Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

S • A • N • S

Sans bolted upright, soul racing, clamping a hand over his mouth to stop the inevitable screams in their tracks. Timelines of experience had given him the practice needed to stop Papyrus from checking in on him, and he didn't want to bother his brother with things that don't matter.

For instance, recurring dreams about his death.

This dream wasn't one about the knife cutting through his bones like butter, but the thought of what it had been made him furrow his browbones as he extracted himself from the tangled mess of blankets he'd created in the middle of the nightmare. No, they weren't nightmares, were they? They were... memories...? Yeah, they were memories from different timelines, and he got the unlucky job of being the poor monster who had to suffer through everything to find the best outcome.

He grabbed the hoodie from the headboard and slipped it on, heading back downstairs with a bottle of ketchup in mind. He swung open the fridge, taking out a red bottle stuck deep behind the tupperwares of spaghetti and various kinds of pie and drinking a deep swig.

The ketchup was good, yeah, but he couldn't quite shake the feeling that he was... being watched? Being hunted? Observed? Toyed with? Controlled? Any of the above, and more. But that wasn't the only thing he was worried about. He always remembered dreams, down to the last detail, a habit forced into him over the years of resets to keep every goddamn detail memorized. But... he couldn't shake the feeling...

He remembered white bone and dark cracks and an empty void that wasn't, and an explosion, and screaming until his throat gave out. He remembered distorted laughter and coded notes and blasts of energy firing from horned skulls. He remembered hands and shapes and boxes and fonts and mourning and the overwhelming sense of home.

The feeling that...

He remembered tears and magic and tea and fur and stone and metal and yellow flowers turned scarlet with blood. He remembered laughter and smiles and bets and snow and magma and sterility. He remembered white and black and blue and orange and the wild ramblings of a man with nothing left to lose.

The feeling that he... forgot something...

He remembered drawing and laughter and dust and light and stars and screams and nightmares brought to life. He remembered horns and stripes and fire and agony and a memory of a life too far gone to save itself. He remembered tables and straps and whirring and blades and pain burning like fire into his soul.

Something... very, very important.

                  [Very, very interesting.]

Chapter Text

F • R • I • S • K(?)

Frisk woke up with their hand outstretched, strangled cry halfway to their lips before Chara melded in and stopped it, melting back into their mind and stewing in anger. {What the hell was that, Frisk. One moment you're fine and dandy the next you're threatening to scream bloody murder and wake up the entire f*cking house. Jesus Christ, what the hell-}

Frisk doubled over and clutched their head, whimpers escaping as they felt the overwhelming sensation of being stabbed over and over. Chara sighed in their mind, reaching out a spiritual hand and hesitantly patting their figurative shoulder, {Fine. You're off the hook, but I still need to know what's happening if you want my hel- oh my f*cking god, Frisk. Can I please murder f*cking Fishsticks McGee. Jesus Christ, please let me do this f*cking thing for you just this once. Pleeeeeaaaaseeee.}

Frisk giggled quietly, sitting back up and dispelling the thoughts away, (No, Chara. No more murdering, maiming, butchering, or killing. You promised!) Frisk turned on the bedside lamp, squinted eyes barely seeing the LED readout on the alarm clock. 5:27. New record. Frisk stood up, stretching and exposing their midriff in their short green pajamas. Chara twirled across the floor to the bookshelf, picking out one of the many Murder/Mysteries that they'd persuaded Frisk to buy and falling dramatically back onto the bed, opening to the dogeared page a good halfway through the thick book.

Frisk smiled and fell back deeper into the recesses of their mind, recalling the strange figure in their dream with Undyne, with holes in his hands and regret in his eyes, strangled screaming erupting in a cacophony from his throat.

The door opened and they faked sleep again as Toriel dropped off a still steaming piece of pie. Chara hungrily took over, eyes flaring red before Frisk wrestled them back under control and closed the book, careful to dog ear the page before setting it back on the shelf.

(No.) Frisk chided, slipping the pie into their inventory and stretching again, leaning down to touch their toes, (You can't eat the entire pie, Chara. I'll give you some chocolate tomorrow if you don't force control for a stupid reason. No pie until breakfast with Mom.)

{You're no fun Frisk. Can we at least give Flowey another sticker? I still have that one pink unicorn one saved for a rainy day.~} Chara practically sang the last part, the aura of innocence they projected sickeningly sweet.

(…Fine.) Frisk interrupted their victory screech, (BUT! You need to not curse for a full hour. Deal or No Deal?) Frisk used a sound clip they remembered from the TV show, and smirked at Chara's prolonged silence.

{F*ck no. I'm using that sticker when I get a better deal. Take your swear jar and leave.} Frisk laughed quietly, flopping back on the bed and smiling wide.

(Your loss.~ I just wanna watch how long it takes Flowey to find the 'Kiss Me' sticker we put on his back. That was priceless.) Frisk remembered the amount of screeched insults and miserable threats he yelled as he was bombarded with kisses. He still hadn't found it.

{I'm thinking more about the Warning: Homicida-} Chara cut off with a scream and an abrupt silence, causing Frisk to sit bolt upright, rubbing their temples and desperately calling Chara back, only to be stopped by a knife of pain burying itself in their mind like a bone or a spear or- Frisk hadn't realized how much time had passed until Chara yelled them awake, wrestling control and forcing them to sit on the bed while they breathed fast. {Jesus f*cking Christ Frisk, you scared the hell out of me. I have no idea what- oh my f*cking gOD. THAT'S MIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINE!!!!!}

Frisk flinched and rolled over at Chara's wild screeching. Garbled noises came, haunting inside their head like that man's screams, digging into their skull and latching on with razor sharp claws, scrabbling desperately into their memories and hiding in the darkest corner, still outside but wanting to be let in, like a stray cat. Frisk reached out, and with enough determination as they could muster, summoned up the SAVE button, pressing the only name that existed on the screen.

A sharp tug at their gut, and they went rigid as a foreign energy flooded them, collapsing into their mind and directly on top of Chara. {THIS SON OF A B*TCH STOLE MY MOTHERF*CKING CHOCOLATE!!! I'M GOING TO- wait sh*t. Frisk. Who the f*ck is this new guy.}

(New guy?) Frisk frowned, still wincing at the mental workout they'd had to endure in the past half hour or so, (What new gu-)

[Well. This is breaking all the laws of physics, the universe, and the multiverse.] The new voice was smooth and gentle, speaking like he was talking to a scared animal constantly, [This is very, very unconventional. Interesting. I think I'm going to throw up. Is there a garbage can somewhere in here? Oh dear.]

Chara broke the prolonged silence. {He looks like the freaky bone twins had a nasty run in with a blender and primordial ooze. Like seriously, this is kinda disgusting to look- welp, he's puking now. Oh gross get that goo fifteen hundred feet away from me, kindly back the f*ck off, bud.}

[I... regret this dearly. Ow. Why is a dead child staring at me. This is very concerning. Please get away. I do not want to touch you either, child. Oh dear, that was offensive, wasn't it? Very sorry. My memory is very fuz-]

{Oh boy. Round two. This is seriously gross, help me. Well great, now I can't tell what's goo from what's... him. GET AWAY FROM ME IF YOU WANT TO LIVE.}

Frisk curled up into a little ball, pulling a pillow over their head to try to block out Chara's complaints. (It's too early for this crap, calm down.)

{I will if he'd stop oozing literally everywhere} Chara made a noise of disgust, jumping for higher ground in Frisk's mind, and Frisk popped up from the bed and grumbled as they started getting ready.

[I'm afraid I can't make any – SQUELCH – ugh... promises...] He sounded very tired and confused, voice dragging along slightly.

(Crap. Don't murder him, Chara. Um... hi...? I'm Frisk, the homicidal one is Chara, and you are...?) Frisk slipped their sweater on, combing fingers through their shoulder-length brown hair. They had to hurry this conversation up. School would be starting soon, and they really didn't want to have to deal with Toriel while they were working out how they were supposed to accommodate the second spirit thing possessing them. Also, figuring out how to keep Chara from running the new guy through a wood chipper would be fun, and a conversation that would no doubt take hours that Frisk didn't have right now.

He completely ignored the actual question. [I don't think I can be murdered? Space-time fragmentation made me effectively immortal...? I think...?] He sounded steadily fainter and more exhausted, like He was about to pass out any second, which Frisk wouldn't blame Him for. The implications of the sentence caught up with them a second later.

Immortal. Space-time fragmentation. He thinks.

In a beautiful display of eloquent speech, befitting the Ambassador of Monsters, Frisk thought to their mental companions, (Well, sh*t.)

{Swear jar!} Chara chimed.

Chapter Text

T • O • R • I • E • L

Toriel had spent enough time with skittish children to know when they were faking sleep, and this was one of those moments. The lamp was still on, the edges of a book sticking out from under the pillow, and the hanging comforter was still swaying gently from the force of an impace. A sad smile pulled on her face as she set the pie – hot from the oven – on the floorboards, backing out slowly and watching the child twitch a little bit as the smell of the pie reached them.

She laughed quietly behind her paw at the child's valiant attempts to act asleep, even with pie not five feet away from them, and closed the door softly behind her, listening to the rustle of sheets as the child got up to hoard the pie like a dragon. Her purple night robe billowed out behind her, thrown over the loose white pants and purple 'Got Your Goat' shirt in a semblance of her old dress from the Ruins. She tugged the robe further over herself, taking comfort in it like Frisk did in a sweater, or Sans with his jacket, not because she really needed it.

The rest of the pie was still cooling on the counter, and she smiled slightly as she cut three other pieces, laying them out on plates at the table, packing the rest up in a tupperware and placing it with its companions in the fridge, filled with spaghetti, pie, and ketchup bottles.

Toriel hummed and pulled out her crocheting needles, sitting down at the table to wait for everyone as she continued to work on the gigantic blanket she'd been making for a week, white paws contrasting against the gold as the looped and tugged, adding layer after layer to the piece.

Frisk came running down the stairs, tripping on the last step and only barely getting caught by Sans, sleepily watching with one eye cracked open from the couch. Frisk squeaked and went white, and Sans's open socket went wide as he canceled whatever magic he used, “sorry kid, wasn't thinking. hard to,” He tapped his skull, which gave a hollow echo back, his grin growing wider, “when you got nothin' in your skull.” Frisk snickered taking the plate of pie out from... somewhere and setting it down on the table, digging in with their fork.

Suddenly they went bolt upright and shivered, fingers twisting through their dark locks, shadowed brown eyes looking strangely red in the light. In their green and yellow striped pajamas it reminded her so much of-

Chara.

The name and the memories that came with it hit her like a punch in the gut, but she quickly hid it, “What is it, my child?” she internally cursed herself for calling Frisk 'my child' instead of their true name, but old habits die hard.

“Just remembered something.” Frisk said, barely above a whisper as their eyes seemed to flicker between brown and red in a way only theirs did, cautiously flicking around the room to take stock. Toriel followed their gaze to Sans, who was already passed out on the couch, lumpy blanket covering him almost completely.

Toriel could tell that it was a lie – and a bad one at that – but Papyrus chose that moment to pop up next to Sans, hidden under the blankets. “WHAT IS WRONG HUMAN?” He yelled, clambering over the blankets so he could pose in the middle of the room, “THE GRRREAT PAPYRUS WISHES TO KNOW!” He rolled the r's and practically zoomed to his spot at the table, humming Bonetrousle as he took a large bite of the pie, oblivious to the long stares he was getting from both Toriel and Frisk.

“I'm... not feeling good today, really. I got a headache- shut up, guys – b-but I can still go to school! I'm pretty sure it's temporary. I'm already feeling be-tter...?” Frisk stuttered in the middle of the sentence, going rigid again and making their sentence sound more like a question than a statement.

Toriel sighed and refrained from burying her head in her hands. At least she knew her child was a terrible liar, so it was easy to catch them in a lie, which was good in their childhood, but bad for when they got older, “Alright, dear. Why don't you get your bag when you're done and show your project to Papyrus?” Toriel was still holding her face in her paws internally, and but her expression was calm and impassive as she gave the suggestion.

Frisk immediately jumped on the opportunity, running back up the stairs to grab their model solar system. Toriel laughed quietly and went back to her blanket, purple and white stripes unfolding under her claws. She heard a crash, followed closely by a yelp, and sighed, curling over her project protectively, to hide the silent laughter that bubbled up.

Frisk may be loveable, unique, and their savior, but they were a clumsy, impulsive, and big idiot occasionally.

Toriel loved them all the more for that.

Chapter Text

S • A • N • S

Sans stared after the kid as they clumsily made their way up the stairs, and sighed, eye glowing still. Vague memories flashed through his mind and he sighed, pushing them away and drawing the blanket further around himself as he stood up, leaving the end to trail sadly behind him as he went for another bottle of ketchup.

Toriel didn't even look up from her needles and said with as much sarcastic authority as she had, “Don't you dare get any ketchup on my nice blankets, Sans. I'm warning you.”

Sans gave a vague hand-wavy gesture, but he still shrugged off the blanket to curl around his slippers while he unscrewed the white top and proceeded to shake everything he could in. The vaguely acidic feeling and the sharp, strange sting of the taste woke him up slightly and he tapped the bottom of the bottle before chucking it in the vague direction of the trashcan.

Toriel sighed and kept working on her project, humming Heartache before it broke off at a jagged end and her paws stilled, “Sans?” She inquired, voice soft.

“yeah, tori?” He said, parroting the same tone she used.

“Is Frisk acting... unusual today?” She said slowly, unsure in her own words even as she said them.

Sans considered the words as he grabbed the blanket and slung it over his shoulders again, sitting down at the table and clasping his hands together, wishing for his hoodie, “well...” He started, and frowned, thinking, “i... i'm not entirely sure? no more than normal, i'd say, but i can see what you're shootin' for.” He fingergunned and was rewarded with a weak laugh.

Toriel shook her head and pulled her robe tighter around herself, claws pricking the soft fabric slightly as she gripped it tighter than usual, “I'm just... they remind me of... I...” Tori bit her lip with a sharp fang, the area scarred from all the cuts she made there from biting down too hard, “They remind me so much of the other children. I know that's an absolutely terrible thing to think, but I can't help feeling guilty every time I look at them!” Toriel took a deep breath and winced as she eased her fang out of her lip, gently touching the bead of welling blood it left behind.

Sans sighed and leaned forward, “look, tori. i understand what you're going through, when you feel like everything is crashing down around you and you know that you can't lift a single goddamn finger to help. i know what it's like to lose someone important to you and just have them gone. to have no one remember a legacy you helped build? been there, done that. but in my experience, dwelling on it just makes it that much harder to get out of the grave that everyone's digging for you. but then again...” Sans shrugged and leaned back in his chair, tugging the blanket even further around himself, “that's just in my experience.”

Toriel nodded and pursed her lips as she looked down at her project and set it in her travel bag, one claw running softly and delicately over her horns, “Thank you, Sans.”

Sans shrugged again, “eh, any time.” He glanced over at the clock, “speaking of time...” he trailed off and jerked his head toward the turning hands.

Toriel went stiff and then covered her mouth with her hand, “Oh, goodness!” She turned toward the stairs and called up in a slightly strained voice, “My Child! It's time to go!” she turned back to Sans as she got up, grabbing seemingly random objects in the nearby vicinity and throwing them in her bag, “Thank you so much, Sans. Would you mind picking Frisk up from school? We have a PTA meeting tonight and I will need every ounce of my strength to deal with Linda.” Toriel wrinkled her nose at Linda's name, but immediately smoothed out her expression.

“Yup, I got your back, T. See ya later.” He waved and Toriel smiled, “Also, you might want to put on some different clothes. Just sayin'.” Toriel looked down at her nightclothes and sighed, walking up the stairs as Sans leaned back in his chair even further, slippers swinging idly from a few inches off the ground.

Sans hopped out of the chair and went back over to the couch, pulling out his laptop from underneath a pile of art supplies and tapping idly on the keyboard before turning it on. His fingers automatically set for his password and he typed in 'SKELEPUN', hitting enter and watching the loading symbol take its place before it flashed to his background, the delta rune.

His hands settled into his default position and he searched through his files for the one labeled 'spaghetti puns'. It opened to 38 pages of Wingdings writing, and he tilted his head back, reading the last paragraph so he could see where he started.

His hands became blurs against the keyboard as he pounded out more theories and experiments to try, the keys clattering hard as he pressed against them with slightly more force than necessary. Toriel rushed past him with Frisk in tow, and Sans gave a vague thumbs up in their general direction while one hand continued to fly over the keyboard.

He hit the Save button again, and pushed the laptop down to his knees as he pinched where the bridge of his nose would've been if he was human. The research was going well enough, but there were still so many bugs he needed to work out, so many formulas he needed to fix, so many swimming letters behind his sockets.

He turned the lights in his eyes off for a second, and he wiggled further into the couch, wishing desperately for his hoodie to pull over his eyes so he could go into the tiny, cramped, dark place he always made when he needed a breakthrough. He opened his eyes and glanced toward the stairs, considering the pros and cons before he shrugged and reached out a hand, yanking it toward him and watching the high-speed hoodie zoom towards his face and deposit itself gently in his hands.

He felt the clumped and balding fuzz on the edges of his hood, and then he sat up further and slipped it on, tugging the hood as far over as it would go and pulling the strings tight, sealing himself in the darkness that smelled like his magic as his hands rested comfortably in the pockets.

He sighed and buried himself deeper in his jacket. Nothing was more comforting to a monster than the smell of familiar magic, and nothing was more terrifying than a complete and utter lack of it.

Every monster's magic had a unique scent. Sans had coal dust and arctic ice, Papyrus had bones and spaghetti, Undyne had stagnant water and ozone, Alyphs had iron and ramen noodles, Mettaton had fried circuits and glitter, Muffet had fresh baked goods and cobwebs, Napstablook had rain and dead leaves, Toriel had buttercups and ash, Flowey had sickly sweet flowers and fresh-turned dirt, and Asgore had fresh-cut grass and the iron scent of blood.

If a scent suddenly died off completely, that meant that the monster was dusted. Sans hated the way that bones and ash and water and ramen and glitter and cobwebs just... disappeared. He hated the way it didn't leave him with a single scrap to hang onto. He hated the way he could follow Papyrus from Snowdin just by the scent of bones until it dropped off with a sense of knowing finality and he headed to Waterfall, hood pulled as far up around him as possible just to helplessly know when Undyne's aura of ozone disappeared completely and he went to wait in the Judgment Hall as the others were silenced. He hated the way he couldn't stop flinching when he lose them. He hated the way he would waste precious stores of magic trying to fill up the empty void of scents with his own burning coal and melting ice as his anger destroyed any beauty it might have had before.

Sans sighed again and pulled the hood back off, saving the document one last time before he shut the laptop and levitated it over to the table.

He grabbed his keys from the ring by the door, took a deep breath, put on a plastic smile, and headed out the door.

Chapter Text

F • R • I • S • K

(And two others)

Frisk barely survived school with the two incredibly confused and slightly angry (more than slightly in Chara's case.) half-dead entities having either a rap battle or a full-scale war in their head. By lunch Chara had convinced the goopy one to participate in a drinking game. By the time Math ended, Frisk was attempting to console the two miserable and miserably drunk dead people in their mind.

Sometimes they wondered if this was what their life had come to.

The final bell rang and Frisk resisted pumping their fist as they gathered their stuff, keeping a careful eye on the door and their surroundings, just in case Angelina decided today was another beautiful day to throw Frisk's backpack at their face. It was their lucky day, as Angelina gave them a scowl and a muttered, “Watching you...” before skittering off, glaring over her broken nose, a gift from Chara.

Frisk picked up their bag after they awkwardly shoved everything in, signing a 'goodbye' to the teacher before skipping off.

Three blocks before they hit the monster part of town, Frisk hopped over a fence and cut through three more streets, hopping calmly over piles of trash and over dumpsters, scaling fences with a kind of ease that came with practice.

[Where exactly are we going?] Goopy asked, voice still slightly slurred but more pained from his hangover.

{Ugh... Frisk, please. Explain this. And please just turn off the f*cking sun.}

Frisk giggled as they slung themselves over the final fence and broke out in a dead sprint, running straight for the untamed, unguarded, and unwatched fields hidden just behind a ridged hill next to Mt. Ebott. (Ok, Goopy. Me and Chara together make this weird sort of magic, and it has to be released somehow, right? So we found this clearing when Chara was being a jerk, but we just use it as a training ground. I figured we could use it to figure out some of your own powers!)

They crossed the hill, and came across the deeply scarred field, the borders marked out with red spray paint, every gouge sliced into the ground within the confines of the scarlet markings. Frisk passed off control to Chara, passively gathering energy as they started to siphon off determination and gift it to Chara, one piece at a time.

Chara bent forward and touched their toes, then bent back and just stood there for a second, staring at the city upside down before they righted themselves and starting stretching, bending their hands around in weird shapes, eyes turning deep and solid scarlet. “Watch and learn, Goop.”

Chara let out a feral hiss and dropped to all fours, red magic streaming around them in a cocoon, twisting and turning and making even deeper gashes in the ground, bleeding scarlet energy as Chara lifted their hands, fingers weaving in and out, pulling all the energy back in. They took a deep, gasping breath, and their smile turned even more rabid, “I'm just getting started.”

They leaned forward, and the red energy turned into a familiar weight on their palm, knife slashing through the air, creating a trail of ruby that whirled around them, whipping the air into a frenzy as they swirled the crimson blade high above their head.

A moment of silence as Chara brought the blade down to pick their fingernails, humming a soft and menacing song that could've once been beautiful, and then their eyes blazed perfect blood red, dragging tear tracks of scarlet down their cheeks as light wreathed their head like a crown of thorns. Buttercups burst from the ground, covering the thick, ugly scars in the grass in deadly yellow beauty, and red wrapped around every stem, splotching the gold petals with drops of bloody witchcraft.

Chara's chest heaved as they dropped the knife and it disappeared in a burst of air and crimson dust, scattering over the ruby-spotted buttercups as they wiped the red from their cheeks and bowed out of the spotlight.

Frisk took hesitant control, kneeling down to lift up one of the petals, inspecting what the bottled up rage and determination meant for the two of them. Rusted buttercups and tears made of blood. Strangely fitting.

(Alright, Goopy, your turn! Don't shy away from our reserves, but if one of use starts tugging start backing away from control, please! Good luck, have some fun!) Frisk handed over control, and Goop took it hesitantly, pulling himself to the forefront as the eyes turned solid black, including the sclera, fingers tracing the back of his hand, marveling at the filled holes, poking at the soft skin.

He got his thoughts in order and took a deep, soothing breath, reaching out a hand and reaching into his magic reserves, summoning a tiny white bone as he balanced it carefully, adding a couple more of the regular ones before he added a few blue and orange ones, throwing a couple of the purples in the mix, then adding the other colors, balancing a tower of tiny finger bones of various colors, chipping off the tiniest piece of his magic reserves.

He smiled, and the bones dissolved into dust. He smiled a little wider and snapped his fingers, the chip that he'd just replaced of his magic returning as bones flew and slotted together with dark purple and obsidian electricity, the eyes of his creation glowing in psychedelic swirls of violet and black, ram horns attaching themselves as long, jagged, sharp fangs grew.

Goop stepped forward and leaned back slightly, hands caressing the sides of the original Gaster Blaster, smile growing as his creation nuzzled into his cheek, meeting a cheek instead of a hard click of bone. “Well, hello there Tesla. My, don't you look beautiful?”

Tesla purred, eyes swirling happily, and Goop took a step back, checking his creation for any obvious changes since his fall. Frisk shivered in his mind and he took a step back, petting the bone ridge on the bony bridge of Tesla's nose, where a third eye had two lines running from the crown of the skull down to the opening of the mouth.

“Well, my dear, my dearest Tess, I fear I must say goodbye. I'll see you next time, alright?” Goop ran his fingers through the lines that stretched from every eye, scratching Tesla as he snapped his fingers, and it disappeared in a twisting swirl of light. He retreated back, and Chara came forward.

“Well.” They started as they inspected the remaining dust on their fingers, pinching and rubbing it before shaking it over the flowers. “That was fun. Let's head over to the sanctuary, m'kay?”

Frisk sucked in a deep breath and stabilized themselves once they received control, stretching out their hands to keep themselves in balance as they cracked open an eye and stood a little straighter, rubbing their wrists as they climbed back over the hill, heading straight for the forested slopes of Mt. Ebott, worrying the sleeve of their sweater between their fingers.

[Where are we going now?] Goop asked, voice sounding significantly less strained.

{Don't worry about that, it's another one of our little places. This one 's less of a training ground, more of a recharge zone.} Chara responded lazily, and Goop made a confused noise, {Eh, it's okay, kinda confusing if you don't know what it is. Just trust Frisk, they know what they're doing.}

Frisk gently caressed the bumpy lines of the first tree, the effects of the forest running through their veins even with just a touch. They hummed 'Memory' as they danced over to find the correct gap between two fused tree trunks that made an archway just Frisk's size.

Chara breathed a sigh of relief as they passed the tree line, and an immediate change rippled tangibly through the air, like the forest was welcoming them. The truth to that statement was kind of morbid and perfect at the same time, but so was almost everything in Frisk's life, especially with Chara as an everlasting companion.

Frisk reached down and picked up the tiny woven circle of yellow buttercups, setting it in their hair as they flexed their fingers and rolled their wrists, Chara sparking some red across their fingertips as they wove them together, skipping over tree roots and gently running their fingers against the ridges in the tree bark as they danced through the leaves, giggling as the leaves gently shook.

They reached the clearing, smiling at the six gigantic trees that kept the area clear, the ground laced with roots and deep scars in the ground, the entire place buzzing with magical energy, stifling all of the natural growth aside from the six centerpieces of the colossal grove, the silence complete and beautiful.

Frisk passed on the control to Chara, and they waved to the trees, tapping the heart carvings in each of the trees, “Hey, Haze, Jassy, Adey, Cleo, Ted, Griff, how you doin'?”

The trees rustled their leaves and petals flew down from their respective trees, wide-petaled baby blues falling from Hazel's strong branches, whispering among the thick orange leaves falling in straight lines from Jasper. Delicate and thin royal blue blossoms dancing softly from Adeline's tall and willowy branches weaving in and around the curling, soft purple fronds of Cleopatra's foliage floating gingerly away. Teddy's contrasting tones of green in his leaves mixed with the pure and practically glowing neon yellow of Griffin's miniature blooms.

It was a sign of respect and allegiance, as well as a cheerful answer, from the six human souls.

Asriel had released them after the barrier was broken, and they rooted themselves as firmly as they could, growing rapidly and consistently, a marvel of nature. They kept themselves hidden from curious scientists and backpacking vandals with the soft yet forceful kind of magic that their mixing powers created, masking the sanctuary from everyone but the few chosen people that they allowed.

“Can we stay here for the afternoon?” Chara asked, and the wind picked, swirling and placing the leaves and petals into a 'yes' before blowing away. “Cool. Thanks.”

Chara handed over control to Frisk, the only one in their bond that could actually sleep, and Frisk smiled, tucking into the circle of roots at the center of the clearing and curling up, using their arms as a pillow, hair covering half of their face, casting them into a pseudo-darkness.

With the forest softly chanting, the air buzzing with magic, and their heart filled with determination, they fell asleep, and for the first time in a long while, their dreams were nothing but blessed twilight and perfect red, both colors guarding from the darkness of their own minds.

Chapter Text

D • R • E • A • M • S

The fire burned deep within their veins, rising and scorching them from within as they breathed ash and tasted the charred air, mind a landscape of unknown crystal flames and chaotic bursts of nightmarish embers, looming over them like a dark spirit, spitting and hissing as they cowered from their own thoughts. Twisting flame filled their heart with poison as they danced, gasping breaths and furrowed brows as they twirled and span, leaping up and arcing down like water, eyes speaking more than they could ever say behind closed lids.

The cinders fell in deep, looping circles, crawling up like a disease, shivering them up onto their toes, dropping their arms and rolling their shoulders as they tipped back, arm stretching and reaching, legs kicking out as they whipped forward into a spin, landing poised on one toe, chest heaving with each ashy breath. Their eyes opened as they swung their legs forward before swiping it back to their knee, bending backward until their leg was pointed straight into the air, hair swinging as it was consumed with rabid fire.

They tipped backward, falling gracelessly on their open legs before kicking upward and leaping back, twirling in rapid, fast circles. Night swallowed the fire, bringing the deep peace and bone-deep fear of what lurked, the feverish light swam in the bluebell eyes before a screech of the violin made them snap closed, heart pounding as the fear swam in circles, terror gripping their heart and walking it's fingers over their flesh.

Ice consumed the night and they froze, tipped backward again, hand extended, mouth opened in a silent scream as the violin did it for them, bow screeching across the chords as the ice shattered and they climbed out with soft, shaky movements, like a puppet on strings, the violin dropping out as they focused on the soft piano, tilting and righting themselves with the soft notes, swinging out a leg and pulling it back in sharp yet gentle movements. The violin came in softly and they froze again, the endless space of their mind filling with stars as they straightened and got on one toe, pulling back a leg and reaching up an arm as the other was clutched to their chest.

They tried to touch a star, and then they looped their leg back around, jumping high before landing softly as ice covered them again, the violin softly playing instead of its commanding previous presence as they fell into the soft notes of the piano, mind bursting into flames again as they leaped and swirled, mind ablaze with deep scarlet and shadowy possibility, head snapping with each movement as they shivered through them, before stopping like a broken clockwork, rust covering their joints.

Oil filtered through their mind and they kicked backward, flying up and twisting over, movements smooth and fluid, rich and dark as they opened their eyes wide, light shining deep before shutting again as the piano reminded them, kicking gently and delicately off the air and landing in a curtsy, frozen before the leg swirled away from the crossed position and they stood up, head bowed as they waited.

Their tutu was battered and dirty, covered in the battle scars and lovingly hand-stitched pieces as they opened their eyes and stepped calmly out of the skirt, undoing the ribbon and taking off their shoes. As they set them down under the waterfall, they watched as the tulle was covered itself in burn marks, the shoes in their hands rotting away as they turned to the black void beyond and threw the shoes, knowing that they'd wind up somewhere else, perfectly fine.

They didn't really need them anyway.

They trekked through the soggy region, ground squishing between their toes as they twirled in perfect form, nothing like the wild and frantic last dance they performed. Fire and night and ice and stars and ice and fire and rust and oil and the finality of it all.

The lingering scent of dead leaves and ozone flitted through the tunnels, mixing with the dust and fur and lily pads that swam leisurely, folding in with the smell of mint leaves and fish. It was strangely calming, leaving them feeling oddly nostalgic and lethargic.

They would get out of there.

They promised...

They would continue on.

They swore...

They would live to fight another day, with or without their battered ballet gear.

Fir and ash choking their throat with tears as-

No.

They would do many things, but being consumed by their own thoughts wasn't one.

Their royal blue soul beat steady in their chest as they stepped with a purpose through the rest of the Underground, head held high, not glancing anywhere but to the future, to what lay ahead. The haunting human lullaby ran through their head as they walked with dignity, straight to the end.

The barrier was cold to the touch. Like a piece of metal, sapping the warmth of your skin, only this didn't warm up steadily. It took and it took until it couldn't take any more. It had already taken two of what it needed. When it was done with them, it would only need four more.

Four. Such a tantalizing number. Such a small sum, unless you knew what you were counting. Then that number held a lot more weight than it rightfully should. So much pain and suffering already, and they only had a pitiful two. Blue hummed through their fingers and ran over their skin as the ice consumed them completely, as the flames had done before.

They had made a promise to Mom, after all.

Always do what you promise. And promise me you will stay yourself. No matter how difficult.

It was the same as the two before.

Wait. It may take years, but if you wait for opportunity long enough, you can accomplish anything.

Keep fighting for what you believe in. Courage is the thing you will need on this journey.

In fact, they could almost hear what the others would sound like.

No matter what, never give up. Persist and you will reap the rewards, my child.

Be kind, alright? Maybe you can help them. You can spread your joy, and it's a beautiful thing.

Always do what is right. It will not be easy, but if you do what is just, you can be the savior.

Prove to me you are strong enough to survive.

They smiled and curtsied when Asgore came in, and calmly waited for him to finish his tea. They had refused a cup, since tea had always made them feel more jittery, and they waited patiently, the light blue of the encased human soul softly reaching itself around them. Asgore sighed and stood up, and they smiled, the brilliant orange wrapping it's tendrils around them, sympathizing silently.

Asgore pulled out his trident and looked at the heavy scarlet blade, reeking of iron blood and the deceptively normal scent of fresh-cut grass. They bowed their head and fell naturally into a curtsy, remembering shouts of “Break a leg!” called throughout the theater before they went onstage. This wasn't one of those, though. This wasn't scripted or choreographed. It was death, it was a ritual execution, a sacrifice to the unfeeling, all-encompassing barrier.

The show must go on.

That was always said when one of the dancers fell sick or missed a twirl. It was kill or be killed, after all. Just like that flower had said, with the haunting eyes and the broken voice and the ancient feeling that covered his stem just like the scent of dirt did.

The show must go on.

The trident struck true, and they didn't even feel it before the landscape of velvety, glorious royal blue covered and comforted them, wreathing them in glory. The case covered them and the sterile gray covered their already blind eyes.

A smile froze on their face as the wrappings covered them, sapphire eyes sliding shut with finality. Above, songs were sung, dances were made, all with an empty spot on the bench or in the ranks of dancers.

After all, the show would always go on, even without Adeline.

Isn't that right, mother?

Adeline turned and smiled, a wild, manic thing with eyes dripping deep blue like a wounded tree oozing sap, flecks of it dotting her rapidly paling skin, rotting away just like the shoes had. Bone stuck through, and the skeleton smiled like Sans, blue flowers growing over the cracks and crevices, bursting out and fluttering down.

Oh, mother...

The royal blue rained, drops sliding like molasses, petals filling up their mouths before fading to yellow, Chara's red eyes burning feverishly as they too rotted away, pale skin going pure white before crumbling away into dust.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

You really are a fool, aren't you?

Orange bleached and sealed itself away as baby blue fell to pieces. Purple withered away as the green turned sickly and burst. Yellow riddled itself full of holes and shattered, and the red, the red. The red burst and shattered and withered and bleached a million times, rewinding only to die again before it fell and ground itself into dust.

You IDIOT!

Yellow petals and sickly sweet smiles, flashes of darkness in the emptiness of a soul, manic things made of teeth, vines wrapping around and squeezing, red thorns cutting so much shallower than that one shred of knowledge.

And finally, hauntingly, an emotionless plea with strangled laughter, a cry for help veiled with sadistic energy, masking true intentions.

Since when were you the one in control?

Toriel gasped upright from her impromptu nap, clutching her mouth as her eyes widened in horror and tears spilled carefully. It wasn't enough to just have guilt, she had to have the nightmares to back it up as well. Some days it was Hazel or Jasper, sometimes it was Cleo or Teddy, the rare snippets of Griffin, and sometimes the horrifying visions of Chara.

She sat up hesitantly, wiping the tears away before they could drip off her muzzle, stacking the scattered papers and ordering them with careful taps against her desk. Her handbag was by her feet, her craft bag was still in the car, and she had an hour until PTA. Good, that was good. Get yourself grounded. She reached out a paw, stowing the claws away and poking at her lip, grimacing at the red that came away.

She wiped the blood off on the underside of the desk, grabbing her bag and stepping outside the classroom. As she always did after she had the nightmares, she stepped up to the window facing Mt. Ebott, looking at the familiar slope of the mountain. The forest seemed to tug on her very being, tempting her with unspoken promises and familiar words.

She shook her head as she backed away from the glass, soul in her throat as she stepped through the double doors out into the manicured garden. She flinched at the deep blue flowers that littered the garden, grown with magic, stepping carefully.

She reached the car and dug out her craft bag, staring off into the forest again.

The pull of the trees whispered around her, pulling her softly but persistently. Unknown magic trickled through, a mix of six types with a seventh lurking under the others. Winter air, the tang of spice, fresh rain, lavender, mint, jasmine, and under it all, the barest hint of roses.

This was the strongest it had been in a while, but she had something to do. She couldn't go traipsing off into the forest, she had a meeting.

Toriel cast one last, longing look toward the treeline, and it seemed to wave in return, branches swaying with the wind. She hoisted the craft bag over her shoulder, sifting through everything to ensure she had it all, then headed back toward the school, straightening her ears and combing claws through her fur.

The shadows in the trees deepened in response, and the magic retreated again, as it always did. The forest shivered and fell dark again as the guardians hid themselves again, the six monoliths of nature dulling their colors and setting their roots even further.

Soon.

Very soon.

Chapter Text

I • N • T • E • R • L • U • D • E

Hazel had never liked hunting. She never did quite understand why her father was so adamant that she carry her wooden toy knife around with her at all times, or why her mother always scowled at her whenever a hair was out of place, or her bow was crooked. She didn't understand, but she tried her best.

But her best found her on the edge of a cliff, looking down at the bed of yellow flowers far below, a glimmer of sunlight, sunshine, perfect light, wondering if that too was just a figment of her imagination, or whether it was there. The light at the end of the tunnel calling, beckoning, yelling, demanding. By the time she was wondering if it wasn't a good idea, her battered shoes had already taken the step, and she was plummeting downward.

She noticed the yellow first. Colors, always colors. Emotions were difficult, strange, hard to understand. They were illogical, betraying the reasonable thing to cater to ridiculous needs and wants. She didn't understand.

Hazel was in a haze. A mist, a fog, a wondering and wandering curious little thing that wrapped around her thoughts like that one snake she'd heard about, hanging about her neck like a noose and clouding her mind with dulled promises and illogical pleas. Hazel in a haze. Ha.

She stumbled through the deep purple ruins, quiet and creaking, colors wrapping and twisting over her throat like Father's hand had. Tugging and pulling, a necessity and a petty whim, a need and a want, a torch of hellfire and the arctic itself. She vaguely felt, in her dreamless formless state of consciousness, that she had dropped her knife somewhere, and that her ribbon had been stolen, but she couldn't bring herself to care. Yellow and purple and green and red and black and white and an empty passageway, reeking of dust and ash and cobwebs, spiders skittering in the darkness.

Hazel kept moving, feet carrying her even though her mind rebelled. She heard the whisper of flower petals in the middle of a stone room, caught a glimpse of yellow in a formless black place. She felt strange and disjointed, a puppet on broken strings, but that was nothing new. She could feel the fire burning under her skin, a beautiful thing of solid, untouchable blue, sometimes drifting into white hot as rage filled her heavy limbs.

Her soul was dulled down, patience swirling through the light blue folds, swarming and twisting in delicate whirls over the faceted surface. Her limbs were guided by red energy that flickered over her arms and legs, guiding her toward the castle with a kind of desperate energy. In the corner of her eye, Hazel could see a translucent red figure, flitting around and yelling soundlessly at everything to just see and hear and understand.

No one did.

The figure tried to guide her, tried to show her, controlling her limbs while her mind hazed over, despondent. Her white button-down was tucked into a torn baby blue skirt, tights torn and flats worn down from the relentless walking. Shadowy figures whispered, and as the featureless gray stone held many shadowy hiding places for her to wait and hide.

Her body was weak and feeble as she paced through the tiled orange and yellow room, closing her eyes at the glorious sunlight kissing her skin through the barrier, turned colder by the inescapable trap of the shield made of stolen, bastardized magic gathered and thieved from dusty corpses, seven sets of hands weaving a net that damned an entire race to the depths of hell and ground them into the dirt. One had already died in vain to reverse the horrible, terrible mistake that could condemn both races to an eternal dance of war and death.

Seven souls. Seven perfect jewels of the human race, their most precious treasure which they destroyed and discarded so lightly until anyone else needed them.

Hazel sat down in front of the largest window, leaning against a pillar and stretching out her sore legs, curling up against the base and closing her eyes.

In her dreams, the ground writhed and pulsed. It burst and it shuddered and screamed. It consumed, destroyed, eviscerated. It created, made, built. It was a paradox of peace and war and death and life and she smiled against the current, pushing and pulling and tugging and listlessly watching the scene play out, silver curling around her frame and holding her tight in a comforting embrace and death's final kiss.

She collected the silver calmly, offering it to the ground, and suddenly the ground was the barrier, unfocused, unbalanced, begging. The simple blue untangled from deep blue and royal purple, wrapping with the silver around her, tangled and trying to tug free. She knew. Hazel knew. She could untangle it, but her fingers were too large, too indelicate, too... corporeal.

She rested her hands against the icy, changing fire of the barrier, and burst into a flurry of curious snowflakes and flocking doves.

She woke up with both hands pressed to the barrier, the energy coursing through her like the cold in her veins, eating her from the inside out with desperate thoughts and deep desires. Her heart was in her throat as she turned around, gazing into the ruby eyes of the King. His gold armor was covered by a purple cloak that did little to hide his warlike appearance, his wife standing behind his with a somber expression on her face.

Hazel could feel the red screaming louder than ever, screeching itself hoarse as it tried in vain to say anything, begging for release, an end to the hell. Hazel ignored everyone, everything, and took a final curtsy to the world, begging an apology but never requiring or wanting one. A final goodbye that meant nothing. A final meaningless action to end it all, to close out the show, to end the hunt.

The gold trident rested, trembling over her heart, smelling of growing grass and tears. She could almost taste the inevitable iron in the end, feel the magic flooding her veins, feel herself leaving her body, her insignificant husk, the small, unimportant shell that held her true beauty captive.

The three-pronged blade slashed down, and many things happened.

A cry of sorrow from the impeccable white-furred Queen behind the King. A feeling of dropping a million weights. The tears and growing green growing corrupted as blood and cut grass replaced them. A wash of electric, perfect blue. The barrier reacting with lightning fast efficiency, blue greedily pulling at the wayward soul.

And a gasp of breath dying before it could be exhaled.

The trident was red when it pulled out, the color dripping its way down the blade, burning the magic unblemished scarlet. The red figure was clearer now as they screamed and cried and wailed over Hazel's husk. Short brown hair, pure ruby eyes, green and yellow sweater, dark pants, jagged fingernails digging into their scalp.

Pure magic dripped from them like water from a leaky faucet, pooling on the ground and burning an acidic hole. The red begged at them, but their mind was in too much turmoil.

Hazel glanced around, spark of excitement lighting deep in her veins. The blue that twined across her limbs grabbed their portion, staining and dyeing their soul the same color as the magic. It was patient and careful as it settled deep within her nonexistent bones, and she felt tranquil for the first time since she'd first considered Mount Ebott.

The metal and glass case closed down, and her world was sterile, professional gray and white.

And she waited patiently, she stretched her presence, knew every tiny scratch and pore and bubble and flaw in the covering, treating it as a welcome prison.

She wrapped herself around her minuscule piece of the world, and felt peace.

Chapter Text

S • A • N • S

Sans, after he had greeted everyone on the street and was seen heading in the general direction of Grillby's, slipped into a dark back alley and leaned against the wall. He inhaled and exhaled, even though he didn't have any lungs, maintaining the flow of air to circulate his magic better, putting a hand on his face, closing his eyes, and curving his neck back until the crown of his skull met the crumbling brick.

The wall was colder than the wind that whistled forlornly through the small gap between buildings, biting into his bones. The weather had been growing colder, but Sans never bothered to look at a calendar. Time was meaningless, anyway, it was only a little bit longer until the next reset, and then the date wouldn't matter regardless.

The resets were either getting steadily better or steadily worse, and Sans couldn't figure out which one it was. They'd gone longer between them, that was for sure, taking more time, and Sans began to notice a few things.

1. They were getting... sloppier. They weren't being as sterile and practical, poking in every corner, only doing the basics for every run, impeccably and perfectly executing every move, but trying to get through as fast as humanly possible before giving up and crawling the rest of the way.

2. They were more sluggish, more arrogant, more silent than normal, even in the pacifist runs, relying mainly on sign language and whispers to convey their thoughts.

3. They were vacant, eyes only occasionally sparking until they were out of the Underground, reddish-brown irises glittering happily. It bothered Sans, watching them switch so easily, but he could see the sorrow that would flicker in their eyes before they covered it up with fake smiles and empty promises.

4. The smell of roses and white poppies that always tinging the air around them was getting stronger, and this morning, under the smell of a garden there was the almost familiar scent of a burning pyre.

Sans scraped his phalanges over his skull, digging the long-dulled tips into the lightly scarred bone, arms brushing against the sparse fur still left on his hood. He closed his eyes a bit tighter, the bone impossibly creasing with the movement. He felt the cracked and sharp bricks pressing uncomfortably against his backbone as he slid down the wall, curling over his knees and letting his hands drop from his head to his hoodie strings, tugging them listlessly and restlessly.

The air was filled with sounds. Clattering chain link fence, whether it be from raccoons, a monster, or a human child. The moaning wind, blowing restlessly. Car horns blaring ceaselessly, cutting the air like a knife through bone. Monster slurs from restless humans clattering and clamoring to be at the top, to be the loudest one, the alpha of a pack that didn't matter.

Music ran through the air too, a new obsession of the monsters. Back Underground the best music you would be likely to find was a poorly tuned piano and the broken whine of the jukebox at Grillby's, so the sudden ability to listen to so much was slightly overwhelming, but incredibly exciting, just like most things on the Surface were.

“Never thought I'd run into a Saint down here.”

The dry voice echoed down the alley, and in an instant Sans was up, left eye blazing with magic, curling in a formless ball above his hand, declaring his identity loud and clear. “Hey man,” the voice said again, and Sans spun around as a vaguely familiar figure stepped out of the shadows, using a claw to tap out cigarette ashes, “Wasn't sure it was you until now, just wanted to make sure, no need for the freaky ass bone magic.”

The humanoid cat leaned against the wall, taking a drag of the cigarette and blowing it out gently, cracking open an eye before seeming to remember himself, snapping and drawing out a little bit of his own magic. Fried food and cigarette smoke, with a lingering trace of sugar. Burgerpants, then.

Sans relaxed, dispelling his magic and leaning back against the wall himself. Wordlessly, Burgerpants dug out another cigarette, handing it over and lighting it with the tiniest trace of fire magic. “Saint?” Sans asked after taking a long draw, enjoying the smoke that wreathed him, a reminder of his magic when it got corrupted.

Burgerpants shrugged, hopping up on a closed dumpster and laying on top of it, taking in the sunlight like his docile Surface counterparts, “I mean, you all helped the Angel. It was some weird human religion thing that Mettaton passed on by word of mouth from Alphys, I think,” Burgerpants shrugged again, “It sounded cool, so all the staff started using it. You might want to get used to that, because I am fairly certain Bratty and Catty caught on, probably spread it too.”

Sans sighed, breathing out the smoke in his heavy exhale, “Thanks for the heads up. What are you doing out here, anyway? Quit working for Mettaton?”

Burgerpants hummed and nodded, swinging upward and hanging his legs off the edge of the dumpster, “Mettaton was a horrible boss. People like videos of cats, so I figured I could make some cash doing vlogs and challenges and sh- stuff like that.”

Sans raised a bony eyebrow, “You didn't answer my question. Not the whole of it, anyway.”

Burgerpants shook his head, “Yeah, whoops. Same reason I'm not cussing like a sailor, I guess. Nice doesn't like it, so I smoke outside. Still not happy, because he's a wellness freak and shi- stuff like that, but he puts up with it.”

Sans hummed thoughtfully, and they were in companionable silence, wreathed in smoky exhales, loud car horns, and yelled insults from the humans that live in the general area. Their magic held a silent conversation, something gentle and unconnected, a silent, friendly debate in which neither party spoke a single word.

And then, the magical scent that heralded Nice, a sugary scent along with snow cone syrup, spread into the alley, asking the cigarette smoke magic to return, and Burgerpants tossed down the cigarette, ground it into the asphalt, gave a two fingered salute, and slinked off, tail swishing softly behind him. Sans gave a returning salute to the cat's retreating back, incinerating his own cigarette, pulling his shirt a little bit farther away for the gathered smoke to escape, and continuing on his regular path to Grillby's, trying to be seen by all the monsters.

It wouldn't do him any good to break routine any further.

He went in as publicly as possible, getting the vague hellos of the regulars, the attention of some newer customers, and the interest of a few human tourists visiting the newest worldwide phenomenon. “Hey Grillbz.” Sans called, and Grillby inclined his head, woodsmoke and fresh laundry magic brushing against his mind with a hint of a question. The scent of coal fills the air with an answer, and Grillby walks through the wall of fire at the back to make the Sans Special.

Sans slid onto his usual barstool, resting his head against the countertop, pulling his hood over his head and drumming his fingers on the polished magical wood. Exhaling softly, he channeled a bit of the arctic ice portion of his magic to gently fog up the counter beneath his fingers, tracing swirling patterns and scratching them out before starting anew.

Grillby came back with the special, a basket of fries absolutely smothered in ketchup, because no matter how many times Sans ate or drank it, it never quite seemed to lose the acidity that brought him back to reality.

He was dimly aware when the lunch rush started, the basket long since pushed to the side, the questioning buzzes of magic from Grillby sometimes flowing over, quickly persuaded to leave after a confirmation that Sans was still there, not just sleeping on Grillby's barstool. He could hear the buzz of conversation, too loud after the subtle exchanges and soft words of the Underground, no doubt humans.

Of course, it was only a matter of time before it happened again.

“Hey, bucko!” There was an angry shove against his back, the distinct smell of non-magic liquor that didn't come from Drunk Bunny in the corner, “Move! I don't got time for this shi-” the fresh laundry is sharp, clapping over the drunk, human voice behind him.

Grillby's voice was nothing more than a harsh, crackling whisper, but since he preferred to never speak, every letter and syllable held an immeasurable weight, “No profanity.”

The voice snarls by Sans' ear, “Oh, what are you gonna do about, you monster? Your kind should go back to hell, where you belong!” The entire bar is silent at this point, staring disbelievingly at the drunk figure beside him, “That's right, you fu-” Instead of finishing their sentence, their rant is cut off by a crisp snap in the air, the sharp stench of coal and ice, a sudden feeling of puppet strings sprouting, and a strangled yelp.

Sans fished out a fry covered in a frankly hideous amount of ketchup, tossed it down, and asked as casual as can be, “Hey, Grillbz, where do you want this guy?” Grillby's magic responded in turn, and Sans hummed and nodded, standing up from his stool, walking out of the door, and tossing the drunk human into a snowdrift, a remnant of residual snow magic from the transfer between Snowdin and Surface, “When you're sober and not a speciest prick, you're welcome to come back. Have fun.” Sans spin on his slippered heel and walks back in with a 'devil-may-care' attitude, sitting back on his barstool and tossing down a couple more fries.

There was an incredulous silence, and then a collective shrug as everyone returns back to their meal. Grillby's magic reached out in thanks, but Sans waved it away casually, Grillby rolling the twin spheres of yellow flame behind his frames, returning to cleaning the shot glasses.

Sans finished off the last of his fries, left a few gold on the counter, and hopped back off his perch, pulling his hood back down and giving a wave to the collective bar, walking back into the street, tracing his usual path back to the house, turning his skull to catch the rays of sunlight.

He said hi to the necessary people on his way back, not breaking routine, and slipped into a shortcut on the way back to the house, one which led him directly into the tangled mess of blankets he called a bed.

He could hear Papyrus downstairs, the clatter of pots and pans, the smell the bones and the especially strong scent of spaghetti. He could vaguely sense the burning pyre and black ooze of something- someone- somebody- some old memory tickling his mind with forgotten and broken promises, shattered into pieces like his soul had so many times before.

He flinched at the memories living just under the surface, an oozing scab just begging to be picked raw, to be remembered and acted on, as if he doesn't have enough on his plate already. He groaned as he rolled over, blockading out the scent by casting meaningless bits of magic, not even close to ordered spells, trying the drown out the faint presence.

It didn't work.

So he tugged the hood further around himself, wreathed himself in the smell of his own magic and cigarette smoke, and shuts his eyes against the world.

In a grove in the middle of the forest, red eyes snapped open.