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There are humans everywhere. They walk together in groups of anywhere from two to ten, holding hands or smiling at each other with relaxed faces and postures. In this light, they look nothing like the creatures that had thrown monsterkind underground, all those hundreds of years ago.
Despite the noise of everything, Toriel can't help but feel at ease.
Truth be told, she's always been one for crowds. Monster-watching, or people-watching in this case, has always been fun to her. Not to mention, she's always loved the gentle company of a fellow stranger. Being around others, no matter how many, always rid her of her loneliness.
It's why she'll forever be grateful for Sans. Living in the Ruins was hard enough, but having some form of company was nice.
He was there for her then, and Toriel can be here for him now. Because, Angel, does he look nervous beside her.
"Be careful!" Sans calls after Papyrus and Frisk as they run ahead, weaving through the crowd to reach the giant swing ride ahead of them. He sounds genuinely worried about something happening to the two, though Toriel can only guess why.
Sans is a great older brother, but it's evident that he was forced into the role at a young age. Always so overprotective. Toriel laughs beside him. "I'm sure they'll be fine," she says lightly, shaking her head. "They're both pretty tough."
"Trust me, I know that," he grunts, "I'm more worried about the other guy." Shaking his head, he looks up to her with an amused smile. "Undyne's been teaching Paps a few things recently. Not that he needs it, 'cause he's the best with or without extra training."
Toriel raises a furry eyebrow, tilting her head to the side. "But?"
"But, I'm worried he might try to take them for a whirl, heh." He nods towards the ride behind her, which is the—
Oh! Hah, the Tilt-A-Whirl! She giggles, shooting him a grin. "That's a good one!" She makes a mental note to add it to her book of puns, when she gets back home. He smiles back at her, eyesockets squinting joyfully.
They walk on, and Toriel's once again amazed by humanity's creations. To think they could make any of these rides without magic… they really are fascinating. Still, her mind falls back to the scars and bruises many of the fallen children had arrived with. Damage was to be expected after a fall like that, but some of it seemed… excessive.
"Too bad none of these pies look half as good as yours," Sans comments, drawing her out of her thoughts. She looks around at the stands around them, each stocked with various kinds of pie. Apple, blueberry, pumpkin, cherry, all kinds of seasonings. "Guess it's just hard to find talent like yours, huh?"
She shakes her head and shoves him. "Please, these look great! Though," she leans down to whisper into his earhole, "I do think cinnamon-snail is the best flavor, and none of these seem to have it."
"My point exactly, Tor."
They stop by a truck selling hotdogs, which is apparently Sans' favorite food. Toriel can't say she's very surprised. She knows about his old stand, and Frisk always gushes about how good he is at 'dog stacking, whatever that is.
His favoring doesn't stop him from going on a rant about the Unfair Treatment of Cats in Societal and Public Settings™. "I think it's just discrimination! I mean—" he takes a bite out of his ketchup-drenched hotdog, somehow avoiding getting any on the bone around his mouth, "—what's so bad about cats? I'd love to eat a hotcat! Maybe a coldcat?"
"I think that'd be fun to fry," Toriel replies, winking playfully. She shoves a handful of fries into her mouth to further support her pun, and can't hold back a snort when Sans starts chuckling insatiably beside her.
"Hey," he smirks, "that's not fair. I barely have a pun ready!"
"Oh, Sans, stop clowning around. I think your jokes are wheely good, improvised or otherwise!"
They divulge into loud laughter, weaving through the crowd. The walkways seem to become wider as they go on, spreading into something like a plaza filled with stands. Workers yell out the various prizes for their respective games, calling groups over with the promise of a challenge. It seems a little silly to Toriel. Who would get a giant plush animal so early in the day, they'd just have to drag it around—and Sans' sockets are wide, his eyelights bright.
"That," he says simply, pointing a finger at a stuffed hotdog that's probably longer than he is tall, "I need that." She barely gets a warning before he's stalking towards it, pulling her with him.
When did they start holding hands?
The host, a young man likely working here as a summer job, gives them a big smile as they approach. "Heya, guys! It's gonna be five bucks for five balls, yeah? Goal's to hit as many targets as you can." He motions behind him, to where several red-and-white targets are standing in a line on a shelf. They're of various sizes, some large enough to hit even with terrible aim, and others being so small she almost didn't notice them.
Sans reaches into his pocket to pull out money, and she suddenly gets an idea.
Before the divorce, she and Asgore liked watching movies on the VHS tapes they could find in the garbage dump. For some reason, most of the films had a romance subplot. Those were never her favorite, but she can remember a scene from one that they'd watched a few times. The main pairing had gone to a carnival, much like the fair she and Sans are at now, and the human man had won his crush a prize at a ball toss. Asgore used to joke that she'd be the one winning him a gift, if they ever had time to participate in a carnival game like that.
As much as she hates him, Toriel has to admit that he had a good point. At least, about her winning. She has great aim. (He can attest to that.)
Just as Sans pulls the money out of his pocket, she slams a clean five onto the counter, grinning wide. "How much for the hotdog?"
"Uh," the man says dumbly, blinking in surprise, "fifteen points. The small targets are three, the medium ones are two, and the big ones are one—"
She tosses a ball over his head, striking a small target head-on and knocking it over. "That's three!" The host ducks down as she throws one after another, hitting every small target with enough force to almostbreak them. "Six! Nine! Twelve!" She's overly aware of the awestruck look Sans is giving her as she throws her last ball and scores her last points.
The man behind the counter peaks up at her, fingers clinging tightly to the top, before pulling himself up. "You wanted the, uh, the hotdog, right?" She nods confidently, and he reaches up to unhook it, lowering it into her arms.
"Thank you!" Toriel says, handing the stuffed food item to Sans.
"Um," he states. Then, he looks from the hotdog up to her, and the grin on his face stretches even further. "That was awesome, Tor! I didn't know you could throw so well!"
She shoots him a wink. "And Asgore says I miss him!"
"Every day we're up here, it becomes more beautiful," Sans says from where he's sitting across from her. There's an easy smile on his face as he looks out the side of their pod. They've reached the top of the Ferris wheel's cycle, and the breeze has picked up just enough to feel nice without being chilly. The sight reminds her of the day the barrier broke, when their group of mismatched monsters had stood at the Underground's opening for several minutes, just… taking it in.
The sunset had looked just as it does now, bright and warm and welcoming. And the colors—reds, oranges, and yellows of all shades, now reflecting serenely against Sans' white bones. "Yeah," she agrees, though her eyes are stuck on a different view.
It's dark out now, and Sans suggested going to one of the fair's 'shows' before they have to meet up with Frisk and Papyrus to leave. Toriel's a little surprised he doesn't want to rush to the meeting area, with how anxious he was at the start of the day.
Still, he pulls her into a giant tent just as music begins gushing through the speakers scattered around it. They take their seats near the back, where they have a better view of all the near-empty bleachers. "I've never been to a show like this!" She whispers to him.
Sans nods excitedly. "Me neither. I heard it's a magic show run by humans." He scratches the back of his skull, looking up to meet her eyes. "Guess I'm just a bit curious how that's possible."
They turn their attention to the center of the tent as the announcer (who they'd completely ignored up until now) introduces the first act. A woman in a top hat that's way too tall enters the stage, a confident smile on her face.
"Hello, all!" She has an accent that Toriel's never encountered before, but it sounds like something she'd hear in one of Asgore's Wild West movies. "I will need a volunteer for this performance! Are any of you interested…" an assistant wheels some kind of box out, "…in being cut apart?"
Toriel gasps, covering her snout. What could she mean by that? She looks over at Sans, and he seems just as shocked as her. His sockets are narrowed in on the box, likely picking it apart.
A hand shoots up in one of the rows ahead of them, and a very familiar looking monster stands up. "I WOULD LIKE TO VOLUNTEER," Papyrus announces, and Sans lets out something like a squeak.
"Wonderful! Anyone else?" Frisk's hand raises beside Papyrus', and they jump out of their seat. Toriel echoes Sans' previous sound as the two waltz up to the stage.
The woman tells her child to get into the box, then locks it tight. She hands Papyrus a saw and shows him the motion of cutting, and the world slows as the blade meets the box's seam. Every push and pull rattles Toriel's very being as she watches her child get cut into two pieces, oh stars—
A weight suddenly rests itself on her shoulder, and she looks over to see Sans' eyes meeting her own. "It's okay," he says simply, "I know how it works. Paps isn't actually cutting the kid in half, they have their legs tucked in. The ones at the end are fake." He points to the feet sticking out of the box and shakes his head. "I don't think Frisk owns shoes like those." And he's right—because those shoes are black and white, and Frisk has only ever asked her to buy them things with a rainbow amount of color.
Toriel lets out a relieved breath, shoulders relaxing. "Thank you," she says, and leaves it at that. Now that her fear is gone, she can feel an embarrassed blush creeping up her face. Of course they wouldn't actually cut a child in half on stage!
"Sure."
If she asks Sans to explain every other trick that Frisk volunteers for, well… one can never be too careful.
By the time they exit the tent, there's no one but a few stragglers and staff left on the paths leading out of the fair. While Papyrus runs ahead—with Frisk clinging to his shoulders—Toriel and Sans stay back, ambling on at an easy pace.
"I've seen more interesting magic shows before," Sans grunts. He's balancing his hotdog on his head, his left eye glowing with the cheating color of blue magic. "You shoulda' seen Paps when he was younger. Used to do these 'presentations'."
Toriel smiles, imagining it. A tiny Papyrus tossing bones around while Sans watched, pride drawing his teeth up. "Asriel used to do things like that, too," she says quietly, watching as the two in front of them stop to smell the cacti growing in a planter. "He'd summon fire and make it dance around his sibling. He could always get them to laugh…" Her voice drifts off, and she winces as she realizes what she just said.
Only—Sans chuckles beside her, and when she looks down, his eyelights are full of understanding. "They sound like nice kids."
"They were." She watches as Frisk is once again picked up by Papyrus and settled on his shoulders. He's a good brother-friend figure. Her son had been, too. "Sometimes," she says weakly, "I wonder if I'm doing enough for them. Enough for them to not turn out like all the other children I've tried to help."
A bony hand slips into hers, squeezing comfortingly. "Frisk's a good kid. They look happy with you as their mom." He shrugs, "I'm not sure if my word speaks for much, but I'm pretty sure you're doin' fine."
Toriel stops, pulling him back by the hand. "Thank you," she says.
"Uh, yeah." He tilts his head, squinting his sockets ever-so-slightly. "I mean, it's true—" she pulls him in, planting a gentle kiss on his cheekbone.
"I mean it. Thank you, Sans," and she stands up straight and walks away, hiding her own blush as his face explodes into a deep blue in her peripherals.
Later that night, when Frisk winks and asks how her date went, she pretends she doesn't know what they mean.