Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You run the flat of your hands against the crisp fabric of your pants again, and Chara’s voice hisses at you, Stop that. You look like you’re trying to wipe something off. You do it once more to spite them, but then let your hands fall idle at your sides. If only you could, though. If only your nervousness were a dirty thing you could brush off your pants, instead of an icy liquid completely filling the husk of your body. You wonder how there’s room at all for such an enormous feeling inside of you, with Chara in there, too.

Your pants, though—you can't help but want to touch the stiff and crisp fabric, as blindingly white as Toriel’s fur. They’re not comfortable by a long shot, but they’re well made, fitted, formal. The jacket you wear is cut from a similar cloth, but somehow even more rigid, constricting tight against your arms when you raise them too high. It’s a rich indigo shade, the same as Asriel’s robes, with silver trim and metal links in the cuffs. You’d only managed to avoid wearing robes yourself because Asgore had kept all of Chara’s old clothing, hung up in a closet in their old bedroom, untouched and preserved. Chara had bristled at the thought of you in their former clothes, and their hackles had only gone up further at the discovery that said clothing fit you perfectly. The chance to spite them had probably motivated your choice almost as much as your need to prioritize mobility over comfort, a desire to wear pants instead of a dress-like garment. Now, though, you’re not so sure about your decision; Asriel and Toriel look enviably comfortable and at ease in their flowing robes. Two rows of shiny buttons fasten your jacket closed in the front, and frame the pattern of wings and triangles and circle proudly emblazoned upon the jacket’s breast. The Delta Rune, you learned. The old prophecy that an angel who'd seen the surface would free the monsters from the underground.

You’ve only known Chara a few days, but you’d laughed when they claimed that title for themself.

Admiring your borrowed formal wear has managed to distract you from the anxious trepidation that’s cold under your skin like condensation on glass, but then the ballroom doors open, and shards of ice fill your belly once more. You see the Royal Guard first, the Canine Unit, whose members you haven’t met yourself but whose names and personalities you already know, thanks to Chara, and then they usher in the first humans.

It’s not even been one week since the barrier fell, but already you can hardly recognize the members of your own race. Fresh clothing and full meals have been provided to them, and while the matters of permanent housing and integration are still being addressed, much of Mettaton’s hotel has been turned over to temporarily board the humans who have emerged. (He'd demanded a real interview from you in exchange, and while Asriel and Chara both objected, saying you didn't have any obligation, you’d figured it was the least you could do. The interview is scheduled for the day after tomorrow.) It’s only been a short while, but already the humans who file in look brighter, fresher, fuller than the humans you used to live amongst. You wonder if you, too, look any different.

The knowledge that everyone has been getting to enjoy surface food and hot showers fills you with determination.

The humans fill the rows of seats, escorted by eager armoured dogs, and you wonder if even a ballroom as gigantic as this one can hold them all. The castle apparently has a courtyard that would normally be used for addresses such as this, but concern over the harsh winter chill sends you to the indoor venue instead. That, and the courtyard is not closed off, its doors never shut to any monsters, and Undyne advises Toriel to, at least for now, avoid putting large crowds of humans and monsters together. Especially when waters are still being tested, tensions running high. The Guard is already working round the clock to prevent conflicts from breaking out. You’d caught sight of Papyrus briefly on your way to the ballroom, and he’d seemed overjoyed to see you again, but duty called and he answered, returning to the trio of humans he was accompanying.

Sentries have been posted to escort humans down to the city as they emerge from Mount Ebott. You’ve heard that not every human has ventured to the surface yet, but every day the underground is a little emptier, as they realize that what awaits them is not a war but a warm welcome. Those who were already here had been invited to today’s address, but, in what you’re learning is Asgore’s way, they’d also been reassured, ‘If you aren’t feeling up to it, that’s perfectly all right! Rest if you need to, because the past week has been very demanding of us all, and your well-being comes first!’

You’re not surprised that most humans showed up anyway. You’re pretty sure none of them believed Asgore’s considerate words to be sincere. You know you wouldn’t have.

Eventually there are no more humans for the Canine Unit of the Guard to usher in, and so they bound to their appointed positions, at the doors, at the stage, and at the aisles. Toriel reaches over to squeeze Asriel’s hand, and yours as well, and then she rises and steps to the center of the stage, facing all the assembled humans.

You pay close attention to her when she speaks; her poise, her powerful voice that fills the room until it pushes against the walls and ceiling, her clear and concise words that she’d gone over with you all that morning. Amazement and wonder fill you and Chara both. You don’t question for even a moment that Chara, who must have seen Toriel make queenly addresses many times before, is still awed by her. Of course they are. She's incredible.

She reaches your cue, and you and Asriel stand and move to join her. Looking out at the sea of human faces that stare expectantly at you, your nerves ice over once again. You're very aware of Chara’s clothing that matches that of the Dreemurrs, Chara’s locket heavy on your chest and the twin to Asriel’s, everything highlighting your position at the side of monster royalty, instead of out among your own kind. You’ve felt many eyes upon you since the humans first filed in, and now their gazes pierce you with the sharp intimacy of Asgore’s trident.

There are a few faces out there that you recognize.

You take a small step backward without meaning to, and Asriel’s hand finds yours. He gives it a squeeze. His soft and padded fingers are thicker than yours, but his hand is roughly the same size as yours now, not like when you first met him, and his paw pads are warm and slightly squishy. You know without looking that the audience’s eyes have fallen to your joined hands. You tighten your fingers the slightest increment, and Asriel speaks.

“Howdy!” he calls out. Like his mother, he has no need for any kind of voice amplifier, though his voice is high and reedy where Toriel’s was solid strength. “I’m Prince Asriel Dreemurr. Up until recently, I was the monster responsible for the barrier.”

Asriel knows the rhythms and flows of public speaking. If his words were a bolt of lightning, the crowd’s reaction is the rolling roar of thunder. He waits for it to die down, as he and Chara know it will so long as they stand strong, and Chara tugs at your fingers so they do not clamp down on Asriel’s quite so tightly.

“Nine days ago, a human crossed the barrier.” He doesn’t tug your hand, but moves his own forward, guiding you to take another step so you stand level with him. “Six days ago, they petitioned the King, Queen, and myself to remove the barrier and reintegrate our two races.”

This is the polite fiction which you and the royal family have agreed to present to monsters and humans, for the sake of preserving the fragile peace that’s slowly emerging. It certainly wouldn’t put anyone at ease to hear about Asgore and Asriel’s attempts on your life, or your own efforts at regicide. Alphys is the only other monster besides the Dreemurrs who knows that not everything happened according to the sunny scenario Asriel describes. You think Sans might be able to guess at the truth, too, but you haven’t seen him since that time in the castle hall, before you faced Asgore and Asriel.

Well it's not a lie, Chara laughs in your ear. You sure did demand that we take down the barrier! It’s fine to not bore everyone with the finer details.

If Chara’d had their way, Asriel wouldn’t have even admitted to being responsible for the barrier. If it had to come out that the barrier’s creator was still around, they’d insisted on shouldering the blame themself. You wonder how that would have worked; it hadn’t exactly been common knowledge that Chara still lived on within Asriel.

Regardless, Asriel hadn’t agreed. “That wouldn’t be right,” He’d objected. “It’s not as though either of us were solely responsible, and I’m not going to deny my actions.”

‘You wouldn’t have done any of it without me,’ Chara had insisted with your hands. ‘It’s not fair, for you to paint a big target on your back, while I get to hide safely behind humanity’s little hero.’

“And then what happens, the first time a human finds out who used to be king before the barrier fell?” Asriel had reached out to hold your hands, achieving the dual-effect of cutting off Chara’s protests while comforting them with the contact. Chara had bared your teeth, aware of the manipulation, even while Asriel smiled. “No. There are some things we can’t share, but there’s no hiding the truth of the past hundred years, even if we wanted to.”

So now Asriel describes an idyllic version of the end of your journey, unaware of Chara’s commentary to you. “The human who came to us was determined to create a world where everyone could be happy.” His hand not holding yours makes a broad sweep to encompass the assembled humans. “Through their earnest and heartfelt pleas, I, too, came to wish for this peaceful coexistence. I believe that with their help, and with everyone’s best efforts, we can reach the future they dreamed of. And so, I would like to introduce, for the first time in their official capacity, Royal Ambassador Frisk!”

He raises your joined hands, and the shoulders of your jacket tighten in protest, but you don’t let go.

It’s clearly a moment meant to be filled with applause, but silence follows Asriel’s proclamation. You chance a peek at him and are relieved to see that he has not let his kind smile fall with disappointment. Of course he knows how to keep up appearances. It’s hard to remember that the little king at your side ruled the surface for generations, when he’s as small as you now. But he has years of experience to fall back upon.

He moves smoothly into the next part of the practiced presentation. “Because Ambassador Frisk uses sign language, I will be serving as their interpreter when needed.”

There’s another planned pause here, and with good reason. Now the audience of humans breaks into noise, a clamour interrupted by voices raised in accusation. “Awfully convenient that your ambassador can’t speak for themself!” “I bet you threatened that kid into going along with whatever you say!” “If they really got you to bring down the barrier six days ago, why are we only seeing them now?”

Chara is seething inside of you, their presence a boiling fear that steams up under your skin. How dare these damn pests question Asriel! Don’t they know this is more than they deserve! You almost can’t distinguish Chara’s thoughts from your own, as they bloom furious in your mind. You clench your free hand into a fist and then loosen it, reasserting your presence in your body. You're the one in charge now, and you are not afraid. You understand humans, and that’s why you’re the Ambassador.

You remove your hand from Asriel’s, and tell him, pointing, ‘Third row from the front. Two from the left. That woman. Call her up here.’

Asriel does as you say without a moment's hesitation, though he somehow makes your demand into a kind invitation. You hear the command under it, though. The humans surrounding the woman you've singled out back away quickly, leaving her standing isolated. She does not flinch away under everyone's attention, and stares at you instead of Asriel. No emotion is permitted to change the shape of her face. More than a year ago, you'd modeled your own blank stare off of hers as best you could.

She does not hurry to move, but she is not stalling either. She moves with the expected pace of a woman whose face bears shallow wrinkles and whose hair is a silver only a few shades darker than Asriel’s fur. Hushed whispers fizzle out as she climbs the stairs to join you on the stage.

‘This is Scientist S-A-G-E,’ you tell Asriel. To the human scientist, you sign, ‘You tell everyone if he's translating right.’

She inclines her head to look down at you, and you match her stare as evenly as you can. Even though she'd been the only scientist who would sign conversations with you, even though the movements of your hands would be supplemented by facial expression, you'd never known her thoughts.

“The knife?” she asks. She's not whispering, but her voice is low; you've no doubt you, Asriel, and Toriel are the only ones who can hear her.

Your friend who’d loved books and learning, who could spend hours poring over water-damaged texts he’d salvaged from the dump, had called Scientist Sage his big sister. They looked similar enough to be related, but the gap in their ages was such that you doubted they were truly siblings. If you hadn’t been there, he’d have been the youngest. When they’d extracted his soul, it had been bright violet.

‘Broken,’ you answer. The sign is almost exactly the same as the movement of Asriel’s hands when he snapped the knife in two.

Chara shouts in your ear, Why would you tell her the truth? She knows you should be dead, now! You keep your favoured blank look on your face, revealing none of Chara’s alarm. But if your facade is as smooth undisturbed snow, Scientist Sage’s features are hard and unyielding as permafrost. How the news of her purported sibling’s lost soul truly affects her, you’ll never know.

“And yet you ask me to help you?” she says.

You nod. Your fingers bump against Chara’s locket on your chest when you sign, ‘Please.’

She looks from you to Asriel. For his part, the little king (Former king, Chara corrects, but you couldn’t care less) only smiles up at her. There is no hint of anything beyond calm diplomacy and friendly welcome on his face as he regards this stranger you have asked to help. You and Scientist Sage might have your blank faces, but Asriel’s kind smile makes frost form inside your ribcage. It’s not a lie of omission the way your lack of expression is; it’s an outright falsehood to hide the nervousness that you know (because Chara knows) that he feels.

You can tell the crowd of humans watching you is growing restless, waiting for some kind of statement to address their fears. Your eyes start to slide toward them, but you force yourself to look back at Scientist Sage instead.

Finally, she nods.

When she turns to face the audience, Toriel is at her side, offering her a small cylindrical piece of equipment (Chara provides the word, microphone). Scientist Sage does not hesitate for even a moment, not a drop of fear anywhere in her face or her poise, and she takes the microphone from the larger woman’s hands with aplomb.

“Greetings,” she says. The microphone gives her words an echo like Mettaton’s, even as it lends her small voice the presence to reach even the back of the room. “For those of you who do not know me, I am Raine Sage. I was one of the scientists who reported directly to President Curtiss.” There's a ripple cast through the crowd at her statement, and you are reassured that calling her up was the correct decision. “Over the past year, my colleagues and I worked with Frisk and several other candidates in a project meant to bring down the barrier.” With a graceful arc of her hand, she indicates you. “I will verify the accuracy of Prince Asriel Dreemurr’s translations.”

Asriel opens his mouth, but before he can thank her, a voice shouts out from the crowd. “Why doesn’t she just translate instead of the monster?”

You spin to glare at the audience, but the damage is done; the ballroom is filled with malcontent murmuring, and you’ve no way to pinpoint the original dissenter. Your eyes narrow and your fists clench, and Chara blazes under your skin.

“Ambassador Frisk,” Sage says into the microphone. The grumbling from the crowd slams into the wall of her voice with an abrupt stop. “What do you think of that?”

You crane your neck up to peer at her through narrowed eyes, and she meets your eyes with an impassive gaze. For all you can tell from looking at her, she has no concern one way or another with how this plays out. Chara is oddly silent within you, as well. A surreptitious glance at Toriel isn’t helpful; in fact, she seems to be watching you expectantly, awaiting your response.

You turn to Asriel, and he has nothing for you but that false smile he gave to Scientist Sage moments ago.

You sign to him a demand that he voice your words, and with sharp motions, make your response. His eyes grow the slightest bit larger as he realizes your answer. “That might go a little better if Scientist Sage is the one to say it,” he whispers.

“No,” she says over you, almost before he’s finished. She keeps her voice mercifully low as well, but her tone leaves no room for further objections. “Ambassador Frisk is correct. You are their translator.”

Asriel’s big eyes dart from you to her, then back to you. “All right,” he concedes, letting his shoulders drop just enough that you realize the tension he’d been holding. “There’s not much point to having you be the Ambassador if I don’t trust your decisions on things like this, is there?” He flashes you a wry grin, before his princely mask slots back into place, and he once more faces the crowd.

“If you cannot trust that I will honestly represent Ambassador Frisk, then there is no point to proceeding further,” Asriel says, his voice a sliver of steel between your ribs, and there it is. There’s the monster who will grow up to be the king who nearly put an end to your journey. He continues in the same terrifying voice that makes Chara happily coil inside you, “In order to achieve a lasting peace, the first small step is that you must put at least this much faith in us.”

Scientist Sage is quick to speak into the microphone again, an aggressive, “Any other questions?” shot out at the crowd. You’re not sure her help is necessary now, not with Asriel using that voice, but you appreciate that she has seemingly thrown her lot in with you and the Dreemurrs. Into the silence that follows, she continues, “I will assist in building this initial trust, and that is all. The role of translator is not mine, nor do I desire it.” She lowers the microphone, and turns her cool gaze to Asriel.

He nods up to her, as nonchalant as if she had told him what time it was. “Thank you, Scientist Sage,” he says, once more the genial, smiling prince. You remind yourself that there is no danger from him, not anymore. Just in time, as he turns to you, “Ambassador Frisk, if you would?”

You clench and unclench your fists. You’re here, the barrier is down, and the little king is on your side. The unplanned detour of your fellow humans’ mistrust has been successfully navigated, and now it's your turn to do your part in fixing the problem you helped create. Despite the hours spent practicing, despite Chara’s crisp, clean clothes with the shiny buttons and fancy coattails, despite Asriel and Toriel at your side, you're not at all ready.

You call up the memory of how it felt, to have Toriel place her trust in you, and you take a step forward.

Asriel and Toriel had told you, when you first started to plan your address, to speak from the heart, to say what you felt and not worry about making it sound pretty or refined. It’s not like the signs that you know have enough nuance to craft a speech like Toriel’s, anyway. Besides, Asriel will polish your words for you. You’ve rehearsed to the point where he’s memorized your speech, such as it is, and can translate without watching your hands. He’ll stand one step behind you, allowing you to remain the face of peaceful outreach even while he acts as your voice.

Once more you regard the audience before you. Looking down on them from the elevation of the stage reminds you a little bit of watching a crowd of monsters from a perch on Undyne’s shoulder. You take the time to let your gaze wander from face to face, and you can see the wary, drawn expressions they all wear to look up at you. Scientist Sage’s words and promise to vet Asriel’s translation may have quieted the crowd, but it hasn’t calmed them.

You lift your hands in the first planned signs, and behind you, Asriel’s voice rings out.

“I won’t waste time asking how you all are doing,” Asriel says for you. His intonation has changed, no longer the gentle guiding tones of a prince, nor the cold voice of the little king, and you appreciate it, that he doesn’t try to force his own presentation into your words. Instead his delivery is blunt, but not unfeeling; brusque and matter-of-fact, but empathetic where needed. “Not only am I aware I would not hear an honest response, but I know how I felt when I first crossed the barrier.” Scientist Sage watches your hands closely and says nothing. You’re lucky, you think, that she was in the crowd. She taught you most of these signs; you don’t have to worry you might be going too fast for her to keep up.

“The very first monster I met was Queen Toriel.” When speaking for you, Asriel does not let affection for his mother cloud his voice. “Upon crossing the barrier, I was completely unprepared for the blizzard that greeted me. I am certain I would have frozen to death, had I not encountered the Queen at that time. Of course, the moment I first saw her, I became certain I was going to die of another cause.”

At Chara’s urging, you pause there, and Asriel’s voice stops with your hands. You let your fellow humans consider that none of you have died yet, despite the absolute knowledge that monsters are dangerous murderers who drove your race near to extinction.

“The Queen knew I was human, and she could see that I had a weapon, a knife I had taken with me. But she did not attack me, and instead, invited me to her home. I followed her out of necessity, but I never stopped expecting a trick, even when she provided me food and shelter from the storm. It had to be a trap of some sort. I could not place my trust in her kindness.”

You let your hands fall and shake your head. Your hair, washed and combed, is soft when it brushes against your cheeks. Though you’re not the one speaking, you take a deep breath, feeling your lungs push against your ribs, before you pick up your hands again.

“So you see, I don’t need to ask you how you’re doing. I know. And I know that even though we’re here now—the barrier gone, soft beds to sleep in, hot food to eat—it feels too easy. You can’t believe that there won’t be some kind of catch, that you’re not being lulled into a false sense of security. You can’t trust that you’re safe, and that it’s okay.”

You take another moment to let your hands slow to a stop, resting them on Chara’s locket. You look past Scientist Sage to Toriel, and she smiles at you. She knows it’s you, not Chara right now but you, the human she’s only known nine days, the human who stabbed her son in the back while he was crying in her arms. Yet her mouth pulls upward and pushes at her cheeks, her eyes take on a little curve, and she inclines her head just so toward you. You could almost believe that she’s proud of you. The remaining ice inside you melts, and you feel a smile of your own bloom across your face. You turn back to the audience then, and you’re not embarrassed to display your wide smile, to let your happiness shine out unfiltered and bright even under everyone’s focus.

Asriel picks up seamlessly when you raise your hands again. Matching the renewed energy of your signs, there’s a note of excitement in his voice. “But you are safe, and everything is going to be okay. If you can’t believe that yet, that’s okay too. Because monsters are genuinely, sincerely kind. Some of them might be as scared of us as we are of them, but they’re compassionate. They want to share this surface with us. So even if you doubt it now, it won’t stop being true. And one day, that kindness will reach all of us. Even if it takes months, or years, that kindness won’t change.

“When I crossed the barrier, all I cared about was bringing it down so that we could all see the surface. But once I got here, I started to care about something else, too. Now I won’t settle for only some people being happy. I’m going to work hard as Ambassador so that all of us—humans and monsters—can live happily together.”

You let your fists fall apart from the final sign, your hands coming to hang loose at your sides. Your heart has climbed up into your throat, and Chara is lodged up there with it, waiting. Should you have said more? You didn’t want to make it too long, but maybe you should have added something else. Every time you’d tried to put words to your other experiences, though—realizing monsters had desires and feelings and families, that Papyrus was truly your friend and truly cared for you, and that you honestly did want a world where everyone could be happy, that you didn’t want to hurt monsters any more than you had to, if at all—there didn’t seem to be any combination of words that could capture those feelings. Certainly not well enough to convince your fellow humans, at any rate. But maybe you just didn’t try hard enough. You’re the Ambassador; it’s your responsibility to bridge the gap of understanding between your two races, and now the ballroom is silent with your failure.

Just wait, Chara hisses at you. Put your panic attack on hold for five seconds, would you—

You don’t recognize the noise at first, abrupt and loud and repetitive, but then Chara does something that feels like a hand under your chin, guiding your head until your gaze alights on a figure seated in one of the farthest rows. The noise registers with abrupt shock as you watch his hands come together. He’s clapping. Someone is clapping for you.

Another pair of hands joins in, arrhythmic and clashing, but when a third person starts, the combined sound starts to resemble applause. More and more humans add their hands, the noise growing louder, and you hear someone whistle, sharp and piercing.

Not everyone in the audience is participating. You see a few frowning faces you know from your past, their hands stubbornly still and silent in their laps, or locked in arms crossed over their chests. But the majority of the crowd brings their hands together for you, for you and Asriel, for a peace between humans and monsters. For a hopeful future.

You look back toward the human who started it all, but you can’t find him again. He’d been so far back, you’d only been able to pick him out at first from the motion, but now nearly everyone is moving. You scan the back rows of the audience intently, but still the person who’d initiated the applause eludes you.

Chara dismisses your concern, confidently remarking that someone would have started clapping soon enough, and it hardly matters who was first. That speech was mostly Asriel, they comment, so of course it went over well.

You spend another moment searching the back of the room, before Asriel’s hand on your shoulder reminds you of where you are. You turn to the little king with a smile, putting aside your search for the human who’d first applauded.

You hadn’t gotten a good look anyway, and with the distance between you—and it had only been an instant—but you’d thought, in that brief moment…

He’d looked like the old man from the marsh who’d taught you your first signs.

Your initial debut as Ambassador requires one more audience today. After the dogs have guided the humans back to their temporary residences, and you have thanked Scientist Sage for her assistance, Toriel, Asriel and you make your return to the castle. You still think the name of it, Our Home, is silly, but Chara grumbles that you don't understand. Even if Asriel is as bad at naming things as father, it's a lot better than New New Home or something. You’re not sure if they’re being sarcastic or not, but they don’t go into further detail, and you decide it’s not worth pursuing. If it’s important, they’ll bring it up again later.

For now, you follow Toriel and Asriel to what Chara refers to as the ‘receiving room.’ From the castle’s huge entryway, it’s through the door to the left and down the hall, a comfortable room with tall, clear windows, several floral-patterned sofas and armchairs, and a solid wood table in the center. (Mahogany, Chara says to you with audible pride. It’s followed by a flash of irritation when they realize the word means nothing to you.)

The room is not empty when you arrive. Seated primly in an armchair furthest from the entrance, flanked by two more Guardsmen whom Chara knows but you have yet to meet for yourself, an older human watches you and the Dreemurrs enter. His legs are crossed at the knee, and his hands rest upon them. He is not sat relaxed into the chair, but straight-backed and alert, yet he still appears the very picture of comfort and nonchalance. Like you and every other human, he’s been provided new clothing and shoes, items that are not threadbare and actually fit properly. A pair of glasses rest on his face—were those, too, provided by the monsters, or are they an old find from the dump?

“Your majesties. Ambassador,” the human says smoothly, rising as you enter. His voice is deep as a chasm underground. “Thank you for taking the time to meet with me.”

“Not at all, President Curtiss,” Toriel replies, moving forward to shake his hand. “We must thank you for being so accommodating to our schedule.” Asriel takes his mother’s place, greeting the President, and then it’s your turn.

Chara looks up at him through your eyes, and you can feel their distaste in the back of your throat. So this is the kind of human who would agree to kill children in exchange for their own freedom, they comment. Your first thought is to object—it was the scientists who settled on that plan, not the President—but Sage’s words echo in your memory, that she’d reported directly to President Curtiss. When he shakes your hand, your grip is weak.

“It is a pleasure to finally meet the young Prince and Ambassador,” he says, sitting back down and looking to you and Asriel. He wears a smile that is too similar to Asriel’s stage presentation. His skin is pale, and his eyes are red; it reminds you of the painting of Chara, and you wonder if the two might be distantly related.

At that thought, Chara shudders so violently that it sends a physical shiver down your spine. Never compare me to another human ever again, they hiss. Bad enough I have to live in a human body now, without disgusting reminders like that. Not ‘your body’ or even ‘this body,’ but simply ‘a body.’ Then again, you’re not sure what you were expecting. You sit with Asriel across from the President, and Toriel settles in an armchair set at an angle to you.

“I must commend you on your first address,” Curtiss says, inclining his head toward you. “It was quite moving.”

‘Thank you,’ you sign. Asriel translates, but it’s probably not necessary; context alone can tell the President what you meant.

He continues, “Planned or not, the scrutiny placed upon your chosen translator provided a good distraction from the question of where you were when the barrier came down, and why it’s taken you six days to assume your official role.”

It’s only Chara’s support that keeps you still in your chair. They don’t take control, but their fingers curl into yours, keeping your fists from jerking to sign a panicked excuse.

“President Curtiss,” Asriel says, smiling, “Is that a question you’d like to ask?” Even though his voice is now cordial and light, it’s the same tone he’d used to ask if his father was trying to kill you before he could get your soul. Chara holds you still.

“I admit I’m curious,” says the President, leaning back and lacing his fingers, “but it doesn’t really matter that much now, does it? Though you should probably think of a good answer for the next person who asks.”

“I’m not sure I understand what you’re saying,” Asriel says, letting his brows pinch just so. If you hadn’t ever been on the receiving end of his smile, and if you didn’t have Chara pressed close against the forefront of your mind, watching through your eyes, then you would have been completely fooled. He’s the perfect image of a sweet little prince who can’t comprehend of the deceit the human before him is implying.

“Please, let’s skip the charades.” President Curtiss shakes his head, and then has to tuck a few dislodged strands of his long hair back behind his ear. “The story of young Frisk convincing you to bring down the barrier with nothing more than their heartfelt pleas is a fiction I am happy to corroborate, but do not expect me to believe it.” His eyes narrow, though the red of his irises still burns. “You were responsible for the barrier. The abominable king of the monsters. We can’t even guess at how many humans you cut down, only that it’s more than you left alive.” He leans forward—not much, only enough that the motion is visible. Asriel does not lean back, nor does Chara allow you to flinch under that gaze. “Typically, those who hold such power do not choose to give it up, unless they have no other choices.”

“And yet,” Toriel intervenes before Asriel can reply to the President’s thinly veiled accusation, “you have been quick to agree to nearly every proposal we have put forth for the integration of our races, even when it compromises your own authority. You have made few queries as to the continuation of your own position as a ruler, and no demands. One might almost think you are eager to hand the reigns over to us, so to speak.”

Did she just make a pun? Chara cries gleefully.

“One would not be terribly far from the truth,” the President concedes, reclining back in his chair once more. “I am ill-suited to the role of leader. I would never have accepted this position, were the other options not appallingly worse. Provided your intentions are, in fact, to bring us to an era of peace, it’s clear to me that following your lead is the best choice.”

How fortunate, Chara comments to you. I suppose he has at least some intelligence.

“I am not sure you’re as ill-suited as you believe,” Toriel reflects. “It seems that you prioritize your people’s well-being over power or appearances. That, to me, is among the greatest qualities a ruler can have.”

“You flatter me,” President Curtiss demurs. “But I also am of the mind that the end justifies the means.” He fixes that blood-bright stare on you. “I sacrificed the lives of children in order to secure the future of the rest of humanity. A true leader would have found a better way.”

“On that, we agree,” Toriel says, hard metal present in her voice.

You tap Asriel on the shoulder, but when you sign, your eyes are on the President. ‘Are you trying to apologize to me?’

After Asriel translates, the President closes his eyes and takes a breath, his shoulders rising on the inhale, then dropping. He opens his eyes, looks to you, and nods. “I am.”

‘I don’t need your apology,’ you sign. ‘Things worked out for me. I’m still alive.’ Asriel doesn’t stumble over the translation, nor does he censor you, but he does glance briefly to you, an unreadable expression on his face. You don’t look away from the President. ‘If you’re really sorry for my friends dying, you can keep working with us to make sure humans and monsters get along. And stop being difficult about it. If you want to say something, say it instead of making people guess.’

Toriel covers her mouth, but you can see the curve of her cheeks, and her shoulders give a little shake. Once Asriel finishes speaking for you, a smile creeps across President Curtiss’s face. He starts to chuckle, and then throws his head back and laughs outright, full and unrestrained. Toriel’s giggling becomes audible, and Asriel’s smile has melted to something more genuine.

President Curtiss recovers quickly enough. His smile diminishes but does not disappear, as he tells you, “You will make an excellent Ambassador.”

The rest of the meeting goes much more easily, President Curtiss finally speaking directly instead of dancing around implications and hints. He’s already spoken at length with Asgore and Toriel, during meetings held before you and Asriel had woken up, and while he’ll retain autonomous authority as humanity’s leader, he’s not interested in competing with the Dreemurrs in a bid for power. It’s not long before he and Toriel pick up a previous discussion of providing humans with a monetary allowance while they acquire jobs and homes, and there’s some dispute regarding how long said allowance should remain in place, or if the allowance should be in the form of food and rent vouchers instead of distributed entirely monetarily. Rather than striking down each other’s ideas, the two analyze and discuss the pros and cons of various options, taking the best features of each plan and melding it into the next. Asriel listens intently, offering his own input at points, and you try to follow, but it’s like the math and charts in Alphys’s lab; you’re able to recognize the broader subject of their discussion, but can’t comprehend the details.

Of course you don’t get it, Chara comments. I doubt you even know what the word ‘economy’ means.

I do too! You protest.

Do tell.

It’s… it’s like the food chain, and stuff. Like the way an environment can support animals and plants.

Oh my god, Chara laughs. That’s ecology, not economy!

You huff and cross your arms, and then you realize that three sets of eyes are on you and the conversation has come to a stop. “Is everything all right, my child?” Toriel asks, setting a hand on your shoulder.

Even if President Curtiss has waited for Asriel’s translations of everything you’ve said, and he probably can’t follow your signs on his own, you don’t want to sign that Chara was picking on you in front of him. Come to think of it, you don’t really want to admit that to Toriel at all. Instead, you say, ‘I need the restroom. May I be excused?’

“Of course! You need not ask, dear.”

You slide off the sofa, leaving Asriel behind. He glances after you for a moment, before the conversation resumes and he joins in again. One of the two guards—the one with the rabbit ears—follows you to the door. As you walk through the hall, you look over your shoulder to find that he’s still tailing you. He waits outside when you shut yourself in the bathroom. Your excuse for leaving wasn’t a complete fabrication, and you do have to use the toilet, but once you’re done and have washed your hands, you put the seat down to have a place to sit.

Well this is certainly much more entertaining than the conversation we left, Chara remarks. I sure do love sitting alone in the bathroom when I could be with my family instead. You scoff, blowing your bangs out of your eyes. It isn’t like Chara was interested in the conversation. They were just as bored as you. Yes, but now I have to sit here with only you for company. Well, you’re not happy with it, either, but you’re not going to demand Toriel or Asriel entertain you instead of continue their discussion with the President.

You catch your reflection in the mirror above the sink and stick out your tongue, pretending that it’s Chara you’re looking at. Then you pause, furrowing your brows, and put your tongue back in your mouth. You rise and put your hands on the sink, standing on your tip toes, and lean in close to the mirror.

In the bathroom, there’s a small window with frosted glass that admits soft sunlight. Set in the ceiling, a warm yellow light bulb shines down. When you’d hidden in Sans and Papyrus’s bathroom, you’d deliberately avoided looking at your reflection, and when you’d seen yourself in the mirror at Alphys’s, you’d been distracted by the makeup. By the time you’d gotten to the mirror in the castle, it had been so dark that colours were dull and indiscernible. So, this is really the first time you’ve investigated your appearance in true light since arriving on the surface.

You open your eyes wide and stare, studying the glitter of light reflected in your irises, tilting your head this way and that.

It’s still you. It’s still your body. Your hair and skin are dark and your nose is round and your eyes catch the sunlight in an unexpected hue, but that’s just the light. You let your weight sink back on your heels and nod at your reflection.

Chara slips past you, and before you know it they’re crossing your eyes and sticking out your lower jaw so your bottom row of teeth jut out, making an obnoxious face in the mirror. Quick as they came, they recede, and you giggle silently in spite of yourself at the face they made.

Come on, they say. You can't hide in here for the rest of that meeting, even if it is boring. You’ve got responsibilities. Are you the Ambassador or not?

You hate that they’re right.

When you finally leave the bathroom, the guard is still waiting, and they follow you back through the hall without a word. You rejoin the others in the receiving room, and as their discussion continues, shifting topics to how to meet the medical needs of the newly emerged humans, Chara reluctantly offers you definitions and explanations when concepts fly past you. You still don’t understand most of it, but you listen closely, clinging tightly to each new piece of information.

When, finally, your audience with the President comes to an end, you try not to spring to your feet too eagerly. Judging by Toriel’s fond smile and the quirk of President Curtiss’s eyebrow, you do not succeed. Asriel, too, smirks at you as he stands. Even knowing he's not precisely the same age as you, it's a bit embarrassing to be shown up by the other kid in the room.

There are still some hours left in the day before the sun sets, but your schedule ends here. Toriel and Asgore have both agreed it will be best to ease you into your role of Ambassador, a little bit each day. You'd told them you could do more, and in fact you’d been the one to convince them to let you start today, instead of waiting longer. But considering how difficult it is now to concentrate on the President's parting words, how unpleasant the stiff fabric of your jacket collar is against your neck, and how you just want to pull on your old ratty hoodie and hide under the second bed in Asriel’s room… well, maybe the King and Queen knew what they were talking about, after all.

Toriel goes with the guards to escort President Curtiss back to his temporary residence at Mettaton’s hotel, while you and Asriel retreat to the rear wing of the castle. It’s much less imposing than the rest of the building in terms of architecture and furnishings both. The rooms and windows and doors are all smaller, the floor is hardwood with area rugs instead of marble tile, and there’s a cozy little kitchen that’s very similar to the one in Toriel’s cottage. It’s almost like a little house stitched on to the back end of the castle as an afterthought. It’s in this wing that you woke up two days ago—specifically, in Asriel’s room, where you head now. Once there, you’re quick to shuck off Chara’s formal clothing and replace it with your own shirt, hoodie, and jeans. The closet is full of clothing that will fit you, but it’s all Chara’s, all in the wrong colours, or too restrictive, or too fancy. You wrap your arms around yourself and rub the familiar ripped hems of your sleeves between your fingers, and you eye the dark space under the second bed.

“Don’t you want to wear something else?” Asriel asks. He’s swapped out his robes for a huge yellow and green striped sweater. You recognize it from the painting you saw on the way to Asgore’s garden room. Knowing that its twin hangs in Chara’s closet and would perfectly fit your frame makes you hug yourself tighter as you shake your head.

You suspect if you crawl under the bed and hide in that small, dark, concealed space, like tucking yourself into some rocky niche in the marsh, Asriel will grow concerned and go get one of his parents, and you don't want to interrupt whatever they're doing. They’ve definitely got more important things to spend their time on than your overactive nerves. You can’t just retreat any time you feel overwhelmed by the duties of your position. Besides, you’re done for the day, so there’s nothing to hide from anymore. You should be fine now. You are fine now. It doesn't make sense, that you should crave a tiny dark crevice to curl into, something similar to one of your old hideaways underground, when instead you could go outside, under that big, bright, open sky. You’ve come this far because you’d wanted to see the sun more than anything else, after all. The freedom of nothing over your head, of open air as far as the eye can see—that's what you worked so hard for. That’s what you’re supposed to want, not the cramped space under the bed that reminds you of cracks between rock walls, just barely big enough to admit your small body.

Maybe if you remind yourself of what you’ve achieved, you’ll feel less like hiding from this new world that’s so huge and vast. ‘I want to go outside,’ you sign to Asriel, taking a deep breath and forcing your shoulders to relax.

“Will you at least put on a coat?” Asriel asks, thankfully unaware of how your eyes keep drifting back to the shadow beneath the bed. “Mom will kill me if I let you go out like that.”

It'll almost certainly be one of Chara’s old coats, but the idea of freezing is even less appealing than the thought of sharing their clothes, so you nod acquiescence. You follow Asriel to yet another closet out in the hall—how many clothes do these people own? They’re royalty, sure, but this is excessive. He pulls out two thick coats and hands you one that’s a dark green, almost close to black. You wonder if Chara owns anything that’s not green and yellow, besides their formal wear that matches the King and Queen’s indigo garments.

You feel like a big ball of moss in the coat; you can’t move your arms quite as much as you’d like, and there’s so much padding around your torso, you could probably lay on your side and roll your way through the hall. Asriel hands you a pair of soft mittens as well, and then a knit hat with earflaps and a puff ball on the top of it. You eye it critically—it is, of course, green and yellow, a cheery flower pattern circling through the material, and Asriel had only asked you to put on a coat, not the rest of this. But he looks at you expectantly, and so you take the hat and pull it down over your head anyway. Your hair is flattened under it, and you have to push your bangs out of your eyes.

Asriel doesn’t bother with a hat or mittens for himself, and you think his coat is not as thickly padded as yours. Not for the first time, you envy the Dreemurr family their warm fur.

Outside, the park that surrounds the castle is still coated in a mostly undisturbed blanket of snow. The path to the castle’s main entrance has been cleared, of course, as well as a walkway to the exit from the rear wing. But most of the grass and flowers are still buried, and few footprints have ventured off the path. The smooth, bright surface of the snow gleams under the sunlight, and you blink blearily at your surroundings as your eyes adjust.

Once you’ve stood outside the door without moving for a solid minute, Asriel leans over to catch your gaze. “Did you want to go for a walk or something?” he asks. You shrug. Other than reminding yourself of what you’d accomplished and are still working for, you didn’t have a plan. Asriel kicks at a clump of snow with his bare, furry feet, and he looks out over the wide, empty park, to the buildings beyond its borders. “I haven’t really been out just to be out in ages,” he says. “There was always something new that needed our attention, and there was never any time. I don’t even know if the same stores are on main street, or who lives nearby anymore.” He’s still smiling softly, but you feel Chara’s regret sinking inside you, a mirror to the tone that’s slipped into Asriel’s voice. The little king turns his gaze to you. “We could go explore the neighborhood a bit,” he suggests.

You nod, and he begins to lead the way down the path. You make to follow, but instead of walking after him, you find yourself dropping down to sit on your heels as your mittened hands reach for the snow. You watch as you grab a handful and pack it into a ball between your hands. You’d had no idea it could be molded in such a way, and you rise with the snow held in your left hand. Asriel hasn’t gotten far, and his back is still to you. Chara’s smile forms on your face, and they pull your arm back and throw.

Chara’s aim is true, and the snowball hits Asriel right between the shoulder blades, bursting on impact. He stumbles forward, and when he looks over his shoulder at you, his mouth hanging open and his eyebrows pulled together in clear betrayal, you feel Chara’s smile grow to a full on grin. They tug their mittens from your hands, shoving them into their coat pockets, and sign, ‘Gonna cry, Azzy?’ The sign they use isn’t Asriel’s regular name sign; as your hand forms it, the nickname becomes clear in your mind.

You can see the realization dawn on Asriel’s face, and it’s like the sun rising. He’s been smiling at you all day, but the way his eyes brighten at seeing Chara is entirely different. Of course it is. Why would he ever direct such a warm expression at you? He laughs and darts to the side, his paws crunching through the snow as he scoops up his own handful of snow. “It’s on now!” he cries gleefully, packing it into a ball. Chara pulls their mittens back on, and you find yourself running off the path as Asriel raises his arm and hurls the snowball at you. It glances off your elbow, and Chara almost starts to laugh before they remember your uncooperative body. Instead they drop down and cup more snow between your hands, hurrying to form another snowball before Asriel can.

Asriel gets a lucky shot off and a snowball catches you in the chest, but Chara’s aim is consistently better, and Asriel soon has a layer of snow dusting his coat and caught in the fur of his long ears. He laughs when his aim goes wide or when Chara dodges successfully, and he laughs when Chara nails him with yet another snowball to the shoulder. Chara stoops to gather up yet more ammunition, and you nudge at your fingers, Can I try?

They go still for a moment, and you try to move your hands—and you’re shoved backward, hard. Your hands go on packing the snow into a sphere with Chara’s decisive movements, and you reel back, disconnected and grasping at nothing. Their face betrays none of your displeasure; they continue to smile, instead of pressing their lips into a thin line, and their eyes are as wide as ever, instead of narrowed. You gather yourself, and then you throw yourself against them. It’s about as effective as punching a wall. They don’t even stumble as they rise, spinning on your heel in a swift motion and lobbing the snowball at Asriel. It hits him dead on the nose, and his legs fly out from under him as he’s knocked back onto his rear.

Shut up. You’d just waste this, Chara says. Look at him.

Asriel’s wiping the snow off his face, his hands brushing down his long muzzle, and yet his eyes are still curved in happy crescents when he looks at you. No. At Chara. Nobody’s ever looked at you like that. You don’t even know a word for it, for the level of affection and fondness in that smile. To call it adoration seems cheap.

You see? Chara demands. You can sit back and watch for now. They pause, and then, with a wry giggle, Not like you have a lot of choice, anyway. I’ve got a lot of practice subduing human souls, and you’re not even that much, are you? Just a body’s memories of a wretched little backstabber.

If you had even the slightest purchase in your body, you’re sure you’d feel your nose tingling and your chest tightening, the sure signs you were about to start crying. Instead there’s only the crisp winter air on your cold nose, only the slightly louder breaths of exertion from Chara running to and fro. Without your body’s physical reactions to your sadness, the feeling has no outlet, and wraps around you heavily, an extra layer of distance between you and your skin. It drags you away from your hand that reaches out to Asriel, helping him back to his feet; it numbs your smiling face and clouds your vision.

Your hands are signing something, and Asriel happily agrees, but the motions of your hands are foreign to you, and his words are warped and unintelligible. Chara lets your body fall back into the snow, and Asriel lands next to you, and you can’t even feel the cold seeping into your jeans.

Yesterday, Toriel had picked you up off the floor after you and Chara had fought over who got to eat dinner to the point that you’d tumbled right out of your chair. Your plate had spilled across the floor, your silverware spinning away, and both of you had frozen at the sight of the wasted food, trembling. But then Toriel’s arms were around you, your head resting on her shoulder as you shook and tears beaded at the corners of your eyes, and her hand was smoothing your hair while she whispered to you that it was all right.

Once you and Chara confessed the problem to her—and it had taken a lot of coaxing—she’d suggested that it might be best for you to have a schedule. “Let us try alternating each day. Frisk, tomorrow is your first day as Ambassador, so would you agree to give the rest of today to Chara?”

You’d agreed, even though you wanted to keep eating the dinner she’d prepared. You could still taste it when Chara was in charge, but not as well, and they ate too fast to really enjoy it. But you’d consoled yourself with the knowledge that you’d get dinner to yourself the next day.

Only the next day is today, it’s now, it’s your day and Chara’s pulled control out from under you, easy as anything. They wave your arms and legs up and down and back and forth in the snow, and next to you, Asriel does the same. When the two of you rise, Chara is careful with your hands and feet, not disturbing the shape they’ve left in the snow any more than they have to. The turn you to look at the the silhouettes of your body and Asriel’s.

Snow angels. The term drifts from their thoughts to yours, and you recoil, but there’s nowhere for you to escape.

Chara brushes snow off your legs, and you try once more. Toriel said we’re supposed to take turns, you say.

At the same time, Asriel asks, “Wanna go for that walk?” Something cold spirals inside you at his words. He was there, when Toriel proposed the idea—he knows that you and Chara agreed to swap days. He knows that today is your day, and he smiles at Chara, not you, and holds out his hand.

Your mouth smiles at him, and your head bobs in an affirmative. Though your shoulders don’t shrug, you have the distinct impression of Chara making the gesture to you. Mother also said that exceptions could be made for extenuating circumstances, they reply, and take Asriel’s hand.

Just hours ago, Asriel had held your hand to support you as you stood before countless waiting humans, and he’d encouraged you with a smile. Chara, for all that they’re unwilling to help you be the Ambassador, had still given you little nudges of advice. They’d still lent you their strength when you panicked. Now that same strength pushes you away, smothers you in an intangible void. Despite your distance from your physical body, you feel heavy, like you’re sinking into the frigid river that flows underground. You quit resisting as you’re dragged deeper into that cold abyss, further and further away from your skin, and Chara’s steps are light as they and Asriel cross the park to explore the streets beyond.

The sky has gone red and orange by the time Chara and Asriel return to the castle. You watch, dimly, through your eyes as Asriel wipes snow from the pads of his feet before stepping inside. Chara dips your left hand into a pile of snow by the door, and then darts in, grabbing the hood of Asriel’s coat and shoving the handful of snow down the back of his neck. Asriel lets out a high pitched noise in shock, spinning to see your smirking face, and he shrieks, “Chara!”

Chara holds up your empty hands, as if to say, who, me? The palm of the mitten on your left hand is still coated with snow, and Asriel tries to narrow his eyes at you, but he’s giggling. Silent laughter shakes your shoulders as well, despite Chara’s best efforts to hold your frame still and stomp the reaction down.

Asriel gives up on the attempt at a glare, and reaches behind you to pull the door closed. “I’ll get you next time,” he promises, grinning.

Chara pulls their mittens off your hands and shoves them into the pockets of their coat. ‘You can try,’ they sign with your now free hands, before shrugging out of their coat.

Asriel bumps his shoulder against yours. “Come on, Chara,” he says, “let’s see if mom or dad’s home yet.”

Someone clears their throat, and Asriel’s head jerks up at the same time yours does. Toriel is standing in the doorway to the kitchen. Her arms are crossed, a ladle gripped in one hand, and a severe frown rests on her face.

“Asriel Dreemurr,” she says, “go to your room.”

Asriel’s eyes dart briefly to you, before he drops his head in a nod. As he shuffles toward the hall leading to his bedroom, Toriel adds, “I want you to think about what you’ve done, and how you’re going to apologize.” You see his shoulders hunch a little bit. “As for you, Chara Dreemurr,” Toriel starts, and you can no longer watch Asriel guiltily slink away, because now Chara’s looking up at the furious Queen of Monsters, “what is the meaning of this?”

‘Sorry,’ Chara signs. ‘Me and Asriel were playing and we got carried away.’

Toriel uncrosses her arms, but only to rest her hands on her hips. “Did Frisk agree to give up part of their day to you?”

You’re surprised when Chara not only shakes their head, but their fingers meet as they sign, ‘No,’ as well.

Toriel’s eyes shutter closed for a moment, and she breathes deep. She kneels down to be on eye level with you, and beckons you closer. Chara does not hesitate in approaching her, until they stand within arm’s reach.

“I appreciate your honesty, but I am very disappointed in you, Chara,” she says. Chara meets her hard gaze without looking away. “You have done a very cruel thing to Frisk today.”

‘I’m sorry,’ they sign again.

“I am not the one who needs an apology,” Toriel says. She does not raise her voice, but there is an edge to her words that makes Chara flinch. You see Toriel’s glare soften, but her tone remains firm when she speaks next. “Tomorrow, we will discuss this further. Now, I would like to speak to Frisk, please.”

You fall back into your body without any more warning than that, slamming into your cold cheeks and frozen nose and stumbling into your weak knees. Toriel has to rush forward to catch you, but you hardly notice. You’re too busy flinging Chara’s hat off your head and digging your fingers into your hair to scratch furiously at your itchy scalp. Once it’s bearable, you stand up to wriggle out of Chara’s coat and throw it onto the floor, hating the scratchy sound it makes when the sleeves rub against the sides of it. Toriel holds her hands out in case you fall again, but now that you’re past the initial shock of snapping back into your body like a stretched rubber band being released, you’re able to stand steady on your own legs.

You’re panting, you notice. Chara hadn’t seemed to have that much trouble with your lungs—they’d gotten a little out of breath during the snowball fight, they’d felt a little of the usual strain in your chest, but they’d been able to slow down after that and let your body catch up. But now you’ve got your body back, and your shoulders are heaving up and down, your breath loud as it moves through your open mouth.

“Frisk, my child,” Toriel says, and her voice is so warm and welcoming now, but you start shivering. “Frisk, are you all right? Do you need to sit down?”

You shake your head, wrapping your arms around yourself and clutching the ratty fabric of your hoodie. One of your fingers catches in a little hole you hadn’t noticed before.

“Is there anything you need?” she asks.

You shake your head again.

She studies you, and you try to make your body stop trembling, but it’s wholly uncooperative. You wonder if Chara would be able to will your body to stay still, and you quake so hard you have to catch your balance afterward. Toriel’s hands move as if to grab you, but she stops mid-motion once you find your footing again.

You look at her, and your vision’s going blurry and you can’t make your eyes stop. You know if you try to blink it’s all going to be over, so you try to hold your eyes open until they dry up, but your body won’t do anything you want it to. The first tears fall hot down your icy cheeks, and you stumble into Toriel, shoving your face into her shoulder. As soon as you feel her arms around you, your body ceases its shivering. She picks you up, murmuring words of comfort as one hand rubs circles on your back.

You don’t lift up your face. You don’t want to know how she looks at you, because then you’ll have to compare it to how she looks at Chara.

Chara makes a noise of disdain over your shoulder. You’re making this into such a big deal, they scoff. It was only a couple of hours. You won’t even care about this a year from now.

A year from now. A year from now, you and Chara will still be together.

Five years from now. Ten years from now.

You’re going to be with them for the rest of your life.

Toriel eventually asks you if you are feeling up to helping her with dinner. You remember that she was holding a ladle when she discovered Chara and Asriel in the front room, and you nod. She sets you down, and you apologize for interrupting her, but all she does is chuckle and ruffle your hair.

“One of the benefits of using fire magic for cooking,” she informs you, “is that one never has to worry if one has left the stove on.” You don’t really get it, but you smile at her anyway.

You don’t do a lot of actual helping, but Toriel seems happy to describe each step of the meal she’s preparing, and you’re fascinated by the way the food comes together under her hands. You question why the fish—salmon, bright pink—is a different colour once it’s been cooked, and she informs you that many meats and fish undergo such changes during cooking. She promises to fix you shrimp another night so you can see one of the more extreme colour transformations. Whatever shrimp are, you’re looking forward to it.

Last night, you and Chara had enjoyed some kind of tuna-based meal, and Toriel has promised catfish and trout and more varieties of fish than you can remember the names of for the foreseeable future. Before dinner had started, you’d asked why you couldn’t just eat pie every night. After Asriel had stopped giggling at you, Toriel had explained. At Dr. Alphys’s recommendation, every dinner for the upcoming month, or possibly longer, is going to be fish-based. According to the doctor, the lack of sunlight underground means that all the humans aren’t as healthy as they should be. You don’t have enough vitamin D, she’d said, and then at your request, she’d spent some time explaining what vitamins are and why humans need them. There were other factors, such as the differences between traditional monster food and human cooking, but she hadn’t wanted to bore you with a lecture on how monsters had adopted some tenets of human cuisine after the second war.

You hadn’t been bored. You’re planning to ask her for that lecture another day.

So, fish every night, but the tuna was great and you’ve yet to encounter a surface food you don’t like, so you’re not complaining. Honestly, as long as you and Chara are able to eat every night, you’re not going to complain.

Last night Toriel had shown you where plates and silverware were kept in this kitchen. She asks you if you remember, and when you nod, she assigns you to set the table with four places while she goes to Asriel’s room to tell him dinner is ready.

You’re setting the fourth plate down when Asgore walks into the kitchen. The plate falls the last couple inches to the table from your numb fingers, as his voice booms out, “Howdy!” You’re aware, because Chara informs you, that he’s actually speaking at a lower volume while indoors, but he’s still so huge, his voice and size and presence all. He’s left his armour behind in exchange for slightly less intimidating royal regalia, and his smile is wide and friendly, and he’d been at the dinner table with Toriel and Asriel and Chara last night, too, so it’s not like this is the first time you’ve seen him since fighting him. Once he’d returned to the castle to discover you and Chara awake, the first thing he’d done was apologize to you for his attempts on your life. You understand now that his goal hadn’t had anything to do with stopping you, but had been to deprive Asriel and Chara of your soul. You can even believe that he felt he had no choice, and that he regretted it.

You’re alive now, so it shouldn’t matter what happened in a different time. That’s all been erased. In this world, in this timeline that nobody can rewrite anymore, you’d given Asgore a wound that left him limping for several days, and he’d done nothing more than give you a concussion and some bruises.

You have to tightly grip the edge of the table to stay upright. You offer the newly-reinstated king a smile that wobbles on your face.

He seems satisfied with your weak attempt at a smile, and inhales deeply through his nose, his chest lifting. “What’s Tori cooked tonight?” he asks you. “It smells incredible.”

You lift one hand from the edge of the table, and still appear to be able to support yourself. ‘Fish,’ you sign, and Chara scoffs at you. Of course Asgore knows it’s fish, it’s going to be fish forever. You frown a little, and then sign out, ‘S-A-M-O-N.’

Spelled it wrong, Chara informs you, and your frown grows.

“That sounds wonderful!” Asgore says, before you can snipe back at Chara. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Yes,” Toriel says, entering with a subdued Asriel following her. “You can sit down and not touch anything.”

Asgore chuckles and does as told. Asriel sits as well while Toriel retrieves the salmon from the counter, and you manage to loosen your other hand enough to pull out the fourth chair and let yourself fall into it.

“How did the address go today?” Asgore asks, reaching over to ruffle his son’s fluffy bangs. Asriel makes a face and swats his dad’s hand away, and Asgore chuckles.

Once Asriel’s free of embarrassing parental displays, he asks, “Didn’t you watch it?”

“You’ve caught me,” Asgore admits. “But I wanted to hear from you!” He remembers something. “And Frisk.”

Asgore and Asriel have finished serving themselves from the pan Toriel’s set in the center of the table. Her gaze moves to you, and Chara nudges you. You keep looking from Toriel to the food, then back again, as you reach for the big serving utensil, but she doesn’t tell you to stop or narrow her eyes.

You don’t have to worry like that with her, Chara comments, but quietly, void of ire or impatience. They keep any other thoughts they may have to themself as you load your plate. It’s Toriel who asks you if you want more when you begin to pull back. You’d tried to spread it out on your plate so it looked like as much as Asriel took, but it seems that Toriel’s eyes are sharper than that. When you don’t move to take more, though, Toriel reaches forward and adds another enormous chunk of salmon to your plate before you can react.

“If you can’t finish it, we’ll wrap it up for later,” she promises. You nod, and gingerly pull the plate back toward you.

You look around to see that Asgore and Asriel are both watching you, but as soon as you catch them at it, they drop their eyes and each shove a forkful of food into their mouths as though they weren’t staring.

As Toriel serves herself, she picks up the abandoned conversation. “I thought our children handled themselves very well during the address,” she says. Her husband and son direct their attention toward her, and now that they’re looking away, you take your first bite. “They reacted to the unexpected obstacles that arose with grace and aplomb.”

“I thought so as well! I was quite proud,” Asgore nods. Asriel squirms a little in his chair, but the smile on his face is pleased. You chew your food. Are you expected to add something to the conversation?

“And your meeting with the President?” Asgore asks his son. Asriel answers between bites, and Asgore guffaws when he hears about how you told the President to speak directly. Once again you’re lost when the conversation moves to summarizing the policy decisions on finances and medical assistance and everything else they covered, but it gives you the opportunity to focus on your food. The taste, the texture—real meat is amazing.

You’re starting in on the last chunk Toriel added to your plate when Asgore asks, “And how did you spend the rest of your day?”

You freeze, fork in your mouth. Asriel, too, has gone still. It’s Toriel who speaks next. “Asriel, would you like to tell your father, or should I?” At her tone, Asgore sets his silverware down and turns his full attention to his son.

Pinned under that stern gaze, Asriel squirms again, pushing his food around on his plate. “I’m really sorry,” he mumbles to the table. “I just… I got carried away and forgot. It won’t happen again.”

Toriel’s eyes narrow. “Asriel,” she says, a warning.

He lets his fork fall and sets his hands flat on the table, looking up imploringly at his dad. “Chara and Frisk switched places so me and Chara could have a snowball fight, but they didn’t get Frisk’s permission, and I didn’t ask if Frisk was okay with giving Chara part of their day,” he says in a rush. “But I didn’t mean anything bad by it, I just wasn’t thinking!”

Chara and I, corrects the voice in your head, and you’d roll your eyes if you weren’t trying to stay very still and unnoticed.

Asgore’s frown grows. “Your intent does not change your actions,” he says. His voice is quiet now, but it still rumbles, and Asriel squeezes his eyes shut and nods, lowering his head. At that, Asgore’s stern expression melts right off his face, and he places a huge hand on Asriel’s back. “This is a new situation for us all, but that’s no excuse. You must uphold your responsibilities to those around you. Kings are rarely permitted much margin for error.”

“I know,” Asriel says. It’s almost a groan, but he stops just short of it. “I’m really sorry!”

“To whom should you be apologizing?” Asks Asgore.

All three of them look to you. Your fork is still between your teeth, salmon resting on your tongue. You haven’t moved even to swallow, and your mouth is full of saliva. It’s uncomfortable.

“I’m sorry, Frisk,” Asriel says. “It’s just been so long since Chara and I could have fun like that. I didn’t think about how mean it was to you.”

Chara settles against you, leaning their presence close. Asriel’s eyes are wet, small tears beading at the corners, and his brows are pinched up. He’s smiling. He’s the perfect picture of remorse.

They all do a really good job, don’t they? Chara asks. Toriel’s great at pretending she’s just as happy spending time with you as with me. And Azzy—anyone else would have believed that apology! He really looks like he wants to make it up to you, doesn’t he?

You pull your fork from your mouth and set it next to your plate, forcing yourself to chew and swallow your food. If everyone else can do this, you can too. It takes a minute, but a small smile worms its way onto your face.

‘It’s okay,’ you sign. ‘It was E-X-T-E-N-U-W-A-T-I-N-E circumstances, right?’

Chara howls with laughter. That was awful! they cry. You think they’d be doubled over holding their stomach if they could be. It’s extenuating! Extenuating! The correct arrangement of letters flies through your mind, and your tenuous smile wavers.

Toriel is not smiling.

“Frisk, my child,” she says, “do you know what ‘extenuating’ means?”

You don’t know what answer she wants. Your hands won’t move, and your head remains fixed staring straight at her. Your smile is crumbling.

It's clear you're not answering, so she continues. “In this context, it refers to an extreme scenario, such as if your life were in danger. It does not,” she frowns, severe, “mean whenever Chara is bored.”

Oh.

‘I’m sorry,’ you sign.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Toriel reassures you. “Now you know for the future. The next time we encounter a word unfamiliar to you, please ask me what it means, will you?”

You nod.

You make quick work of the remaining food in front of you, no longer taking the time to savor it. Once your plate is clean, you ask to be excused, and make your way to Asriel’s room. As you pad down the hallway, you can hear Asriel ask to go as well, and Toriel draft him into helping Asgore do the dishes instead.

You can still hear the quiet noises of the family in the kitchen, even after pulling the bedroom door shut all the way until it latches. You leave it unlocked. The underside of the second bed beckons to you, and you ignore it and walk over to the dresser. Sheets of paper ruined by your scratchy handwriting are set on top of it; it’s the notes for your speech from today. You pick one up.

It had seemed that with every other word you wrote, Chara had found something new to laugh at. Whether it was your spelling, or how you held the pencil in your fist, or how long it took you to write each letter, it didn’t matter. It was all hilarious. You’d tried to ignore them to concentrate on figuring out what you wanted to say—or, rather, have Asriel say for you—but you couldn’t cover your ears or leave to go to a different room.

The top of the next page is filled with your scratchy writing, but the lower half of it takes on a different form. Even lines of neat, regular letters replace your messy and disjointed words. Asriel had suggested that you and he work together to plan your address. You could sign what you wanted to say, and he’d transcribe it. Chara hadn’t stopped interrupting you completely, at that point, but they had gotten a lot quieter, and progress had come more quickly.

You make to set the pages back down, and then flinch back, shaking out your left hand. There’s a little line of split skin on your index finger. It’s not bleeding, but the sting of it throbs in time with your heartbeat. It’s the kind of little cut that doesn’t look like anything now, but you know tomorrow it will be a bright red line of constant irritation.

Chara had used your left hand to throw snowballs at Asriel.

You look at the papers still held in your right hand.

The stretch of skin between your thumb and forefinger is always a particularly painful spot. Any initial injury there never hurts much, but nearly any action with your hand will pull or pinch it, and it will take longer to heal. You drag the crisp edge of the paper down, wincing at the little sting.

So that’s how it is, Chara says.

You flinch at their voice, but they don’t stop you as you cut two more lines on your left hand. When you hear footsteps getting closer in the hall, you replace the papers on the dresser and gather your pajamas. Even though you’re not bleeding much, if at all, it’s easy to hide your hand under the bundle of clothing as you hold it to your chest. When Toriel peeks in to check on you, she comments that she’s glad to see you getting ready for bed, and reminds you not to forget to brush your teeth.

Your grip on the toothbrush is awkward, this being only your fourth attempt, and you’re still not used to the weird taste and texture of the toothpaste, but you do your best. Then, after using the toilet, you wash your hands in the bathroom sink. The cuts you’ve made sting under the water and soap.

Asriel is sitting on his bed when you return to his room. He offers you a watery smile, and you can’t manage to return it, so you nod at him instead, then pull back the covers on the second bed and crawl under them. You lay on your side with your back to Asriel, and you can hear him make several noises that could be abandoned words, but could also be nothing, before the padding of his feet on the floor and the click of the latch make it clear he’s left for the bathroom. You aren’t able to fall asleep before you hear him come back. He doesn’t say anything or make any more of those little noises, and he turns off the lamp. There’s the sound of shifting fabric as he gets into bed, and then only his breathing and yours.

When you’re certain he’s fallen asleep, you slip out from the warm covers, grab your pillow, and fit yourself under the bed.

Chara wakes up before light has begun to filter in through the curtained window, and they squirm out from under the bed. You’re only half aware as they shake the pillow off and throw it onto the bed. They stretch your body out along the comfortable mattress, and they pull the thick covers up. Soon enough, you’re both asleep again.

When next you both wake, the sun is casting a sharp angular shape on the floor, and Asriel’s bed is empty. Chara rolls you out of bed and plods toward the kitchen, yawning as they go. Groggy and uncoordinated in the middle of stretching out your spine and your arms, they accidentally steer you into the table with the golden flowers, and the corner of it catches you in the hip. They grumble the rest of the way to the kitchen, where they plop your body into a chair and then take stock of the room.

Asriel and Toriel are at the stove, some kind of cooking utensil held aloft in the little king’s hand as he glares into a sizzling pan. (It’s a spatula, Chara tells you, already exasperated.) Chara slumps over the table, settling your chin on the hard wood and reaching your hands toward the opposite edge. They form your left into a fist and knock gently on the surface. Both monsters at the stove look toward you. Asriel’s eyes are large; the smile on his face, larger.

“Chara! Good morning!” he greets. His mother murmurs something quietly to him, and he startles, then adds, “And Frisk!” He shoots another quick smile your way before returning his focus to whatever’s cooking. You notice that the silvery-white flames under the pan flicker more steadily under Asriel’s attention.

“Good morning, my children,” Toriel says, offering you her own soft smile. “Asgore had some unexpected matters to attend to this morning, and wanted me to tell you he’s sorry for leaving before you woke up. Your breakfast should be ready soon.”

‘That’s okay. Pancakes or eggs?’ Chara asks, not bothering to sit up.

“You will have to wait and see,” Toriel says, fond and teasing. She shifts her gaze back to Asriel as he uses the spatula to flip something over in the pan. The motion is too quick for you to see what it is, and his arms are in the way. Chara crosses your arms and props your head up, content to watch. The kitchen walls have a window that faces the same direction as the one in Asriel’s bedroom, and the sunlight is too bright. You wish Chara would let your eyes fall a little more closed, but they look at the world with eyes constantly wide, wide open, as far as your face will allow. You suppose it makes it a little easier for the Dreemurrs to tell you apart, that you squint and Chara doesn’t, but it’s yet another mild discomfort.

Asriel makes a small, pleased exclamation at the stove, and within moments, he’s at your side. “Sit up, Chara!” he orders, excited and pulling at your arms. Chara lazily obliges, slowly sliding backward to slouch in the chair. Asriel rolls his eyes, and dashes back to the stove, returning in seconds with a plate he enthusiastically sets on the table in front of you. He uses a little too much force and it clanks loudly, but Chara doesn’t even notice. They sit straight up, and your mouth drops open.

‘You’re the best,’ they sign, eyes fixed on the flat things on the plate. They’re a light brown colour, spotted with small dark stains.

“I hope you like them!” Asriel says. You’re skeptical, but your hands are already moving. You catch the words butter and syrup floating through Chara’s mind, and when their breakfast is liberally coated in a gooey brown liquid and a little melting yellow square, they grab fork and knife to cut messy lines through. The cuts on your left hand sting when they grip the knife, but they ignore the little pain and pop the first bite in your mouth, letting your eyes fall closed.

Apparently Chara knows how to savour food after all, and you couldn’t be more thankful. The taste is absolute bliss. It’s sticky and sweet, and fluffy in a way you didn’t realize food could be. A little like the inside of a cinnamon bun, without the crispy outside. What are these? you ask.

Chocolate chip pancakes, Chara replies, joy laced through their voice.

They set down the knife to sign a quick, ‘Thank you,’ to Asriel, and then they’re on to the next bite. You happily enjoy breakfast with them, and only dwell a little bit on how Asriel apparently woke up early to make such a sweet treat for Chara.

That’s a stupid train of thought. Asriel might have been happy to meet you and learn your name when you all woke up, but he’s been with Chara for years and years and years. You can’t expect to compete. You busy yourself with stomping down your envy while Chara is distracted with breakfast. It means that you don’t get to enjoy the full flavour of the pancakes, but hiding your idiotic thoughts from Chara takes priority. By the time they’re taking their empty plate to the sink to wash it, you’re once more the impassive observer in your body.

“Mom and I were talking,” Asriel says at your side, “and I got a good idea about what we could do today!”

Since Chara had declared their adamant refusal to participate in your duties as Ambassador, and you’d agreed to alternate days, your schedule for today is completely clear for Chara to do as they please. That’s fair; you’re the one who decided to be Ambassador. You’re not going to make Chara do your job for you. (It also aligns with Asgore and Toriel’s desire for you to not take on too much too fast; having an enforced break from your duties every other day certainly ensures that you will assume your role bit by bit, little by little, instead of all at once.) And you’re kind of curious about how Chara’s going to spend their time.

Your hands are still busy scrubbing the sticky coating of syrup from Chara’s plate, so they settle for raising your eyebrows at Asriel instead of signing. The soapy water stings your left hand. Chara doesn't seem to mind.

“You know how Frisk showed up two days before the holiday?” Asriel asks. This is news to you—you remember the monster kid talking with Undyne about a holiday, but you never learned the details—but Chara just nods. “And then we were asleep for four days straight… so we completely missed it!”

Chara rinses off the plate and sets it aside in the drying rack, then turns to Asriel and crosses your arms. The message is clear, and Asriel scrambles to get to the point.

“And we haven’t really celebrated in years, and there wasn’t any point to getting presents for each other when we were the same person,” he rushes, hands fussing with the hem of his sweater. “So I thought, maybe…”

Chara taps the little king on the shoulder, putting a stop to his rambling. ‘Did you already talk to Mother about our allowances?’

Asriel laughs, breathy and relieved. “Yeah! It’s kind of embarrassing, having to ask them for money after, well, everything, and I think mom knows why I was asking, but yeah.”

‘Let me get dressed, and then we’ll go,’ Chara signs.

Toriel catches you on your way out of Asriel’s bedroom. “Chara,” she says, and Chara stops. Reluctantly, they turn to face her. “A word, before you go.”

They look up at her from under your bangs, and she kneels down to come to your level. She places one large, warm hand on your shoulder.

“Have you thought more about what you did yesterday?” she asks. Your shoulders sag, but Chara lifts one of your hands to sign an affirmative. You’d forgotten that Toriel had promised she would speak with them about it today. You get the feeling Chara was hoping Toriel had forgotten, too. “And?” she prompts.

‘What I did was wrong,’ Chara signs, without hesitation. ‘I’m very sorry, and it won’t happen again.’ You can’t see your face, of course, but what you can feel of your expression doesn’t match the signs your hands are forming.

Toriel says nothing. Her glare does not let up, and even disembodied as you are, you feel the weight of it.

‘It was cruel to F-R-I-S-K. We had an agreement, and I broke it for selfish reasons,’ they add. ‘I took unfair advantage of their inexperience and ignorance.’

Your name, spelled out. Toriel and Asgore and Asriel and Chara all have name signs—Asriel has two, in fact, one for his nickname. Then again, you and Chara are usually the ones signing. Unless Chara’s talking about you, there’s not really anybody who would need to use a sign for your name. Everyone else can just say it.

Toriel nods, though she isn’t smiling. “You and Frisk must learn to cooperate and trust each other,” she says. “Both of you have to be willing to compromise, even if it means giving up something you want. You have to be fair to each other.”

Chara nods, though they make sure you know they’d be rolling their eyes if they could. ‘I understand,’ they sign.

“What you have done will not be without consequences.”

You are very, very aware of Toriel’s hand on your shoulder. You can’t feel her claws, but you know they’re there. But your body does not tense in anticipation; Chara does not flinch or wince.

“You will be washing the dishes and cleaning the bathrooms for the next four weeks,” Toriel decrees. Then, a sharp reminder, “On your days only.”

Your mouth drops open in dismay. Chara quickly signs, ‘All the bathrooms?’

You think Toriel looks a little smug when she nods. Then she says, “Every last one in Our Home,” and you can hear the note of satisfaction in her voice. “Twice weekly.”

Chara snaps your mouth shut to frown, your hands dropping to fists at your sides. Unbelievable, you hear them grumble. This punishment is completely disproportionate!

“Now, don’t keep Asriel waiting,” she says, rising. She ruffles your hair as she goes, leaving Chara fuming silently.

They wind up stomping their way into the living room. Asriel, waiting for you to arrive, startles and asks, “What’s wrong?” Chara’s only reply is to throw the door open and continue angrily stomping outside. Asriel jumps after you, and then has to double back to grab Chara’s coat.

The sky today is uniformly grey, a pale stretch that hides the sun. With Chara in the way, you can’t tell if it’s colder than yesterday or not, but it certainly looks as if it should be. They slide your arms into their coat and jam your hands into the pockets in lieu of gloves or mittens. You can already feel the chill air along the edge of your ears.

It turns out that you have to be accompanied by the two guards who were with the President yesterday. Neither Chara nor Asriel seem to mind; both guards are quiet and hang back, simply providing security with their presence. You kind of wish you had introduced yourself to the guards yesterday, because neither Chara nor Asriel thinks to do so; they already know the guards well. Though you do wonder how the guards feel about their king shrinking and having his father reclaim the throne. But maybe that sort of thing isn’t weird for monsters the way it would be for humans. What do you know?

As you and Asriel take the bus to wherever it is you’re going, you’re not sure if Chara is simply not bothering to keep their thoughts to themself, or whether they’re providing you a running narration purposefully. Whatever the reason, you’re treated to what’s almost a guided tour of the city you pass through. Before the first barrier had been destroyed, the city near Mount Ebott was a tiny village. Most of what you see going by out the windows was constructed by monsters in the years following. It makes sense, you think; most of those doorways are much taller than a strictly human population would necessitate.

The bus takes the five of you to what Chara identifies as the oldest part of the city, the first buildings that were constructed on the old foundations of the human structures that Chara and Asriel tore down. The buildings here are shorter, most having only one or two floors, as opposed to the newer, taller buildings downtown. The bus stops at the corner of an open plaza, and the five of you disembark together. The two guards keep just enough distance that Chara and Asriel can speak privately if Asriel whispers, but they’re close enough that they’re unmistakably accompanying you.

The open plaza contains a park smaller than the one in front of the castle. A stone path winds through it, and at its center you see a statue of the king Asriel and Chara were together. It’s larger than life, and a shining rendition of fire magic twists above the king’s curled horns. A looming, indomitable, guardian angel. You’re glad, for once, to not be at the forefront of your body. Chara takes in the sight casually while you huddle behind their awareness. If it were you, you’re sure you’d be sweating, shaking, and having trouble getting enough breath.

The plaza is surrounded on all four sides by single-story buildings with slanted roofs and wood porches. You can’t tell what purpose the buildings actually serve, because in front of every door and window are set up vendors, some of them with simple displays merely spread over blankets, some with tables and tents above them. It’s hard to tell from this distance, but you think the many monsters at their booths are looking at you.

You hear Chara’s thoughts, Old town’s open air market. Hasn’t changed a bit. Your feet take you to the outdoor vendors at one of the plaza’s corners, Asriel and the guards following, and now that the statue is out of your line of sight, you let yourself focus a little more on what your eyes are seeing. Each display is a new marvel for you, and also serves as a welcome distraction from how the monsters around you are definitely staring. Chara shrugs off the attention; they are secure in the knowledge that when monsters look, it’s with harmless curiosity. Besides which, when they and Asriel were together as king, they were used to being watched by their subjects. It’s not like yesterday, when you were the focus of a ballroom full of humans. Disembodied as you are, you’re unable to shudder, so you return your attention to your eyes as Chara peruses the many varied displays and pays no mind to the gazes following them.

You stop before a blanket spread that’s covered with fruits—or are they vegetables? They come in different sizes and shapes, some of them tiny and orange, some of them large and green, and even a few in purple. Chara tells you that every single one is a kind of pepper, and you call them a liar. At that, they get Asriel to ask the vendor about it, and you listen with rapt attention as the varieties are named: habanero, jalapeño, poblano, bell, and more. Chara purchases two of the bell peppers, one yellow and the other green. They add a purple one when you can’t stop yourself from laughing at their choices.

The next table offers glittering jewels, necklaces and bracelets and tiny, dangling hook ornaments. Earrings, Chara tells you. Your ears aren’t pierced, are they? You’re not sure what that means. Chara explains, and you recoil with such immediate and rapid panic that your body missteps and Asriel has to catch your arm to prevent you from tripping. No, your ears aren’t pierced, and you’re not planning on changing that.

“You think Mom might like a necklace?” Asriel asks when you move to the next booth. Your shoulders rise in a shrug.

‘Let’s look at everything before we decide on their presents,’ Chara signs.

Asriel giggles. “Then why’d you already buy something?”

You feel your face heat up, as Chara signs, ‘This isn’t a present, dummy! I thought Mother might like to use them for dinner.’

Asriel makes a knowing noise, but doesn’t say anything else.

They browse table after table, greeted at each one by friendly monsters, and you watch, awed. It’s similar to the mall in many ways, but you’re not quite so overwhelmed this time. Whether that’s thanks to your previous exposure to large crowds, the lack of walls and ceiling enclosing this market, Chara’s presence between you and the rest of the world, or some combination of all three, you don’t know. Regardless, the result is that you’re able to actually appreciate the wares displayed when Chara lets your eyes linger. Hand-sewn scarves and hats, delicately carved wooden trinkets in the shapes of frogs and turtles and birds and yet more animals you can’t even identify, beautifully painted ceramic bowls—you walk past countless treasures.

You think about how humans other than you will be able to own items like this, soon. Maybe some could even learn to craft such objects, with time and willing teachers.

When you’re perhaps halfway through the many vendor displays, you hear a familiar clanking of armour and a voice calling out to you. “Human!”

Chara turns you around much too slowly. You push against them as much as you dare, as they leisurely lift one foot and then the other. You’d ask them to hurry up if you weren’t confident they would take even more time to spite you. That welcome voice is much closer when you hear, “I mean, Frisk! I mean, your Royal Ambassadorableness!”

Finally Chara completes the motion, just in time for Papyrus’s long strides to bring him to you. He doesn’t stop moving, though, all but jogging in place in his excitement. “How are you doing!” he exclaims, not so much a question as a continuation of his joyful greeting. “So much has been happening thanks to you! My tiny human friend! I’m so proud of you!”

You grin, filled with happiness at the sight of his friendly face, and raise your arms to silently ask him for a hug.

Your face does not smile, still set in a neutral display. Your arms stay at your sides. You’re yanked back by the physical restraint of your body and Chara’s unmovable will, like wet clothing weighing down your limbs in the river.

Let me talk to him, you think.

Next to you, Asriel greets Papyrus, and the skeleton is just as happy to loudly exchange pleasantries with him, too. You hear him say something about Asriel shrinking, and Asriel stammers some excuse about special boss monster magic, which would make you crack a grin if your body was your own. Apparently it’s not exactly normal for monsters, after all.

Why should I let you? Chara asks. This is my day.

Papyrus is my friend! you plead. I want to talk to him. Let me talk to him!

Are these extenuating circumstances? Chara’s voice, such as it is, cuts through you with cold detachment. What makes you deserve this time more than I do? I know Papyrus, too. Who do you think the Royal Guard reports to, besides their captain?

Your protests are weak. Yesterday, you…

And that was wrong of me, wasn’t it? Chara asks. Despite admitting to a mistake, they sound horribly smug. Or do you think that’s the way we should approach this? Snatching away control from each other as soon as one of us decides we deserve it more? Is that the kind of compromise and cooperation Mother wants us to reach?

No, but—

Then quit complaining. You have tomorrow.

Papyrus is still cheerfully speaking to you and Asriel. He doesn’t seem to be bothered by your lack of reply, as he tells you about how he’s been guiding humans through the city to help them acclimate to their new homes. You and Chara hadn’t noticed before, but now that Papyrus has brought it up, you see the group of maybe ten or so humans, accompanied by another couple guards and meandering through the plaza.

“Everyone is very shy, but I am sure we can all become friends!” he says, looking over his shoulder at the group. “In fact, if you were not too busy, perhaps you could say hello to everyone! I am sure it would help put them at ease to see our great friendship!”

Your body goes stiff, Chara fisting your hands. The lines you cut into your left hand last night sting as the skin over your knuckles is pulled tight. Asriel turns a concerned gaze to you, and Chara lets a breath out through your grit teeth.

‘There’s no good way to refuse,’ Asriel signs to you. ‘We don’t have to stay long, but we can’t afford to decline.’

Chara inclines your head once, a stiff nod that feels like it sends cracks down your now-brittle spine.

What’s wrong? you ask. Chara doesn’t answer, as Asriel accepts Papyrus’s proposal, and you go to meet the approaching humans.

There’s nobody you recognize among the assembled group, which is probably for the best. Papyrus happily takes your hand, needlessly introducing you and Asriel to the humans. His grip is bony and without warmth, and you can’t squeeze back with Chara in the way, yet you can’t deny the joy that lights up inside you at the contact. That happiness seems to have bypassed Chara and gone straight to you, though. They don’t adopt the blank expression you’d have choosen for this situation, surrounded by human strangers, but instead they paste a paper-thin smile to your face. Your eyes, held unusually wide open as Chara tends to do, oppose your upward-turned cheeks, and your face feels pinched and unpleasant.

Asriel is shaking the humans’ hands one at a time now, asking each one for their names. He's probably actually committing the names to memory. He always was the better of the two of you for putting your subjects at ease, you think—only, no, those are Chara’s thoughts, so unguarded that they’re spilling out into yours. Your body follows Asriel automatically, nodding at appropriate times. When the humans shake your hand as well, your limbs feel like parts of one of the broken plastic toys you found in the dump once. Moving each joint is a challenge, as though your arm is a separate piece of you that might pop off with too much pressure.

“It was a good speech, yesterday,” one of the humans is saying with a grin. “I probably wouldn’t have agreed to go out today if I hadn’t listened to it!” A few others agree with them, and Asriel smiles for you, expressing your gratitude.

“I never expected the surface would be anything like this,” another says. “But… it’s kind of nice! I think I could get used to this.”

You only notice that your breath is coming faster because you’re so used to your body’s constant betrayals. You haven’t been running or fighting or anything that should cause such a reaction, but the itching in your chest is undeniable. Normally you’d sit down and wait for your lungs to recover, but since overexertion isn’t the cause, that’s probably not the solution here. Your throat begins to feel tight, and your breath speeds up, as Chara tries to gulp down enough air to satisfy your body.

What’s wrong? you ask again. You don’t expect an answer, and you don’t get one, but Chara does turn your body to Asriel. They lay a flat hand on your chest and move it in jerky circles.

Asriel wastes no time in extracting the two of you. “It was wonderful to meet everyone,” he says, and you’re pretty sure they all believe he means it. “Unfortunately, we have to take our leave. But the doors of Our Home are always open to you!” Everyone except the two guards who accompanied you from the castle lets out a chorus of genial goodbyes, and one of the humans next to you claps you on the back.

Your face cracks apart as your throat closes up entirely. Even Asriel’s smile is slipping, and he has to tug on your hand before Chara will start walking with him.

The first few steps aren’t too bad, but you’re not getting any more air, and even with your diminished senses, you can feel your heartbeat throb with panic, your head begin to pound. Stop! you yell, but Chara puts one foot down after the other, as though they aren’t suffocating. You have to stop, you’re going to hurt us! Let me take over!

“Chara?” Asriel whispers. “Are you okay?”

Your body crumples. Asriel shouts, alarmed, and catches you, as you gasp, a loud, empty, desperate sound. You and Chara take hungry breaths, and your heart beats with rapid pulses you feel in your neck, in your skull, in your fingertips.

“Call us a cab,” Asriel orders one of the guards, helping you find your feet again. “We’re returning home.”

You’re dimly aware of Papyrus and the humans asking if you’re okay, and Asriel making excuses about your old throat injury acting up, which actually isn’t far from the truth. Your body leans heavily against Asriel, and Chara angles your head so that he fills your vision, pressing you face against the scratchy material of his coat. It does not help you get enough air, but against all logic your next breath comes a little easier.

Asriel helps you stumble to a waiting car, and you fall into the back seat. Chara’s control of your body is jittery, but you still can’t reach anything yourself, so you hover helplessly as your body curls up and Chara brings your arms up to hide your head. Asriel can’t get the seatbelt on you, curled up as you are, and he gives up, resigning himself to holding you tight when the vehicle hits bumps on the road.

The memory climbs into your senses like liquid seeping into dry fabric, your ears filled with shouting, a rain of angry blows, and you scramble to escape. Your upraised arms are thin with starvation, no contest for the well-nourished restaurant owner’s thick muscles, and the you in the memory shouts out, “Please, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

Not you at all.

Not your memory.

You try to look away, but Chara’s flashback pulls you in, overlays itself atop your own memories and crushes you beneath the combination of both. It’s not as if you hadn’t tried to scream, when it was you; you probably would have shouted apologies too, had you been able. It doesn’t seem to make a difference for Chara, and you doubt it would have changed anything for you.

This is over, you think, even as you struggle against the grip on your small, brittle wrists. I lived through this, you insist, tears and snot thick on your face, the you in one memory still crying and begging, both of you desperately digging in your heels as you’re dragged. It’s over. It’s done. I lived through this!

You’re thrown into the river underground, and you’re frozen to the core in an instant and you don’t know how to swim and your clothes are heavy and your boots are heavier and you sink, down, down

And then, Asriel’s voice, “Chara!”

You’re back in the car, breathing heavily into Asriel’s chest. Your face is damp, and the material of Asriel’s coat doesn’t absorb the tears well. Your cheeks rub against the wet and scratchy surface, and you’d pull back, but Chara keeps you close to Asriel. Your left hand stings when Chara grabs hold of Asriel’s coat. Such a little pain. It’s nothing like.... It’s almost a comfort, that tiny bite of hurt that comes when Chara flexes their grip. They do it a few more times, and your breaths start to slow.

“We’ll be home soon,” Asriel soothes, running his hand through your hair. His little claws brush against your scalp pleasantly. You think of Toriel, even though Asriel’s hands are too small for you to fool yourself. “I’m here with you. We’re going home.”

When the car comes to a stop at the castle, Asriel has to coax Chara out, his warm hands on your frozen ones. Like that he guides you into his bedroom, where he sits you on the second bed and helps Chara out of their coat. With a promise that he’ll be right back, he runs off, presumably to hang the coat up in the closet. He’s gone long enough for your lungs to tighten and your breath to quicken, for fire to claw its way into your throat again. You try to inhale through your nose, slow and steady, and Chara thrashes under your attempt at control, then chokes and coughs. They pound at the mattress as they wheeze, and you can hear them curse both you and your body’s shortcomings.

Asriel returns as Chara sits upright again, finally able to gulp down a full breath, which they bitterly remark is no thanks to you. His arms are full of bundles of string—yarn, Chara is coherent enough to correct—and two metal rods as thick as the bones in Papyrus’s pinkie. He sets the lot of it on the bed next to you, and Chara rotates your head on the rigid pole of your neck to regard the colourful offering.

‘Thank you,’ Chara signs, and a true smile blooms on Asriel’s face. They run your hands over the soft bundles, and the burning in your throat recedes, bit by bit.

When, at last, Chara picks up one of the wrapped bundles of yarn, you discover a magic you never knew your hands could be capable of. You watch, enthralled, as Chara works the loose strands into a form, their fingers and the long rods (knitting needles) guiding long strings into a shape of Chara’s desiring. You can hear Chara’s thoughts, quiet and calm, a repetitive chant of Knit one, purl two.

Across from you, Asriel sits on his bed. For a little while he does nothing but watch the movement of your hands, and you can’t blame him; you’re watching with unhidden fascination, too. But Asriel must have seen this plenty of times before, because once he’s satisfied, he trots out of the room and returns in moments with a book in hand. The two of you sit in silence, Asriel with his book, you and Chara with their knitting.

One of their needles jabs into one of the cuts on your left hand, and Chara hisses through their teeth, but then pushes onward. Asriel raises his head at the sound, but seeing Chara continue to knit, returns once more to his book. For you, though, the spell is broken, and you squirm as best you can without your actual body.

What happened? you ask.

Your hands move without interruption for another few beats of knit one, purl two, before Chara replies. Nothing, they dismiss you. You’re certain they know what you’re asking about. Knit one, purl two.

That didn’t feel like nothing to me, you counter, thinking about how you’d cross your arms now if you were physically facing them down and glaring. Weren’t you looking for presents for the Queen and King? You left without buying anything but those peppers.

We’ll go back another time, Chara says. They don’t shrug; your shoulders don’t move, and your hands remain at their task. But you get the feeling of the gesture all the same.

You got really upset, you push. Maybe you shouldn’t, but…

It was nothing, Chara insists, and now your body’s teeth clench. Knit one, purl two.

Yesterday, you were fine during my speech, and when we met the President, you think. And there were a lot more people around during my speech.

That was different! Chara thinks, your hands coming to a stop. They didn’t all get so close and they didn’t want to touch me and you were in front, so it was like I was watching it on TV or something, it wasn’t the same!

You’re beginning to grasp the shape of it, now. Like today, when I wasn’t as scared of all the monsters around us, you think.

You really are an idiot, Chara sneers. You’re scared of monsters, but not humans? What kind of moron gets it that backwards?

If you’re that scared of humans, maybe I could help, you offer, ignoring their attempt to divert the conversation to your own fears. You said it’s easier when I’m in front, right? We could trade places if that happens again.

Your eyes narrow as Chara snarls at you. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?

It was just an idea, you say. Since you don’t want to be around humans.

So you can have this body all to yourself, huh?

That’s not what I meant and you know it!

Chara huffs, hunching your shoulders and picking up their needles again. It’s a clear indication that they’re done with the conversation. You’re not. Sure, you would have liked to take control to talk to Papyrus, but you also could do without your body seizing up thanks to Chara’s panic. You’re offering to help them, why don’t they get that?

If they won't talk with you about that, you have other questions for them.

You used to be able to speak?

Your face twists in anger, and your hands pluck at the yarn, undoing the last few steps of Chara’s knitting. That’s none of your business, they grumble. Can’t you shut up again? You’re making me mess up.

I’m not making you do anything, you grumble right back, accompanied by the idea of jutting out your lower lip and narrowing your eyes.

Fine! Yes, I used to be able to speak. Are you happy now?

But you all sign, you think. Chara doesn’t need you to explain that you’re thinking of them and the Dreemurrs. They take a long breath and set their needles down, this time purposefully, resigning themself to your questions.

When I first fell underground, they say, and you tune your attention wholly to their words. You’ve learned by now that Chara willingly gave their soul to Asriel, that it wasn't stolen, but otherwise their history is a mystery to you. Clearly they'd been happy living with the Dreemurrs, if the photos you've seen are anything to go by. Clearly they’re happy with Asriel, if the brief time you’ve spent sharing their soul is anything to go by. There were times when I would… lose my voice. I would experience episodes where words would not come to me, no matter how I tried. At best, within the hour I’d be able to speak again. At worst, it would last for days. I could write down what I wanted, but that was inefficient. As you know.

You do. Your frustration at how your missing voice became a wall between you and Papyrus is clear in your memory.

Asriel would grow almost more annoyed with my disappearing voice than I was. He knew it was unfair of him, but that didn’t stop how he felt. It was during one of my longer episodes that we fought over it. He accused me of… They pause. When their thoughts resume again, it is not to complete the previous sentence. After our fight, he flounced off to have a good sulk. I didn’t know where he’d gone, nor was I in a mood to care. I knew he’d be back in time for dinner. Chara lets a smug grin flit across your face. I was right, of course. But what I could not have predicted was how his return saw him in much better spirits. He had gone to the library in Snowdin, and naturally the librarian had asked him why he was crying. When he came home, it was with a book of sign language. We learned together. Once Mother and Father found out, they were happy to join in. They even found a tutor for us, when we’d exhausted what the book contained.

You wonder what it would be like, to have not one but three people happy to help you learn, to practice with you. Three people who wanted to know what you had to say so badly that they took steps to give you back your voice when it disappeared, even temporarily. Even if it's clear Chara isn't telling you everything, you know that what they do choose to share is true.

That sounds nice, you offer.

Chara doesn’t comment on how pathetic the platitude is. Instead, they simply agree, It was.

This time, you don’t interrupt when they pick up their knitting. Asriel watches you for a while longer, and then returns once more to his book.

Toriel comes home to find the two of you still in Asriel’s room. Chara’s creation has grown exponentially, but upon Toriel’s arrival they set it aside and rush to present her with the bell peppers from your outing. Delighted, she takes the bag and ruffles your hair. You and Chara both lean into her touch.

Dinner is pleasant, possibly even more so than last night. Fish again, but you enjoy what you can taste of it. With Chara ‘in front,’ as they'd called it, you do find that it's easier to be in the same room as Asgore’s giant presence and deep voice. You think you were definitely on to something when you’d brought up the idea of covering for Chara when around humans. Maybe the two of you would get along better if you could help Chara sometimes, so it wouldn’t always just be them helping you, telling you what words mean and giving you advice on how to act in a royal capacity. You could help each other out, trading out to cover each other's weak spots. It might be nice. They might like it. A compromise doesn’t have to be just sacrifice; you can each benefit from it, too. You think about how to approach the topic all through dinner, but not through dessert—even without being in control of your body, what you can taste of the chocolate pie is not something you want to pass up.

As promised, Toriel makes Chara do all the dishes after dinner. At first, you’re amused by their irritation, but the chore goes on long enough that both of you are bored of it by the time they’ve finished.

When they go to the bathroom to get ready for bed, they make a face at your yellow teeth in the mirror. Nasty, they think, squeezing extra toothpaste onto the toothbrush.

You let the comment slide. You hadn’t really thought about it before Toriel and Asriel showed you how to brush your teeth. Underground, humans had yellowed teeth. You hadn’t been aware there was another option. Besides, Undyne’s teeth are yellow too. You put the thought aside for now; you’ve got bigger fish to fry.

I meant what I said earlier, you know, you say. If you’re that scared of humans that you panic if they get too close, and you don’t get any further than that before Chara slams the toothbrush against the edge of the sink. Your face in the mirror bares grit teeth, frothy toothpaste at the corners of your mouth, and your dark eyes are open wide in contrast to your drawn-in brows.

Shut up, Chara thinks at you, warning and threat together. It’s fine. I’m fine. I’m not scared of humans. I hate them. There is an enormous difference. They spit into the sink.

Whatever. You don’t care what they call their reaction to humans; the result was that you stopped breathing. But I could help you, if it happens again.

I told you, they think, shoving the toothbrush back in your mouth and brushing with extreme vigor, I’m not interested in your little schemes to have this body all to yourself.

That’s not what I’m trying to do! And even if I was, it’s my body anyway!

No, it’s not. Chara spits again and turns on the faucet. They rinse out your mouth, and when they glare at your reflection again, you almost don’t recognize yourself. Your shoulders are hunched, your face angled so that your bangs cast a shadow over your eyes. Your mouth is stretched long and thin across your face, and it makes a shape that you can’t bring yourself to label as a smile. You can see the whites of your eyes all the way around your irises, which glimmer with a strange hue in the bathroom light. You gave up this body when you gave up your soul. You’d be dead now if it wasn’t for me. You think you can try to trick me into handing over control, or intimidate me, and they clench your left fist, pulling the healing skin painfully tight, but if I’m going to be stuck in a human body again, it’s going to be under my terms.

They reach up and open the mirror cabinet, and you’re almost grateful you don’t have to look at your alien reflection any longer. Inside the cabinet are all manner of bottles and boxes that are completely foreign to you. The Dreemurrs all share the bathroom, and there are plenty of products contained therein that are exclusive to boss monster care. It turns out that even though monsters are made of magic, they still have to take care of their bodies. Chara selects a flat metal object that they identify as being used for claw maintenance. Its two sides are coarse and rough. Chara presses your thumb against it. The metal is not sharp enough to break your skin from the pressure alone, but you can feel the promise in it.

You say you want to choose kindness, but deep down you know that's not possible for people like us. You and I are human. We will never be good people, and we will never be kind. Humans are cruel and awful. Every last one. They flex your left hand into a fist around the claw file. You both feel the coarse metal press against the cut you put between your thumb and forefinger. It stings every bit as much as you'd hoped it would. Humans are the kind of creatures who would sacrifice their children for their own sakes. We’re the kind of creatures who would hurt ourselves just to prove a point.

You try to loosen your left fist, to drop the file, but nothing happens.

The kind of creatures who would stab someone in the back when he cries in his mother's arms.

They set the file flat against the knuckles of your right hand.

Chapter Text

When you wake up in the morning, you find that you've wrapped yourself up in all the covers and rolled up in the corner of the bed against the wall. Like a snail safe in its shell, you think. The raw red patches on your right hand rub against the blanket, and you try to find a way to both keep your hand hidden in the blankets and cradle it against your chest without letting it touch anything. You can’t accomplish both, so you settle for keeping it out of sight.

You're not really surprised to see that Asriel has elected to sleep in this morning. From your blanket nest, you stare at him. He's kicked his own thinner covers down so they only cover his legs, and lays on his back with his arms thrown out. His mouth hangs open a little, and you can see his small fangs and pink tongue, his chest rise and fall with his breath. In the soft morning light, his white fur seems to glow.

Chara is quiet while you regard the little king. They guard their feelings, holding them close, and you have no hints or clues as to their mood this morning.

You slip off the mattress to your feet, keeping your blanket shell wrapped about you, and make your slow, plodding way to the kitchen. There, Toriel and Asgore are seated at the table, their mostly empty breakfast plates in front of them. They aren't talking, Asgore looking over papers and Toriel paging through a book, but they both look up and smile when they see you.

“Frisk! Chara! Good morning,” Toriel says. You keep your right hand hidden in the blankets and use your left to wave a tiny greeting back to her. You want to go to her, to bury yourself in one of her hugs, but what if Asgore offers a hug too? You decide against that course of action and pull yourself up onto the chair next to Toriel, instead.

“Another big day for our young Ambassador today, is it not?” Asgore asks over his papers. You nod. You're not really sure why he's asking; he knows your schedule as well as you, since it all has to be run by the king and queen before anything can be confirmed.

“Well, it is important to start the day with a filling, healthy breakfast!” Toriel says, rising. “Tell me, my child. Would you like mushrooms or ham in your omelette?”

You like mushrooms, but you're curious about the second option. Besides, you've eaten enough mushrooms to last a lifetime, probably. You spell out H-A-M, speeding through the ‘h’ in the hope that Toriel won't see the raw red of your knuckles. Miraculously, she either doesn't notice or doesn't comment on it, instead nodding at your choice. “Ham it is!”

As usual, watching the process of Toriel cooking is fascinating enough to completely hold your attention. She cuts up the purple bell pepper Chara purchased yesterday with speed and precision, and when she breaks two eggs into a bowl, the shells crack into perfect halves. You want to ask if there's anything you can do, but she would definitely notice the state of your hand if you helped cook. You huddle deeper into your blankets.

She's just set your plate in front of you when Asriel stumbles into the kitchen, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. All her motherly attention is directed to him then, and you quickly set to eating your omelette while she's distracted. It's hot, hotter than you expected, and you have to suck in cold air around the first bite in your mouth before you can bring yourself to chew it. You hear Chara’s laughter.

The ham is salty, the cheese is savory, the peppers crunch in a satisfying way between you teeth, and the egg is the perfect texture to tie it all together. Despite knowing it's still too hot, you shovel another bite into your mouth.

You manage to clean your plate before Asriel sits down with his, allowing you to tuck your hands back into your blankets unnoticed. Toriel joins you all at the table again, and turns her gaze to you.

“Frisk,” she says, “Asgore will be taking you to your dentist appointment today. He will also accompany you and Asriel to your interview with Mettaton.” Her voice goes a little flat at that last part. While she'd allowed you to agree to Mettaton’s request for a second interview, she'd made some comment about ‘sensationalism’ that you hadn't quite understood, except to infer that she isn't very fond of how Mettaton does things. But he's been very helpful, you think, and you want to show that it's appreciated. And his face had lit up in a glittering smile when you'd agreed to the interview.

You nod up at her to show you've heard. With a small, fond smile, she adds, “You will have some time between engagements to return home. It might be wise to hold off on formal wear until you are ready to depart for the interview.”

Whether she intended or not, what you hear is permission to wear your old hoodie and jeans to the dentist. Chara gives you that disgusted wrinkled-nose feeling, and you think about turning up your nose at them in response. It's your day; you'll avoid wearing Chara’s clothes as much as you can.

Toriel sees you, Asgore, and Asriel off, giving each of you little kisses on the forehead. Asgore gets an extra nose nuzzle, and then you're on your way. Though the sun shines brightly among fluffy white clouds today, you feel none of its heat outside, and your breath forms foggy when you exhale.

A large car is waiting for you all at the end of the walkway, and an armoured figure stands next to it. As you approach, you feel your stomach drop. You'd recognize that shade of blue anywhere.

Your steps become smaller and smaller, your feet unwilling to take you closer. You make it near enough to see Undyne’s eye narrow, and your legs stop completely. Asriel makes it another step before he realizes that you've come to a halt; Asgore, another few before he, too, turns to look back at you.

“Are you all right, Frisk?” he asks. You try to focus on him instead of the Captain of the Guard. His head is tilted the slightest degree, and there's a mild wrinkle in his forehead beneath his crown. Focusing on Asgore, it turns out, does nothing to abate your fear. You should have known better.

You nod. Your neck is the only part of you that you can manage to move, the rest of your body filled with unyielding ice. You do not take another step, not forward nor to retreat.

“Frisk?” Asriel asks, returning to your side and cupping your left hand in both of his. The chill air today gave you an excuse to wear your old gloves, along with the black coat you'd received from the lion when you first met Mettaton, but you still feel the heat from Asriel’s hands. It's not enough to melt the ice inside you. “What’s wrong?” he asks.

You envision your right hand coming up to form the sign for ‘nothing,’ but your arms both dangle limp at your sides. Asriel studies your face for a moment, and then turns his head to follow your line of sight. His lips part in a squished ‘o’ shape.

“I should have remembered,” he says, quietly and to himself, before giving his head a little shake. His long ears brush his cheeks with the motion. He gives your frozen fingers a slight squeeze, and then removes one of his hands to turn and wave at the Guardswoman. “Captain!” he calls. “Would you mind coming here for a moment?”

It’s fortunate that your flesh and blood and bones have all turned to solid ice, because you’re neither able to flee nor fall. Instead you remain standing perfectly still. Undyne clanks over to you with large, forceful steps, her fists swinging at her sides. You keep your face carefully blank as you crane your neck up to look at her glaring, baleful, yellow eye.

“I believe the two of you have met,” Asriel says, as though he didn’t watch her chase and threaten you on TV, as though he and Chara hadn’t waited, ready to rewind time, to see if she would manage to kill you. “But as Captain Undyne will be accompanying us today, I think formal introductions would help!” You can’t bring yourself to look away from Undyne, but you’re certain Asriel is smiling genially, a perfect gentlemanly prince. “Frisk, this is Captain Undyne of the Royal Guard. She was trained by my father, and I personally appointed her to her position.”

The Captain huffs at her introduction, shifting her weight to one side with a quiet scrape of metal. You register the new information and file it away for later examination, perhaps at a time when your throat is void of obstructions.

“Captain, this is Royal Ambassador Frisk. You’ll serve them as you would any other member of the royal family.”

Abruptly, she drops down to one knee in front of you. The movement is smooth grace, her armour making hardly a noise. “I am aware of my duty, Your Highness,” Undyne says to him. Her eye slides to pin her gaze on you, and then she bows her head. “I, Undyne, Captain of the Royal Guard, will protect the Royal Ambassador Frisk with my life. This I vow.” Her sharp teeth slice up the reluctant words as they leave her mouth.

Your knees finally buckle, and you take a wobbly step back, pulling your hand from Asriel’s. Wide-eyed, you stare at the monster bowing before you. When she lifts her head, her glower quickly drops to a perplexed expression, her grit teeth and lowered brows giving way.

‘I don’t understand,’ you sign, looking from her to Asriel.

Mercifully, he answers you with his hands. Undyne says nothing as Asriel signs back, ‘It’s important that we establish you as part of the royal family to both humans and monsters. We can’t allow anyone to show you less respect than they would me or my parents.’

‘But she doesn’t like it.’ You stop yourself at the last moment from signing that she doesn’t like you.

‘She’s the Captain of the Royal Guard. She answers to the King, Queen, and Prince. And now you, as well. If she doesn’t like it, we can appoint another Captain.’

You shake your head quickly. You won’t be the cause of Undyne losing her position. It’s clear she hates you—her voice, ‘I’ll put you in the ground,’ echoes in your memory—but that’s not her fault. Asriel and Chara told her about how awful humans were; she shouldn’t be punished for taking their words to heart.

As though summoned by your thoughts, Chara chimes in. Just think of this as Asriel making sure she’ll obey me, too. After all, when Asriel says he appointed her as Captain, you know he means we.

You’re pretty sure Chara didn’t actually mean the words as reassurance. In fact, you’re pretty sure they meant the words to point out that Asriel was acting only in Chara’s interests, not your own; that you're an afterthought, nothing more. But somehow it puts you slightly at ease, to know that Chara used to also command Undyne, and that by establishing you as part of the royal family, Asriel is in some respects returning things to how they were before your arrival.

With more patience than you would have thought her to possess, Undyne has sat through your silent conversation with Asriel. You look back to her. Kneeling as she is, her head is now level with your own, and it’s easy to meet her gaze.

You sleep in the same room as Asriel, and you eat your meals at the same table as Asgore. Dealing with Undyne, who never even put a scratch on you, despite all her efforts, should be easy.

You remember how safe you’d felt, held on her shoulder above a sea of monsters.

You remember how quick she was to point her spear at you, once she knew what you were.

You inhale and exhale, slow and deep, and curl your fingers into loose fists before releasing them. When you lift your right arm to offer a handshake to her, you only tremble a little bit, and you think you manage to camouflage your shaking in the motion. Your mouth twitches at the corners, before you admit that attempting a smile is beyond you at this moment, and fall back into your safe, blank expression.

The grin Undyne gives you is large—you think that everything she does, she does in a big way or not at all—even though you can tell by the angle of her brows and her eye that her smile is resigned. She snatches your hand up with her own, so quick that you don’t even remember to wince when she squeezes down right on your raw, scraped knuckles.

“Glad to have a fresh start, Ambassador,” she says, releasing your hand and rising to tower over you once more.

A fresh start between the two of you sounds nice. If she’s willing to pretend, you’ll give it your best effort, too.

During the car ride to the dentist, you’re happy to look out the window, watching monsters and buildings go by. The differences between monsters and the sheer variety among them still fascinates you. Though mostly you see monsters, you do spot one group of humans with a couple Guardsmen you don’t recognize, presumably on a sort of tour like the one Papyrus was giving yesterday. The sight of humans getting out to enjoy the day and acquaint themselves with the city puts a small spark in your chest that does its best to combat the lingering cold in your ribs. Undyne and Asgore have struck up conversation about the decrease in humans leaving the underground; you listen with half an ear as they consider whether or not the entire population has come to the surface yet or not. It seems President Curtiss was not able to provide any sort of accurate count to the population, so they have nothing to measure by.

When Asriel joins the conversation, Chara decides they’ve had enough, and they start telling you about the dentist. They’re going to strap you to a table so you can’t move while they pull out all your yellow teeth, Chara says, because your mouth is putrid and full of rot and there’s no help for you. You’re going to have none left, just your gums, and you’ll have to get a fake set of teeth like an old fogy. Were Chara sitting in the car with you, they’d be leaning in close, a manic grin spread across their face, as they insist that if the dentist can’t pull out all of your teeth with their pliers, they’ll hold your mouth open and use their enormous whirring drill.

You tell yourself that they’re lying. Though, looking around the car, you don’t trust Asriel or Asgore or Undyne to not hand you over to such a fate—but surely Toriel, at least, would have warned you if that was what awaited you?

Why do you think she didn’t come with us? Chara taunts. She couldn’t bear the thought of what she knew you’d have to go through today.

Your mouth is dry. You try to distract yourself by looking out the window again, but there’s nothing you can do to escape Chara’s voice.

By the time the car parks, stopping outside a building with a colourful sign proclaiming something about smiles or happy teeth, you have to concentrate on keeping your breath even and your legs steady. Chara’s ominous descriptions have dropped to a whisper in your ear, as though the horrors they are describing are in fact too awful to fully voice. You stay close to Asriel as you enter into a room full of chairs and waiting monsters. The procession of Prince, King, Ambassador, and Captain of the Guard draws some stares, but also smiles and friendly waves, which Asriel and Asgore return. Asgore heads to the counter to ask after your appointment, and Asriel leads you over to sit in a couple of unoccupied chairs. Undyne follows the two of you, standing guard once you’re settled.

“Are you nervous, Frisk?” Asriel asks.

‘A little,’ you sign back. Chara howls with laughter only you can hear.

“Don’t worry,” Asriel reassures you. “It’s not that bad!”

Asriel wouldn’t want Chara to be stuck in a body with no teeth, right? Chara laughs more at your attempts to reassure yourself. Better none at all than those disgusting, rancid ones you have now, they declare.

A door next to the counter opens, and a blue-furred monster with four arms and a pretty voice calls out, “Ambassador Frisk? We’re ready for you now.” Asriel hops up, and reluctantly, you follow.

“Would you like us to accompany you as well?” Asgore asks. You look between him and Undyne. She’d promised to protect you, but this is something you’re supposed to do, isn’t it? She’d probably call you a baby or a wimp or something, if you asked her to save you from the dentist. You shake your head.

The four armed monster leads you to a room with a big, plush chair that’s been tilted back and stretched out, and they instruct you to sit in it. It’s honestly more like laying in a curvy bed than sitting in a chair. Next to the plush chair is a little table with several objects that look a little like pencils, but with small metal pointy bits where the lead should be. There are many cabinets against one wall, and posters with illustrations of mouths and teeth in all shapes pinned to another. You recognise one that looks like Papyrus’s set of teeth, as well as, you realize, your own.

Asriel gets to sit in a small chair with metal legs and thin cushions. The blue-furred monster asks a couple of questions about your teeth, mostly if anything hurts, and Asriel translates for any answers that require more than a nod or a shake of your head. The dentist then pulls on two pairs of rubbery blue gloves and asks you to open your mouth so that they can take a look. One of the small, pencil-sized tools has a little mirrored disc on the end, and they stick that in your mouth as you hold it open, presumably to get a good look at your back teeth.

You’re very much reminded of your time in the lab, laying on a slightly padded table while Scientist Sage and the others took readings of this or that. At this comparison, you feel some of the tension leave your limbs, despite the fear Chara’s taken effort to instill. The blue-furred monster tells you with their pretty voice that they’re going to take an X-ray next, whatever that is. You just nod and go along with the dentist’s instructions, as they lay a thick sort of blanket over you and direct you to hold something awkward and plastic between your teeth.

The rest of the visit proceeds in a similar fashion; the dentist asks you to hold open your mouth so they can poke around at your teeth, or asks you to bite down on something. Unlike your time at the lab, the dentist tells you to raise your right hand if something hurts, so that they can stop. Some of the pointy metal tools go into your mouth to pick at your teeth and gums, and you can taste it when you start to bleed from their prodding. They talk about irritation in your gums, and then they pick up a tool that does start whirring and Chara cries, There it is, they’re skipping straight to the drill! and you shake but lay still and obediently hold open your mouth.

Instead of pain, your teeth feel coated in something that tastes, vaguely, of strawberries.

They set the tools aside on their little table and tell you that you’ve done very well, and you stare blankly at them. That’s it? Chara laughs in your mind, the kind of full, loud, uncontrollable laugh that would have them clutching their belly and rocking back and forth if they were able.

The visit ends with the dentist consulting you and Asgore, and scheduling an appointment for you to get some cavities filled. It turns out that since you’ve only lost a few of your baby teeth, you don’t have to get as many fillings as a lot of the humans the dentist has seen so far; you simply have to continue to brush and floss diligently, and you can’t stop even once your adult teeth come in. You’re not sure how you feel about the comment that someone your age should have lost more of their baby teeth than you have, but if it saves you from having to get more fillings, which Chara assures you are truly the most awful component of dentist visits, you guess you’re all right with having a delayed development. The dentist makes Asgore promise to include lots of calcium in your diet, and you’re free to go.

You consider grumbling at Chara for trying to scare you on the way to the dentist, but you say nothing on the car ride back to the Dreemurr’s home.

Your interview with Mettaton is not happening until later that evening, and the rest of the day seems to crawl by. You return home, shower, and eat lunch (peanut-butter and jelly sandwiches, which Asriel shows you how to make), but after that, you find yourself still with several hours until you’re supposed to leave for Mettaton’s studio. Asgore and Undyne have gone to the central wing of the castle, attending to whatever matters a King and his Guard Captain attend to, so it’s just you and Asriel and the voice in your head.

“Do you wanna… do anything?” Asriel asks. You wonder if he, too, is thinking of the last time you were left to your own devices, and how that went. You wonder if he’s hoping that this time, too, Chara will intervene. Would it even matter if they did? You have no idea how to occupy yourself with this free time. Any spare moment underground was a moment where you could be looking for food or raiding the dump for clothing or items to trade. Once you’d been taken in by the lab, your hours were dictated by the scientists. Free time is as foreign to you as anything else on the surface.

That's right, Chara whispers in your ear, low and luring. If you're not serving as the ambassador or my vessel, what's even the point of you?

Purely out of spite, you resolve to figure out some way to occupy your time until the interview. “We could play a game, or something,” Asriel says, toeing at the floor. A claw catches between the floorboards, and he wiggles it aimlessly. “Maybe… maybe go for that walk we were going to take, before?” So he is thinking of two days ago.

You shake your head, but before Asriel’s shoulders and ears can drop too much, you sign, ‘What are your favourite things to do?’

He perks up quickly, bringing a hand up to his mouth in consideration. “Golly!” he says. “It’s been a while since I got to just have some fun. But I always liked drawing, and writing stories. Sometimes me and Chara would act out the best ones!” He looks away with a sheepish smile. “Now that I think about it, they weren’t very good stories…”

Chara bristles, about to take your hands to make an objection, and you move to sign before they can slip into your fingers. ‘Can we draw?’

“Oh! Sure! Here, I’ll find some paper and pencils!” He scrambles off to his bedroom, and you let yourself sit on the floor next to the sofa. You can feel Chara nursing a sharp bundle of irritation somewhere under your ribs, but you push on. It doesn’t take long for Asriel to come trotting back into the living room, a thick stack of paper in his paws and a box shoved under one arm. He drops down to the floor with you.

Asriel immediately sets to drawing, grabbing coloured pencils with confidence and starting a piece that promises to occupy the entirety of the sheet of paper in front of him. You proceed more slowly; in fact, you stare at the blank piece of paper you’ve selected for several long moments. You’ve drawn before—scratching crude images into the dirt when you didn’t know the right names or spellings and needed to communicate an idea—but this is supposed to be a fun, enjoyable activity, not something born of necessity. You sneak a peek at Asriel’s page again, though he’s making no effort to hide his work. A figure that bears a suspicious resemblance to the rosy-cheeked human from Toriel’s photos seems to be occupying the center of a starry, rainbow sky. You bite your lip and turn your attention back to your own blank paper.

Still, it’s given you an idea. You ignore Chara’s derisive comments and put pencil to paper.

Asgore returns with Undyne in tow as you're putting the finishing touches on your drawing. Asriel, for his part, has filled page after page with colourful portraits and rainbow scenes. Upon Asgore’s arrival, Asriel scoops up his drawings and rushes to greet his father, proudly showing them off. You look up from your own paper to watch Asgore’s face as he takes in the details of Asriel’s drawings.

“These are wonderful!” he exclaims without hesitation or reserve. He flips through them, giving each one his full attention as Asriel happily describes them.

“Not bad,” Undyne agrees. She looks to you then. “Hey, punk, what about you?”

You pick up your paper and hold it to your chest, the blank back of it facing Undyne, and you shake your head.

Undyne snorts, but doesn’t press. Asgore, though, turns his warm smile to you. “Did you have a good time drawing together?”

You think about the question before you answer. If having a good time is what Asriel did, then you surely didn’t. The little king had excitedly and quickly churned out drawing after drawing. His attention had been completely consumed by his creations, and he’d only glanced your way once or twice, then gone back to his own drawings when you shielded yours with your arm. In the time Asriel had made perhaps ten complete drawings, you’d barely finished one. It hadn’t helped that with every other line you put down, Chara was either trying to slip the pencil to your left hand so they could take over, or informing you how bad your anatomy was or that you’d coloured outside the lines you’d made or some other way you’d failed at the task.

Still, you’re, if not proud of, then at least satisfied with what you made. You give Asgore a shrug. It wasn’t the worst way you could have spent an afternoon, at least.

Asgore’s smile doesn’t falter under your lukewarm response. He returns Asriel’s drawings, ruffling his son’s bangs once his hands are free. To you, he says, “If you do decide to share your drawing with us, Frisk, we would be honoured to see it. For now, however, would you two please clean up here and get dressed for the interview? We will be leaving shortly.”

It’s a simple task to gather up the pencils and papers. You follow Asriel and he shows you where they belong, and the two of you return to his room to get dressed. Chara’s formal wear awaits you. Your shoulders sag as you look in their closet, reaching out to examine the hanging indigo garments.

You can’t go wrong with coattails, Chara comments as you look through. Oh, that one’s nice too. I bet Mettaton would like the epaulets.

You wind up grabbing the next piece your hand lands on. It turns out to be a top with decorative buttons and braided cords going down the front, and a slight flare at the hips. You can feel Chara’s approval radiating through your chest, as they suggest matching it with the white pants you wore before. When you move to grab the same shoes you wore for your address, Chara instead indicates a taller pair of boots that come up to the middle of your calf. You think about ignoring their suggestions to spite them, but honestly, you have very little to go on regarding the concept of fashion. Hopefully Asriel will say something if Chara’s guided you to wear something stupid looking.

Chara’s clothes are once again a perfect fit. The sleeves are just the right length on your arms, and though the top has a buckle in the back to allow for tightening or loosening the fabric, no adjustments are needed. Even the white gloves they insist you wear to hide your knuckles instead of your tattered black pair fit you well—better than your own, if you're honest. Despite the convenience, an unpleasant feeling lingers in your gut. Two days ago, you hadn’t felt the discomfort of your borrowed clothing until after your duties were fulfilled. Today, you have barely two minutes before you’re aching to pull off the top. You fidget with the buttons at your wrists and you tug at the flared hem at your hips, but nothing eases the creeping unease on your skin.

You’ll just have to deal with it.

There’s one last touch to finish off the outfit, to match you with Asriel and cement your position as the link between humans and monsters. You fasten the thin chain of Chara’s locket around your neck, letting the small metal heart rest on top of their shirt. The embroidery and trim on their clothing is all silvery-white, and the golden locket shines with bright contrast against the garments.

As an afterthought, you grab the black coat you’d received from the lion. Now that you’ve an entire borrowed wardrobe, it seems unfair to keep it. If the lion is there, you can return it, or else ask Mettaton to pass it along for you. You pull it on for one last time. Even though it’s not really yours, it’s not Chara’s either, and somehow that’s enough to alleviate the little twinges of discomfort, albeit only slightly.

Immediately upon your arrival, Mettaton is there to greet you, among a milling crowd of monsters. When you exit the car with Asriel, Asgore, and Undyne, they erupt into noise, excited shouts and applause. It's nothing like the reception the humans gave you two days ago. It's only Asriel’s hand on yours that prevents you from turning around and crawling right back into the car.

With a joyful cry of, “Darlings, darlings!” Mettaton ushers you past the gathered monsters, along a clear red carpet path to the door. Bright lights flash around you, and you flinch. Mettaton’s arm comes around you protectively, and you hear him scold someone you can't see. “Have some restraint!” he calls out, angling you closer to him. At this distance, you can see the seams in his metal chassis, the bolts and rivets holding him together. On your other side, Asriel draws near. You breathe deep through your nose and hold it for a count of three before you exhale.

Nearly everyone had told you you didn't need to do the interview. You were the one who insisted on going. You can't back out now. You hold your spine straight and walk forward.

Though it’s not as loud inside the studio as outside, a different kind of chaos greets you when you enter. Mettaton guides you along past monsters setting up light fixtures that are taller than Asgore—maybe even taller than two Asgores standing one atop the other—monsters making adjustments to boxy machines that Chara assures you are, in fact, cameras, and monsters wearing huge bulky headphones and carrying long poles with cushy microphones as big as your head at the ends. Everyone is yelling over each other to be heard. You don’t bring up your hands to cover your ears, you’re not a baby, but when Mettaton leads you through yet another door and the noise instantly drops, you feel your shoulders sag with relief.

You proceed through a cluttered hallway and into a brightly lit room. Though there are yet more monsters working here, you still have yet to see the lion anywhere. There are mirrors all along one wall, a long counter underneath at waist height and a row of bright light bulbs all along the top edge. Against the wall opposite are racks and racks of hanging clothes in every colour and more patterns than you’ve ever seen in your life. You think there are more clothes hanging in this one room than even the Dreemurrs have in all their closets.

“We’ll get you fixed up back here,” Mettaton declares, looking down at you. He spins you by the shoulders til you’re facing him. “You’re gorgeous already, of course,” he tells you, “but the camera can be very unforgiving!”

He twirls you around again, and you’re lead on unsteady feet to sit on a stool in front of the wide wall of mirrors. You can see now that the counter is occupied by items resembling those in the Dreemurrs’ bathroom, but there are so many more here: tubes and bottles and combs and tweezers, little flat compacts and long palettes of colourful powders. In the mirror behind you, you can see other monsters guiding Asriel, Asgore, and Undyne off to the side, sitting them in stools next to you. Save for Asgore, who stands until Mettaton’s team is able to fetch a sturdier chair.

“This is going to be a fantastic night,” Mettaton promises, leaning over you to smile at you in the mirror. One hand is still on your shoulder while the other rests on the countertop. “And I love this ensemble you’ve chosen! Utterly fabulous. And the callback to our first interview! I’m so flattered to see you wearing your Mettaton™ Midnight Peacoat again!”

You look at his beaming smile in the mirror, and then twist around and crane your head up so you can look at his face directly. Obligingly, he tilts his head to meet your gaze.

You turn and rap your knuckles on the countertop to get Asriel’s attention. Whether by good fortune or design, he’s sat next to you. A monster with a sharply angled, geometric head is powdering his nose, but stops when Asriel holds up a hand to give you his attention. You sign, and he spins on his stool to face Mettaton.

“Actually, Mettaton, Frisk wanted to know if the lion on your team was here tonight. They brought the coat with them so they could return it.”

Mettaton gasps dramatically, his eyelashes fluttering. “Oh! Do you not like it after all?”

You shake your head quickly, and sign more. Asriel scratches at the end of one of his ears as he watches you. Once you’ve said your piece, Asriel turns his gaze back up to Mettaton. “They do like it, but it doesn’t belong to them, and it’s not right to take someone else’s things.”

Mettaton looks from the little king down to you again, his eyebrows raised. You prepare yourself to shrug the coat off. You’ve mostly gotten used to the itchy feeling crawling over your skin under Chara’s clothes; you can probably manage without the crutch of the borrowed overcoat.

“You dear, sweet children!” Mettaton exclaims, crushing you in a hug so tight you’re lifted out of your seat. You hang flabbergasted in the robot’s arms as he croons, “That is so thoughtful! You magnificent little human! Please, darling, keep it! Think of it as a gift!”

Despite Mettaton’s metal arms wrapped around you several times over, he’s carefully (or coincidentally) left your arms free. ‘Is that really okay?’ you ask, and Asriel translates.

“Of course! It’s more than okay!” Mettaton promises. He still hasn’t set you down, and your legs dangle as Mettaton rocks back and forth.

‘This is really mine? To keep?’

Asriel hesitates, and Mettaton stills when he notices that you’ve said something but no translation is forthcoming. In the mirror, you see his visible eye open fully and then narrow, pinning his gaze onto your reflection. Gently, he places you back down onto the stool, and his arms retract with a low whirring noise. “Believe me,” Mettaton says, in a quiet and sincere tone you’d have never expected from him, “nothing makes me happier than hearing that you like it.” Something must still show on your face, because Mettaton adds, “You do know it was from our costume supply, right? It wasn’t my dear lion’s own possession. And we have plenty more where that came from.” He gestures towards the racks of clothing behind you.

You study your reflection, running your hands down the front of the coat, feeling the edges of the lapels under your fingers, the shiny buttons under your palms. The lion won’t miss this coat. It’s yours, now. It's not as worn and comforting as your hoodie, but it belongs to you. Your coat, to keep.

You can see Asriel looking at you, but before you can decipher his expression, the monster next to him reminds him that you all still need to get your makeup done, and turns him back to the mirror.

You expect one of the other monsters to come over to you, so it’s a surprise when Mettaton selects one of the compacts from the counter and begins applying a cream to your cheeks. “My dear,” he says to your shocked reflection, “you’re going to be my incredible co-star tonight! My lovely lion, whom you recall so kindly, had to call out sick tonight, so there’s really nobody else I can trust with this!”

Forgetting for a moment that Mettaton won’t understand, you start to sign. Unexpectedly, Asriel’s voice picks up where your signs end. “We’d like to go with a different look than the one you used for the last interview,” he says. It’s a much more diplomatic phrasing of your words. “Can you emphasize Frisk’s natural features, instead of making them look like Chara?”

“Are you sure?” Mettaton asks, pausing with a spongy triangular wedge held just above your forehead, his other hand brushing your bangs back. “There’s already an obvious resemblance.” You and Chara both feel your hackles raise. The only resemblance between the two of you is that you're both human. Oblivious to your ire, Mettaton continues, “When we polled the audience, a lot of monsters said they were more willing to trust the Ambassador because they looked like the Fallen Human.”

You don’t even have to reply before Asriel nods firmly. “We’re sure,” he says.

“Well, if you insist,” Mettaton sighs. “Though your natural features are wonderful on their own,” he reassures you. “But in showbiz, you usually want to take any advantage you can!”

With deft motions, Mettaton continues to apply your makeup. You let your eyes fall closed. The pressure on your face is sometimes firm, sometimes a gentle touch. Mettaton warns you before he does your eyes, and you only flinch a little bit.

“And… done! My, sometimes I even impress myself!”

Your eyes slowly flutter open. Eugh, Chara groans. You're even more hideous than usual. For once, it's easy to ignore them. Your reflection is as strange and foreign to you as when Chara smiled at you the night before, but unlike then, you don’t want to look away. There’s some blush on your cheeks, true, but it’s not the overpowering rosy hue of Chara’s, and it’s offset by the touch of pink that shines on your lips. Your eyeliner flares out in sharp points that emphasize the narrow slant of your eyes rather than implying the larger size of Chara’s. A light dusting of purple rests on top of your eyelids. It’s not much at all, but it’s the exact hue of your top.

You lean in closer. Maybe it’s the juxtaposition of the purple eyeshadow, but your irises look….

“What do you think?” Mettaton asks, leaning over you with a smug grin. You look up to him and return his smile. You’d never really prioritized your appearance before, and like with fashion, you’ve no sense of what’s the standard of beauty, though you're certain Mettaton has made you up accordingly. Your eyes dart back to your reflection.

Despite Chara’s words, you think Mettaton’s actually managed to make you look ‘pretty.’ It’s a new and different thought to have about yourself.

“All right,” Mettaton says, clapping his hands. “Let’s get going!”

It seems that while you were distracted staring at yourself (So vain! Chara mocks gleefully), everyone else has finished getting ready. Asriel is looking at you oddly; you wonder how long you made him wait while you were enthralled by your own reflection.

You put it out of your mind. It doesn't matter if Asriel thinks you're—narcissistic, Chara suggests. Sure. As long as he'll still translate for you, he can think what he pleases. Right now, there are more important things to focus on.

The setup for the interview is quite similar to how Mettaton had transformed Alphys’s lab, but of course, on a much larger scale. And, unlike in Alphys’s lab, there are rows upon rows of seats facing the stage, ready and waiting for an audience. On the stage, instead of two plush chairs next to each other, there's a wide, sleek couch angled slightly toward a desk. You're instructed to sit on the side of the couch closest to the desk, Asriel next to you. Asgore occupies the entire other half of the couch, and Undyne stands next to him, straight-backed, her alert eye following the monsters of Mettaton’s production crew as they bustle about. You want to ask about a place for her to sit, but nobody else has remarked on it.

Mettaton himself sits behind the desk, and you see how the setup allows you and him to face each other while still mostly facing the camera as well. Bright lights flare to life above and around you, and Mettaton directs all his crew members with nearly as much command and authority as you've seen from Toriel.

“We're not broadcasting live this time,” he says to you, “and we have three cameras to switch between, so we have plenty of coverage for any editing we might need to do in post.” From his tone, you can tell this is supposed to be reassuring, but you have no idea what he means. Chara grumbles that they'll tell you later, claiming it's too much to explain right now. Mettaton continues, “I'll start with easy questions, but I'm not going to hold back once we get rolling. And remember, even if we can edit in post, we're still filming in front of a live studio audience!” His visible eye sparkles, and you hold his gaze when you nod. You agreed to this. You won't back down.

“We're letting them in!” a monster by the doors calls out, and Mettaton raises an arm and gestures as though to beckon them forward. You grip the arm of the couch as the doors open and in file the monsters. They must be those who had been waiting outside when you'd arrived, you think. You don't recognize any of them from the brief trip from the car to inside, but the excited noise and energy is the same. They look up at you and the others on the stage, anticipatory and eager.

You're going to disappoint them. This is an interview about you, and there's nothing that could be less interesting than that. If you'd made a script for a speech, maybe, or if Mettaton were to interview Asriel instead—

Don't you get tired of freaking out over stupid things? Chara’s voice in your ear is exasperated. I'll give you something to really get upset over later, if you want to have a panic attack that badly.

Whether they meant to or not, Chara’s given you something to focus on other than the monsters staring at you, and you cling to their voice. I thought you'd agree with me, you think. You take every other opportunity to remind me how little I matter.

Yes, but it's only fun when I do it! Watching you tear yourself down is boring.

A little smile starts to work itself onto your face.

“Are you excited?” Asriel whispers to you. You feel your cheeks heat up a little as you remember that to everyone else, it looks like you're smiling at nothing. You take the excuse Asriel has given you, and you nod quickly. “Me too,” he admits. “Mettaton’s a star for a reason!” He gives a nervous, self-conscious little giggle, and your smile doesn't grow, but settles more naturally on your face, maybe.

Asriel fidgets back and forth for another moment, and his tiny fangs chew at his lip. “You, um,” he starts, and you can see his fingers flex where they rest on the sofa cushion’s edge. “You really, uh—”

“Action in ten! Nine!” The monster behind the central camera cuts him off, starting their countdown. You tilt your head at Asriel, but his mouth has snapped shut and he shakes his head. Mettaton looks over to you, perhaps confirming to himself that everything and everyone is still in place, and you suppose whatever Asriel had to say will have to wait until after the interview.

“Six! Five!”

Unexpectedly, you get the feeling of Chara bumping your shoulder with their own. Mettaton knows what he's doing. If you're lost, he'll make sure you can follow his lead, or he'll change the subject. Don't worry.

You—

Look alive, now!

“Two! One! Action!”

You sit a little straighter, and Mettaton throws his arms up and directs a shining, stunning smile out to the audience. “Welcome, my marvelous viewers! Monsters and humans! It's the moment you've all been waiting for!” He leans back, kicking a leg straight up, then flips his hair and looks coyly at the audience. “It's the hotly awaited sequel to Interview with a Killer Human—Interview with the Royal Ambassador!”

Thanks to your own speech two days ago, you expect it when the audience bursts into cheers and applause, and you only squeeze the arm of the couch under your fingers instead of flinching with your entire body. Mettaton waves absently, and slowly the roar of the crowd diminishes. He lowers his leg and spins in his chair to lean over the desk, propping his chin in one hand.

“Surely all my wonderful viewers tuning in know already, but let's introduce tonight's gorgeous guests!”

Unsurprisingly, he starts with you. Surprisingly, the audience claps and cheers at just your name and title. You try giving a little wave, like you've seen Asriel and Asgore do when monsters greet them, and the cheering intensifies. Naturally, the reaction is the same as Mettaton goes on to introduce the Prince and King of monsterkind.

You're not expecting him to introduce Undyne as well, and apparently, neither is she, because she starts and her eye goes wide when Mettaton gets to her. She does grin hugely at the audience's impassioned applause, and she pumps her fist high in the air, so you figure she doesn't mind.

“And now, let's get down to business!” Somehow, Mettaton’s over the top gesticulating has wound up with him reclined on the desk, propping his face in one hand as he looks to you. “Ambassador Frisk, you've been living with the royal family since being appointed to your position. What's it like to live with boss monsters after growing up underground?”

Hadn't he promised to start with the easy questions? Chara jeers at you, What were you even expecting? Honestly. If you frown, everyone will think you're frowning at Mettaton, so you keep your face neutral as you think of your answer. Asriel is able to start speaking for you shortly after you begin signing.

“I like it. Toriel is very kind, patient, and smart. She makes me feel very welcome, and she's teaching me a lot so I can do well as an ambassador. I have a lot of new responsibilities, but I don't mind since it means I can help humans and monsters get along. And I'm…” At Asriel’s delay, you look over at him. His eyebrows are drawn up in that mountain shape you're coming to know very well. He swallows, and picks back up where he left off. “I'm able to eat three meals a day, and everything is delicious.”

There’s a low murmur that travels through the audience. It’s not anger or excitement, and you’re hard-pressed to identify it. Before you can focus on it further, Mettaton’s moving on to the next question. “How does that compare to your life before coming to the surface? Would you be able to tell us a bit more about your experiences underground?”

This time you do frown. You’d known he would ask—how could he not? What else of interest would you, as a human, have to offer in an interview? But knowing doesn’t make it any more enjoyable. Asriel’s tone is still close to neutral, but he allows a hint of melancholy to slip into his voice for you. “It’s hard to explain. There are so many differences, I don’t know where to start. Up here, there’s so much more of everything. There’s more space and more people and more clothes and more food. Nobody’s scared of not having enough.”

Mettaton makes a sympathetic face, an overwrought pout and raised eyebrows. You’re sure he knows you’re avoiding giving actual details about the underground, preferring to focus on how the surface is better. It’s easier up here. You want to give Mettaton interesting answers, but you'd rather leave some things unsaid. You expect him to press, but true to Chara’s prediction, he changes course. “Speaking of differences,” he says, sitting up in a graceful arc and crossing his legs with a dramatic kick, ending perched on the edge of the desk, “the last time you were on the show, we were rudely interrupted by a certain ferocious Captain of the Guard!” He winks out at the watching monsters, and the sound of laughter rises up. “However, it looks as though the two of you have resolved your differences!”

Chara groans. He had such a good setup for a better pun, and he wasted it on that? they grouse.

“So, Captain Undyne! Care to tell us what changed your opinion of our little Ambassador?”

As one, you and Asriel turn in your seats to look at the startled Guardswoman. Her jaw has dropped just enough to display a glimpse of jagged teeth, and her remaining eye goes wide for a second before narrowing. “This interview isn’t about me!” she objects, yelling. There’s the loud Undyne you remember. “Why not ask them!” she yells, swinging her arm to point at you.

Probably for the best. You don’t expect that ‘The Prince ordered me to obey them,’ will make for a good answer. Yet once Undyne’s glower lands on you, it starts to fall from her face. She drops her arm and straightens her back, averting her eye.

“But Captain!” Mettaton all but croons, “What happened to putting them back in the ground?”

Undyne visibly winces. You didn’t expect that.

Asgore lifts a hand as though to support her, but she shakes her head, her vibrant red ponytail flaring out behind her. He drops his hand, and Undyne meets Mettaton’s smug grin with an even glare.

“Since the end of the second war, the Royal Guard has had standing orders to capture any human who managed to escape the barrier, and bring them to the King,” she says, the professional words of the dedicated Captain. “Preferably, but not necessarily, alive.” You’re grateful attention is focused on her and not you for the moment, as a shiver runs down your back and your entire body jerks from it. Undyne’s voice goes low as she continues, “I have always fulfilled my duty to my King, without questioning my orders. But!” In an instant she’s turned the full intensity of her grin on you, that huge and frightening mouthful of so many teeth. “Maybe I should have, when I saw Papyrus and Alphys willing to stick up for you! But I was mad you turned my friends against me!”

‘I didn’t mean to!’ you sign quickly, and Undyne simply waves you off.

“Whatever, punk! I don’t even know what you’re saying, but I don’t care! Cause that’s all in the past!” She plants her hands on her hips, and it’s almost the same as when she first spoke to you in the mall. It’s almost like it really is a fresh start between the two of you. “I shoulda listened to Papyrus and Alphys sooner! You’re not a bad kid.”

Something small and warm, like a match being struck, lights up in your chest.

Isn’t that nice, says Chara. She doesn’t know what a horrible little backstabber you are. Better not let her find out, or you’ll get to see her do another heel-face turn.

Just like that, it’s extinguished.

Before you can dwell on the ashen dread of Undyne learning the truth of how you attacked Asriel, Mettaton reminds you that you’re still in the middle of a live interview. “What a heartfelt moment!” he cries, swooning over on the desk. “It almost brings a tear to my eye!”

Undyne makes an, “Ungh,” noise, crossing her arms and stepping back to her previous position to the side and just behind Asgore. It’s as clear a withdraw from the interview as any. Mettaton doesn’t pursue her, instead wiping away an imaginary tear as he aims that shining smile back toward you.

“You truly are skilled at winning support to your side, dear Ambassador!” he says. You’re not certain if the praise is offered in sincerity, but you return a small, grateful smile.

The rest of the interview proceeds in relatively benign fashion. Undyne’s outburst, you think, remains the most exciting part of the event. Mettaton’s questions range from your favourite food (Toriel’s pie!) to how it felt to ask Asriel to take down the barrier (terrifying, and you don’t have to lie about that much). The audience gets another laugh when you confess to mistaking Asgore for the king at first, even though he’s now resumed the title, and Mettaton takes a moment to detour by asking Asgore what it’s like to be back on the throne, similar to the earlier diversion with Undyne. Likewise, he gets Asriel to say a few words about how it feels to step back and let his parents resume ruling, before once more plying you with questions.

Though he doesn't directly inquire about life underground again, he skirts the conversation close several more times, with questions that highlight how your future is much brighter now, literally and figuratively. You become aware of a certain mood settling over the attentive audience as Mettaton dances the conversation around the topic, and you must be reading it wrong, because why would Mettaton purposefully lead you into questions that upset the viewers? But instead of laughter or enthused cheers, there are quiet murmurs that flow through the audience like rippling waves.

He's not upsetting them, Chara tells you. Or at least, not the way you think. He's garnering you sympathy. He's making them pity you.

Oh.

That explains the reactions, at least, but you’re still puzzled about Mettaton’s reasons for doing so. Chara falls silent again.

Mettaton draws things to a close with a promotion of his upcoming reality TV show, starring several newly surfaced humans and titled, ‘Oh! The Humanity!’ Chara chokes on their laughter, a feat you’re not sure how they achieve without use of your throat. The audience leaves after a final, deafening round of applause, the lights dim, and you lean back into the sofa, finally letting yourself slump down into the cushions. You rub at your eyes with your fists, and Mettaton shrieks at what the action apparently does to your makeup. Looking at your hands, you see you’ve left black and purple smudges all over Chara’s white gloves.

“At least you waited until we were through filming,” he sighs, shaking his head at you and making little ‘tsk, tsk,’ noises. Undyne snorts in amusement.

You get Asriel to ask Mettaton a little more about the reality TV show, and find out that in exchange for appearing on the show, the humans who participate will be paid at the same rate as monsters who appear on such shows, and their stay at Mettaton’s hotel will not only continue to be covered, but they’ve already been moved to suites on the same floor for ease of filming. Of course, they had to agree to a certain loss of privacy, as Mettaton explains to you exactly what a reality TV show entails, but he assures you the compensation is fair. You figure as long as he explained clearly to the humans what they were agreeing to, they’re adults who can decide for themselves.

As he’d been the one to welcome you in, Mettaton also walks you all out. Once more the car is waiting for you; you wonder how the driver knows when to show up to pick everyone up. Or did they wait outside with the car until you were done?

Undyne throws herself into her seat, pulling on her seatbelt with sharp motions. “I hope he doesn’t air that bit with me! It’s way too sappy!”

“I don’t know,” Asgore says, warmth in his voice. “I think it could go a long way, to show how even the ‘ferocious Captain of the Guard’ has come to support friendship between humans and monsters!”

“Ngah!” is Undyne’s only response. She runs a hand through her hair, pulled back as it is. A few locks escape, coming to hang down to one side. When she lets her hand fall, she and you both realize that you’re staring at her, and she grins wryly when you don’t look away.

“Still, sappy or not, I meant it, kid,” she says, bringing her hands behind her head to lean back on them. “At first, I didn’t think Papyrus could be right about you, when he said you were his friend. Papyrus… he’s too kind. He’ll believe the best in anyone. So hearing him stand up for you… I figured it didn’t have to mean anything. You could be elbow deep in dust, and he’d still say you could be a great person.” Her eye falls half-closed in recollection. “I’m glad that the human Papyrus found was you. I worry about him, you know? If the human that escaped the barrier actually had been as violent and dangerous as someone told me they all are…” Chara bristles and puffs up in irritation, while Asriel has the grace to look aside. “Well. Just look at what happened with you! He was supposed to capture you, but he wound up becoming your friend instead, and he basically saved you from me!”

She really has no idea how close you came to tearing Papyrus into little smiling pieces, Chara laughs. Here’s hoping for your sake that she never finds out.

Undyne grins down at you, and you wish that she wasn’t so very wrong about you. You wish you could be the kind of human she thinks Papyrus encountered; you wish that kindness came naturally to you, that it could be your first instinct, as it seems to be for Papyrus, instead of something you struggle to choose.

If you were really kind, you wouldn’t want to hurt Chara in any way you could, even if it meant harming yourself to get to them. You wouldn’t want to make them pay for your stinging knuckles, for all their cruel remarks, for their clothes you have to wear when fulfilling your duties as Ambassador. It’s petty of you, isn’t it, wanting to take revenge for such little things? It’s not what a good or kind person would do. It’s not what Papyrus would do.

If anybody notices how wobbly your smile is, they don’t comment on it.

“Welcome home!” Toriel calls from the kitchen as Asgore, Asriel, and you make your way in. Though Asgore invited her to stay for dinner, Undyne left for her own home when you reached the castle. You’re grateful; breathing around Undyne is much easier now, but you suspect that any meal with her would be very, well, loud, and you’re not sure you can handle much more tonight before crawling into (or under) the bed.

Even from the living room, something smells delicious, and you dart into the kitchen eagerly to see what magic Toriel is working tonight. She chuckles at your arrival.

“I hope you like what I have selected for dinner,” she says, her eyes twinkling. She reaches into a bowl set upon the counter, filled with ice and little grey things, and pulls one out. “Surprise! It is shrimp!” she declares. You squint, leaning closer to peer at the curled up object in her hands. It looks insect-like, almost, with many thin legs folded up, but it has a fin on the end where Toriel holds it between thumb and forefinger, and it lacks the distinctly segmented body of an insect, though its shell does divide into multiple sections.

“See how its colour is blue-grey now?” she asks. You nod. “Well, you must watch what happens next!” With her free hand she scoops you up to sit you on her hip, and you giggle silently with delight, wrapping your own arms around her shoulders as soon as you’re able. She replaces the shrimp in its bowl, then selects a fork and spears it. There is a pot of water already boiling, and it’s into this that she places the shrimp, keeping hold of the fork.

You stare intently. You can just make out the form of the shrimp under the bubbling surface of the water. Behind you, you hear Asgore and Asriel enter the kitchen, but you don’t dare look away. Whatever is about to happen, you don’t want to miss it.

The water boils, and boils, and Toriel holds the fork steady, keeping the shrimp submerged. She shifts her hip, lifting you higher when you start to slip, and you continue to watch.

It happens almost all at once, and you stare in wonder as Toriel lifts the fork up. The once blue-grey shrimp is now shades of pink and orange and white, its entire little body changed.

Excitedly, you ask her to let you do one, and though Chara points out that it’s beyond inefficient to cook the shrimp one at a time, Toriel indulges you. She keeps you propped on her hip as you hold your shrimp under the water, and you swear it takes even longer than hers did, though that might be because you keep lifting it out to see if it’s changed yet. But finally the boiling water takes effect, and you have a bright pink shrimp on your fork.

“If you would like to have that one while I prepare the rest, you may, my child,” Toriel tells you. You look up at her to make sure she means it, even though Chara sighs and tells you that of course she does, Toriel wants to feed you, she’s not going to take your food away. And you know that, you do, but. Well. It’s force of habit that has you popping the shrimp in your mouth before she can change her mind and decide that you shouldn’t have it after all.

The outer shell of it is crunchy, and you don’t really like the texture of the legs. The inside of it, though, is tasty enough. You’re not sure if it’s worth the trade-off of having to stomach the legs.

Toriel is looking at you with her mouth slightly agape and her brows drawn in. “My child…” she starts. You swallow your shrimp nervously. Did she not mean for you to eat it, after all? Maybe she just meant for you to hold it until everyone sat down for dinner. Maybe you’re not supposed to have the shrimp because they’re only for boss monsters.

“Did you seriously just eat that without peeling it?” Asriel asks, equal parts excited and horrified. When you turn to look at him, he’s smiling, true, but his eyes have also gone wide with shock.

Chara, who has been silent until now, bursts into hysterical laughter. Despite their lack of lungs while not possessing your body, they manage to laugh too hard to even form words to mock you with, which is, depending on how you look at it, a new low for you.

Your face heats up, all the way around from your cheeks to your ears, and Toriel schools her face into a fond smile instead of a shocked grimace. “My child,” she says again, “typically, we peel the shrimp before eating them. I will show you how.”

You nod, feeling your eyes well up, which only feeds into your embarrassment. It’s just dinner with Toriel and Asriel and Asgore, it’s not like you made a fool of yourself during the interview in front of all those other monsters. It’s not that big a deal, you tell yourself, breathing deep through your tingling nose and swallowing thickly. Chara has mostly stopped laughing, but upon sensing your frustration, they’re sent into fresh peals of uncontrollable giggles.

You manage, somehow, to sit at the table and wait without crying, to bear the wet weight on your lower eyelids, and when Asgore sets the table, you’re able to blink without dislodging tears. As promised, Toriel shows you how to peel the shrimp, and they taste much better without the legs and shell.

After dinner, Asriel’s made to do the dishes; you gather that it’s his part of the punishment for two days ago, that on your days, Asriel does the dishes, while on Chara’s, they do the chore. You wonder if Asriel also has to clean the bathrooms, or if he was assigned some other duty.

It’s fairly late, but instead of steering you toward bed, Asgore asks if you’d like to watch your interview.

The four of you all pile onto the sofa, which is much comfier than the one at Mettaton’s studio, you decide. Especially because you wind up in Toriel’s lap rather than on the sofa itself. It’s somewhat strange to see yourself on the TV screen; though you’ve had this experience before, you’re still not used to it. Sometimes Mettaton’s face fills the entire screen, and sometimes you can see everyone; sometimes it only shows you and Asriel, side by side, as you sign and he speaks. It reminds you of something, and you tap him on the shoulder. Toriel notices your movement, but when she sees that you’re signing to Asriel, she looks back to the TV.

‘What were you about to say to me, before the interview started?’ you ask him. With everything else, you’d forgotten.

Asriel shifts and chews at his lip again, much as he had before, at the studio. His eyes dart up to his parents, who are both still watching your interview, or at least pretending to. Finally, he signs back, ‘I was going to say, you looked…’ He pauses, and you wonder if he’s forgotten a sign, or if he’s having trouble choosing the right one. On the TV, Mettaton gleefully asks your favourite food, and Toriel chuckles at your answer and gives your shoulder a little squeeze.

Finally, Asriel moves his hands again. ‘You really don’t look like Chara at all!’ he says.

Is that all he was going to say? He seemed so nervous about stating such an obvious fact. You’re not really sure what kind of response such a statement warrants, so you settle with signing a simple, ‘Yes.’

He turns purposefully back toward the TV, as though the displayed content is extremely interesting and he didn’t live through it a few hours ago. His nose seems unusually pink; you wonder if it’s caused by the light from the screen, now showing a close-up of Mettaton.

Inside of you, Chara boils with rage.

When you at last get ready for bed, you’re so exhausted, the simple act of putting on your pajamas is an ordeal. Your coat (your coat! Not the lion’s!) has already been hung up, but getting out of Chara’s top is a trial of uncooperative buttons. The sleeves cling to your arms, and your hands have gotten sweaty inside the gloves. Your knuckles on your right hand must have bled a little bit again, because when you tug that glove off, it stings and sticks to the raw patches, and you have to grip your teeth and give it a final pull. After everything, you don’t even want to delay the minute it will take to floss your teeth. It’s yet another minute between you and sleep, which is unacceptable.

Oh no you don’t, Chara objects when you make to leave the bathroom without having flossed. You find your feet turning you back around toward the sink, and you plant them firmly on the tile floor before you can take another step.

No! you think, clenching your hands into fists and fighting to keep your legs still. This is still my day!

I don’t care, Chara growls. You’ve been extra annoying today, but this is the last straw. I don’t care if most of your teeth are still baby teeth; we’re flossing!

It seems such a stupid, insignificant thing to fight over, and you’re so tired. You’re ready to wrap yourself up in warm blankets and forget about all the responsibilities you’ve signed up for. Why not let Chara have this? If they want to take care of your body, let them.

But your foot takes another step back toward the sink, and rage swells inside you, hot and pulsing like infection. It doesn’t matter how little or how much. Your day hasn’t ended yet! If you want to let your teeth rot, it’s your body! You yank your leg back, your sock-clad foot sliding on the tile, and you nearly lose your balance. No I’m not! you shout back.

Are you mad about something, Frisk? Chara taunts, tugging your other foot, and this time you do fall. Your knees hit the hard floor, and your elbow bangs against the toilet. You don’t move to get up, opting to remain crumpled and leaning against the toilet bowl; it’s easier to hold control of your limbs when not fighting for balance, too. Are you going to try to teach me a lesson for my attempt to steal your body? How are you planning to injure yourself tonight?

You shake your head, and a strand of hair gets caught in your eyes, but you’re concentrating on keeping your hands where they are, pressed flat against the floor, and so you can’t brush it away.

You know, completely and absolutely, that if you try to hurt Chara tonight, as you had two nights ago, as they did the night before—you know that things will only get worse. The two of you will get locked in a cycle of revenge and escalation and abuse. You’re both determined to have the last word, even if that word hurts you just as much as it hurts them.

You could win. It’s your body, and you’re getting better at fighting Chara when they try to take control. You don’t have to try to compromise with them. Why should you, when half the time they’re actively trying to sabotage you?

And the other half of the time, they offer advice, explanations and definitions of the surface’s many foreign words and concepts. They’d reassured you and calmed you down before Mettaton’s interview. You could almost imagine as though their presence at your back is to support you, not push you down. Their whispers at your ear encouraging, rather than disparaging.

You have a choice, here and now, even if it’s not an easy one. You can continue the routine of the past two nights and establish the pattern, or you can choose kindness.

Papyrus wouldn’t try to make someone fear his retribution if they did something he didn’t like. Papyrus and Undyne both believe you’re a better person than you are, and knowing how wrong they are sends heavy despair dripping down into your gut. You want to make it so they’re right about you.

I see, Chara says, and for a foolish moment, you feel relief. For a foolish moment, you hope for a future where you and Chara cooperate instead of compete, where you share willingly, not simply because Toriel has told you that you must.

You think this makes everything okay, then? they ask.

Their tone is reserved. Tentative. Awaiting your answer, and so you give it. I think one of us has to stop, or it’ll never be okay between us. Much as yielding to them goes against everything you learned underground. You have to admit that you’re the one who started hurting yourself to get to them, so you shouldn’t expect them to be willing to back down. You’re the one who has to fall back. This, too, is your responsibility.

You think that suddenly makes you into a kind person? That you can change just by trying? Though they’re not physically in the bathroom with you, you find yourself flinching away from their rising tone, moving back until your shoulder blades press against the wall, until you’re half wedged behind the toilet. Do you think that an abrupt decision like this can erase what you did before?

No, that’s—that’s not what I mean. You know you can’t become a good person right away, in an instant, but you can change for the better. You’ve always had a choice. You can resolve to make the better one from now on. At least you’re trying! Don’t they get that?

‘Your intent does not change your actions.’ Even Father knows intent means nothing, Frisk. But perhaps you feel differently? Tell me. Does knowing that Father killed you in order to stop me make you any less afraid of him? You wince, your entire body jerking back. Does the fact that Asriel and I rewound time erase your deaths at our hands? They throw their own memories in your face like cold water, and you look down from their eyes upon your small body as it falls lifeless into a bed of burnt flowers, again and again. You see your blood splash onto petals and leaves, you see your face contorted in screams that won’t ever make it past your ruined throat.

At some point you’ve brought your arms up, crossed them over your bowed head in anticipation of blows that aren’t coming. No, you think, half denial, half plea. No, no, no!

You’re still terrified, they say, the truth of the words stabbing deeply. When Father comes too close to you, or when Asriel speaks in a certain voice. It doesn’t matter that they’re nice to you now. All the good intentions in the world won’t make you less afraid.

There’s no resistance as you curl your legs up, as you shake your head. Chara’s moved their attack from your body to your mind, and all you can do to fight back is feebly object. They want to help make things better, you protest. They’re trying! That matters! It has to matter. That you’re putting everything you have into being a good ambassador, that you want to make the right choice—surely that has to matter.

You can’t change what’s happened just by wanting to. Do you think you can fool me into thinking you’re a good person just because you’re not going to try to hurt me tonight? This doesn’t make you any less an awful, wretched human being. It doesn’t make you any less a horrible little backstabber.

Stop, you beg, your breath echoing harsh in the cavern of your knees and elbows. Stop calling me that!

Why should I? Why should I let you pretend you didn’t stab us in the back while our mother held us? Oh, right, because you decided that you’re going to be nice from now on! I guess that means it’s all okay!

Stop it!

Give me one reason to, they taunt. Backstabber.

Stop!

You lash out, kicking your feet and flinging your fists, but there’s nobody there with you to hit, no outlet for your anger. Only Chara’s intangible laughter in your ears, their presence lingering on and under your skin, their loose pajamas hanging from your frame. Your breath is coming in rapid pants, your eyes wet and your nose running, and you roll to the side and slam your left hand into the hard tile of the floor. There’s a spot behind the toilet where one of the porcelain tiles has cracked, out of sight and forgotten, and the sharp and broken edge of it catches your hand on the meaty outside when you bring it down. Unthinkingly you drag your hand, twisting your wrist to cut across your knuckles, too.

That’s what I thought, Chara says over your loud breaths, disdain clear in their voice.

You stare at your left hand. You’ve drawn a long, red line from the outside of your hand over the top of it, a border of white, dead skin torn up around it. Unlike the paper cuts you made two nights ago, blood is already welling up from the rough laceration.

I didn’t mean to, you say. It sounds like begging. You made me do this!

I didn’t make you do anything, says Chara, throwing your words from yesterday right back at you.

You’re shaking when you stand. You stare unblinkingly at your bleeding left hand, which trembles, held out in front of you. This wasn’t what you wanted. This isn’t the choice you meant to make. But Chara made you so mad.

You rinse your shaking hand under cold water and then hold toilet paper to it until the bleeding stops. The toilet paper with its damning red marks is flushed away, and all that remains is the jagged division of your skin, a rough pink and white line crossing your flesh. It’s not much to look at anymore, but it will probably bleed more over night, if you know your injuries (and you do). What will happen in the morning, if Toriel sees what you and Chara have been doing to your hands?

Chara is silent.

When you enter Asriel’s bedroom, the little king is already asleep, his fists curled against the sheets, his mouth hanging open. He’s drooling. You don’t hesitate before grabbing your bedding and crawling into the dark space under the bed.

Despite the comfort the small, cramped space gives you, it’s a long time before you’re able to fall asleep.

The next day, you learn just how many bathrooms there are in Our Home.

You’ve really got to stop being surprised at the sheer amount of excess on the surface, but you’ve barely been up here two weeks. A bathroom on every floor in every wing—sometimes two to a floor, even, if they’re spaced out far enough. Fortunately for Chara, only a few of them are equipped with baths and showers, but the job that looms before them is still immense. You don’t envy them in this case.

Asriel helps, admitting that Toriel told him if he wanted to be with Chara so badly he was willing to overlook their cruelty to you, he could be with them in their punishment, too.

So here you all are, Chara’s sleeves rolled up to your elbows and sporting big, yellow, rubber gloves, a bucket in one hand and a mop in the other. Behind you, Asriel holds a broom, sponges, a toilet scrubber, and various different soaps. Why more than one kind is necessary, you’re not sure.

You enter the bathroom where you'd hidden to escape the meeting with the President, and Chara drops their supplies to the floor with a clatter. ‘This is the worst,’ they sign. ‘We won’t have any time to ourselves today after this. And we have to do it twice a week?’ There’s a scowl set on your features, and you hope they won’t turn you toward the mirror.

Asriel is already approaching the sink, soap and sponge at the ready. “We’ve really only got ourselves to blame,” he chuckles.

Chara glares at him with such force that you wish you could take a step back, but Asriel doesn’t falter under their glare. “You know, since we’re the ones who approved the architecture plans,” he clarifies, grinning. “I never would have agreed to all these bathrooms if I’d known I’d have to clean them all one day!”

Your face relaxes slightly, Chara’s scowl giving way to a minor frown of distaste, and then Asriel adds, “And, you know. For what we did to Frisk.”

If you wished to step away before, now you’d like to be able to run from the room. Chara stomps angrily toward Asriel, almost unconsciously, as your hands form furious signs. ‘It was only a few hours! I don’t see what the big deal is!’

Asriel brings his hands up placatingly. One of them still holds a soapy sponge. “I know! And I had fun, too.” The sincere smile he gives to Chara at those words emphasizes how true they are. “But we still got caught breaking the rules, so we have to accept the punishment.”

Chara crosses your arms, hunches your shoulders, and glares at the wall to your right. You know already that they find the punishment disproportionate; the hours that they’ll lose to cleaning far outweigh the hours they stole from you. But there’s a barbed line of something else spiraling around Chara’s anger, some unfamiliar feeling wrapped tight around your throat.

“I don’t mind it, you know,” Asriel says, and your eyes flick toward him even while Chara continues to face away. “I don’t like it, but I’ll accept any punishment if it means I can spend more time with you. You’re the most important to me, Chara.”

Slowly Chara turns your head to regard Asriel from under your bangs. The little king’s smile is the same as the one you saw him give Chara during the snowball fight. It’s an expression of pure, unfiltered affection, devotion, and more. Like looking directly at the sun, it hurts your eyes, though Chara seems to have no such problems.

‘You big sap,’ they sign at him, but that sharp constricting feeling lessens, even if it doesn’t entirely disappear.

Asriel’s nose goes pink as Chara’s cheeks, and he laughs nervously. “A-Anyway!” he says, tugging on one of his ears nervously, “This bathroom isn’t going to clean itself!”

Chara rolls your eyes. ‘You know Woshua’s going to complain we haven’t done a good enough job and redo everything after us. This is just a waste of time.’ But they grab the toilet scrubber and the can of powdery soap, and they set to work as well.

Despite Chara’s prediction that the day will be completely lost to cleaning, you reach the last bathroom—the one in the rear wing, the one you all use—shortly after you break for lunch. Chara grumbles at the white fur clogging the bathtub drain, and for some reason you find this endlessly entertaining. Your laughter dies to nothing when Chara directs your eyes to look at the broken tile behind the toilet.

You resume your silent observation.

Finally done, Chara and Asriel return the cleaning supplies to the closet, and without a word, both return to Asriel’s bedroom to let themselves fall onto the little king's bed. Your body lands on Asriel, his knees digging into your back, and he whines at Chara but starts giggling halfway through their name. Chara lazily rolls your body over, but not off of Asriel. Instead now you're laid across the little king’s stomach, and you feel him shaking as he laughs under you.

“Chara!” he protests between giggles. Your shoulders rise in a little shrug, as though Chara has no idea what the problem is. You can feel your face beaming at Asriel. The stretch of your cheeks is almost painful for how big Chara’s smile is.

You can’t help but wonder if it’s a strain for your face because Chara’s smile is unnaturally wide, or if you’re simply unused to smiling.

Asriel’s laughs grow quiet, and he and Chara lie there for some moments, Asriel’s breaths moving you up and down on his stomach. Chara tugs their locket out from where it’d been trapped between your chest and Asriel’s stomach, and then they wiggle up until your head rests on Asriel’s chest, his heartbeat in your ear. It’s not really like when Toriel holds you, her presence of solid security and support; Asriel is your size, and you worry you’re crushing him under your weight. But your eyes flutter closed, Chara breathes deeply, and your body sags, tension you didn’t even realize you and Chara were holding in your limbs falling loose and releasing. One of Asriel’s hands rests on your shoulder, and Chara brings your hand up to cover his fingers with your own.

(The shirt they’d chosen for today is long sleeved. Now that you’re finished cleaning and have removed the rubber gloves, the sleeves come all the way to your knuckles, and even have a little hole in them for your thumbs to poke through. Your hands’ injuries are all but completely hidden under the fabric.)

After lying together for some minutes, Asriel shifts under you. “Do you feel up to going out?” he asks, tilting his head down to look at you. Chara shrugs, and Asriel goes on, “Mom said if we had time today, we could get new cell phones when we were done cleaning.”

Phones? Like the ones Undyne and Muffet and Bratty and Catty had? You perk up at the thought, though you remain carefully distanced from Chara, keeping your reactions to yourself as they mull over the suggestion.

‘I’m okay with it,’ they sign, and then roll off Asriel so he can sit up. They remain lying down on your back, and Asriel leans over you as they ask, ‘Do we have to bring guards this time?’

“Um, I think mom wants us to…”

‘We never used to need a guard escort,’ Chara signs. ‘One more thing humans coming to the surface has ruined.’

“It’s just a precaution,” Asriel objects, but it comes out as a weak sigh, not a firm denial. You hadn’t thought about what it might mean, that your every outing was in the company of members of the Royal Guard. Now that it’s been revealed as abnormal, though, you can’t help but wonder if the Guards are for Asriel’s protection, or yours.

For Asriel’s, obviously, Chara sneers. Apparently you haven’t kept as tight a lid on your thoughts as you’d meant to. Now that you’re the Royal Ambassador, there’s no monster who’d ever attack you. But since Asriel said he made the barrier, who knows what some human might do.

Having properly chastised you, Chara returns to your conversation with Asriel. ‘I guess it can’t be helped,’ they sign. Then, ‘Anyway, we might find presents for Mother and Father while we’re out.’

“Oh!” Asriel exclaims. “That’s right, we still have to get their holiday gifts!”

Chara snickers silently before they remember to curb the reaction. They frown, then, glancing at Asriel, but he only cocks his head to one side and raises his eyebrows. His ears dangle as he looks down at you.

‘Let’s go,’ Chara says, sliding off the bed and rising to your feet in one smooth motion, then heading to the door. You hear Asriel hurry to catch up.

Getting phones, it turns out, is not as interesting as you’d hoped it would be.

Accompanied by the same two guards who’d escorted you to the open air market in ‘Old Town,’ Chara and Asriel wind up taking the bus out again, but this time to a location you’ve visited before. The thought of wandering the mall without Papyrus’s helmet makes you want to go right back to Our Home, but of course Chara walks right in, perfectly at ease among the many, many monsters. They and Asriel make their way to a store that seems to sell nothing but phones and phone accessories. If you’d been the one in charge of your body when you’d entered the store, you’re certain you’d have stared, slack jawed, at all the different little machines. How can a store sell so many of only one product? There are enough monsters on the surface that a store selling only phones gets enough business to stay open?

Asriel and Chara browse the different models, and after making their choices, it’s Asriel who does most of the talking to the salesperson. Unsurprisingly, you understand very little; there’s all this talk about data and reception and storage and texting. Even the words you should understand, like family plan and billing, are in such a context as to leave you completely confused, and Chara’s not in a mood to provide explanations. You’re trying not to broadcast your befuddlement, but you’re sure they know you’re clueless. If they’re even bothering to think about you at all.

The end result is that you and Asriel each have phones when you leave, little shiny black rectangles with screens that light up when you press a button, and you watch closely as Chara uses theirs, trying to memorize what actions yield which effects. You’re not sure if they’ll even let you use it, but if they do, you don’t want to have to ask them or Asriel how it works. If you pay attention, surely you can puzzle it out on your own.

The next stop is a store devoted almost entirely to books. There are so many, they're actually divided into sections by subject matter. Travel, fiction, romance… there's even an entire row for books on gardening! How can there be that many books about gardening? But that's the shelf that you and Asriel are currently examining, searching for a book Asgore might like. It makes sense, when you think about it. You’d first come upon him tending that room full of flowers, hadn't you? There had been so many of them, those big golden blooms with their broad, soft petals. You don't know much about plants, but they'd looked well cared for, vibrant colors and full leaves.

And then they'd burned up to nothing but black char and ash around you.

You want to suggest to Chara and Asriel that rather than a book of flowers, Asgore might like it if they helped him regrow that golden garden.

You hardly know anything about Asgore. What are you thinking, that you might have a better idea of what he'd like than his children do? It doesn't even matter to you, if they get him a gift he likes or not. You might not know him well, but you're pretty sure he'll like whatever they pick out no matter what.

Asriel’s plucks a book from the shelf to page through, but even you can tell that the words and images on the page don't interest him at all. He lets the book fall closed soon after, replacing it on the shelf and regarding the others.

“Hey, Chara,” he says, still looking at the books instead of at you, “do you remember what we got dad for the holidays last year?”

After presumably a moment's thought, Chara shakes your head.

“Me neither,” Asriel admits. “But he arranged that weekend trip for us, didn't he? He took care of everything back home while we got to go skiing and stay at that little cabin, just you and me away from everything.”

Your head turns back and forth as Chara checks to make sure nobody is listening. While your entrance into the bookstore was noted, and you were greeted by the monsters whom you passed, as you are coming to learn will be the norm when you go anywhere from now on, nobody has followed you in your wanderings through the store. Even the guards have given you some distance, waiting at the end of the aisle instead of hovering close by. There is no one around to hear Asriel describe spending time with the human who appears to be Ambassador Frisk prior to the destruction of the barrier.

“When did we stop getting dad gifts?” Asriel asks. He turns to you, and his eyes are large and shining wetly, his little fangs biting at his lip. “He never stopped thinking of us, but we…”

Oh, no, Chara thinks, as the first little tears spill down Asriel’s cheeks.

“I-I didn't… I didn't think about how Dad felt at all… and M-Mom… we, we told her to go away and then we never,” he tries to take a breath and hiccups instead, then sobs. Chara looks rapidly from side to side; Asriel’s not crying quietly, and monsters are starting to look in your direction. The guards step toward you, and Chara shakes your head, fixing them with a look; they back up, but they’re clearly still watching you. You can only imagine how this must appear, you and Asriel out alone together and Asriel in tears. His shoulders shake and he tries to talk again, but all he can manage is a thick, wet, wordless sob.

‘Don't cry, Azzy,’ Chara signs, but you doubt Asriel can even see what they're saying. The little king brings his hands up to wipe at his eyes, his fur clumping into tiny wet points under the tears.

“I-I’ve been a-awful,” he forces out, and Chara shakes your head fiercely, but Asriel’s hands are still over his eyes.

Chara grabs his wrists to pull his hands down, and Asriel blinks up at you, sniffling loudly. Your fingers release their grip so Chara can sign, ‘Please don't cry, Azzy. That was me. You know it was me. It wasn't your fault.’

“I still did it!” he cries, then, in a smaller voice, “I still went along with your ideas. I still stopped thinking about Mom or Dad. I've…” He inhales loudly through his nose, the thick sniffing sound similar to the noises you yourself make when you're lost to tears like this. “I've been a really bad son,” he whispers.

‘No!’ Chara signs, but Asriel’s shoulders are shaking again, and his eyes are squeezed shut, fresh tears beading at the corners. A quick look around confirms that curious monsters are still watching, and you can feel Chara’s worry that someone will soon come over to see if the two of you are all right. They can keep the guards from prying too closely, but they probably can’t just frown a stranger away.

You're still not used to the idea of strangers having such concern and empathy as to approach you to offer help, but you're learning that among monsters, Chara is right to anticipate such a possibility. The things Asriel is crying over are not meant for anyone else to hear. Chara snatches one of his wrists and drags him toward the store's exit, and the guards follow you at a distance. Asriel doesn't resist as he's pulled along, his free hand wiping at his eyes. He stumbles a little bit, but Chara catches him, surprising you when your body manages to support him without either of you falling.

There isn't exactly privacy in the mall, but the chaotic din of so many monsters coming and going through the open halls will cover up anything Asriel says that you don't want overheard. Chara pulls him to an empty bench by one of the topiaries in the centre of the wide walkway and guides him to sit, then looks around. You're still drawing stares, but under the loud ambient noise, Asriel’s sobs don't sound so terrible, and the presence of the guards combined with Chara’s clear concern you feel showing on your face must be enough to reassure passerby that you're taking care of the little king. The two guards take up position on either side of the bench, but having realized Chara’s desire for privacy, their gazes are directed outward, not at the two of you.

Off to one side is a small stand selling some sort of food. Chara doesn’t care what, only that there’s a napkin dispenser attached, and with a glance to Asriel to make sure he’ll be all right, they dart over to the stand and grab a handful of napkins. They raise your head to flash a small, grateful smile at the monster running the stand, who nods sympathetically, before you’re running back to Asriel. There are still brand new tears falling down the wet tracks on his face, and you can see him straining to hold himself still and silent before he jerks forward with a great, heaving sob.

One of your hands strokes Asriel’s ear as your other takes a napkin and gently, carefully wipes the wetness from Asriel’s fur. The little king trembles under that light touch, and Chara does it again, and again, and then switches hands to get at the other cheek. Asriel takes a long, shuddering breath, but more tears come, and Chara abandons the first napkin for a dry one.

“S-Sorry for being such a crybaby,” Asriel says, voice cracking. Chara sets aside the second soaked napkin and takes Asriel’s face in your hands. They lean forward until your forehead rests on his, your bangs trapped between you with his soft fur, so close your breath mixes together.

At such intimacy, you feel like an intruder within your own body. As though you should avert your eyes, give them some privacy. You can’t, though. You can only look through your own eyes at Asriel, so close you can see your reflection in the wet shine of his dark irises. He blinks, and his thick, pale eyelashes stick together. He exhales, and you can feel the air on your lips. Under your palms, his fur is still damp, but soft as ever, and he’s warm against your skin. Your thumbs stroke over his cheeks, brushing away the newest tears to fall, and his breathing starts to even out.

“Chara,” he whispers.

Your body leans back, and once more there is space between you and the monster. Chara lets your hands fall from Asriel’s face so they can sign, ‘If you’ve been a bad kid, I have too. It’s my fault.’ Asriel starts to shake his head, but Chara grabs his ears by their soft, thin tips and gives them a quick tug, cutting off Asriel’s motion. ‘It’s okay now,’ they sign, once they’ve taken your hands back. ‘We’re a family again. You said we’re going to fix things, right? It’s okay.’

That watery smile you’ve associated with Asriel since you first saw him makes its way onto his face. “Chara,” he whispers again, his voice breathy and tenuous. A few more tears spill down his face, and Chara automatically grabs a third napkin to wipe them away.

It takes time for Asriel to stop crying, for his shoulders to stop shaking, for him to be able to string words together without choking on them. Chara waits, sitting close to him, your shoulder pressed against his, your cheek resting on his soft ear. From them, you don't feel even the merest trickle of anything resembling annoyance or impatience. While Chara has no time for your panic attacks, all you feel from them now is tender concern, warm and comfortable like sunlight through an open window.

“Okay,” Asriel says, and Chara lifts your head to look at him. His voice still trembles a little, but he takes a breath and says, “Okay. I'm all right now.”

Chara takes one of his hands and squeezes it, then stands and tugs the little king up with them. With another glance to Asriel, they turn and pull him over toward the food stand where they'd grabbed the napkins, the guards following. The monster running the little kiosk has light blue fur, the shade of the sky in the horizon, and his ears are perked up, tall and long. Rabbit-like, you think. He smiles down at you and Asriel.

“Feeling better?” the monster asks. Asriel gives a tiny nod. “Great! Stay right there!” So saying, he leans over and slides the door to a refrigerated bin open, then pulls out two wrapped items. “Here you go! On the house!” he cheerfully declares, holding them out to you and Asriel.

“Are you sure?” Asriel asks, before either of you take them.

“Of course!” the vendor affirms, beaming at you. “There’s nothing like a nice cream to cheer you up! And my boyfriend would flip if he heard I didn’t take care of the Ambassador.”

Chara takes the nice cream, giving a quizzical look to the monster running the kiosk as they do. You feel their inquiry, but you have no answer for them. You never met this monster during your journey, and you don’t know why he’s prioritizing you over the prince.

Asriel, too, is confused. “Your boyfriend?” he asks, unwrapping his nice cream.

“Yeah! Ambassador Frisk met him before the barrier came down,” the nice cream guy answers, his eyes sparkling. He turns his gaze to you. “But I bet you met lots of monsters then, so I don’t know if you remember. Does the name ‘Burgerpants,’ ring a bell?”

You’d grin if you could. The memory of the anxious, cat-like monster is a bright spot in your recollection of your journey. He’s dating this monster? You imagine the two of them together, this monster with his constant cheer next to a nervously fidgeting Burgerpants, and you’re glad to think that Burgerpants has someone like this in his life.

To your surprise, Chara nods. The nice cream vendor’s ears fly up in excitement. “He’ll be so happy to hear you remember him!” he says. “He kept talking about how he met you. Called you his ‘little buddy’ and said he helped you out of a pinch! He acts like it’s no big deal, but when we watched you on Mettaton’s show last night, he was so excited!”

Of course you remember Burgerpants. How could you forget? He really had helped you, even in spite of his open fear. You hadn’t been able to thank him, and hearing that you left such an impression on him is unexpected.

Also unexpected is how Chara hands their nice cream to Asriel, then signs, ‘He did help me. Will you tell him ‘thank you’ for me?’

Asriel translates, and the nice cream guy claps his hands together. “Of course I will! Oh man, he’s never gonna believe me.” Chara takes their nice cream back, finally unwrapping it. It’s cold, but the sweet taste is a flavour you’ve learned the word for: chocolate. You think you prefer things like the cinnamon bun, but you certainly enjoy the icy treat.

There’s a message written on the wrapper. It informs you that ‘You’re great!’ Chara crumples it and bites into the nice cream, and you both wince at the sharp freeze in your teeth.

Before you go, Chara and Asriel wind up taking a selfie with the nice cream guy, “So Burgy will have to believe me!” He shows you the photo on his phone, and though your features are nothing like Chara’s, the smile on your face is so clearly them that you almost can’t recognize yourself. There’s a strange similarity between the image on the phone and the photos from Toriel’s mantle. Something grips your insides through your ribs, and you’re relieved for reasons you don’t understand when the nice cream guy puts his phone away.

Asriel and Chara continue to explore the mall for a little while after that, but their wanderings are aimless and nothing appeals to either of them as gifts for their parents. You consider sharing your earlier idea with Chara, about offering to help Asgore with his garden, but you clamp down on the thought before they can hear it. Clearly they can observe some of your thoughts without you consciously deciding to communicate, as they’ve been doing all day, and while you don’t mind them passing on your message to Burgerpants, you’re not keen on the loss of privacy. At least it goes both ways sometimes, but you’d rather be able to control which of your thoughts are yours and which are shared.

Still…

Thank you, you think, this time with the intent to be heard. It’s the first thing you’ve voluntarily said to Chara all day, and their surprise is as clear to you as if it were your own.

What for? they ask, already bristling defensively.

For telling the nice cream guy I met Burgerpants, and that I was grateful for his help, you say.

You don’t add on that you hadn’t thought Chara would pass along your honest feelings, but either they catch that thought anyway or it’s obvious enough from your tone. I’m not out to sabotage you or your relationships, they sneer. Much as I hate it, most people think I’m you. It would be bad for everyone if people found out the truth. So as long as it’s not an inconvenience, I’ll play along and say what you would.

Chara’s insistence that it’s not for your sake is strangely reassuring. Thank you, you say again. You can feel how jarring your sincerity is to Chara, before the feedback from them cuts off, clean and abrupt as the decisive slash of a knife.

You return home before the King and Queen do, and Chara is content to pass the time knitting. They settle on the couch, and Asriel sits next to you, book in hand. Because of the motions of your arms as Chara knits, Asriel can’t lean against you as he did at the mall, but his knee touches yours and sometimes he bumps your foot with his bare one, a gesture which Chara returns automatically.

When Toriel arrives home, Chara gathers up their knitting and runs to Asriel’s room, shoving it in the dresser. You’re starting to get an idea about what they’re creating. You think Toriel, too, knows, if the way she smiles when Chara tries to nonchalantly stroll back in the living room is any indication.

Tonight’s dinner is catfish, and your curiosity at the name is so great that Chara, unprompted, pulls out their phone and looks up a photo of one to show you. Disappointingly, it’s nothing like you imagined. Chara takes great relish in telling you how the ‘whiskers’ of the catfish are actually poisonous barbs that can jab into your flesh, and you regret ever wondering about what they look like. You’re silent through the rest of dinner, even when Asgore discusses how he and Undyne spent the day combing through the underground for any remaining humans. They’d been accompanied by members of the Guard and President Curtiss, and while they’d had no intention of forcing any able-bodied adults who wished to remain underground to leave their homes, they did want to make sure nobody was left behind because they couldn’t make it to the surface on their own.

You do listen closely, though, when Asgore says that what they found was somewhere around twenty human children with no parents, too scared to venture to the surface.

He and Toriel and Asriel spend some time on the subject; currently the children have been temporarily housed at Mettaton’s hotel like the humans who’d already emerged, and several monster caregivers have been called in to look after them, but it’s an emergency stopgap measure and a more permanent solution will need to be enacted. Asriel wonders aloud why there are so many orphan humans, and Chara grinds your teeth as you feel the old, familiar despair welling up in your chest. Regardless of the reason, the result is that there are children who need care which most of their fellow adult humans haven’t been able or willing to provide. It’s a conversation to be continued with both you and President Curtiss. When Toriel says as much, Chara stabs the catfish on their plate with a fork and doesn’t look up. From your peripheral vision, you can tell Asriel is looking at you, but you can’t see what expression is on his face.

You keep any thoughts you might have to yourself as dinner ends and Chara once again takes up dish duty. You say nothing as they and Asriel get ready for bed, flossing and brushing your teeth and pulling on soft, loose pajamas. You’re quiet as Asriel says, “Good night,” and Chara signs it back, as the bedroom light is turned out, and as Chara listens to Asriel’s steady breathing in the dark. Neither you nor Chara say a word to each other as you lie in bed.

You’re not sure how much time passes before Chara pushes the covers down and gets up, your sock-covered feet silently padding across the floor. Chara has no trouble navigating through the unlit room, and they noiselessly make their way into the hall, pausing outside the bedroom door to listen. You can hear muffled snores coming from the direction of Toriel and Asgore’s room. Satisfied, Chara turns and continues on their way, directing your feet just so to creep silently through the living room and into the kitchen.

You feel as though something is crawling up your back. Should you plead? Should you apologize? But what is there to say, that you didn’t say last night? You hadn’t meant to hurt yourself—to hurt them—it had been an accident, they’d made you so mad you couldn’t even think anymore, but they hadn’t been interested in listening to you then. You don’t expect them to listen now.

You don’t think you’d listen either, if you were in their position. You’re the one who started this. What reason do they have to believe that you want to end it, when your actions don’t match your words? You drew first blood, and even if you were angry, even if you were provoked, you knew while you were doing it that it was wrong. You had a choice, as you always did, and you failed to choose kindness.

They approach the stove, and turn a dial on it that you’ve never seen Toriel use. Because she can cook with fire magic, Chara says, either hearing your thoughts or knowing well enough to anticipate your curiosity, even now. But what if someone else wanted to cook? The kitchen’s fully equipped with a functioning stove.

You stiffen, and try to take back your legs to go back to Asriel’s room, try to keep your right arm down and your hand at your side. But either your efforts are halfhearted or Chara’s determination is stronger than yours, and they’ve had all day to let it steep, haven’t they? All day that you could have tried to apologize again, or make things right between you.

But they have a choice too, just as much as you do. Why should you be the one to say sorry? You’ve started this, but they know just as well as you that it’s wrong to continue. They can end it just as well as you can.

I told you, they say, in response to your unguarded thoughts, humans are awful. Every last one. Surely you don’t expect me to be an exception?

The metal spiral of the stovetop starts to glow orange with heat, and they raise your right hand.

Chapter Text

The day starts with cold cereal for breakfast, instead of anything warm prepared by Toriel. Compared to the treats you’ve been getting to eat lately, the meal is bland, and you have to force yourself to finish it. But it’s food, and you won’t be wasteful or ungrateful, so you eat it all, even lifting the bowl to drink the last of the milk.

At least the bowl is cool against the burn on your hand.

Chara had been careful and deliberate, and only the inside of your index finger is marked with shiny, agitated skin. It hurts every time it brushes against your middle finger, or if you make a fist, or if you straighten your finger, or touch literally anything. It’s not very visible, even with most signs, and you’ve dug through their closet to find another of those shirts with the overlong sleeves to cover everything else. That you’ve no public appearances today but are still wearing their clothing makes your skin crawl and erupt in goosebumps.

After you're ready to start the day—your hair combed, teeth brushed, and all dressed, mercifully in your own ripped jeans and worn boots paired with Chara’s shirt and locket—Toriel fusses over you, gently pushing your bangs out of your face and brushing lint off your shoulders. She licks the pad of her thumb and wipes a missed spot off your cheek, which makes you squirm even as you’re privately basking in the attention. Once she deems you actually ready, she takes your left hand in hers and smiles at you. Through the fabric of the sleeve, you can feel the light pressure of her grip against the jagged, scabbed-over cut from the porcelain tile. Normally it takes no effort at all to smile back at Toriel, but this time you have to focus to form the appropriate expression.

“I have a surprise for you today, my child,” she says. There’s a certain undercurrent of excitement running through her calm words, and you wait for her to go on. You’d wondered, when the only thing on today’s schedule was another meeting with President Curtiss in the late afternoon, how you would occupy the rest of your time. Thankfully, it looks like you don’t have to make that decision. “We are going to visit the tailor!”

With your right hand, you sign, ‘What’s a T-A-L-E-R?’ You’re not surprised to hear Chara correct your spelling after you’ve finished the word. Each letter you form irritates your burn, the T and R especially, and you have to concentrate on keeping the pain from showing on your face.

“I am proud of you for asking about a word you do not know. That was very good,” Toriel says, giving your left hand a little squeeze, unknowingly pressing her thumb down precisely on the cut. “A tailor is a monster who creates clothing.”

You furrow your brows, trying to think of a reason for you to visit such a monster. There is, of course, an obvious answer, but you reject it as unreasonable.

“I thought you might like to have your own clothing,” she says, as though she's read your thoughts like Chara does. “I want you to feel…” Here, she pauses, dropping her eyes to your linked hands. You wait until she lifts her gaze back to you. “I want you to feel welcome here, Frisk. It is perhaps belated, and this is an unconventional situation, but I would like you to be able to call this your home as well.”

Your breath hitches, and you take your left hand back from her. You pluck at the hems of Chara’s sleeves, their shirt from their closet full of clothes that already fit you perfectly, their clothes that nobody else knows you hate. ‘You don’t need to do that,’ you sign with small, weak motions, and Toriel reaches up to once more brush your hair back. You think she must know how her claws carding through your hair soothes you. You wonder if she learned that from watching your reactions, or if she always knew because it was the same for Chara.

“It is not a matter of need, my child. It is something I would like to do for you.” Then, “Would that make you happy?”

You shiver, although you’re not cold. You haven’t been truly cold since you started living with the Dreemurrs. Even while outside the snow on the ground has yet to melt away, here in Our Home you’re always warm and comfortable. You wring your hands, despite the pain, or perhaps seeking it. You can’t manage to look up at her.

Maybe she hasn’t actually noticed your discomfort when you wear Chara’s clothing. Maybe she’s just made a lucky guess, or was planning something like this from the start. ‘To call this your home as well?’ You’re nothing but a(n uninvited) guest in this house, borrowing someone else’s clothes and sleeping in someone else’s bed (when you can bear to sleep on top of the mattress at all) and sitting at someone else’s space at the table. You’re not actually part of the Royal Family, even if your fancy new title does have the world ‘Royal’ in it.

She can't have noticed how you feel. Because if she's realized that, then surely she'd have noticed other things, too. You rub the thumb of your left hand over fabric concealing the half healed knuckles of your right.

She’s still waiting for an answer. Would it make you happy, to have more clothes to call your own? You don't need them. You can keep wearing Chara’s. Isn't it greedy, to want more?

When you finally nod, it’s only once, the motion so small you can almost hope she’ll miss it. Like most of your hopes, it doesn’t happen. “Then let us be on our way,” she says, standing.

She sounds pleased, so at least you've done one thing right.

The member of the Royal Guard who accompanies you today is from the canine unit. Toriel introduces you to Lesser Dog without being asked. The guard doesn’t speak during the introduction, but then again, neither do you. When you start to offer your hand out for a handshake, you hear Chara urge, Pet the dog.

You would frown, but you know it would look like you were frowning at Lesser Dog, and Chara says it again, excitement leaking into their voice. And Lesser Dog’s fur looks so appealing, even thicker than Toriel’s or Asriel’s… Against your better judgment, you raise your hand higher, and reach up to scratch behind Lesser Dog’s ear.

“Oh, no,” Toriel says, but it’s too late. Lesser Dog is pushing their head into your hand eagerly, their eyes shining and their mouth pulled back in what’s clearly a smile despite their muzzle. You dig your fingers in for a good scritch, and Lesser Dog pants happily. Though they’re a monster, and one you’ve never met before, there’s something strangely soothing about petting them. You don’t mind it when they push themself up against you for more pets, and you laugh soundlessly and bring your other hand into play. Their tail, sticking out of their armour, is wagging furiously. They’re so genuinely eager for your affection, you’re not sure they even realize you’re human at all, or if they do, it’s not nearly as important as the fact that you’re petting them.

Your departure to the tailor’s winds up being delayed by a solid ten minutes; once you finally stop petting Lesser Dog, it takes them some time to calm down once more. You wonder about their efficacy as a guard—but then again, Undyne herself had said there wasn’t really much need for the Guard to do anything more than sort out minor arguments between monsters. With how much you enjoyed petting Lesser Dog, you’re pretty sure they’re excellent at defusing conflicts.

Today it’s only the four of you. Toriel explains to you what Asriel and Asgore are doing, and you try to listen, to focus on her words, to commit to memory the new terms and phrases. You know she’s told you to ask when you don’t understand, but you’ve already done that once today. You can’t interrupt her every other sentence for an explanation. And you can at least understand that it’s something to do with how everyone needs to readjust to Asgore as King instead of Asriel, that the two have gone to meet with other monsters and smooth out the transition, even if the finer details are lost to you. Chara listens too, their presence floating up to press against yours, and you’re sure they comprehend everything without difficulty. They don’t offer any clarifications or explanations, and you don’t ask.

Once at the tailor’s, you're very grateful for Toriel and Lesser Dog’s company. You would still be able to manage without them; you'd dealt with the dentist's invasive touch, you'd hardly minded when Mettaton did your makeup, and you’d honestly enjoyed petting Lesser Dog. But maybe having Toriel and Lesser Dog with you instead of Asriel or Asgore or Undyne makes you drop your guard, or reminds you how much more frightening most other monsters are in comparison. The tailor has scaly red skin, and many dark eyes and long arms like Muffet, and they wrap measuring tape around you, lifting your arms and spinning you this way and that to get at your limbs, your chest, your waist. Their six hands have six fingers each, and their arms each have one more joint than your own. Despite how many eyes they have, their face manages to be entirely dominated by a large jaw with a sharp toothed smile. Your eyes keep darting to Toriel to make sure she’s still in the room, that she hasn’t left you alone to an awful fate.

Should have told them to just use my measurements, rather than put you on edge like this, Chara comments. Then again, you're so determined to act like none of this is upsetting, how is anyone supposed to know?

You're too stiff and tense to even tremble when the monster gives you a pat on the head, their other hands taking back the tapes and noted numbers. “What a good, patient child,” they rasp in a voice that makes you think of spider legs skittering across glass. “Most children give me no end of trouble. Are all humans this agreeable?”

Not agreeable, Chara corrects, unheard by all but you. Just petrified. You don’t bother acknowledging the commentary, and merely shrug up at the monster.

“Now, then,” they say, “what sort of garments will you be commissioning?”

You flinch at the feeling of another hand on your shoulders, but when you look up, it’s Toriel. “Do you have anything in mind, my child?” she asks. You stare blankly up at her. She must be getting used to receiving such responses from you, because she doesn’t let the silence drag on quite so long this time before turning to the tailor. “Perhaps you could show us some examples, and Frisk can pick the things they like.”

The tailor nods, one hand rubbing their chin in thought, before they turn and begin to dig through a pile of books and magazines, muttering to themself all the while.

The tailor’s shop reminds you a little of Alphys’s lab in its clutter, but unlike at the lab, here the chaos of accumulated fabrics and spools of thread is contained to one side of the room, spilling across overburdened shelves and haphazardly balanced in stacks shoved up against the wall. The surface of the desk on that side of the room is completely covered, and it’s there that the tailor searches for whatever it is they’re after. The other half of the room, where you and Toriel remain, could be an entirely separate shop. There’s another desk, this one kept orderly with carefully sorted folders and plenty of space to work. A portion of the room has been alotted to what Chara identifies as sewing machines and dress forms, and where you stand there are three full length mirrors angled around a slightly raised platform.

There’s a noise of triumph from the tailor, and they return to you and Toriel. They hold a thick magazine in their hands, which they pass to you. “Here you are.”

As you turn the first page, they point to one of the images, their clawed finger tapping loudly against the shiny paper. “Please indicate every element you like in an outfit,” they instruct. “You may pick and choose from multiple ones, and I will design the end product, or you may select a complete ensemble and request modifications.”

You nod. You’re pretty sure you understood. The way they speak is a little like the scientists from the lab, stiff and formal and using big words where they don’t need to, but you’ve managed to catch the gist of it.

The magazine is heavy and thick, and each page has multiple photos of monsters modeling beautiful clothing. Some things resemble items you’ve seen in Chara’s closet, and one monster even wears a suit with coattails like Chara’s jacket you wore to your first address. You continue to turn the pages. Everything is pretty, but nothing so much so that you feel the need to have similar clothes of your own. It’s all either form fitting like Chara’s, or so big and layered that you can’t imagine running while weighted down with all that fabric, and the excess would surely get caught between your legs.

Toriel and the tailor are still watching you, and your face begins to heat up. They’re expecting you to pick out the things you like, and you’re nearly halfway through the magazine without having pointed out anything at all. Maybe you should just pick something to appease them. What difference will it make?

Don’t, Chara says. Keep looking. Don’t give up until you’ve exhausted all the options.

You’re tempted to point to whatever shows up on the next page just to spite them. The words themselves are encouraging, but Chara’s commanding tone makes you want to clench your fists and grind your teeth. You turn the next page with more force than you mean to, and it tears a little at the top. You freeze, and then your hand starts to tremble, the paper still held between your fingers.

Reassurance comes from an unexpected source. “Don’t fret, Ambassador,” the tailor says, waving a hand dismissively. “I have done far worse damage to these books. Please, keep going.”

You nod, taking long breaths and counting the seconds it takes for each inhale and exhale, as you turn the next page. You’re not really focused on the images anymore, though, and so when Chara yells, There! you startle, almost dropping the magazine this time.

Though your hands remain at the edges of the pages, you can tell which photo has caught Chara’s attention as clearly as if they were jabbing your finger into the paper. The featured monster is wearing pants, but they’re loose enough to hide the exact form of the legs. The fabric is not stiff like your jeans, but seems to hang similarly to the material your shirt is made of, and is gathered at the ankles so as not to interfere with the monster’s shoes or footing. The top they wear is cut close enough to indicate the overall shape of their torso, but no more than that, and the outer layer of it loosely drapes down to their waist, where it’s tucked into their belt. It’s long enough to continue down past their belt to mid thigh, though unlike a dress or skirt, the sides are cut away. Lastly the sleeves—like the pants, they’re loose, but not so much fabric as to be unnecessary or hinder movement, and at the wrist, the extra material is gathered and held tight with a button.

A tunic, Chara supplies, as you let your fingers trace the outline of the garment.

“Does that one appeal to you, my child?” Toriel asks. You nod, still staring at it. At the tailor’s urging, you continue to look through the entirety of the magazine, but other than the outfit with the tunic, there’s nothing that interests you.

“I will get started immediately,” the tailor rasps, taking the magazine back from you. “When will you be able to return for a fitting?”

They speak with Toriel about the details, and you turn your attention inward. Thank you.

I hate it when you wear my clothes just as much as you do, is all Chara has to say.

Upon leaving the tailor’s, you’d thought you would return home, but your next destination is yet another clothing related stop. “My dear,” Toriel chuckles at you, when you express your confusion, “one outfit is not a wardrobe.”

It’s not the mall, but the giant store is close enough as far as you're concerned, and you press close to Toriel. She wraps an arm around your shoulders without comment, and returns the greetings of monsters you pass as you walk through. Lesser Dog trots along behind you, their wet nose quivering as they take in the scents of the store.

When you come to a stop, there are racks of clothing all around you. Other monsters are browsing through and shopping, and after saying hello to their Queen, they’re content to return to their own business and leave you to yours. Toriel explains that while the tailor makes clothes to order, here you’ll try on ones that are already made to see what you like and what fits. Like the dump, you think, but with more selection and less fighting over a good find.

You spend a moment considering that the Queen of monsterkind is out shopping for clothing at the same store as any other monster. It’s not as though you’ve interacted with royalty before coming to the surface, but from what little ideas you’d had about kings and queens and princes, you wouldn’t have expected them to be content with such things. And Toriel cooks your dinners, instead of having servants do it, and sometimes Chara and Asriel take the bus with all kinds of other monsters. It seems the Dreemurrs don’t really care about differentiating themselves from their subjects, not in the way humans with access to more resources had made sure to set themselves apart from someone like you. Sure, you still have guard escorts and are sometimes driven around in fancy cars, and probably not every monster commissions clothing from a tailor. Those are almost certainly luxuries. But otherwise, the Royal Family seems to live like any other monsters you’ve seen. The rear wing of Our Home isn’t even furnished that differently from Papyrus and Sans’s house.

“After this, we will call Asriel and Asgore, and meet for lunch. I think it would be nice to eat out this afternoon,” Toriel muses aloud. You nod when she looks to you for confirmation, though she needn’t bother. You’ll go along with whatever she decides. What matters to you is the knowledge that your time with only Toriel and Lesser Dog will come to an end once you’re done here. You should try to make the most of this, despite your reservations. Who knows when you’ll next be able to get away from Asriel?

You wander the racks, and if Toriel notices that you only move to look at a new display of clothing if other monsters aren’t nearby, she doesn’t comment. You select a cute long sleeved shirt that’s blue with little pink flowers edging the bottom hem, and a pair of dark navy jeans, and look up at Toriel expectantly. She returns the expression.

Come on, you’ve seen my closet at home! She’s obviously waiting for you to pick a lot more than just a new shirt and a pair of pants, comes Chara’s impatient voice. You don’t have to keep everything you try on, either. That’s why they call it trying on, dummy.

You try not to flinch outwardly. Without a word to Chara or Toriel, you lower your head and resume browsing through the clothing. You’re hardly able to focus on the colours or patterns; at random, you select a top that is marked in the size Toriel said was yours (which she must know because it’s the same as Chara’s), and then a pair of shorts. Lesser Dog appears with a cart to hold your clothes, and you drop them in. So it goes, you and Toriel weaving through the racks as you pull out items you aren’t even looking at save to confirm the size, and the voice in your head says nothing else.

“That looks like a good start,” Toriel says, and you look to see that in the cart there’s now a pile of clothing. You must have put it there, but you don’t remember most of those items. There’s a green t-shirt on the top that you definitely don’t recall picking up. When you try to surreptitiously probe at Chara to see if perhaps they slipped it past you, there’s no response, only a thorny wall inside your temples.

Toriel leads you to the fitting room, where she waits outside for you to get changed. “Please, let me see what you try on,” she requests. It sounds as though she’s actually interested in seeing what the clothes look like on you, and you think she might be enjoying this trip a lot more than you are. Honestly you're not sure why you can't just get ten of the first blue shirt you liked, but even you've been able to observe that on the surface, people like to own multiple, different outfits, so you keep your thoughts to yourself.

The fitting room has a large full length mirror and a little cushioned stool. You unceremoniously drop the clothing onto the stool, not caring that half of the garments tumble down to the floor. Spying the shade of blue that drew your eye in the first place, you pull out the shirt you'd selected initially.

Once you've removed Chara’s top to try on the blue one, you hesitate to leave the room to show Toriel. The sleeves are shorter than you'd thought when you picked it out. They come past your elbow but stop a few inches short of your wrist. You don't think any of your injuries are that obvious, but…

A suggestion comes from Chara, not in the form of words but the image of a bashful presentation, you toeing at the carpeted floor and holding your hands behind your back. Your options are limited, and Chara’s idea is as good as anything else. You look at yourself in the mirror, considering.

You do like the shirt, everything else aside. It's in your favourite colours, and the new fabric feels nice on your skin. You think you look cute in it. Chara picks up on how pleased you are with it, in turn letting you feel their disgust, and you narrow your eyes at your reflection.

Then, your expression in the mirror changes from irritation to confusion, your eyebrows drawn in and your mouth pulled up. You step closer to the mirror, and then closer still, until your breath fogs the smooth surface.

Your eyes have always been brown like your hair, a shade so dark that from a distance it sometimes appears black, as though your eyes are nothing but pupil. The you in the mirror still has that dark hair, but your reflection’s irises are too bright. Your pupils stand out starkly from the intense colour that rings them.

You can feel Chara’s interest perk, even as you stumble back. Your ankle hits the stool, and you come tumbling down, but you don’t look away from your wide eyes in the mirror. You can’t look at anything else. Not the dark brown they should be, not a hazel or amber that you could blame on the lighting, not even the garnet of Toriel and Asriel’s eyes. You blink, but the colour remains, unchanged and bold and gleaming.

As bright as Papyrus’s cape or Undyne’s hair. As brilliant as a strawberry or fresh blood.

As red as your shattered soul and Chara’s that rests whole within you.

What did you do to me, you demand, your breath coming in choked gasps. Your hands scramble for a stable surface so you can push yourself up, you have to get away, but all the clothing that you dropped is now beneath you, and the fabrics slide and slip against each other whenever you put weight on them. You fall back against the wall, your feet pushing at the floor as though you could put more distance between you and your reflection. No matter how much you stare at it, the colour in your eyes refuses to return to what it should be.

Now this is unexpected, Chara comments, their calm words slicing through your rising panic. I wonder why this didn’t happen as soon as I entered this body. You finally shut your eyes tight, your forehead and nose pulled in taut strain. Do you think anything else will change, too?

You’re not sure if it’s you or Chara who imagines the skin on your hands lightening to Chara’s pale tones, your hair losing its rich dark shade in exchange for a ruddy brown hue. Your throat tightens, ice and bile rising up in your chest, and you’re gasping in air with shallow, rapid pants.

Turn them back! you cry, your hands fisting in the strewn clothing. This is my body! Turn my eyes back!

I didn’t do this, Chara scoffs dismissively. I don’t have that power. This must be a side effect of this body absorbing my soul.

I don’t care! You’re screaming now. You hope that, wherever they are within you, Chara finds it as unpleasant as you do when they raise their mental voice at you. Your hands come up, fingers trapping your hair in fists and pulling, and you rock back and forth. The back of your head hits the wall each time, and somehow there’s a part of your mind that manages to hope Toriel won’t hear the resulting dull thumps. Turn them back! I don’t want this!

Shut up, Chara sneers. I told you, I can’t.

There are tears at your eyes and knives in your throat. You wheeze, desperate for air. I hate you! you scream. You take away everything that’s mine and then act like it doesn’t matter! Or like it’s okay to be mean to me just because we’re both human, like that’s what makes us awful! I hate you! Get out of my body! Get out! Get out!

This is my body now, Chara snarls, and you jerk to the side as though you could escape their voice, inhaling sharply and then erupting into coughs. Isn’t that why you started to hurt it? To hurt me? You are awful.

You’re worse! You shudder and heave. Your coughs are deep and hacking, reaching down into your lungs and scraping out your air, until you can barely gasp in another breath just to cough it back out again. You’re a bully and a—a murderer! Maybe you deserve to be hurt!

How dare you, hisses Chara, and you tremble and quake and pull at your hair. You don’t know a thing. Asriel would have died. I killed all those humans to save him and set monsters free, and I’d do it a thousand times over again. Then, low and piercing like a needle stuck through your heart, You hypocrite. Acting like you’re so much better than me. You’re only upset because I killed you so many times. You couldn’t care less about all those humans I killed in the war. There’s not a word you can say to protest, not when they’re wedged into your thoughts like a thorn in flesh. Not when they’re flinging the truth of your heart out like shaking dirt off your hands. Don’t act like you didn’t think it too, when you were scared you were about to die for good. You knew the truth. Monsters deserve the surface more than humans ever will. You were relieved you were going to fail.

Get out of my memories! you shriek, thrashing and twisting as though your physical movements could shake Chara off, as though you could dislodge their soul from your body through your determination alone. Get out!

A knock comes from the door, and you and Chara both go still, though your body still quivers, every muscle wound tight. “Frisk?” Toriel calls from the other side. “Do you need help, my child?”

Chara seizes the opportunity. Tell me, backstabber, they goad. Their voice in your mind is little more than a whisper. You listen, dread filling your lungs when air fails to. While you’re deciding who deserves to be hurt. Can you tell me that Toriel deserved to rot underground? Go on. Tell me I was wrong to free her. Tell me there’s a single human even half as kind as she is.

Your face is wet with tears, and thick snot coats your upper lip. When you cough, spit flies, but you can’t take your hands from your temples to cover your mouth. You curl forward and sob.

Was your own mother as kind as Toriel? You can remember her voice telling you that your laugh was the most beautiful sound in the entire world. Toriel will never be able to tell you that. But your mother died and left you to grow up alone, and Toriel is here now. How can you possibly compare the two?

If Chara had never set monsters free, maybe you’d have had the chance to know your mother better. But in that universe, maybe you wouldn’t have ever met Toriel.

I didn’t have a choice, Chara whispers. Perhaps you’re not meant to hear, but their thoughts are spilling over, and with their words come images of stone tablets you’ve never seen in an underground unfamiliar to you. The glowing waters of the marsh illuminate documented histories—and that inescapable prophecy. The angel who had seen the surface would descend. The future of monsters and humans. With everyone’s hopes and dreams resting on your shoulders, what else were you supposed to do?

That isn’t true, you think. There’s always a choice. And even knowing you made the same wrong choice as Chara, you’re still failing to choose kindness. You know your words to be cruel even as you throw the vicious thoughts as hard as you can. You didn’t have to kill all those people. You’re not an angel at all. You’re a—a demon.

You want to make Chara hurt as much as you do, whether with injuries or insults, as long as they’re in pain. You’re not the good person Papyrus and Undyne think you are, not even a little bit. Maybe Chara’s right after all, that your humanity’s a poison you can’t ever escape, that no matter what, you will only ever be cruel.

Their laughter in your ears is high and hollow, the edges of jagged chips of rock digging into tender skin. Do you think you’re the first human to call me that? they demand, voice lined with sharp hysteria. I’m nothing more than what you humans made me!

“Frisk,” Toriel calls through the door again. “May I come in?”

Your head jerks up and your eyes fly open. The door is still shut, and you’d locked it behind you when you entered the room. Even so, you’re not sure how long that will keep Toriel at bay.

That’s all I am to you, isn’t it? You choke on another sob. Just another human. Just this body’s memories.

That’s what it comes down to, isn’t it? Undeniably and unchangeably, you’re human. Your body is from that which Chara hates above all else, and you’ve destroyed their shared existence with Asriel to take them into your human flesh and blood. How must it feel, knowing their soul is all that keeps you alive? That they’re trapped in a body they hate, for your benefit? You’d screamed at them to get out. You know they’d like nothing more.

No, Chara says. You’re worse. You would have killed everyone who showed you kindness. You were ready to betray them all. At least the humans in the war were honest about their hatred. But you? You’re a liar and a traitor. Backstabber.

Is it irony that every time they say that word, it stabs into your gut? Your entire body jerks with your next cough, your feet kicking out involuntarily. You can’t even think through the fit that follows. With each shallow gasp, you’re barely able to take in enough air to fuel the next cough. Even voiceless, your hacking is loud enough that Toriel must be able to hear you on the other side of the door.

It’s not until you manage to wheeze in a thin, shaky breath that you are able to begin to put words to a response. Yet every objection you think of crumbles, and every defense you consider falls apart. You can’t deny that you’d planned to start a war that would end the lives of the nicest people you’d ever met. Chara’s list of your crimes is nothing but the truth. At this point, there’s really only one thing left to say.

You ask the question you’ve wondered ever since the first time you woke up in Asriel’s room.

Why didn’t you let me die?

At your question, you can feel Chara slam to a halt as solidly as your own head slams into the wall behind you when you recoil from your next cough.

I was ready to die. Why did you bring me back? You draw in ragged breaths, letting your head rest against the wall. You could have had my body without me in it. You wouldn’t have had to deal with—with any of this. Now that you’ve opened your eyes again, you can see your reflection in the mirror across from you once more. Your eyes are still the wrong colour. The skin around them is puffy and red as well, and it only emphasizes the bright gleam of your irises. Your hair is disheveled and sticking up in all directions, and your cheeks and upper lip shine wetly. The blue shirt you were trying on is wrinkled and riding up on your stomach.

Chara still hasn’t replied.

From the door, you hear Toriel’s voice. “I am going to come in now, Frisk,” she says. The doorknob jiggles, and there’s a click, before the door swings open.

You lift your head and look up at her. You can feel fresh tears already falling down your cheeks, and it’s through blurred vision that you watch Toriel gasp and bring her hands up to cover her mouth. Behind her, you catch a glimpse of an alarmed monster wearing the store uniform, before Toriel rushes to kneel at your side. “My child,” she says, barely above a whisper, as she gently closes her fingers over one of your hands and starts to coax your fist open. “What has happened?”

You cough weakly, and try to loosen your fingers, but they remain stiff and unresponsive. Toriel manages to uncurl your fist and extract your hair, though many strands remain wrapped around your fingers, yanked out during your fit. She lowers your hand, then moves to the next one.

Once she's managed to loosen your second fist, she brings both your hands forward, lifting them slightly even as her head inclines for a closer look. She is not holding them so much as letting them rest in her palms. You could pull away at any moment. You leave your hands as they are, and Toriel is careful not to touch any of your injuries. The paper cuts you made days ago are little more than thin red lines now, the skin having come back together, but the longer cut that crosses the back of your hand is still marked with a dark, bumpy scab. Your knuckles, too, are dotted with hard spots of dried blood where the skin hasn’t grown back yet. She tilts your hands, and you realize that your fingers, lightly curled and slightly splayed, aren’t pressed together to hide your burn. You can’t stop yourself from flinching when she raises her eyes to look at you once more.

“How did you come to have these injuries, my child?” she asks. You swallow thickly around the blades that have returned to settle in your throat. You want to look away. “Why did you and Chara not tell me you were hurt?” Fresh wetness traces down the tracks your previous tears have left on your face.

You’d confess to her right now, but your arms do no more than jerk when you try to take them back to sign, your fingers twitching where they rest on the pink pads of her palms. It’s not Chara’s interference this time. They’ve no reach in your limbs, withdrawn and tucked away as they are, a dense ember low in the base of your spine. Yet even without their competition for control, you’re disconnected, your body sluggish and boneless and reluctant to respond to your commands. You stare helplessly up at Toriel.

She leans forward, placing your hands on her shoulders before she lifts you into her embrace. You’re about as limp as the clothing strewn on the floor, your bones seeming to have melted, and you don’t cling to Toriel so much as you hang helplessly in her arms. Your chin rests on her broad shoulder, the rest of you sagging under your own weight as she settles you against her. She has one hand on your back, holding you close and rubbing circles, and her other arm under you for support. Chara’s locket is trapped between your sternum and Toriel’s chest, and it digs against you uncomfortably.

She picks up Chara’s shirt from where you’d thrown it to the floor earlier, and then rises with you still in her arms. She carries you out of the dressing room with ease. Lesser Dog is waiting, and falls into place trotting behind you. Laid slack over her shoulder as you are, you get a perfect view not only of the Guard Dog following you, but also all the other monsters who are staring as you pass. You can hear Toriel apologizing to the shop workers for their trouble, and she purchases the shirt you’re still wearing before you leave. Her actions mean that the hand on your back is momentarily absent, and where there was warm contact, there’s now a cold void.

She doesn’t replace her hand right away, pulling out her cell phone as you walk toward the car. You only know she’s done so when you hear her begin to speak to someone else. “No. Frisk, Chara, and I will be unable to join you. We are returning to Our Home now.” A pause. You can hear Asgore’s deep voice coming from the little phone, but you can’t distinguish the words. “We will discuss it when you come home. I do not wish to keep you from enjoying your lunch.” A cough tumbles up your throat and catches you by surprise, and you miss your chance to try to hear Asgore’s response before Toriel speaks again. “No, dear, we will be fine. I am calling Dr. Alphys over, as well.”

Lesser Dog eagerly helps Toriel open the car door and buckle you in to your seat. You try to lift your hands to get the seatbelt yourself, but still your body feels miles away, as though it's remained trapped underground while you're up here. You can barely roll your hand out of Toriel’s way. Your head lolls back, and you can see Toriel’s concern on her face, her mouth pressed tightly in a thin line, her fur on her forehead only partially concealing the wrinkles on her brow.

Is this a result of fighting with the person who's essentially your soul? You'd screamed at them to get out; maybe they're trying to. It's obvious they hate being trapped in your body with you as much as you hate living in their debt, using their soul in lieu of your own.

The return trip to Our Home passes in silence, only broken by your intermittent coughs when your breath catches, fractured in your throat. By the time the car pulls to a stop, you're only just able to turn your head in the direction you want and curl your fingers into a loose fist. Moving your arms and legs remains beyond your ability, and Toriel once more lifts you into your arms. This time, you're able to weakly grip the back of her robe.

You don’t want to let go when she sets you on the second bed in Asriel’s room. Toriel could easily pull your arms off her, as would be the case even if you were hanging on with all your might, but she doesn’t, remaining sat on the bed next to you. You close your eyes and lean into her embrace, enjoying it while it lasts. It’s only after several moments have passed that you realize she won’t let go until you do, that you’re selfishly keeping her there with you, and you abruptly drop your hands and jerk backward. Your current lack of motor skills means that you fall back onto the bedding as soon as you let go of her.

“Oh!” she exclaims, and quickly helps you into a more comfortable position. She brushes your bangs out of your eyes, and then the rest of your hair behind your ears, gentle and tender touches that make your eyes fill with tears again.

“How are you feeling?” she asks you, her fingers stilling on your forehead. You try to lift your hands to sign, and manage to raise them maybe three entire inches off the bed before they flop back down. “I see,” she says. “I am going to have Dr. Alphys come to see you.”

You nod, a tiny motion that Toriel notes nonetheless. She doesn’t leave your side as she makes the phone call, and you’re able to hear as she gives a brief summary of your current state and your injuries. When she requests that Alphys arrive within the hour, her voice is not unkind, but leaves no room for refusal, either.

You’d been under the impression that Dr. Alphys was being summoned because of your fit, not your hands. When Chara’s voice responds to your wordless curiosity, it sounds as though they are speaking from a room away. For once, it would be easy to ignore them. Instead, you concentrate to hear them. Mother knows healing magic, but it’s meant for monsters. It affects the soul directly, so it doesn’t do much for a human with physical injuries. Dr. Alphys has been studying humans for years, so she’ll have the best supplies to treat us.

You… With a quick glance toward Toriel, who still has a hand resting on your head, thumb brushing your bangs back from your forehead and fingers curled around your temple, you consider your words to Chara. You don’t seem upset that she found out.

It was bound to happen, comes Chara’s reply. Now that she knows, there’s no point in lying to her.

On this, you agree. It’s one thing to omit the truth, but if Toriel asks you a direct question, you’ll give her an honest answer. At least, as soon as you can move your hands to sign again. You understand, now, why Chara didn’t try to lie about stealing time from you to play with Asriel. Knowing that Toriel will be disappointed, you can’t stand to make it worse by being dishonest. The best option is to accept your punishment.

Toriel stays with you, presumably while you wait for Alphys to arrive. She must want to make sure you don’t send yourself into another fit if she lets you out of her sight. It doesn’t explain why she continues to card her fingers through your hair, the pleasant touch lulling you into a sense of calm. There’s love in her eyes when she looks down at you, and you realize. Of course she’s concerned about the body housing her actual child.

You close your eyes and turn your face into her hand. It’s pathetic, but you still want to hold this moment tight, to take in the comfort and tenderness as though it’s actually meant for you.

Dr. Alphys arrives, escorted by Lesser Dog, who bumps your limp hand with their head before leaving. Alphys walks with the same hunched posture you remember seeing her with, taking small steps into the room and holding a large black bag tightly in her claws. She approaches you with ginger steps and a shaky smile.

“H-Hi!” she greets you with forced cheer. “H-How are you f-feeling?”

You flop your hands in her general direction. Your only remaining method of communication has been taken from you for as long as it takes for your body to feel like your own again. Your face probably reflects how you feel about that, and everything else.

Alphys grimaces and, with an anxious look up at Toriel, comes next to the bed. She examines first your hands, and her own are cold and smooth against your skin, an intense contrast to Toriel’s. She presses two scaled fingers against the inside of your wrist, and her mouth moves silently, keeping count. Once she’s recorded your heartbeat, she has Toriel sit you up so that she can observe your breathing. First she listens to your wheezing, pressing what Chara labels a stethoscope to your chest and back as she instructs you to breathe as deeply as you can. Twice, you’re unable to exhale without coughing violently. Next she has you blow as hard as you can into some sort of plastic mechanism, and this one Chara is unable to identify. You suppose that because they had a throat and lungs that actually worked, they never would have seen the object Alphys uses to measure your breath.

Alphys isn’t any good at keeping her reactions hidden. You can tell she’s not pleased with the results she’s recording. The next part of the exam has you holding your mouth open as she shines a light in so she can get a good look. She starts to instruct you to say ‘ah,’ before she catches herself and launches into a flurry of apologies, nearly dropping her little flashlight. You can’t yet raise your arms high enough to sign to her not to worry, but you manage something that’s almost the sign for nothing, and hope that gets the message across.

Once Alphys has calmed down enough to proceed again (after reassurance from Toriel that you know she meant nothing by it), she warns you about the next part. “I-I'm going to shine the light into your e-eyes, now,” she says. “To check h-how your pupils…” She trails off, and though she doesn't have eyebrows quite the same way you or the Dreemurrs do, her forehead still wrinkles in confusion. “Are you wearing c-contacts?”

Chara saves you the trouble of having to ask for an explanation. Their voice is still distant, but you hear enough to realize Alphys is asking about the colour of your eyes. Your lip wobbles and you feel that uncomfortable pinch of your chin as you try to keep yourself from crying again.

It's Toriel who asks, “What do you mean?”

“T-The human—I mean, Ambassador Frisk—their eyes were d-dark b-b-brown,” Alphys stammers, unable to look up at Toriel. Whether out of nervousness, or because she's still staring at your newly red irises, you can't tell.

Toriel leans over to look for herself, and you’re only able to keep your eyes open for her examination by focusing on her nose instead of meeting her gaze. You can’t, not with how intently she’s focused on you. Everything you ever learned underground is telling you to drop your eyes, to look away, to pray her attention goes somewhere else. To actually make eye contact is impossible.

“I had not…” Her voice trails off, but you don’t need to hear the rest of the words. That she needed to look and confirm it for herself after Alphys pointed it out is all the evidence you need. If you hadn’t thrown a fit today, if Alphys hadn’t been called over to make sure you were going to be all right, would anyone other than you have ever noticed? Even Chara didn’t realize there was a difference, until you finally saw it.

“Um,” says Alphys, and then her mouth snaps shut when you and Toriel both look at her. After a moment spent waiting for her to regain her composure, she continues. “So t-there are… a few different things that might need, um. Treatment?” You fall into your familiar blank expression as Alphys turns to address you directly. “If it’s all right with you, I t-think we should take care of your hands first.”

You shrug, and Toriel tells Alphys that yes, that will be a good start. Alphys sets a couple of tubes and little box of band-aids on the bed next to you, and then she takes your right hand, having to lift it over your lap. Toriel selects one of the tubes, squeezing out a semi-translucent cream, and she takes your left hand. To the cuts you made, even the paper cuts that have been healing fine on their own, she applies the cream. Her warm paw pads spread it over the long cut stretched across the back of your hand, with just enough pressure to rub the cream in, but not so hard that it causes pain. Next are the band-aids, and Alphys has brought some with colourful drawings of big-eyed humans and monsters on them. Though the big cut has to get a plain white patch of gauze taped down, your little paper cuts get the cartoon band-aids, and that gives you something to look at so you can stop staring at the wall. You can feel your knuckles getting the same cream treatment, and from your peripheral vision you can see when Alphys tapes a plain white bandage over them. The tape has to wrap all the way around your palm to hold it in place.

Though you’re still looking at the band-aids on your left hand, Alphys starts to talk to you when she gets to the burn on your index finger. “I-If you get a burn, y-you want to put it under cold water r-right away,” she tells you. You allow yourself to nod, and your gaze to travel to your right hand, but permit no other reaction. To keep your thoughts blank, you focus on the cool lotion she’s applying to your finger. This one is bright green, though once it’s spread on your skin, it only retains a hint of its colour. “Since it looks like it’s, uh, it looks like it happened a little while ago, all we can really do is now is put aloe on it.” You’re not sure if this requires you to respond, but you give her another nod to show you’re listening.

There’s a certain comfort in the tightness of band-aids and tape on your skin, and once she’s done, you flex your fingers, curling them into fists and then releasing them. Alphys takes a moment to put the band-aid box and cream and aloe aside—she’ll be leaving them with the Dreemurrs, since you can only expect you’ll need them more in the future, and a human first aid kit is apparently one thing from Chara’s old life that Asgore didn’t keep—and Toriel rubs your back and tells you that you’re being very good. It’s completely unnecessary. What else would you do, try to roll away from Alphys as she looked you over? That would certainly be effective. You’ve done nothing to deserve the kind touch or reassurance Toriel gives you now.

That takes care of your hands, so you wait for whatever Alphys has to say next. It takes her a moment of fidgeting with her bag before she looks back to you, and you’re pretty sure the both of you are looking at each other’s chins or mouths to avoid making eye contact. Alphys’s protruding front teeth make for a good focal point. “N-Next, we need to, um. I’m g-gonna ask you some yes or n-no questions, okay? You can nod or s-shake your head.” You nod, and you think Alphys’s smile is meant to be comforting, but all you see is her anxiety. “So, um. H-Have you had trouble with b-breathing before?”

Something like a laugh thrashes through your chest, and you erupt into coughs. With a grimace, Alphys draws back, and Toriel holds you upright and pats your back until you finish. There’s fresh wetness at your eyes, but at least this, you know, is caused by your damaged body’s inability to even do something as simple as laughing, not your emotions. You give Alphys a wry smile around a last few straggling coughs, and you nod.

“Do you know if that’s related t-to your,” she pauses, and she’s twisting the strap of her bag in her hands. “To your v-voice?”

Again, you nod.

“I, um. I’m sorry I didn’t ask this before. I t-thought you just had a cold, when you were c-coughing so much.” You tilt your head at her inquisitively, though really it’s more like you let your head fall to one side, leaning into Toriel’s support. Why should she be sorry for not asking something so irrelevant? “D-did,” she starts, and again you have to wait for her to work up the courage to finish her question. “Did something happen to m-make you l-lose your voice?”

It doesn’t matter. It’s in the past. Unless the monsters have some kind of magic to return your voice to you—and you’re certain they don’t, because Chara would have demanded it immediately—there’s no reason to care about what happened. You don’t know why Alphys is asking about it, but you don’t care, and it doesn’t matter if she knows or not. There’s no point in getting upset about something that happened so long ago.

You nod.

“O-Okay,” Alphys says, mostly to herself. “There might be, um. I mean. Depending on, uh, we’d need to talk about what h-happened, but there might be things we can do to at least make breathing, um. Easier? For you.” She fumbles through her bag for the excuse of looking away from you. “For a start—um, at the least, we can—I mean, for emergencies…” Apparently she was actually looking for something in addition to a distraction; she withdraws a small box and, from that, what looks like a small and bent piece of a plastic piping. It’s not, of course. You can see it’s capped on one end, with some kind of cylindrical cartridge in the other. “I-If you’re having a lot of trouble, because you’re u-upset, or you’ve overexerted yourself, you can use an inhaler.”

When she offers it to you, you’re actually able to reach out and take it, which is reassuring progress in your body coming to respond to you once more. Your hand drops into your lap almost as soon as you close your fingers around the inhaler, but you’re able to look at it, to rub your thumb over the smooth edges and fiddle with the cap on the one end.

Though you probably don’t need it right now, your fit having passed, Alphys talks you through how to use it. Toriel has to support your arm, her hand under your elbow, so that you can lift the inhaler to your mouth. You’re not sure if you’re doing it right—you cough right after using it, and isn’t it supposed to prevent that?—but Alphys says you’ll get the hang of it.

Once you’ve put the cap back on the mouthpiece, and Toriel’s set it aside, Alphys asks, “Do you think you can sign, now?”

You shrug. You’ll do your best, and if you can’t, you’ll all just have to wait until you can.

“Okay. Um. Did s-something happen to cause… this?” She makes a helpless gesture to you.

Quietly, Chara laughs. It doesn’t have quite the same edge as when they laugh at you. The good doctor’s use of technical terms never fails to amuse, they say.

Ignoring them for now, you sign your answer. ‘Chara and I were fighting.’ You move slowly, and just those few signs are enough strain on your muscles that you have to drop your hands after. You can feel Toriel tense where she’s still holding you up, and you’re actually thankful for your slack limbs and disconnected nerves when you fail to flinch away from her clear displeasure.

“Is this the first time you’ve f-fought?” Alphys asks. You manage to shake your head from one side to the other; it’s a bit more effort than nodding. Next to you, Toriel is rigid. “B-But this is the first time something like this has happened?” A nod. “Was this fight different?” Your breaths have gone shallow, and you have to stop to purposefully inhale deeply, letting it out in an audible huff, before you nod.

Alphys hesitates before questioning you further, her eyes darting up to Toriel and then back. You can see the shine of sweat on her temples—at least, you think it’s sweat, because where her hands had touched you, her scales were cool and dry, not moist or slimy. She clearly does not want to ask you more, and you don’t want to answer her, but Toriel hasn’t said anything, not to ask Alphys to leave nor to ask you to elaborate.

Alphys chews at her lip, and the silence is stretching. You doubt she’ll be able to break it on her own, and you’re going to have to tell Toriel everything eventually, so you might as well start now. ‘It was worse than usual,’ you sign to Alphys. ‘I saw my eyes were wrong and got mad.’

“Usual?” Toriel echoes. You hunch forward, though her hold keeps you from falling.

“Um,” says Alphys. “M-Maybe I should… come back later?” You don’t lift your head to look up, but you feel Toriel move and hear the skittering of claws on the wood floor, and if you had to guess, you’d think Alphys might have jerked backwards under the force of Toriel’s glare. “I-I mean! If F-Frisk and Chara are fighting, um. I don’t have a lot of—there’s n-no control case to compare to, but w-when Asriel and Chara had, um, all those other human souls, t-they—it wasn’t—the other souls, um.”

At first, they tried to stop us, Chara provides, their voice clearer now. It made things difficult, for a while. But we wore them down, one at a time. Asriel and I together—we could do anything.

You shudder. Chara had told you they had plenty of experience subduing human souls. You’d already known what they meant, but the acid drip of certainty burns down your chest.

“I-If there’s only one shared soul, though,” Alphys says, still hypothesizing, “if they fight each other, they’ll both, um. They’ll both feel the effects. There’s not a way to, to—neither of them can ‘win,’ the way Asriel and Chara jointly established control over the other human souls. In the worst case scenario, if they keep fighting, they might both lose control of Frisk’s body permanently.” You consider what she’s just said, and apparently she does too, realizing what she’s just told the Queen of all monsters about her child. “Um, but that’s just c-conjecture! I could be totally wrong!”

“Dr. Alphys.” Toriel’s voice puts a halt to Alphys’s panicked rush of words, and you can hear Alphys draw in a loud breath as she pulls herself back together. “Perhaps you were right, before. It might be best for you to return at a later date, for a follow-up.”

“R-Right, your majesty!” Alphys agrees rapidly. You lift your head to see her practically snatch her bag up as she steps backward, her neck craned up and a long, nervous smile stretched across her face.

‘Wait,’ you sign, and Alphys and Toriel both turn to you, though in Toriel’s case you feel it more than you see it. You need to know—Alphys had asked, but then she hadn’t said anything else about it, and she knows the most about human souls being absorbed, even if a human body absorbing another human’s soul isn’t ever supposed to happen. ‘My eyes,’ you sign. Thankfully you’ve cried so much you’ve hit the point where they’re dry and aching, and thinking about what’s happened doesn’t summon any more tears. ‘Do you know why they changed?’ you ask. And then, ‘Will anything else change?’

Alphys again glances to Toriel, as if to ask for permission to answer your question, before she looks down at her hands. “I… I can’t say for sure,” she starts. She speaks slowly, contemplative in recollection. “When Asriel absorbed the first seven human souls, he changed, but the form he took was just an adult boss monster. He never displayed any physical traits of the souls he’d absorbed.” She raises her eyes, but not her head, and her voice is quiet and reluctant. “There’s n-no way of knowing if your eyes changed because of the vacillation and struggle between who’s in control, or s-simply because your body has Chara’s soul and yours isn’t there to counter it. Or another reason entirely!” She startles, then, and her fingers twist the strap of her bag. “I’m s-sorry I can’t—that I d-don’t have a b-better answer for you!” You wonder what caused such a reaction, when she was so calm a second ago, but then Toriel starts rubbing circles on your back again, and you realize you’re shaking.

“I… I’m sorry,” Alphys says again, and all but runs from the room.

Toriel continues to rub your back, and you try to rein in your trembling. Your fingers twitch, dragging at the bedding, and your eyes are still red and you don’t know what will happen to the rest of you.

Chara is silent. You both lean into Toriel, and she wraps her arms around you.

“I must apologize as well, my children,” she says into the crown of your head. You feel the vibrations of her voice against your scalp. It’s strangely pleasant. “I should have realized. I was too happy to have my family back. I wanted to believe that things could truly be resolved so easily. That I could simply tell you to work together, and you would be happy with each other.”

It’s not Toriel’s fault. You feel Chara press against you in agreement. If the two of you were better, things could have been resolved, and she wouldn’t have had to worry.

She gives you a squeeze, then pulls back to regard you, her large hands resting on your shoulders. The fur just under her eyes is damp, and shame grips your throat. “There is still much we will have to talk about,” she says, and her voice is a little rough, like when she first begged you to come back into her little cottage instead of continuing down the mountain so long ago. “But I think we could both use a small respite.”

She winds up having to carry you to the kitchen—you try to walk, and make it a few steps before your legs give out. Toriel catches you easily, and hoists you up to sit on her hip. You’re able to at least wrap your arms around her, and you do. Lunch is leftover catfish, but it tastes just the same as when it was fresh, if not better for you being in control this time, and Chara comments happily on the advantages of cooking with fire magic.

As much as you can, you help Toriel clean everything up when you’re done. There’s not much to do, with no actual cooking having taken place, and soon you’ve both run out of reasons to stall.

“Would you like to return to bed, my child?” Toriel asks. You shake your head and point to the living room. Once more you try to walk, and though you have to cling to Toriel’s hand, and your legs buckle under you several times, you make it to the couch. You fall into the cushions, and Toriel settles next to you, angled so she can see you sign.

“Frisk,” she says, folding her hands in her lap. “I think that before we continue, I must tell you. I am not angry with you.” Even sank into the cushions as you are, you stiffen at her words. “It is true that I wish you and Chara had spoken to me before now. And I cannot promise that I will not be disappointed with what you tell me. But even if I am, we will work together to resolve it.”

Your shoulders are rigid, and your fingers twitch. Whether Toriel senses that you don’t know how to reply, or whether she’s simply used to you choosing not to say anything, she does not give you time to grow too nervous before she continues.

“Please, will you tell me how you came to have such injuries on your hands?”

You look down at your bandaged hands. You won’t lie to Toriel.

‘I cut myself on my left hand. Because Chara is left-handed.’ Instead of looking at her, you watch your hands form the signs.

“And your right hand, my child?” she asks.

You curl both hands into fists. Thanks to the aloe Alphys applied, your burn only hurts a little now. It’s gooey between your fingers.

It’s okay, Chara says. Their voice isn’t right in your ear as it usually is—neither of you quite resettled in your body yet—but you hear them loud and clear. You can tell her what I did. There’s no point to making her wait until tomorrow to ask me.

You inhale deeply, your chest rising, and let it out loudly through your nose. ‘Chara used a F-I-L-E on my knuckles. They burned my finger on the stove.’

“I would like to be sure I understand,” Toriel says. Her voice is even, neutral. Of course she has a good handle on how she expresses herself. You’re not surprised she can keep her reactions so well in check. “You each hurt yourself while in control?” You nod. “Can you tell me why you did this?”

‘I started it. I was mad at Chara for the snowball fight. I wanted it to hurt them when they used my body.’ You pause to listen to Chara, before you continue. ‘Chara says they wanted to get back at me.’ It’s a simplification, but you and Chara agree that Toriel doesn’t need every detail.

“You both know that was not the way to solve your problems, do you not?” You nod, the motion jerky. “Oh, Frisk. My children. I am so sorry.” You look up, and Toriel is smiling at you, even while there are tear tracks down her fur. You’re not sure if it’s you or Chara who flings your body forward, but you couldn’t care less as you reach up to try to pat the dampness off her cheeks. She laughs, pulling you on to her lap, and even though her voice is a little scratchy, you know the way her lips pull up and her cheeks bunch up under her eyes is real. “I should have paid more attention,” she says, stroking your hair down the back of your head. “I should have known that you both would need more help adjusting.”

‘We were hiding it from you,’ you sign. ‘We didn’t want you to know.’

“As if you are the first person in this household to try to hide something from me,” she says, voice warm with amusement. As you watch, though, her smile falls the slightest bit. “I would like to ask you to promise me something. Both of you.”

You’re about to nod before Chara’s voice cautions you. Wait, they say. Don’t agree to something you haven’t even heard the terms of.

“If you are so upset with each other that you wish to harm the other… no matter what time it is or what we are doing, before you act out of anger, please, come talk to me or Asgore first, will you not?”

You think of how mad you’d been two nights ago, rage filling up your heart and your skull until there wasn’t any room to think about anything at all except making Chara pay. Can you promise that you’ll talk to Toriel before you lash out? Can you promise you’ll be able to potentially interrupt her from other tasks or from sleep to ask for help with your own problems?

I can promise her this for myself, Chara says, but I won’t be able to help you with this. Which makes sense. If you get to a point where you’re that angry, Chara’s probably not going to be defusing the situation by suggesting you find Toriel. It’s not their responsibility to do so, and you doubt you’d listen to them anyway. You have to do this for yourself. If you’re going to be a good person—if you’re going to choose kindness—you have to keep choosing kindness, even when it’s hard. Even when you’re mad.

Especially then.

‘Chara says they promise,’ you sign. Toriel waits, and you offer, ‘I can promise to try.’

“Thank you,” she says. “You are being honest, and I am proud of you. We will help you learn better ways to handle your anger.” She presses her nose to the top of your forehead and gives you a slightly damp nuzzle.

Your eyes are getting wet again, and you’re much more exhausted than you should be when the day is hardly halfway over. You let yourself settle against Toriel, your feet spilling off her lap and onto the sofa, and Chara comments offhandedly about your dirty boots on the furniture, but they sound just as tired as you feel. Your eyes fall closed, your cheek rests against her chest, and she hums and pets your hair. You could probably fall asleep like this. You should get up so that Toriel doesn’t have to deal with you drooling on her robes.

The sound of the door being thrown open to slam into the wall startles you into full wakefulness. You scramble and nearly fall to the floor; once again Toriel catches you, before helping you sit back on the couch. You hear Asriel before you see him, his feet thumping on the floor as he runs in. He stops short before you and Toriel. He's not breathing hard, but his mouth is hanging open and his eyes are large, his brows drawn up in that familiar mountain shape.

“Are you okay?” he asks, voice fast and nearly frantic.

You sit up straight, regarding the little king and his clear worry. His fingers flex, his hands lifted just above his waist as though in an aborted attempt to reach toward you. He shifts on his feet and chews at his lip.

You raise your hands. ‘Who are you asking?’ you sign.

Asriel inhales sharply, and his fidgeting stops. His mouth pulls in a weak smile, but the rest of his face is stuck, stiff with guilt.

Toriel stands before Asriel can answer you. She places a hand on his shoulder, and as she steers him toward his bedroom, you hear her saying, “My son, we need to talk.”

As she and Asriel leave the room, Asgore enters. He turns his head to watch them as they go, and then sees you, still sat on the sofa. You tuck your legs up and watch him over your knees. Something in his face changes, though you can’t place it—something in the drop of his mouth, or the angle of his eyes. It's not the same as his cowed, shamed expression he wore when Asriel and Chara interrupted your fight with him, but something in it recalls that memory.

The two of you regard each other silently for a moment, before he clears his throat. “Would you like a cup of tea?” he offers.

You can feel the jump of Chara’s interest, though they hang back, saying nothing.

‘With sugar?’ you ask.

Asgore chuckles. “If that is what you wish,” he says. “I will put on the kettle.”

The most direct route to the kitchen would bring him close to you when he passes by, but instead he takes a wide path around the other side of the room. It's undeniably purposeful.

So he noticed, after all, Chara comments. How accommodating.

What do you mean?

Think about it. He doesn't dislike you. If he's not keeping his distance out of distaste, why is he giving you so much space?

You listen to the sounds of Asgore filling the kettle, the noises of cabinets being opened and closed as he gathers mugs, tea, and sugar, or so you assume. If Chara is to be believed, and Asgore is not acting for his own benefit, what other reason would he have?

I can't handle this, Chara says, their voiceless words in your mind still somehow sounding as though they're growled under their breath. How long are you planning to act like nobody will ever care about you, despite all evidence to the contrary?

You frown and press your back further against the couch cushions, hunching your shoulders over. Why are you mad? You like reminding me that nobody actually cares about me, that they’re really thinking of you. You can feel Chara’s sulk overlaid on your own bowed spine. Pushing your advantage, you repeat your question from earlier. Why did you let me live?

Once again Chara immediately withdraws, all but vanishing. You hear the whistle of the tea kettle from the kitchen.

It’s not long before Asgore appears in the doorway, two mugs in his giant hands. One of them is clearly his, large enough that it doesn’t look out of place and his fingers can fit its handle. The other, appearing almost comically small in comparison, must be yours.

“Would you like me to bring your tea to you, or should I leave it on the table for you?” he asks. Has he realized what Chara’s implying? You would rather he left the cup for you, but you still don't trust your legs to take you all the way from the couch to the table.

You live with these monsters now. You represent the link between humans and monsters. If your fear of the King is obvious enough that he’s picked up on it, you need to get better at hiding it. Practice makes perfect. You unfold your legs so you’re sitting properly, and beckon Asgore toward you.

His movements are large, but slow. When he hands you the mug, he makes sure your hands are securely cupped around it before he lets go, and you make sure not to tremble in fear. It helps that you don’t want to spill the hot tea, either. Asgore does not sit next to you on the couch, but moves instead to the armchair between you and the fireplace. Though the layout of Our Home is different from Toriel’s cottage—bigger, with more furnishings, for one—the armchair near the fireplace reminds you very much of the first night you spent on the surface. The warm cup of tea in your hands, too, pulls that memory close. You breathe deeply over the mug, feeling the steam’s damp heat on your face, and raise the tea to your lips. It’s hot and sweet and good. Somewhere within you, Chara stirs.

“I had wanted to believe,” Asgore says, looking into his mug, “that an apology would be enough to put things right. My desire for an easy solution blinded me to your feelings.” His words are not an exact echo of Toriel’s, but they are similar enough that you have to wonder if the two boss monsters have spoken about this already. Or did they each reach the same conclusion on their own, separately?

You carefully balance the mug on your knees and slowly sign, ‘Don’t worry.’ You’re careful not to shake your body when you shake your head. ‘I wanted it to be enough to say sorry, too.’

Asgore chuckles, or maybe chokes. He takes a sip of his tea, and neither of you say anything more.

Your cup is empty by the time Toriel and Asriel return to the living room. Asriel leaves his mother’s side to climb right up on the couch next to you. He says nothing, but he stares at you with intense focus, his gaze lingering on your eyes and coming to rest at your hands wrapped around the mug. You look away, down at the dark bits of tea leaves in the bottom of your cup.

Toriel sits slowly next to Asriel. “Frisk,” she says, “do you still wish to meet with President Curtiss today? If you do not feel able, we can let him know you will have to meet at a later date.”

Before she’s finished speaking, you’re shaking your head. You’re the Ambassador. You have responsibilities, and you’re fine. Your hands are bandaged up, your lungs have calmed down, your eyes can still see (even if you can hardly call them your eyes anymore), and your body’s once again under your command. There’s no reason to postpone your duties. You rest the empty mug on your knees and look up at her to sign. ‘The kids without parents need help now, not later.’

“True,” she allows, “but you cannot help anyone if you do not take care of yourself, first.”

‘I’m okay,’ you insist. You force yourself to meet her eyes, though you know your gaze flicks away and back, that you can’t maintain constant eye contact without trembling, but you refuse to let your mistakes get in the way of your responsibilities. You’re the Ambassador. You brought humans to the surface, and you have to make sure that they can enjoy a peaceful coexistence. You can’t slack off just because you’re tired and worn out. ‘I’m okay, really,’ you sign again.

“Very well,” Toriel concedes. She smiles at you, resigned.

You think she might have more to say, but between you and her, Asriel twists around to look up at his mother. “I’ll make sure they’re okay!” he promises. “If they look like they’re not up to it, I’ll end the meeting early!”

“Thank you, my dear,” Toriel says, giving him an affectionate squeeze on the shoulder. “I am glad you will look out for them. I would like to be able to trust Frisk to let us know when they have reached their limits, however…” You drop your eyes, as she continues. “Would I be correct in saying that you find it difficult to ask for help, Frisk?”

Don’t lie, Chara says, but you don’t need them to tell you. You nod, confirming Toriel’s observation.

“You and Chara are more alike than I first realized,” she says. Though you and Chara both stiffen at the words, you recognize something warm and fond in Toriel’s voice. “Perhaps that has contributed to your conflicts.”

You should have known that Toriel would want to return to the subject of you and Chara fighting. You don’t like that she’s brought it up with Asgore and Asriel in the room, but they all care about Chara, so you shouldn’t be surprised. Chara’s part of the Dreemurr family. Of course they’re all going to want to be involved.

“I would like to speak to you both on this matter,” she says. Inside you, Chara slowly unfolds, expanding their awareness.

‘We’re both listening,’ you sign. You still can’t bring yourself to look up at her again.

“I have thought about what you have told me, and I have decided upon several steps for us to take. Moving forward, every evening, you and Chara will speak to either Asgore or myself, to let us know of your interactions that day. Even if you have not fought, you must speak to one of us.” You nod. She must have realized—or already known—that you and Chara can’t bring yourselves to lie directly to her. You could probably manage to lie to Asgore, but that doesn’t matter when you’ll never seek him out to speak with him alone. “We cannot prevent you from fighting. But if you will not come to us for help, we have no way of knowing if you are struggling, until it is too late.”

“Fighting?” Asgore echoes. You glance up just in time to see Toriel shoot a look across the room at him, and even you can read the silent message, ‘We’ll talk about this later.’ Asgore’s mouth snaps shut, and he smiles sheepishly. She turns back to you, and you drop your head back down.

“We will use this approach in the future,” she says, “but we must still address your actions over the past several days.”

You grip your empty mug, rubbing your thumbs along the smooth rim. Anticipation and terror bud side by side within you, yours and Chara’s both. You’re an awful person, eagerly waiting to see them punished, but you know their feelings to be a perfect mirror to your own in this matter. This is probably not the kind of common ground Toriel hoped for you two to find.

“Frisk,” Toriel says, and you know you should look at her, you’ve got to face the consequences for your actions, but your neck and shoulders ache, rigid and tense. “Even though you felt wronged by Chara taking time from what we had agreed would be your day, you should not have tried to hurt them. I would think that all of us know by now that trying to take revenge only makes problems worse. You cannot let your anger rule your actions.”

You press your lips together. Your chin aches, and you know it must look wrinkled and pinched. Your eyes are wet. You know she’s right. You hadn’t even been caught in a moment of rage that first night; you’d been deliberate, choosing to cut in places you knew would yield the most pain later.

“Chara, I am disappointed that you did not tell any of us what was happening. Asgore, Asriel, and I will always listen to you. You, too, should not have tried to hurt Frisk. Surely you knew that your problems would not be solved in this way.”

Chara’s shame blooms inside you, as hot as fresh tears on your cheeks. Wrapped tightly in their guilt and distress is something else, and you hardly have to pry at all to discover the familiar terror they’ve kept tucked away. The doubt that they’d be believed, the fear that Toriel wouldn’t see fit to punish you despite the strict consequences Chara had faced for stealing your time. The creeping, ever-growing unease every time Toriel calls you ‘my child.’

You’d had no idea.

“Both of you have acted very poorly,” she continues. “And I can only imagine that you are both hurting.” Your hands squeeze tight around the mug. The porcelain has cooled, and it’s hard and unyielding under your grip. If you press hard enough, your hands stop shaking. “I do not believe heaping on additional punishments will help either of you learn from these mistakes. Instead, I will ask you to make amends in another way.”

Chara urges you to look up. She’s not angry, I promise, they tell you. She’s sad and disappointed, and we owe her to at least try to look at her. You take your right hand from the mug and rub at your eyes. The scratchy material of the bandage on your knuckles is unpleasant against the sensitive skin of your eyelids, and now it’s damp, too. Still, you’re satisfied enough to raise your head. You see Asriel’s face before you get to Toriel’s; the bare and unabashed concern he wears is startling enough that you quickly jerk your gaze the rest of the way up to Toriel.

As Chara promised, there’s no ire or fury to be found anywhere in her expression. Instead, disappointment pulls at her face, weighs her shoulders down. “Frisk,” she says, and it’s only Chara’s support that keeps your head up. “I would like you to think of something kind that you can do for Chara. You will tell both me and Chara your idea, and Chara can choose if they will accept or not. If they do not, you will have to think of something else.” Your eyes widen, and within you, Chara’s surprise echoes yours, spreading like ripples. “Chara,” she says, and the both of you set aside your shock to listen, “you will do the same for Frisk.”

Your mind is reeling. What could you possibly do for Chara? What could you possibly do for them that they would actually accept? As far as you can tell, all they want out of their life is to spend it with Asriel, and your very presence takes from time they could spend with him.

… There’s an idea.

“You do not have to think of it right away,” Toriel reassures you. “I am sure you will need some time.”

You don’t need any time at all. ‘I could clean the bathrooms,’ you sign. ‘So Chara doesn’t have to. I’ll clean the bathrooms on my days.’

Toriel’s expression matches the flash of shock you feel from Chara. She starts to say something, but you can hardly hear her over Chara’s reaction. You’ll wear yourself out! they object. Between that and being ambassador, you won’t have a moment to rest! Apparently that’s supposed to dissuade you. You know it will take time and effort; you saw how long it took Chara, even with Asriel’s help, which you know better than to count on receiving yourself. But that’s fine. That way, you won’t be bored between appointments and meetings and presentations. You won’t have to try to figure out how to occupy your free time, and Chara will have theirs back.

“... see if they agree, and what they propose to do for you, as well, before we decide on anything,” Toriel is saying. You nod, settling back against the sofa cushions.

“There is one last thing I would like to ask you both,” she says. Relief wells up within you. One last thing, and then you can rest until the human President arrives. You think this conversation has been more demanding than your first public address. You and Chara both are more than ready to put this behind you.

“Have you apologized to each other?”

Your face betrays you before you can slap your blank expression into place, and it’s this that makes Toriel finally, finally frown at you.

“My children,” she says, “I know neither of you desired this. But that does not change your situation.” She sighs. “We will let you have some time to yourselves. Please let me know when you have both apologized.” She rises to her feet, and though Asriel hesitates, biting at his lip and digging his fingers into the sofa cushions, he follows her after a moment. The two of them once more disappear down the hall.

Asgore, too, stands. “Would you like me to take your mug?” he asks.

You hold it out to him, and he is just as slow and careful taking it from you as he was handing it to you when it was full of hot liquid. You watch him make his way to the kitchen, the rich blue fabric of his cape billowing out behind him.

It’s just the two of you, now.

Part of you wants to run after Toriel, to ask her to help, but what could she do? She can’t listen to your conversation to mediate, and you’re hardly going to give a play-by-play of everything that you and Chara say to each other. Especially considering that the seconds continue to pass by, but neither of you has so much thought a word at the other, let alone anything close to ‘sorry.’

You have to apologize, you know that. If only so that you can honestly tell Toriel that you have. (Even if you could lie to her, Chara would rat you out, probably.) But the words won’t come, not even in your head, where it should be easier than anything. All you have to do is think it.

Are you sorry?

You regret being the kind of person who would lash out in anger, but do you regret that your anger hurt Chara? You’d felt vindicated, if only for a sliver of a second. Can you really apologize, when you’re not sure you won’t try to hurt them again if you get mad?

You have to. You have to regret hurting them, or you’re no better than the people who hurt you.

Is it enough, to apologize because you’re afraid of what you’ll become if you don’t?

All you ever seem to do is continue the cycle of violence. Even when you were trying to free humans, you only managed to avoid killing anyone by dumb luck. Even when you try to choose kindness, you just hurt people. Someone like you…

Your thoughts spill forth to Chara, and instead of an apology, for a third time you ask. Why didn’t you let me die?

This time, Chara doesn’t retreat. They’re wound tight and defensive, and you know that they’d curl themself up into a little ball if they had your body right now, but they don’t flee. From the kitchen, you can hear the sound of running water, as Asgore washes the mugs and kettle.

Because we’re the same, they say, voice wry and mournful. We’re the same, and it’s my fault.

Your first instinct is to jerk away in protest, though your body remains stationary, settled comfortably on the couch. And yet, as your mind casts for words to rebuke them, you once again find yourself as empty-handed as when they listed your crimes in the dressing room.

They’re not done. I can’t stand it, they hiss. I can’t stand knowing I did this to you. That I made someone just like me. I can’t stand you. Their voice is rising steadily. I can’t stand how you were ready to die for the chance it might make everyone else happy! It’s my fault you’re like this, and I hate it!

You want to stop them, tell them that they didn’t have anything to do with how you grew up, they weren’t there, but you know that’s not what they mean.

I’m not sorry I trapped humans underground, they spit, and your hands clench, but otherwise you remain still. I’m not sorry I killed them all, and I’ll never be sorry, not for that. Asriel would have died if I hadn’t killed them. There’s no need to pause for breath when the two of you are talking to each other, so maybe it’s habit that has Chara’s voice sounding strangled, that makes you inhale deeply. I can’t be sorry for that.

The noises from the kitchen have stopped. You wrap your arms around yourself and pull your legs up on the couch, resting your forehead on your knees. You can hear the padding of Asgore’s feet across the floor—light and gentle, for a monster so big—and you think perhaps he pauses before you as he crosses the room. You pluck at the sleeves of your brand new shirt and breathe slowly, and Asgore does not approach you. His footsteps continue, fading as he leaves the room, and it’s you and Chara once more.

But I am sorry for what I did to you, Chara whispers. I’m sorry you turned out just like me. And I keep hurting you because I can’t stop being human, I can’t stop being awful. I’m sorry. They laugh, rueful, and you squeeze your eyes shut. Even being part of Asriel couldn't fix me! Instead, I dragged him down with me.

There they are. ‘I’m sorry.’ The words you can’t even bring yourself to think, and Chara’s said them three times in a row, not stumbling or hesitating, but as naturally as your heart beats.

Do you think it would have been kinder of me to let you die? they ask. The question is genuine, though rhetorical. There’s nothing snide in it; it’s simple wonder. It’s no surprise I made the wrong choice when I saved you. I’ve never been kind a day in my life, and now you’re stuck with me forever. They make another of those dry laughs, and you’re seized with the sudden curiosity of whether or not the voice you hear in your head sounds anything like their actual voice did, before they died. It’s like I told you, they say, distracting you from your mind’s panicked wanderings. One moment of trying to do a good thing doesn’t fix you. Nothing will erase what I’ve done. I’m not a good person just because I saved one life. I’ll never be a good person.

You sniff, louder than you meant to, and your tightly shut eyes are wet at the corners. You and Chara don’t hate yourselves in exactly the same way, but hearing their thoughts parallel yours so closely stings more than any of the injuries on your hands. Maybe this is what they felt, seeing themself in you when your fear and self-loathing overflowed.

Maybe you can learn to be, you think, almost before you realize you’re trying to talk to them. Maybe we can learn how to be kind together. You know they’ll scoff at you, that they’d roll your eyes if they could, but you press on. Yesterday, you told Asriel it would be okay, because he’s trying to fix things. You tuck away the sour thought that they’d told you exactly the opposite, two days ago. You might still be bitter over it, but dredging that up now won’t help. And besides, you have a feeling that they’re much more honest with Asriel than with you, that of the two, what they told Asriel is closer to their true feelings. Can’t we try, too?

Chara’s reluctance and bitterness roll and churn inside you, cast under a shadow of fear. Your fingers curl in the fabric of your shirt sleeves.

It won’t make everything okay right away, you admit. It’ll take time. But as long as we keep trying, even if we make mistakes… I think that matters. Your arms, wrapped around yourself, squeeze a little. Hugging yourself doesn’t even deserve to be called ‘hugging,’ when compared to Toriel’s embrace, but maybe… maybe if it’s your arms, and Chara’s inside you, then maybe they’ll feel like they’re being hugged, too.

You have to do this, now. You can’t say all that, and then not follow up. You inhale, and push the words out.

I’m sorry for what I did to you, too, you think, and something tight and dark and dense inside you cracks and shatters. Your breath comes out in a loud rush.

This time, maybe, you’ve made the right choice.

Just wanting to be better—it won’t make me stop hating you, Chara warns. And even if I try to be better, I’ll still wind up being cruel to you. If they’re trying to give you a chance to take back what you said, you won’t. If they’re trying to make you take back what you said, you definitely won’t. I’ll still call you backstabber, they say, and your fingers clench, but you catch yourself before you can dig your nails into your arms. You won’t be provoked into anger this time. You’ll prove to them that the both of you can choose kindness if you really, truly want to.

And I’ll still call you a demon. I still hate you, too, you confess, because you know well enough how to pick your battles, and there’s no point to not being honest now. Not when Chara’s made the effort to meet you halfway. Not when they’ve let you see their defiance and fury and fear. Maybe we’ll hate each other forever. But just because it’s easier to be cruel, that doesn’t mean we should. We have to keep trying to be better, even when we mess up.

There's no response. You’re not sure they believe you—honestly, you’re not sure you’d believe you, not after how you went back on your word the last time you’d tried to propose kindness. But you do know they’re willing to wait and see, this time, instead of goading you into fulfilling their image of you.

Well, they say, finally, at least when you call me demon, it’s because of things I actually did. Not just because my eyes are red, or my smile isn’t right, or because I was ‘ungrateful,’ or because I fought back. You hug yourself a little tighter, even as Chara wryly finishes, I guess I can live with that.

You’re not sure how to reply, or if they’re even expecting you to. You play with the hems of your sleeves, rubbing them between thumb and forefinger, and you breathe.

You can get up now, and go tell Toriel that the two of you have apologized, but you remain seated for another few moments. You’ve apologized to people before, in attempts to try to mitigate or avoid a punishment, and you might have only managed to force the words out this time because Toriel told you to, but you’ve never before felt this sense of relief and—accomplishment?—from something as simple as saying sorry. Well. Saying sorry, and meaning it. Maybe this is the difference between apologizing and asking forgiveness. Similar, but not at all the same thing.

How long do you have before you meet with that human? Chara asks, referring to President Curtiss. You shrug, opening your eyes and unfolding your legs. You should probably find out, though, and see if you need to have anything prepared before you see him. Your knees are a little stiff when you stand, but you don’t fall over or wobble, and so you start to make your way after Toriel. (You do keep close to the wall so you can catch yourself if your body does decide to betray you again.)

You find all three Dreemurrs in the study at the end of the hall. Toriel is speaking to Asgore and Asriel in a low voice, and you’re completely certain she’s catching Asgore up on what he’s missed. Asriel notices you at the door before you can really eavesdrop, and then everyone’s attention is on you. Toriel raises her eyebrows expectantly.

‘Chara and I talked,’ you sign. ‘We both apologized.’ You already know that saying sorry to Chara was the right thing to do, but Toriel’s smile now erases any and all doubts you might have still held.

It turns out you have some time left before your meeting with the President, so Toriel suggests you take the opportunity to clean up a little bit. Asriel volunteers to help, and you suspect this is deliberate, to give Toriel more time to talk with Asgore about you and Chara, but you have no reason not to go along with it.

You see Chara’s eyes again when you look in the bathroom mirror. You’d thought yourself calm, but the sight calls up fresh fury and fear, and you breathe deep and look away. You focus instead on washing your face, wiping away the stiff and dried trails of tears and snot. You could stand to comb your hair, too, Chara suggests. You wrinkle your nose at their words, and then pat your face down with the fluffy towel Asriel provides.

Asriel asks if you want to get changed. Should you? It’s a private meeting, not a public appearance, but it’s still part of your formal duties as Ambassador. Does that require formal wear? You don’t know what the rules are for these things. Only if you want to, Chara tells you, and so you shake your head and smooth down the wrinkles in your new shirt. Your outing with Toriel might have ended in disaster, but you’re wearing the shirt you selected for yourself, and it’s soft and just loose enough and comfortable. If you can keep wearing it, you will.

“Are you going to do anything about your hair?” Asriel asks, and Chara laughs at the little king’s unwitting teamwork.

‘Why?’ you ask, pouting despite yourself.

“Well, it’s kind of a mess,” the Prince says, and you look back at your reflection. Your hair is sticking out a little more than normal, you guess. Apparently that’s bad. You’re still not sure if you care enough to do anything about it. You shrug.

“I could,” Asriel starts, and you raise your eyebrows at him, waiting for him to finish. “I could brush it for you, if you want.”

Chara flares inside you, wordless and unreadable. You wait, but they don’t say anything, not to dissuade or encourage you, and so you shrug again. Asriel nods, and he grabs a brush. It has thick, white fur caught in the bristles. He has you sit down on the toilet seat (lid down), and he stands behind you.

You could pretend his hands are Toriel’s, but his motions certainly aren’t. Despite his tentative approach, he still jerks the brush through your hair’s tangles, in short, painful tugs. You keep your head still against the pull on your scalp, and Asriel, behind you, doesn’t see your face pinch at each stroke of the brush.

It gets easier after a while, and you’re pretty sure it’s because he’s accidentally ripped all the knotted strands out. Eventually, he passes the brush through your hair without it catching on anything, and you think you’re done. But he keeps at it, and what was discomfort starts to turn to a pleasant touch, the brush’s bristles and Asriel’s claws running lightly along your scalp. Your eyes start to flutter closed.

“Your hair’s different from Chara’s,” he says, and at those words you notice Chara’s presence hovering just below the surface, soaking up the sensations as much as they can. “It’s not just the colour,” he continues. “It feels different, too.” A little laugh. “At least, I think so. It was… a long, long time ago.”

You don’t raise your hands to sign, and Asriel falls silent again, continuing the repetitive motions of drawing the brush through your hair.

You could let him do this all day—it really does feel nice, now that the tangles are gone—but you should probably make sure you’re ready for your meeting.

You’re accompanied to the receiving room by all the Dreemurrs. You can’t help but wonder if Toriel or Asgore had other plans for the day that they’ve canceled to make sure they can all be with you. You hope not. It’s not unreasonable to think that they had already planned to both accompany you; the issue to address is important.

Once again, President Curtiss is already there when you arrive. When he smiles, it manages to be both welcoming and smug, as though he knows something you don’t. Greetings are exchanged, and everyone sits. Eager to avoid any of the President’s meandering and indirect statements, you bring up the topic immediately.

‘Asgore said there were kids without families left underground.’

Curtiss nods. “Straight to the point,” he comments, and you’d roll your eyes if you weren’t acting as Ambassador; of course he can’t resist pointing out that he knows exactly what you’re doing. “There are twenty-one children of varying ages without parents or other guardians. While we’ve hired temporary caretakers, raising a child is a full time responsibility.” He pushes his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. “A few solutions have been proposed, but nothing decided yet. The people who ran the orphanage where, I believe, you spent some time—”

He falls silent as you sign furiously. ‘They’re awful!’ you say, nearly jumping up from your seat. You’re surprised at the vehemence of your own reaction, though that shock doesn’t remove the scowl from your face or the anger from your signs. It’s been years and years since you left that place. You didn’t think you cared anymore, but apparently the thought of other children being told what useless burdens they are is enough to summon up the old hurt. Toriel sets a hand on your shoulder, not in restraint, but offering comfort, as you continue, ‘You can’t let them take care of those kids! They’ll hurt them!’ Asriel’s translation doesn’t match your anger, but the President can see your face well enough.

Curtiss leans back, making a considering noise. “Well. They had offered to take in a few of the children, in addition to the ones they were already looking after, but it appears we will have to reconsider, now.”

You let your weight shift from your feet back to your seat. He accepted your opinion instantly? Your words alone are enough for him to discard an entire option?

“I suppose this also calls for an investigation of the conditions of the children they already care for,” he continues, and Chara reminds you to close your mouth.

You can’t help your next signs any more than you could stop from decrying your old caretakers. ‘Why do you care about their well-being?’ Unsaid, that he let your six friends die and you head toward what was almost certainly your own death. Why should he care now about children’s happiness?

“Can I not regret my previous actions?” He spreads his hands out, palms up. “We have the opportunity now to thrive, not merely survive. I would like to see that we take it.”

Hah. It looks like you’re not the only human struggling to do better than you have before. It’s strangely reassuring to see that President Curtiss is having difficulties, too.

“Still, this leaves us with over twenty children who need care,” he says, adjusting his glasses again.

It’s Asgore who speaks next. “We’ve had people asking the adult humans if anybody is willing to foster any children,” he tells you, and there’s familiar regret in his deep voice, “but considering that these children were left behind when the other humans came to the surface, it is doubtful that anyone will agree.”

You nod. You’re not sure you’d trust anyone who did agree, either. It wasn’t ever any secret that there were kids growing up alone. There wasn’t ever enough food to go around, and you’d seen parents who were stupid and starved themselves making sure their children got enough to eat. Like their kids would be able to get by without them. But the adults who’d had enough to get by—they could have helped at any time, and they didn’t.

You remember how strong the restaurant owner’s grip was. When you’d weakly punched at him, trying to get away, you hadn’t even felt his ribs.

“So the next logical step,” Curtiss says, before you can fall into the memory, “is to consider monsters adopting human children.”

You’re more surprised that the suggestion came from President Curtiss than by the suggestion itself. It’s certainly not outside the realm of possibility, though; Chara’s happiness as the Dreemurr’s adopted child is a shining constant in your heart. And you’ve no doubt at all that other monsters will be patient and generous enough to make other human children happy.

“It does seem like the only possible solution,” Toriel considers. “But despite how well Frisk has been received as Ambassador, there are still many who view humans with fear.”

“I don’t think you will need to worry so much about that,” President Curtiss says. There’s that smug pull to his mouth again, as he pulls out his phone—of course he’s already obtained one, and you watch him tap at the screen as naturally as if he’s been using such technology his entire life, not simply for a few days. Satisfied, he turns the phone around to show you and the Dreemurrs the screen.

It’s you.

It’s me, Chara says, and you aren’t sure if they heard you and are correcting you, or if they’re simply making an observation. In either case, they’re right; the photo displayed is from yesterday, Asriel and Chara at the mall, Asriel’s face in your hands as Chara leans your face close and calms the little crying king down. You’d known you were seen, but knowing that such a photo is circulating, of Asriel and what appears to be you, is a very different thing. It’s not like appearing on Mettaton’s show; you’d agreed to that. Even if it’s Chara and not you in the photo, it was taken without your knowledge. You feel vulnerable.

Curtiss takes his phone back and swipes at the screen, before turning it to you once more. This time two photos are displayed; the selfie of Asriel, Chara, and the nice cream guy, and also a shot of you in Toriel’s arms.

Your eyes widen at the last photo; your face is red and your shirt is light blue, with little pink flowers at the bottom hem. That photo was taken today. It was hours ago, and now who knows how many monsters are aware that you had to be carried, crying, out of a clothing store? In addition to monsters greeting you and staring at you wherever you go, do you now have to beware of having your photo taken any moment you step out of Our Home?

“The Ambassador appears to have become very close to the Royal Family, very quickly,” President Curtiss remarks, putting his phone away. Your blank expression is doing its job; he’s unaware of your distress. “It’s all the OverNet is talking about.”

“I quite liked that shot of the two of you smiling at the camera with that nice young fellow,” Asgore says to you and Asriel, his own smile as big as his voice. “You should get a copy! We need new photos to hang up.”

“Dad, not the time!” Asriel’s nose is flushed pink and his shoulders hunched up. Yet Asgore only chuckles and ruffles Asriel’s hair and ears. Asriel swats at his dad, trying to get that big paw off his head, but you can see Asriel fighting off a grin and losing.

“Really, dear,” Toriel adds, fond and exasperated. Then, to the President, “I see what you mean. That is quite a fortunate turn of events. However, raising a human child is very different from raising a monster child.” She looks down at you, and you think her gaze travels over your bandaged hands before she turns back to President Curtiss. “There will be many unanticipated challenges, for both the children and their new caretakers.”

He nods. “If you are able to share some of what you have learned from your experience, we will be able to let potential monster caretakers know what to expect prior to any decisions. And of course we’ll do anything we can to help.”

You tap Asriel’s arm. The motion draws everyone else’s attention too, and they wait for Asriel’s translation. “Frisk says that the kids have to agree, too. They can’t be sent off to live with a family if they don’t agree to it.” Toriel, Asgore, and Curtiss all nod in agreement, and, emboldened, you sign the rest of your thoughts. “And someone should check on them every so often, to make sure they still want to be with the monsters taking care of them.”

“You have good instincts for logistics,” Asgore says, with a proud smile. “What you’ve suggested is already considered best practices for monster adoptions.” Toriel, too, is beaming down at you.

You’re torn between wanting to duck your head in embarrassment and wanting to preen.

“That presents its own set of challenges,” President Curtiss muses, a hand at his chin. “If there is already a system in place for monster adoptions, it certainly makes sense to use it as a model. But like you said, raising a human is different. Presently, we face a shortage of people qualified to properly evaluate whether or not the children are truly happy in their environments. After all, plenty of things could motivate them to be dishonest if asked.”

You wonder if you’re imagining how his eyes flick to you and Asriel. Chara assures you that you aren’t.

Whatever President Curtiss suspects is irrelevant to the task at hand. You consider the problem he’s outlined, and you’re pleasantly surprised to find that you have a potential solution. Someone who always knew exactly what you were lying about, and what to say to make you reconsider, despite your difference in species. ‘I know someone who could do it,’ you sign. Asriel translates, and then looks to you expectantly. ‘He’s a skeleton. His name is S-A-N-S.’

That guy? Chara asks, mild distaste in their tone.

You know him?

Please. He was a sentry posted on Mt. Ebott, and he met with you in Our Home. Of course Asriel and I know him.

Asgore is nodding, stroking his fluffy mane of a beard as he considers. “That’s not a bad idea. Sans is very observant.”

“You will have to introduce me,” Toriel says.

Asriel makes a face, and you hear Chara chuckle. I can see he’s already realized what will happen when Sans and Mother meet. They will be… punstoppable.

You can’t help it; your shoulders shake as you silently giggle. Fortunately, Curtiss doesn’t seem to notice, having once more picked up the conversation of how to vet monsters who apply to care for human children. Asriel, however, raises his eyebrows at you.

‘Chara made a joke,’ you sign, biting your lip to push your smile off your face. Asriel’s mouth twitches in a little smile, but he looks away to the side. Inside you, a tendril of Chara’s longing spirals up from your gut to your throat. Melancholy and bereft, the brief glimpse you catch of their feelings matches the expression on Asriel’s face as perfectly as if they were still the same person.

It’s been easy for you to recognize Chara’s despair at being torn from their shared existence with Asriel. But you’d quickly forgotten that the little king had suffered the same loss. Your own guilt flushes through you, and you look away from Asriel, dragging your focus back to the meeting.

The rest of the time is spent with Toriel and Asgore explaining the process of monster adoption, and President Curtiss and you helping decide what needs to be changed and what can be kept as is. Asriel speaks only to translate for you.

When you have all finally agreed on a process to enact on a trial basis, you see the President off, and then return to the rear wing of Our Home. Toriel lets out a great sigh upon stepping into the living room, then turns to the rest of you.

“Today has been quite eventful, has it not?” she asks. Clearly not expecting an answer, she continues, “I had planned to prepare tilapia tonight, but I think instead I would like to enjoy a nice dinner out.” She looks from Asriel, to you, and then to Asgore as she asks, “Would that be all right? To go out to eat?”

You’re tired, you don’t feel like going anywhere, and you really want to hear her say ‘tilapia’ again because it’s one of the greatest combinations of syllables you’ve ever heard, probably, and you’re honestly kind of upset you can’t feel those vowels roll off your own tongue. But she’s been cooking dinners and breakfasts for you since you got here, and you made her take care of you all day when she could have been doing literally anything else. You nod up at her, insisting to yourself that it’s not a lie, that what she asked was if it would be all right, not if it was what you wanted. And it is all right. You don’t mind.

“Where should we go?” Asgore ponders. “Any suggestions?” He looks down at you and Asriel as he says this.

Asriel hums, but all he has to offer is a shrug. You’re about to do the same—honestly, how would you even know anything to suggest?—when you remember. You do actually know a place.

‘How about G-R-I-L-B-E-E-S?’

Chara corrects your spelling as Asgore nods. “Grillby’s, hm? Does that sound all right to you, Tori?”

“Gorey, dear, I have not been present for many years. I have no familiarity with any of the newer establishments. If Frisk says that is what they want, and you and Asriel do not object, I am happy to go.”

You’re honestly not sure what to expect. Sans had arranged for the food to be brought to you when you were at his and Papyrus’s home, after all, and you’re aware that restaurants on the surface are nothing like those underground. You’d grown up knowing the word ‘restaurant’ to refer to one of the three major food providers, competitive families who hoarded resources of snails and the best mushrooms and the salt deposit, while the rest of you scrambled for crickets or for ways to barter for the food the restaurants provided. Most expensive was the rare fruit the scientists managed to grow, and then trade to the restaurants, who could then demand nearly anything from the rest of you in exchange.

You wonder what your parents had traded in order to give you strawberries, once.

You wonder if you could ask Toriel for strawberries, but you’re afraid of the real thing not being as sweet and wonderful as it is in your memory.

In any case, Grillby’s is a big open room filled with polished tables and chairs, a counter (A bar, Chara corrects) at one end with a row of stools in front of it and shelves of bottles and glasses behind it. A little more than half of the tables are occupied by monsters either enjoying meals or paging through small booklets (Menus). Most of them look up at your entrance and wave happily, before returning to their own business. Along the wall to your right, instead of standing chairs, there are big plush benches (Booths, Chara provides, growing impatient) and you drag Toriel by the hand to sit in one, bouncing a little in place once you’re settled. Asriel and Asgore file in on the side opposite, and you stifle a giggle at the sight of them next to each other, Asriel dwarfed by his father, who barely fits in the booth.

In addition to being what you’re sure is a much more comfortable place to sit than the chairs, you have the wall to one side and Toriel at the other and the tall back of the booth at your back. It’s calming and reassuring, Toriel’s sturdy warmth at your side, keeping you mostly hidden from the other monsters in the restaurant.

The monster who comes to take your order, you learn, is Grillby himself. He seems to be completely made of fire, but his clothes rest on him the same as yours on you. Magic, Chara chimes, sing-song in your ear. He asks what you’d like. You haven’t even looked at the menu. You ask for a burger and fries.

When it comes out, it’s even better than when you had it at Sans and Papyrus’s home. You sink your teeth in and don’t even care that juices are dripping down your chin. Toriel laughs and wipes at your face with a napkin, and you grin so big that your eyes are practically shut.

You and Chara laugh silently when Asgore gets pieces of breaded chicken caught in his beard, and you both keep laughing when the ketchup and mustard on Asriel’s burger shows up in yellow and red streaked through the thin furs above his lip. Grillby comes out to ask how things are going, and you and Asriel order chocolate milkshakes for dessert.

“Hey, Grillbz. Rare to see you out from behind the bar,” comes a familiar voice, and you freeze in the middle of biting a fry in half. You lean forward to peak around Toriel. Your ears were not deceiving you; there stands Sans, hands shoved in that same blue hoodie, wearing that same big grin. You watch him plod up to the bar and hop onto a stool. His feet dangle.

You tug at Toriel’s sleeve to get her attention, and nod your head toward the bar. “Do you need to get up, my child?” she asks, and you nod again. She shuffles out, and you follow. You stand next to the booth for a moment, looking at Sans’s back. He’s started chatting with Grillby. If you go up to talk to him, you’ll be interrupting.

You walk toward the bar, and Toriel follows you. You haven’t told her what you’re doing, so you suppose that’s to be expected. That’s okay. She wanted to meet Sans, anyway.

You pull yourself up onto the empty stool next to him, and instantly you realize he knew you were there the entire time, when the loud farting noise erupts from under you. You almost fall off the stool, but a bony hand reaches out to grab your arm and stable you.

“Wow, kid. That was really impressive, but also, uh, very impolite. You should excuse yourself,” he says, turning to look at you. That stupid grin is exactly the same, unmoving and wide.

You try to smile back, and something in your cheeks catches, your face not quite completing the expression.

“So, kid,” he says, and then his eye lights flick to Toriel, standing behind you. “Your Majesty,” he adds. “What’s up?”

You mean to bring your hand up to sign a thank you. You mean to tell him that you kept his words to heart, that his advice has helped you.. You mean to keep it short and simple, and then return to your booth and get your milkshake.

You start crying.

Through your tears and your thick sobs and thicker sniffles, you can see Sans’s smile drop even though it’s still, by all definitions of the word, a smile, and you try to wrestle your own mouth into a smile too so you can fix his, and your face hurts, and you can’t. “Whoah, kid,” he says, reaching for you, but he stops short as Toriel’s arm wraps around your shoulder.

“My child,” she asks, alarmed, “what is wrong? What has happened?”

Your hands are shaking as you bring them up to sign, and your vision’s so blurred you can’t even tell if Sans is looking at you to see what you have to say. ‘You were right,’ you get out. ‘I had a choice. I’m bad, I keep making the wrong one. You were right.’

“Kid, no, you did good,” Sans says. His words are coming a little quicker than you’re used to hearing from him, and you suppose it’s because he would like you to stop crying. You, also, would like it if you stopped crying. You’ve cried enough today for the next couple of months, probably. “You did your best, and you stayed true to yourself.”

‘That’s the problem!’ you sign. Your mouth is hanging open in a twisted grimace even though you can’t wail properly, and you keep shaking with wracking sobs even though Toriel is here and shushing you and stroking your hair. ‘My best is bad! I don’t make good choices!’

“Stop,” Sans says, his bony fingers wrapping around your hands and bringing them together between you. There’s no strength in the hold, and you could break his cold grip easily, you know that. You go still, gulping in loud, heaving, shuddering breaths, and try to look at him. Your wet lashes stick together when you blink open your eyes, and slowly he comes into focus.

“Beating yourself up isn’t going to accomplish anything,” his deep voice rolls out. “Two weeks ago, you didn’t think you had a choice at all. You didn’t think about the consequences of your actions, only about your own hurt. Now you’re struggling as hard as you can to do better, but kid, take it from me. You can’t change overnight.”

You start to tremble, your hands shaking against the smooth bones of Sans’s hands, your shoulders quaking in Toriel’s arms.

“It’ll take time,” he says, and abruptly, you go still. “But as long as you keep trying, you can do it.” You gape at him, blinking out a few more tears. “Being a good person doesn’t always come easy, but you’re a determined kid. And hey, I’m rootin’ for ya.”

This time, when you tell your face to smile, it obeys, even if all you can manage is a watery, wobbly one. Just like you were hoping, Sans’s smile goes back to being full and huge. You roll your shoulders a little bit, and Toriel lifts her arms, looking down at you. There’s a bit of space between the bar stools, but you’re able to lean forward and wrap Sans up in a tight, slightly shaky hug. There’s going to be a big wet spot on his hoodie, but you don’t really care. He can deal with it. Even though he’s cold and stiff, when you feel his arms tentatively return the hug, you smile wider and shift forward to squeeze a little tighter.

Overbalanced, the two of you fall off the bar stools.

Toriel manages to catch you before you hit the floor, and from the comfort of her arms, you introduce her to Sans. As soon as you mention that he let you stay at his home during your journey through the city (leaving out a few details), she invites him to pull up a chair to join you at your booth and let her cover his meal, and his objections fall to pieces under her cheerful insistence. From there, it only takes one ‘bone appetite’ for Chara’s prediction to come true, and in short order the two of them are exchanging puns back and forth. Asgore smiles helplessly, and Asriel looks entirely too despondent for someone with a chocolate milkshake as tasty as the one you’ve got. Even though you’re already full, you finish the whole thing, and you wind up feeling a little bit like it might come back up.

Somehow, Sans manages to cover his bill before Toriel can, putting it on his tab, and even though she asks Grillby to let her pay it, the fire monster says that he has to respect Sans’s wishes. It’s sort of amazing to you to see someone refuse to do what the Queen asks, and not have to face any consequences.

Soon enough you’re all back at Our Home, and Toriel sends you and Asriel to bed almost as soon as you walk in the door. You’re so full you don’t want to move, and you’re exhausted as you take off your shirt (yours!) and pull on Chara’s pajamas, as you floss and brush your teeth. You keep yawning, and it seems to make the tooth care routine go twice as long, but despite how much you want to lie down right this very moment, you also don’t want to start another fight, so you persevere.

You finally return to Asriel’s bedroom to find him sitting on his bed, his legs dangling over the side. His eyes land on you as soon as you enter, and it’s obvious he’s been waiting for you to come back. He doesn’t say anything, and so you cross the room to sit on Chara’s bed, mirroring the little king. You don’t feel the need to ask what he wants; it’s obvious he has something to say, so you figure he’ll tell you when he’s ready.

You don’t have to wait long. “Chara’s my best friend,” he says, and he’s both defiant and apologetic at once. “I care about them more than anybody else in the world. I’m not gonna lie to you and pretend I don’t love them the most.”

Chara’s setting off pleased sparks inside you, and you nod. This isn’t anything you hadn’t known already. It’s obvious, really; you don’t know why Asriel’s taking the time to say it.

“But,” he says, and where his hands grip the edge of the bed, you see the sheets wrinkle under his curled fingers, “that doesn’t mean you’re not important. Your feelings matter, too. You’re living with us, and we all care about you.”

Your breath hitches.

“So I’m sorry if I made you feel like you weren’t important,” Asriel says. Did Toriel tell him to say these things? Is this what she spoke to him about, while you and Asgore had tea? “I’ll try to do better about that.”

‘It’s okay,’ you sign stiffly, and Asriel huffs and rolls his eyes.

“You’re gonna have to try harder than that if you wanna lie to me,” he says, crossing his arms. “And I know you can lie really well, so this must have really been bothering you, if it’s that hard to lie about it.”

You swallow, and your fingers twitch, but you don’t know what sign to use. What does it matter, if Toriel told him he had to say sorry as well? Your own exchange of apologies with Chara was no less genuine for having been ordered.

When you still can’t bring yourself to say anything, Asriel nods, decisively. “So. I’m sorry, and I’ll try harder to not make you feel that way.” He gets up, walking toward the lamp, and you jump to your feet also, darting to the dresser before he can get there. He pauses halfway between you and his bed. “Um,” he starts, “did I say something wrong?”

You shake your head, and pull open the drawer that had been emptied and given over to you shortly after you first woke up here. Your flashlight rolls around loudly on the hard wood, and your coat is folded up nicely. Your ribbon from the Gyftrot is wrapped up around itself and settled in the back corner. Under your flashlight, there’s a piece of paper resting face down, and it’s this that you pick up, holding it against your chest and closing your eyes. Inhaling and exhaling, you spin to face Asriel, who’s still watching you with confusion written in the pull of his brows.

You hold the paper out to him.

“This is… your drawing from a couple days ago?” he asks, reaching out to take it. He’s gentle as his thumb and forefinger close on the edge of it. Once he’s holding it and your hands are free, you sign.

‘Those were my friends,’ you tell him. His eyes go wide, and he drops his gaze to look at your drawing. You know it’s an amateur effort, that you’re no artist, but you’d wanted to get their images down to paper before you forgot them. Before everyone forgot them. They helped take down the barrier every bit as much as you did. It might be cruel, to show Asriel the likenesses of the other humans who died so that you could tear him and Chara apart, but if he’s going to try to make you feel like he cares, you’ll meet him halfway. You’ll trust him with this.

“They look like nice people,” he says softly, raising his head. He carefully hands the paper back to you, and you nod and hug it to your chest once more. They were.

You expect Chara to comment that they definitely weren’t, because they were all humans, but there’s only your own thoughts in your head.

You replace the drawing in your drawer, and step back to let Asriel turn out the light. Which was, perhaps, a mistake, as you then fumble blindly to get back to Chara’s bed. You sit before lying down, and look through the darkness in the direction of Asriel’s bed. ‘Good night, little king,’ you sign.

From the darkness, Asriel asks, “Little king? What’s that supposed to mean?” You startle. He can see you well enough to make out your signs? Chara wordlessly confirms your curiosity; boss monster night vision is much better than a human’s.

‘It’s you,’ you sign, helpless to explain any better than that. It’s just who Asriel is. He might be the prince and Asgore the king, but you’ll never stop thinking of him as little king.

“Like a nickname?” he asks. You shrug. It’s no ‘Azzy,’ but you guess it counts. He chuckles, quietly. “I like it. Good night, Frisk. Good night, Chara.”

You lie down on your side, facing Asriel’s bed, though you don’t pull your covers up all the way. There’s hardly any point, when as soon as Asriel’s asleep, you’ll drag the blankets under the bed with you. Slowly your (Chara’s?) eyes adjust, and you can make out the little king’s outline, though not necessarily the details. His breathing’s gone slow and steady, at least, and you think you won’t have to wait too much longer.

Hey, Chara’s voice whispers, even though only you can hear them. If you promise to actually sleep in the bed tonight, I’ll tell you something good.

You roll onto your back. The mattress is too comfortable, the ceiling too far above you.

You know they’re going to notice sometime, Chara adds, and they’re right, which only makes you want to go under the bed even more.

How about you tell me, and if it’s really good, I’ll stay here, you counter.

Chara sighs, long, drawn out, put upon, and completely unnecessary considering that they don’t need to breathe to talk to you. Fine, they say, but only because I want to make things even.

You allow your wordless confusion to leak over to them, and are rewarded when they continue. There was another reason, they say. When I saved you. There was another reason I couldn’t let you die like that. Your hands fist in the blankets. It was probably selfish of me, but once I saw your memories… well, I went digging through them without your permission, so it’s only fair.

You’re about to ask what’s only fair, when shimmering, blinking blue lights fill your vision. You recognize the glowing rocks from the cavern walls in the marsh, and your breath catches sharp in your throat. Underneath you, the soft mattress has become hard earth and stone.

Just watch, comes Chara’s voice, echoing all around you. Before you can ask them what’s happening, your head turns to the side without you willing it.

Next to you on the uneven ground, Asriel’s also lying on his back. He’s holding your hand, your fingers intertwined together. There’s a dreamy smile on his face as he looks up at the cavern ceiling. His fur is tinted blue from the light of the glowing stones, and his eyes are dark and shining.

“So the stars are smaller, and farther away?” he asks.

Your mouth opens, and a voice that’s not yours at all comes out, and oh, that’s what they sounded like. A little reedy, a little raspy, and very young. “And there’s so many more of them,” Chara says. “On nights when the sky’s clear, it almost looks like a river. It’s called the Milky Way.”

Asriel laughs at that. “That’s such a dumb name! It’s not impressive at all!”

You laugh too, rolling over and punching him lightly in the arm. “Like you have any room at all to say something has a stupid name.”

“Hey! The God Of Hyperdeath is totally cool!”

You roll your eyes. “Whatever,” you say, snickering.

“It is!” he insists, but he’s still laughing.

Once your laughter has died down, Asriel squeezes your hand. “Hey, Chara?”

“What is it?”

“What about the sun? It’s another star, right?”

“Yeah, but it’s boring,” you say. “It’s just big, and bright.” You raise your free hand and wave it aimlessly. “Rainy days are way better.”

“Still, I wish I could see it,” Asriel says. You frown, propping yourself up on your elbow to look down at him. His eyes are closed; maybe he’s imagining the sky. “If you say rainy days are better, then I’d probably like them better too, but I’ll never be able to compare the two and know for sure.”

Your mouth is dry, and so are your eyes, aching as you stare at his cyan-lit form in the dark. You want to say something, to change the topic, but your damn words won’t come again and it’s always the worst times, your stupid, traitor body and your stupid, traitor brain!

“Chara?” Asriel asks, opening his eyes when you don’t say anything.

You give him your best smile. It hurts your cheeks.

The Asriel next to you in your mind’s eye is replaced by the Asriel sleeping in the bed across the room, as Chara’s memory fades from your sight. You let out a shaky breath.

All you’d wanted was to see the sun, and share the sight with other humans.

We really are kind of the same, aren’t we? you think.

Chara laughs dryly. It’s no wonder we hate each other, they agree, when you think about how much we hate ourselves.

You let out a huff of air in a silent chuckle. It’s still terrible common ground, but at least it’s something. You raise one hand and touch your fingertips to your chin, then bring it down. ‘Thank you, Chara,’ you sign to the empty air above you. ‘For showing me.’

They squirm uncomfortably against your ribs. Hey, can I… You feel them probe questioningly at your hands.

The day’s all but over. It doesn’t really matter. You let them slide into your arms.

‘You’re welcome,’ they sign, and then form your right hand into the letter F. You think they’re going to spell out your name, but they bring your hand over you and touch your joined thumb and index finger to the left side of your chest twice. Similar to the sign for heart, but with the first letter of your name. Frisk, they think.

You fall asleep in the bed instead of under it, and with a smile on your face.

Your hands are covered in dirt, and it’s under your nails, leaving you with little brown crescents at your fingertips. You make Chara promise to clean them thoroughly, and they dismiss you absently, Sure, sure. Carefully, they ease the little plant out of its little pot, and work your fingers through the cube of its roots to loosen them. They lower it into the hole they’ve dug, and pat the dirt down, before looking up at Asgore for approval.

“Just like that,” he says, patting you on the head, and Chara beams up at him.

Turns out your hunch about what Asgore would like as a gift was right after all. Chara hadn’t been at all pleased when you’d suggested it, but right now you can feel their begrudging waves of gratitude rippling through you. You try not to feel too smug.

The door opens, and Toriel and Asriel walk in, each holding two glasses of lemonade. Toriel is wearing her own holiday present, a brand new, hand-knit, lilac ‘Mrs Mom Lady’ sweater, and it fills Chara with fresh joy to see her wearing it.

Asriel trots to you to hand over one of the glasses, and Chara takes it gratefully. It’s sweet and refreshing. Even though the winter is still cold outside, under the glass roof of Asgore’s garden room, all you feel is the heat of the sun. Chara had applied something they called sunscreen to your face and arms and the back of your neck, because apparently your skin can get burned otherwise, and you both envy the Dreemurr’s their protective fur that means they don’t have to go through the trouble.

Despite the sunscreen, though, Chara says you’ll probably turn a few shades darker once summer arrives. You might even get freckles! they tease. You’re excited to find out. Under the sun’s bright rays, it’s easy to feel positive and hopeful for the future, even if you’re still struggling. It might be boring to look at, but nothing beats the warmth seeping into you.

Your eyes are still Chara’s red, but so far the rest of you is still… you. You miss your eyes, but over the past two weeks, you’ve gotten used to seeing that strawberry hue in the mirror.

Did you have freckles? you ask.

Ugh, yes. And I burned terribly. If you think my cheeks were rosy in the painting, you should have seen me after half an hour outside. Your body’s skin is way better.

That gives you pause, that Chara would prefer something of your body to their own. But, that’s good, isn’t it? That they can find some small happiness in this human body. Because they’re stuck in it with you. A year from now, you and Chara will still be together. Five years from now, and ten years from now. You’re going to be with them for the rest of your life. Because...

It’s not just mine, you say, quiet, tentative, not talking about your skin. It’s ours, now.

Chara chokes on their lemonade. And even as they’re coughing and Asriel is slapping your back, the happiness that you feel bubbling up in them, reluctant and unexpected as it may be, is undeniable.