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Frisk, you say, because there’s really nothing else you can say.
They don’t respond. Through their eyes, you can tell that they’re just staring forward at the dark of the room around them, breathing shallow. They’re in shock.
You repeat their name, and when you still don’t get a reaction, you slam your hands against the sides of their mind around you - the mental equivalent to slapping them across the face. They jerk a bit, blinking and whipping their head around, looking for the threat.
There we go.
“Ch-chara,” they gasp. They clutch at their neck, where your locket hangs. You feel their fingers fumbling with the clasp, just playing with it absently with no intention of actually opening it.
I know, you say. It’s alright, Frisk.
It’s been two years since you’ve left the Underground and Frisk is still getting nightmares from your memories.
You’d had to explain, once, that they weren’t all real memories. Sometimes you got glimpses of other timelines, universes in which you’d succeeded in getting Frisk to slaughter monsters for fun. They push themselves into your mind and it takes a lot for you to remind yourself that those things never happened in this world.
“Real or not real?” Frisk asks quietly. They climb out of bed even though it can’t be any later than five in the morning. They flip on the light and tug a sketchbook out of their desk drawer, taking it back to the bed with a handful of colored pencils.
It’s become a calm-down habit that they’d gotten from you.
You think back to the dream that you’d just woken up from. You’d seen this one before, a handful of times - it happened in a lot of timelines - but based on Frisk’s reaction, they probably hadn’t.
It was probably rough for Frisk, to stare Sans down as he snarled, “kids like you should be burning in hell,” before unleashing attacks that killed them - you - over and over.
Not real, you tell them. Not in this timeline.
Frisk’s pencil pauses from where it had been sketching a flower. You can feel their hand shaking, and you swear at yourself.
“B-but… in other timelines…?”
Shit.
You’d explained the concept of other timelines to Frisk - there were an infinite amount. In some, like this one, they hadn’t killed anyone. In some, they’d killed everyone. In an even bigger amount, they had killed some but not others. Timelines in which they killed Papyrus and no one else. Timelines in which they befriended everyone except Alphys. Timelines upon timelines, overlapping and blurring together in your head.
You’d neglected to mention that there were a lot of timelines in which Sans ripped them apart for their sins.
Uhhhh, you say.
Nice, Chara. Very eloquent.
“Chara.”
They sound so desperate that you can’t avoid the subject. Yes, Frisk, you sigh. There are timelines in which we fight Sans.
They press their pencil down against the paper hard enough that the lead breaks.
-----
Shit.
Frisk cringes at your vulgarity, like they usually do, but for right now they seem to be a bit more distracted by the boy in front of you who’s currently clutching a now-bloody nose.
Reset, you order, voice cracking. Reset reset reset-
Frisk shakes their head quickly, moving forward to place a hand on the boy’s arm. “I’m- I’m so sorry,” they murmur softly, though they hadn’t really been the one to throw the punch.
Sometimes your anger overtakes you, and sometimes you let that overtake Frisk.
You can feel their judgemental thoughts directing towards you, the headspace shifting a dark red.
’s not my fault. He can’t talk to us like that.
The boy turns a glare on you, and Frisk tears their eyes away. You can hear their thoughts, panic and worry and sickness at the sight of the boy’s blood.
He continues to hold his hand over his bleeding nose as he spits, “Freak,” before turning on a heel and hurrying down the hallway.
Frisk clutches their bag closer to their chest.
... Frisk?
It wasn’t the first time that somebody had said something like that to Frisk. They were bullied all the time. Being the ambassador to the monsters hadn’t exactly gained them a lot of popularity amongst their fellow humans.
But they didn’t care, or at least they acted like they didn’t. They didn’t need human friends, they assured everyone, and you wondered how much of that was your thoughts seeping into their subconscious.
Hey, Frisky, we’re okay, right? I didn’t mean to just… lose it like that.
“‘s okay,” they whisper. You resist the urge to remind them for the umpeenth time that they needn’t speak aloud.
You can just reset back to earlier, you suggest.
“No,” they mutter, shaking their head. They’re all alone in the school hallway, classes having been out for a while already, and their voice sounds too loud. “Can’t.”
Asriel wouldn’t want us to, they add silently.
You don’t know what to say to that, so you don’t say anything.
-----
“I hope you know you just bombed that test,” you chirp, unhelpfully, as Frisk sulks out of their math class the next day.
I know, they think back, dragging their feet a bit.
They don’t say anything else, but you can feel their frustration with themselves. This is the kind of thing that nags at them to use their SAVE feature, to just go back and relearn the lessons and do well on the test.
“life doesn’t give second chances,” Sans had told them once. He’d said it in a way that implied the opposite.
But Frisk had vowed to themselves - and to you, for reasons you couldn’t understand - that they wouldn’t use their SAVE function outside of the Underground. But it’s been over two years since the barrier was broken and the monsters had begun to filter into the aboveground, and you can still feel their SOUL reaching out towards their SAVE every time they’re faced with a decision.
I can’t, though, Frisk thinks. You can’t tell if they’re talking to you or not. It gives a single person too much power. It’s playing god. They take a deep breath. You’ve seen what it did to-
To Flowey, you interject sharply. Flowey, Frisk. Not…
Not Asriel. You don’t say it, but you’re both thinking it.
You don’t say his name much anymore.
-----
You sit idly in the back of Frisk’s mind as they do their homework. You feel your heart flutter a bit the way it always does when they write their name on the top of their homework. Frisk Dreemurr.
They’d explained to you once that the name still felt weird, but natural at the same time. You suspected that was a bit of your influence. You’d taken the royal family’s surname when you fell into the Underground, so it was only natural that Frisk did as well.
You hum loudly as they work. You know that it doesn’t bother them, but it distracts them enough that they don’t want to think about science. They end up doodling in the margins of their work.
When you realize that they’re drawing little golden flowers, you stop humming. Frisk forces their mind back to biology.
-----
Toriel worries about you sometimes.
(No, not you. Frisk. She worries about Frisk.
She’s not your mom anymore. She’s Frisk’s.
Why can’t you get that through your head?)
Toriel isn’t good at hiding her worry, and when Frisk asks, you confirm that she’s always been like this. You could talk for hours about all the things that worried her about you.
She’ll say that she’s not worrying, but it bothers her that Frisk nevers wants to go spend time with any friends from school, enough so that she’ll start to ask them if they have any.
“I have lots of friends,” Frisk always tells her, smiling wide.
“Human friends, dear,” she corrects. Their smile fades.
You tell her that humans are dumb, you suggest. Your need to narrate Frisk’s life hasn’t dissipated over two years.
Frisk ignores you. You roll your eyes.
That’s not the only thing that worries her. In fact, it’s only the beginning of a very long list of things that have developed since you’d first entered their head.
While Frisk had gotten better at reminding themselves that you can hear their thoughts, they still have a habit of forgetting and answering your questions out loud. It’s happened on accident around Toriel enough that you know she’s suspicious and doesn’t believe that Frisk is just talking to themselves.
The flip side of that is when they so firmly remind themselves that they don’t need to speak aloud that they forget to do so completely. You’re always in their head, so they talk to you far more than anybody else. It leads them to answer Toriel or Asgore or Sans or Undyne’s questions in their head instead of out loud while they wait for them to respond.
It usually takes you prompting them for them to remember.
They try and try again to convince Toriel that they’re fine. They’re the ambassador of the monsters; obviously they know how to take care of themselves. Their determination is stronger than most.
But they still wake up with nightmares, your memories and theirs mixing together until they’re hearing Asriel shout their name with the horrible things he’d said to you out of fear and anger. It leaves them shaking and crying until not even you can calm them down, and you know it breaks their heart to see Toriel’s expression when they push her away.
Not to mention the nightmares like they’d had a few nights before. Nightmares so horrible that you knew they didn’t want to believe that it hadn’t just been conjured up by their subconscious.
I need to talk to Sans, they think at you.
Toriel eyes them warily. They try to force the smile back onto their lips, but you’re frowning enough in their head to make it impossible.
Frisk, what are you doing-
They eye the calendar hanging on the fridge. They’d just stayed at Asgore’s the weekend before, meaning this upcoming weekend is Toriel’s.
“Can I go to Sans’ and Papyrus’ on Saturday?”
You swear.
-----
“so, kid.”
You can feel Frisk’s SOUL pushing against their ribcage. Sometimes it feels too tight in their chest, your SOUL fighting against theirs for dominance of the body.
But in the end, Frisk’s SOUL has more determination than yours. It’s always able to prevail, leaving you stuck as the backseat driver. Frisk is probably thankful of that right now, because if you’d had your way, you wouldn’t be here.
Sans seems to look right through Frisk, as if he’s staring right at you. You clench your fists, and by the way Frisk tenses up, they can feel you do it.
“i have the feeling you’re not just here for coffee.”
They fingers tighten around their mug - hot chocolate, not coffee (Toriel doesn’t let them drink coffee, and you know they drink hot chocolate specifically for you, as much as they deny it). They shake their head.
“spit it out, kid. i can’t read your mind.”
Frisk cringes at the words and Sans’ grin seems to tighten.
You’d had a feeling he knew.
“Sans…” Their voice is quiet, a bit hoarse from lack of use. You’d given up tugging for the reins because you knew that they wanted to do this on their own. You sit, quiet and brooding, in the back of their head, arms wrapped around yourself. “What do you know about… alternate timelines?”
There’s a flutter of light in his eye sockets, as if he’s blinking in surprise. Perhaps he hadn’t seen Frisk asking about that.
He laughs, obviously trying to brush them off, but now you’re tensed up and you don’t allow Frisk to tear their stare away from him.
“what’d’ya mean by that, kiddo?” he asks. There’s an underlying tone of seriousness in his joking voice. “ya learn about that in school or something?”
You feel annoyance pinching at your head at the way he’s trying to avoid the subject. You stand up, tugging for control. You feel Frisk slip up just a little bit, silently allowing you to speak through them.
You clear your throat. Speaking out loud is always a surreal experience. “I want to know what you know about the SAVE points.”
As you retreat back into the back of Frisk’s mind, you feel them wondering if Sans could tell the difference in their voice.
He looks at you for a long time, skeletal hands flattened on the table. When Frisk’s stare doesn’t waver, he sighs, though the smile (obviously) doesn’t disappear.
“had a feeling you’d ask eventually.” Frisk doesn’t blink. “tibia honest, I thought it would be a long ways away.”
Frisk cracks a small smile at the pun, though you sigh audibly in their head.
“alternate timelines,” Sans says, like he’s turning the words over in his mouth. “there’s an infinite amount of ‘em. coexisting with ours. every time someone SAVEs, they create a new timeline.”
A cold shudder goes through Frisk, their heart dropping into their stomach. Your hands clench into fists.
“every time someone dies and they reset…”
Blue flashes in the skeleton’s eye socket.
“they’re still dead in another timeline.”
Though you didn’t know this and you’re surprised at the new information, you let out a growl. You can feel Frisk shaking and you want to take control and kill this monster on the spot for daring to try and scare them like this.
“S-so other timelines exist where…” They wave their hands vaguely in the air, unsure of exactly what they’re trying to convey.
You start to protest loudly, urging Frisk to end the conversation, get out, reset if they have to. This isn’t good. They don’t want to hear these things.
Sans laughs, though there’s no humor in it. “yeah, kid. other timelines exist where that voice in your head got their way.”
Frisk flinches. You snarl out a string of profanities, banging your fists against the sides of Frisk’s mind when they tighten their hold on control of the body to prevent you from getting it.
Sans’ eye socket burns blue. By the way he’s staring, you know that he’s speaking to you, not Frisk.
“other timelines exist where you’re a dirty brother killer.”
Frisk stands up abruptly, shaking. You don’t blame them; you’re trembling too, but it’s for a different reason. The blue flares down in Sans’ eye and something like regret flashes across his face; he can tell he scared them.
“I have to go,” Frisk says softly, though the words come out choked. They’re already pulling out their phone to call Toriel.
You force yourself to get under control. You need to stay calm for Frisk.
You can handle this, the mind-fuckery that comes with getting a glimpse at other timelines. You can handle having reality and fiction blur together in your head until you’re not sure what’s real anymore. Frisk can’t. They’re a child.
(Well, they’re fourteen now, the same age as you technically are, but you’ve still been around for a few centuries more than them.)
“wait, kid.” Frisk doesn’t look up, fingers quivering as they start to key in their mom’s phone number. “frisk.”
The use of their name - their name, Frisk, not Chara - makes them look up. Sans is standing now too, hands shoved into his hoodie pockets.
“i didn’t mean to scare ya, or anything. just thought maybe that’s something you should consider…” His words trail off as he stares at the two of you. “... since you’re harboring a killer, and everything.”
I’m going to tear you to fucking pieces, you lazy, good-for-nothing-
“I-I have to go,” Frisk rushes out again, and they run out of the kitchen and try to ignore Sans calling them back.
They run into Papyrus on their way out as he comes in the front door, arms full of groceries. He greets them as eagerly as always, though he looks distressed when he sees their eyes full of tears. He asks them what’s wrong and they run out before they can answer.
You’re so distracted by your own anger that you don’t realize right away that they don’t call Toriel. They catch a bus to Mt. Ebott.
-----
“So, you came back.”
Frisk sits on the ground, arms wrapped around their knees, and looks forward.
“... You idiot.”
Flowey shoots a seed at them and they don’t move. It bounces off their chest, barely having made contact at all. He doesn’t want to hurt them. Or maybe he doesn’t want to hurt you. You’re not sure.
You tell Flowey to go fuck himself, you suggest.
Frisk doesn’t say anything.
“... Hey.”
They still don’t look up. Their eyes are trained on the yellow flowers on the ground - your grave. The dirt is cold under their bare legs. You resist the urge to tell them how cold the soil is when it’s engulfing your entire body.
“... Look at me.”
Frisk, you say softly. They make a noise of recognition. Why are we here?
They finally look up at Flowey. He’s watching them carefully, expression confused.
“You say that you’ve seen all of the different timelines,” they say quietly. Flowey’s expression hardens a bit. “Does that mean you’ve seen one where I’m- I’m a… killer?” They whisper the last word as if it’s a curse and Toriel is going to reprimand them for saying it.
There’s a pause, and then wicked laughter that has Frisk recoiling and you flinching. You can feel them fighting their natural urge to stand up and get away.
“Not just one, pal,” Flowey laughs. “You’re a killer in most timelines.”
You can feel Frisk’s heart sink, and you remain silent. This isn’t news to you, and you’re maybe the slightest bit relieved that you aren’t the one who has to deliver it.
“No,” they say, shaking their head. “No, that can’t be right.”
Flowey rolls his eyes, or the equivalent to it. “Guess you’re more like Chara than you realized.”
Frisk, you say, a bit desperately. They drop their face into their hands. Flowey laughs.
You catch the tail end of Frisk’s thoughts, about how they can feel your SOUL stirring in their chest, and for once, it isn’t reassuring.
-----
“Dad, am I a bad person?” Frisk asks Asgore the following weekend, curled up in a chair much too large for them as the former king sits on the other side of the room. A cup of tea warms their hands, untouched.
You go still.
Asgore’s eyes snap up to look at them. “What? Why would you even ask that, child? You are a very good person. The best human I’ve ever met, in fact.” He winks. It doesn’t make Frisk feel any better. You try to pretend that you’re not a little offended.
Frisk shakes their head. You start to protest, a quiet, Hey, Frisk, that’s not- but they quickly shove you to the back of their mind. You land on your ass and make an offended noise, glaring at the morphing blues of the headspace.
“There are some timelines where I’ve done… bad things,” Frisk says quietly.
You dummy, he’s not going to know what you mean, you mutter, though you’re not sure how much Frisk is really listening to you.
Asgore watches the two of you for while. “I am not exactly sure what you mean by ‘timelines,’” he says slowly, making air quotes around the word, “but please know that past actions do not define your future self, Frisk. I, more than anybody, have learned that the hard way.”
You feel Frisk cringe, thinking of the humans that Asgore had killed. The humans whose SOULs had saved them.
You take a moment to reflect on the SOULs as well. You’d never gotten to know any of the humans; you’d tried, sure, but none of them were strong enough to draw you in. They didn’t have enough determination to make your own SOUL persist with them. You hadn’t minded when they died, and honestly, you’re still glad that they did. That allowed them to save Frisk, after all.
“But… but your past actions are the things that made Mom upset,” Frisk murmurs.
More than just that, you tack on quietly.
Regret flashes across the king’s face. “Yes,” he says solemnly. “I did, indeed, make many mistakes to upset your mother. But, as you know, she and I are working out our issues.” You snicker at this; they’ve been going to couples counseling at Frisk’s request. Asgore sighs. “I cannot change what I did, Frisk. And neither can you.”
You roll your eyes, muttering, You don’t have anything to change, Frisk. You didn’t do anything bad in this timeline.
You sense Frisk thinking back to their SAVE files, ignoring you and thinking about Asgore’s words. If only he knew.
Frisk falls asleep in the armchair. You’re restless in their head, pacing back and forth and not allowing yourself to fall asleep in case you end up giving them nightmares again.
By the time you’ve tired yourself out, you feel like you’re going to cry.
You curse Frisk’s dumb emotions and try to block them out.
-----
After school one day, Toriel texts Frisk that something has come up at her school and she won’t be able to pick them up. While she apologizes, she also mentions that she’s sending Sans to come get them instead.
They sit on the front steps of the school, knees drawn up to their chest and heart plummeting into their stomach. It’s raining, but they don’t bother to wait inside.
You hate seeing them like this, and you hate even more knowing that it’s kind of your fault. Frisk has too big of a heart. So big that they can’t even handle the thought that alternate versions of themselves would do such horrible things.
You can’t even tease them by calling them a crybaby like you would do to Asriel. Because Asriel would stop crying and deny ever doing so in the first place, claiming that he was a big kid. Frisk would probably just cry more.
Sans shows up a few minutes after school gets out - late as always, you think to Frisk - and on foot rather than his bike. His hands are shoved in his pockets, and he doesn’t return the glances that he gets from some human parents who are picking their kids up from school. He walks right up to Frisk when they don’t rush forward to greet him, and he gives them a once-over before freezing.
Your guard is up. You would hate having to take advantage of Frisk’s weakened mental state, but you’d fight for control if you have to.
After a long moment in which Frisk doesn’t tear their eyes away from Sans, he says, “hey, kid. your mom just wanted me to pick you up, but i say we go get some food, yeah?”
It’s a test - a question. An are you mad at me?
Frisk hesitates for a moment before nodding.
The monster’s grin seems to grow. He stretches a hand out to help them up and they take it, lacing their small fingers with his skeletal ones.
You brood quietly as the headspace turns a happy yellow.
Sans looks up at the rain. You feel Frisk absently wondering how much he can feel it.
“come on,” he says. “i know a shortcut.”
-----
You’re furious about the interdimensional travel, as you always are when Frisk accepts one of Sans’ “shortcuts.”
I don’t like how it feels, you snarl as they slide into a booth at the restaurant Sans has transported them to. It’s not Grillby’s, but it’s some place that’s become a usual spot for Frisk’s group of monster friends to get together.
A waitress comes up quickly. “a hamburger for the kid,” Sans says without a glance at Frisk. It annoys you. You’re the one who knows Frisk the best, so he should stop acting like he does. He closes his menu as if he’d been looking at it in the first place before taking Frisk’s as well and handing them both to the server. “and that’ll be all.”
Frisk doesn’t talk as they wait for their food. Sans downs half a bottle of ketchup and watches them. You continue to mutter about the transfer of atoms through space-time and how you’re not sure your SOUL can handle that too often. You can tell that Frisk wants to roll their eyes but doesn’t want to give you away.
As if there’s any point in that anymore.
After the waitress sets the food down in front of them, Sans clasps his hands together.
“so,” he says, “chara.”
You’re not sure if he’s just stating your name matter-of-factly or addressing Frisk by it, but you feel them flinch either way. You clench your fists.
Frisk meets his stare. They don’t eat their burger, but they play absently with a fry.
(Frisk had never been a fidgeter before, they once told you. Their nervous habit of having to play with their hair or the locket or whatever they could get their hands on had started after you joined them. And it made sense; you could never not be moving your hands.)
“i didn’t mean to rattle your bones the other day, kiddo.” Frisk doesn’t react to the pun, and you’re glad. Sans pauses. “... or maybe i did. just a bit.”
Frisk smashes their fry against the plate.
“kid, you know someone can help you.” It’s not a question. “there’s strong magic. soul-morphing magic. we can get them out of your head.”
You swear loudly, yelling enough that Frisk flinches and you can feel their desire to grab at their head. Fuck. Whatever. Your anger and desire to hurt Sans for his comment is strong enough that you feel Frisk’s own fists clenching as you tug for control.
You throw your plate at his head, you direct, hissing. Of course, Frisk ignores you.
Worth a shot.
“... but you don’t want that.” Once again, it’s not a question. Sans’ grin seems strained. You freeze. “or else you would have told someone already, i imagine.”
“How did you know?” Frisk asks, their voice shaky.
They’ve grown up a lot in the past two years, but they still sound like a scared child.
Sans keeps his gaze level on the child in front of him. “you just change sometimes, kid. a pretty clear difference in your character.”
Don’t make puns on my name you fucking-
“Oh,” Frisk says meekly. You grind your teeth.
Sans sits back in the booth. “so, you were saying something about alternate timelines, yeah?”
You recognize the obvious shift in topic. Frisk seems to relax a bit at this, stuffing a few fries into their mouth to give them more time to think of what to say.
When they’ve chewed and swallowed, they say, “Is there… any way to change what I’ve done in the other universes?”
No.
“nah,” sans echoes, shrugging. “sorry, kid. there’re some things you just gotta live with. except not really, since you don’t actually have to live with the choices that the other frisks made.”
But you do. You’re going to be forced to deal with the memories of the other timelines. It’s what you get for being a SOUL and persisting through Flowey’s resets. Glimpses into other dimensions. You never asked for this.
And you just don’t get it. You can’t understand why Frisk wants so badly to fix other timelines, to get everything perfect. In some timelines, they’ve killed people, and no amount of resets is going to fix that.
Frisk chews thoughtfully on their burger. You realize a bit too late that they’re blocking off their stream of thoughts from you on purpose, and you start to shove at the sides of the headspace, searching for whatever they’re hiding.
You don’t find it quickly enough, for Frisk rushes out, “If there’s an infinite amount of timelines, that means there are some in which we saved Asriel, right?”
You feel like you’re being thrown against the front of the headspace. Like you were traveling a hundred miles an hour and somebody slammed on the breaks. There’s no skidding to a stop, there’s just… a full stop.
Frisk, what the hell.
Sans looks hesitant. “well, er, yeah, but.” He freezes, a look of suspicion crossion his face. You see his left eye start to flare blue. “wait. who’s really talking to me right now?”
What? He thinks that’s you asking about Asriel? Yeah, sure, he was your best friend, and you’d do absolutely anything to save him, but…
But you’ve done too much messing around with time and space. You’ve seen the effects that it had on Flowey and on you and on Frisk and on Sans, apparently, and so you can’t even bear to think about it.
Getting Frisk to reset to stop you from punching some kid isn’t a big deal. Frisk resetting to two years before for some desperate rescue mission kind of is.
“Me!” Frisk rushes out, flattening their hands against the table. “Me. It’s me. I swear.”
“okay, kid. i believe ya.” Sans sighs. “but anyways, it doesn’t matter. you could reset a thousand times and still not find a timeline in which he lives.” His voice drops a bit, smile tightening. “and i’m not gonna be put through that again, kiddo.”
The warning is clear. You feel Frisk’s chest tighten up, their breathing starting to stagger as they force themselves not to cry. “Alright.”
You remain silent until they’ve finished their meal and Sans drops Frisk at home (after another shortcut that has you doubling over and clutching at your stomach and begging yourself to stay together). The house is too quiet without Toriel there, and you know that Frisk is thinking that their head is too quiet without you talking.
Frisk, you say, once you’re sure you’ve calmed yourself down enough that you won’t snap at them. They startle a little bit from where they’d been reaching to grab the TV remote.
When they don’t say anything, instead sitting on the couch and pulling a blanket over themselves as they turn on the TV, you murmur, What was all of that about?
They make a noncommittal noise, wrapping their arms around themselves.
You grind your teeth, forcing yourself to remain calm. You know that you can’t change the other timelines from happening, Frisk.
They nod.
And it’s too late to save Asriel now.
There’s a pause, and then a slower nod. It sets a feeling of unease in you, but Toriel is home before you can question them further.
By bedtime that night, you’ve forgotten about it.
-----
Frisk drops the bomb on you early one morning, about a week later.
“Chara,” you hear. You’ve been drifting in and out of a dreamlike state because Frisk had been asleep, and their voice rouses you. You’re confused and mumble sleepily before they say, “Chara, wake up.”
Wha- You yawn. What’s going on? Nightmare? You’re not sure why you ask, since you know that’s not the case. Frisk hadn’t been dreaming at all tonight.
It’s only now that you realize that the light is on, and Frisk is already up and out of bed. You’re surprised when you realize that they’re out of their pajamas and changed into regular day clothes.
They shake their head silently, hugging themselves. “Chara,” they say again, like it’s the only word on their mind. It’s the only word that gets through, at least; their half of the headspace is blocked off again. They know you hate when they do that.
What’s wrong? you ask, because you just know that something, something is going on, something’s wrong.
They take a deep breath that releases on a shudder, and it doesn’t do anything to calm your nerves.
“I’m going to reset,” they say.
What.
What, you say, because, seriously, what the fuck.
“Back to the beginning,” they continue, rushing the words out like they’ll lose the nerve to say them if they hesitate. “I’m going to do things different and save Asriel.”
You clutch at your chest, your heart folding in on itself. No. No, Frisk, you murmur sadly. You can’t save Asriel. There’s no use. You’re going to be setting everybody back two years and probably hurting yourself a lot in the process.
They shake their head. “No, no, I can do it, I can - I know about him this time, I can do things differently-”
No, Frisk.
You slam your hands against the insides of the headspace, fighting for release, for control. You can’t let Frisk do this. It’ll never work, anyways, and you know they’ll just get hurt.
But… Asriel…
No. You shove the thoughts into the back of your mind despite how much it hurts. You have to grow the fuck up eventually, Chara.
Frisk shakes their head again. “Sorry, Chara.”
The walls barricading their half of the headspace drop and you feel them mentally reaching out towards their SAVE. You panic and do the only thing you can think of: you lash out.
You’ve never fought this hard for control. There’s never been anything that was such a big deal that you absolutely had to prevent Frisk from doing it. Until now.
Your SOUL feels like it’s pounding, ready to burst out of Frisk’s chest, and you’re filled with determination. You can’t let Frisk do this. You murmur a quick apology to them before forcefully shoving them into the back of their own head.
As soon as you’re in control of their body, you’re hit with an aching pounding in your (their) chest. Your SOUL fighting against Frisk’s. You claw at your chest before you even realize what you’re doing, and you’ve blacked out before you can register Frisk’s desperate cries of protest.
-----
When you wake up, it’s late morning. You stumble sleepily out to the kitchen, pouring yourself a mug of milk before putting it in the microwave to heat it up for hot chocolate. There’s a note on the counter from Toriel saying that she’d gone out for groceries and decided to let you sleep in-
Wait.
Your fingers tighten around the note. Your fingers? No, Frisk’s fingers. But you’re in full control of the body.
And then you remember what had happened earlier and the pounding in your head suddenly makes a lot more sense.
You mutter, “Fuck,” out loud, and it sounds weird coming from Frisk’s mouth. It’s weird speaking at all. You quickly follow it up with a loud, “Frisk…?” as if you couldn’t just think it at them.
No reply. You search the headspace for them, sighing in relief when you sense their presence, quiet and unthreatening in the back of your mind. Their mind. Whatever.
You try to gently shake them, rouse them from their sleep, but they seem to be conked out. You can feel your SOULs together in your chest, and for the moment, yours feels a lot more powerful.
You sigh, jumping a bit when the microwave beeps. You retrieve your milk, standing on your tiptoes to get a hot chocolate packet from the cabinet.
Frisk will be fine. You probably just… beat up their SOUL a little more than you’d meant to.
You’d always played rough.
-----
It’s been three days.
Three days, and you’ve felt nothing stirring from Frisk’s mind or their SOUL. You know they’re alive, because you can definitely feel the steady rhythm of their SOUL beating like a heart, but they haven’t reacted to anything you’ve done.
You applaud yourself for your acting job. Toriel hasn’t suspected a thing. You’ve been playing nonsuspicious-Frisk better than Frisk does.
But this is getting a little old. Having a physical body again was nice for a few hours, but now it’s just a hassle. This is Frisk’s life. You can’t stay all smiles and cheer forever, and you’re pretty sure some monsters wouldn’t exactly be happy about you permanently replacing their friend.
You try to spark determination, try to wake their SOUL up. Frisk’s determination had been the thing to stir you, after all. But it’s hard to do when Frisk is just a high school student with a legal position on the side. There aren’t a lot of motivating things.
You watch all of Frisk’s favorite movies, eat their favorite foods. Go rollerblading because you know it’s something they like to do even though you hate it. Hang out with Undyne even though she’s a bit too loud for your taste.
None of it works. Frisk stays quiet. It makes you wonder if they even want to wake up.
-----
Knock, knock.
No response.
You knock again.
Knock, knock.
There’s a pause, and then a playful, “who’s there?” comes from the other side of the door.
You grind your teeth. “This isn’t a knock-knock joke,” you call, hissing through your teeth.
The door swings open. Sans looks surprised to see you. You push past him before he can block the entrance, walking into their kitchen.
“frisk…?” he calls hesitantly. “uh, buddy, what are you…?”
You ignore him, rummaging through Frisk’s memory for a location before you pull out the drawer next to the sink. You tug out a butcher knife, the biggest one you see (you couldn’t take one from Toriel’s kitchen, because she would have noticed the second it was gone), before turning on a heel.
Sans freezes in the doorway.
“oh, fuck no,” he says, and that’s all the warning you’ve got before blue-tinted magic is lifting you off the ground and sending you flying into the opposite wall.
For all it’s worth, you don’t let go of the knife. Your head thumps painfully against the wall, and you have to work to crane your neck to glare at him.
“so, buddy,” Sans says as he strolls forward, hands in his pockets, “where’s frisk?”
You laugh despite the situation, despite the burning pressure on your body. SOUL magic burns like fire, like lightning, like buttercup poisoning.
“Sansy boy,” you cough, cringing at the force it takes to speak. What the fuck. Is he even putting force on your throat? Is he trying to actually kill you right now? “I need a favor.”
He lifts a hand, gesturing vaguely to the side. You slam into another wall but slide down this time, your grip tightening on the knife.
“and why would i do that, kid? y’know, it’s not very knife to let yourself into a stranger’s house and start demanding favors.”
You shake your hair out of your face as you force yourself to your feet despite the aching in your body. You raise the knife in a warning, though you know better than to attempt a step forward.
“Look, dumbass, I wouldn’t be piloting around this body if I had the choice, okay?” You spit the words out with a venom that would have made Frisk flinch. Your patience is wearing thin. “Their SOUL is still in here. I just need to get it going again.”
Sans still looks tense, on guard and ready to strike you down if needed, but you think he’s realizing the damage he’s already done to you and recognized that he’s only hurting Frisk. He eyes you up and down. “so why isn’t frisk the one in control?” he asks, voice laced with suspicion. “what’d you do to them?”
Your lip curls back in a snarl. “I pretty much saved your life, asshole. Frisk was going to reset.”
That makes him freeze, caught off guard enough that the blue in his eye socket dies down. “what?”
You raise an eyebrow, absently starting to pick underneath your fingernails with the tip of the knife. “Yeah. You gave them false hope by telling them that they could save Asriel.”
The skeleton stalks closer to you. “i wasn’t going to lie to them-”
“Well, sometimes the truth hurts,” you snap. “And now I’ve got to pay for it. Frisk’s SOUL isn’t feeling very determined right now, so I’m gonna go find some monster to fight.”
This gets his attention. His expression darkens. “over my dead body.”
“If that’s what it takes,” you snarl, taking a step forward.
Sans holds his hands out. “alright. fine. you want a fight?”
The floor fades around you before the rest of the world does, and by the time you’re out of Sans’ “shortcut,” you’re falling to your knees and staring up at the judgement hall around you. The hall of the castle where you grew up. Your hand is shaking a bit now - you don’t like the feeling of space-time travel even in a physical form - and you look up at Sans through your bangs.
“then i’ll give you one.”
Bones splinter up and through the marble of the floor, glowing blue. You shout a quick jesus fuck before you’re on your feet, knife gripped tightly enough that your knuckles are turning white. You duck out of the way of the attack - fast, but not as bad as it is in your vague memories of other timelines. He isn’t trying to kill you here. Isn’t trying to kill Frisk.
Your SOUL floats in front of your chest, and it’s the first time you’ve actually seen it in a long time. You’re surprised to find that it looks as intact as ever, red and pulsing and rearing for the battle.
Frisk’s SOUL floats alongside it, though, a duller red and not glowing nearly as much. You wonder if that’s what yours usually looks like alongside theirs.
You brandish the knife, sweeping it in front of you and relishing at the sound it makes as it cuts through the air. You grin at Sans. “Bring it on, bastard.”
And, okay, maybe that was a bad thing to say, because Sans’ attacks start up quicker than you would have expected and you end up having a bone pierce through your chest before you recognize what’s happening. You swear, watching your SOUL flutter a bit, and reach into your backpack to tug out a package of instant noodles.
Frisk’s body wasn’t meant for this. They have no EXP. They’re still on LV1.
They weren’t a fighter, and you can tell by how weak their stance is, how limp their arms are. Their arms are meant for hugging while yours were used for fighting.
But they weren’t raised the same as you. Up until you were ten, you had to fight. You had to fight for your right to eat and fight for your right to live.
You jump forward, bypassing another bone attack and crossing the distance between you and Sans in a few seconds. You swipe at him with your knife - not nearly as hard as you would have in a real battle - and gape a little bit when he merely just steps out of the way.
“what?” he says, chuckling. The blue in his eye is unsettling. “you didn’t think i was just gonna stand there and take it, did you?”
You’re caught off-guard by the words, enough so that you’re just barely able to dodge an attack as some sort of… thing materializes in the air above you and shoots you with a beam of magic.
You’ve seen this attack in the other timelines’ memories. You’ve seen all of these attacks. You just need to utilize this.
Come on, Frisk, you think. Your SOUL is out and in a battle. Time for you to wake up. Battles, remember? Just like old times?
You go in for another attack and miss again. Magic scrapes against your arm, ripping open the sleeve of Frisk’s sweater and searing the skin. You see Sans cringe. Obviously he’d intended on you avoiding that.
Maybe I should just let him kill Frisk. Watch him have to deal with that guilt.
But - but you’re not that person anymore. Frisk isn’t like other people. They’re not a monster. They’re merciful.
It hits you like a sack of bricks, and you run forward while Sans is still mid-attack.
You get hit in the process and can feel your HP dropping dangerously low, but you don’t care. You swing at Sans full-force, and you can see the betrayal flash across his face as well as panic when he realizes he doesn’t have time to dodge it.
Your hand freezes of its own accord an inch away from Sans’ SOUL.
Chara, Frisk’s voice says in your head, and god, you could have cried from how relieved you are to hear them. But you won’t do that. Because you’re not a crybaby. Obviously.
“Good to have you back, pal,” you murmur, slipping out of control. Frisk’s body goes limp, the knife falling to the ground. From the back of the headspace, you can see Sans panickedly catching Frisk’s body before they take over control again and wobbly stand up. Both SOULs slowly fade back into their chest.
“Sans,” they gasp, sounding surprised and scared and quickly stumbling backwards. The skeleton reaches his hands out in case he needs to catch them again.
“frisk…?” he asks hesitantly, and when they nod shakily, he sighs in relief.
How long was I out? they ask you.
Three days.
They take a sharp breath. Jeez.
They launch themselves into Sans’ arms, and he only tenses up for a second before he chuckles and pats their back. “good to see ya, kid.”
When Frisk pulls back, grinning, something flashes across Sans’ face. Frisk recognizes it and frowns. “What’s wrong?”
He looks them up and down. When he looks up to their eyes again, you can tell that he’s talking to you. “quick thinkin’ there, chara, but… how’d you know that would work?”
I didn’t, you mutter.
“They just knew,” Frisk rushes out, cheeks flushing and shooting Sans an innocent smile.
He doesn’t look convinced, but he just grins and pats them on the back again, chuckling. “whatever you say, kiddo.”
They take a shortcut to get back to the surface, and for once, you don’t protest.
-----
When are we going to talk about this, Frisk?
They finish brushing their teeth, spitting the toothpaste out into the sink and rinsing out their mouth. “Nothing to talk about,” they mumble, swiping at their lips with the back of their hand.
You roll your eyes. That answer sounds a lot more like something you’d say than they would, and you’re sure your influence on their mind has something to do with that.
You were going to reset.
They hold their own gaze in the mirror, though you can tell that they’re shaking a bit and they’re starting to tear up. You don’t backtrack to reassure them; you need to have this conversation.
“You always want me to reset,” they say, a bit desperately, their lip quivering.
You sigh, shoving hands through your hair. Not like this. Not because you think you can change what happens in other timelines.
Frisk remains silent, but they ball their hands into fists.
You can’t save him, Frisk. I tried.
They take a shuddering breath.
You can’t save everyone.
They wrap their arms around themselves. “I saved you, didn’t I?”
You don’t know what to say to that.