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Chapter Text

You don't realize you're awake and not dreaming anymore until Frisk's arms slam around your shoulders and you suddenly have a very trembly, very determined Frisk resting on you.

"I'm awake," you croak. Their hands tighten briefly, before Frisk sits up. They look exhausted, and guilt stabs your stomach. It's your fault they can't sleep well- every time they finally slip into a restful doze, you inevitably wake them with your nightmares. Against your best wishes, you glance at your hands. Dust-free.

It's okay, Frisk signs, curling up on their side. You pushed the two beds together several days ago. The night after you returned here. The memories choke your throat for a moment, and you very carefully don't look at the wall, at the drawing still taped there. It doesn't matter. It's from another time. He's dead. The flower's okay, but he's not the flower. Not really.

It's funny, you reflect sourly, pulling the blanket up over you and Frisk, who curls into your side with a soft sigh. The monsters are free. They don't seem to give a damn about you, though. You or Frisk. You weren't expecting to get your body back after spending so long in Frisk's consciousness, so you can't blame them for that, but you're still kind of surprised no one's properly inquired into Frisk's living situation. Why do you think they climbed the fucking mountain to begin with? you think, anger-fueled shivers racking your body.

Is it any wonder you've both ended up drifting down here? Your old room is dusty but it feels more like home than up above ever will. Frisk shares the sentiment. You can't go up there, anyway. You're supposed to be dead and buried, and Frisk is only fourteen. They can't live on their own, and they don't want to ask any of the monsters to adopt them, not when it means opening up, not when it means talking about things that they aren't supposed to talk about. 

You understand.

Nobody else has remained down here, not that you've noticed. You're sure there might be some. Not every monster wants to live in a world with humans, after all. You can't blame them one bit. If there are any, they are hiding- tucked away into forgotten corners and crevices. You're sure there are tons of places a monster could live without discovery. You wish you were one of them.

Sleep, Frisk signs drowsily, after tapping your shoulder to get your attention. You flick the lamp higher, sighing in barely realized relief when the shadows are chased that much back.

You both sleep, tangled together like a plate of spaghetti.

It's hard to keep track of time down here, you think, putting together some kind of meal. You frown down at it. It's canned, salvaged from a supermarket run. Ravioli, the can says, but it doesn't look like any ravioli you've ever seen before. The tomato sauce is bright, artificial red.

Frisk downs it with gusto, though, and you reluctantly follow in their footsteps. It doesn't taste very good either, but it's food.

We need more, Frisk tell you reluctantly. You have to agree with their assessment, studying your pitifully low supply heap. You hate going Above. The sun is too bright and as soon as you leave the relatively safe confines of the mountain, everything is too loud and chaotic and there are so many people. So many humans.

But you look like you could be an adult. Frisk doesn't. It has to be you. You sigh, stuffing another forkful of ravioli in your mouth.

"I need a list," you mumble through your mouthful. Frisk nods.

You're running out of money, too, you realize with carefully concealed dismay. You stole a man's wallet last time. You discarded most of it, but kept the cash. What need did you have for credit cards? You couldn't use them. Frisk was adamant on that point.

"Chara the pickpocket has a certain ring to it, doesn't it?" you ask Frisk later. They arch one eyebrow at you, clearly disapproving, and you snort.

I want to go with you this time, Frisk insists. I can visit the monsters.

"Why?" you question, before you can stop yourself. The bitterness in your voice surprises you.

So they can see I'm not dead, Frisk replies, snickering to themself. 

"As opposed to me," you mutter sourly.

Come too, Frisk instantly signs, and you freeze. Show yourself? To Toriel (you will not think of her as Mom, you will not call her Mom, you will not)? Mr Dad- Asgore? Flowey? The imposter trapped in a ceramic flower pot? Pretend you're living somewhere with the humans? With Frisk? When they can't even bother to question why they can't visit Frisk?

"I don't think so," you tell them, and you pull your hands into your sleeves so they can't see how much you're shaking. 

Please? Frisk implores.

"I'll think about it," you prevaricate. Frisk looks at you kind of disapprovingly, but accepting, too. They nod. Finish the last of the ravioli. You look down at the remnants in your bowl. "This shit looks like ketchup," you grumble, instantly biting your lip and wishing you could take the words back. Ketchup leads to Sans and Sans leads to-

Frisk is pale across the table. 

"Sorry, I'm sorry," you babble, dropping your fork and starting to get up. "I didn't mean-"

It's okay, Frisk signs slowly, but you know it's not okay.

That night, they have more nightmares than you do. You wish you had your knife back. Its edge was a familiar comfort against your skin.

"I'll come with you," you murmur in defeat when they wake up for the fourth time, gasping and sweaty. Their smile is crumpled around the edges, but you love it anyway.

Chapter Text

"kids like you should be burning in hell." 

Your hand clenches around your knife, your smile creepier than Asriel had ever dreamed it could be. You look down once, and notice your shoes are still dusty.

"How's it feel?" you ask him sweetly, skipping backwards before a bone can slam through your skull. You're learning- you've had centuries to learn, it feels like. 

"what?" Sans asks, eye sparking lazy blue.

"You know," you grin, waving the knife around to punctuate your point. "Being sans a brother."

You don't even care when a phalanx of bones crush your ribs, you're too busy laughing.

"How can you still see him?" you ask Frisk later, when they are busy wrapping up a variety of things to show Toriel and the rest. Drawings (they're a better artist than you, you can grudgingly admit that, though they haven't managed at all to pick up the knack of knitting) and a Rubik's cube for Papyrus, mostly.

Sans? they question. They look calmer, not like last night, when your big mouth mentioned ketchup. You nod.

It's different, Frisk explains. We're...friends. 

"But he remembers," you point out. "Doesn't he? He-he knows about the timelines..." 

Frisk pauses a moment, then shrugs, but you can see their teeth worrying at their bottom lip.

We're friends, they sign again, a little stronger. Despite how many times they've been alone with Sans without harm, you worry.

After all, you've never been alone with him. Not in this timeline.

He's not exactly a skeleton known for forgiveness. Not when it comes to his brother. 

You don't realize you're hyperventilating until suddenly Frisk is right in front of you, face jammed right up next to yours, their hands covering your fists.

"Sorry," you say after a minute, hating how shaky your voice is. "Sorry, sorry, I just- sorry."

You don't have to go with me to see them, Frisk signs, forehead scrunched in worry.

"No, I can go," you disagree, and if your tone is the teensiest bit high, the teensiest bit wavery, well... Frisk's not going to say anything.

"Maybe I can disguise myself," you suggest, and like that, you feel like yourself again. "Yeah!" you continue, warming up to this idea, making it up as you go. "Change of clothes, wear a hat, maybe some sunglasses so nobody can see these freaky eyes- it could totally work."

Frisk taps on your elbow.

Not freaky, they sign stubbornly and you sigh.

"Fine, but they're still attention grabbers," you say. "Humans don't have red eyes."

You do, Frisk says, their nose scrunching up the way it does when they're amused.

"I'm like...human lite," you decide, flapping a hand at them. Not a human and not a monster- wow, Chara, you never have belonged, have you? your mind chimes in brightly. You ignore it.

"Come on, we still need to write the list," you tell Frisk, scrounging around for a spare crayon.

You don't really think this is going to work.

You've got the disguise- you stole it actually, from a couple of clotheslines on the outskirts of town, where humans still live. Frisk watched you disapprovingly, but didn't stop you, so you count that as permission. Close enough, anyway. So now instead of green and yellow stripes, it's something baggy and lurid purple, and you're wearing cut-off denims that are a little big and show off scraped-raw knees from the last time you tripped and slid down the mountain. Frisk keeps bandaging you up, but you always peel them back off as soon as they aren't looking.

At least you already have the sunglasses. They draw attention when it's cloudy, but it's better that than getting nabbed for stealing because your eyes are so damn different. If you were someone else, you might wonder at how easy it is for you to do this.

Not that it matters probably, you think, kicking a stray pebble and scowling down at the cracked surface of the road. Sans is gonna take one look at you and know. Toriel and Asgore probably could if they thought about it, but as far as they're concerned, you're dead. Dead and gone. 

Sans knows better. Doesn't he?

You follow Frisk down the street anyway. The monsters have started to spread out, but most are at the foot of Mt. Ebott in some way or another. Closer to familiarity, you guess. If you were a monster, you'd want to put as many miles between that place and you as possible but- Well. You swallow hard, nerves crawling up your spine. You aren't a monster.

"Frisk!" A shout goes up, and suddenly, you're surrounded by monsters. You know most of them, but your fingers itch for a knife handle anyway. Frisk throws a look back at you and shakes their head subtly. Just enough for you to get the message. Like you would hurt anyone anyway. You wouldn't. This is supposed to be the timeline that makes it all real. The happy ending to rival all happy endings.

That's why you and Frisky are still living in the mountain, I presume, your inner voice speaks up. Oh! And why Frisk doesn't have a family anymore and why you're dead, d-e-a-d spells deader than a doornail- 

You ignore it. It's harder to ignore this time. By the time you get a hold of yourself, Frisk has grabbed one of your hands and is towing you forward into the belly of the beast.

Or Toriel's house, but does the difference really matter?

Frisk's hands are blurry with the number of signs they're firing off. You don't know how anyone can keep up. They keep showing Toriel and Asgore their drawings, and they tossed Papyrus the Rubik's Cube (over which he lavished many rather loud proclamations of gratitude). Frisk introduces you as Red, and you smile too wide and show all your teeth because that is not the name you agreed on back before you left, and you know they're only doing it because of your eyes. You don't say anything to contradict them, though. Just wave and try to act like your internal gaga meter has broken because ooh! Aaah! Monsters!

You have to hand it to Frisk, you think wryly, sipping the soda that Papyrus pressed into your hands. They're good at talking a lot, but saying little. Toriel keeps probing into their home life, their new situation with the humans, and Frisk keeps dodging. Then again, they always were better at that than you. Your smile dims. You know what you're good at it. It's not this.

You push your way out of the throng (it's not like there are that many people, but it feels that way, anything more than Frisk is too much), to sit on the front steps outside. Any crowd has long since dissipated and you have the yard to yourself.

"hey, red," Sans says easily from the doorstep. You startle, but only a little. You're good at controlling your reactions like that. Anyone would be nervous to be sneaked up on. Anyone.

"Hey," you say, in a higher voice than usual. "I uh, didn't catch your name."

"sans," he tells you. The perpetually frozen grin tells you nothing. At least there are no Gaster Blasters. His eye is normal. "sans the skeleton. any friend of frisk, eh?"

"Yeah," you say, smiling briefly. 

"so where did you and frisk meet?" Sans asks, leaning against the door frame. You launch easily into the story the two of you concocted. You wish it happened that way for real. It's kind of cute, knocking over each other's books in the public library, sharing lunch in the park. Friends, you know? Not body-sharing and soul-shredding and wisps of blue magic like cotton candy. No knives, no dust thick in the tread of your shoes.

No buttercups.

"you okay with monsters then?" Sans's asking and you just nod, feeling your soda want to come rushing up. To your eternal shame, it does, and you hiccup, throwing up in the grass while a very startled-looking skeleton vanishes back into the house- to get Frisk, you assume.

Frisk rushes out a few minutes later, rubbing your back and asking in a flurry of movements if you're all right.

"Too much sun, I guess," you tell them, because you don't really know why.

Maybe we should leave, Frisk replies, but you can tell they don't really want to go. Not yet. When they visit the monsters, they usually stay for hours and hours, until the sun's starting to go down, and everyone's eyelids are heavy.

"hey if you want, i can take you home," Sans interjects. Frisk's eyes widen with barely concealed alarm.

"No, I'm fine now," you say, waving him off. "Maybe I could just uh, lie down or something for a minute."

Within moments, it seems like, you're cozily tucked in on a very plush sofa, and your mother- Toriel- is handing you a glass of ginger ale with a curly straw bobbing in the ice cubes.

You could get used to this.

You know it's not going to last.

Chapter Text

"Would you like to take off your sunglasses, my child?" Toriel asks, and you freeze, straw caught on your bottom lip.

"No," you mumble around it. "I uh, have sensitive eyes." It's not entirely a lie. Frisk squeezes your hand and fetches another throw from an armchair, arranging it over you. You don't have the heart to tell them you aren't cold.

You don't know when you fall asleep. You don't have nightmares- for once.

You do, however, wake up and discover your sunglasses are off.

You immediately slam your eyelids shut, light seeping in through a tangle of eyelashes. Panic twists in your stomach, making you feel like you're going to throw up again. Did anyone see? Does anyone know? You can still hear voices, movement, it's not like you are alone (and you're surprised even more that you could actually fall asleep- Frisk is a terrible influence, making you feel safe enough to sleep).

A hand pokes your shoulder. Moments later, you feel your sunglasses being hooked onto your face, squashing your nose. You squint through the darkened lenses, just in time to see Frisk sign an apology.

Mom took them off, they sign. They were falling off and she didn't want them to break.

"Oh," you say weakly. 

We should go, Frisk tells you. It's getting late.

"Right then," you say, fumbling your way out of several layers of blankets. Apparently Frisk decided once you were asleep, you needed extras. "Nice meeting you all," you address blearily to the room.

"It was a pleasure to meet you, child," Toriel says warmly, and you find yourself enfolded in a very soft, fuzzy hug. You bless your sunglasses for hiding the tears in your eyes. "Frisk, I hope you bring your friend again," you hear Toriel say above your head.

It only takes a few minutes, but it feels like an eternity before you and Frisk are both standing on the sidewalk, alone.

"Shall we?" you ask brightly. Frisk nods. It looks like they're crying a little bit, but you don't say anything.

The walk back to the mountain is quiet. You already picked up everything on the list when you went clothes-napping, so that's done, at least. It's still a relief to swerve by the old shed you've earmarked as a safe place and change back into your own clothes, left behind in a plastic shopping bag, tossed in the back. The purloined ones, you roll up and stuff back into the bag, electing to take it with you so no one else happens to stumble upon them and throw them out or take them. You don't want to steal new ones- Frisk will never let you hear the end of it.

Paranoia caresses your spine with slippery fingers and more than once, you find yourself whirling around, fist clenched around a knife handle that isn't there, expecting to see ghostly blue or maybe just the dull white of a bone before it punches through your chest. Nothing.

Calm down, Frisk signs. You can just make out the blur of their hands in the twilight. 

"I am calm," you snap, jamming your hands aggressively in your pockets. "Perfectly calm. When have I ever not been fucking calm?"

When you start swearing at me and telling me how calm you are, Frisk replies. You stop in the middle of the path, taking a long, jagged breath.

"Sorry," you mumble. "I just keep-expecting-"

I know, Frisk reassures you. But this is the third or fourth? I lost count. Time that I've visited them. He's never followed me. Nobody has. It's fine.

"I hope you're right," you say. The prickle of paranoia doesn't go away. But your stomach feels a little better.

It ends when you finally get back. 

Because the door is wide open.

But not empty.

You wish it was empty.

Sans the skeleton lounges against the door frame. His eye socket is ghostly blue.

You react before you can think, shoving Frisk behind you, dropping the bag of clothes, eyes darting around for a weapon. You find a stick, snatching it up like it has the power to stop bone.

"hey, kiddo," Sans says easily, but you can see the tension. "why aren't you home?"

This is home, Frisk signs around you. You risk a glance and see that they look- the angriest you've ever seen them. If their eyes could spit sparks, they would. Why are you here?

Sans pushes away from the doorway and you watch the blue dissipate.

"red here," he jerks a metacarpal at you. "your name's not red, is it?"

You sneer at him. Like you're going to answer him.

"didn't think so," he says. "had a funny feeling- came back to the underground- well. you know how it goes."

"Fuck off," you finally speak up.

"what are you doing with frisk?" he asks, taking a step closer. You take a step back. The stick in your hand shakes. "i don't know how you got your own body, kid, but..."

"Right," you say, voice brittle. "You don't know. You don't know anything. So why don't you fuck off? You don't belong here anymore, remember? You belong with the humans. And your brother."

He stops. You fight the urge to cringe. You didn't mean to bring up Papyrus. Your eyes close; you don't want to watch yourself die again.

Suddenly, Frisk shoves past you and your eyes fly open, trying to grab the back of their shirt.

Stop, Frisk signs. You sidle to the side, so you can see what they're saying. You're being rude. You don't know anything about Chara or anything about why we're here and you're being mean.

"so enlighten me," Sans suggests softly. "it's late, kiddo, you should go home-"

This is home, Frisk replies, their fingers sharp and aggressive with their movements. That's one thing. I live with Chara. Here. This is my home.

Until now, you didn't know a skeleton could look so confused.

"frisk, you live with the humans now," Sans says. "did they mess you up?" He looks at you, and you rip your sunglasses off, having the dubious satisfaction of watching him take a tiny step back, seeing your eyes.

I never want to live with humans again, especially not any that are related to me, Frisk signs. You can see their shoulders start to shake. I never will. I'd rather die first. You should know that. Why do you think I fell into the underground to begin with?

"i..." Sans swallows. You find yourself grinning at his obvious discomfort. "why didn't you say anything, kiddo? tori would love to help you out- everyone would."

They never asked, did they? Frisk points out. The only person who's actually listened to me is Chara. I'm not leaving them.

"sorry, kid, but," Sans took another step forward, bony fingers reaching out. "you are."

You don't know how, but you lunge at Frisk, grabbing their shoulder just as Sans snags their hand.

The next thing you know is darkness. 

Chapter Text

Don't you want to change the world?

"Asriel," you wheeze. It hurts so much. You can feel the blisters in your throat, taste blood, thick and cloying, on the back of your tongue. "Need-"

He brings you a glass of water, helping you sit up so you can sip. The water is cold and tastes of pennies, thanks to your bloody lips. Asriel watches you anxiously, eyes wet and red-rimmed.

"Remember the plan," you choke out, praying you can stave off another coughing fit because it hurts now, but oh, if you cough, it will hurt so much worse. "We'll save everyone, Ree. E-everyone..." He nods once, tremulous.

"I'm sorry," you whisper. 

I can make a difference, don't you see? I'm bad, I'm evil, I'm the worst, I'm a demon.

Do demons kill themselves to save the world?

"Best friends forever," Asriel says, clutching his locket. Your hand shakes as you lift it, clasping wasted fingers around your own. Please...

You don't recognize where you are at first. Then you see the porch light on, a couple yards down, and realize you're in Sans' yard, still clutching onto Frisk like you're drowning and they're a particularly buoyant life vest. You want to let go, but at the same time, you don't, because what if he finds another shortcut?

It's so dark, all you can see is the sheen of his skull and the blue pinprick of light floating in his eye socket. Frisk's sweater is an amorphous colorful blob.

"had to come along for the ride, huh, kid?" Sans says, looking at you. You think he's probably annoyed. You also think you really don't give a fuck. "that's fine. gotta bone to pick with you."

"That was weak, even for you," you say, snorting.

"papyrus ain't here, by the way," Sans tells you both. He backs up so he can open the front door, though you notice he never takes his eyes off you. Good, you think, pleased. Not that you're a threat now. You managed to drop the stick when you lunged for Frisk, and bare handed combat isn't exactly appealing, not against a skeleton who can mobilize literal bones. At high velocities.

Sans' house is shit compared to Mom's, you think, stepping cautiously through the door, Frisk just ahead of you. It's all right, probably, but it's not...home. 

"sit down," Sans says, gesturing toward the sofa.  He looks like he wants to split you up, get you away from Frisk, so you very deliberately hold Frisk's hand and sit down on the same couch cushion as them, smiling in a very innocent way.

"so why are you living down there, instead of anywhere else, kiddo?" Sans asks. You kinda thought he would stand the whole time (or threaten you with a tibia about half an inch from your eye sockets), but he sits down instead, in a very ratty-looking recliner. "and why are they back?" He jerks a thumb at you. 

I don't know how they got their own body, Frisk signs carefully. Sans looks doubtful (you think? How are you supposed to read a skeleton's face?), but it's the truth. 

"Maybe I was just really, really determined," you suggest cheerfully. Frisk's shoulder knocks against yours in a clear "quit it" gesture. You do.

We shared my body anyway, Frisk continues. It wasn't bad. They helped. We wouldn't have gotten a happy ending without Chara. 

A disbelieving snort escapes Sans' frozen grin. You glare.

"and the living in the underground?" Sans prods. Frisk stiffens.

I have nowhere else and I refuse to live anywhere without Chara anyway, Frisk signs. You can see the weariness in how their fingers droop. Your glare intensifies. If it wasn't for Sans and his ridiculous bullshit, Frisk could be sleeping right now. You both could. You stifle a yawn in your collar.

"so when your new pal here decides happy endings are for suckers and goes on a little murder rampage again..." Sans trails off.

"It will hurt a skele-ton," you interrupt, smiling wider than he is.

Frisk nudges you harder.

Chara! they sign, scolding you. You sigh, slumping back against the couch.

"Fine," you say, scowling. "I'm not. It would upset Frisk." And me, but you don't add that part, because you know that despite its truth, Sans won't believe it.

Sans looks like he still doesn't believe it, but you don't care, because he's not the one you have to convince, not really. Frisk's the only one who needs to know and they do. So anyone else doesn't matter.

"frisk," Sans says, then stops. He looks vaguely uncomfortable. "you could live with tori?"

Frisk shakes their head.

I can't live with any of the monsters, they sign. They'll want- need- to know things. I can't tell them.

"why not?" Sans challenges.

"Because you might not have noticed this, comedian, but it's fucking hard to talk about reasons you might have wanted to off yourself," you reply for them. "Why else do you think someone would climb a fucking mountain known for people disappearing, jesus christ, I knew you were a bonehead."

"was that a pun?" Sans asks, deadpan, and you hate yourself a little bit for the snicker that slips out.

I don't think it was intentional, Frisk adds, attempting to be diplomatic. Chara's right, though. 

"what if there was a way, kiddo?" Sans leans forward in the recliner. You only now notice he's still wearing pink house slippers. "i mean hey, you've been living off the grid for a while now haven't ya?"

Slowly, Frisk nods.

"well who says you can't do that...just in tori's house?" he persists. "work up to saying anything about making it official."

What about Chara? Frisk signs.

"them too," Sans says easily, but you doubt that he's all that sanguine about it. "like house arrest." You grimace at him. There's the Sans you know and usually dislike.

"Only as Red," you pipe up, crossing your arms over your chest. You hate the damn name, but it's better than Chara. It's better than facing Mom right now and telling her that you're really Chara and guess what, Mom, I'm not dead anymore! But I committed suicide, did you know that? Did you know I ate buttercups until I choked on my own blood?

Yeahhh, that's not happening.

Fine, Frisk signs. But not until tomorrow. Bring us back to the mountain, please. You can get us later.

You think that Sans is going to protest (you know he would if you were the one suggesting this), but instead, he just shrugs and agrees. 

Ten minutes later, you're scrunched up in a corner of your bed, and Frisk's sprawled next to you.

"This is gonna be a fucking disaster," you groan. "Shit, now I wish he'd just gone ahead and killed me."

You do not, Frisk signs fiercely, pushing up on their knees and glaring at you. Don't say that.

"Sorry," you mumble. "Just- you know."

Yes, Frisk signs, apparently mollified as they go back to sort of snuggle-fitting against your side.

"Couldn't someone else wonder where you lived?" you ask, fingers idly combing through their hair. "Someone who has to actually walk all the way here?"

Frisk's shoulders start shaking and you worry for a moment that you've somehow managed to make them cry, until they look up and you realize they're laughing.

Chapter Text

You're not going to make it that easy for him.

This would be easier, you think, huffing and puffing behind Frisk as they head further up the mountain, hoping to make it to the other side entirely, if Frisk hadn't saved after visiting Toriel. Not much point in going back there. Sans would be in the door again, Sans would know and- well you're not sure you want to see him again, if he thinks you've been up to something.

You both slept like shit. You were awake more often than you were asleep, and by how many times Frisk stiffened in your arms, you know they slept the same. It was lucky that you'd gone supply shopping, it made it that much easier to dump shit in a backpack and take off. You're not expecting him to show up for another couple of hours, but hey, why take chances?

"Let's take a breather," you tell Frisk. Your lungs hurt, and your knees feel like they're going to pop out of place. When you got resurrected, all the old bullshit came with it, including some new aches and pains that you're pretty sure are from the buttercup poisoning. Like your burgeoning case of asthma. It feels like your throat is slick with blood, and even though you know it's just the taste of adrenaline, it still makes you shake.

Frisk comes back, touching your shoulder lightly with their fingertips. You jolt, looking up at them. At least you're present again. They smile softly.

"You look cute when you smile," you tell them without thinking, and redden out to your ears.

Let's go, they sign a few minutes later, anxiously glancing at their watch. The sun thumps down on your head. You brought your sunglasses, but they don't help much. You're sure your scalp is roasting, too.

"What's on the other side of this mountain anyway?" you ask some time later. Frisk shrugs delicately.

Another town, probably, they reply, stopping so that they can turn back and sign to you without worrying about tripping. I don't know. I've never been on the other side of the mountains like this.

"Me neither," you say, even though it's obvious.

The earth rocks suddenly beneath you and you freeze, turning to look back. It's hard to see from this distance, but you could never mistake that shade of blue for anything else. You whip around and lock eyes with a very wide-eyed, slack-jawed Frisk.

"I think he knows we left," you say, trying to stay deadpan. "We uh- might want to hurry."

You both start to run.

"He probably thinks I murdered you," you pant, not sure why you're wasting breath on talking. Your lungs feel like over-extended bellows. "Like I could ever..." 

Frisk slows down, hand whipping out and grabbing yours to pull you along. You get the message.

You trip.

You trip and it's such bullshit because Frisk makes it over the extended tree root just fine, but your shoe catches on it just right, and suddenly you're falling, and you're panicking because you can see Frisk receding at a rate that can't be healthy. Your foot slams into a rock and your head rebounds off the hard-packed ground, hard enough you see stars, and you end up doing a weird sort of somersault, driving all the breath out of you, until you finally skid to a stop, half in a ditch.

"Ow," you say. 

Above you, you can hear Frisk trying to find a safer way down than the precipitous route you just took. Pebbles bounce down, some glancing off your head. Strands of your hair are tacky with blood, making you feel sick.

This is one way to get down this side, you think, and try very hard not to laugh, because laughing means moving, and moving means that everything hurts that little bit more. You honestly don't even know how you're alive. You're pretty sure your foot's broken. Your head's bleeding. Your ribs might be fucked up (you know the feeling after enough resets at the hands of the skeleton). It's hard to breathe, but that might just be the panic. You can move everything at least, so you don't think you messed up your back too badly. You're not paralyzed.

All in all, you consider, eyes squinting against the sun (who knows where your sunglasses have ended up, but it's not here), you're not nearly as badly off as you feared.

Footsteps crunch by your head and you attempt to look around, even knowing it has to be Frisk.

"well, kid, looks like it's just you and me," Sans says, looking down at you. You pray for white pinpoints, because there's no way you can offer even a ghost of a fight.

Blue glimmers, and you sag against the ground. Shit.

"where's frisk?" he asks, squatting down next to you. He doesn't try to move you (you're annoyed that you're grateful), but he doesn't do anything else either. Just looks at you. You wonder if he would buy it if you pretended to succumb to your injuries and fall unconscious.

"Fuck off," you say weakly. You don't know where Frisk's gone, if Sans can't just look the fuck up and see them picking their way down the slope. Maybe they found a better way down? Maybe they saw Sans and are hiding? No, you discard that choice immediately. Frisk wouldn't hide from Sans when you were the one facing him down.

"not until i know frisk's okay," Sans says evenly.

"Well you might be waiting a goddamn while then," you snarl and you mean because you don't want Frisk to fall down here, you mean it might be five minutes or thirty, but when Sans is suddenly right there, and there's a bone an inch away from your throat, you realize that's not at all how it sounded.

Chapter Text

Do you want to save the world?

The thing about saving the world, you decide, when you've faded into this other person, this new person with a different striped sweater and a sweaty fringe, who talks with their hands and hunches their shoulders inward all the time and feels broken inside, little sharp, prickly edges that rub you just the wrong way. The thing about saving the world is maybe you've been going about it the wrong way.

Frisk hurts. You don't know why they climbed Mt. Ebott, but you've got a guess. You're pretty sure it's for the same reason you did, and nothing they're thinking changes your mind. They feel embarrassed, chewing on a ragged edge of thumbnail, toy knife dangling loosely between their fingers.

Everyone hurts. You can feel it. You know it. You've spent long enough down here to know. All the monsters are broken in that funny, jagged way, too. All of the monsters hurt.

The thing is- does dust?

Frisk has the best timing in the world, you decide as they literally tackle Sans. The bone he was threatening you with seems to evaporate as he lurches backward, thankfully not landing on you.

They didn't do anything! Frisk immediately signs, as soon as Sans can pay attention again. You appreciate them staying in your limited range of sight. They're hurt, Sans! Please help them?

"you were supposed to stay put," Sans says instead, although you think he looks a bit abashed. As well he should, you privately snort, interrogating a bloody, fucked up kid. Well, teenager. But to him, you were both kids.

You didn't say that specifically, Frisk points out. Not that either of you would have listened. Maybe it's pointless and childish and foolhardy, but hey, whatever puts off having to spill anything more precious than a cup of tea.

Sans just stares at them until embarrassment prickles the line of their shoulders and they look away.

"now that i've chased you all over this mountain," he says, turning back to you. "let's get you both back to tori's. don't fall for me, okay?" You scowl, then your heart stops when translucent blue surrounds you.

But he's just moving you, lifting you up so that you don't have to struggle to stand on a broken foot. your breath still whistles in and out of your lungs too fast for comfort, and Frisk comes over, lacing their fingers in with yours.

He sets off into the trees, and you float behind him. You think if it wasn't for Frisk, he'd probably be rough with you, let you jostle or "accidentally" nudge into a tree, but instead, he's almost painfully gentle. It makes you wonder what it would be like to be friends with him. As yourself. You were friends before, mingled with Frisk, but it's not the same. You don't know if you want that. You know he doesn't.

"here," Sans mutters, and familiar darkness swallows you up whole.

You squeeze your eyes tightly shut as Sans settles you onto the living room floor. You want to feel annoyed at him putting you on the floor, but you know Mom's sofa isn't really wide enough for you to lay like you need to, and you'd get it all dirty anyway. Mom doesn't need even more upholstery ruined with your blood, you think, and wheeze something that might be mistaken for a laugh.

There's noise and bustle and you wonder what Frisk is telling everyone else, but you don't want to open your eyes and find out. Now that you're not lying on rocks and plants, all of your hurts have asserted themselves with a vengeance. There are a lot. 

You do manage to pick out the word "hospital" though and rasp out a denial. No, no hospital. They'll want papers to be filled out, they'll want identification, and you have none, you have nothing. You're supposed to be moldering, years and years dead and gone.

You don't realize you're panicking until Frisk's holding both of your hands.

"hey, calm down, red," Sans says in what's probably supposed to be a conciliatory tone. "tori can fix you up here." You go weak in relief, then freeze in renewed panic. Sans called you Red, but you're wearing your old clothes, there's no way Mom won't recognize your sweater (at least when it's not covered in dirt and blood stains).

One eye opens in a slit. Frisk notices, leans down, signs It will be okay.

You have a hard time believing them.

Chapter Text

People who climb Mt. Ebott don't come back.

The words pound in time with your heartbeat as you run, legs churning and eyes half-blinded with tears. You will not cry, you will not cry, fucking wind.

If you climb Mt. Ebott, you won't come back.

Good.

You run faster. The pavement is rough beneath your feet. Your sneakers are worn thin, and your toes throb with pain. It doesn't matter. The hiking trail will be better, and you can walk then. 

You're not a good child at all, are you? You're a little demon, that's what you are, the Lord sent you to test me, and I will prevail!

Laughter peals from your throat, fresh and bright and raw.

Disappearances...

Monsters, locked away- 

You see the sign up ahead and sigh raggedly in relief. You made it. It doesn't matter what happens next, or where you end up. None of it matters as long as you're away.

Can't you be a good girl? Don't you love your mother?

Don't you love your father?

The first step onto the hiking trail feels like freedom.

You don't know where you are at first. You're lying on something soft, but you can hear beeping in the background, and your arms feel stiff. There's a low murmur of conversation somewhere nearby, but you can't tell who's talking.

A gentle touch to your cheek and you know who it is without a word.

"Frisk," you whisper. It hurts to talk, and a straw is poked between your lips a moment later. It's just water, but it feels amazing. "W-what's happened?"

Frisk taps your shoulder gently and then you feel your sunglasses sliding onto your face. You open your eyes.

You don't know where you are, at least not from the ceiling. It's white stucco, it looks like, and the light is brighter than you expected.

Sit up, Frisk signs very slowly, with exaggerated gestures so it's easier for you to see. They support you as you creak into a more upright position. Your back twinges fiercely.

There's an IV in your arm. You stare at it, then up at Frisk, eyes narrowing.

Not in the hospital, Frisk signs, quicker now. Mom asked a monster nurse friend to help her out. So you didn't get dehydrated. This is the first time you've been lucid in a couple days.

"What?" Your mouth drops open. Your injuries weren't that bad, were they?

Mom thinks it was shock mostly, Frisk tells you. They have a smile, but their eyes look very tight and there's a crease on their forehead that only shows up when they're very worried. It makes you feel weird to think Frisk was worried about you.

"What about you?" you ask roughly. 

I'm fine, Frisk tells you, but their eyes slide away. You follow them to see Toriel and Alphys, conversing in low tones in the doorway, and nod.

"How are you feeling, my child?" Toriel asks you later. You shrug, picking at the blanket because you don't know what else to do. You hate being trapped in bed. Frisk told you that you had to stay on bed rest until Toriel's nurse friend cleared you. Your foot is still kind of messed up, although it's better. You can see white bandages on it, and you want to rip them off. You want to rip all the bandages off and make yourself bleed. If you can see red again, maybe you'll be okay.

You say none of this.

"Frisk says that you tripped?" Toriel says in an encouraging sort of way, urging you to say more. You glance at her. She looks just as warm and motherly as you remember, and for a moment, tears clog your throat.

"Over a root," you confirm. Your hand unconsciously balls into a fist, fingernails stabbing into the palm. The pain centers you. "I-don't really know what happened after. It happened really fast."

"That must have been terrifying," Toriel tells you, sympathetic, as her hand slowly reaches out and tucks some of your hair behind your ear. You're dressed in one of her shirts as a nightgown. You don't know what happened to your old clothes. Maybe someone burned them. That's a nice thought. "I'm so glad that Sans found you and helped you and Frisk."

"Yeah, he's so helpful," you say, fighting to stop your lip from wrinkling. He's supposed to be a friend, he's supposed to be a friend, you chant in your head. It doesn't help at all.

"Where are you from, Red?" Toriel asks you. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't badger you, child," she adds. You blink in confusion. She looks nervous, her muzzle wrinkled and eyes downcast.

"What is it?" you ask, your heart beating like a triphammer.

"You remind me very much of another human child," Toriel says. "They fell into the underground one day, and I became their mother. They were a delightful child. They got very ill though, and nothing we could do..." She stops. Her voice is breaking. You feel like the world's biggest asshole.

"It wasn't your fault," you reassure her, lifting one hand weakly and placing it on top of hers, leeching away her warmth.

"It is hard to believe you, my child," Toriel says, but it's in a voice so quiet you're pretty sure you weren't supposed to hear her.

"They had a plan," you say, very quickly, before you can stop yourself. Toriel looks at you quizzically. "A very stupid plan, but they had good intentions. They wanted to free the monsters and they thought b-buttercups would do it..."

"Chara?" Toriel whispers. Her eyes are very wide, very red, and very hopeful. You lift your hand and pluck off your sunglasses.

Trembling, mouth dry, you nod.

Chapter Text

Why did you do that?

You can't tell who's hyperventilating, you or Frisk. You stare down at the pile of dust dumbly, hands clenched into fists. 

Why did I do that?

"Mom," you whisper. It's Frisk's vocal cords, but it's you, and you did not just murder your own mother, you did not, you did not-

You did.

It's the plan, Frisk speaks up hesitantly. They're trembling just as badly as you are, and you have to take a step away, have to turn your back so you can't see the dust anymore. 

Your hands are dusty.

No more pain, remember, Frisk says, and you stiffen. She has no more pain. That's- that's what you wanted, right? That's what we wanted?

"Yes," you say, voice raw. Your chest burns. "Until..."

Until we can end it, too.

She hugs you.

She hugs you so hard, your ribs start to creak in protest, but you don't care because it's your mom and this time, she knows it's you. Frisk crowds you on the other side, kneeling on the bed so that they can hug you, too. Normally you hate being touched like this, hate people invading your personal space, but it's different. 

"Ew, a big, happy family," Flowey says from the dresser. You open your eyes, seeing his pot over Toriel's shoulder, and glare at him. He only laughs.

"I've missed you so much, my child," Toriel murmurs warmly into the probably-gross strands of hair falling over your forehead. You have no words to reply. You don't need them. You hug her even tighter, your knuckles whitening with the pressure. In that moment, you don't care that you're still fucked up, you don't care that Toriel doesn't know the whole story about your plan to save the monsters, or that you've been riding along in Frisk's head for so long. It doesn't matter.

"I missed you too, Mom," you mutter, hoping only she can hear you, because you don't want Flowey to mock you, or anyone else. You don't know if there's anyone else. You doubt Sans is around, or he'd probably make a crack about how you're not capable of love. You wonder if IV needles have the same properties as knives when it comes to dusting someone. You hate yourself for the thought.

You have to tell her what you did.

You do. You don't tell her about the timeline where you and Frisk killed everyone. You don't tell her about how you thought erasing the world could be the same as saving it.

But you tell her about the buttercups. You tell her about Asriel. You tell her how you never meant to hurt anyone, you just wanted to die. Midway through your toneless recitation, you see Flowey curled over on himself, leaves around his petal-scrunched face. Frisk immediately gets up and goes over to him, plucking the flowerpot off the dresser and settling back on the bed, him nestled in their lap.

You tell her about humans, and how they're crueler than monsters could ever hope to be.

You tell her about waking up in a bed of golden flowers and discovering you were a passenger in someone else's head, a prologue to someone else's story.

You talk until your throat is dry and then you talk some more.

"Oh, child," Toriel whispers. You don't look up- now is when she'll tell you what a horrible child you are, what a terrible human, say to get out, maybe crush your soul out like a fruit bursting...

Instead, she hugs you again. Almost against your will, your gaze slides up. Her face is wet, but she doesn't look angry at you, just horribly, desperately sad. Frisk's fingers flutter against your back, soothing you.

In the doorway, you can see Sans. You tense a little, defensive anxiety prickling down your neck, but he doesn't interrupt.

If you didn't know any better, you might think he looks almost apologetic.

Chapter Text

You lash out, the knife singing through the air. This time, you're sure you've got him, he's dodged and skipped back and gone this way and that, but this time, he's licked, you know it-

You miss.

A growl of pure frustration rattles in your throat. Frisk echoes it, making your fingers shake. Sans just looks at you, snapping his fingers. Bones come out of nowhere, hurtling toward your head. You dive to the left, neatly avoiding them. It's almost reflex at this point.

"I'm trying to help you, you know," you tell him, in a conversational sort of way, as you tuck and roll away from a particularly violent spate. 

"how?" Sans asks. The Gaster Blasters loom over his shoulders, grinning emptily at you. You know he doesn't care about the answer, but you give one anyway.

"You'll be free," you say, nearly wistfully. "No more pain. No more grief." His magic flames at the thought of Papyrus. "You'll never hurt again, Sans. Dust doesn't feel."

You trip over an uneven bit of floor, knife skittering away, out of your hand. In the final moments before the bones slam through your stomach once more, Frisk signs They're right. You only catch a glimpse of the unsettled look on Sans' face before your soul shatters.

Sans is avoiding you.

You don't know how you know. It's not like you've spent a lot of time here. And you're living in Mom's house, not his. Maybe this is how he usually spends his days.

But he spends time with Frisk.

And coincidentally happens to vanish every time you come within ten feet of him.

"You know," you begin conversationally, the next time Sans conveniently happens to leave, right before you walk into the living room. "If I didn't know better, Frisk, I'd say the comedian hates me." 

I don't think he knows what to think about you, Frisk signs back. You shrug, plopping down on the sofa next to them.

"We're even then," you tell them.

It's another three days of him slipping out always just ahead of you before you get fed up. You want to confront him, but Frisk doesn't, and you hate that now you actually care about someone else's opinion. Well- no, you don't, not really, but it still chafes.

Stomping through the back yard, you slump under a tree, plucking a dandelion out of the grass and staring at it with unseeing eyes. You like yellow flowers, you always have. Even if this one is a weed. At least it's not a buttercup. Your hands burn in memory and you drop it like it's poisonous, lost in the memory of blood choking your lungs and pain spreading through you like something living.

When you look up, Sans is right there, hands in his pockets, just watching you.

"What?" you blurt out, rawer than you'd like. Tears dribble from your eyes, and you dash them away impatiently. You don't like him seeing you like this. You don't like feeling weak. 

"kid," he says, then stops. He looks uncomfortable. "i think we uh, maybe got off on the wrong foot." You look at your injured foot, still braced, and scowl.

"Why is that?" you ask. Your voice is brittle and too high-pitched, and you can feel color flood your face. "Is it because you heard my sob story? Look, comedian, forget it. Just pretend you didn't hear shit, and you can go back to hating my guts. Dunno why my suicide makes you all whatever, but I don't care."

"i remember tori after you died," he says, unexpectedly, and you freeze, feeling your throat close up to the size of a pinhole. You look up at him, silhouetted by the sun. Normal white pinpoints. "she was devastated. the king was pretty broken up, too. i didn't know you were that chara..." He stops. 

"Yeah, well, I am," you finally mumble. You don't know what else to say.

"i remember something you said," he says. 

"What?" You wheeze, trying desperately to pretend you aren't having an asthma attack driven by anxiety.

"dust doesn't feel," Sans quotes, almost meditative. Then he turns and walks away, tossing back "i'll tell tori or frisk to bring you your inhaler" over his shoulder.

You hate him.

No, you don't, Frisk reminds you, sitting cross-legged on your bed. You glare at them while you pace a hole in the carpet. 

You loathe him.

You don't, Frisk says again.

"Frisk, whose side are you on?" you demand, stopping in the middle of the room to direct a more personal glare at them. Flowey sighs from the windowsill, barely looking up from the video game he's playing.

"I'm trying to concentrate, you mind going somewhere else for your lover's spat?" Flowey asks, rolling his eyes.

"It's not a lover's spat!" you deny, glaring at him even harder.

"Whatever," he dismisses. You make a hissing noise like a tea kettle and storm out of the room. At least you have the house to yourself. Mom's out at the store, getting groceries. You don't know where anyone else is. It seems like everyone's always in and out of Toriel's, like it's a waystation.

But not now.

"He killed me," you remind Frisk. "Killed both of us. Repeatedly."

We killed him, Frisk signs, shrugging. And his brother.

"He tried to kill me again in this timeline," you point out. "He's the reason I fell down the mountain again!"

He didn't though, Frisk replies. 

"He's a bastard," you say. Frisk just eyes you and doesn't say anything.

You're afraid of him.

You sit down on the floor, huddled in the corner that's quickly become your corner, knees drawn to your chest. 

He can hurt you.

He can kill you.

He did.

You just wanted what was best.

You thought it was best.

I know, Frisk signs, eyes soft, and you only realize then you've been muttering this all out loud. Mortification stains your cheeks red.

"Why aren't you scared of him?" you snap. Frisk looks down, nibbling on their bottom lip.

Sometimes I am, they sign. And sometimes he's afraid of me. 

You really don't know what to say to that.

Chapter Text

In retrospect, you're surprised it takes so long for something to be brought up about Frisk's...situation. Mom won't pry. The other monsters take her lead. Frisk is just- Frisk, and they are welcome.

Humans can never leave well enough alone.

It starts one drizzly afternoon. Frisk is gone on ambassador stuff, so you're stuck at home with Flowey. You've reached some kind of friendship or- something, but you still don't like feeling trapped in the house with him. You can't go outside, though, you hate the rain. It makes all your joints hurt, and it's cold besides. Mom's gone with Frisk, and so is Dad. Undyne and Alphys are probably doing mushy girlfriend stuff, so you aren't willing to trek outside and check out their door.  You're not friends with Sans- you don't think he'd mind you hanging out with Papyrus, but maybe he would, especially alone, so you don't attempt to wander over there either.

You're bored and you hate being bored.

You'd take bored over Frisk's panic any day though.

An hour before you expect them home, they slam through the front door. Toriel's nowhere in sight. Your eyes narrow. They've been crying.

Come on, we're leaving, Frisk signs. Their fingers are shaking so hard you can barely understand what they're saying.

"What?" you say, confused. "Why? What's wrong? What happened?"

Humans, is all Frisk can sign, before they storm into the bedroom, yanking out their backpack and throwing things in it haphazardly. 

They want to know where I live, Frisk adds before putting in the biggest box of band-aids. They want to know where my parents are.

"Dead," you say instantly. Frisk just looks at you.

If they were dead, they'd want to put me somewhere else with humans, Frisk reminds you. They want to know my name. My "real name."

"Frisk is your real name," you reply, scowling as you pull out your own new backpack (it's green and yellow striped, like your sweaters). 

"Are you leaving?" Flowey drawls. He's been watching the rain slide down the windowpane, just as bored as you. "Take me with you."

"You're in a flowerpot, how are we supposed to take you?" you ask. Flowey blinks.

"Find a way," he tells you.

"Maybe we should," you say reluctantly. "Or he'll tell Mom where we went."

"I would never," Flowey declares, a leaf dramatically thrown to one side for emphasis.

He would, Frisk agrees. Hurry. Mom's not far behind me.

You jury rig some kind of carrying case out of a jump rope and settle Flowey in it, now awkwardly strapped across your chest and attached to your backpack. He's close enough to bite you if he wanted. You eye him warily.

Let's go, Frisk signs, bouncing on their feet in agitation. You slip out of the room, hearing the doorknob on the front door jiggle. 

"Back door," you breathe, both of you running for it. The backyard is empty and rain-washed. You breathe a sigh of relief, holding your arm across your chest to try to keep Flowey safe.

When the barrier comes down and you end up poured back into your own body, you go with Frisk once. Just once. You don't question where they are going, or how they aim for it so unerringly.

It's a house. A neatly painted house with yellow shutters and trimmed lawn. A two-door car in the driveway. It's night, so nobody is around but the two of you, and Frisk tiptoes, peeking in through the windows with shaking fingers.

At the last window, Frisk gasps and nearly falls down, and when you look yourself, curious to see what the fuss is, you see nothing to be alarmed about. A guest bedroom, with a pastel comforter and paintings on the walls.

That was my room, Frisk signs later, and you feel something crack deep down inside. That night, you dream not of dust, but hot, red, human blood. When you wake up, you're smiling.

There's a commotion at the front of the house, voices you don't recognize, but you don't care, scrambling through the grass and giving Frisk a boost over the fence. If it comes down to it, you don't mind being left behind. Now anyway. As long as Frisk comes back.

You make it over the fence too, though. Flowey looks bedraggled and slightly- scared, maybe? You don't know how to read his face anymore. There's nothing but an alley back here, and you relax fractionally, letting Frisk lead the way.

Now that you can pay more attention to them, you think they look awful. Like they did when you reset after the...disaster. Wan skin, shadows like bruises beneath their eyes, shoulders hunched up around their ears. Rain drips down the back of their collar.

"Where are we gonna go?" you whisper urgently. "The mountain or?" Frisk shrugs.

It doesn't matter, they sign. Their fingernail beds are starting to turn blue with cold. Anywhere but here.

"My children." You jolt to a stop. Toriel's right in front of you, and you're unpleasantly reminded of her standing between Frisk and the rest of the underground, trying to save you from a terrible fate (little did she know she was the one...you cut that thought off).

"I can't let you run away again," Toriel says gently. Frisk takes a step back. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see they look petrified. "We can get through this, Frisk. I know I can find a way to keep you here with me. If- if that's what you want." A tiny nod.

"I would never press you to talk about your life before the underground if you weren't ready, Frisk," Toriel says quietly. "But circumstances are conspiring otherwise. I'm sorry, my child. But please- please come inside with me?"

Frisk looks between you and Mom. Then again. They take another half step back.

Then they bolt in the opposite direction.

Chapter Text

You dream a lot when you first realize that you've been given some form of life again, even if you are a ghost in someone else's body. You don't dream about the plan (you're dimly grateful for this, considering Frisk can see your dreams, like they're playing out on some weird kind of projector), but you dream about everything else, and that's just as bad.

You dream of your mother, slapping you as hard as she can across the face while she spits Bible verses at you, denouncing you as a demon, a red-eyed Hell beast, come to tempt her into damnation. You dream of your father locking you in the basement "for your own safety," he claims with shuddering breaths and jittery eyes. You dream of eating uncooked ramen, stolen from the pantry, not caring that it's raw as the noodles crunch between your teeth, because it's food, and you don't get that on the weekends. A school where everyone taunts you, everyone torments you, and the teachers turn a blind eye- until of course, you punch the ringleader in the face and break three of his teeth off at the gums. Then they notice. Of course they notice.

Frisk never says anything when you wake up, panting and trying to pretend those aren't tears in the corners of your eyes. They just- let you be, let you fiddle around and pretend everything is okay. You don't know how to say 'thank you' but you try to push that feeling toward them anyway. You think maybe they get it.

You're not a demon, Frisk tells you casually, sometime in the middle of the last run, the one to set the monsters free. You freeze, before cautiously nodding. Not quite in agreement, but- it's close enough.

It has to be.

It's not fair.

Frisk is gone and you try to take off after them, but Mom grabs your wrist (and you aren't strong enough to pull away from a fully grown Boss Monster, not unless perhaps you want to leave your arm with her, and wouldn't that be fun to explain, why your arm and the rest of you are suddenly separated), and she picks you up like you're a child (which technically, you are, particularly compared to her, but you hate being reminded of the fact), and then-

Then you're sitting on the couch, and Flowey's been untangled from his makeshift carrying harness and set on the windowsill. Asgore stooped in and gave you a cup of tea (you think it's some kind of fruit flavor), and Toriel's out looking for Frisk.

And you're not there with them.

You scowl into your tea cup, fighting the urge to throw it on the floor or maybe in Asgore's face. It's not his fault Frisk ran off. It's Mom's. Well- your conscience prickles uncomfortably. it's not really Mom's fault either, though, is it? It's the humans.

Sans appears in the doorway and you scramble up, looking at him hopefully. Surely he's heard something, he made Mt. Ebott have an earthquake practically when he discovered you and Frisk missing, he can find Frisk now-

But nothing.

"hey i'm here to babysit," he tells Asgore, and you nearly snarl at him. You're fifteen, not a child.

Asgore bends down to give you a hug and you aren't ashamed of how fiercely you cling to him in that moment. It feels like your heart's been ripped out and is lying God knows where.

"I don't need a keeper," you tell Sans after Asgore's left, turning to stare moodily out the window. You can see his reflection in the glass. It's kind of creepy.

"sure you do," he says easily, plopping down on the sofa next to you. "any idea where frisk mighta gone?"

"No," you tell him. He looks like he doesn't believe you and you grind your teeth briefly. "If I did, do you really think I'd just be sitting here?" you tack on, and watch blue touch his cheekbones like a blush.

"Don't be an idiot," Flowey pipes up from the sill. His pot is close enough to touch, and you give into the urge for a second, just brushing your fingertips across the smooth, strangely warm surface. Flowey eyes you, but doesn't say anything.

"leaf me alone," Sans tells Flowey, and you have to stifle a snicker as you fiddle with the ends of your sleeves.

"hey, kid," Sans addresses you, and you shift away from him a little.

"My name is Chara," you say very stiffly.

"chara then," Sans says. "here." You look up. A chocolate bar dangles between two bony fingers. You hesitantly take the peace offering. 

"thistle make you feel better," he tells you, and you groan, staring up at the ceiling.

It's been hours.

The chocolate is long since eaten, wrapper carefully folded and put in your pocket. Sans looks like he wants to say something about that, but you just glare at him until he looks away. You don't understand why he's here, watching you, when he should be out looking for Frisk.

Your mood darkens. Unless he thinks that you're still going to go murder kid on everyone and he's watching you so he can get the jump on you. Unless he thinks you haven't changed at all, and he's only been pretending to be friendly with you, in hopes of keeping you happy so you don't rip everyone's happy ending away.

Suddenly you feel even more like shit.

If Frisk was here, they'd see the warning signs, like how your hands keep twitching and you can't sit still. If Frisk was here, they would probably take you back into your room and sit with you or put a blanket around your shoulders or make you do deep breathing.

But Frisk's not here, only a soulless flower and a skeleton who hates you, and you can feel your breathing start to get worse. It feels like your blood is crawling around, just under your skin, begging you to let it out, and you jump up, squeaking something that vaguely resembles the word "bathroom" at Sans, and sprinting there, locking the door as quietly as you can.

You don't have a knife anymore, you're not allowed, but you do have a safety razor, and it's pressed to your shin before you know what you're doing.

At least it's blood dripping into your sock, not dust.

A knock on the door and you whirl, razor held up like it's going to protect you.

"chara?" Sans' voice through the wood. "you ok?"

"Sure," you say. Your voice sounds brittle, and you're pretty sure you're not hiding the fact that you're in pain very well (why did you pick your shin, what is wrong with you, it stings like a million bees.)

When you reappear, you've got three band-aids plastered across your leg and a lot of blood-stained toilet paper wadded up in your pocket. Sans looks at you, but doesn't say anything, so you don't either.

"it's almost dawn," Sans tells you nearly an hour later. He looks tired. So are you, but you refuse to sleep until Frisk comes home. "why don't you get some shut eye, kid?"

"No," you say stubbornly, but you find yourself stumbling back to your bedroom anyway, carefully holding Flowey to your chest with both hands.

"If you drop me, I'm gonna kill you," Flowey tells you sweetly. You just stick your tongue out at him.

The window's open. You stare at it in blank, dozy incomprehension until Flowey hits you with a leaf and you look down and see Frisk, huddled in the corner, water-logged and...asleep?

The sunlight coming in through the window halos them in gold.

Chapter Text

Do you believe in happy endings?

You pause, though you regret it- Snowdin is cold, and standing in one place makes Frisk's body colder. They seem to be even more sensitive to it than you are.

"Yes," you answer out loud, withdrawing your hands into the sleeves of Frisk's sweater. 

Just checking, Frisk says, and the wistful tone in their mental voice puzzles you. Isn't that why you're doing this? Why you reset to begin with? No one gets hurt. Spare everyone. One big happy family...

No one gets left behind or forgotten, Frisk murmurs, and you picture yourself looking at them in confusion. An embarrassed laugh echoes through your shared mind. Sorry. Old movie I saw.

"Right," you drawl out. "Let's go." You head deeper into the forest, hearing the snow crunch beneath your shoes.

At first, you're angry. 

Nearly incandescent in fact, because you've been frantic with worry, and Frisk has been here this whole time-

Well, no, your rational mind points out, stopping you before you can do more than set Flowey down on the desk. Frisk is still sopping wet- if they had been inside for very long, they would be drying out by now. And the room is only a little cold. If the window had been open a while, it would be colder. So Frisk can't have been here the whole time.

"Frisk," you say, quiet but insistent, as you crouch down beside them (but not leaning over them) and hesitantly reach out one hand to firmly tap on their shoulder. They prefer it like that. Nothing tentative, nothing too gentle. That makes them panic and sometimes even scream- and it hurts you to hear them scream, it's mostly voiceless, but there's this raw, desperate harshness of sound that makes you cringe.

Despite your caution, Frisk flinches back, smacking their head lightly into the wall. When they open their eyes and see it's just you, they flush.

Sorry, they sign, hands trembling- with nerves or cold, you can't really tell.

"When did you come back?" you ask. You're trying to stay calm because you know they can't handle anger very well, and you're not really angry at them, more like the situation, but that's not how they will take it.

Half an hour ago? they guess. Mom almost caught me at the foot of Mt. Ebott. So I just came back?

"Huh," you say, kind of admiringly. "Sans is in the living room, should I get him?"

"sans is right behind you, actually," Sans drawls from the doorway and this time, you both jump. You lose your balance, putting an uncomfortable amount of weight on your bloodied shin.

"guess you're okay then, huh, kiddo?" Sans asks. He sounds- not angry, but disappointed, and you think that might be worse for Frisk. They certainly look worse; they can't look up at you anymore and their shoulders are up around their ears.

Sorry, Frisk signs to Sans, too.

"i'll call tori" is all he says, before padding back into the living room. You wince. Yep. He's pissed.

"Come on," you insist, clambering up into a standing position and extending a hand to pull Frisk up, too. "You're taking a shower and getting out of those wet clothes, you'll get pneumonia." 

Frisk snickers, hand over their mouth to muffle the sound.

You sound like Mom, they explain. You stick your tongue out at them.

You stay in the bathroom with Frisk while they shower. They request it, and you can't say no. Normally they spend ages under the warm water, but this time, they're in and out in fifteen minutes. You look up in surprise when the water shuts off, stopping your desultory peeling of the band-aids on your shin and letting your pants fall back down. A moment later, their hands appear around the shower curtain.

Towel?

You hand it through. It's soft and fluffy and blue. Frisk is embroidered on the edge in purple thread. Your towel is green and gold, and even Flowey has a miniature towel, more of a washcloth really, in light brown with green stripes. Frisk steps out a few minutes later, hair dripping down their back and thoroughly wrapped up in the towel.

"Clothes are there," you say, nodding to the bathroom counter and turning your back. Frisk doesn't like to be watched when they get dressed. Frisk doesn't like to be naked around people ever, at all, and you have an uncomfortable feeling you know why. 

Frisk taps you on the shoulder and you turn back around. They look better now, hair mostly wrung out, wearing a sweater, jeans, and Mom's slippers she'd forgotten in the bathroom. They look ridiculously oversized on Frisk's small feet and you laugh a little, pointing at them so Frisk doesn't think you're mocking them.

I have to talk about them, don't I, Frisk signs, eyes disconsolate. You nod slowly.

"I think so," you say. "If the humans are sniffing around, I mean- you don't want to be put in an orphanage or something." Quickly, Frisk shakes their head. You're spattered with a few stray drops of water and make a face.

"But like, I don't think you have to go into lots of detail or anything," you rush on. "And you probably don't have to tell very many people. Just enough so they know that you're supposed to stay here and you can't go back. And then Mom and Dad can fix it and maybe adopt you and stuff, so you'll be good."

Frisk smiles tentatively.

I hope so, they tell you. I don't like thinking about it. It...hurts. Their mouth twists down.

"I know," you say, awkwardly shifting from foot to foot. "Guess I'm lucky I'm supposed to be dead, huh?"

Frisk's mouth rounds into a perfect O.

Chara! they immediately sign, before shoving you gently. Don't say that!

"It's true." You snort. "In the underground, monsters don't care about shit like that."

I wish I was born a monster, Frisk signs, and you nod. You know the feeling.

"Well, I guess you better go face the firing squad," you say, unlocking the bathroom door and feeling Frisk shove you again, a little bit harder.

When you step out, the first thing you see is Toriel.

Chapter Text

Toriel hugs you, but you know her eyes are all for Frisk, and you step aside, letting the boss monster hug her long-lost (for all of a day) child, murmuring soothing nothings into Frisk's damp hair. You lean against the wall, checking out everyone who's crowded into the living room. Mom, obviously, but Dad's come back, too, perching awkwardly on a chair that creaks under his weight. Sans, Papyrus (who catches your eye and makes a thumbs up sign at you), Undyne and Alphys (who are conversing in low tones in the corner), and others. Even a... You scowl automatically.

Even a human. A woman who looks like she should be in a suit, but is wearing sweat pants instead. She has a notebook tucked in the crook of her elbow. You glare at her, one of your extra special glares, and have the satisfaction of seeing her pale and look somewhere else. Good, you think. Why is she here anyway? For Frisk? You'll kill her before she can take Frisk away. It's easier with knives, but you don't need a knife to take down a human. Not when you have hands.

As if Frisk knows what you're thinking, suddenly they're right there, eased free from Mom's grip and crowding against your back. Their touch centers you, grounds you- you take a deep breath, then another.

"I don't want to take you away from your family," the human suddenly blurts out. Everyone in the room freezes, before turning to look at her. It would be almost comical if it wasn't for the situation.

What? Frisk signs. The human cocks her head for a moment, working it out, and you realize she must know sign language.

"I don't want to take you away from here," the woman clarifies, waving her hand around to encompass the entire house. "You're happy here. I like happy children."

Then why did you? Frisk cuts off, hands twitching in anger. The woman nibbles her bottom lip nervously.

"I didn't expect you to run away," she defends herself. "I was trying to explain that- well, if your previous guardians were unfit, and it seems like they were...I could make sure they would have no claim over you if they chose to er, put one in."

They won't, Frisk signs. Now they look very calm- too calm, and Mom seems to agree because her arms come around Frisk, gently holding them in place. You settle for awkwardly slinging an arm around their shoulders.

"Well," the woman stalls, swallowing. "It's- it's still good to have the legalities sorted out."

Fine, Frisk replies, hands dropping to their sides.

You're five, and your parents forgot you at school again. You walk very carefully down to the crosswalk, peering through the traffic at the other side. You're not supposed to cross the road by yourself. But your parents are on that side and you're on this side, and you don't think they're going to remember that they forgot you. It's okay, you reassure your teacher before you leave the classroom. They come get me on the corner.

But you lied to your teacher, because they don't and you know it and your old teacher knows it, but Mrs. Petey is a substitute teacher, and she doesn't know it.

Your next door neighbor pulls up before you can summon the requisite courage. He looks kind of sad and angry all at once, and you don't know why.

"Hop in, kid," he tells you, unlocking the passenger side door. "I'll take you home."

You're seven and your ears are burning and your cheeks are burning, because it's parent-teacher-conference day. And everyone else has their parents, but you don't. The teacher yells at you because he thinks you forgot to tell them, but you know you didn't. You wrote it out in your very best handwriting and put it on the fridge, and you signed it, and you pointed at the fridge. And your mother even read it, but you know Mr. Smithson isn't going to believe you. He doesn't like you, and he thinks you're a little liar, because you can't talk, and you have to write everything down. The nurse has talked to him about it and he always promises to do better, but he's the liar.

When you finally make your way outside, it's getting dark and some of the other kids surround you, pushing you from side to side. Bruises bloom on your upper arms over old yellowing ones, but you don't make a sound. You can't.

You're eight and you're locked in the basement because your mother left you down here with the laundry. It's dark and cold, so you curl up in the laundry hamper, trying to pretend that the shadows aren't alive. You try to tell yourself that maybe she didn't know you were down here, but your eyes locked with hers halfway up the steps, and you think maybe she did. Maybe it's easier to watch you if she just locks you up. Maybe you deserve it.

You're nine and you're trying to sleep, but it's too hot, because the air conditioner broke down again. Your parents are arguing about finances in the other room, and that makes it hard to sleep, too. You slip in a doze, but then your door creaks open. Your dad's standing there, kind of swaying on his feet, but looking at you with that weird, ratty gleam in his eyes and- you're not telling anyone about that, you're not, you're not, you're not!

You're eleven. Your mother calls you her special little girl as she threads a ribbon through your hair. You hesitate, trying to sign something to her, but she just looks down at your hands, letting a sneer cross her lips.

"Little girls should be seen and not heard," she mutters. "And that includes...that." She waves at your crumpling fingers. You hold them tightly in your lap and pretend that you're not there.

You're thirteen and you climb a mountain to disappear. 

You fall.

When Frisk stops signing, you inch closer to them. You feel kind of sick. You also feel particularly murderous, and aren't even aware of how much you're shaking yourself until Toriel settles you both in her lap. The woman (she said her name is Allyson) looks horrified. You don't care. You just lace your fingers with Frisk's and try to block out the world.

"...Chara?" Your head lifts some time later. Allyson is looking at you and you sneer at her, before you hear Toriel's light admonishment to behave.

"What?" you ask warily.

"What about your own, er..." Allyson fumbles. You feel your lips peel up in a smile that looks more like a snarl.

"No problems there!" you say brightly. Your emotions feel like they've been put in a spin cycle, and it's so hard to remember that you're Chara, not Frisk. "I'm dead!"

"Chara," Toriel rebukes you gently, but you stiffen.

"What?" you demand, whirling around to face her. "It's the truth, isn't it? I've been dead for years, I don't know how this works," you wave a hand down your front, "but anyone and everyone who I might possibly have been related to is dead and I'm glad, okay? Because if they weren't, then I might have done the fucking job myself!"

Then you promptly fling yourself off her lap, dash into your bedroom, and burst into tears.

Chapter Text

I am the demon

Dodge to the left. Swipe with the knife. Miss. Leap over that row of bones. Lean to the right to avoid that one.

That comes when you call its name

"Give up yet?" A laugh torn from your ragged throat. You can talk using Frisk's body, but it hurts. You don't care. You're almost done. And then no one will ever hurt again.

The future of humans and monsters

"This will hurt a skele-ton," you say, skipping backwards, though your ribs creak and pulse with pain.

An Angel will come

You're so dusty, it lingers in the air, making you want to sneeze. Sans' eye blazes bright, soul-burning blue.

And the underground will be empty...

You lunge forward.

Flowey looks at you when you come stumbling into the bedroom, slamming the door behind you, tears and snot running down your face. He doesn't say anything, just goes back to his Pokemon game.

Under the bed is such a cliche but you curl yourself up under it anyway, feeling marginally safer. You can't believe what you yelled at Allyson- at everyone. Mom must be so disappointed in you. Frisk must be so disappointed in you. You haven't changed at all. You're still the same old fucked up murder child, although at least you haven't lied to yourself anymore that dusting everyone would save them. That was- your mouth droops into a frown. A bad time.

"kid?" 

You peek out and nearly groan aloud. Of course Sans can shortcut into the room. Probably making sure you haven't uprooted Flowey or something. Like you could hurt him. He's your brother-or, well. Was.

Then again, you did just admit that you'd cheerfully slaughter all of your blood relatives, so maybe he's right to be concerned.

"there you are," he says cheerfully, plopping down on the floor. You're surprised his eyes are normal. No magic to be seen. Maybe he's just waiting for you to let your guard down. Like the times you and Frisk weakened and ended up trying to spare him. His attacks were always extra vicious then. Deservedly so! Your mind reminds you. You ignore it again.

"My name's Chara," you grumble instead of saying anything, hooking yourself out from under the bed by your elbows. With Sans right there, it's not a sanctuary anymore, it's a prison. Your pants catch on the carpet and you end up briefly flashing him the now-bloody band-aids on your leg. He looks at them, then back up at you.

"chara," he repeats, and leans back on his hands. "so what's gotcha down?"

"I wonder," you say witheringly. You can hear the muted sounds of Flowey's Pokemon battle filtering down to you, but he seems to be taking the tactic of ignoring any mushy stuff. The joys of not having a soul.

"How can you just sit there?" You burst out, leaning forward and watching him stiffen just the slightest bit. "See? You're scared to be in the same room as me, aren't you? Good. You should be. I'm a demon and at least you know it."

"why do you say that?" Sans asks evenly, fishing a ketchup packet out of his jacket and squirting it in his mouth. The red on his teeth makes your stomach roil.

"Didn't you hear me in there?" You wave an arm wildly toward the living room. "I-if my family wasn't de-dead already, I'd kill them myself, nothing's changed."

"do you wanna kill me?" Sans asks. You blink at him, cautiously scooting back.

"No-not...not really," you admit.

"do you wanna kill tori? or frisk? or paps?"

"Of course not!" you say, horrified. 

"would you say your family treated you about like frisk's treated them?" He hooks his own hand in Frisk's general direction. Your cheeks redden. You stare at the carpet, then nod once.

"Not as bad," you hasten to reassure him, not really sure why. "And I- I deserved a lot of it, it wasn't their fault, I wasn't a good kid, and well," you point to your eyes helplessly. "I look like a demon."

"nah," Sans tells you. "if your family was anything like that, you didn't deserve any of it."

"But," you stop, staring at him in shock. You hate being so open with your emotions, especially around him, but you can't seem to stop yourself.

"kid- chara," he corrects himself. "we got history, yeah? bad history. but- the thing about history is, it's in the past. and now? now's the present. it's a gift."

You snort, because even in the middle of somber moments, he still makes puns, and he looks kind of pleased with himself.

"i ain't saying we gotta be best friends or that it didn't affect me," he cautions. "or you, for that matter." His eyes flick to your shin. "but- tibia honest, you don't seem like the same kid you were in those other times. and if you want to kill your folks? well," Sans pushes himself to his feet. "they probably deserved it," he finishes, and now you can see blue flickering around him, but for once, it's not directed at you, and that confuses you even more.

"Thanks," you say shakily because you don't know what else to say. Sans looks down at you and offers a hand. 

"tori and frisk are worried about you," Sans says, helping you to your feet. "i feel it in my bones."

"You are the worst," you say, but you don't mean anything by it, and by the lazy, relaxed way Sans is standing, he knows it.

He shortcuts you into the bathroom. You open your mouth to protest (or question), but then he's floating down the first aid kit, and your teeth click together.

"come on," he says in a low tone. He's closed the door, but that's no guarantee someone won't come on in here. 

Sans motions toward your pants, and you frown, finally leaning against the counter and rolling them up. The band-aids are only barely sticking on, and it looks like a mess of adhesive bits and blood.

Sans whistles softly through his teeth.

"what did you do that with, kiddo?' he asks.

"Safety razor," you admit. He pats the bathroom counter and before you can hop on it yourself, his magic carries you up there. You freeze, eyes wide, clutching at your elbows like it can stop bones from crushing your larynx.

"sorry," Sans says. "i didn't think."

"It's fine," you lie. "Just- you know." You wave your hands at the first aid kit.

He's surprisingly gentle as he peels away the band-aids and washes out the cuts. They aren't as bad as you thought they were- although they're a bit worse than you were aiming for. Maybe because your razor is double bladed? You're not sure.

Instead of using band-aids, Sans tapes a couple gauze pads over the injury instead, making sure to stick them down on all sides. It feels oddly like he cares and you hate that he happens to look up at the exact right moment to see tears in your eyes.

"is it hurting?" he asks, because of course he would think it's because of the cuts. You shake your head.

"It's not that," you confess. "It's...um...thanks." 

You can't put it into words more than that- that Mom and Dad and Frisk (and Asriel) are the only ones who've ever shown you any kindness like this, and for him to do it is, well. It's a lot.

Sans awkwardly pats your knee before putting everything back the way it was.

"i can't fibula, you're welcome," he replies. You roll your eyes.

"Sans, I-" I'm sorry. For killing your brother. For killing you. For hurting everyone. For being a demon. For being born. The words stick in your throat. He looks up at you, mildly inquiring.

"Thanks," you say again, and it's painfully inadequate.

Chapter Text

Nobody says anything when you return. In fact, Allyson's already left with vague promises and reassurances. Frisk tells you later, when you're both curled up on the sofa, that she doesn't think your...situation has to be mentioned at all. Like you said, you're legally dead. It would just be confusing to try to reverse that- especially when, by all rights with a natural lifespan, you would also be dead.

But she did suggest one thing, Frisk signs, a mischievous look on their face. You're kind of relieved to see that- it's been absent for a while.

"What?" You ask, listening to the sounds of Papyrus and Mom making...what else? spaghetti in the kitchen.

You could always sign up as a monster, Frisk signs, and you freeze in place. 

"What do you mean?" You ask, very carefully. You can hear your heart thumping in your ears.

Well, the monsters haven't finished getting registered or anything, Frisk explains, swinging one leg idly and bumping their heel into the base of the couch. So Allyson suggested that if you wanted to, since you already live with Mom and everything, you could just register as Chara Dreemurr, as a monster. There are monsters that kind of look like humans. You could do it.

"I..." you trail off. "Let me think about it," you tell them, and they nod once, looking satisfied with themself. "What about you?"

Allyson knows my birth name so she's going to quietly make sure none of my relatives have filed a missing persons report or anything, Frisk signs. If not, then... A hesitant smile tugs the corner of Frisk's mouth up as their eyes flick toward the kitchen.

"Good," you mutter. "If your parents were on fire, I wouldn't even piss on them to put it out, I'd pour gasoline."

Chara! Frisk protests, but they're laughing a little, too, and you think it's probably healthy laughter, so you don't care.

That night, you both have nightmares.

You dream of Sans, of him asking "you okay, kid?" before his smile grows even wider and Gaster Blasters vaporize you on the spot.

"you're a demon," from behind you, and you look down to see a bone pushing through your chest. In the dream, somehow, you're in your own body, and Frisk's nowhere to be found.

"No," you plead, hiccuping. "I don't want to fight you!"

"too bad, kid," Sans says, looming over you. All you can see is blue. "you're gonna have a bad time with that attitude." Your skull collapses like a flattened soda pop can.

When you wake, you're in your bedroom- but it's not the one you share with Frisk, the one with a pastel butterfly sticker border and a nightlight and Flowey drowsing on the windowsill. It's your old bedroom and you cringe into the covers, not daring to make a sound.

The door slams open anyway.

It's your mother and she's been drinking- you can see the wine bottle cradled in her elbow.

"Little freak," she slurs, advancing on you. You shrink back into the wall. You're so small (literally, you realize with surprise, you must be only about six or seven in this dream- it is a dream, right? Right?)

"Even demons should be asleep at this hour," she tells you, studying your tear-stained face with a frown. "Go to sleep." You nod frantically, lying on your back and closing your eyes. You're not really going to sleep, not with her in your room, but you can pretend, can't you?

"Never wanted you," you hear your mother mutter, probably to herself. The words sting all the same. "Who has red eyes?" She laughs, and it has a strangely bitter quality. "Demons, that's who. You're my fucking penance...punishment from God..."

"I'm not a demon," you whisper, and instantly freeze. You didn't mean to say that. Why did you say that? 

"What did you say?" You peer through one eye. Your mother is suddenly right there, face puffy with anger, and you jerk back before you can think.

"N-not a demon," you stammer. Her hand fists in your hair, dragging you up.

"I know you did not just lie to me," your mother says slowly. "You look at me, when I'm talking to you!" She shakes you a bit, and fresh tears leak out of your eyes at the pain in your scalp.

"I'm not a demon!" you shout at her, shaking and feeling hot and cold all over. Your hands ball into fists. "I'm not a demon, YOU ARE!"

Before she can do anything but drop the wine bottle to the floor (where you can hear it gurgle out its contents)-

Frisk's screams wake you up for real.

"Frisk, Frisk, wake up," you pant, shaking their shoulder roughly. You feel bad, seeing them flop to the side like that, but they've told you before they prefer it, they prefer rough to gentle when it comes to their own internal demons, and you know better than most what that means.

Their screams are raw and breathy and little more than gasps, but you can see the shiny trails of tears lying on flushed cheeks and even a bit of blood trickling from the corner of their mouth. Shit, you wince. Definitely a bad one.

"What's going on?" Flowey asks groggily from the windowsill. He likes to sleep there, where he can look out at the moonlight and remind himself that he's not underground anymore. He doesn't know you heard that, and you're going to keep it that way, but you always make sure no matter where he is during the day, he always ends up in his preferred spot.

"Frisk's nightmares," you tell him, and hear the dramatic thump of him falling over, curling back over the edge of the flowerpot.

"Again?" he asks in disgust. 

"Can you blame them?" you snap back. There's a tiny pause.

"No," he says meekly.

Finally, Frisk's eyes snap open and you watch comprehension flow into them bit by bit.

Sorry, they sign. You squint at their hands in the moonlight and then reach over them, snapping on the bed light. There's one on each side of the room. Mom installed them specially herself, so that Frisk could communicate more easily when it's dark. When Frisk saw it the first time, their legs gave out and you had to try to catch them. They've never had anyone do something so thoughtful like that. (Well, you, sure, but you're barely more than a kid, it's different when it's a parent, and you know it.)

Nightmares, Frisk signs, sitting up in bed and smushing their back against the headboard. Their hands are shaking. All of them is shaking.

What if I'm wrong? Frisk asks. What if they- what if they do want me back? What will I do?

"Nothing," you say promptly. "Who gives a shit if they want you back. They aren't getting you. They treated you like shit. They were supposed to be your family. No second chances." It's weird, but it feels like you're saying it to yourself, too.

In the golden light, Frisk looks...thankful.

In the morning, you tell Toriel that you want to officially be a monster.

Chapter Text

Papyrus is the worst. You both cry after you dust him, tears sluicing painfully down wind-raw cheeks. He still believed in you. You betrayed his trust. You know (you think?) your plan is for the best, but he doesn't.

I'm a demon, you think, over and over, and for once, Frisk is too lost in themself to try and tell you otherwise.

Later, in the judgment hall, you don't even move the first time when Sans kills you. It feels like penance.

You don't know how to feel, looking down at your new ID card. It's laminated and has a holographic Delta Rune- so people can't copy it, you guess. Not that anyone would want to probably, you snort, bending it like a flexible ruler and watching it spring back into shape.

Your name reads Chara Dreemurr and your age is sixteen. You go with it. It's probably closer to how long you've actually lived, after all, and you don't think you can convince Mom that you should count as an adult now.

It's the word on top that catches your attention the most though- you keep rubbing your thumb over it like it's going to disappear. Monster. 

You realize you're grinning like a sap. It takes conscious effort to stop.

"how's it feel?" Sans asks, hopping up from the chair in the waiting room. "your very own bone-afide id card." 

For once, you don't roll your eyes at the pun.

"Good," you reply.

"let's see how tori and frisk are doing," he says, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets as he leads the way into the mild sunshine. You're kind of surprised that he's willing to go ahead of you like that, willing to show his back-

Then again, you did have to go through a metal detector to get in here. Never mind.

It's a bit of a walk, but you don't mind. Sans offers a shortcut, but you refuse shortly, stuffing your new ID card in the inner pocket of your jeans. You hate how they make you feel (you'll never tell him but it makes you feel how you did when you died, and you don't wish that on anyone).

Toriel's raised voice pierces the afternoon sun and you and Sans share a worried look before you start to walk faster, then break into a jog, damning your asthma as it keeps you at the skeleton's pace.

Toriel's standing in the lawyer's office's parking lot, Frisk's cringing behind her, and in front...

Your lips peel back into a snarl, and your fingers itch for the knives.

Because you're pretty sure those are Frisk's parents.

"And what's going on here?" you ask brightly, your voice a sweetly pitched chirp. Toriel instantly looks at you and Frisk peers around her waist worriedly. You feel Sans' hand grab the sleeve of your sweater. Anyone who knows you knows that when you sound like that, it is a very bad sound.

"This freak won't give us our kid back!" the man, Frisk's father, says in disgust, gesturing at Toriel. You idly wonder how many fingers on that hand you could break before someone stopped you. Maybe all of them.

The woman says nothing. She won't even look at Frisk. You huff in a breath, willing your asthma away. It sort of works.

"The only reason you are here is because you discovered Frisk's ambassador position," Mom states, in a tired voice.

"No, it's because we love our kid, and know where she belongs," the man spits. You can't refer to him as Frisk's dad even in your thoughts. Sperm donor maybe?

"funny you say that when you don't even know what gender they are," Sans says softly behind you. You spare a glance. His eye is brilliant, soul-searing blue. His hand on your jacket is shaking with the effort not to slam the humans into the parking lot. 

"It's a phase," the woman scoffs, hitching her purse higher up her shoulder. "She'll come around."

"Doubt that," you say. They both turn to sneer at you, and you let your creepy smile overtake your face- knowing full well how it will look with your eyes. The woman makes the sign of the cross at you unconsciously. You smile harder.

Help me, you see Frisk sign with very small finger movements.

You raise your eyebrows in an Anything? sort of gesture, and they nod. You wish that meant tearing out their throats. That wouldn't be very...good though, not with your new Monster-Certified ID card burning a hole in your pocket. You know that you're human. Allyson knows you're human. The monsters know you're human. To everyone else, though? You're just a monster. You don't particularly want to revive the human/monster war or start an incident, even if the people standing in front of you eminently deserve it.

"You know," you say in a conversational sort of way, pacing closer to them, watching them lean back just a touch. Good. They don't want to be near you either. That's probably better for your self control. "I have a really hard time believing that you want to be good parents."

"And why's that?" the man asks, lip lifted in a sneer. He's got nothing on Flowey's best faces, you think.

"Well, let's see," you say, putting a finger on your chin in mock thought. "Let's start with you, shall we? Does your wife know you like raping little kids?" 

His face pales. The woman stumbles back like she's been slapped, but you can't tell if it's because she didn't know, or she's just shocked to hear it out in the air. Allyson's now standing behind Toriel and Frisk, you notice. Her hand's resting lightly on Frisk's shoulder.

"And you," you turn to Frisk's "mother" now. "Do you think good mothers lock their kids in the basement and forget about them? Or leave them at school to cross busy roads alone? Or shove them around and beat them up when they don't behave like you think they should? Or refuse to let their own child communicate the only way they know because they literally can't fucking speak out loud, you fucking pieces of shit-"

Now Sans pulls you back, his grip implacable on your wrist, and you wonder how a skeleton with one HP can be stronger than you. It's not fair.

The two humans in front of you look rattled enough though and when you look around a little more, you discover you've actually attracted more of an audience than you thought. They realize it too and blanch even harder.

"We-we'll be in touch with you later," Frisk's mother says haughtily, ruined by the tremble in her chin. "We don't have to stand here and listen to these- these lies."

"You keep telling yourself that, bitch," you mutter, just loud enough for them to hear you. The man glares at you, looking like he might be brave enough to lunge at you himself, until Sans starts balancing a bone in the middle of his palm, just casually enough for him to get the message.

As soon as the two of them are gone, you rush over to Frisk, who looks utterly shell shocked. 

"Are you okay?" you ask. Frisk nods, hesitates, then shakes their head.

"That was a dumb question, wasn't it," you say. Frisk smiles a little crookedly.

Thank you, Chara, Frisk signs. You smile, and this time it's not creepy at all. Just tired.

"Anytime," you say. "Also, hey, look!" You fish out your new ID card. "I'm a bone-afide monster now!"

"you stole my pun," Sans protests, but you ignore him.

"Ulna-timately, I think he's just jealous," you confide, watching Frisk try to hide a giggle.

"no chocolate for you when you get home," Sans says smugly. 

You try to tackle him.

Chapter Text

"Chara," Asriel pokes your side again. You determinedly ignore him, coloring with short, even strokes. "Chara, you've used the green crayon this whole time, you're supposed to share."

"I will," you tell him, scooting away another inch. "Just give me a minute."

"That's what you said like ten hours ago," Ree whines, sticking his tongue out at you. You stop coloring and stare at him deadpan, eyebrows raised.

"...Or like five minutes ago maybe," he corrects in a mumble, and you smirk.

"That's what I thought," you say with a satisfied look. "Anyway, I'm done with it." You hand it over.

"What are you drawing anyway?" Ree asks, craning his neck to look at your paper. Your cheeks color.

"N-nothing," you claim, trying to hide it with your elbow. It's a terrible drawing anyway. You don't know how to draw monsters...and you definitely don't know how to draw humans.

And it's silly to draw you and Asriel holding hands anyway, right?

Right.

A few nights after the confrontation with Frisk's biological wastes of skin, you can't sleep. It's not surprising- the past few days have been a roller coaster. And you haven't even had the worst of it. Frisk's been to loads of human doctors. Better to find evidence of the abuse apparently, and there is. Malnourished, an improperly set bone or two- Frisk's even "lucky" enough to have damage in places... your mind shudders away from the thought. You don't want to think about that.

But it's unusual apparently and while it's not like any of it is a blinking neon sign that says "I was abused!," all of it together paints a pretty shitty (yet convincing) portrait.

You try to be supportive, but let's face it. You aren't really the comforting type. You give Frisk bars of preciously hoarded chocolate and hugs when they're up for it and shoulder bumps when they're not. You listen. You give them balls of toilet paper to wipe their eyes. You even glare at Mom when she's hovering too much and you can tell Frisk needs a break.

It's not enough though. It can't be. Frisk doesn't say anything, but when have they ever? You snort to yourself, knuckling your eyes and wincing at how dry they are. It feels like you've been lying in bed forever.

A knock at the front door and you still- normally, you'd never hear that from your room, but it's so silent at (you check the clock) three a.m., you can't help but hear it. Swift, quiet pawpads through the halls, and then you hear Mom's low voice entreating someone. You can't make out who it is, and you start to get up to check it out, but then Toriel is coming back, and you feel her gaze on you. You lie extra still, pretending you're asleep. It must work because she sighs gently and enters her room.

Before the person at the door can leave (you hope), you're up, tiptoeing out of your room and wincing at the chill that settles in your bones. You're only in your pajamas and socked feet, and the pain that throbs in your ankles is bitter.

As soon as you open the door, you nearly collide with someone and fall back, only caught by a bony hand. You pause.

"hey kiddo what are you doing up?" he asks in a whisper. You shrug, looking down at the ground as Sans gently tugs you out of the entrance, encouraging you to sit down on the steps. You eye the cold step with disdain and laugh as he slips out of his jacket and puts it down for you. Sitting down on it is much nicer than cement, you discover and luxuriate. You don't know why his jacket retains body heat, but you're not about to question it.

He did this for you! Your mind says. You feel shocked. For a moment, you feel traces of dust trickle down your palms and you shudder, wrapping your hands around your knees.

"Couldn't sleep," you finally answer. "Why did you come over?"

In the moonlight, his grin is wicked.

"not gonna have any trouble with frisk's parents anymore," he tells you, lounging on the step and stretching out his leg bones. Fluffy pink slippers catch the light incongruously. "bonely took a little persuasion."

"What?" You prod his shoulder impatiently. "What did you do?"

"that would be telling," Sans says. You huff an annoyed breath. That's the point, asshole, you want to say, but you don't.

"seriously, chara, what you don't know, you can't say," Sans points out. "it's not gonna backfire on us monsters though. took care of that." He puffs up a little with pride and you smile despite yourself. (Although you really, really want to know what exactly he said. Or did. Or- whatever.)

"Thanks," you tell him, and he seems to smile wider.

"so why can't you sleep?" he questions you, and you look at the grass, shiny with dew.

"Keep thinking about shit," you mumble. You don't know why you want to tell him. He's an asshole, that fucking comedian, and you barely trust Frisk with anything about your past. Maybe it's the hour. No one else is awake to hear anything you say. Maybe you just- You sigh.

Maybe you should.

"It's Frisk, you know," you blurt out what feels like eons later. "They're so messed up about all this- confronting their parents, like seeing them at all fucked them up." You scrub a hand through your hair, not wincing when the ragged edges of your nails bite into your scalp. You notice Sans tugging your fingers away and you blink at seeing the smudges of blood on your fingertips. 

"Oops," you say with a weak laugh. "Anyway like- I can't do anything. I try, but I mean- I'm fucked up, too, you know, I'm like the world's worst confidante, I can't do this."

Sans shuffles a little closer to you on the steps, not quite touching. His eyes are white pin points in the darkness.

"Like my mother always said," you say, familiar words rising to your lips. "Once a demon, always a demon." Sans goes still.

"tori never said that," he speaks, and his voice is rough. Nausea spirals up your throat. It's the same voice he has in the judgment hall.

"Not her," you contradict him. "She's Mom. I mean my mother."

"your mother actually called you a demon?" Sans questions. 

"Well, yeah," you reply. You're kind of confused why he sounds angry. He's the one who said kids like you should be burning in hell, isn't he? You point to your eyes. "Remember, I said before, I think. Red eyes. Demon sent from God to torment her or whatever. Trials and tribulations et cetera. It's no big deal." You shrug, uncomfortably tense at the wisps of blue that float in your peripheral vision.

"i know we already talked about before," Sans says carefully. "but i didn't say- well. chara. you aren't a demon."

You blink at him.

The demon that comes when you call its name...

"But you said-" you protest. Goosebumps pimple your arms under your pajama top. "In the-" 

"i know what i said but that was another time, kid," Sans says. "but hell, even then, maybe you weren't a demon. just y'know." His shoulder tips up. "messed up."

You snort. 

"Right," you say, standing up and brushing off your legs, for lack of something better to do. 

"gimme a hand," Sans says, and you help pull him up. You feel closer to him. Maybe. Not like a friend.

Maybe like a friend.

Chapter Text

"Um," you look at Frisk, then down at the ground. You half expect a scar to erupt in the bed of flowers, that you have somehow climbed free of your grave and only think that you're standing here, remarkably whole and relatively healthy. You're probably a moldering zombie and Frisk is only staring at you wide-eyed because they're in shock and haven't snapped free of it long enough to run away screaming.

You are really morbid, aren't you? Frisk signs. Your face reddens when you realize you managed to mumble all of that out loud.

"You try being dead forever," you snipe. It's weird looking into Frisk's face when it's not in front of a mirror. It's even weirder remembering to breathe and feeling how heavy your body is- you're not used to your arms and legs having weight. 

It's weird being alive again.

I'm glad that you're alive, Frisk signs. You turn away, shrugging, feeling your shoulders move within the confines of your sweater. You don't understand that either, how you were brought back wearing your old clothes. In pristine condition, no less. No blood or tears or puke or rips on this outfit!

You don't realize you're laughing until Frisk's arms circle around your waist, and by then, it's more like crying.

At least part of the mystery is solved the next day, when Toriel calls you and Frisk into the kitchen. Allyson's standing there. She looks awkward and harried, hair up in a messy bun and wearing a very rumpled suit.

You still don't know what Sans has done, but Allyson at least has used the information of Frisk going back to their old house and finding out their bedroom had been turned into a guest room to surprise them with a visit and discover officially that contrary to their claims, they hadn't even kept any of Frisk's stuff, but had donated or tossed it. Your eyes dart toward Frisk at this revelation, but they just shrug a little and pick at their nails before telling you that they hadn't left anything important there, anyway.

"They shouldn't give us any more trouble," Allyson stresses to tell Frisk. You appreciate her. Maybe humans aren't all shit. You give her a thumbs up when she leaves and she tosses you a Hershey's kiss. You're so surprised, you catch it.

She knows you already, Frisk signs, their mouth quirked to the side like it does when they're amused. You stick your tongue out at them (like a very mature person) before unwrapping the candy and popping it between your lips. It's cherry cordial flavored, your favorite.

"Are you okay?" you ask, insistent, if a bit difficult to understand through the chocolate. Frisk bites their bottom lip before raising one hand in a see saw motion.

I will be, they tell you. As soon as I never have to worry about them again. You nod.

Anyway, they sign, effectively changing the subject. Sans and I have a surprise for you.

"Is it chocolate?" you ask hopefully. Frisk rolls their eyes.

No, they sign shortly. It's important. And maybe not good but hopefully not bad. It's going to take a while though. But yeah. If I vanish, it's because I'm helping Sans.

"O...kay," you draw out. "No hints?"

Frisk shakes their head.

Better this way, they say. You're not sure you agree with them.

It's nearly a week later, and you're all but bursting with impatience when Sans and Frisk come to find you in the backyard. Frisk is nervously hopping from foot to foot. Sans has his hands in his jacket pockets, but he looks similarly ill at ease. You look up from the dandelion you're contemplating eating.

"What?" you ask. Sans extends a hand.

"come with me?" he requests. "me and frisk," he clarifies when you hesitate. 

When you open your eyes again, you're on Mt. Ebott.

"What the fuck?" you blurt out, stumbling back as soon as he's let go of you. "Why are we here?"

It was my idea, Frisk signs. They keep chewing on their bottom lip and you think that it's going to end up bloody if they don't stop already. But Sans helped a lot. And uh, Sans can keep helping...

"Okay, what is it?" you interrupt. Your chest feels tight. You don't like being on Mt. Ebott- especially when you have no idea what's going on. Does Frisk think I'm gonna go bad, too? you think, and betrayal stings. Your fingers itch for a knife.

"hold your horses, kiddo, don't gallop to the ending," Sans says. You sneer. "look."

Your brow creases in confusion when you see what looks like... Gravestones?

"they ain't the real ones," Sans continues. "didn't think i could make a convincing argument for that." He chuckles to himself, and your skin crawls. "but they look close enough, yeah?"

"For what?" you ask. Confusion makes your skin itch, makes you want to scratch and claw until you burst out of yourself. "The fuck did you do, mock me up my own grave?"

Your family, Frisk interjects, and you freeze.

You got to yell at my parents, Frisk says. But you never got- closure? With yours. And I thought- we thought- maybe that would help you. And if you want, Sans can use his magic to destroy them, too. Since I don't think knives work on granite.

Your jaw shuts with a click.

"I..." You stammer. You don't know what to say. "H-how did you know?"

We shared a body, remember? Frisk gently points out. I knew your birth name. I didn't let Sans see. Just your family name.

"Thanks," you mutter. You feel kind of dizzy and don't even mind when Frisk encourages you to sit on the ground. It's more like a barely controlled fall.

"W-what do I say?" you ask, staring at the gravestones. Now that you're closer, you can read the inscriptions on them, too. Sans and Frisk did find the right people. Your eyes blur with tears, and you roughly scrub them away with your sleeve.

"anything you want," Sans says. His voice is uncharacteristically soft. 

"I wonder if you missed me," you start, wavering. Frisk squeezes your hand. "I wonder if you even knew I was gone, or if you fell to your knees and thanked the Lord your prayers had been answered. I wish I could ask you. I wish I could hurt you. I was a child," your voice is breaking and you hate it, even with nobody around but Frisk and Sans to hear you break down, you hate it. "I couldn't help having red eyes, I couldn't help being the way I was, I wasn't a d-" You pause, hiccuping for breath. Frisk pats you on the back, urging you to go on.

"I wasn't a demon," you finally choke out. "F-Frisk and Toriel and Sans a-and everyone are right, I'm not a demon, and I never was, and I never deserved any of it, and I know I'm gonna stop believing that in an hour or tomorrow or next week, but damn it, why couldn't you have LOVED ME?" Your breath comes in great, whooping gasps that sound more like sobs than anything else, your vision has trebled with the prisms tangled in your eyelashes, and you can't stop shaking. Your fists slam down on your knees once- twice-

Then Sans is there, against your back, holding your hands out to either side so that you can't keep hurting yourself.

"It w-wasn't my fault, it was all YOURS," you scream at the mock grave markers. Your throat is raw and it hurts to shout like this, but you don't care. "It was all your fault, all yours, never mine, I wasn't a demon, you were, why did you ever have kids? Or did you just hate me, it's not my fault I'm not the perfect kid you always wanted, it's not my FAULT I'm not your FUCKING gift from God-"

"chara, kiddo, you need to calm down," Sans says rapidly into your ear. "just a little, hey?" 

"NO-" You pull away from him and fling yourself at the granite, wanting nothing more but to destroy them, destroy every last bit, pound them into pebbles and feel them break open under your fists. Pain bursts through your hands and shudders up through your wrists, but you don't care, it doesn't matter, nothing matters except-

You're suddenly surrounded in blue.

"sorry, kiddo," Sans says as you twist around furiously, bloodied hands scrabbling for a knife that's not there. Frisk's standing beside him, shivering like an aspen tree caught in a terrible wind.

All the anger drains out of you and you slump, only now aware of how broken your fingers look and how swollen your wrists have become. They throb dully as Sans gently lowers you to the ground. As soon as your feet touch the dirt, Frisk flings themself at you, catching you around the waist and burying their face in your chest. You want to hug them, but don't want to get blood on them so you settle for resting your tear-streaked cheek against their hair instead.

"let's destroy this shit, eh?" Sans asks quietly. His eye is still blazing fervent blue. You nod, carefully untangling yourself from Frisk, as he walks over.

"put your hand on my arm," he directs. It's weird- you can feel the magic thrumming through his bones, like an electrical current. You guide it until his hand is pointed right at the mock grave stones.

They explode in a shower of rock fragments, and it feels like something breaks within you, too.

Maybe a good something, you think, as Frisk frets over your swollen hands and Sans stomps around in ratty sneakers, making sure the inscriptions were obliterated so anybody who might somehow come up here won't be able to put together the names.

Then you think of something and groan.

"How am I going to explain this to Mom?" you ask plaintively, lifting your broken fingers a little and wincing at the movement.

Frisk laughs.

Chapter Text

In a TV show, you think, wincing every time you move your arms because it sends tremors of pain into all of your fingers, the scene on Mt. Ebott would trigger the "time for the tissues" music, then crescendo to the happy ending. You'd link arms with Frisk and Sans and trudge off into the setting sun, as Healed ™ as you were going to get in a season's plot arc.

But this is not a TV show, this is real life, and since you all got back, you've been avoiding everyone as much as humanly possible. Which is, not so surprisingly, difficult when you're not really allowed to leave the monster neighborhood, and everyone knows who you are. (And even if you could leave, you've still got medical junk up to your elbows and can barely feed yourself- you're not exactly a paragon of self sufficiency for the foreseeable future.)

You still manage. Sans leaves you alone for the most part. You think maybe he understands, at least a little, and thinks giving you space will fix it. You doubt it. All the old doubts and insecurities have come crowding back into your head, clamoring twice as loudly, and Frisk's no longer around to try to keep them at bay. You feel guilty because their own shit is still dragging on, but you refuse to let it make you come crawling back, no matter how sad their eyes look when you sleep on the couch again, or how struck their face is when you disappear down another side street rather than walk on the same sidewalk.

Guilt and shame plague your footsteps, becoming more constant companions than the monsters ever could hope to be. No matter what brave words you flung at the fake tombstones of your dead family, you can't even pretend to believe them anymore. Of course it was your fault. Whose fault else could it be? You shouldn't have been born.

It's around this time that suicide starts to creep up in your mind again.

It's easy. Nobody's locked up the pain pills in the medicine cabinet, so you lift those, keeping them in your jeans pocket. The butcher knife you get from the kitchen drawer when Frisk is coloring with Flowey and Mom's at work. It's clumsy fitting it into your waistband and letting your shirt cover it, but you manage that, too. Wow! Your mind chimes in brightly. Maybe you aren't totally fucking useless!

"Shut up," you say out loud through gritted teeth, freezing when you hear a lull in the bedroom. Their conversation resumes after a moment, though, and you sigh, letting your forehead rest against the refrigerator.

You know where you want to do it. There's a hill behind the neighborhood. There are flowers (but no buttercups) and grass and it's kind of nice. Your blood will make it decidedly not nice, but at least nobody is likely to stumble upon you in the middle of the act. 

You wish you were brave enough to at least leave a note.

You do with the refrigerator magnets instead. With a critical eye, you scowl at the bright, blocky alphabet letters. "Bye Die Chara." What a terrible epitaph. Most of the letters have gone missing again, though, so you guess it will have to do.

It's cold outside.

You wander down the street, kind of casually angling for the proper route to take you to the hill. Monsters see you, smile, wave. You smile and wave back, even though your wrists still hurt a little, feeling like a fraud. Like your facial muscles are made of taffy and they're going to droop and warp until you're a demon again. You were a demon all along.

Nobody stops you. Frisk must not have seen the fridge yet, you decide. Or doesn't understand the significance. Or doesn't care. Your mouth tugs down into a frown. No, you can't say that Frisk doesn't care because you know they do.

For a moment, you want to turn back.

What are you doing? Do you really think this is going to make everything better? You already died once. What if you can't really die? What if determination brings you back again? What if you're stuck in a flower? Or a pebble? Or the butcher knife (wouldn't that be ironic, being literally trapped in the edge of a knife)?

What if you really are a demon?

You stiffen.

Then keep walking.

  "Do you think this will ever be over?" you ask Frisk, just before you enter the judgment hall yet again. It's weird to look down at yourself and only see dust, not blood splatters and your own shattered bones.

I don't know, Frisk says. Your shared body is trembling again, but you don't know why. You look behind you. Dusty footprints trail back. Nausea spurts up your throat, and you nearly throw up on the floor. You think maybe you should let the comedian gut you this time. It's easier.

"I want it to be over," you say. You feel creaky, like you're a wind-up doll that's finally winding down. You step into the hall. Sans looks at you, eye bright with murderous intent, hands tucked into his jacket pockets.

"you look like shit," Sans tells you bluntly. "guess i must be pretty good at my job, huh?" It's the smile that fans your anger, that fucking frozen skeleton grin, like he's mocking you.

You bare your teeth and lunge.

The hill is empty. You flop down on your back, hearing the pills jangle in your pocket. You carefully slip the knife free before you manage to accidentally gut-stab yourself and put it in the grass next to you. For a moment, it's hard to figure out where you are. Your old bedroom? The judgment hall? The flowers that mark your once-upon-a-time grave?

Does it matter?

You yank out the pain pills, thumb off the top. It spins off into the weeds and you don't bother to track it. Your fingernail beds are slightly purple, you notice as you pop the first handful in your mouth. When you crunch them between your teeth, they feel like dust. Bitter, bitter dust.

Take your medicine, Chara, you think, your throat muscles working overtime to swallow the grit. Nobody wants a monster like you. Nobody loves a monster like you. Nobody needs a monster like you.

A demon like you.

You start to cry. You sit up, clumsy, pills spilling everywhere across the ground and your lap. You spit out what you haven't managed to swallow, scrubbing at your tongue with the back of your hand. 

"I don't want to," you hiccup, talking to nobody, talking to yourself. "I don't want to, I'm so sick of myself, I hate myself, but I don't want to-"

You stumble to your feet, kicking the knife and immediately regretting it when you manage to slice up the toe of your shoe. You don't feel any pain though, so you're pretty sure it only damaged your pride (and your footwear). You know you should take it with you, but you don't trust yourself with sharp objects, so you leave it, the pill bottle still hanging loosely between your fingers.

Frisk and Sans meet you halfway, Frisk nearly skidding to a stop in the middle of the sidewalk. Frisk's cheeks are tear-stained, and your face flushes red with guilt. Sans looks as ill at ease as you guess a skeleton can look.

"you okay, kiddo?" he asks. You nod automatically, then stop, shake your head, shrug, and burst into tears again.

Skeleton hugs aren't nearly as bony as you would think.

Chapter Text

"I'm sorry," you say again. You don't know why you keep repeating it. No matter how much you reassured them that you're fine, Sans still picked you up, and you're currently cradled against his chest. His jacket is warm and musty and smells vaguely like ketchup. It doesn't help that you keep trying to scrub your tongue with the pads of your fingertips. You're pretty sure by now the grit is imaginary, at least.

"frisk saw your message and got me," Sans finally explains. At his snail-like pace, you wonder if you're going to get home any time soon. Then again, getting home later might be a good thing. It's not like you want to explain this to Mom. Again. Guess what, Mom, guess who's still trying to die, aren't you so glad you have me-

Yes, she is, actually, you tell yourself fiercely. Something must have shown on your face because Frisk's hand bumps against your foot, their fingers twisting in the loose fabric of your sock.

"Er, you understood my message?" you ask, twisting your head around so you can look at Frisk properly. They roll their eyes, before signing an affirmative.

Bye die Chara was pretty clear, Chara, they add on, and you can feel heat rise in your cheeks. Especially for you.

"bonely kiddo i know with that sense of humor," Sans chimes in. "so uh, you stopped, huh?"

"Yeah," you say. Your eyelids drift shut. All of a sudden, you're so tired, you're kind of glad that you're in Sans's arms, even if you feel like a total dork being carried by a skeleton. Not to mention the surprise that he's even capable. He's always used magic before.

"i'm glad," Sans says, so softly it's hard to hear him.

The house is lit up more than Christmas when you finally get to the end of the driveway and Toriel bursts out of the front door, nearly tackling you, Frisk, and Sans to the ground.

"whoa tori," Sans says, holding up his armful of you almost like an offering. Mom stops dead in her tracks, and you can tell she's embarrassed.

"I'm so sorry," she apologizes. "I was just- so worried- I'm sorry, child," she says, bending down so that she can peer into your face. "Are you all right?"

"Not really," you admit, biting your bottom lip as soon as you say it. Frisk's thumb trails over your chin, firmly pulling your lip out of reach of your teeth. "Oh, hey, also," you say, a thought striking you. "Someone maybe should pick up the giant ass knife I left back there..."

"on it," Sans says, transferring you to Toriel's arms before you can protest, and vanishing.

"Well, okay, then." You scowl at the now-empty patch of driveway.

"In you go," Toriel says, bustling you into the house and down the hall into your bedroom. You're surprised how much it feels like home.

I don't think this is working, Frisk says, stooped over and gasping for breath. The air is thick with dust, choking you both. Your knife gleams bright and sharp in one hand, always ready for the smallest of attacks.

"What do you mean?" you demand, taking control and whirling around. All you can see is dust and your sneaker prints, whipped by wind. "It's working great!"

I don't feel any better, Frisk admits. Do you?

"Well, no," you confess. "But that's because I'm not dusted. You'll see."

You're right, Frisk says. There's a strange hint of relief in their words. We just have to finish.

"Right," you nod, stretching Frisk's mouth into a smile. The knife whistles through the air in a crisp practice swing. "Then we won't have to feel at all."

"Flowey, what is it like being, y'know, you?" you ask him later, when Toriel's nurse friend has gone home and you are, for the moment, alone. 

Well, alone except for the flower. Mom apparently considers him an adequate chaperone- even Frisk is gone, taking a shower.

"It sucks," Flowey says, not looking up from his Pokemon game.

"I mean it," you tell him, sticking your tongue out at him.

"You know how it is," he finally says, setting his game aside with a careful curl of leaf. His eyes are unsettlingly direct and you nearly cringe back into the pillows, pretending you're just re-adjusting them. "Don't you? Remember? Dust doesn't feel." He sing-songs the last sentence and your hands slam over your ears with painful force. The taste of buttercups explodes on your tongue.

"Sorry sorry sorry-" Flowey's litany finally pierces the cocoon you've twisted yourself into and you look up to see him leaning over the bed as far as he can without falling out of his pot, nearly shouting it at you. By some miracle, nobody else has come in to see what's wrong.

"I am," he says when he notices that you're properly focused on him. "Sorry, Chara."

"I'm sorry, too, I guess," you reply hoarsely. "Kinda shitty to bring up you being soulless again."

"Like you just did again," Flowey points out in a dry voice. You nearly thwack him with your pillow. "Seriously Chara. Just shut up and enjoy your happy ending."

"Demons don't get happy endings," you mutter, staring down at your blanket-clad lap.

"Well, that's no problem then," Flowey snorts. "You're not a fucking demon."

"No," you say, trailing off. Suddenly, you dig around in your pocket, yanking out your ID card and holding it up into the light. It shimmers. "I'm a monster."

"Totally different things," Flowey says.

"Yeah," you smile a little. "They are."

Chapter Text

"It's not much of a secret when we can literally hear everything going on," you tell Frisk, stuffing your hands in your pockets and looking back at the house. The cold makes your bones twinge, but it was this or staying over at Alphys' place or something and this way, you feel more in control.

Just pretend you can't then, Frisk suggests, tongue sticking out ever so slightly. Their fingers are stiff and you pull out their gloves, handing them over with a dry look. Their cheeks flush as they tug them on. It makes it harder to sign, so you know why they don't like wearing them, but you also know that freezing isn't going to help much either.

"I don't get what the occasion is," you complain, kicking at a drift of fallen leaves. It's not started snowing yet but winter is definitely here, and you hate it. Especially now that the cold makes your wrists ache from your gravestone-breaking attempt.

You'll see, Frisk says serenely. You give them a look. It's not like they know either.

Blackness.

You whirl without knowing how. Nothing but the void stares back. Well- the void and Frisk. You've got your own body again here, in this place, but you don't know how. You're wearing the same clothes you died in, but at least they aren't ripped up and covered in stains you don't like to think about anymore.

"Where are we?" you ask. The sound falls flat. Frisk shrugs. They look just as confused as you. Their hand still grasps a dusty knife- the mirror of the one you hold. Your fingers are sweaty as you adjust your grip.

"We did it," you guess. The last thing you remember is your bro- the flower. Dust. So much dust. The knife clatters to the void at your feet. Frisk's does the same.

I don't like it here, Frisk signs. Their eyes are bright with panic.

"I'm not thrilled with it either," you snap. It's wrong here. Wrong wrong wrong and you don't know why, but you're more panicked here than you ever were facing the skeleton. This isn't what was supposed to happen. Not that you actually know what's supposed to happen but not- not this.

Do you see that? Frisk asks suddenly. You start to shake your head, then pause.

You do.

Between the two of you, perfectly poised, is something...glowing? You squint.

Reset.

Your hand moves as one with Frisk's, your fingers bumping into something oddly tangible.

White light engulfs you.

"Surprise, humans!" Papyrus shouts as you both troop back into the house, red-cheeked and slightly sniffly. You freeze in the doorway, even as you see Sans give his brother a gentle elbow to the ribs, and Frisk bumps into your back.

"Sorry," you mumble, scooting out of the way. Your face flushes hot. Now everyone just looks concerned, not happy, and you feel like an asshole because look at how much work they put into this. There are balloons floating everywhere, and streamers tacked up on all the walls. There's even a fucking banner that looks like Papyrus made it- there are smiley face stickers scattered across it and crayon drawings of pasta dishes with happy faces, and in all capital letters, it reads "We love you Frisk and Chara!"

"Are you all right, child?" Toriel asks, leaning down and looking at you with warm concern. You nod stiffly.

Come on, Frisk signs and tows you by the elbow in the middle of monster revelry.

It is all monsters, you notice, checking everyone out as surreptitiously as you can. There's Mom, obviously. Asgore's awkwardly stuffed himself into a corner with a tea cup. He's got a bright yellow party hat on his head that you're pretty sure Papyrus put there. Sans and Papyrus- Sans looks like he wants to sneak off for a quick nap, but Paps won't let him. Undyne and Alphys, Monster Kid (who keeps drawing Frisk away with excited chatter about...something). Even Flowey's pot is perched on the window sill.

Frisk's in their element, signing away happily on the sofa, but you find yourself looking at the dubious safety of the hallway and debating whether or not it's considered socially acceptable to have a breather when the party (and not just any party, but a party celebrating you) has literally just started. A minute later, you remind yourself that you've never cared about social niceties to begin with and start edging your way over.

"hey, kiddo," Sans stops you, and your shoulders slump.

"Chara," you correct him. It's almost a reflex at this point, and he just grins.

"don't you want some cake?" he tempts you. "tori made it. it's chocolate."

"...Fine," you acquiesce. "You're lucky it's chocolate."

It is chocolate, and not only that, it's triple layer chocolate, with chocolate chips and melted chocolate dripping down the sides. You don't notice you're drooling until Frisk nudges you and hands you a napkin.

"I can't help it," you defend yourself, but you know it's weak, and so does Frisk. Mom just laughs at you, but it's not mocking, so you don't tense up. Well, too much.

There are candles poked into the top, two for you and two for Frisk (yours are green and gold striped and Frisk's are pink and blue striped), and you blow them out at the same time.

"Well, my spit's all over the cake now probably, none of you want any, I bet," you say brightly, attempting to pull the plate closer to yourself.

"Chara, you get a piece," Mom corrects you, tugging the cake back. 

"Did you make a wish?" you hear Monster Kid's bright, piping voice ask you and Frisk. You nod. "What was it?" MK asks.

"You're not supposed to tell," you say. "If you tell, that means it won't come true."

"Oh." Monster Kid's eyes are rounder than you've ever seen them.

The cake is one of Toriel's best and you let your eyes half-close in delight when you take the first bite. With cake, it's a lot easier to endure the press of bodies around you, the rise and hum of chatter and hot, close air.

"Chara," Toriel snags your attention. "Why don't you take a piece of cake to Flowey?" She hands you a smaller plate, trading it for your now-empty one, and nodding toward Flowey's pot. 

"You don't have your Pokemon," you observe, drifting over to him and setting the piece of cake on the edge of his flower pot. 

"Toriel says I have to stay out here and socialize," he says, scowling at the living room in general. "For at least an hour. Is that cake?"

"Triple chocolate," you confirm.

"I guess that's almost worth it," he grumbles. You don't really know how a flower can eat, but you don't question it. It's kind of nice, hanging out with Flowey like this. Almost like you have your brother ba- well, no, not really. But you can pretend sometimes. And it is a nice party.

When it happens, as things always do, it happens quickly. Alphys trips over a fold in the carpet, bumping into Frisk, who falls head-first toward Flowey's shocked face, while you desperately, reflexively hold on, one hand grabbing the flower pot and the other holding the weirdly hot surface of his stem, right under his petals, determined not to let him fall off or get hurt- 

A brilliant flash of light makes your eyelids slam shut and when you open them again, your hands are firmly resting on Asriel Dreemurr's shoulders.