do it!”

Asgore tries to keep his voice as gentle as possible. “Did something happen today?” 

Frisk shrugs, not quite meeting his eyes. “Doesn’t matter. It’s been going on much longer.”

“Well, start with today. What happened today?” 

Frisk rubs hard at their eyes and sniffs, snot squelching wetly. At first, Asgore thinks Frisk isn’t going to tell him, but they finally say shortly: “A man heckled us at the park, and I wanted to hurt him. I could see it.” 

“A man heckled you? What happened? Are you alright?” 

“I’m fine. Nothing happened. Just . . . Kid lost control of the ball when we were playing soccer, and this man started swearing at us and pushing us, and I wanted to hurt him. I could have. I wanted to.” 

“Oh. Oh, my goodness.” Asgore doesn’t know when his paw came up to cover his mouth, but when Frisk gives him a frightened look, he pulls it quickly away. “Did the man hurt you? Is Kid alright?” 

Frisk chokes on a sob. “I wanted to hurt him!” they say, signing with furious jabs. 

“It is okay. You were in danger. You wanted to hurt someone who was trying to hurt you. I am sorry that happened, but there is nothing wrong with you for feeling that way. You were frightened. The most important thing is that you are safe right now.” 

But Frisk is shaking their head. “It’s been years! Ever since the Underground. I don’t get scared, I get angry! I see how I can hurt them and I want to do it, for a second I really just want to make them hurt, I wonder what it would be like! I thought it was gone finally but it’s back, it’s still there, and I hate it! I hate me!”

“Frisk! Oh, Frisk, don’t say that.” Asgore feels a horrible lurch in his belly, and he wraps his arms tightly around Frisk, hugging them as if, if he squeezes hard enough, he can force the self-hatred right out of his own child. “I love you. You are a good child. You are loving and kind and gentle. They are just thoughts.”

“They’re not just thoughts. I could do it!” 

“Everyone has the capacity to hurt others. But is anyone hurt?” 

Frisk does not reply. 

“You say this started in the Underground, yes?” Asgore asks.

Frisk shrugs. 

“Frisk, you were in so much danger. There is nothing wrong with you. You were being confronted with so many people who were trying to hurt you, and . . . oh, it was all by my orders. If anyone is to blame here, it is me.” 

But Frisk does not meet his eyes, and Asgore can see their nails gripping harshly at their own arms, digging into the skin and leaving red welts. 

“I should call your mother.”

But as he goes to stand up, Frisk grabs his arm. “No! Don’t tell her!” 

“She would want to know. She would want to help you through this.”

“No!” Frisk shakes their head again. “No, no. Mom and Sans are going to hate me. Don’t tell them, please don’t tell them.” 

“I am certain they will not hate you. Your mother and Sans love you very, very much. Nothing is going to change that.” 

“Sans said it!” 

“Sans said he hates you?” Asgore echoes, disbelieving and alarmed. 

“He said thoughts show who you really are, even if you hide them. So what do you think he’s going to think these thoughts show about me? He’s going to hate me. And Mom’s so gentle, she thinks I’m so gentle, too. They’re both going to hate me.” 

“I . . . I don’t know what Sans said exactly, but I am sure he did not mean it like this,” Asgore says gently. “And I know your mother would never hate you.” 

“She hates you, doesn’t she?!” 

Asgore tries very hard not to react, but his flinch must have shown on his face. Frisk meets his eyes with a desperate kind of anger, but then all at once, they seem to deflate. They curl in on themselves and don’t look at Asgore.

“Fine. Tell them,” they say finally. “If they hate me, I deserve it.” 

“Frisk . . .” Asgore tries. But Frisk rolls away, lying on the bed with their back to him. They’re gripping harshly at their arms again, digging the nails in. 

Asgore watches them for a minute, feeling an awful pang in his chest. “I’ll be back,” he whispers finally, and goes to find his phone. 

---

Sans is leaning over the back of Amanda’s chair, watching as she shows him around a fancy new simulator software, when his phone rings. He’s so engrossed in the high definition geometrical objects Amanda is building -- so much more detailed than any of the computer simulations he could do back in the Underground -- that he nearly topples over in surprise when his foghorn ringtone blares. 

“Whoops,” he says, as he manages to right himself. “Hang on -- gotta take this.”

He pulls out his phone, checks the screen, and picks up. “Hey, T. What’s up?” 

“Sans?” 

Sans straightens. The tone in Toriel’s voice -- high and tense -- is off. “Hey. You okay?” 

“Something has happened with Frisk. Asgore and Kid have both called me -- apparently, there was an altercation at the park with a speciesist. Kid said Frisk ran off, and Asgore says that Frisk is at his place now, but is very upset. Can you get there? I am trying to get out of the school as quickly as possible, but it will take me a few minutes. But if you could use your shortcuts to be there with them . . .” 

“Yeah, sure. No problem,” Sans says quickly. “I’ll head there right now.” 

“Thank you. I will see you there. Please tell Frisk I am on my way.” 

“Of course.” 

He hangs up. 

Amanda watches him with a keen gaze. “Everything okay?” 

“Family emergency,” he says. “Sorry, I gotta go.” 

“Yes, of course! We’ll finish this another time. I hope everything is okay with your family.” 

“Yeah,” Sans says, and picks up his bag. “Me, too.” 

He turns on his heel and rushes from the room. Sans steps through the door, out of the lab, and directly into Asgore’s living room. Asgore’s in the kitchen, fussing with the tea kettle, and Sans can see by the cluster of mugs on the counter that this isn’t his first cup.

“Hey,” Sans calls. 

Asgore jumps, nearly knocking a mug off the table. “Sans! You are here.” 

Sans notices that Asgore’s mane is mussed, as if he’s been running his paws through it anxiously. There’s worried tension lines all around his face, and his eyes are red. 

“Yeah. What’s up? Frisk is in trouble? Are they in their room?” 

“Yes. But wait -- before you go, perhaps I should speak to you.” 

“What?” It almost comes out as a snap, but Sans pauses nevertheless. He realizes his eyelights have gone out, and he tries to force them back on. 

“Frisk ran into a person with anti-monster sentiments in the park--” 

“Yeah, yeah, I know, Tori already told me--” 

“--Wait, listen. They ran into a person with anti-monster sentiments, but they are very shaken up about their own response. They think they are having violent thoughts. And . . . they think you will hate them for it.” 

Sans feels as if the bottom of his soul has dropped out. “ What ?” 

“At first they begged me not to tell you or Toriel in fear that you would hate them. Now, well, they still believe you will hate them, but allowed me to tell you. They said . . . they would deserve it if you hate them. I am very concerned for their state of mind right now.” 

“I . . .” Sans runs a hand over his forehead. “What do you mean ‘violent thoughts’?” 

“They imagined hurting the man in the park, and it is upsetting them greatly. They say it is not the first time they have imagined hurting someone.” Asgore eyes him with a keen gaze. “Sans, they are not correct, are they? That you would hate them?” 

“No. No, of course not.” Sans almost surprises himself with the force behind the words. Although something primal and terrified threatens to choke him, it’s fear for his kid, not fear of Frisk. 

“They said that you had something about one’s inner thoughts revealing one’s true character.”

“I -- yeah. Crap.” Sans covers his face with one hand. “Yeah, I guess I did. I wasn’t talking about them, though. Shit, I never meant for them to think I meant . . .”

Asgore gives Sans a tight smile, almost sympathetic.  

“I understand,” Asgore says gently. “And I know you are angry at the . . . asshole --” Sans peeks over his fingers in surprise to hear Asgore swear. “--who caused Frisk trouble. But when Frisk sees you angry, they might think it is directed at them.” 

Sans wants to push by Asgore and go to Frisk, but he instead manages to inhale a shuddering breath. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess you’re right. Calm. Okay, I can do that. How’s this?” He forces his eye lights brighter, and tries to soften the ridges of his brow. 

“Better.” 

“Great. Thanks.” 

Asgore hangs back, still cradling his tea, as Sans makes his way quickly down the hall to Frisk’s room. He knocks once on the door, even as he eases it open. “Hey, kiddo. I’m coming in.” 

Frisk is laying on the bed, curled up on their side and staring morosely at the window across from them. When Sans steps into the room, they glance at him, and pull their knees in closer to their chest. Sans crosses the room and takes a seat on the edge of the bed. Frisk doesn’t meet his eyes. 

“Hey, buddy,” Sans tries. “I hear you had a bit of a rough day, huh? Your mom’s on her way, too.” 

Frisk squeezes their eyes shut and doesn’t reply. Their eyelashes are all clumped together with dried tears; their face blotchy from crying. Sans feels his soul twist horribly in his chest. 

He casts his gaze around the room helplessly. A half dozen stuffed animals are crammed on the bed between him and Frisk, and he picks up the closest one: pink and white ambiguous creature that looks something like a cross between a lemur, a fox, and a racoon. 

“Heh. I haven’t seen this guy before. Looks kind of goofy, doesn’t it?” 

Frisk doesn’t respond. Sans puts the stuffed animal back on the bed. 

“I don’t hate you, kid,” he says softly. “And I’m sorry I ever said anything that would make you feel like I might.” 

Finally, Frisk opens their eyes and looks at him properly. They still look on edge, and they don’t say anything, but they’re actually looking at him and so Sans considers that a plus. 

“Look, I . . . when I said that thing about your thoughts showing who you were, I was going through some shit of my own, and I wasn’t coping real well. I’m still working on it, but . . . it was never about you. I never meant to hurt you. I love you, kid.” 

Slowly, Frisk pulls themself up into a sitting position, a pillow trapped by their knees against their chest. “I don’t think good people think about the kind of things I do.” 

“I dunno. I learned this thing recently about brains putting together random stuff when we don’t want them to, and sometimes it makes some really freaky thoughts? I get it, it’s scary when you think about stuff you don’t want, but . . . you’re a good kid. Whatever’s going on in your head, you’re not bad. I mean, look at everything you’ve done, right?” 

“Yeah,” Frisk says expressionlessly. “Look at everything I’ve done.”

Sans pauses. “This about your mom? About what . . . about what happened in the other timeline?” 

Frisk nods jerkily. They sniff hard, and rub hard at their eyes. “You’re the only one who knows that.”

“Oh,” Sans says, suddenly feeling tension settle in around his shoulders. He’s the only one who knows; there’s no one he can turn to to check that he’s doing this right, and he’s already screwed up once.

He exhales. “Well, I still love you, right? But okay. You’re having violent thoughts? Okay. Let’s, uh, talk about it. Tell me everything that’s freaking you out. I’ll just listen.” 

“I don’t know where to start.”

“I dunno . . . I guess. What are the thoughts that are freaking you out? What happened today?”

Frisk takes a long moment to respond. Their hands fidget wordlessly, and they look away from Sans before they finally reply:

“I wanted to hurt that guy. When he pushed me, I could . . . I could see how I could hurt him bad. I could imagine putting my fingers in his eyes or getting him on the ground and stomping on his fingers so they’d break. And . . . worse, I guess. I could imagine killing him. For a second, I kind of wanted to.”

There’s that fear inside Sans again, fear for his kid, but he draws on every ounce of casualness he can muster and doesn’t let his expression change. “Uh-huh,” he says. “And you’ve had these kinds of thoughts before?”

Frisk peeks up at him, searching. Stalwartly, Sans keeps his expression open, interested -- not frightened, not angry. 

“Yeah,” Frisk says. “Not . . . they faded for a bit. But they’ve come and gone for years.” 

“When did it start?” 

“Underground. After . . . I killed mom.” 

“Did you get those thoughts before you killed Tori? Was it, uh, part of why you did it?” 

First, Frisk shrugs heavily. But then, slowly, they shake their head. “I don’t think so. I don’t . . . I don’t remember that. I wasn’t scared, and I wasn’t trying to hurt her. But then she turned to dust and . . .” 

“Shit, I’m sorry, kid. Do you, uh, want a hug?” 

Frisk glances away. “Not really.” 

“Okay. That’s cool.” 

For a moment, neither of them speak. Frisk sniffs hard and rubs harshly at their face. Sans awkwardly tugs on the ambiguous stuffed animal’s whiskers. 

“It doesn’t just happen when I’m scared, either,” Frisk continues finally. “Asgore was trying to act like I was just feeling angry because this guy was threatening me. But that’s different. I know it’s normal to get angry when someone is saying stupid, racist things and literally pushing you. I mean, heck, I’m friends with Rachel aren’t I? So yeah, I know it’s normal to be angry about injustice. But it’s not just that. It happens when I’m tired sometimes, or stressed, or, I don’t know, sometimes just because.”

Sans listens, feeling ashamed. He remembers when he told Frisk about Papyrus’ fall, about his departure from research, Frisk had kept insisting he’d just had one thought. He understands that memory in a new light now, and feels horrible. 

“How often do you get those thoughts?” he asks. 

Again, Frisk shrugs. “Depends. Right now . . . it was a while since the last time. But it used to be every day for a while, then every week, then every month. I thought it was getting better.”

“Well, maybe this was a blip. Maybe it won’t start happening again for real.” 

“Maybe,” Frisk says, but doesn’t look hopeful.

“And, uh, did you ever do anything to act on these thoughts? I mean, I know no one’s hurt, but you have reset powers. You ever just . . . try it out? Not judging.” 

“No. Not since mom. I told you I only reset once on purpose, right? Sometimes, though, I wanted to.” 

“Okay. Just checking.” Sans sits back, considering Frisk. They look defeated. They’re hunched over themself, the curve of their spine like a comma; their expression is exhausted, helpless. Sans feels his eye sockets burn, and he wipes at them before his magic can form tears. “Kid, you, uh, want to know what I think?” 

Frisk eyes him. “Okay.” 

“I think you’re a good kid. I think you’re a damn tough kid. And I don’t think you’re a bad person. I mean, you’ve been having these thoughts for years, and sometimes, like, all the time, but everyone’s okay. You fought it. And I think someone who was a bad person wouldn’t be this upset about it, you know?” 

Frisk snorts. “You expect me to believe you think that? You, who had one thought about Papyrus being a handful, like, fifteen years ago, and think you need to repent for the rest of your life?” 

“I told you I was going through some stuff, right?” Sans says. “I might have had a screwed-up perspective. But seriously, kid, you’ve had these thoughts for years, and you even have the power to act on it and then erase the consequences. And you still don’t do it. So . . . yeah, I think you got your priorities straight.”

Frisk doesn’t reply. 

“Hey, what happened to what you kept telling me about thoughts just being thoughts?” Sans tries. “You were pretty insistent about that.” 

“Maybe that was just bullshit I kept telling myself to make myself feel better.”

“I dunno,” Sans says. “I got a bunch of other people who keep telling me similar stuff. I’m starting to think I was wrong about a lot of stuff, and you had the right idea all along.” 

“Doesn’t matter. It wasn’t just thoughts for me. I killed Mom.” 

“Yeah. But she got better.” 

Frisk squeezes their eyes shut.

So Sans tries instead: “I mean, you said it was an accident, right? And, uh . . . I still love you, kid. Your mom would still love you too, even if she knew.” 

“She doesn’t know, though.” 

“Well. Why don’t you tell her?” 

“What? Are you kidding ?” Frisk exclaims incredulously. 

“Not at all. Tori’s a real good listener, you know. The best I ever met.” 

“I killed her!” 

“And she’d want to help you through that. Look, kid, I’m glad you’ve been open with me, but I’m not nearly as good about this emotion stuff as she is. I wanna be here for you, but if I’m honest, I don’t know if I can do it right. I’m still working through stuff, and I guess I haven’t been super good at doing it on my own. I don’t want to hand you my own baggage ‘cause I don’t know any better, you know?” 

“Oh, as if you’re so open with Mom!” Frisk retorts. “You told me about why you left science before you told her! And she’s pretty much your wife -- the only reason you’re not married to her is because you have commitment issues!” 

Sans hesitates, then decides not to defend himself. “I’m sorry. I know I screwed up a lot.” 

“Where do you even get off on telling me what to do, huh? What makes you think you can tell me to do things that you don’t even do yourself?!” 

“‘Cause I want you to do better than me,” he says. “I know, I’m being a massive hypocrite. I’m such a big hypocrite I put the ‘hippo’ in hypocrite. But I do shit that probably doesn’t help me because . . . well, I don’t actually know. I don’t even know why I do it. But I know I want you to be happier than me, kid. I want you to have a better life.” 

Frisk lets out a choked sob. It’s almost a laugh. “That’s so freaking rich . You keep trying to talk like you’re my parent, but you don’t even want me to call you dad!” 

Sans blinks, feeling suddenly off-balance. “I thought . . . you’re the one who came up with ‘dunkle’.” 

“So?! Anytime someone called you my dad, you made it super clear that freaked you out! What choice did I even have?” 

Frisk buries their face in their hands and pulls their knees right up to their chest. The gesture is so heart-wrenchingly hurting that Sans moves before he can think; he reaches out, and his hand grasps softly at Frisk’s shoulder. When they don’t flinch away at the touch, he pulls them into a hug. 

“I’m sorry,” he rasps, as Frisk leans against his chest. Their fingers grasp his sweatshirt, and Sans feels his soul swell to the point of aching. “I’m sorry. If you wanna call me dad, I’m your dad. I never meant to make you feel like I didn’t want you to be my kid. I just . . . I liked that you gave me a word that was all for me, you know? But I don’t care what you call me. You’re my kid, and I’m not giving up on you.” 

Frisk leans into the hug for a long moment and Sans just holds them tightly, arms wrapped around their shoulders, and it’s surprisingly easy given how tall Frisk is these days. The fact that that’s surprising sends another pang of guilt through Sans: he doesn’t hug Frisk nearly enough. 

Eventually Frisk rolls to the side to free their arms, and they say: “I’m screwed up. I’m so screwed up.” 

“I dunno. I mean, I’m not gonna lie and say none of this is a big deal. I’m pretty worried about you.” And then, because he’s not sure what else to say, he says again: “You’re my kid, and I’m not giving up on you.” 

“Even if all this crap is too much for you, and you’d rather Mom deal with it?” 

“Shit, is that what I sounded like? I didn’t mean it like that. I just, uh, wanted you to have the best shot, you know? And I’m a total screw-up, so I’m not sure how much good I’ll be. But I’ll try.” 

Frisk nods silently. “I know that’s not what you meant,” they admit. “I just . . .” They don’t finish the sentence.

“‘Kay,” Sans says. “Good. I’ll try though. Even if I’m real bad at it.” 

“Okay. You are a hypocrite, though.” 

“Yep. Hi kettle, I’m pot.” 

Frisk cracks a small smile. It’s an exhausted kind of smile, one that looks as if they’re not even sure if they’re amused or not, but it’s an honest-to-goodness smile and Sans feels almost weak in relief. 

“Alright,” they say finally. “I’ll tell Mom the truth. But I need a nap first. And more tea. I’m sorry. I’m really tired.” 

“Sure. No problem. Take as much time as you need. I’m sure I can keep your mom busy for a little bit.” 

“Thanks. You can talk to her about the . . . thoughts from today. I already told Dad he could tell both of you. But I should probably be the one to tell her about killing her.”

“Okay, kid.” 

Frisk nods meekly, and rolls to the side. They uncurl somewhat, tucking their hands under their head. 

Sans pauses to run one hand over Frisk’s hair, and then he leaves the room. 

Toriel hasn’t arrived yet, but Asgore’s sitting in an armchair in the living room, staring morosely at an empty mug. When Sans closes the door to Frisk’s room behind him, Asgore glances up quickly. 

“How . . . how are they?” 

“Tired,” Sans replies. “They’re napping now.” 

Asgore nods silently. “That is probably good.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Tea?” Asgore offers, seemingly of a lack of anything else to say. 

Sans shrugs, and takes a seat on the couch across from Asgore. Apparently, Asgore doesn’t consider a shrug a proper request for tea, because he doesn’t get up and go to the kitchen. Together, they sit in silence, staring at empty spaces on the coffee table. It reminds Sans a little of the long night he, Grillby, and Papyrus had sat around the kitchen table waiting for news after the lab explosion. No one’s dead, Sans reminds himself furiously. Frisk is just resting. Everyone is okay. 

But he still can’t shake the persistent sense of horror and dread that clutches at his gut. How could he have not noticed how badly Frisk was hurting for so long? 

After about five minutes of tense, worried silence, the front door flies open. “Where is Frisk?” Toriel demands. She looks harried, her fur askew and expression tense. She glances quickly around the room, as if expecting to find Frisk lurking behind a bookshelf. 

“They’re in their room, but they’re resting,” Sans tells her. 

“How are they? Are they alright?” 

“Stressed,” he says honestly. “But, uh, okay right now, I think.”

Toriel sinks into the couch next to him, looking troubled. She runs a paw over her muzzle, apparently trying to calm herself. “Oh, I should have gotten here sooner. My poor child . . .” 

“S’okay,” Sans says. “We had a good chat. They’ll talk to you too when they’re up.” 

“Tea?” Asgore offers helplessly. 

Toriel nods. Asgore gets up and bustles over to the kitchen. 

“So, uh, do you wanna know what we talked about? The kid said I could tell you,” Sans asks. 

“I -- yes. Please.” 

Sans takes a deep breath. The guilt and dread in his gut clenches in on himself, but he meets Toriel’s eyes and forces through it. 

He tells her briefly about Frisk’s worries about their violent thoughts. Toriel listens quietly, and anxiety furrows around her eyes, drawing her ears back. He tells her about how Frisk had stressed about wanting to hurt the man in the park, tells her about how these kinds of thoughts have been troubling Frisk for years, ever since the Underground. He doesn’t tell her about how Frisk killed her once upon an alternative timeline, but he tells her everything else. 

Asgore comes back into the living room just as Sans gets to the part where Frisk had apparently internalized Sans’ own hangups about unwanted thoughts. He stumbles on his words then, guilt making his throat feel tight. But Asgore doesn’t interrupt, and merely hands Toriel her tea. Without looking at either of them, Sans finishes: “I told Frisk I’d been wrong, and I was sorry. And, god, I am. But maybe they believe me? They at least seemed to open up a bit by the end.” 

Toriel holds her mug of tea in her lap and doesn’t drink it. She stares into the distance, as if seeing something frightening miles away. “My poor child,” she breathes finally. “All of this they have been dealing with . . . it is clearly a trauma response to everything that happened to them, and we have not been helping them through it.” 

“We tried to give them therapy right after we reached the surface,” Asgore mumbles, collapsing back into his armchair. “Why did we stop?”

“The therapist thought the kid was fine then,” Sans answers. “He told us kids are resilient and that Frisk was ‘active and driven’. He said they would start talking when they felt like it.”

Toriel covers her face with a paw. “We should have known better. How could a child go through all that and be okay?” 

Neither Sans nor Asgore can answer that. 

“Perhaps we can do better now,” Asgore suggests finally. 

“We must do better now,” Toriel replies. 

“Yes. Of course.” 

There’s not much else to do while they wait for Frisk to wake up. Asgore’s brief attempts at small talks fizzle out quickly, and even he seems almost relieved by that. The three of them can only seem to think about Frisk, and they mumble their worries to one another, but there are no solutions. Sans sits mostly in silence, acutely aware that there are enormous events in Frisk’s past that only he knows about; the knowledge creates a kind of invisible wall that separates him from Asgore and Toriel. And Toriel can put aside her animosity toward Asgore for Frisk’s sake, but that doesn’t mean she can connect with him even over their shared worry. And so, Sans, Toriel, and Asgore sit quietly in the living room, at once together but very alone. 

Until finally, the door to Frisk’s room opens. Three heads swivel around immediately. 

“Frisk!” Toriel calls, relief warm in her voice. “How are you feeling?” 

Frisk leans up against the doorframe, rubbing their eyes. They still look exhausted. But they say: “I can talk to you now, Mom.” 

“Oh! Oh, of course.” Toriel bustles up from her seat and quickly goes over to Frisk. 

“Uh, kid, you want either of us to come with?” Sans asks, gesturing between himself and Asgore. 

“No,” Frisk says. “Just Mom.” 

“Okay.” 

Frisk and Toriel disappear into the bedroom, and the door shuts behind them. 

Sans glances back at Asgore, over the empty mugs scattered on the table, and says: “Well. Hopefully our exile is just tea -moporary.”

Asgore sighs. 

---

Late that night, Sans and Toriel lay sleeplessly in bed. Frisk decided to stay at Asgore’s, and the apartment feels less alive without their presence. Even Flowey had seemed subdued that evening. Sans rolls onto his back and stares up at the ceiling; although Toriel does not move, he can tell by her breathing that she’s as lost in thought as he is. 

Quietly, he asks: “You okay, Tori?” 

“Yes. I suppose.” A pause. “You knew, did you not? About Frisk accidentally killing me?” 

“. . . Yeah.” 

She lets out a heavy sigh. “I thought we said no more secrets, Sans. Will we ever be done with the secrets?” Her voice sounds deeply weary, and Sans’ chest constricts. 

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I really am. I just . . . it was Frisk’s secret, not mine. I thought they had to tell you themself.” 

“I could understand that if the secret were something like Frisk dating someone, but how am I supposed to be their mother when I do not know something like that?” 

“I dunno,” Sans replies. “I’m sorry. But, uh, I think you do a pretty good job.” 

“Do I, Sans? I did not know this was something Frisk has been dealing with for years .” 

“For what it’s worth, I knew and I still screwed up.” He’s quiet for a moment. “How are you? Really. It’s gotta be a big thing to learn you, uh. Kicked the bucket.” 

“Well,” says Toriel slowly. “It does not feel real, I suppose. Not that I do not believe Frisk, of course. But what does it mean to die? I do not have any memory of it. And . . . in a strange way, perhaps, it makes me feel closer to my children. After all, every single one of my children has died, so why should I not?”

Sans reaches for her shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze. Toriel’s paw comes up to cover his fingers. 

“In truth, I am most worried about what this will mean for my relationship with Frisk,” Toriel continues softly. “Will my comfort still mean the same thing to them when they feel such guilt toward me?” 

“I dunno,” Sans says honestly, thinking of how he could never believe Papyrus’ forgiveness. He sighs. “I think I finally get it. Why you wanted me to get help.” 

There’s a rustling as Toriel rolls over to face him. She does not say anything, but Sans can feel her imploring gaze. 

“Sounds obvious now that I say it, but uh. No matter how much we love the kid, in the end they learn how to treat themself from how we treat ourselves. That’s why you’re so big on letting the kid see how you deal with shitty stuff like grief, right?” He pauses to run a hand over his face. “I guess, I knew that before. But I didn’t know it, you know? I love the kid, and I try to be gentle and understanding and all that with them, but I . . . that’s not what I’ve been showing them how to do for themself, I guess.”

“Oh, Sans,” Toriel breathes. “If that is all of why you think I wanted you to get help, no, you do not get it.” 

“Oh? Then what?” 

She reaches out one paw and brushes tenderly at the curve of his jaw. “I love you, dear. Yes, of course, I worry about the influence anyone has on Frisk, but my love, I want you to be kind to yourself for you as well.” 

Sans doesn’t know what to say to that. “Huh.” 

Toriel smiles softly at him. 

“So. Uh, no more secrets, right?” 

“Please,” Toriel says. 

“Does that mean we should tell Asgore about the resets?” 

“. . . Ah,” Toriel murmurs. “I had not thought of that. But . . . yes. I suppose, if I cannot be a mother without knowing the full story, Asgore cannot be a father unless he knows.” 

“Sorry. I don’t mean to tell you how to deal with your ex.” 

“You are fine, Sans. Thank you for reminding me of what I have overlooked.” 

“Yeah. Sure.” 

Sans looks up to the ceiling, still feeling Toriel’s paw on his face. He sighs heavily. 

“I’ve been doing research,” he whispers.

Toriel doesn’t say anything, but he can tell by the firm press of her digits into his jawbone that she’s listening intently. 

“At Ebott U. That professor who offered me a job? I guess I took it. I mean, sort of. Just a volunteer thing, but I’ve been helping out around the lab a couple hours a week. I dunno where it’s going or what it means, but . . . no more secrets.” 

“No more secrets,” Toriel repeats. “Thank you, Sans.” And she leans forward to press a soft, intense kiss to his mouth. 

Sans accepts the kiss, his fingers tangling in her fur. His soul is fluttering in his chest with both anxiety and the slightest strumming of something a little more optimistic. Each truth they’ve spoken that day feels so big, so enormously overwhelming, that he felt he could never see past them. Yet, suddenly, Toriel knows, and maybe those truths aren’t so big after all. 

Chapter Text

The next morning, Asgore texts to tell them that Frisk has decided to continue to lurk in their room there. They haven’t come out of their bedroom, except to use the bathroom, but they’re at least eating the food that Asgore left for them. 

There’s a muffled atmosphere hanging over the kitchen at Sans and Toriel’s apartment. Both Sans and Toriel sit in silence around the dining table, picking listlessly at bits of toast while they sip their coffee. Even Flowey, sitting in his pot in the windowsill, seems pensive. Sans considers a joke, but dismisses the idea. Jokes work best when they distract you from thinking too deeply about stuff that worries you. But when you’re already worrying, they land wrong. 

There’s nothing to do but wait for Frisk to come home. And, in the meantime, keep busy. 

“I should get to the school soon,” Toriel says. “We have a professional development meeting shortly.” 

“‘Kay,” Sans replies. 

“What will you do today?” 

“I dunno. I’ll call Dr. Livingston and ask for recs for therapy for the kid. Besides that though? Bother Papyrus probably.” 

“Well, give him my best,” Toriel says. 

“Yeah, sure.”

But as Toriel begins gathering up the plates and their half-finished toast, Sans’ phone buzzes. He jumps for it, hoping for an update on Frisk. 

The text isn’t from Asgore, and Sans reminds himself belatedly that Asgore would be more likely to contact Toriel. The text is from Amanda. It reads: Hey, how’s everything going? Is your family doing okay? :( 

Sans’ brow lifts, surprised and humbled by her concern. “Huh.” 

“What is it?” Toriel asks quickly. “Is it about Frisk?” 

“Nah. Well, not exactly. It’s one of the folks from the lab, checking in. I rushed out of there yesterday when you called, and she wants to make sure everything’s okay.” 

“Oh. Well, that is very nice of her.” 

“Yeah, it is,” Sans agrees, as he types out a reply to Amanda: we’re good. the kid just had a rough day. 

Toriel comes back to the table and cradles her half-finished mug of tea. “What is the lab like? We did not have much opportunity to talk about it last night. But I am curious about this place that has apparently gotten you so involved over the past couple months.”

“Oh. It’s, uh, cool, I guess. I dunno.” Sans pauses to pick at his teeth as he considers. “There’s a bunch of people in the lab, but I usually just work with one of the grad students there. Her name’s Amanda, and she’s pretty neat. She’s the one who just texted,” he adds, gesturing at the phone. 

“What do you usually work on?” Toriel asks. 

He shrugs. “Bunch of stuff here and there. Mostly worked on helping set the parameters for the simulations, but those sims are running now. Amanda’s been giving me papers to get me caught up, and teaching me how to use the fancy new software they’ve got on the surface. I just show up every so often and see what they tell me to do.” 

Toriel nods. “And I take it you like the work, as you keep going back.” 

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s pretty cool.” Sans knows he’s being overly simplistic, but he doesn’t know how to describe the kind of feeling he has just to see the numbers the computer spits out, knowing each number reflects the behavior of a star billions of miles away. He doesn’t know how to describe the way the papers Amanda has him read absorb him a way that little else has in a very long time. 

Toriel doesn’t seem to mind though; she gives him a small smile, as if she knows. 

The phone buzzes again. I’m glad everything’s okay! Do you want to come in this morning? I have some time before the lab meeting to finish showing you MATLAB. 

“Huh. Guess I might go into the lab today,” Sans mutters, as he types out a reply: cool. 

Toriel nods. “That is good. I think it will be good for both of us to keep busy today,” she says. 

“Yeah, I guess.” 

Sans taps back on his phone and with an apparently disconcerted gaze, he scans his other messages. And although he’s perfectly aware of what message he does and doesn’t have, he still has to fight a tightness in his soul when he sees no new messages from Frisk. 

Toriel reaches out a paw toward him. Sans takes it readily and gives it a short squeeze. 

“They will be okay soon,” Toriel murmurs, although it sounds as if she is trying to convince herself. 

“Yeah,” Sans answers, trying to push some confidence into his voice. “They will be.” 

And Toriel gives him another small, guarded smile.

---

Sans isn’t used to keeping busy to keep his mind off things. Sans usual approach is to let his worries eat him up from the inside while outwardly making light of the situation, but he can’t deny that there’s some effectiveness to the process.

After he leaves a message with Dr. Livingston about potential treatment for Frisk, he heads over to Ebott U. The moment he steps into the lab, Amanda sweeps him up into a concentrated crash course on geometric simulations on their computer, and while he’s finangling code into something that will read into meaningful shapes and colors and density plots, for a moment his soul doesn’t hurt so badly. In the brief moments between equations, he thinks of Frisk and feels as if his breath is empty, but then Amanda loads up the next plot and he forces his mind back to the numbers and the stars they are meant to represent. He can’t help but feel a little guilty to not be worrying about Frisk at every moment, but he reminds himself that Toriel encouraged him to come here. Toriel thinks staying busy is a good idea. 

So, when Amanda invites Sans to stay for the lab meeting, he agrees. He watches as the other lab members present their own projects -- modeling stellar lifestyles, predicting stellar collapse from neutrino emissions, particle oscillations in solar jets -- and if anyone is surprised to see him there, they don’t show it. 

“Sans,” Joyce calls, when the meeting breaks. “Do you have time to chat for a minute?” 

Sans glances at her, surprised and curious. “Uh, sure.” 

“Great. Come drop by my office.” 

Sans looks to Amanda, asking silently if she has any idea what this is about, but she’s absorbed in conversation with another graduate student. When Joyce leaves the conference room, Sans follows. 

“How’s your summer going?” Joyce asks, as she opens the door to her office and lets Sans in. 

“Uh, cool, I guess?” 

“Good.” But apparently, Joyce doesn’t have much love for small talk, because she doesn’t ask anymore and goes immediately to her desk. “Your work with Amanda has been exemplary. Amanda tells me you learn quickly and show a deep understanding of the subject, even given your years out of the field. The work you have done in the lab is effective, insightful, and thorough. We have never had a volunteer research assistant half as helpful as you are.” 

“Uh,” says Sans. ‘Effective’, ‘thorough’, and ‘helpful’ are not words he’s used to hearing applied to him. “Thanks? Heh, good to know my previous work wasn’t totally useless, I guess.” 

“I cannot continue to accept your work on a volunteer basis. I will email you a few forms; if you could fill those out, I will get you set up with payroll. Your contract will reflect the average number of hours you have done with us each week, but if you go above or below those hours, that is fine, and we will pay you accordingly. If your hours change significantly, we can discuss renegotiating your contract then.” 

“Hang on, that’s super not necessary,” Sans says hastily. “I’m not looking for a job or anything--” 

“I cannot take your work for free,” Joyce interrupts, her tone firm. “That devalues the process of research. The practice of encouraging volunteer basis research assistant positions exploits junior scientists and prices out promising students who cannot afford to work for free.” 

“Uh,” Sans replies. 

Now, Joyce’s tone shifts. She sounds gentler than Sans is used to, almost amused: “But also, Sans, do you have any plans for the future?” 

“Plans?” he echoes. “I mean, not really--” 

“Have you considered returning to academia properly?” 

Sans stares at her, wordless. 

“You have an incredible amount of potential, far more than simply staying a research assistant indefinitely. You could make an excellent academic. And I know that you have been a stay-at-home parent many years, and perhaps academia is not where you want to go. I support whatever you choose to do for yourself, but in the interests of the scientific community, I have to tell you that if you do leave academia again, physics will lose a very promising researcher.” 

“I, uh . . . wow, um.” Sans lets out an awkward laugh. “Heh. Me, a researcher? Come on, how would I even start? I mean, it’s not like monster science and human academia shared degree classifications.” 

“No, and because there are few examples of your work, it would be pretty impossible for you to just jump into the job market,” Joyce agrees. “You’d start as a graduate student. That’d give you time to brush up on the literature you missed in the last several years, learn contemporary methods as Amanda is teaching you now, network, and develop a body of work before applying for a post-doc or faculty position. But you likely could take an accelerated course schedule and have many class requirements waived, which might shorten your overall time frame.” 

“Uh, I dunno. I appreciate the thought, but sounds like a long shot. This was all supposed to be a temporary thing, you know?” 

“I know,” she says evenly. “But you could have a place here. I have two students set to graduate this year, and I’ll be looking for a new graduate student to start the school year after next. If you applied, I can’t guarantee you’d be accepted as the entire department has to approve, but . . .” She pauses and gives him a wry smile. “You’d have a very good chance.” 

Sans doesn’t really know what to say. He rubs awkwardly at his skull. “I dunno,” he says. “I never really thought about being a scientist like the way you guys do it. You know, even back when I was, uh, doing research full-time, it was different. We didn’t have professors and post-docs and graduate students. And we didn’t have journals or conferences the way you do. So, uh, never really thought about it.” 

“I understand,” Joyce says. “And I know I’m not your advisor formally, but I think you should take some time to think on it. And I don’t mean to suggest you should only work for my lab. Other labs may be even better suited for you, so look around. Most applications are due in December, so if you wanted to apply this year, you still have a few months. And you can always change your mind in a few years. I’m also willing to help out if you have any questions about the application process.” 

“Right,” Sans says briskly. “Cool. But don’t get your hopes up. I have a tendency to avoid applying for anything that makes you work.” 

Joyce gives him a dry look. “You have a tendency to sell yourself short.” 

He grins. “Probably because I am short.” 

She blinks, and does not react to the joke. “Think about it, Sans.” 

She turns to her computer and pulls up a file, clearly signaling that their little meeting is over. Sans gets up from his seat and walks to the door. When he reaches it, he steps through the doorway and out of the building entirely. 

----

Sans trudges down the sidewalk, his head down. His thoughts are swirling, and his soul feels tight. He’s not sure how any of this happened. He was just supposed to be offering a few pointers on some research that the lab was doing already. It was supposed to be a one time thing. But every step of the way he’s been sucked in deeper and deeper. And now he’s being kind of offered a career . 

This wasn’t supposed to happen. 

Sans kicks at a pebble in his path. And all on the day Frisk’s still holed up at Asgore’s in their misery, he reflects dully. There’s that guilt again, a wild thought that rises furiously from the back of his mind: how dare he go into the lab when his kid is having a crisis? How dare he not spend every minute of the day with his family? 

But also . . . what else could he do? Frisk wants space, and Sans has had his phone on him the whole time. He could be at Frisk’s side at a second’s notice. What harm was it to go to the lab? 

Both thoughts struggle against one another, guilt and defensiveness, and neither quite wins. Sans kicks another pebble. What was Joyce even thinking? Him, an academic? The word ‘academic’ itself is almost new to him -- oh, he knows the definition, sure, but he’s never been an academic before. The word conjures images of stuffy offices, big stacks of books, and wide lecture halls. That wasn’t the kind of scientist they’d had Underground. He tries to imagine himself behind that kind of desk, and his gut clenches in on itself with nerves before he can even conjure an image. 

Finally, Sans comes to a stop. He looks up, and considers where his feet have carried him. He’s standing in front of Alphys and Undyne’s apartment, with its fishbone welcome mat and broken planter outside. 

Huh. 

He hesitates a moment, prepared to turn on his heel and head back to his apartment. But then he doesn’t. Instead, he walks up the steps and directly into Undyne and Alphys’ living room. 

It’s as messy here as he remembers it, from the few times he’d been dragged along to one of Undyne and Alphys’ house parties. There’s a tower of haphazardly stacked books on the cracked coffee table and what looks like fishnets draped across the floor. The living room itself is unoccupied, but Sans hears clattering coming in from the kitchen. 

“Hey, Undyne,” he says, strolling into the kitchen. 

Undyne yells, and Sans quickly has to sidestep an energy spear hurled in his direction. The spear lodges itself in the wall behind him, and Sans eyes it curiously. 

“Sans!” Undyne cries. “What the hell!” 

“Royal guard skills getting rusty, huh?” Sans comments, twanging the end of the spear. 

“They are not! I would have hit you if you weren’t weirdly good at dodging!” 

“Good thing I am then, huh?” 

“What are you doing here, anyway? You never come by!” 

Sans does not examine the twinge he feels at that comment. “Lookin’ for Alphys.” 

“Alphys? She’s not here, she’s at work! I have to leave for my shift too soon!” 

“Oh. Right,” says Sans, feeling chagrined. There used to be a time where he knew all of Alphys’ schedule -- and most other monsters’ as well. 

“What do you want with her anyway?” 

Sans shrugs. “Just to say hi.” 

Undyne’s peering at him suspiciously. “You never say hi to her these days.” 

“Come on, never is a strong word. I definitely said hi to her at least three times this summer.” 

But Undyne crosses her arms, apparently uncaring of the way her cleaver spreads mustard across her upper arm. Sans wonders at how she’s managing to make a sandwich with a cleaver. “You definitely don’t say it to her enough.”

“Maybe I’m trying to make up for that.” 

Undyne points her cleaver at Sans, and Sans takes a hasty step back. “ Don’t mess with her, Sans.” 

“Mess with her? Man, I haven’t played any pranks on her in months. Is this about the ranch cupcake?” 

“No! I don’t mean pranks! I mean, be her friend or don’t be her friend! Stop being in this wishy-washy territory of--” She stops, and waves her free hand around. “-- whatever this is!” 

“Right,” says Sans slowly.

“Hey, I know it’s been like, a really long time since you were best friends. Like, way longer than just since we got to the surface. But it super hurt Alphys when you stopped talking to her completely! She kept thinking she did something wrong, or that you hated her. Which is obviously nuts! She’s the coolest! But she needed a friend! She was going through a whole lot of BS and you should have been there! But no, we get out of the Underground, and you just up and disappeared and you only say hi to her when you’re forced to!” 

Undyne slices the cleaver through the air in emphasis, and Sans takes another step back.

“It took her a super long time to be okay with the fact that you guys weren’t friends anymore,” Undyne continues. “She kept wanting to know why . It sucked! And now I hear that you’re hanging out with her again?! Going to cafes with her?! Saying hi ?!” 

She’s pointing the cleaver directly at Sans again. He puts up his hands. 

“Uh, you mind putting that down there?” 

“What?!” 

“The giant knife,” he clarifies, gesturing without putting his hands down. 

Undyne glares at him, but then obligingly thrusts the cleaver into the sink. 

“Thanks,” Sans says. “Anyway, sorry for being a shit friend. You know, I’m just a total sack of lazy bones.” He sees a spear forming in Undyne’s hands, and he hastily continues: “But I’m working on it! I . . . really didn’t mean to hurt her. I’m sorry. Really.” 

Undyne glares at him suspiciously. 

“I was going through some BS too, ‘kay? And I wasn’t handling it real well, and I screwed up a lot of things. But I’m trying to make them better now. And I’m actually trying to be a friend.” 

“Fine,” Undyne grouches finally, and dismisses her spear. “But you disappear like that again, and I’ll make sure that Alphys and Papyrus never have to deal with your bullshit ever again.” 

“That’s fair.” 

Undyne spins around and snatches up the cleaver again. She slathers mayonnaise on one side of the blade, and then slaps it onto a slice of bread. When she realizes Sans hasn’t moved, she looks up with a scowl. “You’re still here?! I told you Alphys isn’t home.” 

“Yeah,” says Sans. “Just . . . you were close with Pap.” 

“Still am, dummy.”

“Yeah.” Sans wonders why he never thought of this before. Maybe his feet hadn’t carried him here to talk to Alphys. Alphys hadn’t seen what science had done to this life the last time. If there was one person who was guaranteed to be as mad at him about letting Papyrus down as he was at himself, it was Undyne. 

“So??” Undyne prompts, when Sans just stands there. 

Sans takes a seat at the table and props his feet up on the surface. Undyne looks disgusted. 

“So, I’ve been working at a lab lately,” he tells Undyne. 

She stares at him. Then she bursts out laughing. “BWAHAHAHAHA, that’s a good one! You, working! No, seriously, what do you want?” 

“Heh. It does sound pretty ridiculous, huh? No, but really.” 

She only roars louder in laughter. 

This time, Sans doesn’t say anything, just picks at his t-shirt while he waits for her to get it out of her system. It’s a strange feeling, he reflects, to get such a reaction when he wasn’t even trying at a joke. 

Finally, she heaves a few steadying breaths and gasps: “No, really, what?” 

Sans levels her an even look. 

Undyne stares back. “No . . . wait. Really?! ” 

Sans shrugs wordlessly. 

“No way!!! What!!! You haven’t worked in years ! I know, I’m your boss! When did this happen?!” 

 “Uh, I dunno. A couple months, I guess. I’ve been helpin’ them out since Frisk’s birthday.” 

“NO!!!” Undyne roars, but she’s grinning ear-to-ear. 

“Eh,” says Sans. “Still don’t really know how it happened. I just meant to send one email, but here I am. Obviously, I have no control over my life.” He laughs awkwardly, and scratches at his head. 

“Come on, how do you fall into science by accident ?” 

“Talent,” he replies dryly. 

“You know, I thought your main talent was somehow always managing to do the barest minimum without getting in trouble, but wow! This definitely isn’t doing the barest minimum possible! Does Alphys know?!” 

Sans makes a vague gesture. “Nah, not really.” 

“Oh man, she’s gonna be so pumped! Holy shit!!” 

“Heh. You’re . . . actually happy about this?” Sans comments.

“Yeah!! Why wouldn’t I be?!” 

He shrugs again, trying to look as nonchalant as possible. “Eh, no reason. Just, you know, you know what a sucky brother I was the last time I was doing research. You spent a lot of time looking after him when I was holed up at the lab.”  

“So?! Papyrus isn’t a kid anymore! You can do nerd shit to your heart’s content now!” Undyne goes to slap him on the back supportively, and Sans just barely manages to twist out of the way. 

“I guess. It’s just, I still have family, you know, and I’m still me. I could start doing the same things all over again, right?” 

“Dude, so ?!?! What the hell are you angsting about?! Even Frisk is an adult! And like, it’s good for eggheads like you to do nerdy shit. You wanna talk about screwing up when you do science? Look at Alphys!! And she got back in the game! Don’t be a coward, do science!!” 

This time when Sans laughs, it’s genuine. “You ever think about being a motivational speaker?” 

“No way, I can’t stand all that sappy feelings bullshit! Papyrus is way better at it. Oh -- and did you tell Papyrus?!” 

“No, not yet.” 

“What are you even waiting for?! GO!!! Also, I really gotta go to work.”

 “Alright, alright, I get the message,” he says, half laughing. “I’m going.” 

“Good,” Undyne says, voice muffled around the sandwich half she has shoved in her mouth. “And stop angsting!” 

He grins. “I’ll do my best.” 

---

But when Sans leaves, he doesn’t go directly to Papyrus’. He walks through the city, passing through both familiar and unfamiliar neighborhoods, just thinking. He can’t put his finger on exactly how he’s feeling, but whatever it is, it’s unexpected. Even Undyne wasn’t concerned about him returning to science, but this time Sans isn’t frustrated at the show of forgiveness. He feels . . . something wells up inside him, something anxious and trepidatious and almost yearning. Sans shoves his hands in his pockets and just walks. 

He’s passing by an open air market on the east side of the city when his phone buzzes. He pulls it out, and there’s a text from Toriel: “ Frisk has come home .” 

He’s in their living room immediately. Frisk is sitting on the couch, looking exhausted, and Flowey’s on the coffee table in front of them. Toriel’s carrying a plate over from the kitchen, with one of the largest slices of pie Sans has ever seen her cut. 

At the sight of Frisk back in their apartment, Sans feels something loosen inside of him. He breathes deeply, as tension melts from his shoulders and the back of his skull. 

“Hey, kiddo,” he says. “Good to see you home.” 

Frisk lifts their head and gives him a small, weary smile. Toriel sets the plate on the coffee table next to them, and Frisk eyes the size of the slice of pie with some degree of apprehension. 

“Is there something else I can get for you? Tea, a sandwich, something more?” Toriel asks.

Frisk shakes their head quickly. 

“Let me get you a sweater at least,” Toriel says kindly, and bustles off. 

Sans lets Toriel go, but when she returns with a sweater, a blanket, and pillow, and proceeds to attempt to tuck Frisk into bed right there on the couch while Frisk resignedly lets her fuss, Sans finally taps Toriel’s elbow and gives her a meaningful look. 

Toriel meets his gaze, and lets her paws drop. “Ah . . . Sans and I will be in the kitchen if you need anything,” she tells Frisk. 

Frisk, looking a little bit lost in their lump of blankets, just nods. 

“Come on.” Sans takes Toriel’s paw and leads her into the kitchen. When they get there, he drops his bag with the laptop he’d brought into the lab on the floor, and sits heavily into a chair. From the living room, they can hear some shuffling about, and then a door clicks as Frisk disappears into their bedroom. Sans feels his soul pang.

“Sorry,” he tells Toriel. “Just thought the kid could use a bit of space. Don’t want to smother them.” 

“No, of course,” Toriel says, and lowers herself into a chair across from him. “Goodness, I am glad they are home, but it is difficult to see them so obviously troubled.” 

“Yeah. I get it.” Sans glances back in the direction of the living room. There’s still worry knotted up in his gut, but more than that, he feels a fierce protectiveness, a staggering relief that at least Frisk is back in the apartment. “Let’s just give them time.” 

“Yes,” Toriel murmurs. 

For a moment, they lapse into silence. Sans picks at a spot on the table where some kind of sauce has stained the wood. Toriel stares down at her paws, and brushes absently at the fur at the back of her fingers. 

“Did you call Dr. Livingston?” she asks softly. 

“Yeah. Left a message. Haven’t heard back yet, though.” 

“Alright. Thank you.” 

“Sure. Has Frisk said anything since they’ve gotten back?” 

“Not much. They said they had come home because they needed to check on Flowey.”

“Poor kid,” Sans mumbles. “I mean, are we sure they have to check on Flowey? Guy’s not great company even when you’re in a good mood.” 

“I suggested they did not, but Frisk seemed insistent.” 

Sans huffs a weak laugh. “Of course they did.” 

“But you are right; Flowey is . . . difficult.” Toriel looks troubled. “Perhaps I should check on them again? Make certain that Flowey is not giving them a hard time?” She moves as if to get up from the table.

“Tori,” Sans says gently.

Toriel lets out a heavy sigh and sits back down. “I know. It is just . . .” 

“Yeah,” Sans agrees, even as she trails off. “Well. Uh, how was your day?” 

Toriel blinks once. Awkwardly, Sans scratches at his skull. 

“I mean,” he mutters, “I just . . . I thought there’s nothing we can do for the kid right now, so we can just try to talk about other stuff. But if you don’t want to, that’s fine.” 

“No, you are right,” Toriel says. “It is good to occupy ourselves with something else for now. Yes, my day was alright. I was of course worried about Frisk, but we had very long meetings for professional development today. I also had some time to prepare for the upcoming school year.” 

“That’s cool. You get your class list yet?” 

“Yes. And I did get two of Dogamy and Dogaressa’s puppies in my class.” 

“Oh, that’s great,” Sans says sincerely. “I’m sure they’ll be paw- sitively a delight to have in class. Hopefully they’ll keep their grades pup .”

Toriel cracks a smile. “Indeed. I am very fur -tunate to get both in my class.” 

Sans beams at her, feeling a rush of affection. 

“And how was your day, dear?” Toriel asks him. “Did you visit Papyrus?”

“What? Oh. No. I, uh, got a bit sidetracked,” he admits. 

“Oh? With what?” 

Sans laughs weakly, running one hand over his face. “Well, uh, you know how I went into the lab this morning?” 

“Yes?” 

“So . . . had a meeting with the prof. And she kind of wants me to apply for grad school? She wants me to be a professor one day?” He grins, a lopsided kind of smile. “Can you imagine?” 

Toriel’s eyebrows lift, and her ears perk up. “A professor?” she echoes. 

“I know, right? It’s nuts.” 

“Hmm. I do not know. I think I rather like the image of you as a professor. You could have the desk, maybe some tweed . . .” 

Sans lets out a startled laugh. “You got the hots for imaginary professor me?” 

She smiles back easily. “Whyever would you think I would not?”  

Sans feels his face flush and he laughs again, running a hand hard over his cheeks. 

“But more to the point,” Toriel continues, tone suddenly more serious but nonetheless gentle. “How do you feel about it?” 

“I . . . I don’t know,” Sans admits. “I never really thought about it, you know? Research life on the surface is pretty different from what we were doing Underground, so it’s not even something I could imagine.” 

“I see. Has working in the laboratory given you some idea of what that path would look like here?” 

“I don’t know,” Sans says again. “It’s one lab, and I’ve just been working there over the summer. Things are a little different right now. Fewer students around than the rest of the year, you know?” 

“Yes, I can understand that. But . . .” She eyes him. “You do not sound immediately averse to the idea?” 

“Um. Yeah. I, uh, guess not.” He grins asymmetrically and again scratches at his head. “I guess . . . well, after the prof talked to me, I tried to go to Alphys’ to talk about it. She wasn’t there, though, so I chatted with Undyne instead. I thought she’d kind of have the same kind of attitude I did about me doing science, seeing as she looked after Papyrus so much and all. But she didn’t. And, well, I don’t know. It surprises me that that didn’t surprise me. Does that make sense?” 

“I believe so.”

“Really? Doesn’t make sense to me. Anyway. I guess, I didn’t feel like she was missing the big picture or anything like that. I think . . . maybe she’s right.” 

“That is wonderful, Sans,” Toriel says warmly. “I am so pleased that you are not expecting people to be angry with you as much.” 

“Yeah. Therapy, huh?” 

Toriel smiles. “Also you. It takes a lot to start forgiving yourself.” 

“Heh. I guess.” 

“Do you know what you want to do?”

“With Joyce’s idea? About me in grad school?” 

“Yes. I know you said you do not know, but perhaps you could talk to someone about what graduate school is like? Perhaps that nice student who texted you this morning?” 

“Maybe.” Sans glances down at the table. Almost absently, he reaches out and takes Toriel’s paw in his hand. He brushes his thumb against her fur, thinking. There’s nerves still twisting in his gut, but when he takes a moment to consider the sensation, he feels . . . well, it’s different from his usual anxiety. But familiar. Again, his thumb brushes at Toriel’s paw. He lifts his gaze, and traces Toriel’s muzzle with his eyes. Yes. That’s the feeling. The nerves feel like the same kind of flip-flop of his soul in the heartbeat before he kisses Toriel. 

He pushes himself up and leans over. Toriel accepts the kiss and brings up her free paw to cup his jaw. Sans holds the kiss for a moment, then breaks away. He gazes into Toriel’s eyes, and she meets his gaze steadily, patiently. 

The flip-flop feeling is still there. He thinks of the lab, of Joyce’s proposition, of neutrons and the stars and the beautiful figures he’s been learning to make in MATLAB, and his soul tightens. 

“Yes,” he breathes finally. “I think . . . I want to do it. I think I want to try grad school.”

Toriel smiles, and pulls him into another kiss.   

Chapter Text

The next morning, Sans wakes slowly, and then all at once when his memories of the previous day hit him. He lays sprawled out in bed for a moment, blinking sleep out of his eye sockets. He’d been offered a position as a graduate student. He’d confessed to Toriel that he wanted to take it. Heck, the fact that he wants to take it at all feels unreal. 

Sans runs a hand over his face. What is even happening to him? 

Toriel’s already up. When Sans staggers out of the bedroom and out into the living room, he sees that Frisk is awake too; they’re sitting at the kitchen table, looking exhausted. But when Sans comes in, they look up and offer him a genuine smile. 

“Hey, kid,” Sans greets. “How ya doing?” 

“I’m okay,” Frisk replies. “Tired, though.” 

“Yeah. Didn’t sleep well, huh?” Sans can read a whole night’s worth of nightmares in the bags under Frisk’s eyes. 

Frisk shrugs. 

“Here. Perhaps this will help,” Toriel says, and slides a mug of tea onto the table. 

“Think the kid is probably gonna need something a bit stronger than that,” Sans comments.

Toriel levels him a look. 

“Okay, okay, no giving the teenager triple-shot espresso, I got it,” Sans says, putting up a hand. 

Frisk cracks a grin. “It’s okay,” they say. “I’ll pick some up when I head over to Jake’s today.” 

Toriel sighs. “I suppose I cannot stop you.” 

“You should,” Flowey grumbles, from his spot on the kitchen table in front of Frisk. “Frisk on a caffeine high is the worst .” 

“Aw, you care about my health,” Frisk says. 

“I do not!” 

Frisk pats the top of Flowey’s petals, which makes Flowey spit with rage. “Don’t worry,” Frisk reassures him. “I’ll keep your secret. And I won’t make you hang out with my friends. You can stay here and enjoy the sun in peace and quiet.” 

“I won’t be enjoying it with those two around,” Flowey retorts, glaring at Sans. “I don’t want to deal with their disgusting flirting.” 

Flowey should know better than to give Sans such a tempting option for assholery. “Honeybuns,” Sans calls to Toriel. “What are we having for breakfast? Is it as sweet as you?” 

“ Ugh! ” Flowey spits, as Sans and Frisk crack up. 

Toriel smiles, unruffled. “Well,” she says easily, “I thought we would have toast, but then I decided to make it french toast, because Eiffel for you.” 

Flowey screws his face up more, and Sans laughs harder. Toriel watches him fondly for a moment, then speaks to Frisk. “You are going out today, then?” 

Frisk nods. “Jake’s having a party before the summer ends.” 

“Well, be safe, dear. But it is good to see that you are feeling better.” 

Frisk offers her a smile. “Yeah,” they say. 

Sans watches Frisk carefully. There’s a tension around their eyes that’s subtle, but betrays how deeply their exhaustion runs. He doesn’t say anything. Of course Frisk isn’t going to feel better all at once, and he knows as well as anyone that sometimes putting on a brave face is the best you can do. Still, his soul twists uncomfortably in his chest. 

Toriel finishes making breakfast and serves three tall stacks of french toast to the table. They take their time eating, or photosynthesizing in Flowey’s case, and Frisk makes a valiant effort at small talk. 

Sans’ work with the lab doesn’t come up, and he’s grateful. At some point, he’ll tell Frisk, he’s sure, but not now. Not when the kid is barely holding themself together. 

Besides, he doesn’t know exactly what to tell them. Deciding he wants to go to grad school is one thing. Deciding to actually go is another. 

Eventually, breakfast is finished and cleared, and Frisk pops Flowey in the window before moving off to the front door. 

“Take care,” Toriel tells them warmly. “Will you be home for dinner?” 

Frisk shrugs. “Maybe.”

Sans can see Toriel’s eyes tighten with worry, but she just smiles and says. “Alright. If you will not be home for dinner, text me.”

“Sure.” Frisk accepts a hug from Toriel, and then they slip out through the front door. 

When they’ve left, Sans puts on his own shoes by shoving his feet inside without bothering to undo the laces. “I should go check on Papyrus,” he tells Toriel. “I didn’t see him yesterday. You want to come with?” 

“Ah, I wish I could. But I still have much to do at the school before the new school year.” 

“Tough break,” Sans says. “Hope things settle down for you soon. When’re you going to be home?”

“A little after six, most likely.” 

“Cool. I’ll work on dinner then.”  

“Thank you. Are you going to tell Papyrus about your exciting news?” 

Out of the corner of Sans’ eye, he sees Flowey perk up curiously. Sans ignores him, and says: “I don’t know yet. Maybe. Suppose I better though. If I don’t, Undyne’s gonna tell him herself and then string me up for not doing it myself.” 

Toriel gives him a small, knowing smile, her eyes gentle. “He would be so very proud of you.” 

Sans smiles back. “Yeah.” 

Toriel leans down and presses a soft kiss to the top of his head. “Have a good day, dear.” 

“You too,” Sans says. 

---

Sans appears directly in Papyrus’ kitchen. Papyrus is at the stove, and by the smell wafting through the kitchen, it seems apparent that Papyrus is making spaghetti for breakfast. When Papyrus turns around and spots Sans standing there behind him, his eye sockets narrow. 

“Sans! Have you cleaned your room yet?!” 

“What? Not happy to see me?” 

Papyrus points a wooden spoon at Sans and repeats: “Have you cleaned your room?!” 

Sans chuckles and settles himself in a chair at the kitchen table. Ignoring the question, he asks: “So, what’s for breakfast?” 

“I know Toriel already fed you!” 

“Oh, that was just an early morning snack.” 

“Well -- fine! You need your daily serving of spaghetti anyway! It is very healthy, and I know you don’t eat enough!”

“That is true,” Sans says, and when Papyrus comes over with a bowl, he accepts it readily. 

Papyrus’ cooking truly is better than it once was, but the sauce probably would have been better without the entire jar of paprika. Papyrus, of course, seems unbothered by the excessive seasoning as he picks at his own plate. 

“So, how are things?” Sans asks, wiping sauce off his chin. “Ready to start up the after school program again?” 

Papyrus’ eyelights flare. “This school year is going to be the best yet!” he crows excitedly. “I have created new challenges that will test their skills and help the children flourish to their absolute greatest potential!”

“Heh. I bet you did.” 

Listening to Papyrus ramble about the new games he will be instating at his after school program is soothing. Whatever else might be going on in Sans’ life -- Frisk’s troubles, Sans’ own questions about research -- Papyrus is always the same. Sans can always count on Papyrus to be bursting with ideas, disappointed in Sans, and overall just being very Papyrus . 

For a moment, Sans can just be. Papyrus doesn’t have any expectations for Sans. He doesn’t even expect Sans to contribute to conversation, let alone be productive or put-together or mature or any of that stuff that sometimes feels too much now that Sans has responsibilities . 

But it’s only a moment. 

When Papyrus finally lapses into quiet so that he can eat his spaghetti, Sans feels mounting pressure grow in his head. He needs to tell Papyrus about the lab. If he doesn’t, Undyne will do it, and again he will have failed. 

Would that be so bad? a quiet voice in Sans’ head asks. Yes, Undyne and Papyrus and probably Toriel will be frustrated with him, but so what? No one should have ever had expectations of him in the first place. If he fails, it will remind them that he is a mess-up, and they never should have hoped for more. Maybe they’ll stop expecting anything of him again. 

Sans’ hand fists against his shorts. No. He’s trying to be better. For Alphys, for Toriel, for his kid, for Papyrus. For . . . 

He exhales. 

In the most casual tone possible, he says: “So, I may have made a lab -se in judgement.” 

Papyrus’ eye sockets narrow. “That was your pun voice.” 

“Well, I mean, that’s a matter of opinion. But a good joke is part of the space of life.”

“Ugh! These jokes don’t even make sense! Why did you emphasize ‘matter’?! And there’s nothing relevant to space right now!”

“You seem pretty positive about that. Not like the neutrinos I’ve been studying.” 

“UGH, SANS--!” But then Papyrus cuts off, his eye sockets widening. “Wait . . . why are you making science puns?” 

Sans shrugs, suddenly feeling nervous. “Heh. Maybe I’m star- ring up trouble, but I guess I couldn’t stay away.” 

“What are you talking about?! Get to the point! Without puns!”

Sans chuckles, but before he can come up with yet another science-related pun, Papyrus jolts all at once as if he’s been struck by lightning. 

“SANS! Are you saying that you’re doing science ?!” 

“Heh. Knew we’d get there sometime.” 

“We’d get there faster if you didn’t insist on telling me with puns! But of course, you can’t talk about anything serious without making jokes!” 

“Eh, what can I say?” 

“You can tell me everything! You’re doing science? Where? When? No puns!!” 

“You know, every time you say that, you tempt me all the more.” 

“ Sans! ” 

Sans chuckles again. “I dunno, there’s not much to say. I’ve been hanging out at a physics lab down at EU. They give me stuff to do, I do it. Keeps me out of trouble, I guess.”

He scratches at his skull and doesn’t meet Papyrus’ gaze properly. 

“Must’ve liked my work though, ‘cause the prof is offering me a spot in her lab for grad school. Can you imagine? Me, Dr. Sans?” 

“ WHAAAAAAAAT ?!”

“I know, right? Her expectations are way too high. I’m not capable of that kind of work.” 

“That’s not true!” Papyrus breaks in. “You are capable of it! You just . . . have to want to!” 

Sans brow lifts. “That almost sounded encouraging. Come on, you know what a big sack of lazybones I am.” 

“No, you’re not!” 

“I’m not lazy?” Sans echoes, almost laughing. “Come on, Pap, you remind me how lazy I am, like, religiously.” 

To Sans’ surprise, Papyrus looks distinctly uncomfortable. “Well, I -- I didn’t mean it!” 

Sans blinks. “You didn’t mean it.” 

“No! Well. At first I did. For a long time I did. But even the great Papyrus makes mistakes sometimes!” 

“A mistake? Pap, it’s not a mistake to call me lazy.” 

But Papyrus doesn’t meet his gaze as he replies: “I wouldn’t be nearly as awesome an after-school counselor if I didn’t know the difference between laziness and mental health issues! You’re not lazy. You just . . . went through some bad stuff, and never really got all the way better!” 

Sans shifts in his chair, suddenly feeling as if there’s a spotlight shining directly on him. His bones prickle with sweat under the phantom heat of the light. “You tell me how lazy I am all the time,” he says, as if hopeful that Papyrus will say it again. 

“I wasn’t a super cool amazing counselor when I was little! I didn’t know better at first! I was just -- mad! You paid our rent and made sure we ate -- even though it was super greasy stuff like Grillby’s all the time -- but I was doing everything else like laundry and cleaning and making sure you got out of bed, and I thought it wasn’t fair. And it wasn’t fair! But it wasn’t you making it unfair. It wasn’t fair for you, either. It was unfair Dad died! That’s what made it unfair!” 

“I let you down,” Sans mumbles. 

“A little bit,” Papyrus admits. “But you let yourself down more. And I was mad that I couldn’t help you, and so I started calling you lazy because I couldn’t understand why you wouldn’t help yourself! And then it just . . . became a habit.” 

Sans doesn’t say anything. 

“Especially since you started making jokes out of it yourself, and when I called you lazy, you’d grin, even when you were at your laziest! I mean -- not lazy, depressed! See! It’s a habit!” 

“You were . . . trying to make me grin?” 

“Sometimes! Or just . . . make you react, I guess. Because sometimes, you wouldn’t react to anything, except me calling you lazy or pretending to get angry at your bad jokes!” 

“Wait, ‘ pretending ’?”

But Papyrus either ignores him or doesn’t hear him, and barrels on. “But you’re not lazy, and even if you were, you’re not nearly as bad as you were before. Miss Toriel changed you. You have a family now! You cook and you clean and you take care of Frisk, and I know you do all that because I know Toriel wouldn’t let you get away with not doing it! She used to be a queen, after all!” He pauses. “I just wish you’d clean up your room here, too.” 

“Heh. It’s just so you don’t miss me too much.”

“I see you every day! I don’t need a messy bedroom to remind me!” 

“I’ll get to it eventually,” Sans says. He pauses. “You really think I do all that, huh?” 

“I know you do! I’m not wrong!”

“No,” Sans admits. “You’re not. Just, uh, didn’t realize you thought about all that.” 

“I am very perceptive!” 

Sans chuckles. “Yeah. Also, can we get back to that whole ‘pretending to get angry at my bad jokes’ thing? Do you actually like my jokes?” 

“No! Not when you use them to avoid talking about stuff seriously!” Papyrus retorts. “They’re infuriating!” 

“Okay, but you said ‘pretend’.” 

“Do you think you’re the only one who can play with words? I just have standards when it comes to my puns!”

“I’ve never heard you make a pun,” Sans says, bemused. 

“I know!” Papyrus replies. “That was on purpose! You would never take me seriously when I tell you off for making bad jokes if you heard me make puns!” 

“I thought you said you were pretending?” 

“UGH! YOU’RE NOT LISTENING!” Papyrus cries in frustration. “Puns aren’t bad! But you use them badly! Someone needs to remind you to be serious sometimes!” 

“Oh,” says Sans. “That actually makes a lot of sense.”

“OF COURSE IT DOES! I’m a great counselor! I know all about communication!” 

“Right,” Sans says, with a soft laugh. “Yeah. You’re awesome at it. So, what am I supposed to be communicating right now?” 

And Papyrus slams his hands on the table and meets Sans’ gaze straight on. “This science thing! You started science again!” 

“Yeah, I guess I did.” 

“Why?! It’s been years! What changed your mind?”

“You know, I couldn’t tell you,” Sans says, scratching the back of his head. “Heck, I’d just end up at the university without even really planning it. It was weird.” 

It’s surprising how easy it is for him to talk about all this, now that he’s started. There’s still a twinge of guilt in his chest, but it’s tempered by a sense of giddy excitement. It’s like speaking aloud and admitting to Toriel that he actually wants to do science broke a dam inside him and he can actually talk. 

Papyrus is nodding sagely as he listens. “Your instincts knew what you needed!” 

“Instincts, huh? So you think this is what I need?” Sans asks, lifting his brow. 

Again Papyrus nods, more sharply this time. “You’re doing more and being less lazy around your family, but you’re not doing enough for yourself! You’re missing something!” 

“And you think that’s science?” 

Papyrus shrugs. “You have to decide for yourself. But I think there’s a very good chance!” 

“Yeah,” says Sans. “So you think I should do it, then?” 

But Papyrus squints at him and retorts: “You’re still not listening! You have to decide for yourself! I think you should do something! But only you can decide what that something should be!” 

“I want to do it,” Sans says, surprising himself with how quickly the words fall from his mouth. “But that’s not the same as actually deciding to do it.”

“What’s stopping you, then?!” 

Sans takes a deep breath, looks up, and then almost all at once, seems to remember he’s talking to Papyrus . Not Toriel, not Alphys, not even Frisk, who at least intimately knows of the brokenness of their world. Papyrus, who’s bright and brilliant and somehow always sees the light in the shadows. His little brother, whom he has always meant to look out for, and whom he has always failed. He clams up. 

“Eh, don’t worry about it,” he mutters. “I’m probably just being an idiot.” 

“Sans.” 

Papyrus’ tone is firm, demanding. Sans can’t help but meet his gaze again. 

“Sans,” Papyrus says again. “You can talk to me. I’m your brother! I haven’t always been the most supportive, but I’m going to do better!” 

“I -- what ?! What are you talking about? You haven’t been the most supportive? Pap, it’s my job to look after you, not the other way around.”

But Papyrus waves his hand dismissively. “That hasn’t been true for a very long time! It’s just as much my job to look after you as it is for you to look after me!” 

“Look, I know I sucked when I was supposed to be taking care of you, but that doesn’t mean--” 

“I’m not just talking about when Dad died!” Papyrus interrupts. “I know you have this weird thought that because you were technically more adult than I was, you had to do everything, and I still think that’s pretty ridiculous because you were still only twenty then yourself, but none of that matters now! I’m not a kid anymore! You being five years older doesn’t mean anything! I’m your brother, and I’m just as much an adult as you are, and I don’t need you taking care of me.” 

“I--,” Sans says helplessly, but doesn’t know how to finish the sentence, so he breaks off. He laughs weakly. 

“What’s so funny?!” 

“Nothing,” he mumbles. “Just . . . kinda ironic. Tori’s been all mad at me for treating Frisk like they’re older than they are, and here you’re mad at me for treating you like a kid. Guess I got all twisted up somewhere along the way, huh?” 

“Hmmm, yes, that is strange! I am much older than Frisk!” 

“Yeah, I’m aware,” Sans chuckles. “Maybe it’s just hard for me to switch gears. I held you when you were a baby, but I didn’t meet Frisk until they were already on their way to save monsterkind.” He doesn’t add that Frisk knew about the resets, while Papyrus still only considers the resets a theoretical possibility. 

“We’re both too big for you to hold now!” 

“Yeah, probably. But anyway, Pap, you’ve been totally supportive; you don’t have to worry about that.”

“No!” Papyrus retorts. “I should have been a safer emotional space for you! Maybe sometimes you needed someone to remind you to take things seriously and pick up your socks, but sometimes you also needed someone to remind you that you’re awesome. And I didn’t do that! But I can do that now! Sans, you’re awesome!” 

Sans finds that he doesn’t know what to say. There’s a strange feeling in his chest, something at once tight and feather-light. To his shock, he realizes that his eye sockets feel hot, and that tears are threatening to fall. He quickly rubs at his face. “I . . . thanks.” 

 “So, if you want to do science, why aren’t you doing it?” 

Sans shrugs. “I dunno. I just . . . I don’t know what to expect. I mean, it’s gonna be a lot of work. I haven’t worked hard in a really long time.”

Papyrus nods sagely. “Working hard is like running a marathon. You need training sometimes! But you can build up!”

“I suppose. But I also don’t really like who I was the last time I was doing research seriously.” 

“Do you like yourself now?” 

Sans doesn’t reply. 

Papyrus folds his hands together and peers at Sans over the ridge of his knuckles. “No one can make you do anything! I can’t! Even if sometimes I wish I could . . . ,” he adds in a mutter, eyelights sliding to the side. “But you should do what makes you happy! If science makes you happy, you should do it!” 

“It’s not science that makes happy, though,” Sans points out. “It’s you guys. You, Tori, Frisk. And even if I kind of like doing research, I don’t want it to get in the way of hanging out with you.” 

“Well,” says Papyrus, “how long have you been working at the lab now?! And you’re still hanging out with me today! And I bet you’ve hung out with Toriel and Frisk too!” 

“A bit,” Sans admits.

“So what’s stopping you?! Why don’t you want to do science?!”

“I don’t know. Maybe you’re right.”

“So?!?! Are you going to do it?!” 

“I don’t know,” Sans says again. “Maybe.” 

“UGH!!!” Papyrus groans. “You’re impossible!”

Sans just laughs. “Thanks, Papyrus.” 

“What for?! You’re still being as stubborn as ever!” 

He shrugs. “Just . . . thanks, I guess.”

“Fine! You’re welcome! Now, finish your spaghetti!”  

Chapter Text

Sans leaves Papyrus’ place feeling in a considerably better mood than when he arrived. The thought of taking Joyce up on her offer to start graduate school in earnest is still anxiety inducing, but it’s harder and harder to feel like he’d be doing something wrong by saying yes. He still hasn’t made any decisions, but . . . it’s different, knowing he wants something. He hasn’t wanted anything other than his family’s company for a long time. 

What that means, he doesn’t know yet. Or . . . perhaps he does know, but he’s not ready to think about it for real just yet. 

The apartment is quiet when Sans gets back. Flowey ignores him, which Sans appreciates. He checks on Frisk’s ambassadorial email account, sends off a virus to an asshole trying to use the account to hit on the kid, and answers a couple other quick-answer questions. He intends to turn off the computer and put on some trash TV and fall asleep on the couch afterwards, but instead he finds himself skimming through some articles that Amanda sent: state of the research on neutrino emissions from supernovae, recent advances in detection technology, and a couple of the lab’s own recent publications. By the time evening rolls around, Sans’ head feels exhausted, but in a good way. 

Toriel arrives home just as Sans slides a plate of mac and cheese into the oven. 

“Hey, T,” he greets. “How was your day?”

“It was lovely, thank you for asking,” she replies, and comes over to drop a kiss to his mouth in greeting. “Yours?” 

“Eh. Nothing interesting. Just did the bare bones .” 

She chuckles brightly. “Has Frisk come home yet?” 

“Nah. Probably still out with their friends.”

“Hmm,” Toriel replies, looking unsettled. “Yes, probably. They did not text me that they would be running late . . .”

“Probably just means they’re having a good time.” 

Toriel nods absently, but she doesn’t seem comforted. “I cannot help but worry,” she murmurs. 

“Hey,” Sans says, reaching out to put a hand on her arm. “It’s okay. The kid’s just out having some fun before school starts next week.”

“I suppose. You know that I always worry, though. And with what happened the other day . . .” 

“I know. But Frisk will be fine. And I mean, they say they’ve been dealing with that crap for years, right? They got this.” 

Toriel offers him a small smile. “Perhaps you are right. Thank you.”

“Of course.” Sans doesn’t mention the way his stomach dropped when Toriel said Frisk hadn’t messaged. It probably is nothing, and they’re both just worried because they don’t like being away from Frisk -- and Toriel’s always been wont to worry -- but he can’t help feeling a niggling sense of something not quite right. 

Surreptitiously, he pulls out his phone and shoots a text to Frisk: “hey kid, u good? ”

But there’s no response as Sans finishes making dinner. There’s no response as they eat, and there’s no response as they settle onto the couch to find something to watch. 

“It is getting late,” Toriel fusses. “They should be back by now.” 

“Maybe,” Sans says, trying to sound as casual as possible. “Not that late for a kid, though. We’re just old.” 

Toriel doesn’t quite smile this time. “Maybe I should call Jake.”

“If that would make you feel better, go for it.”

“I would not want to disturb them. Am I over-reacting?”

Sans shrugs. “Hey, you texted the kid. They’re late getting home, and they’re not responding. You have every right to be the embarrassing mom if you want to.”

“Yes, I suppose . . .” Toriel exhales. “Okay, well, I just need to check.”

“Yeah, go for it.” 

Toriel types quickly on her phone and then holds it up to her ear. There’s a pause as the line rings. 

Then: “Hello, Jake? This is Toriel. I am just calling to check on Frisk. Could I speak with them?” 

Sans hears an indistinct murmur from the phone, and although he can’t make out the words, he can see by the tightening of Toriel’s brow and the way her paw drifts to her muzzle that it’s not what she wanted to hear. 

“Are you certain?” Toriel says quickly. “Around what time? Yes . . . yes, of course. Thank you, Jake. Well, call me if you hear anything.” 

She hangs up, and her expression is distraught. 

“Kid’s not there?” Sans guesses. 

Toriel nods slowly, as if trying to gather herself before she speaks. “They left hours ago. Frisk told Jake that we wanted them home.” 

“Maybe they just wanted some time to themself.” 

“It does not feel right,” she murmurs. 

“It doesn’t,” Sans admits. 

Frisk has never been out this late before. And given Frisk’s state of mind that morning, Sans can’t shake a soul-sucking feeling that something is terribly wrong. 

“I can go look for them,” he offers. 

“Would you, please?” 

“Of course.” 

“Thank you, Sans,” Toriel says softly. “And I will stay here. I would like to come looking with you, but if Frisk comes home it would be good for someone to be here.” 

“They have a key, and they can text you when they get back,” he suggests. 

But Toriel shakes her head. “I believe it would be better for them if someone is physically present when they return. I will also call around. Perhaps Asgore or Kid or Alphys or Undyne knows where they are.” 

“‘Kay. Well, I’ll do my best to find them quickly.” 

“Thank you.” 

Despite the worry still etched upon her face, Toriel manages a small smile as she reaches out a paw to squeeze Sans’ hand. Sans squeezes back. 

“They’ll be okay,” he promises, as much to himself as to Toriel. 

Then he vanishes. 

---

Sans is on the sidewalk, deep in the heart of Ebbott City, and when he looks up to the sky, there are only a few stars visible overhead. He can feel the sprawling city stretching in all directions around him, far larger than the entire Underground ever was. Perhaps it’s ironic to feel a pang of agoraphobia after a lifetime of yearning for freedom, but Sans is suddenly acutely aware that the city is enormous and Frisk could be anywhere. 

He doesn’t know where to start. Toriel is calling around to Frisk’s friends, and he knows that she will call him if any of them know anything, but Sans’ gut tells him that Frisk isn’t hanging out with friends. 

But where else could they be? 

Sans tries Grillby’s, remembering the many times he and Frisk had stopped there on the way back from a sign language class or after a long day at school. But although the restaurant is bustling when he steps into the bar room, he knows in a heartbeat that Frisk isn’t there. 

“Sans? Hey!” 

Sans looks up at the sound of his name and sees Ember behind the bar. 

He forces a smile and lifts a hand. “Hey. What’s up?” 

“Haven’t seen you around in a while,” Ember says cheerfully. “It’s been too predictable without you here. Miss Toriel keeping you healthy?” 

“Something like that.” 

“What can I get ya? The usual?” 

Sans shakes his head. “Not here to eat. Look, uh, you seen Frisk?” 

“Frisk?” Ember’s flames suddenly flare, betraying her concern. “No, why?” 

“I’m sure it’s nothing. Kid’s just late comin’ home, and I was wondering if they came by here.” 

“Aw, geez. No, I haven’t see them, but my shift only just started ‘bout twenty minutes ago. Let me go ask Dad.” 

Ember bustles into the back and emerges a few moments later with Grillby, whose expression is serious behind his square glasses. 

“You haven’t seen Frisk here?” Sans guesses. 

Grillby shakes his head slowly. But he lifts a hand and points somewhere behind Sans; when Sans turns, he sees Greater Dog playing poker with Dogamy and Dogaressa by the window. 

“Oh. Great idea, thanks.” 

Grillby nods solemnly. 

Sans quickly crosses the bar room to the poker game. When he approaches, all three dogs swivel, sniffing the air. 

“What’s that smell?” says Dogamy. 

“Bones?” says Dogaressa. 

“Hey, guys,” Sans greets.

Their ears perk up, and tongues loll out of their mouths.

“Sans! Hello!” Greater Dog barks happily. “Pats?” 

“Sure, but I’d be great -ful if you leaned down first. You’re not quite as vertically challenged as I am.”

Greater Dog immediately hops down from its stool and crouches in front of Sans. Sans scritches its ears, and Greater Dog’s tail thumps rapidly against the table. 

Dogamy and Dogaressa are still watching Sans curiously. 

“Smell worried,” Dogamy declares. 

“Something wrong?” Dogaressa asks. 

“Heh. Good noses. Actually I was hoping to borrow those. Frisk hasn’t come home yet, and we’re not really sure where they are.” 

“Didn’t come home?” Dogamy echoes.

“Pup missing?” Dogressa asks, alarmed. 

“I mean, they’re hardly a pup anymore,” Sans says lightly. “And they’re probably fine. But, you know, just would like to bring them home. Toriel’s pretty worried.” 

“A puppy is always a puppy,” Dogaressa replies sagely. “Want us to sniff for them?” 

“If ya wouldn’t mind, that’d be great. Sorry to pull you away from your own puppy-free evening.” 

Dogamy waves a paw dismissively. “If a pup’s in trouble, of course we’re going to help. City has lots of smells though, can’t promise we’ll find them.” 

“Got it. Thanks for trying, though.” 

“Where was Frisk last?” Dogamy asks. 

“At their friend’s house. He lives up in the river district. If you follow me, I know a shortcut.” 

The three dogs jump up obligingly trail behind Sans as he leads them to the front door of the bar. 

The shortcut takes them to a relatively quiet, residential street, where cool summer air rustles through the boughs of the trees and street lamps cast long shadows against the sidewalk. Sans sags against a tree for a moment, catching his breath; it takes a lot out of him to take four people through a shortcut at once. 

“You okay?” Dogaressa asks worriedly. 

“I’m fine. Just need to catch my breath.” 

As he does so, though, Sans becomes acutely aware of anxiety crawling over his fingers like millions of ants, and that there’s a tightness in his chest that isn’t wholly due to the excessive magic expenditure. 

Toriel still hasn’t called. That means she still hasn’t found anything. That means no one knows where Frisk is. The creeping sense of dread that something is terribly wrong is bubbling into panic, and it’s all Sans can do to choke it down and force his breath to keep steady. 

Don’t you dare be hurt, kid . 

Perhaps Dogaressa notices his encroaching panic, because she interrupts the moment to gently prod him: “Which house was Frisk at?” 

Sans inhales a deep breath, and gestures to the right, in the direction of number 39. The dogs immediately bound down the pavement and then press their noses to the ground, sniffing loudly. 

Sans watches anxiously, hands shoved deep in his pockets to hide the way his phalanges are fidgeting endlessly. 

What if the dogs don’t pick up the scent? What is he going to try next? The city is enormous, and Frisk could be anywhere. He could walk down the streets for days, but to what end? Perhaps he could work with Alphys to adapt one of their soul-meters for some kind of determination radar . . . but it could take weeks to develop a working prototype. If they’d never left the Underground this never would have happened, he thinks wildly, and then hates himself for the thought. 

“Frisk smell!” Greater Dog suddenly yaps, yanking Sans out of his thoughts. 

“You got the scent?” he asks quickly. 

“Yes!” Greater Dog has its nose pressed right up against the sidewalk, tongue lolling out of his mouth in its excitement. “Frisk was here!” 

Dogamy and Dogaressa rush over and press their noses to the ground beside Greater Dog. 

“Definitely Frisk,” says Dogamy.

“Definitely here,” says Dogaressa. 

Sans’ soul leaps to his throat. “Can you tell where they went?” 

The dogs sniff around the sidewalk eagerly. 

“North,” barks Greater Dog.

“North,” the other two echo. 

They rush down the sidewalk, Sans on their heels. A professionally-dressed woman with a golden retriever shrinks out of their way, even while the dog strains on its leash to join the monsters. 

Two blocks, three . . . Sans hasn’t run so much in years. But then, on the edge of the fifth block, the dog monsters skid to a halt. They sniff loudly around the ground where the curb cuts into the pavement, around a bench at the side of the street, and in the grass of the closest house. But finally, Dogamy sits back and shakes his head. 

“The trail ends here,” he says sadly. “Sorry, Sans.” 

But Sans is looking up; there’s a bus stop marker above the bench, and a plastic map just under the sign shows the routes of the busses that pass by this stop. Three busses use this stop as part of their route. Bus 16 ends at the train station. Bus 28 goes up to a ritzy neighborhood at the very edge of the city. And bus 32 continues all the way to . . .  

“Don’t be sorry,” Sans says. “I know where they’re going.” 

He steps off the curb, and vanishes. 

---

The state park at the end of the line is, of course, closed at this hour. But the only barricade is a rope slung across the entrance gate, and Sans easily slips under it. Mount Ebott rises from the trees, dark and looming, and the humming of summer insects is thick in the air. 

Sans stares into the gloom, but he sees no sign of Frisk. Not that he expected to: the kid has had hours’ head start on him.

“Frisk!” he calls. 

No response. Not that he expected one. 

Sans stares apprehensively up at the dark mountain. If running five blocks was more athleticism than he’s practiced in years, climbing a mountain, well . . . 

He briefly considers going back to get Undyne or Papyrus, who would both be more equipped to climb a freaking mountain, but he dismisses it. Even with his shortcuts, it would take time to get Undyne or Papyrus, and something tells him that he needs to be the one to find Frisk. The kid’s going through something, and too many other people might overwhelm them.

Besides, Sans has a pretty good idea of where Frisk is headed. If Frisk isn’t there, he can worry about bringing in reinforcements then. 

Sans sucks in a deep breath, and starts up the mountain. He shortcuts a few dozen feet at a time, always within visibility, which speeds up the climb considerably, but he doesn’t dare shortcut across larger distances for fear that Frisk could have been hurt at the side of the path and he might shortcut right past them without ever noticing.

Up, up, up, he climbs. The night air is cool against his bones as he walks, and he calls out into the woods intermittently: “Frisk!” 

The errant thought crosses his mind that if Frisk were in trouble, they couldn’t call out for help, and he curses silently. He just has to hope Frisk isn’t injured, and they come toward his calls if they hear him. 

Up, up, and up. No sign of Frisk yet. Sans worries: what if he’s wrong about Frisk coming to the mountain? He doesn’t even know why Frisk would come here, only that he thinks they would. But what if he’s wrong and wasting precious time?

The air is getting colder. He doesn’t see Frisk, but Sans can’t see much in front of him in the darkness. He thankfully still has service, but Toriel still hasn’t called. Panic is bubbling inside him again, threatening to overwhelm him. 

Please be okay, kid . 

And then he comes to an outcropping clear of trees. It’s the same plateau they stopped at to admire the landscape sprawled out before them on the day the monsters were freed from the Underground. And there, at the edge of the outcropping, Sans can make out a crumpled figure in the moonlight. 

“Frisk!” he cries, alarmed. 

The figure moves and straightens. Not crumpled, Sans corrects himself: just crouched. He sees surprise on Frisk’s face, and he sees no injuries, and relief rushes through him like a wave. 

“Oh, thank fuck ,” he mumbles. “So glad to see you okay, kid.” 

Frisk speaks slowly, their hands silver in the moonlight: “How did you find me?” 

“Couple of the old Royal Guard tracked your scent to a bus stop. Once I saw where the busses were going, wasn’t hard to guess.” Sans comes over and sits next to Frisk on the rocks. “What the hell are you doing here, kid?” 

Frisk looks away and doesn’t answer. 

“Okay, you can have a moment. Gotta text your mom anyway. She’s been worried sick.” 

Frisk moves their hand so slightly Sans almost misses it: “Sorry.” 

Sans pulls out his phone and types out a quick message to Toriel, letting her know that he’s found Frisk and that they’ll be home soon. 

Toriel responds immediately: “ Thank goodness.” 

“So,” Sans says, as he stows his phone again, “You wanna tell me what you’re doing up here in the middle of the night?” 

“Shouldn’t you already know, if you guessed I’d be here?” 

Sans shrugs. “Knew your scent ended at the bus stop, and when I saw that one of the routes went here, I made a guess. Doesn’t mean I know exactly what made you crave a moonlit stroll up a mountain.” 

“Oh.” 

Frisk is quiet for a moment, and Sans lets them have their silence. He sits next to Frisk and gazes out across the landscape spread before them. Ebott City glitters in the distance, silent from this far away. 

Movement catches Sans’ eyes as Frisk finally begins to speak. “I couldn’t go home,” they say, barely meeting his gaze. “It was too much.” 

“Too much?” Sans echoes. 

“I guess . . . I’m trying to feel better. And I do feel a little better. But then I think about things going back to normal, about . . . being ambassador and everything that goes with that, and I feel like I can’t.”

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, you know.” 

But Frisk shakes their head. “Yes, I do. I’m Frisk, savior and ambassador for monsterkind. Maybe I didn’t have to do anything ambassadorial tonight, but I’m going to have to! If I don’t, I -- I failed .” 

“Kid, you didn’t fail.” 

Again, they shake their head. “I’m Frisk . I’m supposed to be the goddamn epitome of determination! I’m supposed to be brave and resilient and all those things that go with being determined, but if I’m too scared to go home, what even am I? If I’m not the things that are supposed to make up my very soul , who am I?!” 

As Sans tries to come up with a good response, Frisk lets out a heavy breath and continues: 

“I thought . . . maybe coming out here would remind me how it felt to be all those things. I don’t know. It’s stupid. But when I got out of the Underground, I was so . . . so much of everything I was supposed to be. I guess I thought maybe if I came out here long enough, I could get that determination back again.” 

“I still think you’re determined, kid,” Sans says. 

Frisk gives him a dubious look. “If I want to quit my responsibilities, that’s not very determined.”

“I dunno. You’ve got a lot of responsibilities. A whole more than me, that’s for sure. Seems to me wanting to quit is a reasonable thing to do and says nothing about how determined you are.” 

“Not sure why I should listen to you about work ethic.” 

“Oof. Touché. Well, I may not know a lot about work ethic, but I know a thing or two about mental health crap.” 

It’s a risk, because Frisk didn’t say specifically that their newfound aversion to responsibility had anything to do with mental health struggles, but Frisk purses their lips and doesn’t interrupt. So Sans continues:

“You had a really rough time. And I don’t just mean the past couple of days. You were born into a crappy bio family and had to build yourself a whole new family when you were eight. I like to think your new family is a lot better, but building that new family also came with a whole lot of crap. You were attacked, remember dying dozens of times, ended up being the savior of an entire race, and are now handling all sorts of ambassador duties on top of being a normal kid. Maybe all of that is catching up with you now. Wanting to quit isn’t failure. Wanting to quit can be looking out for yourself.” 

“Are you trying to tell me being lazy is self-care? You do the bare minimum to ‘look out for yourself’?”

“I dunno. It can be taking care of yourself.” Sans rubs the back of his head. “Yeah, I took it too far, but that doesn’t mean a kid wanting to drop being ambassador to an entire race is taking it too far.” 

Frisk snaps: “Why are you trying so hard to make me quit?”

“I -- sorry. I didn’t mean that. I guess I thought you wanted -- well, what do you want to do?” 

And they look down. “I don’t know,” they say, in small gestures. “I don’t know.” 

Sans waits, giving them space.