Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The papers are everywhere. You wander aimlessly through the stacks, twisting and turning through the towering parchment corridors, but there is no sign of any way out. Above your head, far above the reach of the pages, there is only featureless black. You tried, once, to climb them, but the edges of the paper tore into your hands, and the razor-cuts sting now as you walk.

Your breath echoes in the impossible silence as you move through the labyrinthine halls. The utter stillness of the place unsettles you almost as much as the fact that you cannot find a way out. There should be life within walls that someone has built. You should be able to hear the sounds of movement within the parchment ruins: frogs hopping through the ink puddles, or spiders shuffling through the pages, or a mouse scurrying determinedly in search of cheese. But there is nothing. In desperation, you call out to someone, anyone, begging for them to hear you.

But nobody came.

Then, on the edges of your awareness, you slowly come to realize that the silence is no longer absolute. A deep, distant rumbling thrums through the soles of your feet. You turn, slowly, gazing around you as growling thunder builds in the distance, the tremors increasing as it draws nearer, until you realize: your cry for help had an unintended consequence.

The stacks are collapsing.

You turn and flee, pounding through the corridors as they tremble and begin to sway. Sheets of paper come loose, drifting around you in a steady rain as the thunder draws ever closer. Glancing over your shoulder, you see the stacks behind you topple into one another, paper shredding and tearing with the force of it. You cry out, putting on as much speed as you can, but it’s useless. The walls are drawing closer with every step you take, until there’s nowhere left to run. They’re on top of you, closing over your head, and you’re drowning in them. Frantic, you claw at the pages until your hands bleed, but there’s no escape. You’re lost.

Calm down.

“I can’t!” you gasp. The air is growing thin, and the pages are crushing you. “I’ll die!”

No, you won’t. There’s a way out of this. You just have to cut your way through it one step at a time.

Hands close around yours, gentle but firm, guiding you around the slicing edges until you’re holding a page in your hands. There’s a space for your signature at the bottom. You have no pen, but you’re bleeding freely enough that you don’t need one. Wincing, you trace your finger over the signature line, and the page turns to dust and vanishes.

Now the next one.

“There’s too many!” They’re closing in again, pressing down upon you.

There are lots, yeah. But you have to be patient. The hands close on yours again, turning you until you’re looking into the face of another child. A faded ribbon holds back her dark hair, and you can see yourself in the depths of her eyes. She is at once a stranger, and as familiar as your reflection in the mirror. She smiles at you, her hands tightening on yours, and the cuts no longer hurt. It’s okay. I’ll help you.

There are more papers than there are stars in the sky, but you take a deep breath, and set to work. It isn’t long before you can’t feel anything in your fingers, but the tiny bandages that keep appearing on them keep the worst of the pain at bay. It’s interminable, endless work, but the girl at your side radiates calm, wrapping you in it like a cool blanket until your heart slows and your focus narrows to the task ahead of you.

You have no way to gauge the time that passes. It feels like it could be years, and you would have given up long ago if not for the steady, gentle encouragement from the girl next to you. One paper at a time, you make your way through the infinite pile until, finally, there is a glimmer of light above you.

There. You’re almost out. I told you. You turn, and the weight of understanding in her sad little smile slams into you. You fumble toward her, your bandaged hands grasping, but she’s too far away.

“No! Don’t go!”

I’m not the one who’s going. You are. But it’ll be okay.

“No, it won’t!” You thrash against the pressure tugging you away from her, but now that you’ve cleared a path, the papers seem determined to shove you toward it. “I don’t want to be alone!”

Be patient. Even when you’re alone, you’re not. And you know you’re never by yourself for very long. Not any more.

Tears well in your eyes as she drifts further away. “But… but I don’t…”

She just smiles again and shakes her head. Try not to let it overwhelm you, Frisk. It’s a lot, but I know you can do it. Just take it one step at a time and you’ll be fine. I promise.

The papers shift, and she’s gone. Sobbing now, you give yourself over and let yourself be borne into the light.

The sweet scents of warm butterscotch and cinnamon twine around you, cushioning your fall back to waking. You wake slowly, coming back one sensation at a time, until you are aware of the weight of a soft hand on your shoulder. Your eyes flutter open, and you find concerned brown ones staring back into them.

“Mom?” Your voice is thick and heavy with sleep as you rub your eyes. Your hand comes away damp. In the dim glow of the night light, you can see steam rising from the slice of pie on your bedside table. That’s not right. Usually, she just leaves Surprise Pie on your floor, so that it has time to cool before you wake. Bewildered, you return your gaze to your mother where she sits next to you on the bed. “Why’d you wake me up?”

“Because you were crying,” Toriel answers, brushing the remaining tears from your cheeks. “Are your dreams troubling you again, small one?”

Her arm comes around you as you struggle to sit up, supporting you until you can lean against her. You nestle against her side, your arms wrapping around her as you breathe in the smell of spices that clings to her blouse. Her warmth envelops you, and you feel the tension beginning to ebb as you slowly relax into her embrace.

“A little,” you admit. “But I’m okay.”

“Hmm.” Her touch against your hair is gentle, and soothing as she strokes. “Do these dreams perhaps come from something else that is bothering you?”

Toriel is nothing if not perceptive, but then, she had a lot of training. Your cheeks burning, you nestle deeper against her. “It’s nothing…”

“Hmmm.” She says again. Then, she rises to her feet and holds out her hand. “Come then, my child. It is nearly time to get up, and I could use a little help getting ready for the day.”

Obediently, you slide out from beneath the covers and stuff your feet into your fuzzy slippers before taking her hand. You may be getting a little big for hand-holding now, but you doubt you’ll ever stop doing it. After all the years you spent reaching out only to find nothing, the feeling you get when your mother’s fingers close around yours still creates a pressure deep in your heart that you don’t have the words to explain. Toriel doesn’t let go until you reach the kitchen, and she helps you up to a stool at the counter.

“Orange slices for snack today,” she says, and you smile. Half the time, it’s snails, and though you’ve gotten used to them enough to actually look forward to them, you hate the way the other kids protest; as much she tries not to show it, it always hurts Mom’s feelings. But it’s a full day at school today, as opposed to a half-day at the Embassy, and though the school gives meals to all of its students, Toriel never fails to bring a little something extra for everyone whenever she’s teaching. Especially since she found out that some of the kids at the school don’t have much food at home. Nobody at the Co-operative School ever goes home hungry any more.

The oranges are from the Community Greenhouse. They shouldn’t grow in this climate, but you have yet to meet a fruit tree that can say no to Dad. As you take the knife Toriel passes to you and cut into one, you breathe in the smell of sunshine. After typing something into her phone, Toriel sets it down on the counter and joins you, and you work in silence for a time, the strokes of your knives falling into a thoughtful rhythm. There are a lot of oranges to do, but your mother keeps her pace to yours, and the pile begins to diminish.

Her phone buzzes, and she glances over at it. A moment later, her knife steadily chopping away, she looks at you. “There has been much to do at the Embassy lately, has there not? How are you finding it?”

“Okay, I guess,” you admit, concentrating on your orange. “I wish there wasn’t so much paperwork.”

“Indeed,” she laughs, setting her orange slices in the waiting container and selecting a new fruit. “Sometimes it feels as though paperwork was invented to keep anything from getting done.”

“Paperwork and meetings,” you say, making her laugh again. “Yesterday Bradley scheduled a meeting to plan for a meeting about a meeting.”

“Oh, gracious,” she snickers. “I do hope we are meeting his expectations?”

You pause in your chopping to look up at her in incredulous disbelief. “Mom. You did not just…”

“I suppose we could take away his computer so he can’t Access any more meeting requests, but he does have a unique Outlook on inter-office mail, and even I must admit that he does Excel at spreadsheets.”

“Mom, I don’t need this Window on your mind , ” you protest, fighting to keep from laughing.

Giving a satisfied nod, Toriel chops up another orange. “All right, I will stop. But Frisk, you do have a secretary to help manage all of these things.”

The smile slips from your face, and you look down at your orange. “I know. Kelly’s great. But…” Toriel says nothing to relieve the awkward silence that stretches between you. You try to maintain it, but Toriel can outwait you any day, and eventually, you give a little shrug. “She doesn’t get monsters like I do, so it’s easier just for me to do all the report stuff.”

“I see,” Toriel says. “And did you think to teach Kelly what she needs to know in order to ‘get’ monsters?”

You flinch at the suggestion, and your knife slips on the last slice and grazes the tip of your finger.

“Ah.” Placing the last of the oranges into the container, your mother puts the lid on and moves your knives and the cutting board to the sink. She washes her hands and dries them on a towel before fetching a small bandage from the cupboard and wrapping it around your finger. “Frisk, my love, Kelly did not grow up with monsters, but she tries very hard to understand. You must be patient with her. Teach her. She is a fast learner, and she does know her way around the reports in a way that you do not.”

“I thought I could handle them on my own,” you say as Toriel takes your hurt hand between both of hers. “Just take it one at a time.”

“You can, no doubt,” Toriel says. “But just because you can, that does not mean you needn’t accept the help that is offered to you.” Pale green fire dances through her fingers. The biting scents of mint and eucalyptus swirl around you, and the pain in your hand vanishes. “You are still a child. Your help bridging our two worlds is invaluable, but it should not come at the cost of your childhood. You must tell us if things get to be too much for you. Asgore and I are old hands at this; we can make things work.”

Your hands clench on the towel that she passes you, the citrus smells sharp in your nose as you bow your head. “I just don’t want to be a disappointment.”

Gently, Toriel turns you to face her, and lifts your chin in her hand. “You, my darling child, are never that.” Smiling fondly, she touches her nose to yours. Before she can pull away, your arms are around her, and she laughs as she hugs you back and lifts you from the stool. “Come, small one. Your pie will be cool now, and it is time to get ready for school.”

Even now, a year later, it is still one of your fears. You cannot help but remember the last time an adult took you in, and how every effort you made to be good just seemed to let her down more. You still cannot quite bring yourself to believe Toriel’s words, and you suspect that she knows, but she is very, very patient. With every slice of pie, with every hug, with every lullaby and every kind word, it gets easier to believe. For now, it is enough just to hold on and know that Toriel will not let go until you do.

Learning to love is easy. Learning to trust, to really trust again, is much harder. But like your work at the Embassy, you’re getting through it. One step at a time.

Chapter Text

It’s so cold in these gardens. Your feet feel like blocks of ice, and it you feel as though you’re fighting your way through drifts of snow rather than rain, but you don’t dare stop. The rain pounds relentlessly, the wind sweeping it sideways and stinging your eyes, but you can’t let that slow you down. They’ll find you if you do.

You hear a shout behind you, and you have barely enough time to dart into the bushes. Your sodden hair drips down the collar of your soaked shirt, making you shiver violently as you hug your knees to your chest and try not to make a sound as you cry. “Help me,” you whisper against your knees.

But nobody came.

There are footsteps now, closer, crunching on the gravel paths. You let out a soft whimper, tears stinging at your eyes. The crunching stops, and you don’t dare breathe. You want your mother, and you don’t care if it’s your human mother or your monster one, you just want her. You are so cold, and scared, and alone.

Don’t let this happen.

“I don’t have a choice,” you whisper into the dark.

Of course you have a choice! They want to push you around? Push back!

“I can’t. Good children don’t talk back. I’m a good child.”

Well that’s a load of crap. Good kids sure as heck fight back when grown ups are being wrong. And they’re wrong.

Blinking your tears away, you raise your head to stare through your sodden hair at the boy crouched opposite you. He rolls his eyes, and tugs off his gloves long enough to unwind the bandanna from around his head and knot it around yours so that you can see.

“Grown ups aren’t supposed to be wrong,” you tell him.

No, they’re not. But they’re people too, and people screw up all the time. We both know it’s true.

“But… I’m just a kid. What can I do?”

A heck of a lot more if you fight than if you just sit here feeling sorry for yourself, that’s for sure. Get up!

“No!”

Do it!

“I can’t!”

Blinding light slices through the dark, and you throw your arms before your eyes in an attempt to block it out. Immediately, a hard hand reaches toward you, and leather-clad fingers close painfully around your arm. You cry out, but your captor is merciless as they drag you from the bushes. More light falls upon you, and you cringe away from the towering figures surrounding you. Their blue uniforms are untouched by the pouring rain that lashes you and steals the warmth from your body.

They aren’t human. At least, you think they’re not. Their heads are nothing but flashlights, the lights trained upon you like a dozen unblinking eyes. They can’t be human, but you have never met a monster as callous or cold as the one that drags you forward, scraping you across the gravel when you try and fail to get your numb feet beneath you.

“Please,” you beg. “Please, let me go. I just want to go home.”

“But that’s where we’re taking you.” The kind voice speaks in sharp contrast to the grip that’s leaving bruises on your chilled skin. “A kid like you needs to be taken care of.”

They’re marching in step around you, but as lightning flashes overhead, you can see between them just enough to see the building looming on the hill before you. It’s not anywhere you’ve ever called home. Not a warm house in a ruined city, or or a cozy, snow-covered one tucked away in the trees. You recognize it. It’s a place out of nightmares from a past that never happened. It’s bigger, somehow, the white walls warped and twisted, but you will never forget those bars on the windows. Panic kicks in, and you struggle to breathe.

“No! Please, don’t put me in there!”

“It’s okay, kid. We just want what’s best for you.”

And that’s the most awful part. You can see their souls now, illuminating them from within. They mean it. They really do want what’s best for you. They just can’t see the truth of that place. Their lights cut through the darkness, but illuminate nothing. The light in the windows shifts, and they become eyes staring at you from the heart of the storm. A corner of the doorway lifts in a leering grin before the doors swing wide, the darkness between them waiting to swallow you whole. That place will eat you alive, and anything that comes out again won’t be you. Not any more.

It’s now or never.

He’s walking beside you, unseen by the figures that drag you toward the creature on the hill. Grinning, he winks at you and gives you a thumbs-up.

Warmth trickles through your icy limbs, filling you with strength again as an orange glow kindles deep within your chest. Your eyes narrow, and as your captors reach the path that leads up the hill, you swing around and drive your head deep into the midsection of the one holding you.

He doubles over, his hand loosening, and a hand clad in a red glove shoots over your shoulder, slamming into the switch on the thing’s head. The light flickers and dies, and your captor topples to the ground.

Now! A gloved hand seizes yours, and you bolt through the gap left by your captor. The others reach for you, but you’re smaller and faster, and you duck around the grasping hands as you make a break for the trees.

See? Sometimes you have to push back.

Nodding, you break through a thicket, not slowing your pace as you race through the woods. “I didn’t like it.”

You don’t have to like it. You just need to make sure they listen, and don’t let them walk all over you if they don’t. You matter, too.

“But…” you duck a low-hanging branch, and your heart clenches as a beam of light sweeps past you. “I want to be good. I want people to like me.”

You can be good without being a doormat, he scoffs. And you can be tough and still have people like you. C’mon, you know that.

He’s right. You do. You just never thought of yourself that way.

More beams flicker across the leaves before you, and you glance back over your shoulder. They’re coming, lights bobbing toward you between the trees. You are fast, but their legs are very long, and they’re gaining on you. Turning back, you let out a cry, teetering to a stop on the brink of a precipice. Not far below, water thunders past, a flash of lightning illuminating the churning, frothing river.

“What do I do?” you cry out, clinging more tightly to his hand. “I can’t go back!”

No, he says, you can’t.

You have barely a moment to realize what he’s thinking before his gloves collide with your shoulders, hurling you into the stream. The icy water drives into you like a punch in the gut, and you gasp for breath as your head breaks the surface. He’s standing on the shore, watching as the river tears you away from him, and just before he vanishes from sight, he gives you another thumbs-up.

You can do this, Frisk. You’re tougher than everyone thinks.

You lurch awake, gasping for air, but the weight on your chest won’t let you breathe.

“F-frisk, can-- Oh! Undyne, move your hand.”

“Wh-- oh. Crap. Sorry, punk.”

The weight lifts, and you take greedy gulps of the air that fills your lungs. Two faces, one bright and one dark, swim into focus above you, and you squeak at the sharp yellow teeth bared far too close to your face.

Undyne grins and sits back on her heels. “Yeah, she does that too.” She jerks her thumb at Alphys, who blushes and straightens her glasses.

“A-are you okay, Frisk?” She reaches out a hand, helping you to sit up, and then draws your blanket around you, frowning at your shivering.

“Sure,” you answer, surveying the remains of the slumber party around you. It’s pretty typical to end up in a giant knot of blankets and pillows, and the popcorn scattered around at random isn’t out of the ordinary, either. The nicecream, at least, got put away this time. Waking up to a soupy puddle of compliments isn’t as much fun as it sounds. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Undyne reaches out a finger to swipe your cheek, mindful of her claws, and displays the drop on the end.

“Oh,” you say, pulling the blanket over your head like a hood.

“Yeah.” She tosses her braid, still mostly intact from when you made it last night, over her shoulder. “You were yelling a lot, too.”

Groaning, you retreat further into your blankets, but the groan turns into a yelp as a bright flash of pain stabs through your leg. You struggle free of the blanket, tugging it back to reveal the safety pin still attached to your pyjama pants, dangling a half-finished friendship bracelet. “Ow.” You pull the open pin away, glaring at the jab.

“I got it.” Alphys struggles free of the blanket nest and heads for the kitchen.

Rolling her eyes, Undyne banishes the spear she summoned when you cried out and takes the bracelet from you. “Here, gimme that before you make things worse.” She pins it to her pillow and thumps it down into her lap as Alphys returns.

Obediently, you roll up the leg of your pyjamas and let Alphys stick a bandaid on the pinprick. You really don’t think you need it, but Alphys takes your healthcare pretty seriously. “There,” Alphys says, pulling the pyjamas back down. “Feel okay?” You give her a thumbs-up, and she grins.

“Good.” Undyne slings an arm around your neck, yanking you against her side. You glance up at her, and she flashes you a grin full of teeth. “So now you gonna tell us what’s bugging you?”

“It’s nothing,” you insist, wrapping your arms around her beefy one. “Just a stupid dream.”

“Ohh. Well if it’s just a STUPID dream, you know what you gotta do,” she says.

Alphys’ eyes widen and she scrabbles through the pillow mountain. “N-not the new pillows, use the old ones!”  She yanks the sparkly sequined pillow Undyne just grabbed out of her hands and replaces it with the old one she was sleeping on.

“Punch it in the face,” you intone dutifully.

“PUNCH IT IN THE FACE!!!” Undyne gleefully holds the pillow in front of her, and waits for you to haul back and whomp it as best you can. It spits a few sad feathers into the air. Undyne watches them flutter to the blankets. “Man, we gotta work on your punch.”

“Just not on the good pillows.” Alphys tucks them back onto the couch with a careful pat, and flops back down next to you. “So… now that we’re all up…”

“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Undyne asks.

“New clothes time!” Alphys struggles back to her feet and runs up the stairs to their room to fetch the fruits of yesterday’s shopping excursion. “Is it a pants day or a dress day, Frisk?”

Some days it takes you a while to decide, but today you don’t even have to give it a thought. “ Pants !” you call after her, bouncing a little in excitement.

It didn’t take long for Undyne and Alphys to take charge of helping you buy your wardrobe. Your parents’ tastes are nice but old-fashioned, and the skeletons will stick you in pretty much anything with sleeves, but Undyne and Alphys are great at picking out stuff that you find really cool, no matter what mood you’re in. It isn’t long before Alphys returns in a pink skirt and sweater, bringing your clothes with her. You drag the jeans into your blanket nest and wriggle your way into them, doing the same with your new shark hoodie.

Once you’re dressed, Alphys sits behind you and starts to separate your hair into sections. While she’s busy with that, Undyne scoots over and drops her rapidly unravelling braid into your hands. Shaking out the heavy mass of red hair, you begin the repair job while Alphys begins gathering your own uncooperative hair into a ponytail. Undyne, always annoyed with empty hands while you do this, begins working on the unfinished friendship bracelet.

“Hey… we’re friends, right?” Your voice is quiet, and you keep your gaze firmly on Undyne’s braid, but you feel Alphys’ hands still as Undyne turns her head to exchange a look with her.

“Uh, YEAH,” Undyne says, brandishing her wrist at you. The stack of friendship bracelets she’s wearing practically glow against her dark scales. “According to these, we are totally BESTIES, remember?”

You grin, and nod. “I remember. I just…” Frowning, you bite your lip as you tease apart a stubborn snarl in Undynes’ hair.

“Just what, punk?”

“If anyone ever came and took me away from my parents, would… would you guys still come visit me?”

Alphys finishes wrapping the elastic around your ponytail and scoots around until she’s next to Undyne. As you tie off her braid, Undyne swings around too, both of them looking at you with concern.

“F-frisk, is that what you have bad dreams about? Those social workers?”

“Sometimes,” you admit. “Not always.”

Undyne snorts. “Aw, man. We’d come visit you, sure, but it’s never gonna be a thing. I may not know all the stuff that went down last year, but I pity anyone who tries to get between you and your parents. You remember that time your Mom walked in on your training and set my spear on fire?”

“Yeah,” you giggle. “That was awesome.”

“Pfff. For you maybe.” But she grins as she punches you in the arm. It’s light, for Undyne, which means you only topple onto your side rather than fly across the room. Sighing, Alphys picks you up again and settles you between them.

“S-she’s right though,” she says, placing an arm around your shoulders. “Nobody’s taking you anywhere without going through a  heck of a lot of monsters who like you right where you are.” She grins at you. “Besides, I might have kinda sorta locked down your old records. Big time. Nobody’s getting through that encryption but me.”

“HA! My baby is such a REBEL!” The look Undyne gives Alphys has the scientist blushing furiously, and Undyne just looks smug. She unhooks the friendship bracelet from the pillow and knots it around your wrist. “Face it, shrimp. You’re stuck with us.”

You turn the bracelet slowly on your wrist. The divide between your careful knotwork and Undyne’s looser, messier section stands out sharply, but as far as you’re concerned, it just makes the bracelet even better. As your eyes burn with that familiar stinging, you pull your hood over your head, hiding behind the white felt teeth that line it beneath the floppy shark fin.

Undyne and Alphys laugh softly, and you’re enveloped in hugs from either side. Alphys leans in, dropping a kiss on your cheek, and Undyne plants a much more enthusiastic one on your forehead. Giggling, you squirm between them, but only enough to get as much of your arms around them as you can. In typical fashion, the hugs escalate into wrestling, which quickly erupts into a full-blown pillow fight, mostly between you and Undyne as Alphys rushes to rescue the good cushions. After a frenzy of frenetic pounding, you end up sprawled on your back, gasping for breath as tears of laughter pour down your face. She’s standing over you crowing her victory, but even as she does, Undyne glances down at you with a question in her eyes, and you give her a thumbs-up. Cackling, she throws herself on Alphys and wrestles the sparkly pillows away from her. You don’t need to wait for an invitation before you fling yourself after her.

A year ago, the thought of being in a fight with two monsters would have been the kind of thing that happened in your nightmares. Funny how today, it’s the thing that saves you from them. But then, you’re a pretty tough kid. How could you expect anything less?

Chapter Text

Waterfall has always been one of the most peaceful places you’ve ever known. It’s hard for some people to understand, especially those who know how much you dislike the dark. But really, it’s only the complete absence of anything that scares you. Waterfall is dark, but it’s so full despite that. From the soft glow of the echo flowers to the shimmering gems overhead, there’s always light in the dark somewhere. As you move through the shadows, the waters whisper to you like the secrets of old friends, and a fond smile of remembrance spreads across your face as you splash your way through puddles.

You made a lot of good friends here. It may be empty of them now, but the memories fill the friend-shaped voids, like echoes of whispers. This place remembers.

Although… perhaps it’s not so empty after all. You can hear soft music drifting from an island in the midst of the labyrinth of glowing streams. Worn planks creak beneath your feet, adding their own deep counterpoint to the melody. Your steps slow, your approach growing more tentative as you draw nearer to the singer. You’ve grown a lot closer over the last year, but she still startles easily.

Her song wavers only a little, a faint blush rising to her cheeks as she catches sight of you. Smiling, you sink to the grass, wrapping your arms around one knee as you listen to Shyren’s song. She drifts a little closer to you, and you accept the silent invitation. Softly, you begin to hum along. Quietly at first, your melody gains strength as you fit your song in with hers. She drifts closer, a shy smile on her face as she switches to a descant, and your voices twine together like the stems of the luminous flowers around you.

“Ambassador!”

The shout reverberates through the cavern around you, a sour note spreading discord through the melody, and the song shatters into a thousand glittering fragments. Gasping, you whirl, and a flash of light sears the serene darkness. It leaves your skin raw and red where it touches, and you recoil in shock and pain.

Shyren’s terrible cry sounds behind you, and you whirl as another flash cuts through the dark. You reach for Shyren, trying to shield her from the light, but your fingers barely brush against her before she crumbles to dust beneath your touch.

Sick horror threads its icy tendrils through your gut as you stare at the pile of dust at your feet. There’s another shout, further cries of “Ambassador! Princess! Your Highness! Over here! Sing it again for the cameras!” The flashes pop like lightning and thunder, raising blisters now as they grow closer.

“Stop it!” you scream at the shadows moving through the dark. “Leave me alone!”

“Just one more shot! Can’t we see that pretty smile? The world is watching you!”

You need to run. But you can’t just… You reach out, pulling the blossom off the nearest echo flower with a whispered apology, and gather the dust into the centre. You fold the petals over the dust to keep it safe and rise to your feet, clutching the flower against your chest. The flashes are relentless, branding you with their touch, and you flee from them.

The streams don’t seem to slow them down, and you can’t slow long enough to reach the bridges. You have to jump, floundering gracelessly through the glowing landscape as you stumble and trip on the shores, barely making it across the water. The flashes pursue relentlessly, breaking everything they illuminate.

Your technique is terrible! You call that a jeté? Madame would be ashamed.

“I’m a little busy to worry about technique right now!” You’re being short with her, but you think you’re justified. You cry out as another flash blisters your hand badly enough that you almost drop the flower.

She just clucks her tongue at you as she leaps the next stream. The way her tutu catches the air, she floats like a dandelion seed before her pointe shoe touches down on the grass. You are never too busy to worry about technique. Now extend that leg! It will help.

You find it hard to believe it could make that much of a difference, but to your great surprise, it does. You actually manage to put some distance between you and the pursuing shadows as you leap the next stream, and the next, and then you’re bounding and twirling your way up a familiar rocky incline.  With a final, desperate leap, you plunge through the waterfall and collapse, breathless, into the cave on the other side.

She sinks down next to you with considerably more grace, folding her hands in her lap as she watches you. Clever thinking, she says, one hand smoothing her hair. It’s not necessary. Her shining black hair is never anything but immaculate as it sweeps up into her bun.

“Not enough.” You double over, clutching the flower to your chest. “I wasn’t… I couldn’t…” You can’t get out anything more as the tears pour down your face. At least you managed to gather the dust. You can give it to her sister. If you can find her.

The girl just sighs, and rests her hand on your back. Stop that. Who says it’s too late?

“But…” You look up at her through your tears. “All the books say… when a monster turns to… to…”

Ai yah. Then write your own story. Change the rules. You’re good at pretending, so imagine something new. Nobody expected you to hide behind a waterfall. What else won’t they expect?”

Sniffling, you straighten, and look down at the blossom cradled in your lap. Carefully, you peel back the petals to reveal the pearlescent dust within. As you stare down upon it, one of your tears splashes into the little pile, and the dust beneath the tear glistens with a faint green sheen.

She just watches you, waiting, no help in answer to your questioning glance. Your hands tremble as you hold out the flower, the terror at the thought of the consequences if you’re wrong nearly make you drop it. But you keep hold long enough for the glowing water to swirl into the cup of the blossom, stirring the shining dust within until it looks like you hold the moon in your hands. When the glow fades, Shyren is staring up at you.

Your voice breaks on your cry of joy, and you wrap your arms around the little monster, kissing her until she is bright pink. With an embarrassed little hum, Shyren wiggles out of your arms and hovers before you. Then, she darts forward to kiss your cheek before she plunges into the pool and vanishes beneath the waterfall.

Relief quickly gives way to exhaustion, and you flop down on your side, curling into a ball. “Ow,” you whimper, your hands shaking in pain rather than fear now  as you examine your raw, blistered skin.

Come here, she says, scooting closer to you until you can rest your head in her lap. You’ve worn a tutu before, but they’ve always been stiff and scratchy. Hers is like candy floss, pillowing your head like a cloud. Slowly, she strokes your hair, humming a variation of Shyren’s song, and the pain and the redness begin to fade from your ruined hands.

It’s not so bad, you know, she says. Being in the spotlight.

“I know,” you sigh. “I don’t mind when I’m at work. It’s fun. But I like it when I get to choose. I don’t like it when they just show up like that. I don’t know who I’m supposed to be when they do it.” Your hands look almost normal now, and you flex your sore fingers, listening to her hum for a while. “You really loved it, didn’t you?” you ask softly.

She smiles, her gaze distant as she remembers. Oh, yes. It hurt so much sometimes. You could never stop pushing, even when you cracked and bled. But when it’s just you, and the music, and the stage. When there’s no steps but what you improvise, and you find that place in the melody, it’s just… just magic. Until… She shudders, falling quickly silent. You sit up then, and the two of you wrap your arms around each other. Her humming resumes, though voice quavers a little, and your lend your voice to hers, strengthening it until it steadies.

“You’re sad,” you say, holding tighter.

Her laugh is a soft, wistful sound, a gentle fall of music in the dark behind the glowing waters. She draws you closer, kissing the top of your head. Now, now. I’m the oldest. That’s for me to worry about, not you.

“But--”

I mean it, Frisk. Don’t worry about me. Just keep dreaming places for me to dance, and I’ll be fine.

She rises to her feet with shining grace and steps through the curtain of the waterfall as though she is stepping onto a stage. Your eyes widening, you attempt to follow her, afraid that the shadowy figures with their burning flashes are still out there, but your limbs are like lead, holding you down. You can only watch, helpless and heartsore, as her silhouette dances across the falling water, twirling ever smaller until she disappears. You stretch out your hand, but only your fingertips graze the waterfall, dusting your healing face with fine spray as you take a shuddering breath.

“I’ll miss you…”

Keep dreaming, Frisk. Keep improvising. It’s all there in your heart. Just listen… Listen…

 “Listen…”

A hushed whisper hisses from the shadows outside your tent. You blink through your tears, sniffling, trying to remember where you are. It’s hard sometimes, when the dreams drag you this deep. Nothing smells or sounds familiar, and fear threads a tiny shiver up your spine.

“...is she crying?”

“Give me camera two. No, two, idiot. The one with the night vision.”

Oh. Right. Season two of the world tour. :Camping out in the desert had sounded like fun, and for the most part, it has been. Except when a camera crew is trying to catch you crying on film while you sleep. Fortunately, you know exactly how to deal with this situation. You draw a deep breath and shout as loud as you can.

“Mettaton!”

And three...two...one…

“Darling! Whatever is the--” Mettaton pokes his immaculately-styled head into your tent, and though it was pitch black moments ago, he brings his own luminescence with him. He takes one look at your face, and his eyes narrow. With a huff and a toss of his head, he ducks back out of the tent.

“All right, beauties, listen up! There is a lovely rock formation a mile down the dunes that would make the perfect backdrop at sunrise. Why don’t you take your little cameras down there and catch that exquisite footage for the B-roll?”

“But MTT, it’s not even dawn yet!”

“Yes. That is rather key for the whole “filming the sunrise” thing, isn’t it? Off you go now. All of you. Shoo. Out. Now.”

“But--”

“I said shoo!” His voice drops, an ominous metallic ringing creeping into it. “Are you trying to annoy me?”

“No! No boss, absolutely not! Come on, guys, if we run, we can make it!”

The sound of scuffling heralds the headlong flight of your three-person camera crew out into the desert. A moment later, a gentle tap sounds on the tent pole above your head. “Knock, knock.”

A smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. “Who’s there?”

“Oh, please, darling, no. Save it for that precious skeleton’s brother, please.” He slips into the tent, still managing to look like he’s posing even though he isn’t, as he props his chin in his hand and looks down at you. “Now that I’ve sent our little friends away, will you tell me what’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing,” you say, blushing. The more awake you get, the more foolish you feel.

“Ah,” he says, and sighs dramatically. “Pesky stuff, that nothing. Our dear Alphys warned me that we might run into some nothing on this trip.”

Mortified, you draw your sleeping bag up to your chin. “She did?”

“Of course, darling, she worries about you. We all do. It’s not exactly a secret that you have bad dreams, Frisk.” He clearly has more to say, but as he registers your reaction, his eyes widen in horror. “Oh, sweetie, no! It’s not a bad thing! Oh, please don’t-- Come here, you precious thing.”

He opens his arms, and you wriggle out of your sleeping bag so that you can crawl into them. As he folds his arms around you, he heaves a soft, metallic sigh, and you feel bad for him. Almost everybody thinks he invited you on this leg of Mettaton’s World Tour (Season 2) because having the Ambassador guest starring on the show would be good for his ratings. But you know better. He invited you because he thought you’d enjoy yourself. And you are. Mostly.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him

“Piffle. You have no reason to be. What can I do, darling?”

“Nothing. Really, I’m fine.”

His rueful laugh is far more subdued than his usual bombastic mirth. “Oh, you precious child. Funny thing about ghosts, darling. We’re very good at seeing right through you.” He loosens his hold on you and sets you down on your sleeping bag, giving you a firm tap on the nose. “Now don’t be startled, darling. This is something I don’t let anyone see, so you must keep this between us.”

You tilt your head at the strange command. “Keep what?” you ask, uncertain.

He winks at you, and the light dies in his eyes. The luminous glow of his body fades an instant later, plunging the inside of your tent into shadow. His expressive face slackens and he lists to the side, falling to the ground in a tangled pile of metal limbs.

Crying out, you lunge toward him and grab his shoulders, shaking him as much as you are able. But you can barely budge him, and you wonder at how strong Alphys actually is that she was able to haul this body around the lab. You end up beating feebly against his chest, but the metal, usually warm from the spirit residing within, is cooling rapidly beneath your touch.

“Mettaton…Oh please… please, no...” You sniffle miserably.

“Oogh. Sorry, darling, I’ve been in there so long, I forgot how disorienting that is.”

You gasp at the wispy, hollow voice that drifts over your shoulder, turning with a start. A strange ghost hovers before you, its shimmering, amorphous form tinted slightly pink in the pre-dawn light that filters through the opening of the tent. It seems to be thinking about something. Sudden remembrance flickers across the ghost’s face, and it tosses its head, sending a wisp of itself drifting across one ghostly eye.

And you wonder how you could, even for a moment, have doubted who this ghost was. You fold your arms and glare at him. “You scared me.”

“I really didn’t mean to.” Mettaton grins, looking about as coy as a ghost can manage. “It was funny though.”

You can’t help but smile a little as you settle back onto your sleeping bag. “A bit.” You glance at his crumpled body behind you, and shudder. “That’s a little creepy, though.”

“I can go back if you’d like,” he says.

You consider that, tilting your head to watch him. He’s drifting a little, busy looking anywhere but at you, and if he had thumbs, he’d be twiddling him. You’ve never seen him this self-conscious. Then, you realize that this is the first time in a very long time that he’s let anyone see him out of his corporeal body. You hadn’t even been certain he could leave it. Aside from Alphys and Napstablook, you’re probably the only person who’s seen him like this since before you Fell. Something tightens deep within your chest as that realization dawns on you, and you shake your head. You know what trust looks like when you see it. You’re not about to ruin it now.

“Well then,” he says, a faint note of relief in his voice. It still sounds like him, but with far less sass and panache . “Will you tell me what’s wrong now?”

He’s showing you his soul. The deepest core of himself. There is no more hiding behind a mask for him now, no matter how true a reflection of the true Mettaton that mask is. The least you can do is the same.

You wrap your arms around your knees, resting your chin against them. Slowly, he drifts down to recline against your legs, his face very close to yours. It’s not nearly as unnerving as it would be from anyone corporeal. It’s a little chilly, and your legs feel a bit fuzzy and numb, but other than that, it’s like a drift of candy floss has come to rest against you. He even smells a little like spun sugar.

“I’m...not good at this like you are,” you admit.

He blinks in surprise, lifting away from you just a little. “Not good at what, sweetie?”

You gesture with your arm. “This. The… The being on. Performing. I don’t know how to be...entertaining for people.”

You’re not explaining it well. He’s seen you performing on stage at the school, emoting your heart out in the school play or hamming it up next to Sans on open mic night. He’s usually in the front row with a video camera, cheering you on. It’s not the same thing, but you don’t have the words to make him understand. To his credit, he doesn’t dismiss you. He thinks about it for a moment, sliding down your legs as he ponders. “You don’t need to be, you know,” he says at last. “I do this because I couldn’t fathom the idea of doing anything else. But that doesn’t mean you have to.”

Groaning, you shift, stretching out until you’re lying half in, half out of your tent. The sand is cold, but soft beneath you, and the stars are slowly winking out overhead as the first hints of colour touch the sky to the east. “It’s not that I don’t like being on your shows. I do, I really do. I just… I just wish I could be on them as me, and not the Ambassador.”

He floats down to lie next to you, following your gaze skyward. “All right, far be it for me to admit to any failings, but I’m not quite at Alphys level when it comes to cleverness. Perhaps that’s why I’m not following you, darling. Correct me if I’m wrong, but are you not the Ambassador?”

You sigh. “Yes. And no. Sometimes I feel like she’s some big, colourful mascot version of me, and sometimes, especially when the cameras start going off, I have no idea how to make her move. I’d rather just be… Frisk.”

“And why don’t you just be yourself?”

You worry your lip for a moment or two, anxiety throttling the words in your throat before you can finally get them out, in a voice barely above a whisper. “Because I want people to like me.”

“Oh. Oh darling. I would hug you so hard if I were corporeal right now.” Mettaton twitches to flop over you, and you can’t stifle the gasp of surprise as you’re plunged into the midst of his cool, tingling ghostliness. “Frisk-darling, people love you. Not just the Ambassador.”

“F-family d-doesn’t count,” you protest. It’s not the chill that’s making you shiver, but the strange buzzing sensation over your skin as he envelops you in what you suspect is the ghostly version of a cuddle.

“One, I’m offended. I always count, darling. And two, I’m not just talking about the family.”

Despite the cool air surrounding you, you feel warmth rising to your cheeks. “But… I’m not that interesting.”

He snorts, tossing his incorporeal hair as he lifts up to hover above you. “Of course you are, you precious thing. But if it’s really worrying you, let’s give you a break.Take today just to show off something you love. There are so many things you’re good at, darling. Surely you wouldn’t mind sharing just one?”

“Well…” You reach out, the tip of your finger brushing against the floof of his hair and confirming your observations; the floof really does tingle more than any other part of him. “There is one thing.”

You push yourself to your knees and crawl across the sleeping bag to your pack. He hovers above you, watching as you rummage through the suitcase you brought for this leg of the tour. It’s not that big -- you're only joining him for a couple of days -- but there are certain things you don’t travel without any more. Ever. Finding the objects of your search, you silently pull them out and turn to face him.

They’re not hers. Those ones never leave the Sanctuary. But the worn dance shoes you hold in your hand have seen a lot of wear and tear over the past year, and only the fact that these ones are monster-made prevented them from falling apart on your feet ages ago. Wordlessly, you wait for some sign of his approval.

You suppose the high-pitched shriek he gives as he dives back into his metal body counts. It lurches as his spirit flows back through it, his glow illuminating the tent as he rises to his knees. “Darling, yes! It’s totally inappropriate for the setting -- I love it!”

“There’s one more thing,” you say, and tell him.

One of his first upgrades after leaving the underground was to have Alphys install functional tear ducts so that he could properly pull off dramatic scenes in his movies. But there’s no acting now as he clasps his hands beneath his chin, tears welling in his eyes. “Oh, darling,” he breathes. “Oh… OH! WAIT RIGHT HERE!”

He leaps to his feet and keeps going through the wall of the tent, leaving tattered edges around a faintly Mettaton-shaped hole. You stare at it in bemusement, wrapping yourself in your sleeping bag against the faint chill that still hangs in the pre-dawn air. It will be gone by the time the sun hits the desert sands, but for now, it sends a gentle tingle down your back.

In short order, Mettaton returns, thankfully through the same hole, with a hasty promise to patch it later. He sits in front of you and dumps a large box in your lap. “I just finished it in Helsinki. I was going to wait for your birthday to give it to you, but I think now is a much better time.”

You lift the lid from the box just as the first rays of dawn creep their way into the tent, and as they fall upon the contents of the box, they set your tent ablaze with light. You raise your astonished gaze to meet his, rainbows dancing on the canvas walls around you, and this time, the tears are your own. His expression plainly states that your reaction was everything he’d hoped.

“This is too much,” you whisper.

“No,” he says gently, resting a hand against your hair. “It really isn’t. Besides, I have more money than sense right now, and no real need to sleep. It gave me something to do.”

You run your fingers over the gift, and something deep within you surges forward in unbridled joy. “You made this…for me?”

“Yes, darling. It’s not enough to thank you for everything you’ve done. But it’s a start.”

Clutching the box to you in wordless delight, you run off to get changed.

 When you return, he’s standing on the edge of the campsite, one hand on his hip as he watches the sunrise over the desert. You slow as you near him, self-consciousness stealing over you and dragging at your feet. Unwilling to disturb him now, you move to duck into the shadow of a scraggly tree, and squeak as you walk through a patch of icy air in the midst of the rising desert heat.

“Ohhhh. Sorry. I’ll just go…..” a mournful voice whispers over your shoulder.

“Napstablook, no!” you insist, peering around for the ghost in the shadows. “I didn’t see you there, that’s all.”

“Oh. Well, if you’re sure….”

“Of course we’re sure, dearest Blooky,” Mettaton clucks from behind you.

You turn to face him, still hiding in the shadow. “You called your cousin in for this?”

“Well, naturally. If you want music done right, you call Napstablook. Now come out here so I can see you.”

You take a deep breath, and step into the sunlight.

The hundreds of glittering stones stitched to your bodice and tutu catch the rising sunlight, and your ballet costume glitters with a thousand points of light. Your ballet shoes sink into the sand a little as you move forward, and you shine like a nebula against the vanishing darkness. His eyes suspiciously shiny again, Mettaton holds out a hand. You hesitate for only a moment before you take it shyly.

“Frisk. Darling. You are absolutely perfect. Are you ready?”

“I think so,” you tell him.

“Blooky, the sound system is all yours,” Mettaton calls, but Napstablook has already taken over the sound editor’s equipment. The little ghost got a luminous pair of headphones sporting cat ears for the Annual Celebration of Putting Presents Under a Tree last year, and they glow in the depths of the editing van.  

Napstablook glances at the two of you. “Soooo… was there something you wanted me to play? I could pick something…. you probably won’t like it though…..”

Mettaton looks to you for the answer. You run a hand over the sparkling skirt, trying to hear what your heart is telling you. It’s hard to figure out; since you opened the box, your inner monologue has been a single, continuous, high-pitched squeal. But an idea comes to you.

“Do you remember my recital a couple months ago?”

“The Dying Swan incident?” He looks at you with more than a little concern. “Vividly, to my dismay.”

“Well… Napstablook, can you come up with something for…for after?”

The ghosts stare at you with remarkably similar expressions on faces so radically different. “How do you mean, darling?” Mettaton prompts you.

“Music for finding the hope after the swan dies.”

Napstablook says nothing, but the sound board flares to life, and a single, wistful note drifts across the desert sands. The need for words falls away as it catches hold of you, and you and Mettaton step toward the pristine, unbroken expanse of sand at the edge of the camp. Your hand slips from his as you part, each of you tracing the edge of a circle as you move to opposite sides of your impromptu stage. Then the melody waltzes into the music, and you begin to dance.

The music is all you need to guide you, tracing the edges of a circle that only you and Mettaton can feel. Twirling and spinning, you move together across the sand, coming together and breaking apart, over and over, as your feet leave trails in the dust. The music dips and swells with you, mournful at first, but gaining momentum as threads of joy, and hope, and love weave their way through the melody, swelling to a crescendo as the beat quickens. Your steps become leaps as you move around the circle you have carved out of the landscape, and you’re not entirely sure that you’re even in control any more, but you don’t care. Nothing matters right now but you, and Mettaton, and the tapestry of steps you weave out of the music that binds you together. You’ve given yourself to the music, and the adrenaline pouring through you is euphoric as the song reaches its grand finale. And when it falls away, the last strains echoing over the dunes, you hang in Mettaton’s arms, and both of you are beaming through your tears.

“Ohhhh. You’re crying. I’m sorry. That wasn’t very good, was it?”

Laughter bursts the fragile, crystal bubble of emotion holding you immobile, and Mettaton laughs as he scoops you into his arms. “Napstablook, that was absolutely perfect, and don’t you dare doubt it for a second.” He looks down, and his hold tightens. “Hmmm. Hold on a moment, Frisk-darling. You need to see this.”

He gathers himself  and leaps, landing next to Napstablook before bounding up the rock wall that borders one edge of your camp. And as you look down at the place where you danced, you gasp in delight. Over the shouts of the returning camera crew, you throw your arms around Mettaton’s neck and hug him tightly as you stare at the paths your dance etched into the desert, an intricate design of knotwork left in the sand.

“Thank you,” you whisper. He just smiles, no clever jibe or flippant remark for once. Napstablook drifts up next to you, and under the watchful eye of the cameras, you lean over and kiss his ghostly cheek. “And you.”

“Ohhhh….. “ two spots of red flare on Napstablook’s face.

“Ha!” Mettaton hugs you tighter. “You would kiss a ghost!”

 When Mettaton descends the rocks to deliver instructions to the crew and to introduce Napstablook, you linger on the wall, your feet falling instinctively into fourth position as you gaze at your creation. One of the crew pulls out his camera, and the photo of you in your glittering costume against the sunrise becomes the cover of Napstablook’s next album.

It goes platinum.

The pattern you and Mettaton danced into the sand becomes known as “The Harmony Mandala” shortly after Mettaton’s World Tour (Season 2) airs. It is the second-most popular design in the MTT merchandise catalog (surpassed only by Mettaton’s face), and the biggest seller in the Embassy gift shop.

You only own one piece of Harmony Mandala merchandise: a shirt you and Mettaton designed on that manages to be universally flattering to anyone who wears it. The lines of the mandala are subdued as they weave across it, more a hint than a reproduction of the design but you don’t really need the visual reminder of the dance. It resides in your heart, always, and if ever you need to revisit it, Mettaton is always ready when you call.

Chapter Text

The rows of desks stretch to the horizon every way you look. You know you must be in some kind of building, but you can’t see any walls, or doors, or windows. Just desks, upon desks, upon desks, students hunched over each one, the air filled with the scratchings of pencils like a million maddened whispers. Somewhere, someone is weeping, but you can’t tell who it is. Everyone here looks the same.

You look down at your paper, trying not to be sick. You’re just starting to work on long division in school, but even though Sans is teaching you some extra fun things you can do with solving for x at home, what you see on your page is like nothing you’ve ever encountered before. You don’t even know what half the symbols are , let alone what to do with them. As you stare, they move and shift, and one of the symbols unravels, stretching a black tendril off the paper to wrap around your wrist. With a cry, you jerk your hand away.

A book slams down on your desk, cracking the surface in two. You throw yourself back just in time to keep your knees from being crushed, toppling off your chair in the process, and you find yourself staring up at two people in suits.

Their faces are missing. What they have instead would have been better suited on a statue somewhere: cold, featureless expanses of stone carved into some semblance of human features that fool no one.

“Are you cheating?”one of them asks you, with a voice like the dead of winter.

“No!” You try to tug your paper out from beneath the book, but the tome is too heavy and the paper won’t budge. “I think I have the wrong test.”

“Nobody has the wrong test. That would mean we made a mistake. We do not make mistakes.” The other’s voice oozes like mud over you, and you can feel its slime on your skin. “Your education is inadequate.”

“But it’s not!” You struggle to your feet, casting desperately around for someone, anyone that you know, but the strange students scribble on, indifferent to your distress. There’s no sign of your mother or your classmates anywhere. “Toriel’s a great teacher! This is just way too hard for elementary school! And everyone’s the same.” You gesture at the identical rows, your distress rising. Every single test on every desk is identical. “Mom says everyone needs to learn the way that’s best for them. This is wrong.”

“These excuses are pathetic.” Winter’s words sting as they slap against your face, like tiny pellets of ice. They score your skin, leaving scratches in their wake. “ You are pathetic. You are clearly not learning in the care of the monsters.”

“We must remove you,” Mud agrees. “You will be taken into our custody.”

You back away, your breath coming ragged as your gaze darts from one to the other. “No… No, please. I want to stay with my mom.”

“And why would the Minister of Education want a stupid, foolish little failure like you?” Winter asks. “Why would the Queen ?”

“You are an embarrassment. You pathetic, worthless brat. Your very presence taints the royal house. Best come quietly, before you make a spectacle that humiliates her even more.”

Your shoulders sag as their words press against you. They’re right. The Queen deserves the best. The monsters deserve the best. How can you be the Ambassador they deserve if you can’t even finish your homework? They’re right. You are pathetic. Worthless. How could you ever have thought that anyone would want you?

Think, now. Is that your logic, or theirs?

The voice startles you, but your attempt to move makes you stumble, and you look down at your feet to see that the equations have crept off the paper again, twining around your ankles. At your notice, they tighten suddenly, and a sharp tug pulls you off your feet. Your cry echoes around the room, to be met with a chorus of shushing from the others that stings your skin like switches. Desperately, you scrabble for purchase on the legs of the other students’ desks as the equations drag you toward a hole that’s opened nearby. The students kick your hands away and return to their endless writing.

These aren’t good odds. The boy crouches next to you as you catch hold of your fallen chair right at the edge of the hole. He adjusts the glasses that are ever-so-slightly too big for his face as he examines the equations binding you, and points to a figure in the line of writing wrapped around your leg. But there’s a flaw in the reasoning, right here. Do it now, Frisk. The gap is closing.

Crying out, you kick desperately, and the line of figures snaps right where he’s pointing. He grabs your hands and drags you away from the hole.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Mud reaches for you, but you’re already on your feet and running, holding fast to the boy’s hand as you go.

Your footsteps echo like gunshots through the endless examination hall, and the students have finally taken notice. As one, the infinite rows of children raise their heads, turning blank faces toward you. Mouths open, blots of darkness yawning impossibly wide, and they scream. Your voice joins theirs as the sound pierces through your mind, ripping your thoughts to shreds.

Don’t listen. Block it out. Try Fibonacci -- that always works for me.

“ One,” you whimper. “One...two...three...five…”

“DISGRACE!”

A word slams into you from behind, and you scream again as your skin goes brittle beneath the chill of it and cracks beneath the force of the blow.

“MORON.”

“WORTHLESS.”

“FAILURE.”

“IDIOT.”

“BRAT.”

They drive into you in an endless stream, ice alternating with slime. The words slice over you, wearing you down until you’re bleeding from a thousand tiny cuts. You’re crying now, your pace slowing as the smaller boy tugs you ever onward.

Don’t stop, Frisk. You can’t stop now.

“ But it hurts!” you wail.

I know. But you have to keep going. You have to. No matter what. Just keep going and we’ll get out of this eventually--

Without warning, the inky strands of a clinging net envelop you, and the boy’s dark eyes are wide with fear as the net tears you away from him, your fingers slipping from each other’s grasp. He runs after you, but the net is being reeled in too fast, and you can do nothing to help. The net has been woven from insults and lies, and the words that make up the mesh ooze with toxic ichor that sinks into your skin and whispers its needle-sharp poison directly into your thoughts.

Worthless fool no one loves you no one cares they’ll leave you once you stop being useful they’ll leave you all alone in the dark they don’t really love you they just want to keep you mollified like the stupid little cow that you are spoiled little nuisance that nobody really wants…

Every word digs into your soul, prying a little more of your strength away until you stop struggling against the net. They drag your limp, unresisting body to the first wall that you’ve seen in this place, and dump you into a niche cut roughly into its surface. Then, as you watch, paralyzed, they begin to seal you in. Cruel words form the bricks that they stack before you, each one clinging to the next and fusing into an unbreakable whole.

NEEDY. BRAT. BABY. PATHETIC. WORTHLESS.

“No…” you whisper, barely enough strength left in you for even that. “Please…”

But there’s no point in pleading. A plea can only work if it moves something in someone’s soul, and there is nothing within the creatures that are sealing you into this tomb but hopelessness and despair. The light is fading fast, and crushing fear steals the breath from your lungs and the strength from your limbs. They’re leaving you alone in the dark. Forever.

That’s not a very accurate statement, you know. You’re never really alone.

Your fingers twitch, and you grope for his hand in the darkness. He takes it, holding tight as the word-bricks scrape over your head, the light almost gone now. You close your eyes against the dark, focusing on the feel of his hand in yours, and his strength feeds into your soul. The spots of ghost light dancing behind your tightly-closed eyes take on a violet cast as his other hand wraps around yours. He is so very small, but more than capable of tugging you back to your feet.

You wobble, leaning against the wall for support. You’re tired, so very tired, and you can feel your determination leaching from you through the cuts and frost burns that still score your skin in a cruel latticework.

“I don’t know what to do,” you whisper, holding tighter to his hand. You don’t dare speak any louder. Words have hurt you enough in this awful place, and the thought of supplying more weapons for those creatures to wield against you makes you ill. “I’m so worthless.”

Well that’s not accurate, either, he tells you. There’s no anger, or irritation, or sarcasm in his voice. Just frank observation. You know that, too. You’re just letting them get into your head. Which makes sense, given the environment.

“What?” you ask, feeling even more foolish.

In answer, his arms wrap around your waist in the dark, his little stick-arms hugging fiercely. You know you’re not worthless. You’re good, and funny, and kind, and the sort of person who goes to the library and learns about the reproductive habits of snails because you know other people would find it interesting. You stick to things even when they’re hard. Even when everyone else is telling you you shouldn’t. That’s not worthless at all, Frisk. You’re one of the cleverest people I know.

From him, it’s the ultimate compliment. His words wash over you, a gentle balm that soothes your hurts and sinks beneath your skin, bringing strength back to the shattered core of you. Your arms go around him, one hand resting on his head, as he presses it against you. You can’t see a thing, but the feel of his wiry curls giving ever-so-slightly beneath your hand is all the reminder you need to be able to paint the picture of him against your closed lids.

He barely reaches your chest, and the frames of his glasses dig into you a little right above your heart, but you don’t mind. He never really got a lot of practice with hugging. Always so focused on the facts, he sometimes states things in ways that seem cruel or callous, when he’s only just saying what he sees as the truth. You suppose it can be hard for others to see past the misunderstandings to the soul inside, and though you can understand why they might have turned away from him, you feel sorry for those others, for they missed something truly beautiful. If they’d only persevered, they’d have found someone sensitive, and clever, and remarkable. Someone who thrives on hugs as a flower thrives in the sunlight, and never fails to see the good in people, no matter how much they struggle in life.

His need gives you strength, and you take a slow, steadying breath. Softly, you drop a kiss on the top of his head, letting him know that you’re okay now. So to speak. You’re still sealed into a wall in the dark, but you’re not alone. As long as you’re not alone, you can deal with this.You can persevere.

“So. Any bright ideas?”

He loosens his hold on you, though he keeps your hand in his. Yes. But we need to be able to see.

You should have known he’d have a plan. And the last part, at least, you can take care of. You reach for his other hand in the darkness, catching hold and clinging fast. Squeezing your eyes tightly closed, you concentrate hard, letting your soul feel for the monsters beyond the wall. It’s been a long time; you’ve almost forgotten the sensation. But not quite. With a wrenching tear, your soul drags free of your chest, bathing your tiny prison in crimson light.

He blinks at you through his thick lenses, a grin of admiration blossoming on his face. Okay. That is clever. Freeing his hands from yours, he pulls out a worn and tattered notebook.

The book is an old friend. You’ve spent many hours, in the Underground and in the year afterward, curled up in a quiet corner, poring over the frayed and ragged pages. It lives in the Sanctuary now, but that doesn’t stop you. Often times, a penitent will find you already there, sitting across a statue’s feet with the notebook in your hands. There are so many thoughts and ideas clamouring to be free, scrawled in a chicken scratch that only you and he can read. The words that fill the pages are equal parts fear and outright wonder, right up until the final page, which ends in the middle of a sentence.

He sits cross-legged with the book in his lap, hunched over it as he scribbles fiercely on a blank page so fast that his words are a nearly indecipherable smear. You barely have time to read over his shoulder, catching only a glimpse of what he’s writing -- which appears to be about you -- before he tears out the page and slaps it against the wall of your prison. Beneath his hand, the wall shudders, and collapses in upon itself.

This time, you’re ready. You grab his hand, and he’s barely able to hold on to the notebook as you flee from the trap. Your soul burns like a beacon in the darkness as you race between the rows of students strung together like paper dolls, each one pointing at you, their mouths open in silent screams. Behind you, the creatures are coming, casting desks and students aside with impunity as they pursue you.

Ahead, there is, at last, and end to the infinite landscape. With a rumble that you can feel through the soles of your feet, the ground drops away into nothing, bearing the students with it. You cannot go forward, and you cannot go back into the arms of the waiting creatures. You skid to a halt at the edge, drawing the smaller boy close to you as you glare at the faceless things. They are in no hurry, now. They know they have you trapped. But your arms tighten around your companion nonetheless. You’ve come so far. You can’t give up now.

Let go, he urges you.

“No.” Your jaw clenches as you position yourself between him and the approaching things. “I won’t let them take you. They’ll have to fight me first.”

Frisk, let go. I have an idea.

You look down at him, and he grins at you, his eyes bright behind clouded lenses. Despite your hurts, and the creatures bearing down on you, you cannot help but return the look. He is in his element now, and there is a strange, wild kind of joy in knowing you are smarter than those who would tear you down.

You let go, and he drops, notebook in hand. You crouch next to him, a hand on his shoulder as he scribbles in the book. You can see where he’s going with it, now, the idea spreading on the paper in long, wild strokes, and you give a cry of delight. “Sans just showed me this when I was planning my science project. I know this! You need to change this bit here, and it’ll work.”

Without missing a beat, he crosses out the part of the equation you’re pointing at, and makes the requisite recalculations. There! Help me!

Together, you tear the page from the book. It takes both of you, for as the page parts from the binding, it grows, twisting and folding over on itself until a paper airplane the size of a small boat rests on the edge of the precipice. The faceless creatures can see you’re up to something now, and their paces quicken, but they’re too late. He jumps in ahead of you, reaching back to take your hand as you give the plane a massive shove, and you topple on top of him as the plane plunges over the edge into the abyss.

But not for long. As your cries echo into the emptiness, you cling to one another, and with a lurch that leaves your stomach far behind, you are airborne. Exhilaration kicks its way through you, and you hug him tightly around his waist as the plane seems to respond to your ebullient mood. You cannot hold back the whoop of triumph as the nose of the plane lifts, and you soar toward freedom.

“You did it!” you cry over the rushing of the wind. “I can’t believe it! You actually did it!”

No. Though he’s clearly as thrilled as you are with the success of your experiment, there’s an undercurrent of regret beneath his words as he leans into you. I couldn’t have done it without you.

“I just helped a little with the calculations,” you tell him. “Nothing you couldn’t have done yourself.”

Calculations are one thing, Frisk. But it takes determination to go through with a plan this crazy.  He glances over his shoulder at you with a wistful grin.  But I knew I could count on you to persevere.

As you soar ever higher, the darkness lessens into featureless grey. It becomes almost a mist that clings to you, until you can barely see him. You hold tighter, and his hands cover yours. “I don’t want to let go,” you tell him, your hushed voice tense with dismay.

It’s okay, he says. No matter what else happens, this ride was worth it.

“No. Please!”

Goodbye, Frisk.

The grey swallows you, and the plane turns into mist. You’re falling, flying, tumbling through the unending nothing, until you plummet out of sleep into waking.

You’re still falling, and you land on something soft and unhappy that squeaks a loud protest as you tumble from the bed. Still half lost in dreams, there is little room in your head for any coherent thought. All you can think to do is listen to the subconscious voice in your head that tells you here is comfort and safety and affection, and cling for dear life.

“Frisk?”

The soft voice in the dark is lacking its usual brashness and bravado, but you recognize it all the same. On its heels, you also register the feel of the softly pebbled skin beneath your hands, and you breathe a sigh of relief and no small amount of embarrassment as you ease your death grip on your companion.

“Sorry, Artie. I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“Yo, that tends to happen when you fall on someone and then squeeze them,” Artie retorts, but despite the flippancy of their words, there’s concern rather than irritation in Artie’s hushed voice. You can hear rustling in the darkness, and then you throw your hand up to shield your eyes as a blinding flashlight beam sears through the shadows. Artie holds it tightly with one foot, since their mechanical arms are lying in a twisted pile in the corner, and you can finally see the concern in your friend’s face.

“Sorry,” you say again, feeling the heat rising to your cheeks. “I fell.”

Artie tilts their head, their frown deepening. “Normal people fall out of bed, Frisk. You’re not normal. You beat Undyne in a fight. You don’t do clumsy.”

“I didn’t really beat her,” you demur, trying your best to deflect the topic. “Technically, I just didn’t lose. ”

“You know what I mean,” Artie sighs. They shift a little closer as you sort yourself out from the tangled sleeping bag. Sleepovers with Artie happen at least once a week, and Toriel’s offered to let them have their own room, but it’s an awfully big house for such a little monster kid, and both of you are happier when Artie stays on your floor.

Well, usually.

You stop fussing with the sleeping bag when Artie's tail wraps around your waist. Their chin comes to rest on your shoulder, and you slump in defeat, wrapping your arms around them again. For someone who was so oblivious when you first met, Artie’s gotten really good at seeing right through you.

“I heard you crying,” Artie says quietly. “You had a bad dream again, didn’t you?”

You draw back, and very nearly deny it out of habit. The words are on the tip of your tongue when the look in Artie’s eyes stops you. Memory creeps forward into the shadows of the night, slipping another image behind your eyes. Instead of the shadows of your cozy room in the big house, Artie is silhouetted against a much deeper darkness, lost against the vastness of the Underground. Trembling, they stand firm before a looming armoured figure, putting themself between her and you.

You could tell Artie that you’re fine. But they deserve better than that. You lower your head and give a tiny nod.

They hand you the flashlight, and you cling to that little brightness in the dark. “You have a lot of ‘em, don’t you?”

“Not that many,” you say.

“But they’re bad?”

“Sometimes.” You play the flashlight beam across the ceiling, picking out the glow-in-the-dark stars that Sans helped you arrange up there. They’re not the familiar constellations you see outside at night; they’re the patterns in the glittering gems above Waterfall. You find them comforting to have above you. Sans remembered them all by heart, and it was one of your first projects that you worked on when he started helping you with science.

The memory of another child with a love of science and a desperate need for hugs wraps its ghostly arms around you, and the beam of the flashlight illuminates your smile. “They’re not always all bad. Some bits of them are good.”

“And some bits aren’t?” It’s not really a question that requires an answer. Artie was there back in the beginning, back when one of your closest friends and family members was still trying very hard to murder you. Standing up to Undyne is hard for anyone at the best of times, but Artie had idolized her. Having to turn against their idol to save you couldn’t have been easy, but  Artie had persevered. They’re good at that. It’s helped them through their apprenticeship with Alphys, and with all the trial and error (mostly error) they’ve gone through as they try to figure out the mechanical arms that will help them work on the technical stuff that just can’t be done with feet, no matter how adept they happen to be.

“Some bits are not so nice,” you admit.

Artie looks down, frustration writ across their face as they avoid looking into your eyes. “Yo, I don’t know if I ever said it, but… But I’m sorry I was so keen on trying to fight you. Back when, y’know, I didn’t know you were…you.” Frowning, they kick at a pillow near their feet. “I’m sorry everybody was trying to fight you. You’re nice, and it sucks that you dream all this bad stuff now.”

Your smile broadens, more genuine now. You can appreciate both Artie’s bluntness, and the positivity behind their earnest words. It helps, more than a little. “It’s okay. I know how you really feel.” You lean past them to your bedside table, pulling a handful of ribbons out of the drawer. Artie brightens a little, turning so that you can better reach the spikes on their crest.

As you wrap a ribbon around the first spike and work it into a jaunty little bow, their tail curls around you again. “I still wish I could do something about your dreams,” they tell you.

“Artemisia,” you tell them, in your best Toriel-being-stern impersonation. They turn to look over their shoulder at you, wide-eyed, and you bop them gently on the nose with the ribbons. “You are  doing something.”

“Oh,” they say. Then, a moment later, “ohhhhhh.” That gets a little giggle out of you as you continue adding ribbons to the rest of their crest. Artie snorts, bumping their head against your shoulder. “Still. If I’d known you were this awesome, I’d have helped you fight Undyne from the start. I just didn’t know you were...I mean…” They pick up a stuffed dog with their toes and bring it close, hugging it with both legs. “Humans are scary.”

Your fingers still as you work on the last bow. “Even me?”

“Nah. Not you, dude. But you’ve always been really monstery for a human. And I’m starting to be less scared of ‘em, thanks to you. I guess that’s why the king made you Ambassador, huh?”

The words sink straight to your heart, warming you and chasing away the last of the shadows. “That is the nicest thing anyone’s said to me this month,” you say, and mean it. It’s been a long month of people telling you what you’re doing wrong as Ambassador.

“Bradley?”

“Bradley.”

Artie’s tail eases its grip on you just a little, and they rest their head in the space beneath your chin. “Man,” they say, their words tight with anger. “I really need to get Alphys to fix the pressure sensors on my arms, fast.”

“Why?” you ask. You know it’s been an ongoing issue -- Artie’s been banned from touching delicate things until they sort the problem out, since  powerful metal arms and no way of knowing how hard you’re squeezing something are an unfortunate combination, which they’ve learned the hard way -- but you’re not sure why it’s so urgent. They’re adept at getting by without them for most things, and Alphys’s keyboards are industrial-strength durable. No matter how hard Artie types, they’re very difficult to damage.

The answer, when it comes, is not what you were expecting. “Because I’m so mad that I can’t hug you right now,” they say.

“Oh,” you reply softly, and wrap your arms around your friend. Their tail tightens around you, and you hold them closely in turn, each of you giving comfort in your own way. Learning to live with monsters has sometimes required some ingenuity and creative thinking on your part, but the longer you persevere, the more you can’t imagine living any other way.

Chapter Text

This house is wrong.

You would never know to look at it. The halls that you move through are bright and cheerful, the tastefully patterned wallpaper decorated with pictures of flowers, and paintings of landscapes, and school photographs. A green vase filled with asters sits on a side table, adding a splash of vibrant colour into the mix. The soft brown carpet muffles your steps as you move toward the stairs, but you can’t help but feel that it wouldn’t matter if you made all the noise in the world as you walked. Despite the fact that the place is filled with all the trappings of home, there’s an aching emptiness to it. Everything seems just a little...off. Even the smells of the place are wrong. You’re not sure how, exactly. Just...wrong.

You reach the stairs, turning the corner on the landing, and you find yourself staring at your own photograph on the wall. The uniform doesn’t fit you properly -- they hadn’t been able to get you one of your own in time for school picture day, and you’re so much smaller than everyone else at the new school -- and there’s a haunted pain in your eyes as they stare into the camera that not even your picture-perfect smile can hide.

And you remember where you are.

Not a strange place after all, then. It’s not the big house or the house you grew up in, but you did call this place home for a time. It wasn’t by your choice, but as people back then never failed to remind you, you were lucky to have this much. It is a nice house, all things said and done. Certainly as pretty as you remember. But you don’t remember it being quite so…hollow.

A soft sound reaches you, like the creaking of tree branches in a constant wind. You finish your descent, creeping past the front door toward the living room at the front of the house. The sound grows louder as you go, the creaking regular and repetitive, and utterly strange. Taking hold of the door frame, you peek cautiously around it.

Sunlight streams in through the bay window in the room beyond, so bright that initially all you can see before it is a dark silhouette. As you shield your eyes, the dark blur gradually becomes clearer, until you understand the source of the noise.

A massive rocking chair sits before the window, it’s rockers squeaking as it drifts back and forth. You pad softly into the room, not wanting to disturb the chair’s occupant needlessly, but as you draw nearer, that feeling of wrong intensifies.

Your brow furrows as you inch closer, you footsteps masked by the ceaseless rhythmic creaking of the chair’s rockers on the wooden floor. Your aunt is facing toward you, but gives no sign of noticing you as you approach. She stares straight ahead, her eyes glassy as she rocks.

“Are you all right?” You lay hand against her arm, shaking lightly. “Aunt--”

She splits down the middle, grey dust pouring from the empty shell of a human being. You gasp as you stagger backward, choking as the dust swirls into your lungs.

“Well, now look what you’ve done,” an irritated voice snaps behind you.

You turn quickly, reaching for your cousin. “I don’t know what happened! We have to--”

“I told you,” he said. “Didn’t I tell you? You have to do what I say, or she won’t want you any more. Now look what you did. Now she doesn’t want anyone.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, clinging to your cousin’s sleeve. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to. I tried to be good, I really did. I tried to make her want me.”

“It was fine with just the two of us,” he says, shaking your hands off his arm. “You had to come and ruin everything. Everything you touch turns to dust.”

“No!” You take a step back, and your feet raise clouds of shimmering grey that drift to coat everything in the room. You can taste it on the back of your tongue, and fight the urge to be sick. “I was just trying to help. I don’t want to turn anyone into dust. I don’t want--”

“Nobody cares what you want. Come with me.” Meekly, you follow him through the door to the kitchen. He leans on the counter and picks up the glass sitting on it. “Here. Drink this. It’ll help.”

You take it from him, looking dubiously at the thick dark liquid within. “What is it?”

“You’re asking stupid questions again. I told you, just do as I say. Remember what happened the last time you didn’t listen to me?”

You glance in horror through the doorway; you can see the empty shell still endlessly rocking in the corner of the other room. Shaking, you raise the glass to your lips. The stench of it overwhelms you, thick and cloying with the sweet sour overtones of rot, and you gag. “I can’t.”

Between one breath and the next, he’s on you, pushing you back against the wall hard enough that your head slams back against it. As stars dance across your vision, he knots his fingers in your hair and yanks, pulling your head back. You cry out, and he forces the glass against your lips, tipping the contents down your throat.

It burns its way down to your gut, where it sits like a lump of molten lead. He’s still pushing the glass at you, trying to make you finish its contents, but through tears of pain, your groping hands come in contact with cool metal, and you grab a frying pan off the counter, striking him away. He staggers back, glaring at you with undisguised fury burning in his eyes. “You stupid brat!”

Spears of pain knife through your gut, and you stumble, barely able to keep the pan in front of you. “What did you do to me?”

“If you’d just drunk the whole thing like I told you, it wouldn’t hurt right now. This is your fault.”

The fire moves, spreading through you, and sick realization forces the gorge up your throat. “You’re hollowing me out. Like her.”

“You’ll listen better that way. I’m doing you a favour, really.” He grins. “You don’t think I heard you crying at night, but I did. Think how much nicer it will be when you don’t have to feel anything.”

“I’ve been there already,” you whimper through the pain, sinking to the floor. “It’s worse. It’s so much worse.”

He shrugs. “Whatever. It’s not like it matters to me. As long as I get my way, I don’t care either way. You’ll do what I want. Everyone always does.”

There’s a cupcake on the counter next to him. Someone clearly spent a long time on it. The white frosting is lovingly decorated with delicate yellow spun sugar flowers and sugar pearls, and the little card in front of it reads, “FOR KATIE,” the words in shaky cursive surrounded by a field of glued-on glitter and rhinestones. Casting you a smug look, he picks it up and bites into it with obvious, exaggerated relish.

Wow, what a maroon. I can’t believe that actually worked.

Heedless of the voice snarking in your ear, your cousin crams the rest of the cupcake into his mouth. “Too bad you’re not feeling well. Couldn’t have this going to waste. It was really...really...nnnngh.”

His eyes roll back in his head and he slumps forward, his head hitting the counter on his way to the ground with a thunk that would have been satisfying if not for the molten lava eating away at you from the inside out.

A soft snort next to you drags your attention from your cousin to the other boy sitting next to you. He still has the biggest, bluest eyes you’ve ever seen, and combined with the grin he’s sporting and the wink he gives you, they make him seem like something out of one of your storybooks. His blonde hair tumbles in waves past his shoulders, and he hooks it behind his ear as he rises to his feet and takes your hands.

Come on. He tugs you up with him, supporting you to a chair at the kitchen table. You can worry about that moron later. Let’s do something about that gunk he served you.

“The… The cupcake…?”

Yeah, sorry about the card, but I had to use your other name or he wouldn’t have gotten that it was supposed to be for you. Has he ever called you Frisk?

“He th-thinks it’s s-stupid.”

Thought so. What does he know? Gently, he pries the frying pan from your death grip on it and sets it on the stove. Knew there was no better way to get a cruel jerk to eat something than to make him think it was for somebody else.

Poking his head in the fridge, he rummages for a moment or two before bearing an armload of ingredients back to the counter. Brushing his hands off on his faded apron, he throws some butter into the hot pan.

That guy is proof that we’re directly related to gorillas. He shakes his head, deftly cracking an egg against the side of the pan. I seriously cannot believe you two came from the same grandparents.

“I--” you begin, but your words are swallowed by another cry of pain.

He looks at you with concern, and dumps the contents of the pan onto a plate. He carries it quickly over to you, setting it before you and placing a fork in your hand. Here. Eat this.

You look down at the eggs on the plate. They’re a flawless, perfect sunny-side-up, practically shining with the love that went into the making of them. And even the thought of eating them causes the poison writhing inside you to revolt, until you can barely see from the nausea and the pain.

Here . He takes the fork from you as you squeeze your eyes closed. Trust me, Frisk. I’ll take care of you. His hand rests against your shoulder in gentle encouragement, and the kindness undoes you. The further the poison spreads, the harder it is to do anything of your own volition, but you can do this much before it consumes you entirely. Shaking so hard you can barely stay upright, you open your mouth for him.

When the forkful of eggs touches your tongue, a burst of colour blossoms behind your eyes. Green, bright and vibrant as the spring, washes over and through you, a verdant tide that extinguishes the fire within you. He gives you another bite, and the nausea subsides, replaced with a voracious hunger. He laughs as you take the fork from him and attack the plate yourself, and it’s a sound of pure and utter joy. He watches you as you eat, the expression on his face equal parts pride, satisfaction, and love. There’s no judgement in him, not even when you lick the plate clean. He just takes it from you and sets it aside, then rests his hand on yours. Better?

You nod, your lip trembling, and his arms fold around you. As you bury your head against him, his hand is gentle against your hair as he strokes, soothing you until the shock and the fear work their way out of you. He only stops when you recover yourself enough to hold him in turn, and you cling to each other in the shell of the house that only ever pretended to be your home.

I’m sorry he was so cruel.

You raise your head from his shoulder, looking down at the prone body of your cousin on the floor. “He wasn’t ever as bad as that, really. Just...very selfish. He didn’t understand why I was here, and he wasn’t…wasn’t kind enough to let himself understand what I was feeling.”

That’s no excuse. Being kind is easy, if you have any kind of heart in you. He winks at you, making you smile despite your mood. I should know.

“I worry sometimes,” you admit as he lets go of you. Struggling to find the words, you swing your feet against the chair. “There are so many people who want so much from the Ambassador, and some of them aren’t very nice. I worry that if they keep at it, I’ll forget how to be kind, too.”

I wouldn’t worry, he says, confident rather than dismissive. He runs his hands through your hair, separating it into sections and beginning to braid it. I’ve had a good look at your heart, you know. I think you’ll be fine. Especially with the people you’ve got around you to remind you what kindness looks like. Lacking anything to tie the braid off with, he glances around helplessly for a moment before grabbing a stalk of parsley and using that to secure the braid. With a nod of satisfaction, he starts on the other side. Now, if you were still living with people like him , it might be different. But you don’t have to worry about that. I don’t think your new family is letting you go without a fight. He finishes the second braid, and moves back to the counter.

A smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. “You’re probably right about that.”

Must be nice, he says. Clearly, he means it to sound flippant, but he can’t hide the thread of melancholy that creeps into the words. Not from you. Not here. You slip from the chair, much steadier on your feet now, and move up behind him, wrapping your arms around his waist and hugging tightly. You hear him give a soft laugh, and he rests his hand on yours in silent thanks before tugging them free and placing an egg sandwich in them instead. With a squeak of delight, you tear into it, making him laugh again.

As you finish it off, licking the last of it off your fingers, you glance over at your cousin again, wondering what you’re supposed to do about him. Then, you freeze, not daring to move, or breathe, as your cousin begins to stir.

Frisk?

“What do I do?” His voice breaks your paralysis, and you grab his arm. “I’m scared. I don’t know what to do!”

He smiles and takes your hand. Yes, you do. What did we just talk about?

Just like that, you understand. Fear has formed a cold knot in your belly in stark contrast to your earlier pain, and you’re shaking more than a little, but you know what you need to do. Drawing a deep breath, you turn your back on your twitching cousin and set the pan on the stove.

You’ve never really done this by yourself, but then, you don’t really have to this time, either. As your shaking hands crack an egg into the pan, he slips his apron off and ties it around you. It’s a bold choice, with its bright heart emblazoned on the orange fabric, but it always filled you with determination. You clench your jaw as you reach for the seasoning, determined to do this right.

He’s with you every step of the way, his hands guiding yours, his words of gentle encouragement buoying you when you falter. You don’t dare turn around. Looking behind you now would ruin everything. As fearful as you are, you can’t  let that colour what you’re doing.

That’s it. Think about why you’re doing this.

Nodding, you add the final combination of ingredients, and shift the contents onto a plate. When you turn, your cousin is on his feet, coming toward you. But he stops when you hold the dish out to him. He stares at it as though waiting for you to throw it at him, but the egg scramble just sits there innocently, waiting.

“What’s this?” he asks.

“I made it for you.”

He takes a step back, eyeing you warily. “Why?”

“Because I’m sorry,” you tell him. You don’t bother explaining exactly what you’re sorry about. He won’t understand. You’re not sorry for anything you did, but for the fact that his life turned him into what he is. The dream version of him is just taken to the farthest extreme. What he did to you was unforgivable...but you pity him all the same.

He grabs the plate from you, setting it down hard on the table, still watching you warily, waiting for the attack that won’t come. He hesitates, and then tosses a fork at you. It clatters on the counter next to you. “You first.”

You take a forkful of the egg and eat it quickly, pulling back as soon as you can. It’s good enough that the temptation to keep eating is almost insurmountable, and from the look of smug satisfaction on your companion’s face, he knows it too. Your cousin, however, sees none of that. He sees only you and the plate you’ve set before you. Still skittish, he sits at the table, and puts a bite into his mouth.

His eyes widen, and he tears into the plate, wolfing the eggs down so fast that you’re surprised he doesn’t eat the plate, too. When he finishes, he looks at you expectantly, and you knot your hands in your apron. “Did you want more?”

“Of course,” he snaps. “You’ve finally found something useful to do, you can’t just stop there…”

He breaks off suddenly, his hands gripping the sides of the table. There’s a terrible rumbling from within him, and he looks up at you, more frightened than you have ever seen him.

“What’s wrong?” You take a step forward, reaching out a hand.

“What--what did you do to me?” His hand stretches toward yours, but as your fingers brush, a spiderweb of cracks blossoms across his skin. He cries out, clasping the hand to his chest, but it only makes it worse. The cracks spread as you watch in helpless horror, creeping up his arms, his neck, across his chest. “What… What did….” He staggers back into a wall, sinking to the floor as he glares up at you in terrified accusation.

“What’s happening?” You turn to the other boy, but despite his earlier dismissal of your cousin, there is pity and compassion on his face as he watches the display. He looks at you, his blue eyes shining with regret.

That meal was made of kindness. I don’t think his body knows how to handle that. It’s undoing him.

You turn back, desperate, but the cracks have spread across your cousin’s face, and he spits at you as you reach for him. You take a step back, and the floor steams where the spit lands. “You,” he says, in his cracked and broken voice. “You break everything you touch.”

“Please, let me help!” Skirting the steaming hole in the floor, you lay your hand on his shoulder, determined to do something. With a sickening crack, he shatters into pieces beneath your touch.

As you sit there, staring at your hands in shock, another, deeper crack echoes through the room, and as you look up, a deep, jagged gash appears in the opposite wall. Gasping, you lurch to your feet, but the cracks are everywhere as the house begins to break beneath you. You look to the other room just in time to see the entire corner where the shell of your aunt rocks crumble and fall away into nothing. Everywhere you turn, there’s more of the same, the cracks spreading through the walls. Only the floor you stand on is free of them, and that solid space is shrinking rapidly as the fissures creep toward you. Frightened, helpless, you begin to cry.

Then, warm arms are around you, golden hair shielding you from the sight of the world ending as he rests his chin atop your head. You cling to him, burying your face against his chest, and he holds you tightly as the world comes tumbling down.

It’s not your fault, Frisk. Some people just can’t handle kindness. Never let that stop you from trying.

“Please,” you whimper. “Please, stay with me.”

I wish I could. Just remember this. Remember me. Don’t forget to be kind.

You cling harder, your tears flowing freely as you nod. You break everything you touch. Even the world. But the memory…you can keep the memory whole.

He sighs, and the world shatters.

You lurch violently into waking, though it’s a quiet sort of violence. You make no sound, the aftermath of adrenaline leaving you weak and shaking and barely able to form a thought, let alone a cry. Slowly, you come back to yourself, one piece at a time. As you regain the strength to move, you raise a hand to your cheek, and it comes away damp. It is an effort, but you manage to prop yourself up against your pillows.

Sunlight streams through your windows, splashing warmth over your bedspread and making the friendly skulls that dot the fabric even brighter as they grin up at you. The cheerful sunshine is at odds with your mood, and seems determined to keep you from any sort of wallowing. Unable to resist so emphatic a display, you sigh and slide your legs over the edge of the bed.

Yawning, you reach for the jar of sprinkles on your nightstand, sprinkling a few over the rock that keeps silent watch over you while you sleep. The little dots of colour seem to make the little grey rock seem a little more cheerful, at least, and for a moment, that reminds you of its original owner. It’s such a small act of kindness, and you can’t explain it to anyone outside the family, but it means a lot that Sans entrusted the rock to you. Sometimes he feels small and grey too, and if you can’t brighten him up the same way with sprinkles, you find that hugs often work pretty well instead.

The morning rock-feeding accomplished, you run your hands through your messy hair, decide you can’t be bothered with brushing, and slide the rest of the way to the floor, quickly jamming your feet into your fuzzy slippers. The carpet helps a lot, but you still hate the feel of the cold floor on your toes in the morning, and it’s taking a while for the brothers to figure out a comfortable human temperature.

Your skeleton pyjamas keep the rest of you warm, at least, and as you open your bedroom door, a host of smells washes over you. It smells like spaghetti, which is nothing unusual, but there is something else. Something sweet, and savoury; bright and welcoming. Suddenly feeling very much alone, you hurry toward the stairs.

You pause on the landing just before heading down. There’s a new addition to the photos on the wall. Your brow furrows for a moment before you recognize it, and when you do, you’re not at all sure how you feel about it. When you were in the hospital, Papyrus must have demanded a copy of your x-rays from the doctor, because that skeletal head and shoulders hanging in the shiny new frame on the stairs is yours. It sits between the framed pictures of Sans and Papyrus, and Papyrus and Undyne, and Undyne and Alphys, like it has every right to be there. A strange mix of emotions fills you; there’s still something about your x-rays that makes it uncomfortable for you to look at them, though you can’t figure out what, but the fact that Sans and Papyrus have hung yours on the wall like it’s some kind of class photo makes something ache deep within you. Those strange feelings hurry your steps, and you’re practically running by the time you hit the kitchen.

Papyrus is in his place of pride behind the stove wearing his “BONE TO BE WILD” apron, and he’s humming something as you skid into the room, barely catching yourself before you hit the kitchen table. He turns and gives a crow of delight.

“AH, HUMAN! HOW FORTUITOUS THAT YOU HAVE ARRIVED IN SUCH A TIMELY FASHION! WITH SANS OUT AT HIS CLASS WITH TORIEL, YOU AND I MAY DELIGHT IN THESE CULINARY EXPERIMENTS OF WONDROUS RAPTURE WITHOUT FEAR OF--” He breaks off, really seeing you for the first time, and he sets down the spatula he’s holding. “...AH.”

Your damp cheeks redden, and you try your best to disappear behind a kitchen chair. “Sorry, you can keep talking. I want to hear the rest.”

But instead of going back to the pots and pans bubbling on the stove, he closes the distance between you and goes down on one knee, eliminating most of his imposing height. “I WILL, OF COURSE, PROCEED TO DELIGHT YOU WITH EPICUREAN ASTONISHMENTS IN DUE TIME, BUT FIRST, WILL YOU TELL ME WHAT IS WRONG?”

“Nothing,” you insist. “I’m fine, Papyrus.”

But he just gives a “NYEH” at that, and rests a hand against your shoulder. “PLEASE, SMALL HUMAN, I DO KNOW WHAT A BAD DREAM LOOKS LIKE.” There’s a deep empathy and understanding in the shadows of his eyes as he lets go of your shoulder, taking your hand instead -- though he’s got oven mitts instead of gloves or mittens today, that doesn’t seem to hinder him any -- and he covers it with the other. “AT LEAST TELL ME IF THERE IS SOMETHING I CAN DO TO MAKE YOU FEEL BETTER.”

You don’t need to think very long on that at all. Freeing your hand from his, you hold up both your arms in a silent entreaty. It’s one he doesn’t need any help interpreting. With an understanding “NYEH-HEH-HEH,” he rises to his feet and scoops you into his arms, balancing you on one hip as he returns to the stove.

Clinging to him like a little koala, you rest your head against his shoulder with a soft, contented sigh, listening as he begins to outline his master plan. There’s an easy, effortless strength in the way he holds you, his free hand returning to his culinary creations. He’s spent so much time holding you that he doesn’t even have to think about it any more. He should be scary, your tall, strong, skeleton friend. Should be. But he isn’t. With the possible exception of Toriel, he’s the most comforting person you know, and even Mom has her scary side. Papyrus is just… Papyrus.

“Papy?”

“--AND SO THEN I TOLD GRILLBY THAT IF HE DIDN’T WANT THIS AMAZING-- EH? YES, HUMAN?”

“Back Underground, when everyone wanted to… You know. To hurt me…” He turns his head sharply at that, but you keep your gaze fixed firmly on the pan in front of you. “...why didn’t you?”

“FRISK!” His shocked exclamation is forceful enough that you feel the vibration of it in your bones. “YOU ARE MY COOL, AWESOME FRIEND WHO LIKES SPAGHETTI AND PUZZLES! HOW COULD I EVER WANT TO HURT YOU?”

He knows. You can feel it in the way his hold on you changes. It’s not a big change, but there’s a reassurance and a protectiveness in it that wasn’t there before. The knowledge is there in his touch. In his use of your name. Of course he knows. He said it himself, just a few minutes ago. He’s lived his whole life with Sans; he knows when someone is trying to sort out a bad dream without really talking about it.

You hear people talking, at the school and at the embassy. A lot of people don’t really get Papyrus. They think he’s foolish, or immature, or stupid, but that’s not it at all, really. He understands more than most people think, he just actively and emphatically rejects anything that doesn’t mesh with his view that the world is generally an awesome place and the people in it are pretty great, too. And he does it with such commitment that most of the people around him end up changing themselves to fit; it’s hard to withstand the force of such passionate, vehement kindness. Sans gets it, and Undyne, to an extent, though she also goes out of her way to make sure that the limit of his kindness is never tested. And you’re starting to get it, too.

You’re still not sure how he would have reacted if any of the people tried to hurt you had succeeded -- well, succeeded permanently, though you shy away from that thought pretty quickly -- and you wonder, briefly, why Sans chose to introduce the two of you at all. Papyrus never met any of the others who came before, though you’re sure he would have loved pretty much all of them.

So why you?

He’s back on the subject of Grillby’s failure to recognize his culinary genius, having summarily rejected any and all thought of hurting you. Tightening your hold on him, you lift yourself up until you can kiss his bony cheek.

It breaks off his tirade mid-stream, and he blushes with a soft “NYEH.” Unable to return the gesture, he leans his head against yours instead. “WELL, YOU, AT LEAST, ARE CLEVER. YOU TELL ME. WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THIS FABULOUS COMBINATION OF BREAKFAST AND PASTA?” He scoops out a forkful of his creation from the pan and offers it to you.

The thing in the pan is not quite a quiche, but there’s definitely a lot of egg involved. You brace yourself, but he really has been getting better, and though there’s still a certain indescribable something to the spaghetti that makes you unsure if you love it or if you want to bring it back up again, there’s something more to it that fills you with warmth and hope, gently teasing away the last of the effects of your dream and leaving you feeling more yourself than you have since you woke up. You think about it carefully before offering an answer.

“It’s really good,” you tell him. “But can I make a suggestion?”

Some people would take offence at that. But those people aren’t Papyrus. He just beams at you and gathers you into an affectionate hug. “OF COURSE! WITH OUR COMBINED AWESOMENESS AND EXCELLENT TASTE IN FOODSTUFFS, WE CANNOT FAIL TO MAKE THE ULTIMATE BREAKFAST DISH!”

You work together closely on the next round, Papyrus’ expertise in pasta combining with your human palate and actual possession of taste buds. Occasionally, he sets you on the counter so that you can chop something, or so that he can free both hands to move something particularly hot (or on fire), but you’re never really far from him, and he always picks you up again before anything resembling sadness can get its claws into you. From your perch on him, you can see everything from his perspective, offering suggestions when you need to and tasting things that he offers you. Finally, your grand experiment is done. The Spaghetti Frittata à la Skeleton steams proudly on its plate, and you accept your first bite of the slice Papyrus has cut for you. He watches anxiously as you chew, scanning your face for any reaction. When you swallow, his patience runs out, and he shifts from foot to foot.

“WELL?”

A shiver runs through you, and you collapse against him. “Oh. Wow. It’s amazing.”

“HA! WAS THERE EVER ANY DOUBT? TRULY THE GREAT PAPYRUS AND THE JUST-AS-GREAT-AS-PAPYRUS FRISK CANNOT BE DEFEATED IN THE COOKING ARENA!” He laughs, doing a little dance of delight that bounces you until you can’t help giggling too. “WAIT UNTIL GRILLBY TASTES *THIS*! SURELY HE WILL HAVE NO CHOICE BUT TO CONCEDE DEFEAT TO WE EPICUREAN MASTERS!”

“Okay,” you tell him, “but I was wondering…”

“HM? WHAT IS IT, HUMAN?”

“Could we take some to our friends first?”

He looks at you in surprise, his gaze darting between you and the frittata, before his expression softens and he tousles your hair. “YES. YES, I THINK THAT IS A TRULY EXCELLENT IDEA.”

It takes you only a few minutes to get dressed, though you despair of what to do with your hair. It’s coming in much curlier, and you’re not used to how the brush sticks in it. But there’s a nip in the air, so you settle for tucking it under a hat. Darting back down the stairs, Papyrus greets you with your jacket and a lumpy scarf. “BUNDLE UP, HUMAN. IT IS COLD TODAY.”

As you eagerly comply, he picks up the frittata you have carefully packed, tied up in a neat fabric package with a pretty bow on the top the way your human mother showed you a long time ago. His precious cargo secure, he opens the door, and sunlight streams in through the door. Turning back to you, he holds out his hand.

“COME, FRISK. OUR SUPER-COOL DELIVERY SERVICE AWAITS!”

Smiling, you take his hand, and step with him across the threshold and into a brighter day.

Chapter Text

You’ve never been to a carnival after dark before. Maybe that’s why everything looks so strange. You wrap your arms around yourself, shivering as you walk through the maze of rides and games and huge curtained tents. There are lights everywhere, blinding in their intensity, so you can’t understand why everything is so dark. Music drifts from somewhere, the strange, warped notes of the calliope skirling around you and tangling you in their threads. Far overhead, you can hear the ticking of a ride travelling slowly skyward, followed by a rush of air and terrified screaming. You’ve never understood that. If rides are supposed to be fun, why are people always screaming?

In the shadows of a tent nearby, a clown lifts his head and grins at you. Politely, you smile back, but you’re already moving away as fast as you can. Clowns are supposed to be funny, but he’s not doing anything. Sans is funnier than that when he’s just sitting and having breakfast. The clown should take lessons from him.

You turn quickly, aiming for another alleyway between tents, and collide with a shadow in the dark. Reeling, you stagger back, and a clawed hand closes over your shoulder. You turn to look, but whoever or whatever this monster is, you don’t recognize it. The hand on your shoulder is actually its foot; it stands balanced on the other spindly leg, gazing down at you across a beak curved like a scythe. The belted robe it wears seems somewhat strange given the feathered wings protruding from the sleeves, surely making it harder for the monster to fly, but it doesn’t seem bothered by it.

It clicks its beak a few times, close enough to your face that you can’t help but lean away, and then it blinks at you. “Ah! I know why you have come!” The harsh voice, like the cawing of a dozen angry birds, grates against your ears.

“You do?” you ask.

“Yes! Come, come, what you seek is inside!”

You glance around you, hoping for some sign of anyone that you know, but nothing around here is familiar. Still, you’ve always been able to trust monsters, and Mom and Dad have told you that if you’re ever lost, you should go to a monster rather than a human for help. Reluctantly, you nod and let the strange monster usher you inside the tent.

The air inside is thick and hot. It smells of dust, and damp, and other things you can’t identify, but something about it makes your skin crawl, aching for a bath. Uncertainty sends a shiver down your spine, and you tug against the clawed foot wrapped around your wrist. “I’m sorry,” you tell the monster, “but I need to go home now.”

“Yes, yes,” it insists, fluttering its wings in dismay at your attempts to pull away. “That is what I am saying. Look! Is this not home?”

Frowning, you squint into the gloom at the centre of the tent. There’s something there, a dark shape against the central pole, and suddenly you really don’t want to see what it is. You dig in your heels, but the monster continues to draw you forward. Though you yank hard, the talons just dig into your skin, and you pound against them with your other fist. “Stop! I don’t like this. Let me go!”

“...Katie?”

The voice from the darkness freezes you in your tracks, and you stare at that dark shape in disbelief. Your hand goes limp in the monster’s grasp, and you look up at it in confusion. “I don’t understand. Why is my aunt here?”

It drops your hand so it can do an excited little hop. “You were looking for this, yes? This is home.”

“No…” You lower your voice, not wanting your aunt to hear. Despite everything that happened, you don’t want to hurt her feelings. “She’s not… that’s not home any more.”

“Ahhh, I see, I see! Then you are in the right place.”

You turn, but the birdlike monster is gone. In its place is a tall figure in dark robes, their face lost in the shadows of their hood. They look a little like the river person, but this new creature doesn’t feel nearly as warm and welcoming as she does (or he, or whatever they feel like being that day). This new thing doesn’t feel much like a monster at all.

“You have come.” The creature’s voice skitters down your spine like a hundred angry whispers. “Good. It is time to repay this woman what she is owed.”

“What she…” You peer into the shadows, wondering why your aunt hasn’t come toward you. None of this makes any sense. “I don’t understand.”

The creature raises an arm, and light floods the tent. You realize now why your aunt hasn’t moved -- she’s bound fast to the tentpole. A little table stands in front of you, and your eyes widen at the sight of the gun on it. You back away quickly, but you can’t go far. Your feet freeze, locked in place as though bolted to the floor.

“Let go!” You strain with all your strength, but your feet won’t budge.

The creature just shakes its head. “This woman hurt you. This woman drove you up the mountain. Is that not so?”

You stop tugging at your feet to glance at your aunt. Her head bows beneath the weight of the creature’s accusations, and you can’t deny the truth in them. “Yes… but it’s not as simple as that!”

“Then you must give her what she deserves. Had the flowers not broken your fall, she would have cost you your life. You must take hers in turn.”

“No! Why would I do a thing like that?”

“It is only fair.”

You scowl, yanking hard at your boots. “That’s not fair! That’s just… Just…”

Pretty dang awful.

“...awful!”

The creature sighs, a sound like the wind in the trees in winter. “Then you must pay with your life instead. A life is owed. A life must be taken. You must choose.”

“I will not!” You pull out of your shoes and tumble headlong into the table. Cold metal brushes against your hand, and everything in you recoils. You will not be forced into this. Not this time. You’ve been told before that there was no way out but to kill, but you were never very good at doing what you’re told.

What your hand finally closes over isn’t the same gun that was on the table you crashed into. It’s smaller, and lighter, and made of plastic. Struggling to your knees, you bring the toy to bear, and aim it at the hooded creature. “Let us go. Now!”

The creature tilts its head, and you can feel the weight of its stare from the depths of its hood. “Interesting. But it will not save you.” It turns to look at your aunt. “I will do it myself, then.”

“No you won’t! ” As the creature moves toward your aunt, you pull the trigger. Nothing leaves the gun, but the creature staggers anyway, rocked by the force of your will.

Strong hands close over yours, tugging the toy gun away from you. That won’t stop it long, darlin’. You go fetch your aunt. I’ll take care of this.

“Thank you,” you breathe, more gratitude in those two words than there is water in the ocean. The girl crouched next to you smiles, her green eyes bright above the freckles dusting her cheeks, and she touches the brim of her hat.

You know I got your back. Now get.

You don’t need to be told again. Ducking the creature’s reaching arm, you bolt toward the pole where your aunt is tied. A crack behind you heralds another shot, and you wince. That was way, way too close. Skidding to a halt in front of your aunt, you grab the ropes, your hands fumbling at the knots, but they’re tied so tightly you can’t get a grip on them.

“Katie? What’s happening? I’m scared, Katie.”

“Don’t…” You grunt, yanking at the ropes. “...call me Katie. And it’ll be okay. I’ll get you out--”

Your hands slip on the ropes and sink into your aunt’s arm, tearing through it like it’s paper. And much like paper, it scores your skin in stinging, razor cuts. You recoil, clutching your hands to your chest, and back straight into someone else. As you cry out, a warm hand takes yours, squeezing reassurance, and you fall silent as you cling fiercely to it.

I got us some breathing room, but we’re not out of the woods yet. That thing’s hopping mad, and I think it’s just mustering for another round. You done yet?

“No!” You tighten your hold on the girl’s hand, and she looks down at you in alarm. “I didn’t… Something happened. I didn’t mean to, but…” You gesture at your aunt’s arm. This whole time, your aunt has said nothing more. Just stared at the hole in her arm with a calm sort of bemusement.

Sighing, the girl gets down on her knees, holstering the toy gun, and takes your hands. Well, seems to me you got a choice now. This lady had a lot to do with a bunch of the holes in that heart of yours, and your new friends may be good at patching, but that don’t make it right.

“She didn’t mean to…” you whisper.

No, I don’t reckon she did. But she did it all the same. So what do you do now? You could leave her.

Even the thought of being left behind in this awful place is enough to send a violent shudder through you, and though it was the girl’s suggestion, she smiles at that. Thought not. You don’t run for that kind of justice, do you? She rises to her feet again and tousles your hair. So what are you waiting for? Go do your thing.

You nod, and close the distance between you and your aunt. Your hands are shaking, but the girl is right. This situation may not be fair, but leaving your aunt here isn’t fair either. “It hurts,” you say, glancing back over your shoulder.

The right thing often does, the girl replies. Don’t mean it ain’t worth doing.

Nodding again, you grip the ragged edges of the hole in your aunt’s arm and pull. With a sickening tear, it gives beneath your grasp, the hole spreading beneath the ropes and pulling wider apart. Something small and white spills from the gaping wound, and a warm, buttery smell hits you a moment later. For an instant, you pause, looking in confusion at the popcorn pooling around your feet. Then, you redouble your efforts. You plunge your hands into the ragged edges of your aunt, biting your lip as they slice through your skin, and dig through the popcorn and around the ropes until your grasping hands encounter something solid. Seizing it with all your strength, you pull, and slowly drag a small child free of the popcorn. She stares at you, blinking in the sudden light, and throws her arms around you, clinging tightly. Staggering only a little under her weight, you turn back to the other girl. Before you can get a word out, a terrible wind rips through the tent, flinging back the canvas at the opening. In the darkness beyond, the shadows begin to seethe and roil.

It’s back, and it ain’t alone. She pulls her hat off, jamming it down over your curls, and jerks her head toward the other end of the tent. Go. I got us covered.

You pull the child more closely to you, and run. Behind you, the wind screams as the tiny pops of the toy gun tear into it. You press the child’s head against you, covering her ears as best you can, and you plunge through the side of the tent. The rough canvas scrapes over you like wire mesh, tearing strips into you, but after a moment of pushing, you’re free. You keep running, twisting and ducking through the alleys between rides and game stands, until you come to a battered wooden fence. Dropping to your knees, you push through a crack in a broken board, and find yourself on a small patch of grass in the darkness. The sounds of the wind have stopped for now. Panting, you lean your head back against the fence, and do your best to console the terrified child buried against you.

Who-ee. The girl drops down next to you, tipping her hat back on your head so she can examine your scratched face properly. Those are some nasty pieces of work. How you holdin’ up, darlin’? Not wanting to say anything in front of the child, you just stare miserably over the child’s head. The girl winces and runs a hand through her short, red hair. They sure did a number on you. Hold up, I think I got something that can help.

She crouches down, running her hands through the grass, muttering quietly until she sits back with a crow of delight. Bingo! All we needed was a little luck. Grinning, she holds up a clover. Taking her hat back from you, she nestles the clover in your hair, just above your ear. Immediately, a golden wave of warmth runs through you, bathing your hurts in light and leaving only a dull ache in their wake.

That settled, she crosses her legs, and raises a brow. So. Who’s the kid?

“My aunt… I think?” You pet the child’s dark hair gently, but she still refuses to look up.

Huh. She doesn’t take care of you proper, and now you have to take care of her? That don’t seem fair.

“That’s not it, I don’t think,” you say slowly. The child in your arms shudders, and you pull her closer. Something about the whole strange situation nags at you, demanding that you look at it again. Then, your gaze snaps upward to meet that of the other girl. “She was young.”

Still is, darlin.’ Hasn’t been that long since you pulled her out.

“No, I mean my aunt. My grown-up aunt. She was… She was young.” You frown. “I guess I never really thought about it before. She was always just a grown-up.”

So what changed?

“Some of my new grown-ups are a few centuries old.”

Yeah, that’d do it. Pulling another clover out of the grass, the girl scoots closer to you and sets it next to the first before putting her arm around you. As you lean into her, the light within you intensifies until all you can feel is the warmth. So what’s it mean?

“I think… I wonder if maybe she wasn’t ready to have kids. She was always my mom’s baby sister. She didn’t have anyone else, and then my parents had me and couldn’t help her with my cousin, and then my parents…” You shudder, and the girl makes a soft, consoling sound as she kisses your hair. Drawing strength from it, you press on. “Then she had two kids she wasn’t ready for. And my cousin…”

Is a real piece of work. Yeah, I got that. Sighing, she rests her cheek against your head. Still don’t make it right.

“No, it doesn't,” you say. “But it makes it understandable.”

And that helps?

“Yeah,” you say. The child finally looks up, and you wipe the tears from her wide brown eyes. “Because now it’s easier to believe it wasn’t me. ”

The other girl smiles at you, but there’s pity in it. Those are some wise words, for sure, but you know it ain’t gonna be that easy to get over after everything that happened.

“No,” you say, and hug the child tightly. “But it’s a start.”

The other girl laughs, holding you close, and you’re happy to let her shoulder part of your load. You rest your head against her chest, your eyes lingering on the shiny star pinned to her shirt, watching the light glint off it as she breathes. Ah, darlin’ you always did have funny ideas about what’s right. But I can’t say as it hasn’t worked out for you. If you really want to take on that rugrat there, I’ll do what I can to help.

“I know you will,” you say, with a small, smug grin. “It’s only fair.”

She gives you a playful cuff on the back of the head. Hey, now don’t you start that. I--

A wind picks up, rushing around you, and both of you tighten your grips on the respective others you’re holding. “What’s that?” you whisper.

She doesn’t look happy, her eyes narrowing as she glares at the fence. All this talk of fair and we took our eyes off that big fair behind us. And I don’t think this fair is a particularly fun one. The faraway screams from the midway emphasize her point, and she bolts to her feet, dragging you with her. They’re coming, Frisk. You go. Run.

With a crack, the fence shatters, and a tide of twisted, misshapen figures pours through the breach. While they might have been human or monster once, the things that surge toward you are neither, so twisted that they are barely recognizable, smearing together in a blur of sawdust and greasepaint. The child screams, and you draw her close to you and flee. Behind you, the toy gun pops, buying you just enough time to pull ahead of the crowd and their grasping claws.

Your stagger, your bare feet slipping in the damp grass, but strong hands steady you and push you on ahead. She’s running next to you, firing back over her shoulder, but her face tells you all you need to know. “We’re not going to make it, are we?” you call.

Never say never, darlin’. We make it over this hill, they might start to think it’s too much trouble. She frowns, firing twice in quick succession. You’ll be faster if you put her down.

In answer, you just scowl and hold the child closer. “We’ll find another way.”

Suit yourself. You know she wouldn’t do the same for you.

“I know,” you whisper, the words bitter in your mouth. The child looks up at you, guilt and pain writ large in her eyes, but she doesn’t deny it. You just shake your head. Your human family may be a mess, but it’s still your family, and you’ve buried enough of them already. You’re not going to give up any more.

“Little one.” The voice of a thousand whispers swirls around you, and you glance back. The shadow figure looms above the crowd, arms spread wide. “Little one. You know what you must do. Help us, and we will reward you. We will give you what you deserve.”

It’s then that you realize that the poisoned whispers aren’t meant for you. “No!” you cry. “It doesn’t mean what you think!” By then, it’s too late. The child’s spindly legs tangle with yours, and you stumble, your grip slipping. The other girl screams, the toy gun cracking as she realizes you’ve fallen behind, and you reach for the child, determined to forgive her once more for her selfishness.

But there’s nothing left to forgive. You catch one glimpse of terrified brown eyes before the earth closes above them, and you’re left staring at a featureless brown crater sitting like a scar in the green. Screaming, you dig your hands into the dirt, your fingers scrabbling at the packed soil until your nails tear and bleed, but no matter how far or how fast you dig, there’s nothing there. The child is gone. They’ve taken her, and you’re not fast enough, not strong enough to get her back.

“She got what she deserved,” the whispers slide across your skin. “But if you wish, you may join her.”

Frisk, leave it! We have to go!

Her arms are around you, tugging you away, but you refuse to get to your feet. The horde is closing in, but you can’t leave now. Crying your aunt’s name, you plunge your hands back into the soil, and it begins to swallow you as well.

Fine. You’re gonna be an idiot? Her arms latch tightly around your waist. Then I’m coming too.

There’s no time for a reply. With no further warning, the earth catches hold and drags you down into darkness.

You bolt upright, your breath coming in ragged gasps and your throat raw from screaming. You barely have a chance to register that you’re not outside, but safe and warm in your bed, before the door bursts open, and the sight of the looming shadow bearing a huge, wicked trident makes you scream again, clutching your blankets close.

But the voice that demands, “What is it? What’s wrong?” is rich, and warm, and familiar, and nothing like the skittering whispers, and you remember where you are.

Blushing deep with mortification, you draw the blankets up to your nose. “Sorry, Dad.”

He follows your gaze to the trident in his hand, and gives a soft, “oh!” before it vanishes with a quick twist of his wrist. The weapon was the only piece of his royal paraphernalia on him; the crown only ever comes out for official state functions any more, and his “Rad Dad” pyjamas stand in place of his armour. But there’s still a quiet authority to him as he slowly approaches your bed, cautious, and wary of frightening you further. He holds out a hand, offering, but not demanding. “There’s nothing  to be sorry about, young one. Bad dreams again?”

You nod, freeing a hand from the tangle of blankets to reach for him. Your hand is nearly lost in his as his clawed fingers fold around yours, but the heat of his lightly-furred palm is enough to banish some of the chill and the fear in your heart, and you shiver in relief as he sits next to you. He freezes then, his face twisted with uncertainty as he tries to figure out the cause of the shiver, and you can’t take the ache of being alone any longer. Unwilling to wait for him to figure it out, you pull your hand from his and crawl into his lap instead.

Immediately, his arms close around you, and he’s so big he can practically hold you in one hand, but his size isn’t as scary as it used to be, for you know it’s only ever used these days to hold you close and keep you safe. Your fingers knot in his pyjamas as you bury your face against his shoulder. He turns to you, his whiskers tickling your cheeks as he gently nuzzles you with his nose.

“There, there,” he soothes, softly stroking your back until you stop shaking, and some of the painful tension begins to loosen its hold on you. “It’s over. I’m here.” His hand stills, and you raise your head, and both of you know exactly what he’s thinking, for it’s written all over his face. Unless I’m the nightmare… So you snuggle closer, resting your head against him, and he resumes his soothing care. There is a lot you need to talk about, but it can wait until morning. Right now, you need him here to banish the shadows and the whispers in the dark; adding to them isn’t going to help either of you.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks after some time, and you shake your head. He hesitates, and then asks, “...do you need me to call your mother?”

“No,” you say at once, meaning it. It’s not that Toriel isn’t a comfort and light when the bad dreams are after you, but Asgore is just as good, for all that he’s afraid that he isn’t. The trident startled you -- when you’re not ready for it, it has a way of calling up flashes of memory that never happened and hurts that exist only as shadowy aches in your bones on cold days -- but the fact that he was here, half-asleep but ready to fight off whatever had made you cry out, and the certain knowledge that had anything real been threatening you, it would have met a very swift and untimely end… Both of these things fill you with determination.

Dad’s house is a small one. He lives at the Embassy suite when you’re not staying with him, you suspect because he’s really not comfortable living anywhere that doesn’t have a family in it, so he never felt the need to get a house with enough room for your entire adopted family like the Big House. His little house in town isn’t quite as fun as Alphys’ and Undyne’s, or as cozy as Sans’ and Papyrus’ house. But Asgore’s house is big enough to have a bedroom for you, and space for your pictures on the walls, and a little garden in the back, because Asgore is physically incapable of living anywhere for any length of time and not having a garden grow up around him. It’s enough. And right now, you honestly don’t want to be anywhere else.

“No,” you say again. “I’m happy here.”

“Are you?” he asks. “Really?” There’s something in his voice that makes you look up, and there’s a  question stirring in the warm depths of his brown eyes. You know a thing or two about questions you’re afraid to ask, and it draws a smile from you. You reach up to pet his cheek, your hand very small against his face, but it’s enough to make him mirror your expression. It’s a smile full of a strange mix of hope and sadness, but you understand that feeling too.

“Yes,” you say, and settle yourself against him. “I am.”

Like so many things in your life, it’s a statement full of cracks, and scuffs, and chips. But it’s real, and it’s healing, and it’s enough for now, and he holds you, keeping you warm and safe as you drift back to sleep. It doesn’t make up for all the things that left the shadows in both of your hearts, but it’s something he can do, and it’s a beginning. You’ve both been planting the seeds of this since the day you led him out of the Underground, and that’s the thing about seeds… They grow.

The crisp wind teases the edge of your scarf, and you draw it more tightly around you, trying to form enough layers to cover the holes. It may not be the best-made scarf in the world, but Undyne was fiercely proud when she gave it to you, and you love it just as fiercely.

The wind stops suddenly, and you glance up to find Asgore standing behind you, shielding you from the breeze. You grin as he sits next to you and eagerly grab the thermos he offers. You take a quick sip, but like all his tea, it’s the perfect temperature, warm enough to heat you through to the tips of your toes, but never hot enough to hurt. He’s sweetened it just the way you like it, and you sigh happily. Your reaction to his tea never fails to get a smile or a laugh from him, and he ruffles your hair for good measure.

Reluctantly setting your thermos aside, you pick up the basket that sits between you and peer at the little bulbs inside. “I thought you were supposed to plant stuff in spring,” you say.

“Most plants like that,” he answers, plucking one of the little bulbs from the basket. It’s so small that he has to hold it between his claws, but he does so with the ease of long practice. “But the spring flowers are different. They like to have a good long sleep before they come out.”

“Like a groundhog?” you ask.

He laughs. “I reckon so.”

“And that’s why we’re planting these in fall?” You tilt the basket, though you’re careful not to bruise the bulbs. “What are these, anyway?”

“Snowdrops,” he says, placing the bulb he’s holding back with the others. “They’ll be up before any of their brothers and sisters come spring.”

“In the snow?” You stare at the plain little round things in amazement. You’ve never seen a flower in the snow before. Not even…

“Sometimes,” Asgore says, blithely unaware of your train of thought. “Though most times around these parts, they do wait until the snow is off the ground.” He hands you a small gardening fork just your size and takes the basket in return. “Now then. Where shall we plant these little ones?”

Dad’s garden is a lot smaller than the other ones he tends to, and it’s already overflowing with flowers, but there has to be somewhere left for these ones. Your roving gaze stops, and you point at the big oak tree at the bottom of the garden. “There,” you say. “Right at the bottom.”

“The tree it is! Upsa-daisy!” Even though it’s only a few steps away, he scoops you into his arms, unleashing a stream of giggles from you as he carts you over to the tree.

As soon as he sets you down, you begin to dig into the dirt, carefully carving out a new home for the little snowdrops without damaging the tree’s roots. Asgore kneels next to you, his claws tearing up the grass surrounding the tree. As he works, he peers closely at the tufts of grass, looking for new seeds too tiny to notice straight away. It’s an old habit with him, but even so, you startle a little as he lets out a soft cry, digging his claws into the tuft in his hand.

“Look!” He holds out his triumphant discovery to you, and you cup your hands carefully around the tiny four-leafed clover. “These are very lucky, you know,” he says as you look down on it with a wistful smile.

“I know,” you say, and tuck it into your hair. “What do you think?”

“Very nice,” he says. There’s a note of sadness in his his voice, but he pats your head, careful not to disturb the little clover. “I knew another child once who was very partial to these.” His gaze grows distant, and there’s a roughness to his voice that causes an echoing pang in your heart.

“She just wanted so badly to make things fair and right,” you whisper, placing a snowdrop bulb in the hole you’ve made for it. When you look up, Asgore is staring at you, shock and something worse written on his face, and you have to look away. This is why you can’t talk about these things. You don’t want him to hurt any more than he already does.

“Frisk,” he says in a harsh whisper. “How do you know that?”

You try to answer, but you can’t find the words. Slowly, you plant another snowdrop.

“Little one,” he says, and you have to look up. It’s not often that he talks like Mom, and he usually saves it for when he’s serious. But the pain is gone from his face. No… not gone, but hidden, buried deep for your sake. It’s there if you know what to look for, but he doesn’t want you to see. He’s still worried, that much is plain, but he smiles, and his voice is gentle when he speaks. “Please. Talk to me.”

“I don’t know how.” One of the snowdrops is upside down, and you fix it so that it can grow the right way.

One of the biggest differences between your parents is that Dad has always been content to wait until you’ve thought about what you need to say and you’re ready to talk. He’s quiet for a while, and you concentrate on what you’re doing, taking comfort in his warmth as you work together, his big hands moving next to yours as you empty the basket. Finally, you look up at him, wrapping yours arms around yourself. “Do you remember what happened the day I met you?” you ask.

So strange that it was only one day. It seems like so much longer. So much happened on the day when you found him in his garden. When you fought him. No… when Toriel stopped you from ever fighting him. When you became his child.

His eyes are shadowed as he answers you. “Not, I think, as much as you. I remember a light. And then the souls were gone, but so was the Barrier, and there you were to lead us out.” His eyes widen in alarm, and he reaches out to take your hands. “Frisk… The souls were gone. Did… Did you…?”

You shake your head. “No. They helped, but they’re free now.”

“Then how…?”

You shrug, patting the last of the dirt back into place above the snowdrops. “I’m not sure,” you say. “It’s like they left…” You frown. This is another reason why you hate talking about this. It’s really hard to find the words to explain a thing you don’t really understand. “Not echoes. That’s not right. Echoes get quieter the more they talk. These get louder.”

“Seeds,” he says slowly. “They planted seeds.”

And seeds grow. You raise a hand to your chest, looking down at it. You haven’t felt it in a while, but you still remember what it feels like to have your soul pulled from you, branding you with your humanity and your determination for everyone to see. The other souls all brushed against it that day. Maybe, like the seeds of the yellow flowers, they left something behind. “Yeah. So sometimes I know things. What they’d think. Or feel. Or say.” There’s more than that. Things you know that you should have no way of knowing, like how one of them feels about a friend of yours they never met. But that’s further than you’re ready to go, and Asgore is upset enough already.

He’s turned in on himself, staring at the hands in his lap as though he doesn’t recognize them. Slowly, you inch over to him and place one of your hands on his. He startles, and blinks as he looks at you, and you would almost believe the smile he turns on you if you hadn’t seen the expression that came just before it. “Do not worry about me, little one,” he says.

“Someone has to take care of these flowers,” you finish, quietly. He’s looking at you strangely again, and you scoot close enough to curl up against his side. Your hand is still on his, and you play lightly with his claws as you think about what to say. “It’s okay,” you say. “I know you’re upset. You don’t have to pretend you’re not just for me.”

He sighs, and the hand you’re not holding draws you closer, keeping you warm. “I should be saying that to you, sweetie. I am saying it to you. You have been through so much already, and I am your father. It is my job to take care of you, not the other way ‘round. I am here for you.”

You raise a hand to scrub away the tears stinging your eyes. “I know. Really, I know. I just… I can’t talk about it, Dad. I can’t.”

“Very well,” he says reluctantly. “But promise me that if you need to, you will talk to someone. It does not have to be me.”

You think of eyes dark with the shadows of the not-quite-memories that you both share, the soul behind them already burdened enough that you can’t hurt it any more than fate already has, and you nod. “I promise.” But there’s one more thing you need to ask, and the weight of it scares you. “Dad?” you say softly.

“Yes?”

“...why did you do it?”

He freezes, then tries to let go of you, but you cling to his hands, desperately afraid that if you create this distance between you now, it will never close again. After a moment, he seems to realize that you’re not asking because you’re afraid, and he relents, tucking you more securely beneath his arm. He sighs as you burrow against him, shivering, and he shifts you just enough that he can wrap his jacket around you.

“I wish I had an answer that made it all right,” he says at last, “but I don’t. I was angry, and frightened, and heartbroken, and then I was trapped. I knew of no other way out, for myself or for my people, and after a time, I stopped believing that there was a way out. I could not bring myself to do what your mother wished me to do, but I could not abandon my decree either. Not without condemning all of those who looked to me for hope and dooming them to despair instead. And so I carry the weight of those six souls with me, and regret.”

You shudder, not from the cold, but from the thoughts you usually bury deep that rise in response to his words. “You weren’t the only one.”

“No,” he says, gentle and sad. “But I am the king, and what was done in my name was my responsibility. This is one of the burdens of leadership that you must learn, my little Ambassador.” He must have noticed the look on your face at that, for he strokes your hair and passes you your forgotten tea, which you gulp greedily in hopes of banishing the chill creeping through you. “Don’t be afraid, young one. There are any number of monsters around you who will do everything in our power to make sure you never have make the decisions we did.”  His quiet laugh is sad, but his eyes are warm as he looks down on you. “Though you do have an alarming habit of being presented with two paths and breaking down a wall to make a third.”

You make a face. “Sometimes the choices people give me are stupid.”

That makes him laugh again, sounding much more like Dad this time. “Too true, my wise child. The truth is, I had long since given up hope that there was any other way than that which I had chosen.” He cups your chin, being careful with his claws. “I am very, very grateful that you turned up and showed me that I was wrong. I may not know what you did, exactly. But I am thankful each and every day that you did it.”

His hand falls away from your face, and you strain your arms to hug as much of him as you can reach. The feeling in your heart is too big for words, though ‘grateful’ is definitely a part of it. Despite everything that happened to you, despite all the nightmares, you never dreamed of finding a family that loved you as much as the one that you had lost. What you have now, though very different, is better than anything you ever could have hoped for. You love them all so much that it scares you sometimes, and you’re starting to realize just how much they love you back. There’s really only one other person you know who understands just how scary it can be to feel so much love when you felt nothing for so long, and you can’t exactly go have a chat with him whenever the feelings are too big. All you can do is hold fast to the nearest member of your family and ride out the storm. Fortunately, Asgore is very good at that part.

“You’re not sorry for any of it?” you ask at last.

“For anything you did, no,” he says. “I regret that whatever it was gave you these dreams that you cannot talk about, but no part of me can be sorry that you are in our lives.” He bows his head, and there are tears shining in his eyes. “But I am sorry each and every day for those other six. I only wish there was something I could do.”

You blink, something stirring yellow and bright within you. “Do you really?” you ask. “Really truly?”

He nods solemnly. “Really truly.”

You frown, tightening your hold on him beneath the shelter of his jacket as you try to make sense of the confusion of thoughts swirling within you. They’re trying to take shape, but it’s a very big shape, and you’re still a very small kid, and you’re not sure there’s room within you for everything they’re trying to become. But Asgore is a very big monster. Surely, there’s room enough in him.

“You know that weird place in the Embassy? The one that kind of showed up even though nobody actually meant to build it?”

“The Sanctuary?” Asgore asks, raising a brow.

You nod. “I think… I think maybe I have an idea.”

His breath hitches, but he smiles as he rises to his feet, scooping you up with a speed that leaves you giggling. “Well then,” he says. “Let us go inside where it’s warm and make some more tea, and you can tell me about this idea of yours.”

You wrap your arms around his neck and nod your agreement, but your eyes fall on the little patch of bare soil beneath the tree, and you tug on his beard. He stops, and looks at where you’re pointing. “Will they grow?” you ask.

“Ah, Frisk,” he says, and nuzzles your nose, making you laugh again. “If you had a hand in it, I don’t imagine they would dare do anything else.”

He carries you back into the warmth of the little house, and you look over his shoulder, resting your chin against it as he walks. The tree stands tall, keeping watch over the little patch of bare ground where the snowdrops wait, dreaming beneath the earth until the time comes for them to break into the light once more.

Chapter Text

The brisk night air stings your nose, but you don’t mind it that much. Sans’ jacket is very warm, and he’s pulled the fur-lined hood over your head, so you barely feel the cold. He never really seems to notice the weather; he sits on the branch next to you, his sneakers swinging freely over the drop, looking perfectly comfortable in just his shorts and turtleneck.

“wait for it…” He leans forward eagerly, and you turn your gaze back to the sky. There’s not a cloud to be seen, nothing to block the view of the endless expanse of stars, and wherever you are, it’s far enough from any habitation, human or monster, that there’s no light to pollute the pristine night sky.

“I can’t see anything,” you whisper, fidgeting a little on the branch.

You both know that you’re in no danger of falling, not unless Sans is totally asleep, but he puts his arm around you anyway out of habit, ensuring that you’re not going anywhere. “easy there, squirmypants. just give it a minute.” He nudges you, pointing at the moon hanging bright in the sky. “at least we know the moon’s had enough to eat.”

You look up at him, brows drawing together. “How do you know that?”

“because it’s full,” he says, and his grin brightens at your laugh. “come on kid, that was an easy one.”

“Okay, okay,” you say. “But do you know what the man in the moon likes to read?”

He tilts his head at you. “what?”

“Comet books!” you crow, kicking your feet and beaming as his laughter joins with yours.

“nice. you’re getting pretty punny, kiddo. i’m proud of you.”

“I learned from the best,” you say.

He winks at you. “the bone-ifide real deal.”

Still giggling, you snuggle into him, resting your head against the soft knit of his sweater and the inexplicable squishiness beneath. The kids at school don’t believe you when you tell them you like his hugs. They all think he and Papyrus should be hard and cold, and you can’t really explain to the human kids who are just starting to experience magic that yes, they feel like bones, but they feel like something else, too. Something soft, and warm, and full of calcium. You let out a long breath, and your eyes start to feel heavy. It’s very late, and now you’re really, really comfortable…

“hey.” A bony finger prods your ribs, making you giggle and squirm. “don’t quit on me now, buddy, it’s just getting good. look.”

You turn your gaze skyward and gasp, your hands gripping the arm he’s got around your waist. A curtain of shimmering green light cuts its way across the sky like ghostly fire, flickering with echoes of pinks, and blues, and violets. “Oh,” you breathe, staring in wonder at the lights. “The sky is dancing.”

“thought you’d like it,” he says, though he’s looking up, too. “aurora bone-ealis.”

You snicker, shaking your head. The hood amplifies the swishing his jacket makes when you move, and it souds really loud in the hush of the frozen countryside. “That’s not what it’s called. It’s bore-ealis.”

“oh, so that’s how it is.”

You turn to him in alarm, for his voice has gone strange. He’s staring at you now, but there’s no trace of the spirited glimmer in his eyes. Just endless dark. “Sans?” you whisper. “What’s wrong?”

“you just humour us poor simple monsters ‘till you get *bored,* is that it? what happens then? the anomalies start all over again?”

“No!” you reach for his hand, but he jerks his arm away, and its absence leaves you shivering in the cold. “Sans, you’re not making sense.”

“welp, i got news for you, human. i’m wise to you.   A n d  i   w o n ‘ t   l e t   i t   h a p p e n   a g a i n.”

“Sans--”

But you never get the chance to finish. His fingers lock onto the hood at your back, and you’re not prepared for the sharp tug that follows. Before you can grab for the branch, before you can think, you’re toppling back and falling. You scream, reaching for him, waiting for the blue fire to surround you and put an end to this horrible joke, but it never comes. He just watches you fall, his terrible grin bright against the dancing fire of the sky overhead as you plunge toward the rocks below.

 You bolt upright, clutching the covers to your chest as your breath comes in ragged, hitching gasps. You struggle for breath, but it’s like something’s squeezing your heart, and you fight desperately for air. It’s like you’re drowning...

“whoa!” Sans pauses in your doorway on his way down the hall, looking into your bedroom with alarm. He drops the laundry basket he’s carrying, and between one shuddering gasp and the next, he’s standing next to you, rubbing your back. “easy there, kiddo. breath goes in and out -- remember your science test. just breathe. you got two whole lungs to work with. you can do this.”

Something in your chest eases just enough for you to finally draw a proper breath, and you gulp the air until you almost choke on it.

“there you go. nice and slow. i’d help, but i kinda come up short on the whole ‘internal organs’ thing. you gotta do this for me.”

It’s just absurd enough to make you smile, but it does the trick. Your seizing lungs relax, and though you’re still trying hard to stop yourself from gasping, you are, at least, breathing. Sans lets out a relieved breath of his own, more than a little at odds with what he’s just been saying, but Sans is a walking pile of contradictions in more ways than this, and you’ve gotten used to it.

You slowly release your grip on the blankets, wincing as your hands open enough to see the deep red welts that your nails have dug into your palms. Sans gives a sympathetic hiss through his teeth and sits next to you, taking your hands in his. A faint green glow flickers beneath the bones of his hands, and you look away, trying not to think of how much it reminds you of dancing lights in the sky.

The pain in your hands begins to fade, though, and you’re grateful for that. Sans isn’t nearly as good at this as other members of the family -- he usually ends up feeding you when you’re not feeling well -- but these are very little hurts, and his little magic is more than enough. What works even better is the the fact that he cares enough to do it at all. You snuggle up close enough to rest your head on his shoulder, and you sneeze. He’s wearing his favourite sweater from Mom, the one that says “cutie pie” on it, and for all that it’s really soft, it smells strongly of cinnamon, and it tickles your nose when you’re not ready for it.

“wups, sorry. forgot about that,” he says, and winks at you. “guess I’m lucky i don’t *nose* what i’m missing.”

You groan, but you’re smiling. “Saaaans.”

“no, but when you think about it, it makes scents.”

A laugh escapes you before you can stop it. “Sans, no.”

“sans, yes. you know me, kid, i’m just a scent-imental guy--”

“Oh my gosh noooo!”

“--and i’ll sniff out--”

“Noooo!”

“--any chance I can to--”

“SMELL-EBRATE!” You finish before he can, raising your arms triumphantly into the air.

He freezes, staring at you. “...did you just poach my line?”

You tense, grinning in anticipation. “I won by a nose,” you boast, your hands still over your head.

“welp. only one possible response to that one. you brought this on yourself, kiddo.”

You squeal and try to throw yourself off the bed, but he’s too fast. He snags your pyjamas and tugs you back, and you shriek with laughter as his fingers find the most ticklish spots on your ribs. You wriggle, weak from laughing, but he’s relentless. Not that he always was. The first few times, he actually let you go, until you stopped just out of his range and looked at him expectantly. He understands the game now, and he knows you well enough to know when you’re done with it.

Not that you’re anywhere close to it, yet. He’s reducing you to a helpless puddle of giggles, but you’re not out of tricks. His jacket would have been way too thick for you to pull this off, but the sweater has holes in the knit, and you reach out, straining, until your fingers poke through at his elbow to tickle the bone beneath.

He yelps, a burst of laughter escaping him before he can stop it, and you start in earnest. “hey, no fair!” he protests between snickers, redoubling his efforts on you. Before long, you’ve reduced each other to sagging, breathless heaps, and you lie together, panting to get your breath back. Which is when you realize that you’re no longer having any trouble breathing at all.

“man,” he sighs. “i never should have showed you where the funny bone is.”

“Pfff,” you wave your hand. “No way you’d let me get less than perfect on a science test.”

“mmm. you got a point there. i’m gonna have to have a talk with tori about your curriculum.”

“Careful,” you say, tilting your head to look up at him from where it’s pillowed on the squashiest part of his tummy. “You’re starting to sound like Mrs.Dunn.”

“pam!” he growls, shaking his fist. “aww, low blow, kid.” But he’s grinning, more than usual, as he rests his hand on your head. “so. feeling better?”

You nod and flop over so that you can hug him properly. It’s funny how different it is to hug Sans and Papyrus. Both of them are soft and warm and cuddly, but hugging Papyrus is a bit like hugging an overstuffed teddy bear, while Sans is more like a marshmallow. But a nice, comfy marshmallow. “It was a scary dream. But I know it’s not real.”

“wanna help me fold this laundry and tell me all about it?”

Nodding, you roll off the bed and bounce to your feet, reaching out to help him as he sits up with a groan. He follows you as you bound ahead, and you struggle to pick up the brimming laundry basket before he catches up and plucks it out of your hands. “I had a dream that we were in the sky-watching tree, but then you went all funny, and…” You trail off, looking back at him as you reach the top of the stairs. Maybe you don’t want to talk about it. But he’s looking at you with sympathy as he sets down the laundry and places his hands on your shoulders.

“and i did something bad?”

You nod, biting your lip. “But it was just a bad dream. Like those other ones, right?”

“right, kiddo.”

Satisfied, you turn to the stairs, and gasp, grabbing for Sans’ hand. The stairs are gone. There’s… There’s nothing beyond them. It’s not dark… Dark is something. This is… Is nothing. This is something that never existed in the first place. Like a memory, not forgotten, but erased before it ever had the chance to form. Tears are streaming down your face, though you’re not sure when they started, or why, and you find yourself shaking so hard you can barely stand.

“Darker, yet darker…” you whisper.

“well.  T h i s   i s   i n t e r e s t i n g.”

The strangeness in his voice is all the warning you have. Before you can turn, a sharp shove knocks you from your feet, and you tumble, screaming, into the void. The last thing you see is Sans’ grin before the nothing begins to unravel you at the seams, and the world forgets you were ever there.

 You wake violently, choking on tears, with a bony hand shaking your shoulder. Coughing and sobbing, you lurch out of the tangle of blankets and latch onto Sans, burying your head against his hoodie. After a startled moment, he draws you closer, cradling your head against his shoulder as you cry.

“wow, looks like that one was a doozy.” His hold on you tightens as you sob harder, and he desperately tries to pet the tears away. “shhh. easy there, pal. i got you. i’m here. you’re okay.” Slowly, the sobs begin to ebb, and he stops petting your hair so that he can hug you with both arms. “it’s okay now, frisk. you were just having a bad dream.”

Your fingers tighten on his hoodie, and you raise your head to look up at him. “Is this real? Are you real?”

“‘course i’m real, buddy. i’m the bone-fied real deal!”

“...you already made that joke,” you murmur.

He blinks, and though his grin never changes, something of a shadow falls over it. “did I? huh, that’s funny. can’t remember doing it. can’t say it comes as a surprise though.” He winks at you. “i am a total bone-head.”

You smile at the joke, though it’s a small, wobbly smile. It’s the best you can do. There’s no laughter in you right now. Sans sighs, resting his chin on your head as you hide your face against his shirt again. “man, this one really did a number on you, huh?” When you can’t find anything to say in response, he eases his hold on you and gently wipes your face, which is still streaked with tears. “want to come downstairs with me? i can make you some of that warm milk with the cinnamon and honey in it. you don’t have to go back to sleep again till you’re ready.”

You nod again, and he slips off your bed, holding out his hand to help you down. When it’s this dark, the light from your nightlight doesn’t do very much, and the shadows stretch their fingers toward you. You hold tight to his hand as he leads you toward the stairs, clinging as the memory of endless darkness swirls up to meet you, but when you reach the landing, they’re the same old stairs, the wall down covered with pictures of your family and friends. Sans doesn’t turn any of the lights on as you go, but you know it’s because he doesn’t want to wake Papyrus up. He’ll do it without a second thought if you ask him to, but both of you tend to want to let Papyrus sleep if you can. He gets so little sleep as it is, and you always hate admitting that you have nightmares to Papyrus. It’s not that he’s bad at handling it -- on the contrary, he’s always one of the most comforting people to have at your side when you wake up crying. But you always feel like you’re ruining something when you do it. Like leaving footprints in new, unbroken snow. Silly, maybe, but you don’t have to explain it to Sans. You’re pretty sure he feels the same way.

He does turn the lights on when you reach the kitchen, though, and he boosts you up onto the counter so you can be close as he makes you your milk. He understands this part, too, the way other members of your family don’t. Like Mom -- she would have stayed with you, comforting and loving and wonderful,  but she’d never have let you out of bed this late -- or early, to be a little more accurate. She doesn’t understand that sometimes, the thought of going back to sleep is even more terrifying than the nightmare, because the dreams are waiting for you there. Sans, on the other hand, always knows when it’s bad enough that getting up is the better option. The longer you’re up, the farther you get from the dream, and the less likely you are to wander back into it when you fall asleep again. If you fall asleep at all.

“Sans?” you ask, and your voice sounds very small.

“yeah, kid?”

“How come you’re up, too?”

He grins at you as he adds cinnamon to the warming milk on the stove. “papyrus is on me to recalibrate my puzzles again. this seems like as good a time as any to do it.” He sighs. “why we need puzzles in the front yard is beyond me. it just confuses the poor mail guy.”

You don’t think that’s all there is to it, but you think about the puzzles as you drum your heels against the cupboards. “You know how that news guy followed me and Artie home that one time? Maybe we should make some puzzles to get them to stick to the Embassy like they promised, in case any of them tries that again.”

“heh. y’know, i really like that.” He stands on his toes so he can reach high enough to ruffle your hair. “nice one, kid. our bro is gonna love it.”

Your smile falters as a strange popping interrupts you before you can respond. You glance toward the source of the sound, and let out a terrified cry. Half the stove is in flames, and not the fun kind like when you cook with Papyrus and Undyne. These are huge, and hungry, and spreading fast.

“Sans!” you scream, pointing.

He looks over at the fire. “huh,” is all he says.

You drop from the counter, your feet skidding on the floor, and you bruise your knees as you go down hard. In another instant, you push yourself up again, running for the supply of fire extinguishers you keep by the kitchen door. But as you pull the first one off the wall, it feels strangely light, and when you look at the gauge on the top, it shows that the extinguisher is empty. You reach for the next one, but a glance shows you that every single fire extinguisher you have is useless.

It’s getting harder to breathe now, and to see. The smoke stings your eyes, sending tears down your face, and you cough as you run back to Sans. “We gotta go!” You tug on his sleeve, but he doesn’t move. Desperate, you reach for the fire, trying to remember what Toriel and Asgore have been teaching you, but the only fire magic you’ve ever been able to learn hasn’t done anything more than set a small pile of kindling alight. Your attempts to control this one only seem to make it angry, and you draw your hand back with a cry, holding it to your chest as blisters begin to form.

“Sans,” you beg, and the tears on your face aren’t just from the smoke any more. “Sans, please! We have to go. I don’t want to leave you!”

He just looks at you.

The fire is spreading faster. If you don’t do something soon, you won’t be able to reach the door any more. Your frantic gaze darts around the room, searching for something, anything to help, but nothing comes to you. In the corner, the fire catches your drawings on the fridge, and you watch as your favourite picture, the one of you and Sans and Papyrus, blackens, and curls, and falls into ash.

You feel sick, crying so hard that even without the smoke you probably wouldn’t be able to catch your breath, but you can’t wait any longer. With a last, agonized look at Sans’ frozen smile, you turn and run for the door.

You don’t get far. Your arm jerks hard, your feet slipping out from under you as you crash to the floor, and when you look up, you see that Sans’ hand is locked around your wrist. “No!” You yank on your hand, but he’s holding fast, like he’s turned to stone. “Sans, we gotta run. Let go! Please! Please!”

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move. Just stares at you, distant and uncaring, as the fire reaches for you both.

 You lurch awake, sobbing as you fight to untangle yourself from your sweat-soaked blankets. “No!” You can’t even remember what day it’s supposed to be anymore, or what house you’re supposed to be waking up in. Everything is jumbled and confused, a mess of memories and images and you can’t remember which ones are real and which are the dream. You stumble blindly as you fall out of bed, not caring where you’re going as long as it’s away. “No no no no no no…”

You collide with something soft but impossible to move, and you fall back onto the carpet. Blinking through your tears, you find Sans standing over you, reaching for you with a skeletal hand.

“whoa, there, buddy. what--”

“No!” You swat at his hand and he recoils, staring at you in shock. “You’re not real! This isn’t real!”

“...of course I’m real, pal. you’re just having a--”

“No!” you yell again, knotting your hands in your tangled hair as you shake your head. “You always say that, but I keep waking up! This isn’t real!”

“don’t worry, kid,” he says, winking at you. “i’m the bone-fied--”

“Stop it!” You grab one of your slippers from the floor and hurl it toward him. He dodges, faster than you’re used to seeing him move, and it sails past him to strike the mirror over your dresser. As you watch in shock, the glass cracks, splintering your reflection into a hundred pieces. You stare at your hands, horrified. You didn’t mean to do that. You didn’t mean to break anything. That’s not like you at all. “I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I was scared, I… Sans, I’m sorry.”

He looks at the broken mirror and shakes his head with a sigh. “i’m sorry too, kid. we tried, but maybe all those humans are right. maybe monsters just aren’t meant to raise a human.”

“I don’t…” You look at him in confusion, your heart beating against your ribs like a hummingbird. “Sans, what are you saying?”

“we tried our best, but you’re just too much trouble. we’re sending you back.”

“No!” You push yourself to your knees, but as Sans moves out of your doorway, you freeze. In the shadows beyond, creatures in blue uniforms turn toward you, the lights on their heads blinding you as the beams strike your eyes. Sans gestures toward you, and the monsters advance, their gloved hands reaching toward you to take you away.

They’re sending you away.

They don’t want you any more.

You scream, pushing yourself away from the creatures, but there’s nowhere to go. You come up hard against the edge of the bed, but those gloved hands are still reaching. They’re going to take you back to the place you only remember in dreams. The place where no one wants a broken little kid like--

“Oh,” you breathe, and the monsters freeze. You look at Sans, equally motionless, his eyes just pools of deep, featureless shadow. “Oh, I understand now. This isn’t what I’m scared of any more.” You turn and look at the splintered mirror. “It’s you.”

Your reflection rolls its eyes. Don’t pretend that you’re not scared of this. You can’t lie to me.

You cross your arms. “You’re wrong, Katie.”

Am I? Giving you a grin without warmth, Katie grasps the fractured edges of the mirror and pushes through it, dropping down to the carpet next to you. I don’t think I am. I think you’re lying. You know that only bad kids lie. What would Mom say?

“She’d say I don’t have anything to be scared of,” you answer. “Yeah, I worry. I always worry. But I know that they’d never send me away like that. They wouldn’t do that.” Your expression softens. “Not even to you.”

Katie’s face twists into a mask of pained fury. Don’t! Don’t try that stuff on me! I can see right through you. You’re so fake, you know that? They don’t care about you. They just put up with you because the nicey-nice act makes them think it’s easy. They won’t want you when they know how messed up you really are.

But now that you recognize it for what it is, the tantrum doesn’t faze you. You look up at Sans, still frozen next to the door, and shake your head. “He wouldn’t do that.”

Ugh, wake up, Frisk! He’ll be the first one to kill you if he ever thinks that you’re going to be… To be….

“Like you?” You nod. “I know. I’m glad.”

Katie stares at you, eyes wide in shock. You’re…what?

You fight back the urge to grin. At least Katie doesn’t know everything. “I’m glad. It’s not an act, Katie. I don’t want to hurt anyone. I know I’ve been through stuff that makes people different sometimes, and want to be sure that if that ever… ever changes me, that he’ll stop me from hurting everyone else.”

With a howl of rage, Katie shoves you and lurches off the carpet as you fight for balance. Katie storms over to Sans, ignoring your calls to come back, and with a quick glance to make sure you’re watching, kicks him hard in the knee. You cry out as the leg breaks and Sans topples over, but for all the reaction he gives, he may as well be a statue. That doesn’t stop you from scrambling over to him and holding him close, glaring over his head at Katie, daring them to just try it again.

Would you listen to yourself? You really think the world would be better if they killed everyone who didn’t act the way they thought they should?

“Of course not,” you say, fighting for calm. “But I’m not like other kids. I know how to kill monsters. I spent so long learning how to fight them…” You look down at Sans, and your eyes sting. “Just because I choose not to, doesn’t mean I wouldn’t be very, very good at it. I still have all the weapons from the Underground, and they have a magic of their own now. I may stink at magic lessons, but even I can feel that much. After all this time, after all those… Those reloads… I could wipe out every single monster if I wanted to.” Your throat tightens, and you scrub the tears from your eyes. “...you taught me that.”

For a moment, something in that mask of fury eases. If you didn’t know better, you’d swear it was something like guilt lurking behind the other child’s eyes. Katie drops back down to the carpet, facing you and Sans. But I don’t understand. You know what it’s like to hurt. How can you not want them to hurt, too?

You look down at that familiar, beloved grin, and hug Sans close to you. “Because I want to protect them all. I don’t want anyone to ever hurt like we did ever again.”

It was the wrong thing to say. An ugly expression twist’s Katie’s features, and they snarl. Of course, it’s always about them, isn’t it? You are so stupid, Frisk! Sooner or later, they’ll get tired of you. They don’t care.

“No,” you say, shaking your head slowly, but your voice falters. You hate what Katie’s saying, but the words aren’t any different than the whispers at the back of your mind that have been there since before you Fell.

Katie smiles slowly, leaning in closer. Admit it, Frisk. You don’t really care either. You’re just afraid of being alone.

Your breath catches, and your gaze drops to Sans. Slowly, a smile to match Katie’s spreads across your face. Katie thinks they’ve won, you can tell by the triumphant look they give you as they reach for Sans. But before they can touch him, you jerk him away. Katie blinks, and you can tell they realize they’ve made a mistake.

They can play on your own doubts and fears as much as they want. But the one thing they should never, ever do is question how much you love your new family. Your anger at the very thought… it fills you with determination. Your eyes narrow, and you glare over Sans’ head.

“You’re wrong, Katie,” you say. “I’m not going to let you hurt any of them. I’m not like you.”

Katie stares at you in shock for a frozen moment before surging to their feet. In their wake, wind tears through the room, whipping through your hair and tugging at your sleeves. How can you say that? You gasp as your soul tears its way free to hang before you. Katie’s soul is there too, a twin to yours, two hearts beating in perfect time as Katie stands before you, fists clenched in defiance. We’re the same!

“We grew out of the same seed,” you correct, your eyes stinging from the whipping of your hair. “But we branched out differently. I grew a different way.”

Oh my god, will you stop with the stupid garden metaphors! If I have to listen to any more of them, I’m going to be sick!

“Then go away!” Your grip on Sans slips, and you clutch at him frantically. “Just leave us alone!”

In response, the wind dies, and the sudden silence is deafening. You don’t like the way Katie is smiling, and you tighten your grip on Sans.

Okay, then, Katie says. I’ll give you what you want.

The light is dying. You shudder as the shadows touch you, but not even the strange monsters still frozen in the doorway make it safe. One by one, their lights wink out as the darkness swallows them, and the void creeps steadily toward you. “Stop it, Katie!”

I’m just doing what you wanted. Poor little Frisk. All alone in the dark.

“Katie!” you cry, just before the light vanishes. You squint, and strain, but there’s no relief to the endless, featureless black. Shaking, you try to slow the pounding of your heart, refusing to let yourself cry. You can’t fall apart. Sans needs you.

Sans…

Your arms are empty.

Panic flares within you. Crying out, you grope blindly through the dark, seeking desperately for the touch of cloth, or bone, and finding nothing. Fear gives way to fury, and you rise to your feet, fists clenched at your sides. “Katie!” you scream into the nothing. “This isn’t fair. Bring him back!”

I thought you wanted me to go away. Tch. So indecisive. Make up your mind, Frisk. Here, is this what you want?

Reality shifts, and you stumble into golden light. Blinking back the tears as your eyes water from the sudden change in brightness, your stomach flutters as you realize that you know this light. Your hand drops slowly to your side as you take in the golden corridor that stretches out before you. This place… It once filled you with determination. Your head lifts, and you turn quickly toward the end of the hall. There, hands jammed nonchalantly into his pockets, is the familiar face that gave you strength the last time you stood here together.

“Sans…” A smile of joy and relief spreading across your face, you take a step toward him.

He sighs, closing his eyes with a small shake of his head. “welp. sorry, old lady. this is why i never make promises.”

Something is wrong. Something is horribly, horribly wrong. A sound tears from your throat as your soul drags free from your chest, your voice raw with wordless despair and betrayal. That seems to surprise him, for he hesitates just for a moment before he continues. “it's a beautiful day outside. birds are singing, flowers are blooming... on days like these, kids like you…”

Your eyes widen. You… you know these words. You’ve heard them before in the depths of your nightmares. But your nightmares have never felt like this. “Sans, wait, please--”

“S h o u l d   b e   b u r n i n g   i n   h e l l.”

The air around you tingles, and training and memory kick in. You throw yourself to the side, tucking into a roll as the hallway behind you vanishes into a searing beam of light. But your soul is heavy, too heavy, and before you can finish your final jete, your foot catches hard on the edge of one of the bones that erupt from the tiles around you. Your arm blisters and burns as it grazes the light pouring from the terrible, twisted skull that answers Sans’ command. Again and again you dodge, twisting and leaping, as your best friend tries to kill you.

Finally, the initial barrage ends, leaving you on your knees, battered but determined.

“huh,” he says. “always wondered why people never use their strongest attack first.”

You struggle to your feet, raising a hand. “But I’m not--”

Before you can get another word in edgewise, the attacks begin again. He’s driving you too hard, and every time you manage to draw a breath, that blue fire flares across your soul and he slams you into another wall, or pillar, or the ceiling, or the floor, driving the air from your lungs. It’s all you can do to stay one step ahead of his attacks, and you’re tiring, fast.

Nothing you’ve been through has prepared you for anything like this.

You keep pressing forward, trying to get to him, to make him stop long enough to listen, but every time you get even remotely close, one of those horrible, twisted skulls pops up again and drives you back, and even the sound of the beam makes your burned hand scream in remembered agony. At least he’s starting to show some signs of wearing down too, his skull beaded with sweat and his sides heaving as he pants.

Not so loveable now, is he? Katie lounges against a wall, arms folded as she watches. Still think this is what you want?

“Yes,” you hiss through teeth clenched against the pain.

Katie frowns at you. You are so stubborn.

“You’re only just figuring this out? Same seed, remember.”

“uh, kid? you wanna focus here? there’s some really great heroic monologuing going to waste if you’re just going to stand there babbling to yourself. you’re not even listening. rude.” He shrugs. “then again, it’s been clear for a while that you’re nuttier than a basket of fruitcakes.”

You’re blue again, but prepared this time, and you manage to avoid the next barrage by the skin of your teeth. Sans breaks off his talk about timelines and anomalies, and scratches his head as he watches you struggle to catch your breath. “look, it’d be real helpful if you could, uh, fight back or something here. i’m starting to feel kinda bad about this, and i really can’t afford to go soft right now. so why don’t you put some backbone into it, huh?”

“Because I don’t wanna fight you!” Finally, the words make it out of you, pouring out alongside the tears that are streaming down your face. He seems to notice them for the first time and takes a step back, freeing a hand from his pocket to hold in front of him as though warding you off.

“hey. somewhere in there. i can feel it. there's a glimmer of a good person inside of you. the memory of someone who once wanted to do the right thing. someone who, in another time, might have even been... a friend?” You nod frantically, and he winks at you. “c'mon, buddy, let's forget all of this, ok?”

“Okay,” you choke through your tears, sagging against a pillar. Your hand is on fire and every bone in your body is bruised, if not cracked entirely, but for the first time in this awful place, you’re finally seeing the real Sans again. “Okay.”

He closes his eyes and lets out a sigh of relief. “... you're sparing me? finally. buddy. pal. i know how hard it must be... to make that choice. to go back on everything you've worked up to. i want you to know... i won't let it go to waste. ..” He opens his arms and winks again. “c'mere, pal.”

You hurt so bad, and you only understand half of what he’s saying, and getting up from the pillar seems like more work than flying right now, but he’s standing there, waiting, and your heart yearns so desperately for the familiar comfort of that hug. So you heave yourself away from the pillar and stumble toward him, nearly falling the last few steps as you topple into his arms. He catches you and draws you close, and though even that sends a new wave of pain through your battered, aching bones, you throw your arms around him as you bury your head against his shoulder and sob.

But though your eyes are closed, a light still burns through them. Your soul… It hasn’t gone back where it should.

On the heels of that thought comes a short, sharp shock, and your head jerks back as something rips through your body. You can feel the wet, tearing sensation as flesh and bone part, and you stare, uncomprehending, as the world twists and turns, and a pool of red spreads out beneath you.

It’s… It’s bone. Dozens of bones pierce your body in too many places, holding you in fixed suspension above the floor. For a wonder, you don’t really feel the pain, just an icy cold starting deep in the pit of your stomach and spreading further with every second that the red pool below you grows. That’s… That’s from you. You panic, struggling to breathe, but the bone passing through half your chest makes that very difficult.

You’re drowning.

Sans just stands there, watching. “geeettttttt dunked on!!!” he crows.

Oh. Oh, this is too good. We can’t just leave it at this. Katie kneels next to you, hands clasped in glee. Let’s see how many others we can find to come and play!

You blink, and the hall is full of Sanses. Most of them look like the one you know, though some of them are radically different, and a ripple runs through them as they catch sight of you. The crowd shifts, forming a ring around you, standing and watching you die.The Sans who did this to you stares at them in surprise, and shrugs. “well, this is new.”

“huh. you finally did it. nice.” comes a voice from somewhere in the crowd.

“aw man. i always hate this stuff. why do we have to keep seeing it?”

“never could get past the special attack. kept falling asleep. little punk always managed to get out and end it.”

“do you gotta keep ‘em there like that? just throw a few more bones and get it done.”

“naw, forget that. this isn’t nearly enough to make up for all the stuff they did. they desreve this. think about him.”

Your fingers twitch, the only part of you that isn’t completely frozen. The red pool they’re lying in keeps them warm. Slowly, you move your leaden hand, your finger tracing over the golden tiles and leaving a red streak behind.

“aw, now that’s just sad. like drawing us a little heart’ll make up for it all? colour me heart-broken. you shoulda thought of that a long time ago. dirty brother killer.”

“...no. It says less-than-three...”

The last voice, though so much quieter than the others, drops like a bombshell into the din. Though your vision is beginning to grey, you watch another ripple spread through the sea of Sanses as one of them shoves his way past the others, knocking one or two to the ground in his haste. He freezes when he sees you, and then he’s moving, so fast, skidding across the floor on his knees as he reaches you. “frisk? kiddo? is that… oh, god… no...nononono….”

He takes your hand, and the ghost of a smile tugs at the corners of your cracked lips. Skeleton hands. Soft, and warm, and full of calcium.

“wait, *frisk*--?”

“--did he say--?”

“--there’s no way that--”

Your name spreads in another set of ripples, and the Sanses begin to separate, drifting on a tide of whispers. Each one of the hundreds of grins is identical, yet each one reveals something different. Some of them are downright happy as they take in what’s been done to you. And others… Others are starting to look very upset.

The one holding your hand is still talking, his hand moving uselessly on yours, stroking the only part of you that isn’t broken. “god, kid, just hang on, okay? stay determined. we’ll… we’ll figure something out. just hold on till we can get tori, and… no, wait, this is too early to… but we can… frisk, can you hear me? c’mon buddy, stay with me, just a little longer…”

Some of the other Sanses drift closer, reaching out toward the Sans who’s holding your hand. More whispers. More ripples in the sea.

“maybe we can--”

“--if we make ‘em blue, we could lift--”

“--must have a hot cat in here somewhere--”

“--if we work together--”

But the ripples crash and break upon some of the other Sanses, who fire back with words of their own.

“--are you forgetting--?”

“--way too dangerous to--”

“--have to end this now, before--”

They push back, jostling each other as they reach for you. And then, just like that, the Sanses are fighting. Dust rains down from the ceiling as tremors rock the hall, the crack of bone against bone ringing like thunder in the air as half the Sanses try to strike you down and the other half turns them away.

The only one not fighting is the one still holding your hand.

Carefully, very gently, he brushes your matted hair away from your face. “frisk, please. please listen. this is…i’m not gonna lie, kiddo, this is bad, but you got this covered, right? you just gotta reset.”  You blink up at him in horror, and he shushes you softly, stroking your hair as best he can, trying desperately not to hurt you. “i know… i know i said… but you gotta do this for me, frisk.” He winks at you. “hey, we’ve got practice now, right? what’s a do-over of a couple years in the grand scheme of things. we can get back to where we were, no problem. it’ll be okay. just reset. please, frisk.  P l e a s e ? ? ?”

Aww, this is so touching. Katie crouches next to you, peering over Sans’ shoulder. A little late for it, though. Too bad.

Despite the pain, despite the bubbling in your lungs, despite the cracks beginning to ghost across your soul, you tear your eyes from Sans’ face to meet Katie’s gaze, and you smile. You can’t speak any longer, but you don’t need to now. I win.

Katie’s triumphant expression falters. What do you mean, you win?

You’ve spent all this time trying to convince me he doesn’t really care, but Sans is asking me to reset. Your grin broadens. You can hear Sans’s voice growing increasingly frantic, but you only have the energy left for one thing, and your focus is on Katie. *Sans.* Is asking me to *reset.*

Fury breaks across Katie’s face, darkening it like a storm. Nuh-uh! Once you reset, he’s not gonna remember why. He’ll just know you did it, and he’ll hate you.

I didn’t say I’ll do it. Sans is screaming your name now, and Katie’s just staring, but you don’t feel much any more. It’s still getting harder to breathe, and you can’t see very well, and the sounds of the fight around you are growing farther and farther away, but you’re not scared. You twitch your fingers, doing your best to hold onto Sans, trying to reassure him as best you can. I made a promise. And when I’m gone, I’ll still have won.

No! No no no! You’re such a browner, I know you’re gonna reset. You always do what you’re told! You’ll do this too. I know you. You will. And I’ll win.

You just smile, trying to ignore the broken sounds coming from Sans. This is important. You have to see this through. You still don’t understand. I do what I’m told because I want to. And when I don’t… You’d laugh if you could. I’m...very...determined.

Katie’s eyes narrow, and there is nothing in the deep, crimson depths of their eyes any longer but pure, undisguised loathing. You can’t win if you don’t get to finish.

Something flashes in Katie’s hand. Your eyes widen, and your reflexive gasp sends a ripple of agony flaring across your chest, the air bubbling in your lungs. You jerk against the bones pinning you in place, desperate, and Sans leans forward, his voice raw as he pleads with you, attempting to hold you still.

There’s no time. You have no breath to call a warning. There’s a flash, a flare of crimson, and Sans is staring down at the jagged line across his chest. He raises a trembling hand to it, and it comes away red. He lets out a small, rueful laugh.

“.. so... guess that's it, huh? ... just... i’m so sorry, kid. i... i tried. i’ll see you at grillby's real soon. me and papyrus… we’ll save you a seat.”

If you had air in your lungs, you’d be screaming. All you can do is cling fast to his hand, but in another moment, it crumbles beneath your touch, leaving you holding a handful of dust. He’s looking at you as his body dissolves around him, his eyes as unshuttered as they’ve ever been, and what you can read in their depths… you can’t believe that you ever let Katie, even for a minute, make you doubt how much he cares. He raises his other hand, reaching to wipe your tears away, but the hand vanishes before it can reach you. In another moment, he’s gone.

There’s nothing left. As the darkness closes in around you, you sag in your prison of bones, and as your vision fades, you refuse to give Katie the satisfaction of looking up. You keep your eyes fixed on your drawing, the one bright spot in the darkness as your soul shatters and everything around you turns to dust.

<3

“Katie? Katie, wake up, honey. You’re having a bad dream.”

You jerk against the sweat-soaked blankets, batting away the hands shaking you. “Don’t call me--”

Freezing in place, you stare up at the two figures standing over you. The soft glow from your night light falls across them, illuminating the last faces you ever thought to see. “Mom?” you breathe. “...Dad?”

Your mother sits next to you, hooking her long, dark hair behind her ear as she bends to give you a kiss. “There you are, sweetie. You had us worried.”

It… it’s all been a dream? This whole time, it was just a wonderful, terrible dream? Your lip quivers, and the tears course down your face. Your mother gives a cry of alarm, and your Father sits next to her as they both draw you into their arms. You cling tightly to them, hiding your face against them as you weep, washing out all those long years of pain, and grief, and heartbreak. They’re here. They’re right here, and you’re never, ever letting them go again.

“I missed you guys s-so much,” you hiccup through your sobs.

“We’ve been right here, little Frisk,” Dad soothes, holding you closer and kissing the top of your head. “Gosh, that must have been some dream.”

Nodding, you wipe your eyes and look up at him, drinking in the sight of him. You forgot how warm his smile was. How it always made you feel that no matter how bad things were, everything would turn out okay. “Can I stay with you tonight?”

“Of course you can,” Mom says, and you shift your gaze to her. Mom’s eyes are the same shade of brown as yours. You forgot that, too.

You sniffle, but your tears are already starting to dry. Mustering your bravest smile, you raise a hand to pat your mother’s cheek. “I love you,” you whisper.

“We love you too,” Mom replies, and you let your hand fall away.

Like chalk left too long in the rain, your mother’s face smears where you’ve touched it.

Adrenaline pours like icewater into your veins, and you reach up in horrified dismay, your fingers brushing, trying to fix what you’ve done. But with every touch, you only make things worse. In trying to fix things, your mother’s eye vanishes beneath your clumsy hands. Her nose. The corner of her mouth. Sobbing, you reach for Dad, desperately seeking help, and scream when, instead of his hand, your fingers find his face instead, obliterating his features in one clumsy swoop.

Oops. Now you’ve done it.

You whirl, fists clenching in rage. “Katie, what did you do?”

But Katie just laughs, flopping down in your beanbag chair and picking up Mr. Snuffles, one finger flicking his curly trunk. Oh, I didn’t do anything this time. This is all you.

“It’s not!” you sob. It’s only gotten worse. Their faces have smeared and melted into shapeless, featureless masks. “I would never do this!”

Poor, stupid little Frisk. You can’t have it both ways. You made your choice. Katie waves a hand toward your parents. They’re not moving any more, frozen in the same positions they were in when your careless hands wiped them away. You wanted your new family, and you’ve got ‘em. But there’s a price. You’ve only got room for so much. Something had to go.

“No,” you whisper. “No, you’re…” But you trail off, a pressure around your chest building, making it hard to breathe. No matter how hard you try, even though it was a few minutes ago, you can’t remember what their faces looked like before you erased them. They were right here, but every memory has the same blank faces.

Geez Frisk. What kind of monster forgets their own parents?

Frantic, you reach for them, but your parents are gone. Only shapeless blobs of wax remain.

Deep within you, a storm begins to build, growing fast, swirling around inside you like a until you can’t stand it any longer. You’re screaming, tearing your own throat raw, unable to look away from the consequences of your carelessness. You can’t. You can’t lose them. Not again. This is your fault. Your fault. Something shifts behind your heart, and you find yourself reaching, taking hold of reality, and beginning to pull.

Over the storm breaking within the room around you, over the sound of your own screams, all you can hear is Katie’s wild laughter.

You’re still screaming, but there’s a hand on your shoulder, shaking you so hard you can barely see.

“--dammit, kid!   W a k e   u p !”

Your blurred vision clears, and the ghost of a grin hangs before you, bright beneath the endless black holes of the eyes above them. Still screaming, you smack the hand away, skittering backward until you run out of bed. He gasps, reaching for you, but you’re already falling, toppling off the edge of the bed. You hit hard, cracking your skull against the nightstand, but you’re already moving, your fingers scrabbling against the floor in your haste to pull yourself under the bed.

Once you’re there, your screams falter and die, and you curl up into a ball, pressing your head against your knees as you sob.

For a long time, nothing happens. There’s no sound. No other child beside you. No earthquakes, or creatures, or phantom winds. You almost, almost let yourself believe that you’re awake this time. Almost. But the faces in your memory are still a featureless blur, and you can’t let yourself believe that this time it’s real.

There’s a soft creaking of the bedsprings above you, and as you lift your head just enough to see the other side of the bed, a pair of slippered feet drops over the edge. The rest of Sans quickly follows, and he slides down to until he’s on the floor, his back resting against the bed. Slowly, he draws his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around them. You can’t see his face. You can figure out if you’re happy or distressed by that fact.

“...so. that one must have been a doozy, huh?”

Your breath hitches, tearing at your raw throat. Sans begins to move, but as the pitch of your crying rises in response, he freezes, and settles back where he was. He waits, motionless, as you weep, and you’re happy to let him do so, until a little too much time passes, and a soft, nagging voice at the back of your head wonders if he still can move.

You draw a stuttering breath, and bite your lip, wrestling with the desire to know. “S-sans?”

“yeah, kiddo?”

You close your eyes, scrubbing at them with the back of your hand. “Are--are you r-really real?”

“‘course i am, buddy. head to phalanges. one-hundred percent real skele-fun.”

He didn’t say bone-ified.

A small sound escapes you, equal parts laughter and despair, and Sans lets out a quiet moan in response. “pal, you go on feeling whatever you need to feel, but you’re really starting to worry me. can you tell me what’s going on?”

You sniffle, curling further into your miserable ball as a tangle of feelings snarls inside you. “L-let me s-see your eyes,” you manage to get out.

“...sure, frisk.” He slowly lists sideways until he thumps onto the floor. With a grunt of exertion, he rolls until he’s looking under the bed at you. Then, he waits.

The grin is as familiar as ever, and the friendly glints flicker deep within his eyes, breaking up the endless field of black. It’s hard -- so hard -- but you’re fairly sure that he’s right. He’s real. This is real. Your heart cries out inside you, aching so badly that you almost think that the bones are back again. You wince, and your hand drops to your chest, searching.

“nothing there, kid,” he says, gently. You blink, raising your gaze to him, and he lifts the edge of his jacket. “nothing here, either, if it was one of those ones. in case you were worried.”

You were, now that he mentions it, and you let out a long breath. “I thought… I kept waking up, and every time I thought it was for real. How do I… How do I know…?”

“ohhh, it was one of *those*, huh? man, I hate those. i don’t have a real good answer for you there, pal, but i once heard you can’t read in a dream. not sure how much science is actually behind that -- huh, wonder if alphys knows -- but… here.”

He digs out his phone and holds it out to you. When you don’t reach for it, he sets it on the floor and nudges it toward you. When he pulls his hand back, you pick it up and look at the screen. The phone’s browser is open to a Joke of the Day site. You frown at the text on the screen. “Where does a skeleton sleep?”

“a bone bed,” he groans. “i know, i know. even *i* think that one’s bad. and kinda morbid. i would have gone with ‘anywhere he wants.’” The ghost of a smile tugs at your mouth, and you hand the phone back to him. He reaches out, hesitating a moment before taking it from your hand and returning it to his jacket.

“I had a bad dream,” you whisper.

“yeah, i’m getting that,” he says, though there’s no mockery in it. He sighs, resting his head against his arm as he watches you. “...was it the hallway?”

“Sometimes,” you say. “But that wasn’t the worst bit.” You sniffle again, wiping at your eyes with the sleeve of you pyjamas. “Why do we have bad dreams?”

“is that a general ‘we,’ or you and me specifically?”

“Yes.”

He snorts. “man, i’m glad you don’t ask me the *tough* questions.” But he gives it some thought as you rub your arms, trying to get rid of the goosebumps. “some people think they help us sort out all the things we’re scared of. they come out in dreams so we can face them head-on instead of having them work on us from the inside. you and me, though… okay, so you remember when alphys got in trouble for building that radio for listening to that japanese radio drama, only it sorta picked up secure military transmissions, too?”

You shudder and nod. “I had to calm down a lot of yelling people.”

“heh. yeah, people certainly weren’t shy about *broadcasting* their feelings, were they?” He scratches his head thoughtfully. “i’m wondering if maybe there are other… possibilities out there. stuff that didn’t happen, but might have, and they’re… broadcasting. do you get what i’m saying?”

Memories flash behind your eyes. Toriel, hands pressed to her mouth in horror as she watches you fall. Asgore, eyes wide with surprise as he turns to dust. You ponder that for a moment, and nod. “So…we have bad dreams ‘cause our brains are like Alphys’ radio?”

“you always were pretty tuned-in to things.”

You snort, and the tears are slowing a little. Sans blinks, hope kindling in his eyes. “you wanna come out?”

You do have to think about that, but eventually, you shake your head.

“can i come in?”

You don’t have to think about that as long, and nod. He shifts onto his back, scootching with his toes until he’s lying next to you, though pointed in the opposite direction. You’re still curled up on your side, and he’s close enough to touch, but you’d have to stretch to do it. You’re quietly thankful that he’s keeping his distance.

“Sans?” you ask quietly.

He turns his head from rapt contemplation of your bedsprings to look at you. “yeah, buddy?”

“I erased my parents.”

He goes very still, the lights in the depths of his eyes flickering. “...i’m not following.”

“The worst part of the dream.” Your lip quivers, and you retreat further into yourself. “Mom and Dad were there -- my human Mom and Dad. And I touched them, and I wiped their faces away. I didn’t mean to, I swear, but now.. now…” You choke on the words. “I can’t remember… I can’t remember their faces, Sans.” You drop the arms covering your eyes and stare at him, silently pleading. “I don’t know what to do. How do you remember someone when nobody else in the world knows who they are?”

Sans raises his hands to cover his face and takes a long breath before lowering them again. “aw, man. kiddo.” He reaches for you, but stops himself quickly. In his eyes, there’s so much uncertainty, but beneath it is a raw, pained understanding. He understands. He really, really does. And suddenly, nothing else matters. You shake your heart free of the weight of all the dreams and scoot toward him, swinging so that you’re facing the right way right before you thump against him. He lets out a quiet whoof and draws you into a hug, and it’s Sans’ hug, and despite the tears that still dampen your face, you start to believe that somehow, things can come right again.

“What do I do?” Your voice is muffled against his sweater. You’re shaking, though you’re not even sure if it’s because you’re cold, or scared, or in shock.

He rests his chin against your head, slowly rubbing your back until some of the tremors ease and you can breathe.. “i know things got bad right after the barrier came down, and tori never wanted to say much about it -- honestly, i didn’t wanna ask too much ‘cause she tended to set things on fire whenever she thought about it -- but your aunt must have a picture somewhere, right?”

You shake your head, your hands clutching at his hoodie. “She threw away all my stuff when I didn’t come home. Pictures of my parents, too. She said it hurt too much having them around to remind her.”

You can feel a ripple run through him, and something in the air raises the hairs on your arm. “okay, i understand the fire thing better. one day, i’d really like to have a talk with this aunt of yours. i can see why tori gets all hot under the collar.” Despite the tears, that gets a snicker out of you, and the prickly thing in the air goes away. “all right, see, your parents had cool jobs in places that usually need id. there *will* be pictures around somewhere. so here’s the deal: i’m gonna do some research, and i’ll keep digging until i find ‘em. bet i can get alphys to help, too.”

That makes you raise your head, and you stare up into his shadowed eyes. “You’re gonna do research?”

“yup. believe it or not, i actually used to be good at it. say, how’s a skeleton like a book?”

“They both have spines,” you answer dismissively, making him laugh. “But you hate work!”

“but i like you,” he says, and gives a dramatic sigh. “the things i do for you, kid.” You can’t think of anything to say. As your hold on him tightens, the tears start to well again, and his eyes go wide. “hey, easy there. we just plugged that leak.” He wipes the damp from your cheek with his sleeve. “tell you what. it might take some time until we find something. how ‘bout you draw me what you still remember in the meantime.”

“You think that’ll help?” you ask.

He shrugs. “couldn’t hurt. it always helps clear my head, anyway.” He looks pointedly toward the door. “we’re gonna have to come out from under the bed, though.”

You think about that. It’s not so dark any more -- it must be dawn soon. No danger of getting lost in the dark if you come out. Still, you’re going to need some kind of protection. “Can we make a fort?”

Sans’ grin brightens the shadows beneath the bed. “sounds like a plan.”

He leaves the safety of the bed first, inching out the same way he came in. Once he’s out and on his feet, he reaches back to take your outstretched hands, and you pop out from beneath the bed at his tug with a speed that startles a laugh out of you. Grinning, he tousles your hair and takes your hand, and he leads you out of the dark.

You have a moment of unease at the top of the stairs, but he keeps his hold on you as he leads you down them, and before long, you’re sprawled on the living room rug, surrounded by papers and crayons, concentrating hard on your drawings while Sans potters around you. He’s been occupied for a while, yanking cushions off the couch and propping them up with whatever comes to hand, when the prickle flares along your skin again. You look up to see a blanket descending over the frame he’s constructed, and you smile as the warm, fuzzy walls of the fort close around you.

Sans pushes his way inside and flops down on a pillow. “phew. i just worked myself to the bone.”

You giggle, and shyly pass him the first drawing you finished. The figures don’t really have features beyond the eyes and the smiles you know they had to have -- not that you’re really good at drawing them anyway -- but you’ve drawn yourself with your parents, and you’re pretty sure you’ve got the sizes and skin colours right, and you’ve written the words DON’T FORGET at the top to remind yourself.

Sans takes the drawing from you, and draws a sharp breath.

You bite your lip, your brows drawing together. “Is it bad?”

“huh?” He blinks, looking up at you, and shakes himself, handing the drawing back. “nah, just stunned by your skills of an artist, is all.” He rests one hand behind his head and holds out the other. “what else you got, kiddo?”

You show him what you have so far. You’ve drawn your first day of school, how you were scared and wouldn’t let go of Mom’s leg. And another drawing shows how you’d run down stairs when Dad got home, jumping the last five steps so he’d catch you, and then searching his pockets for treats, which earned you the name you’ve used ever since. You’ve drawn the day you learned how to make onigiri with Mom, and you’ve drawn yourself sitting out in a field watching the stars with Dad. But you still have a lot of blank pages.

“I’m not sure if I should draw the bad ones,” you admit, rubbing at your arm as it tingles with goosebumps. “I remember the day they left. I just don’t… I don’t know…”

He grabs an extra blanket from the cushionless couch that makes up the back wall of the fort, and shakes it out before plopping it down over you. It’s huge, and you vanish beneath it, but you’re warm and smiling by the time you manage to get your head back out.

“memories are memories,” he says. “it’s up to you, pal. just cause you draw ‘em doesn’t mean you ever have to look at ‘em again unless you want to.”

“Hmm.” You chew on the end of a crayon until Sans gently pulls it out of your mouth. “That’s smart.”

“ow. try not to sound so surprised,” he says, placing a hand over his heart, and winks at you.

There’s a thump from outside the fort.

“WHAT THE-- SANS! WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS FOLDEROL??? I’VE ASKED YOU TIME AND TIME AGAIN TO CONFINE YOUR MESS TO YOUR--” Papyrus’s head pokes beneath the blanket, and his expression immediately changes from annoyance to surprise as he looks from you to Sans. “ER--”

“some nights, you just wake up and go ‘it’s a blanket fort kinda day,’” Sans says. He and Papyrus exchange a look, one of the ones that makes you feel strange and fluttery in the pit of your tummy because you know there’s an understanding there between the brothers that you’re not part of. But the feeling passes quickly, and you smile at Papyrus before returning to your drawing.

“I SEE,” Papyrus says slowly. “AND IS IT ALSO A WARM AND COMFORTING BREAKFAST KIND OF DAY?”

Sans waves nonchalantly. “not my department, bro. you know i don’t have the--”

“SANS, DON’T YOU DARE--”

“fort-itude for that stuff.”

“NNNNGAAAAH!” He stomps his foot in frustration. “VERY WELL! WORRY NOT, HUMAN, I WILL SEE TO YOUR NUTRITIONAL NEEDS! MASTER CHEF PAPYRUS WILL CRAFT A WHOLESOME AND WELL-ROUNDED BREAKFAST FIT TO GRACE THE GREATESTS OF FORTS! NYEH!”

“Thanks, Papyrus!” you call after him as he vanishes.

“...how long you think it’s gonna be before he sets the kitchen on fire?”

“He’s getting better,” you point out.

“he’s making something that’s not pasta,” Sans counters.

You sigh and pick up a new sheet of paper. “You’re right. You going to go keep watch?”

Sans tilts his head, watching you. “...nah. i think i’ll get undyne to do it. maybe tori, too. alphys can come with and we can get started on that research. meantime,” he stretches out, bones cracking as he does so. “i’m feeling kinda lazy. think i’ll just stay here.”

You smile, and reach out your hand. He takes it, giving it a quick squeeze before letting go, and you get back to your work. As you draw, he’s always there somewhere, whether it’s a hand on your back, a foot prodding your side until you giggle and swat away the offending slipper, or a lap to rest your feet on. It’s a little thing, but being able to feel that he’s there, no matter where you’re looking...it's comforting.

Once, after Undyne and Alphys arrive, he does get up. You’re deep in your drawings at that point, but when you look up, glancing through the flap of blanket that serves for a door to the fort, he’s standing over by the window with Undyne. Alphys sits on the floor by their feet, her tongue sticking out as she types furiously on her laptop while Sans and Undyne talk.

It’s different from how they usually converse. Most of the time, if they talk at all, Sans is doing his best to get under Undyne’s skin, and Undyne is usually giving him exactly what he wants by blowing up and throwing something through a wall. But Sans’s voice is quiet, and Undyne leans against the wall, arms crossed and foot propped up beneath her, nodding once or twice at something Sans says. Her face is more serious than you’re used to seeing. She’s not angry, or upset. Just… intent. But then she catches sight of you, and the familiar toothy grin spreads across her face as she waves at you. Sans looks back over his shoulder, grinning just as hard, and the moment is gone. Sans rejoins you in the fort, and Undyne heads to the kitchen to yell at Papyrus as smoke begins to trickle from the doorway.

It isn’t until much later that you finally run out of both paper and memories. By that time, the fort has gotten much larger. You stretch and reach for a cinnamon bun, chewing thoughtfully as you shake out your sore wrist. Somewhere in the living room, Asgore and Toriel debate the merits of various types of fertilizer for the ficus in the window that keeps struggling to live despite Papyrus’s sometimes questionable attempts to make plant food. Alphys is wedged against the couch behind you, still typing, although she does stop periodically, the pauses usually accompanied by the muted sound of the “Mew Mew: Kissie Cutie” theme song through her headphones. On one side of you, Papyrus and Undyne have commandeered some of your paper and crayons, and are engaged in a spirited discussion about armour designs that involves an awful lot of half-nelsons.

Sans, still on his pillow next to you, looks up as you set your last page aside. “all done?”

You nod, swinging yourself around until you can use him as your own pillow, and you finish off the last of your breakfast. “I think so.”

“feel better?”

“Yeah.” You curl up beneath your blanket, looking around at everything Sans has done. For a lazy guy, he sure managed to pull a lot together in one morning. As you stare up at his affectionate grin, something very big stirs within you, and your eyes begin to sting again.

His eyes widen, and he puts an arm around you. “aw, kid, you’re killin’ me here. what’s wrong now?”

“Nothing,” you say, smiling despite the ache in your heart. “Sometimes feelings are too big, that’s all.” You sit up, rifling through your stack of drawings and picking up the last one. The drawing of when you Fell. You flip it over, and draw a few quick strokes before passing the page to him. He takes it from you, and snorts when he sees what you’ve drawn there.

<3

“yeah, yeah. i less-than-three you too, kiddo.”

Smiling, you curl up against him, and burrow beneath your blanket. You might even fall asleep, if Papyrus and Undyne stop yelling long enough. You’re not afraid any more. You know that whatever dreams may come, your family, one member in particular, will be there to catch you and set things right again.

The thought of it… it fills you with determination.

"it says less-than-three" by Hamstermastersamster

I Less-than-three you too by Videogamelover99

Chapter Text

Something’s wrong.

You blink up at the ceiling, trying to remember which house you’re in. There’s no stars on the ceiling, so it’s not the Big House, and you don’t have a bed at Undyne and Alphys’ place. Rubbing your eyes, you turn toward the glow of the nightlight. Ah, there it is. Mom got you one shaped like a snail, and it’s a flower at Dad’s house, and Artie gives you a flashlight when you stay over there, but the glowing skull grinning at you from the wall makes it obvious which of your rooms this is. Which means you’re pretty sure you know what’s wrong.

Pushing back the covers, you move your plush skeleton out of the way and slide off the bed. You pause, and turn to give Arial a hug and a kiss on his fuzzy head before tucking him back in. It’s cold out, and he doesn’t have any clothes. Maybe Mom will help you make some for him. Or Papyrus. After all, it was his idea to get you a fluffy skelefriend to keep you company at night, and he does have an awful lot to say about clothing. Promising your stuffed friend that you’ll be back, you open the door and pad quietly down the hall on your sock feet.

It’s probably a good thing that you’re not at the Big House. You’ve never been able to find his room there. But here, there are only three bedrooms, and you can always find them in the same place: Papyrus’ at the top of the stairs, then yours, then Sans’ around the corner at the end of the hall.

You slow down as you approach the door. There’s no light peeking out from beneath, but that doesn’t tell you much. And then you hear it: Sans’s voice, low and indistinct, and you jump as three sharp thuds land in rapid succession against the door.

You take a deep breath, closing your eyes as you count to three. Then, you step forward and lean against the door.

Red light bathes the hallway as your soul pulls it's way free of you, but you’re concentrating too hard to really notice the accompanying sting. You eyes squeezed tightly closed, you press your ear against the door and listen .

The words are garbled, made fuzzy by sleep. But there are still some words you can make out.

“no...nononono…..stay determined…..figure something out…”

Opening your eyes, you step back, and shadows flood the hall as your soul sinks back behind your sternum where it belongs. There’s a flare of blue beneath the door. Shaking, you hurry back to your room, pausing only long enough to grab your phone from the nightstand before running back down the hall, dialing as you go.

You know not to go into his room when he’s having a bad dream. Even if he hadn’t told you so himself -- which he did, very pointedly, the day you got your bedroom here -- some things you can figure out perfectly well on your own. But that doesn’t mean you’re completely powerless. You hit the green button on the phone, and behind the door, a song begins to play. It’s an interesting choice of ringtone, you think, raising a brow. The song sounds familiar, though you’re not sure where you’ve heard it before. You’d think you’d remember a song that starts with “Thank you for being a friend.” It sounds like your kind of song.

The tune cuts off abruptly as the woman sings something about being a pal, and Sans’ sleepy voice surrounds you, both loud in your ear and muffled through the door. “kid, are you--  nnngh...what time-- never mind. hang on, i’ll be right there.”

“No, it’s okay,” you say, resting your hand against the door. “Can I come in?”

He doesn’t say anything. A moment later, the call disconnects. You’re not worried though. Phone conversations with your family rarely tend to last more than a couple of lines, unless it’s Mom checking in on you -- they’re all much more prolific texters. Sure enough, a faint blue fire flickers in the keyhole, followed by a soft click . Smiling, you open the door and slip inside.

Sans is still sitting up in bed, his covers in a tangled mess, and he watches you anxiously as you pick your way around the piles of socks and magazines and electronic parts and you’re not sure what else. Carefully stepping over the trombone left to lie on the floor where it last fell, you pull yourself up on the bed and sit opposite him.

“Hi,” you say.

“hey yourself, kiddo. ” He’s wearing the pyjamas you picked out for him the last time Mom took you shopping. The short-sleeved top has a math-y drawing of a small angle on it that forms the base of a red heart, and the words underneath proudly proclaim “ I’M ACUTE NERD .” You liked it a lot because it was funny and had a heart  and math on it, and you thought he’d like it too, but seeing him wearing it now, so at odds with what you can see in his eyes, makes your own heart ache in sympathy. He’s trying really hard to get his game-face on, you can tell, but he’s struggling. Sighing, he rubs his head. “ since it’s oh-my-god in the morning, i’m assuming you’re not looking for help with your homework. want to tell me what’s wrong?”

In answer, you just look at his door. He follows your gaze, and droops a little as he spots the line of holes sinking halfway into the wood. “crap. i just fixed that.”

“I think it’s a-door-able,” you offer.

He gasps, and puts a hand over his heart. “oh. oh kid. ” His eyes shining, he reaches for you and presses you to his chest. “ at long last, i have found a worthy successor to my pun-archy!”

That makes you giggle, and he lets go, his fingers poking at your sides as you frantically try to block him with your elbows until you’re both laughing. Eventually, he relents, and when he sits back, his “everything’s fine” face is firmly in place.

You almost let it go. Almost. You’re still warm from laughing, and it’s not out of pity, but of curiosity that you ask, “don’t you ever want to talk about it?”

There’s a sad sort of softness to his smile when he lays his hand on your head. “nah. how many times i gotta tell you, kid, you don’t need to worry about me. i’m the grown-up here, no matter what papyrus tries to tell you--”

“And Undyne,” you offer helpfully. “And Mettaton, and Aaron, and--”

“--the point, ” he says, poking your ribs and making you squeak, “ is that you don’t need to take care of me. i’m here to take care of you.”

“But you’re also here to be Sans,” you say, rocking on your crossed legs. “And even Sanses need some help sometimes, right?” You tilt your head, trying to get a better look at his eyes. “Don’t you ever get tired?”

A tremor runs through him. A deep ripple in his smiling facade. “kid, believe me, you don’t wanna know what’s in my head, and i don’t wanna do that to you. i’m up now. i’m fine. you can go back to bed.”

“You had radio-head, didn’t you?” you ask softly.

His fists clench. “frisk, please. i don’t want to hurt you.”

“You can’t hurt me if I already know.” Giving him the most encouraging smile you can muster, you reach out and trace the drawing on his pyjamas. Acute angle. Top of the heart.

He jerks as though you’ve hit him, staring at you with a mix of understanding, and hope, and horror. Something in him tenses, coiling, and you’re fairly certain he’s on the verge of taking a shortcut somewhere far away from you, so you do the only thing you can. You smile even more, and open your arms wide.

For a long moment, he doesn’t move, his emotions at war on his face. Then, he cracks, surrendering, and he grabs you and pulls you close, trembling as he hides his face against your shoulder.

He’s not crying -- Sans almost never cries -- but he’s shaking so hard that his bones rattle, and his voice is so full of hurt that you almost don’t recognize it. “i’m sorry.   I ‘ m   s o   s o r r y.”

You smile as you rest your head against his, gently stroking the way he always does for you as you hold him as tight as you can. “It’s okay,” you tell him. “We’re okay.”

It’s some time before he can respond, and you know how it feels. It’s an awful thing, to be so lost in the torrent of feelings that you can’t find your way out any more. When it happens to you, having a warm, squishy, heavy brother hold you and stop you from being swept away helps more than almost anything else, and that, at least, is something you can do. You hold on tight as the storm works its way through him, until his trembling slows and he loosens his death-grip on you. Slowly, he eases back, and takes your hands in his. There’s gratitude plain in the look he turns on you, but there’s something else as well. Something that sends a shiver prickling along your spine.

“Sans?” you ask, in a very small voice.

He breaks his gaze from yours, looking down at your hands as he takes a long breath. “look, kid, i’ve been thinking… maybe it’s better if you don’t… if you don’t spend so much time here any more.”

You yank your hands away, your eyes filling with tears as the bottom falls out of your world. Everything is hot and cold at once, and your heart is squeezing so tightly you can’t breathe. An iron vice around your throat chokes you so badly you almost can’t get the words out. “Y-you’re sending me away? You don’t like me any more?”

“wait, what? ” Sans holds up his hands. “ whoa, now, frisk, you got it all wrong. geez, ‘like’ is not a strong enough word for how i feel about you. you *know* that. ” Groaning, he scrubs his face with his hands. “ it’s--it’s *me,* kid. i got some things inside me that aren’t… that aren’t very nice. and i look at you and i don’t… i don’t want you anywhere near it. i don’t want it touching you.”

“Oh,” you say, and then you pick up his pillow and whack him upside the head with it, knocking him sideways.

“uh, ow? ” he lifts the pillow, peering out from under it. “ explain?”

“Undyne says that sometimes when someone’s beating themselves up so much that they’re not listening any more, you have to knock some sense into ‘em before they do something dumb.”

“...right. ” He sits up, returning the pillow to its proper place. “ i guess i’m lucky you didn’t use your fist,” he mutters.

“She says fists are good but wrestling moves work best. I thought the pillow was nicer.”

He snorts. “well, you’re not *wrong.*”

“Sans…” You reach out and lay a hesitant hand over his. “I know you’re trying to make me safe, but we’ve all got stuff inside us we wish we didn’t. Everyone. Nobody’s perfect, and the world would be really boring if everyone was. It doesn’t matter if there are seeds of bad things in you. What matters is what you do with them.” His hand shifts beneath yours, turning to take hold, and you give him an encouraging smile. “Some people let the bad seeds take root, but they don’t like the light. If you give space and light for the good stuff to grow instead, the bad ones can’t find ground to plant themselves in. I know when I’m in the dark places, you and all the others are my sunshine. Maybe I can be yours too.”

He lets out a long, slow breath. “...dang, kiddo.”

His resolve is breaking, you can see it. Holding tighter, you press forward. “When I start to feel like maybe I can’t do something, you help me be stronger. But I want to help you be strong, too. And then you can make me even stronger, and that makes you stronger, and then we will become so strong that no one will be able to stand in the face of how awesome we are!” You finish on a note of triumph that rings through the shadows of Sans’ room.

A startled laugh escapes him, and he shakes his head. “leadership class with tori’s back on at school, huh?”

“She says I need to practice my assertiveness.” You give him a questioning look. “Did I do good?”

“maybe too good. you might wanna *reign* it in a little. ” But you’re both smiling as he tousles your hair. “ all right, all right. you know i can’t say no when you do the eyes. i’ll stop being dumb and try it your way.”

He’s not sending you away.

You give a little squeal, bouncing in place until his hand increases the weight on your head and holds you still. “hold up, shortpants. if we’re gonna do this thing, you gotta promise me something, too.”

“What?” you ask.

“that thing you do, where you hang on to the stuff that’s bugging you ‘cause you don’t want to upset anybody else?”

Your head sinks into your shoulders, and you cast a guilty look up at him. You really thought you were getting better about not letting anybody see that. “...yeah?”

“you make whatever call you want with everybody else, but you don’t do it with me.”

A lump forms in your throat, making it difficult to answer, even if you wanted to. The ghosts of echoes drift from the depths of your memory, your cousin’s voice foremost among them. It’s been so long that you’ve been holding on to this, it’s become part of you. And the thought of passing these burdens onto Sans, even a little, makes you feel sick.

But the thought of having someone you can go to, even when things are the worst…

The thought of being able to help him when he’s the one carrying the bad things…

“All right,” you say. “I promise.”

He holds out his hand to close the deal. You ignore it and dive straight past, flinging your arms around his middle and clinging for dear life. He lets out a high-pitched wheeze, coloured with more than a few notes of laughter as he squeezes you tight. “welp. whatever happens, we’re in this together, pal. ” Easing back from the hug, he brushes your bangs from your eyes so that he can get a better look at at you. “ pretty slick negotiating, ambassador. you sure you’re only nine?”

From any other kid, that question would get a dismissive laugh, but you have to think about it carefully. “Most of me is,” you say at last.

Sans sucks in a breath at your answer, but he’s not angry, or even upset. There’s sadness in him, though, as he lowers his head until his brow touches yours. You close your eyes, holding on to the moment as long as you can, for the kindness in that gentle touch reaches even the deepest hidden parts of your soul, and they soak it up like soil after a drought.

“you matter so much, kiddo. you know that, right?”

You nod. “And you do, too.”

He lifts his head, and his eyes are sad again, but he gives a soft laugh and ruffles your hair. “whatever you say, kid.”

You smile, though the feeling you were going for is ruined somewhat by the yawn that interrupts you. Sans pokes at his phone on the nightstand, and winces when he sees the time. “okay, time for little ambassadors to get back to sleep. ” You grab his hand, staring up at him with wide, pleading eyes, and he looks skyward with a groan. “ okay, okay, you can stay. but you’re sleeping. get a blanket.”

You beam at him and crawl to the end of the bed, reaching for one of the piles on the floor, but even though he’s still on the other side of the bed, a sharp tug at the back of your pyjamas hauls you back, and you cast him a quizzical glance. “come on, kid, i may pride myself on not being a responsible adult, but i’m not *that* irresponsible. use a clean one.”

You turn toward the closet, but before you can even complete the motion, a blanket smacks you in the face, knocking you backward. Laughing, you extricate yourself as Sans flops down and tugs his messy covers back into place. You wrap yourself in your blanket, letting the warmth soak into you as you breathe in the smell of clean linen and fabric softener, and you make yourself comfortable on your friend-shaped pillow, smiling as he puts his arm around you.

“Sans, will you tell me a story?”

“what kind of story?”

Good question. You stare at the heart on his pyjamas as you think about it. “One that’s sad, but also makes you happy at the end.”

“i’m glad you’re so specific, ” he says, and you snort, snuggling deeper as he sighs. “ okay, i got one. once upon a time, there were three brothers--”

“Were they skeletons?”

“yeah, sure, why not? now shush and let me tell this thing. ”  Grinning, you nod, and he continues. “ the youngest brother was very kind, and the oldest was very wise, and the middle brother wasn’t good for very much at all, except for making the others laugh. but despite all their differences, or maybe because of them, they were happy.”

“They didn’t stay that way, did they?” you ask.

“nope. but if they had, it wouldn’t be much of a story.”

“Oh,” you say. “I never thought about that. That’s smart.”

“i do have my moments, ” he says. “ so there came a day, one that started out like any other, when their entire world changed in a single moment--”

You close your eyes, listening to the hum of his voice through his bones as he tells the story. He gave you exactly what you wanted -- parts of it are very sad, and your tears soak quietly into the blanket around you and into his shirt beneath, but at the end, when your eyes won’t open again and your limbs are weighted and heavy with sleep, there’s only hope and happiness in your heart. You cling to it, guarding it like a treasure as magic tingles across your skin, and a gentle blue tide carries you into sleep.

You’ll be okay. Whatever dreams may come, you’ll be there to guard Sans and keep him safe. After everything he’s done, he deserves someone to take care of him, and the thought of the job ahead of you fills you with…

You’re asleep before you finish the thought. Long after, Sans is still awake, watching you dream, for he knows what you were thinking, and it fills him with…. something he hasn’t felt in a very, very long time.

Something that changes everything.

Art by jinja-neko

Less-than-three by Hamstermastersamster